We’re really battling with our hands, even my finger nails have started to bleed around the cuticles. And pulling the staps and bungees tight to secure our bags is a painful experience as split skin on our fingers tears wider from the effort. Lisas fingers are also sore and bleeding – not a pretty sight.

We’re heading today for Arvaikheer, some 220 miles south west of Ulaan Baatar. It’ll be the first major town we’ve seen in ten days. We leave the soft earth ground and cresting a steep rise by a derelict gas station bounce our way onto tar. Bloody hell it feels so strange to be able to just ‘sit’ on the bikes and go forward. We’ve got so used to continuously adjusting our bodies to stay upright. Soviet style austere buildings make up the main centre; the smaller side streets are dusty and pot-holed. With a few wrong turns we finally park up in front of a small café and order what turns out to be diced mutton cooked into rice. The mutton fat flavours the meal.

Out of town we ride new tar for 15-miles before detour off and onto the dirt trail. Lisa has fallen behind and without dust kicking up from her bike I’m guessing she’s stopped. With a suspect u-turn made, my concentration is crap at the moment, I pull up at her side, she’s already off the bike and looking concerned. “it just doesn’t feel right” she shouts over the noise of the wind. “coming down onto the track the whole back end feels wobbly’, she continued. With the tools out and her bags unpacked some 20 minutes later we’ve ended up having to strip her panniers and even the front gas tanks.

We can now easily see the problem. Her whole rear subframe is infact loose. The front upper sub frame bolt has sheared and the front left bolt is now working loose. The two lower bolts are also now working themselves free. It takes me two hours to find bolts and nuts from our now depleted supply and cram my hands into the tiny workspaces around the offending bolts and get them all tightened up. The left side lower bolts causing an issue, it’s still a torx head and is now rounded inside, making it almost impossible to apply any real force.

Back on the road we spend the remainder of the day cresting rolling hillsides and sliding our way down soft churned piste, taking a more northerly line than the heavy trucks travelling to our south. There’s so much dust.

We end up pulling off the track and pitching our camp amongst a rock field. The scene is nothing less than enchanting. Mountains to our north, soft rolling hills to our south that are lit hues of pinks and gold by the setting sun and around us close by rock towers worn smooth over time by wind.

Dinner is a soup stew afer Lisa throws in a mixed bunch of vegetables and remainder of the sausage we’d bought earlier into a packet soup Tucked up in our bags sleep comes easily.

Out of the tent with forced buckles of our dusty mx boots snapped closed we take a few minutes to take in the majesty of our surroundings. The quickly rising sun over the low mountains in the east casts long contorted shadows across the yellow, brown and ochre landscape. They stretch and then shrink impossibly as the sun gets higher.

With Lisa finishing the last few jobs I grabbed the camera and tripod and climbed one of the taller rock stacks. In the distance I can already see 3-4 blazing dust trails as Russian jeeps and vans tear through the valley we’d ridden last night,

Our rocky camp...beautiful.

On the bikes we steadily and carefully bump over the loose rocks, across the gullies and bounce our way back onto the track, turning right following the path with the most wear, hoping it’s the right one.

To our surprise, some 30 minutes later and we’ve found a larger flatter route, two cars wide, still rocky but we can pick up our speed at last. For the rest of the day we swap seated for standing as we barrel our bikes into washed out and sandy gullies and larger dips in the road. The new route that has already been ploughed to our left keeps us company for hours. We can’t risk getting onto it for fear of not being able to get off it, should we have to, In the afternoon we seem to do nothing but slide around as we rise and fall riding the low hills like a roller coaster. Lisa has to fall behind as we hit a stretch of terrain covered in a ‘fesh fesh’ like sand. Talcom powder like sand that pillows into the air, kicked up by the tyres. It then hangs in the air for an age, making it impossible to see. We take it in turns to lead.

The countryside has become greener, not actually green but greener and thankfully less corrugated. Wide expanses of track open up, the landscape scarred with a dozen different tracks all heading west. At least Lisa and I can ride different track which means we’re not covering one another in dust. On the flatter longer stetches we reach 60mph only to pull in the brakes before dropping into washed out gullies and sandy, silty river beds. They need concentration as the bikes squirm, getting hard on the gas is the answer. Wild horses graze on the short scrubb grass. The chestnut brown mares seem to glisten in the sun, they all look pretty healthy and totally unimpressed as we pass.

By afternoon we are in lowlands and 15 miles from Bayanhongor, ger’s dot the landscape, their herds of goat seemingly larger than those in the east of Mongolia. More green land means more water and soon we are off the bikes, and I’m wading through the first of what turns out to be four water crossings. The loose gravel banks to the waters edge loose and deep, churned up by vehicles that all use the same point to enter into the shallower sections. In first gear I lean back from the bars and let the water plumes wash over my knees, the bike slides a little but less than I’d imagined. We need to be aggressive on the gas to get up the opposing bank as loose shale makes the slope more treacherous than it should be.

By early afternoon we’ve reached the outskirts of Bayanhonger our route a mixture of shale and deep sand. We have more than a few hairy moments when the back of the bikes go completey out of wick with the front. We stay upright only with a few control blips of the throttle and a few prayers.

In town we follow the advice of the lonely planet and after a few go-arounds manage to find the Seoul Hotel, a newer looking building, with a metal fence. Leaving Lisa outside I go in, my eyes taking an age to adjust to the dark. The hotel is on the second floor, a restaurant on the first. I finally manage to find who I think is a cleaning lady and arrange to book a night for 36,000 tugrik. It’s the most we’ve paid and expensive by our standards, although the room is clean and semi-westernised. With Lisa still outside I make 6 trips, through the dark corridors, back outside lugging all our dusty, dirty and heavy bags into the small room. We’ve even manged to park up the bikes in the small concrete garage around back. It’ll cost us 2,500 for the night, a small price for security. Lisa remains with the bikes as a bunch of kids all try to sit on them, picking and pulling at every item they can find.

We spent 14,000 on a soup of Korean dish full of beef and tofu in the resteraunt,we wahsed it down with a warm beer, we hadn’t really realised how hungry we were.

Up in the room I worked on the Amazon article for RR whilst Lisa set about taking our bags into the washroom and systematically rinsing our bags and gear in the hope of getting some of the zips working again.

With two bars of chocolate bought, we lay in bed, and watched the “Punisher”, we just didn’t have the energy to leave the room.

We ended up pulling off the track and riding into the rocky landsape that was growing higher to our left. We needed to be out of sight as much as out of the wind.

Back with the bikes we picked our route carefully back to the track, cautious to avoid the sharper larger rocks.

With the track wider and flatter for the most part we rolled into the town of Altai around mid-day and parked up in front of a café in the middle of this dusty town. Inside the walls were decorated with faded photos of horses, each inside a hazy plastic frame. The mutton soup took an hour to arrive and 5 minutes to scoff down. Outside we could see the bikes getting their fair share of attention. Men, women and children all clambering over the machines, pressing every button in sight. We’ve simply had to get used to people climbing onto the bikes, taking a seat and then wobbling as they battle to handle the suprising weight.

It’s all meant well, but like Africa, personal space here is an alien concept. It’s been the same for weeks now. I end up feeling like a new dog in town, rolling up only to stand patiently whilst the local pack swarm around and sniff my ass. Nothings meant by it, it’s just how it’s done. 10 guys poke and prod every part of the bike whether I’m on it or not and then get on their hands and knees, looking into every knook and cranny, Under the front beak gets special attention as does the back end and exhaust. With inspection complete I (we) get the seal of approval and conversation is then struck up, but all basically in that order.

With inspection complete in Altai, I start my own cursory check over the nuts and bolts that have required attention every day of our travel time in Mongolia. Sure enough the left lower sub frame bolt of Lisa’s bike is loose and I daren’t tighten it, the stupid torx head is now almost complety stripped. “You have a problem”? a deep voice ask’s over my shoulder. One of the guys who’d been inspecting earlier was offering help. I explained I needed a bolt and a minute later his driver was strolling back from his Land Cruiser and holding the right sized nut and bolt. Ten minutes later it was in place with a healthy dose of thread lock.

Out of Altai the track was wide and pisted for the first time for a while we could hit the higher gears feeling like we were making some real headway, by later afternoon we were back in single track. Pulled over at the side the sight of a Mongolian herdsmen riding at speed across the plain on horse back had got my attention and so with handshakes exchanged and permission granted I took as many photos as time would allow.

Back with Lisa and with the sun setting fast our luck was about to turn. Her pancake flat tyre wasn’t going to let us get anywhere. “No, no, no, c’mon” I yelled in frustration. Lisa simply put her head in her hands. Our spare 21’ tube was now in my font tyre. We were going to run out of light fast, it was desison time. Making camp close to the road would have been the easiest thing and sort the tyre out in the morning, but with drivers blazing through this route at night, there was a real chance they could easily plough right over us as we slept. We had to try to fix this now before we ran out of light. With the inner tube out the problem was easily discovered, the repair we’d made back at camel lodge had broken, the hole now an inch long split. Repairing the repair would be risky. We ended up digging out our old 19” tube we’d been carrying and then battled to stretch it around Lisa’s 21” rim, what an absolute ‘bitch’ of a job, my hands took a beating. It then took an hour to get the tyre back on and not pinch the tube that was contorted around the rim. With fingers crossed (and now bleeding) we nervously used the hand pump to reinflate the tube to 20psi, the electric pump was still not working.

To our ‘great’ relief after a few minutes the tube was holding and we could ride a kilometer into the plain and set up our tent in the dark…again. Dinner was tired and quiet affair.

Our bodies ache and our fingers are still bleeding from the cracked dry skin around our finger tips. For good measure I’ve now got blood streaming from my dried cuticles on two fingers. Mongolia is so arid even our tent has dried out and we’re having to alter how we use the poles, not able to insert their full length into the sleeves. Its also now impossible to erect our Kermt chairs, thier canvass backing so tight it makes it impossible.
Lisa tries not to cry out aloud as she prepares the evening meals as with split and bleeding fingers cutting onion is like a form of torture!

By 8:25 we were packed and had two strong coffees each. The open plains we’d camped in continued but just ten minutes after leaving I’d noticed Lisa falling behind. Back at her side it wasn’t hard to see she was upset. What’s wrong I asked. “The front of the bike is wobbling like crazy, it’s horrible to ride’ she blurted. Her front left fork was completely soaked in oil, her left fork seal had dissintergrated. There was no way I could fix it here. We have the seals but no ATF fluid left over from UB. I did my best to ressure Lisa that the problem was minor. It was easy for me to say I’m not the one riding the bike. At the same time I was wondering if the problem was with the 19” inner tube that was now wrapped around her 21’ rim, or the fact that her front tyre wasn’t sittign on the rim equally all the way around.

For the next 2-hours we didn’t break the 26 miles per hour mark. That changed after being chased for a mile by two huge dogs that had launched themselves out of one of the gers’ we’d passed earlier. Apparently they thought we were good sport.

The deep corrugations (washboard) were making the slower pace all the more frustrating. Mid morning came and went and we found ourselves diving into deeper pockets of sand before pulling up in wide plains that stetch into the horizon. We were surrounded by a blanket of bright plant life that painted the landscape yellow, red, purple and orange. Checking our position confirmed we were in the Har Es Nuur National park. We pushed on after a few photos knowing time was against us.

Now at some point we’d managed to leave the main track and headed almost due north, our route getting smaller and narrower, our speed limited by the hundreds of gullies and dried waterways that crossed our route. By later afternoon we were on the southerly edge of Lake Har Dorro Nuur- finally a landmark we could use to work out our position. We needed to ride due west through the mountain range we’d been watching getting larger for the last 4-hours.

Sudenly the landscape changed again with small pockets of green scrub grass adding a splash of colour to what had been a yellow dusty day. We were now on a stoney goat track, winding for what seemed like an age, before cresting a rise and rolling down a steep bank into a riverbed. The loose shale rock surface requiring a deft touch on the throttle, much like riding sand. An hour later and we’re out of the river bad and ridng a long, long scree hill, the remnants of an long forgotten glacier, heading down into another vast valley where we’d turn north west. This was fun and I could hear Lisa enjoying herself with the whoops and yells of octane-fuelled please as she rode down the scree slope that seemed to go on for an age. The fun was about to stop. At the bottom of the scree slope dense thickets of scrub meant leaving the track was impossible and we were now in deep soft sand. I’d managed to get through the first long section, adrenalin pumping, my hearts in my mouth. In my mirror I can see Lisa hit the ground hard. She’s trapped under the bike and gas is pouring out from the breather hose. Our difficulties were to set the tone for the next 3-hours. This was the hardest riding we’d done since Africa, well with the exception of the Amazon. We’d battle through one soft section to fall at the next.

I dropped my bike 7 times in the first two hours on two occasions had to strip the bags inorder to right the big GS. We’d dropped the tyre pressure as low as we could, remembering that Lisa’s front tyre was inflated with the wrong sized inner tube. We were getting exhausted, our clothes and gear sweat sodden, our helmets and gloves thick with sand. A lone Mongolian rode up on a stocky Mongolian steed, stared at us like we were from Mars and rode off. Lisa took photos as I climbed one of the telephone poles hoping to see the course of the route and if it got any better. As we moved away from the hills the sand petered out, bloody hell I’ve never been so glad to ride corrugations.

It was approaching 7:00pm and we needed to stop, breathing a sigh of relief we let our guard drop, surely we’d passed the last of todays obstacles? Of course not! Lisa and I pulled up and simply stared, in this arid and parched landscape our track had disappeared, vanished. Ahead of us a marshy landscape that had now submerged our route. We picked our careful way for an hour around the shallower parts with our feet and boots soaked and cold. The wheels sliding in the thick mud. As the daylight disappeared we found solid ground and pitched our tent behind thick bushes. The front of the tent with our cooking gear and bags felt like sanctuary after a hard days riding. Lisa has down brilliantly after some pretty technical riding, especially considering her wobbly front end. (oh er Missus!)

Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Eleven miles later and the track had broadened finally turning into a criss-cross of possible alternatives ultimately all leading to the same place, Khovd. The stony rattling track finally turning to soft earth as we roller coaster though rolling hills and plains. As we crest the last tall rise a large Obo appears in the middle of the path. A circular stone wall 20 feet wide holding more piled rocks, decorated at four points with wooden staffs and thousands of blue scarfs which all flutter in the wind a tribute to safe travel. White nylon rope links each staff decorated inturn with more bright scarfs, this time red, white and yellows included. A worn and beaten path encircles the Obo, after locals passing stop and circle the shrine 3 times before making an offering for good fortune and onward travel,

Down in the valley Khovd is a sight for sore eyes, spreading itself wide on the open plain at the feet of the Altai mountains which lie just behind. Tall rocky peaks standing still, ever present, the proverbial sentinals. The dusting of snow as ominous as it is beautiful. We have to cross them.

Down in the town we choose the better looking of the two hotels and after standing in the mainroom for ten minutes the women from outside who’d seen me come in, brushed past me and barks, “no room”! Maybe because I’m tired, who know’s, but after checking that I’d heard right and again being told no rooms, I snapped what I hoped was a sarcastic thank you and walked out. I was pissed. Dissproportionalty? Maybe, but she’d seen me go in and let me loiter for ten minutes. Ten minutes is a long time when you’re stood like a spare prick at a barmitsva, looking for anyone to make eye contact with you.

At the Khan bank the lonely looking security guard used hand gestures, tapping his watch and shaking his head, explaining that the bank was closed for lunch, we’d not realized the clocks had rolled back an hour and although our watch read 1:30pm, it was 12:30pm local time. The growl in my stomach was reason enough to explore the run down building opposite with the faded restuarant sign hanging up front. Like so many times before the surprise of the inside had us reeling. New metal chairs each covered in smart red vynl circle half a dozen stout looking tables, each inturn decorated with intricately woven table cloths. Twelve locally painted works of art depicting the surounding landscapes hang on the walls, six on each side, each one set back into it’s own alcove and frame with a hand cut gilt wooden frame. With a guess taken at the menu 20 minutes later and two huge piles of sliced and cut beef sizzled on hot plates at our table, each garnished with half a sliced onion. Our six military dressed dining companions suggesting this is a military restaurant. With peach and orange juice served the bill came to 11,000 Tug ($7-£5). There was no way we could finish the food. We ended up cramming the remaining beef into one of the small empty juice bottles. It’ll make a decent addition to our evening meal.

Back outside as Lisa got suited and booted I’d ducked into the now open bank and changed $100. Filling up both bikes set us back 80,000 tug and the vast majority of what we’d just changed. Out in the wilds the cost of gas has sky rocketed. At the small market we picked up three bottles of water and drew a crowd, doing our best to answer the usual questions of how many kilometers to the litre and maximum speed.

After a cursory drive around we’d both decided that Khovd hadn’t given us reason to stay or spend our limited Tugrik and so after plotting in a GPS point to Tolbu Nuur and lake south east of the town of Ogiy we set off.

North of town the sandy wide track required our attention as the bikes slid in familiar fashion. A few miles out of town and we’re picking our way around a rock strewn landscape, our heavy bikes bouncing off the larger of the rocks.

A long flat straight had allowed us to kick the bikes into fourth and we’d even managed to hit 56mph for the first time in days. The billowing dust clouds kicking up from our back tyres brings a broad smile to my face as I watch it hang in the air behind us. Pulling up to the side of the track to wait a few seconds for Lisa I’m joined by two young men on an ancient Russian bike, it’s peeling orange paint clinging to the rusty frame. Pulling two small wires from under the seat the rider turns off the engine. Their western style bomber jackets blazened with Biker logo’s like Arai, Honda and Pirelli seem at odds with the surroundings and the wooden and beaten steel of the rifle that the passenger has slung over his shoulder. With Lisa pulled up we check over each others bikes swap warm handshakes and without a common language the two boys thrust the rifle in my direction and offer me a few shots. Stones are balanced on the ground some 30 feet away.

Now we all know as a Brit’ I’ve no business holding a gun letting alone firing one in the foothills of the Altai Mountian range in north west Mongilia, but who am I to refuse. I was like a kid at Christmas. This is the stuff that makes travel great. Unthinkable scenarios that play out without a script. So there I am amongst the mountains, Lisa spouting off words of warning inbetween bouts of laughter as I hoist the rusting weapon to my shoulder in a vain hope that I can convince these two hardened mountain men that I’ve got a clue what I’m doing. My two well intended shots both miss there mark, bringing loud laughter from our new friends. With the stone targets moved 20 feet farther back they hit both with ease. With photos taken and warm wishes expressed we go our separate ways. The smile on my face remains for the rest of the afternoon.

Late in the afternoon and the weather is looking an ominous, dark clouds blot out the sun and the temperatures plummets as we climb higher into the mountains. Our stoney route skirts around mountains that climb out of sight. The loose shale and black stones pull at our wheels and require our concentration; the switch for our heated grips got flicked an hour ago. We ride the floor of a wide deep valley for 2-miles, feeling dwarfed by smooth rolling hills left and right. Protected from the wind, the dust we are kicking up hangs in the air. In spite of the cold we have to stop for photos.

An hour later and we’re feeling exposed, we’ve had light snow and hale and can almost touch the clouds, weaving around vast puddles and the marshy areas we finally pull up in front of our first deep water crossing. The young boy we’d seen on the horizon had run to see us and was enthusiastically pointing to our left. Several small rises hiding a shallow spot where crossing would be safer. On the other side we shook the water from our boots and gear and got on the gas; the idea of getting stuck up here is worrying, if the rain continues the route will be a muddy hell.

On the open plain at 9,500 feet we stand up, leaning hard forward over the bars as the wind slams us from the west; we knew we had to get ahead of the next rain storm that was coming in fast. It was now getting dark.

We finally bounced our way over a dozen or so old tracks and down to the edge of lake Talbo Nuur, pulling up 7-miles short of the gps point we’d entered back in Hovd.

We cooked again in the front of the tent, doing our best to stay warm. Lisa did a great job, cooking up a can of spam she fried with a can of green beans that she then mixed with a dark packet sauce we’d bought back in Japan. Served with a good helping of boiled rice we felt we were eating like kings.

With the bikes loaded we readied for the off only to have a moment of panic noticing that Lisa’s front tyre was flat. The knot in my stomach was growing until I tracked the problem down to a faulty valve. With the offending valve switched out for a spare it was 5 minutes of hard pumping before we could finally head off. Our electric pump has simply given up in the face of the challenge of Mongolia.

On the bikes we crossed the dozen or so tracks we’d battled with last night and found the main route, distinguishable only because of its deeper worn groove.

To our left and right open plains spread into the distance disappearing into the steep mountain flanks. Oranges, ochres, yellows and deep purples all blend to make up a landscape that you’d been forgiven was a ‘photoship creation’.

The route however, needed our attention as deep gravel has our wheels sliding when we gaze off for a second too long. The sharp stoney surface has us rattled to the chore. Riding the steep valley down to a police checkpoint we’re bought to a dramatic stop, the lone officer blanking us for a good ten minutes until I’m finally forced to get off the bike and introduce ourselves. The howling bitter wind has already almost pushed us off the bikes more than once and we’re battling to stay upright. It had also begun to snow very lightly.

With a cursory look through our passports he sniffs, hacks up something from the base of his stomach and with force spits up a flem ball the size of something unatural into the wind, seemingly taking pleasure in the distance it travels. He looks at me apparently for approval. My blank unimpressed stare doesn’t endear me further. I’m too cold for this shit. He begrudgingly lifts the makeshift barrier and we’re again heading down the valley. Olgiy spreads out before us, wide and squat. A concrete ramshackle town seemingly built in haste. With the lonely planet checked we easily found the Blue Wolf Travel company and ger camp and so began our evening of frustration.

I’d confirmed the price for a ger as $7 per person and checked if the ger had electricity, we desperately needed to recharge batteries. The yes seemed emphatic. Shimen’s English was broken but understandable. Her suggestion that we make use of the Mongolian sauna later in the evening sounded of pure genius. Two hours later and our frustration was growing. The hot showers we’d so looked forward to we were told “No work, no work”! When we inquired as to how to use the sauna we were told…”No, no, not today”! Inquires as to why landed on deafs ears, the staff seem disinterested.

As night drew in I headed over to the ger to plug in the batteries. Not only was there no friggin electricity but we’d been given the only ger with no power whatsoever even going to it, not even a bare light bulb. By now the wind is again howling and the gaping holes in the tired ger are now blazingly apparent.

Back inside I do my best to hide my impatience, admittedly fuelled by fatigue. Over the next hour we were also given 3 separate prices for the nights stay and told that we should pay 2,000 tug for the sauna and 1,000 for the shower. This just infuriated me as neither, we were told, were available. We’re left with the feeling that the staff are just taking the piss!

I managed eventually to get us changed to a small ger with a light bulb, it still didn’t have a outlet where I could plug in. At this point I was past caring.

We hooked up in the evening with a Spanish couple and did our best to muster our aleady forgotten Spanish. Hungry we ask to order some food at 8:00pm and were told emphatically…”No, finshed”. When I pushed the point, I was told that we could eat but only eggs. Our Spanish friends had ordered just five minutes earlier. This was getting ridiculous. I ask could we have what they had ordered, a simple dish of rice and mutton. “Oh, yes” came the matter of fact answer as if this had always been on offer. Ten minutes later and four small portions were served at our table. Cheeky bastards had simply taken the food cooked for two and split it four-ways and of course then still charged full price to each of us.

By 8:30 we were being kicked out into the night having been given the bill of 7,000 tug and having handed over our money we made tracks to bed. Shimen’s voice demanding we return to sort out a problem with the bill was the last straw. In cold stern English I explained that I wasn’t happy, I would not return unless she could explain what the problem was and that I’d sort it in the morning. At this point we decided to say to hell with this and leave tomorrow for the Russian border. We’d planned on staying; we need a day of rest before a notoriously frustrating border crossing.

The damp mattresses and wind that blew through the holes in the ger made for a sleepless night. I finally manged to doze off around 4:00am.