Fear and Finding Out

Using motto to cast a spell against fear.

I left Bishkek early in the morning in a hope to beat the worst traffic and high heat. I’ve never really cycled in the city, and it kind of built up in my head as a bad place to cycle. A few blocks in, I remembered that all cities are a bad place to cycle, and Bishkek isn’t so bad - it’s soviet-era grid pattern is blissfully navigable, and there are occasionally bike lanes (although I was glad to be on a gravel bike for most of them, and still had to get off and walk a few times). Soon enough, I found myself on open roads, and wound my way across the valley that the city rests in, heading south for the looming Tien Shan mountains. By late afternoon, after a full day of riding up a gentle, imperceptible incline, my route finally turned up a rugged gravel track, into the heart of the mountains.

I sat at the corner and checked my phone for one last time. I guessed there would be little phone signal in my days ahead. I looked at my route again, checked the weather, and called home for some extra photos of Wynter to sustain me while I was in the wilderness. And then I started riding, steeply upwards, into the unknown.

Route planning and trip logistics outside of the heavily-mapped and documented western world is incredibly fun, but only if you thrive on uncertainty. I rely heavily on satellite images, and spend hours zooming, scrolling, and trying to trace a line that I think might be a path, until it inevitably hits a cloud or a snow patch on the image and then I have no idea whether it is a route I could follow. In the end, I sort of make my best guess at what I think could be an enjoyable, adventurous route, far away from paved roads, and then I have to simply hope for the best. Pack some extra provisions, and go find out.

“Fuck around and find out” is actually a marvellous adventure motto. Perhaps it was driven to overuse by a certain Monster-energy-drinking ilk of online videos, but I think there’s still some good use in it. Heading up into the mountains, uncertain if or where the path will end; if I’ll make it over the top; if I’ll be able to take the descent; if it will be two days or five - I need some sort of chill motto that convinces me the uncertainty is fun. “Jenny is finding out” is something I mutter to myself as I carry my bike over insanely steep horse tracks and through ice-cold rivers.

Meeting curious locals

Because, if I didn’t think I was out there finding out, the fear would take over. Already, it seeps in at the edges, and without some sort of spell to cast, which is (in a very nerdy way) what I imagine a motto does to the thoughts inside my head, it would colour in the whole frame. Not knowing what’s about to happen to you is scary. Not knowing what’s around the corner is scary. Feeling all of that uncertainty when you’re so far away from home, and very vulnerable outside with your minimalist equipment and nothing else, is scarier still.

The way down from here was the scariest part.

I’ve said before and I’ll keep saying it, as my own personal crusade against macho adventurers: yes, I get scared. I get scared all the time. I’m scared when I’m alone in the wilderness, completely unsure whether I’ll be able to get through the hazy route I think I carefully plotted. I’m scared that my tent is pitched in a poor spot and someone nefarious will come along. I’m scared the weather will roll in and I’ll have a miserable time and feel grumpy. I’m scared I’ll fall and hurt myself. I’m scared the trip won’t be fun and I’ll wish I’d stayed home.

Don’t be fooled by anything about me - I’m scared all the time.

So, “find out” is my antidote. It’s innocuous. I feel like you have to shrug your shoulders in a meh, que sera, sera, kind of way when you say it. No biggie. I’m just off into some of the tallest mountains in the world, armed with barely any decent mapping data and a thin little tent, to fuck around and find out. Meh, whatever.