The saddle saga: convulsing with cold in Kyrgyzstan The descent down the exposed southern face was terrible. We were both dehydrated from the effort of the climb and convulsing with cold. The wind thrashed snow into our faces. The sight of wisps of it slithering across the rock would have been beautiful, had we not been so cold. Our next pass out of Sary Tash, 50 miles from the Chinese border, was less of a climb but ridges of snow and ice made progress slow and treacherous. Husks of wrecked trucks lined our way, reminding us of the real threat of being squashed underneath a juggernaut unable to stop in time upon the Teflon-like road surface. After giving our brakes a thorough workout on the slopes we finally made it to the Chinese border. Here our expectations of an imposing military presence, CCTV and guard dogs were dashed. Instead of the People's Liberation Army we were greeted by a tracksuit-wearing youth who ushered us forward. Bemused, we pedalled to the customs building. Inside, an English-speaking guard welcomed us to China and informed us that, for our own safety, we would have to take a HGV to the town of Wuqia (Ulugqat) where our passports would be stamped. Then we'd be free to cycle anywhere in China (apart from Tibet, of course!) The bikes were loaded, despite our protests, into a HGV and Matt and I bundled into the cabs of two different lorries. Cyclists and HGVs operate at opposite ends of the road food-chain. The HGVs dominate the road and cyclists just have to deal with that, we are natural enemies. This was evident from the frosty atmosphere in my truck. The driver, a loner judging by the rubbish piled high upon the passenger's seat, resented my presence and said nothing. I attempted to break the ice with a smattering of Mandarin I'd practiced but his continued stony silence convinced me that he did not know the way to a hotel and I could not have any noodles. The drive was four hours along some of the roughest roads yet. Not that this dissuaded our drivers from attempting to reach 60mph at every opportunity. Riding in the cab was like taking a spin in a tumble dryer. 140 km later and we had our passports stamped at Wuqia; probably the world's longest border crossing. Wuqia is in Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Province, the largest province of China - about the same size as Iran. The population is diverse but dominated by the Muslim Uyghurs and the Han, ethnic Chinese. The Uyghurs speak a Turkic dialect totally different from Mandarin. They are discriminated against in employment. As a result over 90 per cent have to scrape a living from the arid land and relations between the two are poor; only two days before our arrival into Kashgar, 12 people were murdered in ethnic riots just south of the city. We found Wuqia to be similar to central Asian towns we visited, except that the older Uyghur buildings stood alongside modern Han office blocks. The government encourages immigration to these fringes of their empire in order to homogenize the population. As we began the short ride to Kashgar we wondered if the tide of Han had buried the Uyghur culture as the sands of the vast Taklamakan desert had buried many former Silk Road cities, or if there remained a trace of the proud people or spirit of the Silk Road. Follow Matt and Andy's route: www.thecyclediaries.com Order a postcard: www.thecyclediaries.com/postcard/ Donate to War Child: www.justgiving.com/thecyclediaries