I had dreamed about reaching this part of the journey for years. The pamir had a magnetic draw on me. Maybe it was its remoteness and famed natural beauty, maybe it was the challenge of taking the bike and myself to its limits. I didn’t know I was filled with nervous excitement at heading into what many had described as some of the hardest and most rewarding motorcycling in the world. Was I ready? Was the bike going to hold up with the altitude, did I have the skills to get through it, all these questions would soon be answered.

The Pamir highway, carved through mountains and mysteries, was more than just a road; it was a rite of passage for those seeking adventure and perhaps something deeper—solitude, challenge, or maybe a glimpse into ourselves.

I left Kazakhstan with a sense of trepidation, stepping out of the endless steppes into a land of high mountains and nomadic horsemen, Kyrgyzstan. Before this trip, my knowledge of the country was so minimal I could barely place it on a map. I crossed into Kyrgyzstan from the most eastern Kazakh border crossing, after camping a night in Charyn Canyon, a smaller version of the Grand Canyon. That morning, I woke up alone for the last time in the desert steppes of Kazakhstan, watching the sun slowly rise above the deep red canyon. At first, it was a bright orange sliver of light peeking on the horizon, burning away the last of the night sky. The sun rose majestically, becoming a golden orb not yet powerful enough to blind the human eye, warming the arid land as it claimed its place at the zenith.

Arrived in Kazakhstan partly shell shocked, relieved, and devoid of any money after being robbed by the police in Russia. After scrounging some Wi-Fi from a desolate shop in the middle of the steppe, I managed to book into a relatively fancy hotel in Atyrau, way over budget but needed to regroup, reorganize, and calm the nerves a little. A decent bed, some food, and finding a way to get some money were priorities. In the parking lot, as I was unloading my bike, I was accosted by a jovial and smiling Kazakh curious to find out where I had come from. As is often the way on long-distance solo travel, at first one is always cautious when approached by strangers, especially after my last encounters on the other side of the border. Paranoia can quickly settle in. Once one's guard is up, it's hard to let it down. So, as this strange little Kazakh man with round features, a stocky neck, and rotund countenance was asking me lots of questions about my bike, my journey, etc., I couldn’t help thinking what he was after—money? Information? I was on edge.

You might ask yourself what in the hell is an ex-British Army Officer with two passports doing crossing Russia on a motorbike? Who would be that stupid with that profile even think about doing something like that?

Questions I was asking myself as I was sat in the back of a police car on the border between Dagestan and Astrakhan. While being shouted at in a mix of Russian and broken English that I was going to jail and had lost all my rights. Flashes of BBC World Service announcing the news to my friends and family were running amok in my mind.