Pedalling to Kailash

 "Graydon may have missed his calling as Dos Equis' 'Most Interesting Man in the World.' A polyglot and polymath, who is as well-read and widely-traveled as anyone I know, in Pedalling to Kailash, Graydon takes us along with the Xtreme Dorks on an ambitious and wild-hearted bicycle tour through the Karakoram and Himalaya, and then onwards across the gruelling Tibetan Plateau. Along the way, he casually fills in delightful details about the land, people and history. The result is a poignant reminder of how curiosity, good hearts, iron wills and perhaps most critically self-deprecating humour are the keys to opening new landscapes--both foreign and within."

Bruce Kirkby, adventurer and author of Sand Dance and Blue Sky Kingdom

"I was sorry to read that Graydon Hazenberg's Pedalling to Kailash has still not found a publisher. It certainly deserves one, and perhaps the passage of time has actually added to its interest. It describes a family expedition across Roof of the Word made in 1998, a time when the chances of unaccredited travellers not being arrested may have been slightly better than today but when the facilities were fewer and the roads considerably worse. 

"This last was a matter of concern because Graydon, his twin sisters and their two boyfriends had chosen to tackle the most formidable terrain in Asia on push-bikes. A century earlier the Americans Fanny Bullock and William Workman had warmed up for the Himalayas by cycling from the tip of India to Kashmir, where they switched to walking boots for the Karakorams. The Hazenbergs flew into Islamabad, pedalled out of the airport and kept on pedalling - and pushing - up through northern Pakistan, round the Karakorams, across the sands of Xinjiang, over the Kun Lun passes, out onto the Aksai Chin and down through western Tibet to the great pilgrimage sites of Kailas-Manasarovar. 

"It was a brutal marathon but it makes for an engrossing read. Punctuating the punctures, the author's reflections on the history and culture of the region betray extensive research and good judgement. Not many will be tempted to follow in the Hazenbergs' tyre-tracks, but someone who has slipped across so many dodgy frontiers and blagged his way past so many Chinese security guards will surely find a route to get this fine narrative to a wider readership."

John Keay, author of When Men and Mountains Meet, India:  A History and The Great Arc

"A debut memoir chronicles the adventures of a small band of cyclists nicknamed the Xtreme Dorks who set off for Tibet.

"The prospect of riding some of the highest roads on Earth had long excited Hazenberg, who, as a child growing up in the 1970s in Thunder Bay, Ontario, was fascinated by maps of the great continents. In the book’s opening, the author describes how literature further opened his young mind to adventure, later leading him to take on a Ph.D., which he lost the motivation to finish. After successfully applying to be a contestant on the quiz show Jeopardy! he used his prize money to spend three years exploring the world. In 1998, he convinced his two sisters, Audie and Saakje, and their partners to cycle from Islamabad, Pakistan, to Tibet, their goal being Mount Kailash, an important Buddhist pilgrimage site. The journey was grueling, punctuated with thrills, spills, and eyebrow-raising encounters, from stone-throwing kids to benevolent gun runners. The author embroiders the odyssey with rich historical and factual details and, at the close of the memoir, reflects on the significant political shifts that have taken place since he completed his trip. Hazenberg’s affinity for literature is prominent throughout this sharply penned book. The author effortlessly transports readers using his concisely evocative, descriptive style: “A golden carpet of grain stalks shimmered in the sunlight. Apples and apricot grew in neat orchards, and pencil-thin Lombardy poplars provided windbreaks and fast-growing firewood on the edge of fields.” Hazenberg adds further layers of interest by including carefully researched historical tidbits: “We passed under Churchill’s Picket, a hilltop military post where a 22-year-old Winston Churchill saw action in 1897.” Such facts slide fluidly into the narrative and serve to further illuminate the passing landscape. Avoiding the pitfall of focusing too intently on the demands of the itinerary, the author is acutely aware of local customs and cultural differences: “The women were shocked by Saakje’s shaved head; we had by now learned that only women taken in adultery or being shamed as prostitutes had hair that short.” Far from presenting mundanely reworked field notes, as is sometimes common in this genre, this is a refreshingly intelligent, multifaceted memoir that will entertain and inspire cyclists of all abilities.

"An erudite, informative, and highly readable cycling account."

Kirkus Reviews

 "A well written account of an epic adventure cycling over the Karakorum Highway and across Tibet in the author's youth. So much has changed in this region that many elements of this journey would no longer be possible - but it is a classic account of a hard-core cycling adventure in a fascinating part of the world. He did the suffering so you don't have to - enjoy it from your armchair - recommended!"

Niall Corbett, Amazon reviewer

 "A great read of youthful adventure which hardly seems imaginable these days. Live vicariously through their exploits on the roof of the world with this meticulously well researched book. Not only an adventure story but a compelling insight into the history of the people of the highest mountains on earth as well as early explorers to the area. Well worth your time."

M. Wright, Amazon reviewer

"I must admit that I would not be considered an avid pleasure reader, in fact my wife was shocked to see me reading a book. I finished the book quickly as I was captivated in the recounting of this incredible journey. I thoroughly enjoyed not only the account of the journey but also the added cultural, historical and political backstories presented."

Seanny B., Amazon reviewer

"I was completely spellbound by the time I finished the book. It was well beyond my comprehension as to how this group survived the trials and tribulations of the journey: the heat, the cold, the exhaustion, the intestinal disturbances, the breakdown of the bikes. The perseverance and fortitude displayed by the group is almost beyond belief."

Charlie Adams, Amazon reviewer

  It was 1:00 pm somewhere on the sweeping plains of western Tibet. All morning we had been crawling like overladen ants across a vast landscape that seemed barely to change from hour to hour. Our bicycles bumped and wobbled across the loose gravel, thumping with metronomic regularity across the washboard ruts created by rare passing trucks. Our heavy panniers, bulging with tents, sleeping bags, spare parts, fuel, warm clothes, books, pots and pans, stoves and much more, banged rhythmically against our long-suffering luggage racks. It was maddening, exhausting work keeping the bicycles moving at barely above walking speed, watching for lines where the ruts smoothed out for fifty blissful metres and we could lift our aching eyes from the road to look around at our surroundings.

Finally I called a halt at a spot indistinguishable from any other along the track. The five of us were all desperately hungry, our bodies emaciated from weeks of propelling our ponderous bicycles across some of the highest roads on earth without enough to eat or sufficient rest. I had been dreaming for the past hour of devouring an entire pan of cheese-laden lasagne by myself, accompanied by a Greek salad of Olympian proportions and a litre of ice-cold beer. Instead we put down our bikes, opened our panniers and rummaged around for bags of peanuts and slightly rancid raisins, reclining in exhaustion on the dusty ground, trying to extract every last scrap of taste and calorie of energy from our meagre fare, rationing ourselves since we had no idea where we would next be able to buy anything to eat. We slaked our thirst with slightly murky water flavoured pungently with iodine drops. Nobody spoke for a long time; our ears were filled with the maddening whistle of the persistent crosswinds that had raked us all morning.