Published in: Rides
Walking alongside your bike as it struggles to inch forward isn’t what anyone wants—least of all in Tajikistan, at 15,000 feet, in freezing mountain air. But we had known this moment would come, and here we were.
We arrived in Tajikistan in August on our two Honda Ace CB125s, eager for the Pamir Highway—a stretch of road we’d dreamed about since leaving London in May. The Pamir Highway (or M41, to give it its official name) is a Soviet road built between 1934 and 1940 that cuts across the Pamir Mountains, linking Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kyrgyzstan.
It is the second-highest highway in the world, climbing to over 15,000 feet, and the Tajik section is legendary: remote, demanding, and beautiful, with challenging riding and famously hospitable locals. To put it in perspective, the road runs through a region that makes up nearly half of Tajikistan’s landmass but is home to just two percent of its people. For hundreds of miles it follows the river-border with Afghanistan, giving riders the surreal experience of peering into Taliban-held villages across the rushing water.
• Carburetor Trouble and Early Roadblocks
Our problems began before we even reached the M41. Our bikes run carburetors, which need adjustment at high altitude. Normally, riders swap the carburetor jets to keep the fuel/air balance right. But Tajikistan imports spares from Russia, and with sanctions crippling supply, Dushanbe’s shops were bare. That left us with no choice but Plan Z: attempt the Pamirs with stock carbs. As if altitude wasn’t enough, roadworks soon tested us. About 60 unavoidable miles of the approach road were shut twice daily—07:30–12:30 and 13:30–18:30—so crews could blast cliffs and dump the rubble into the river below. The only way through was before 07:00 or after 18:30.
We hate night riding, so the alarm went off at 04:30. By 05:00, we were rolling into the dark, headlights barely illuminating two feet of gravel. There were no streetlights, just blackness, a sheer drop to our right, the river roaring below, and Afghanistan on the opposite bank. As if that weren’t unnerving enough, stray dogs repeatedly charged us from the shadows, snapping at our ankles.
Disaster struck at 6:30 in the afternoon: a puncture. By now, though, we were practiced. In less than 45 minutes we’d swapped the tube, dug out a massive nail, and were on the move again. But the delay was costly. A few miles later, a Tajik official in a high-vis vest blocked the road: closed until noon.
With no signal and nowhere to go, we waited with a couple of cars and three locals on a tapchan—a wooden platform that serves as bench, bed, and table. We shared food, traded stories through Google Translate, and watched the hours crawl. At one point, a Taliban Hilux, flag flying and machine gun mounted, rumbled past on the Afghan side. Not exactly a comforting sight.
At 11:30, we were suddenly told we had ten minutes to go. We leapt onto the bikes and rode hard. The road went from bad to worse, smashing one of our front suspension seals. Fatigue from the early start gnawed at us. The scenery was jaw-dropping, but we were too worn out to take it in.
• Into the High Pamirs
After a couple of nights in Khorog—the Pamir regional capital—we patched the suspension and set out again, heading for Yamchun, 110 miles away. This section was a joy compared to before: still unpaved, but compact dirt instead of loose rocks, which let us finally pick up some speed. The Hindu Kush loomed in the distance all day. By mid-afternoon we rolled into Yamchun, bikes covered in dust but spirits high.
We explored the ruins of a centuries-old fort overlooking the valley, then limped to natural hot springs. The pools were segregated, swimsuits forbidden, so the locals got an eyeful of pale untanned skin while we soaked our aching bodies in sulphurous water. After a cozy night under thick blankets in a homestay, we set out for Alichur.
Up to this point, the route had stayed near the river and at relatively sane elevations, but the road now turned away from the valley and climbed over a little-used 13,780-foot pass into central Tajikistan and the “high Pamirs”—terrain where everything sits above 13,000 feet.
The ride began like previous days: dusty tracks, villages tucked into green pockets of the valley, children darting into the road for terrifyingly risky high-fives. Then came the climb. Switchbacks snaked upward, cut into the mountainside, before spilling us out onto a vast, empty plateau above the tree line. There wasn’t much up there—just rock, sand, the occasional abandoned building, and endless sky. The views stretched so far you could see snowcapped peaks in India.
As the bikes climbed, their strength faded. They coughed, sputtered, and eventually refused to move in anything higher than first gear. We were now crawling only slightly faster than the maniacs touring on bicycles. But crawling is better than stalling, and eventually we crested the pass at 13,780 feet. A small victory—and a good omen for what still lay ahead.
• Murghab and the Road to the Roof of the World
After a freezing night in the tent, we carried on toward Murghab. The road held steady above 13,000 feet but leveled out enough to let the bikes get some speed.
Murghab itself felt like another planet. Founded as a Soviet outpost in the late 1800s, it was never meant to be permanently inhabited. But when Kyrgyz shepherds were driven from their homeland by collectivization, they settled here. Today, people eke out a living from goats and yaks.
The town’s main feature is its shipping-container market. At least it had puncture repair kits, which we badly needed, since we were burning through inner tubes at a worrying rate.
Life at this altitude was harsh. Nights in the tent were bitterly cold, mornings brittle with frost. The road stretched flat across vast plateaus with little sign of human life, just grazing yaks, scattered herds of goats, and endless wind. Riding here felt like being on another planet, far from the valleys where we’d started.
• The Final 15,000-Foot Test Along the Afghanistan Border
The last day in Tajikistan brought the ultimate challenge: crossing the 15,272-foot pass into Kyrgyzstan. The road started out paved—though cratered with potholes—and the surrounding mountains gleamed with snow. But as altitude climbed, the bikes faltered. Kiley’s managed to chug along, but Rory’s sputtered to a stop at the base of the final ascent. Desperate, we pulled the spongey air filter and replaced it with an old t-shirt—an improvisation a passing local called “Tajik engineering.” With fewer layers of cloth, the bike could breathe just enough to lurch forward.
Kiley reached the top first, then ran back to find Rory stranded on the last switchback, bike sideways to keep it from sliding backward. We weren’t giving up. Together, we turned the bike uphill and pushed, legs burning, while the engine chugged in first gear. Inch by inch, we forced it upward until finally, we stood at the top: 15,000 feet. No carb jets. Just grit, stubborn riders, and underpowered machines that didn’t know their own limits. We did it!
• Descent Into Kyrgyzstan and a Final Reflection
The Pamirs had been everything promised: gnarly roads, broken suspension, too many punctures, freezing nights, thin air, and underpowered 125s pushed to their limits. But they had also given us staggering landscapes, unforgettable encounters, and the adventure we came looking for. If you’re building a motorcycle bucket list, the Pamir Highway deserves a place at the very top.
Kiley Shields and Rory Gibson, an American and Brit, drove around the world on various dilapidated Hondas and now help travellers looking to cross the closed Azuri border via Georgia to Azerbaijan Vehicle Shipping.Kiley Shields and Rory Gibson, an American and Brit, drove around the world on various dilapidated Hondas and now help travellers looking to cross the closed Azuri border via Georgia to Azerbaijan Vehicle Shipping.
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