April 16, 2025 to April 20, 2025
Days K1-4: Untapped Potential
So after that fakeout at the embassy, I was disappointed to say the least.Bureaucracy had gotten one over on me. A perfect plan, clean on paper, rejected at the photo page. The tiniest smudge, the biggest consequence.
There was nothing left to do but continue with the plan anyway. As I’ve said before, the midnight run doesn't circle back. No resets. No waiting for permission.
I made my way back to the so-called hotel, basically a serviced apartment with a barely-functioning front desk and the familiar weight of temporary air. I grabbed my things, folding bike and all.
Luck, for once, threw me a bone: a taxi just happened to pull up right in front as someone else was getting out. Considering how unpredictable Uber had been with pins dropping in the wrong place and drivers circling ghost locations, I didn’t hesitate. I flagged the cab and loaded everything in. No second thoughts. No one left to say goodbye to.
I was on my way to the airport, heading for Kazakhstan.
Once I got to Abu Dhabi airport, it was déjà vu in full force. Same massive terminal from July of last year. Same large departures board. Same almost surreal calm. This whole terminal was brand new. It so spacious and airy, almost like a Middle Eastern airport designed by Scandinavians. There were coffee shops, quiet corners, wide corridors that didn’t press in. And for once, I wasn’t sprinting to the gate like a lunatic. My flight was actually close by. Small mercies. The heat was tolerable too, just 32 degrees this time. A far cry from the 45°C inferno I survived back in the summer of 2024. I’ll take it.
But then... Wizz Air. Of course. The cheapest of the cheap, and somehow always the most expensive when you count the hidden costs. They’re Hungarian, apparently, not that it mattered. To me, they might as well be headquartered in hell. Because once again, they hit me with the folding bike fee: 300 dirhams, nearly $100 for a bagged-up bike that wasn’t even doing anything but weighing me down.
I cringed, paid it, and kept moving. Why the hell did I bring the white Tern?It was supposed to be this symbol of freedom, agility, minimalism.Instead, it had become this white metal ball-and-chain.Carried, not ridden. Paid for, not used. But I wasn’t about to ditch it yet.
On board, the cabin was filled with a strangely harmonious cross-section of the world: Filipinos. Malay Muslims. Kazakh Muslims. A few Koreans. Emiratis.And this odd white guy who didn’t stand out at all, and for once didn’t want to.
It was one of those budget flights where the crew barely pretended to enforce rules, and everyone just kind of existed in the same space doing their own thing.
One guy, loud and unbothered, kept chatting up a flight attendant right next to me. Full on flirting, laughing, joking, like they were old friends at a café, not in a narrow aisle surrounded by passengers. Meanwhile, the seatbelt sign kept flashing due to turbulence, and the pilot made several polite reminders over the intercom.
“Please everyone sit down and fasten your seatbelts. The captain has turned on the seatbelt sign.”
But the flight attendant didn’t budge. Neither did the guy. Eventually, when he felt like it, he sauntered back to his seat like the star of his own movie.
Then, as the light outside the cabin dimmed to that soft golden hour glow, a few Muslims took turns standing near the forward cabin door to perform the Maghrib prayer: facing Mecca, quiet, deliberate, unshaken by the hum of the engines. There was no drama. No spectacle. Just… peace.And I watched from my aisle seat, somewhere between amused and contemplative.
This wasn’t just a flight.It was a floating microcosm — a reminder of how strange, disjointed, and unexpectedly beautiful the world can be… especially when you’re just passing through it.
As the flight landed, it felt like I had arrived in a new world. Not East Asia. Not the Gulf. Not Europe. Something in between. It felt a little bit like Armenia and Georgia from my last trip.
Almaty airport surprised me. It was modern, not Soviet: glass and clean lines, not concrete and cold steel. But like most places still straddling legacy and progress, it had its quirks. No working Wi-Fi unless you had a local phone number to receive the verification code. Classic.
Immigration was painless. The passport sailed through. So much for the water damage.
Then came the luggage. My bike, that white, overburdened, still-unused Tern wasn’t where I expected it to be. Turns out it was just sitting there in the oversized area, hidden from view behind some plastic divider and blocked by other baggage. I wouldn’t have seen it if not for a man who appeared beside me in a reflective vest.
He asked what I was looking for. I told him.He helped me find it.Nice enough guy.
Then without warning, he grabbed my trolley and started wheeling it toward the exit.
Uh, okay…
We made small talk through a translator app. He asked: “Are you an athlete?”If only.But hey, maybe I looked the part dragging that bike around.
And then, just as we reached the arrivals area I spotted Joe. My brother. Waiting with a grin on his face.
He walked straight up, shook my hand, and said: "Welcome to Kazahstan!"
I smiled and replied:“It’s great to see you, brother.” But the scene wasn’t complete. There beside us, still clutching the trolley like some misplaced personal assistant, was the “airport worker.” Joe laughed immediately. He knew. This wasn’t an airport worker at all, this was a tout who had somehow slipped past security.
Of course he wanted a tip.
Joe asked him, "Kaspi?" referring to Kazakhstan’s ubiquitous phone-pay app. The man shook his head. Of course not. Kaspi is traceable. Too official. So Joe, sighing and still smiling, reached into his pocket and shoved a fistful of cash into the man’s hand, gave it a firm shake, and that was that. Everyone was happy. It was the perfect Kazakh welcome: awkward, honest, slightly absurd, and unexpectedly warm.
Joe’s hospitality was second to none.
He lived in a relaxed and chilled flat with his local girlfriend, the kind of setup that made it easy to unwind for the first time in weeks. We cracked open the bottles I brought along from duty free, nothing fancy, just something to share. This was paired with some local snacks they’d picked up. Simple, easy, grounding.
Pulling the sofa into a bed was effortless, and just like that, I had a place to sleep.I stayed there for a few days and quickly settled into a routine.
They lived in a modern gated community, the kind where everything you could possibly need was already inside the compound. Supermarkets. Pharmacies. Coffee shops also nearby. So many coffee shops it was almost ridiculous. Joe laughed and said "You don't really even need to leae the neighborhood. Everything is here."
And it was true.
That night and over the next few days, he helped me get the lay of the land by introducing me to the maze of amenities and casual luxury that surrounded their home. There was even a mall nearby fully stocked with ATMs, SIM card kiosks, and everything else you'd need to feel human again after a stretch of travel fatigue and administrative failure.
The next few days became a calm rhythm: spending time with Joe and his girlfriend, walking around, observing this strange yet familiar hybrid of East and West. Sipping coffee in quiet place. And, finally — finally — sitting down to start this journal.
This wasn’t just rest.It was recalibration.
The Midnight Run had gone from theory to execution to narrative.I wasn’t just living it, I was writing it into existence.
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Joe and I sat down one afternoon, coffee in hand, and talked work.
What he does is kind of similar to me, in its own way. yet quite different. We’re both self-made, both remote, and both completely out of the 9-to-5 hamster wheel.
Joe doesn't trade, it's not his thing. Especially when the conversation turns to crypto. He’s got a special eye-roll reserved for those crypto bulls who show up proclaiming: “Crypto is freedom! It’s decentralized! It’s the future!”
Joe sees right through it. He doesn’t hate the asset class, he just hates the messiah complex that seems to come with it.
And he’s right to take shots.
I’ve met these types before. Especially in places like Pai, where you run into the spiritual-turned-speculative nomad types who are building their identity around “being early to the future.” They speak in absolutes. They preach with conviction but no exit strategy.
Crypto is a part of my portfolio to be sure but a very small part. I’m not betting the success of this Midnight Run on a blockchain.
Joe manages a system of apps he built from scratch: tools that track remote workplace attendance. It’s deceptively simple on the surface, but under the hood, it’s complex, elegant, and most importantly… it works. It pulls in income, requires minimal babysitting, and runs itself 95% of the time.
And in that moment, I realized: This is exactly what I'm trying to build with trading. And now that I absconded from a job, the survival incentive is most certainly there for me to make this work profitably.
My system isn’t even close to there yet. It’s messy. Unfinished. Emotional, sometimes.But it’s developing. Every trade. Every session. Every note. The goal is clear: to have it sustain the Midnight Run and beyond.
And here we both were, living examples of this. Two brothers, in a gated compound in Kazakhstan, earning a living without showing up to an office, clocking into meetings, or answering to a boss.
So it makes me question: Why 9-to-5 at all?What’s even the point?
We were taught that security came from structure.But the only real security is sovereignty. And we’re both building that, in our own way.
One day, I finally took the Tern out for a real ride. After dragging that damn folding bike across borders, through airports, and into Ubers, I had started to wonder if it was even worth it. But that day it was.
Joe helped me pick up a pump from a nearby shop, and with a bit of trial, error, and a couple of YouTube videos, we finally figured out how to get the tires inflated. The simple kind of win that somehow feels massive on the road. Joe suggested I ride to the top of a nearby mountain, about 25 kilometers out, with a brutal incline and a scenic reward.
"If you want," he said, "you can even take the cable ccars higher from there."
So I went for it. And honestly? I was blown away.
Biking in Kazakhstan was way easier than I expected, maybe easier than anywhere I’d lived before. Wide sidewalks. Designated bike lanes. Short traffic lights. Courteous drivers. It felt like the kind of freedom you dream of in a city but rarely find.
The climb up? Absolutely brutal. Roughly 900 meters of elevation and I felt every single one of them. I didn’t make it to the top cable car station. I was exhausted. But I found a lookout spot, a small plateau with a coffee shop of course. I just sat there with cold hands, tired legs, warm drink, and an AI training session on how to improve my trading system
The descent was Unbelievable. Almost spiritual. That cold, biting air as I began to roll down…Then, slowly, minute by minute, things started to warm up. It was one of those rare moments where your environment mirrors your internal world. Freezing up top. But on the way down: clarity, motion, and light.
Looking back now, absconding from my boss aka "Stalin" and that toxic job was the best thing I had ever done for myself in my entire life.
I can say that with no hesitation. No doubts that I did the right thing.
The fear that paralyzed me for so long: fear of losing the job, of losing the visa, of losing China: it turns out that fear was based on a complete illusion.Because as soon as I left, I realized:
China was not the only place. Not even close.
I found countries that were just as safe, just as convenient, and filled with friendly, honest, and welcoming people.People who didn’t need to surveil me to feel secure.Places that didn’t demand ideological loyalty just to rent an apartment or access wifi.
I was in awe of what I was discovering.And I was mad as hell about what China had lied to me about for decades. Not to mention how the communist party lies to their own people and continues to do it every single day.
All those years they drilled it into us: "Nowhere is as stable as here. Nowhere else will respect you. The world is dangerous" Lies.Gaslighting dressed up as policy.
There was one moment I’ll never forget. A bike ride in Shanghai, during the middle of covid. I was a little drunk. Just trying to enjoy a fleeting feeling of freedom, coasting through the streets under the zero covid policy. I caught the tail end of a traffic light, nothing dangerous, nothing wild — just a minor infraction.
But that was enough.
A driver pulled up beside me. Angry.A nd then he said it. Not just words, but a threat wrapped in nationalism, insecurity, and total control.
“What are you doing?! Do you want to stay in China? I can get you out of here. You want to stay in China, or do you want to go to hell?”
I remember the way he spat the words. Not like a man defending traffic rules but like a man reminding me where I stood. As if my entire existence in that country hung on his mood, his perception, his need to assert power.
What they called “hell” was actually life. What they called “safety” was a cage I had finally outgrown. So yes. I chose “hell.” And I’ve never felt more alive.
As much as I was stunned by how easy it was to leave, I was even more grateful for the people who helped me find the courage. Friends who believed in me, sometimes more than I believed in myself. They didn’t just support me — they carried me through the hardest moments. I wasn’t just escaping a job. I was escaping a version of myself that thought suffering in silence was strength.
Now? I am an entirely different person. And I’m not going back.Not to that job. Not to that country. Not to that version of me.
The Midnight Run wasn’t just a logistics operation. It was a resurrection.
Today's ride: 55 km (34 miles)
Total: 285 km (177 miles)
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