Arriving in Pakistan was a relief after Afghanistan. I had upheld my promise to ride one last time with the Sultans and, although I felt sad to leave my adopted tribe, I was relieved to be out of Afghanistan and into Pakistan.

Valentyn, the erudite and wild Ukrainian rider I had met in Kabul, joined me to ride into Pakistan. We were headed in the same directions a round the world, it made sense to share some tarmac together. We arrived at Torkham, the northeastern border crossing between Afghanistan and Pakistan, unsure of the security situation. Reports from the overlanders’ grapevine indicated that the border could shut down without warning due to rising tensions between the two countries. Just the week before, a Dutch traveller had been stranded in no-man’s land for a week after the Pakistani side closed due to rioting. The relationship between Pakistan and Afghanistan had always been fraught, often leading to violent clashes.

As I rode through the Tajikistan border, past desolate and abandoned coalition force buildings, a visceral fear churned in my stomach. What the hell was I doing returning to Afghanistan? The searing heat was confusing my thoughts, dragging my mind back to the harsh immediacy of the now.

We approached the bridge that divides Tajikistan and Afghanistan, a benign dictatorship on one side and the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan on the other. We rode slowly towards the bridge head, ducking under the overlapping arcs from an armoured vehicle on the Tajik side. Across the bridge, I could see white Taliban flags fluttering in the hot desert winds.

It was too late to turn back. The plan was already in motion. I could hear my heart pounding louder than Tara's thumping engine. A Taliban soldier in a US Humvee overlooked the bridge, a mounted UK or US Minimi tracking our approach.