With the bikes loaded up out front we dropped of the broken pavement where we’d parked and rode straight through the centre of Ogiy, attracting the usual stares and head turning. The smooth new tar was a complete surprise, we’d expected dirt to the border.

We’d been caught out before when reality hadn’t met our expectations and so even after 20-miles of tar we weren’t about to hope it ran all the way to the border, sure enough it stopped 4-miles later.

We were now riding higher and back into the mountains that encircle Ogiy. They look and feel what we imagine the Himalayan mountain range to be like. Ancient, majestic, vast.

Our thick winter gloves were helping a little and our heated jackets were on full. We were above the snow line and looking up to the large glaciar on our left. The track required concentration with the gullies and dips now filled with thick ice. The snow was encrouching on the track as we rode farther north. The temptation to snap photos were huge but we knew that time was against us if we were to try to clear both Mongolian exit formalites and get back into Russia. The back tyres spat out a mixture of loose shale and dirty snow as we gas the inclines and the slopes that then dropped us into the next valley.

We rolled up to the border at 11:30am to be met by a couple of friendly officials and inside their small wooden hut we paid 4,000 tug ‘road tax’ for each bike. If you’ve been reading this journal then hopefully you’re also wearing a small grin at the idea of paying ‘road tax’. It does seem a bit optomisitc.

A small group of Italins had just cleared Russian customs, part of the Mongol charity rally, but these guys and one girl were all riding Vespa’s. All nice enough guys but we’ll admit to being more than bit concerned about them, in part due to their own over optimism, stupidity, ignorance or nievity, take your pick. Between them they had little or no camping gear and didn’t even have a map of Mongila. They’d met another traveler some days earlier who on hearing this had insited they take his GPS. We gave them our Mongolian map and some GPS points to aim for. They had on simple overalls but nothing really warm and nothing water-proof. Like I’ve said before there’s a fine line between an adventurous spirit and outright stupidty. We genuinly hope they’re OK and safe, but they’ve got some tough stuff coming up on machines that are going to be tough off-road and probably aren’t prepped for the cold they’re going to face. Lisa and I have both said that we wouldn’t want to cross the Altai Mountains much later in the season. Even in summer temps are sub-zero at night.

Wishing them well we said our farewells and pulled up to the metal barrier to be met by two army officials in smart impeccably clean green uniforms. After a few minutes of chat over the bikes, they informed us that Mongolian customs was on lunch from 12-2pm. We couldn’t work out why then at 11:30am we weren’t being permitted to carry on and into the immigration area.

Well, we were in for a long wait. By 1:30am we’d given any pretence of hoping to move forward and right at the border got out our cooking stove and kitchen gear. A couple of tea bags and our mugs were put on the low stone wall and a few minutes later two steaming hot mugs of tea were warming our hands and sending gentle plumes of steam into the cold clean air.

By 3:15am there was now a queue of 10 trucks behind us. Everyone had gone to lunch or to sleep, even the guards with their clean uniforms had buggered off, only to return and waive us forward at 3:30pm. We’d been there for almost 4-hours, just twiddling our fingers.

An hour later and we were cleared to leave Mongolia. To be honest we were as relieved as we were sad. Mongloia has been as rewarding as it had been tough and has definitely left it smark on us both mentally, spiritually and physically. What a stunning and mesmerizing country.

Out of Mongolia and we’re in ‘no-mans land’. The deep chanels cut into the mud track by the heavy trucks pulled and snatched at our wheels. Some 12 miles later and we’re stopped at a large red metal gate that straddles the track, the Russian guard demanding our passports, which we hand him through the gate. 5 minutes later and we have them back along with pink sheet of paper with some hand written notes and our bike details. 4-miles farther and we’re outside the Russian immigration compound handing over $10 per bike to get our machines sprayed down with dissinfectent. A receipt and photocopy of our passports is handed back to us.

Inside the compound we are directed to the small hut infront where we confirm our bike details and clear ‘vehicle inspection’. On the second floor of the porta-cabin to the left, we hand over passports and clear passport control before heading into the small white room around back, where we complete a number of pointless forms confirming that we don’t have bird-flu.

The last cabin to clear is customs; the guards are snotty and rude. It doesn’t matter I tell Lisa, we’re almost done, just bite your tongue and smile. Two hours later and even I was getting close to loosing it. We’d been told to refill the declaration form 3 times and each time 5-6 other truck drivers would jump infront of us and push us back.

Outside and we’re about to start up the bikes and ride off. “Nyet, Nyet, Nyet” came the angry bark of the two guards that had seen us arrive. “Inspection, Inspection” they yell in English. “What fucking else do you need? More…really” I yelled angrily, suprising myself at loosing it. In seven years I’ve always been the calm one at borders. A few smiles and cheesy grins smoothed over my outburst and 30 minutes later we’d been searched, inspected, locked our panniers and re-strapped our bags.

At the gates we again were asked for our passports and handed over the pink document we’d been given at the first red gate we passed in no-mans land.

Outside the gate it was now 7:00pm, there’s no way we were going to get far before dark. What a friggin day. Nothing really tough, just a complete waste of time, with all the hanging around. We’d often watch the officials work so slowly that you’d think they were dropping into a coma.

We’d searched the first town, Telebar, some 50km’s west for a sniff of a hotel but without luck, we needed to make a decision to carry on or camp before it got any darker. Camping was the decision and so heading 5-miles of town and then other 2-miles onto a track and into the mountains we rushed to set up the camp before we got too cold. The powdered soup we’d heated for dinner was pasty, the granuales refusing to mix with the water no matter how long we stirred the pot.

We crawled into our sleeping bags with our thermals and gore-tex still on.

We’d both harboured secret concerns that after so long in the USA, without any real challengs, that we’d lost the nerve or even the desire to find new ones. New trials that would remind us of what we’re really capable of. Test of strength and determination as much mental as physical that we’d pull aside, to then see and experience life’s moments and in those moments confirm our decision to journey as the right one.

We both understood the consequences if our perspectives had silently changed, warped or simply fisseled, whilst we’d been so fervently beating our chest whilst touring the states...they haven’t.

Tired, and spent at the end of each day, covered in sweat and dirt and having ridden everything from sand you could drown in, to tight rock strewn tracks we still marveled at our surroundings and at what each other had seen, thrived on and experienced through the day.

The warm handshake of a nomadic Mongolian herdsman reaching down from his horse in greeting, the silhoutte of a lone ger sitting in a vast open plain slowly illuminated orange, then yellow and finally white as days first rays strike. Watching my wife speed past me, her bike exhaust ringing painfully in my ears as she leans back from the bars, full gas bouncing over whatevers in her way blasting towards the horizon, whilst I grin like a kid who knows what he’s already getting for Christmas. These as all the things that make everything worth while and our lives so scarily unique and wonderfully special..that, and the good sense to actually realize it. Not in the future when it’s too late, but now in each and every moment.

On the road it felt good to pick up speed, find the longer gears and get some miles under our belts. We’d pit stopped for luch at a small roadside café and smiled as gruff and stern looking truck drivers stare and momentarillly drop their practiced hard demenour, surprised by the entance of the English speaking aliens.

The riding was spectacular, we’d swapped Mongolias dry and dusty for sweeping asphalt bends, craggy Altai mountain peaks and valley, all decorated in autumn gold as thick forests changed there sumer green coat for oranges and reds. For most of the day the icey fast thunderous waters of a wide river flowed to our left. We could easily have been back in Europe and riding the Alps but for all the Ladas and beaten up cars. In every direction, not one but 3-4 set of mountains can be seen, each range larger than the next. Some miles feeling like the rockies or the lonely peaks in British Columbia. In the distance the taller mountains fade to grey. In the valleys vast carpets of lush green grass stretch out to the foothills of the next mountains.

By late afternoon we’d covered 334-miles and had changed our riding style to once again fit in with the Kamikaze style driving technique of Russia and bumped, nudged and forced our way into the city traffic of Biysk. We’d driven around for an hour befire we’d finally found a hotel. Camping was out of the question this place just spreads and a tent wouldn’t have been safe.

I’d momentarily lost my ‘lucky to be travelling’ perspective earlier, when I’d come to pay for the room, to then find out that we had no ruebels left and the three ATM’s I’d tried were all out fo luck and to cap it off the hotel would accept payment in Euro but not in Dollars. I’d had a ‘hissy fit’ and stormed out of the hotel reception, only to stroll back in 30-minutes later, tail between my legs having found a working ATM.

With the bags in the room and still in our filthy bike kit we found the small eating room in the hotel and gulped down two bowls of Borcsh as we talked.

The hotel was western style and clean and you can find it at GPS: N52 32.298 E85 12.590