Author: admin

I say my goodbyes, ride through the gate and head 50 miles back towards Irkutsk. I’m desperately trying not to look at my boots. I want to look. I don’t look. “Doooooont loooook”.. “ok, I won’t look”. “You want to look don’t you? do you want me to look for you” “Nope. I’m not going to look.”

I look. And it’s all dry. But I’ve only been 50m.

I’m approaching the area where the freight company is. It’s got to be wrong. It’s in some sort of ghetto. Down a long rough dirt track, then another, turn right.. well this is nice. There are, of course, new and shiny freight forwarding facilities in Russia. Someone at the bike post suggested one, but I thought I’d use the one my Russian mate had used in the past. Why in God’s fucking name do continuously make the wrong decision. WHHHYYYYY. You could give me one choice. Just ONE. And i would STILL make the wrong decision.

I go in. See a lady behind a screen. Tell her I want to freight my motorcycle to Moscow. “First go to green shed and come back here”. Ooooo k then. The green shed is round the back. A warehouse amongst old railway carriages and there is a tired, clapped out crane loading one lump of coal at a time into some train wagons, belching out thick black smoke and threatening to explode. It’s like a film set from some terrible depressing dystopian future.

A little bloke comes out and motions me to ride round the side and up the ramp, into the damp darkness. The Bitch is nervous. She doesn’t want to go. She’s whinnying and stamping her feet. She is growling her displeasure. She’ll be fine. It’s the poor bastards that have to share the journey with her I’m sorry for.

I drain the fuel. Remove the screen. Tape the helmet to the bike. Little bloke takes weights and measurements. Gives me a form. And I go to the office. That was easy. Too easy. Go to the woman at the glass. Hand her my form. Answer a few questions . Pay about £450 and she hands me a slip of paper. Done.

I’m feeling something is wrong. I can hear chuckles behind me. I can feel a shitstorm rushing towards me. “How long?” I ask. I feel shit and happens both grab an ankle each. “About two weeks”. My legs go from under me and I feel them being pulled apart. They drag me to a post and twat my bollocks so fucking hard I feel like I’ve got 3 Adam’s apples. Two weeks! Two fucking bloody sodding what the fuck am I going to do for two shitting bloody wanking weeks. AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

WELL THAT HAS WELL AND TRULY DROPPED A BIG WARM CURLY TURD RIGHT INTO MY PORRIDGE
Two weeks without the bike. That’s a prison sentence. I’m going to have to tread very carefully with my cash and maybe beg my Russian mate if I can sit in his outside toilet…

I feel very heavy. Weighed down by having shit and happen and all their extended family from around the world on my back. The lady orders me a taxi. Maybe I should order a black one with a box in the back. But I get a small Peugeot instead. No room to lay a lanky streak of piss like me to rest in there so I better just get on with it.

I’ll stay by the station. Always the best area in town. Go to the first cheap hotel. “Niet. Russian passports only”. Trudge round the corner in the heat in my leathers. Speak to the Russian sulking champion 5 years running, get a cheap cell next to the road. A tram just went past and the rumble went through the room.

Let the purgatory begin.

You might want to put a note in your diary at this point to return to this nonsense in a couple of weeks when I’m hopefully reunited with my Bitch and I’m riding her into the sunset. Until then you’re likely to get very bored by the musings of an old bald bloke sitting on a random bed with only a keyboard for company. You have been warned..

You know that famous picture of astronaut Bruce McCandless II floating completely untethered with the earth below and the infinity of space around him? Only a backpack to get him back? Well that’s what I feel like right now. I know that’s being overdramatic but that’s the mood I’m in today. “Today Mathew! I’m going to be a drama queen”. I have money. I have a very helpful and kind Russian mate that gave me a life saving Russian sim with a phone number and data, and I have my life experience. I hope that’s enough. Fuck I could always just go and grab a policeman and scream help I suppose and jump onto a long and complicated officially assisted road out but I’d rather try and go manual.

I went to the station this morning to buy a train ticket. Plan is to move slowly along the trans Siberian back to Moscow over the next 10 days or so, stopping off for changes of scenery more than anything. I’m not a culture vulture. I can see as much as I need to see of a cathedral in approximately 20 seconds. I just need distractions.

I went to the ticket office. Pressed a button to get a ticket to wait, put it in my book, and waited. Number came up, went to kiosk, ticket was gone. Apparently all it took was 10 minutes for me to turn into a magician. I fanned and fanned the book. No ticket came out. Back to the machine, get another ticket, back in the book but with the top sticking out. Wait … Number comes up, go to the kiosk, fan the pages, 2 tickets fall out. No. I’m not making this up.

I’ve got to go and change some more money. There is a Siberia bank across town, that’s who I used before. Time for a walk, and a coffee.

Google says there is a coffee place in big derelict building with a spanky Maybach SUV parked outside. Walk in and there is a freshly polished and buffed Russian princess posing at the end table. Looking like a business woman but judging on the two other business women that enter after and usher her out the back, then I’m wondering what business they are actually in. Does anyone have a fetish to be pointed at accusingly with a pen by a dark bird with slim bronze legs and a pencil skirt? Or am I the first? Forget I said that.

Anyway she serves to distract me from the price of the coffee and the fact the building I’m sat in could collapse at any moment.

So let’s find the bank. It’s round here somewhere. It’s… shut. Not shut as in “open again tomorrow at 2”, shut as in “we’ve removed all the signage and furniture and fucked off” shut. Why am I not surprised. Find another bank. There are surprisingly few. Walk up, open the door, there is a bloke on a ladder working right in the way. There is absolutely no fucking way I am getting within touching distance of any bloody ladders. I’ll try again in the morning. Let’s just go walk about amongst the roaming Russians.

I get a text. It’s a weather warning and I can see it approaching so I head back. Walking across the bridge the wind is howling and throwing so much dust I can bearly open my eyes. It feels like it’s trying to rip the bag with my passport right out my hands. It’s all bollocks of course. It’s just my under stimulated mind getting on its exercise bike and blurring the pedals in a fit of pique. I do sometimes wonder what being on the spectrum must be like. Fuck, my brain feels ready to explode half the time.

Tomorrow I start moving back west towards the uk. Hopefully it will start to take some of the tension out of the extreme pull I’m feeling towards home.

 

 

Through the evening a few other souls roll in to stay. A father and daughter. A couple of bloke on big Harleyesque bikes. They’re friendly too. Maybe it’s just a biker thing. Fingers crossed tomorrow is less stressful day. I could do with one.

A very fitful sleep in a grubby bed. There are other souls somewhere in the dark that I can hear. I’m wondering if they are all in the present, or if some are in the past. Speaking from the walls.

In the middle of the night I hear banging. Proper HARD banging on the front door. It’s a big fuck off metal contraption and they won’t get through it but they’re having a proper go at it. I suspect they are some bikers turned up very late and want to stay but there is no way I’m getting up and opening it. Nobody else seems to care and after a while I think whoever is banging’s hands turn to pulp and they have to stop. I’ll check for blood in the morning. As long as it’s on the outside of the building and not the inside I’m happy.

It’s Sunday and I’m going to stay here until tomorrow then ride directly to the freighters and try to start the return process. It feels like a cop out. A failure. A bust. A missed adventure. My latest plan was to go into Mongolia and loop back into Russia and home but with only a thin slab of glue applied by an oily mechanic holding back a potentially head-fucking disaster I don’t want to push my luck any further. I could ride back the way I came but in truth it adds 3500 miles of radiator risk and absolutely no pleasure. I’ve ridden it twice now and I’ve no need to do it again. The first time in 2018 was great but now it’s a thundering tube of metal and madness. It’s changed, and not for the better.

I will always have the urge to get to almost madness. Always. And I have a plan for that, but not alone. So if you want to run the Russian gauntlet then you know who to call.

Anyway look at me. I’m level with the middle of China. The circumference of the word at this latitude is about 24.000km and I’m about 10,000 km from home. I’m about 40% the way round. Now is not the time for fucking about.

I finish putting the bike back together, start it up and prepare for the almost inevitable disappointment that is about to unfold. I leave it running and go to read my book. I do want to check. I don’t want to check. I want to check now. I’ll check in a minute. It’s like waiting for a baby to be born, or for the ball to stop on the roulette wheel.

I go to check. No water. I rev it a bit and wait. The fans come in. I turn it off to heat sync and leave it. No water. That’s a result. But experience has taught me not to count any chickens before they are hatched, roasted and sitting on a plate in front of me with roast potatoes and gravy. That’s my anxiety lowered for the next 5 minutes at least though.

So I walk down to the centre of town to get a haircut and shave. It’s Sunday, it will be closed, but no. Many pretty ladies in red uniforms are poised to cut what’s left of my hair. “английский” (English) .. errrr, one pretty lady is now poised to cut my hair. She has shave grades but hers are a like a set of kids stacking cups where 30% of them have gone missing. I pick the shortest. I think it removes the first layer of skin too.

Fuck knows what’s falling in my lap. That’s not my hair. Someone is standing behind her throwing hair from an 80 year old in my lap. FUUUUUCK…this shit. That’s not me. That’s not the adolescent soul ratting around inside my head. There can’t be a God surely. What god would slowly torture you, bend you over, loosen your skin, degrade all your senses and reduce your world to a point where you’re incapable of anything but breathing, whilst leaving your brain as though you were twenty. Who would worship a God like that?

Hair (singular) done. Now the shave. She won’t wet shave me which is a shame, but she is willing to run over my face with an electric razor. The result … is shit. I hope she does a better job on her lady garden otherwise sex for her husband will be like being pulled naked through a newly harvested corn field by a Lamborghini tractor driven by The Stig. Still, if I need any sandpaper to use on my radiator I can now use my chin.

I’m getting some coffee from the supermarket for the bike stop. Something to contribute at least. There is a little old lady in front of me. She has 5 cheap shit pot noodles I assume are for her and a load of quality cat food that I assume isn’t. Her bloody cat is eating better than she is. So I pay ahead. Never done it before, but why not. She smiles. That’s enough.

I was going to take the bike for a test ride but I’ve chickened out. It’s stupid hot and I don’t want to do a mile more than necessary. My mind is going to be totally occupied by that bloody bike all the way (hopefully) home.

So now I’m sitting round a table with a load of Russians consuming vast amounts of alcohol and eating from various plates they’ve put together. It’s a nice place to be. A comfortable place. A happy place. Same people. Same pleasures. Different language. I show some of the bikers the radiator fix. They say if it had happened earlier in a big city I could have had it welded properly, but shit and happens never organise their jolly japes in that way. As long as it gets me home, I have absolutely no fucks to give.

“Remember the first rule I told you?”
“I must not count any chickens”
“Right. Never ever ever count your chickens. You know what happens if you count the chickens don’t you”
“There are 10 chickens”
“YOU COUNTED THE FUCKING CHICKENS? WHAT THE FUCK YOU STUPID SNIVELLING SACK OF SPUNKY PUSS. WHY THE FUCK DID YOU COUNT THE CHICKENS?”
“I like counting chickens. I’m a chicken counter”
“YOU UTTER UTTER TWAT”
“.. and clouds.. I like counting clouds too”
“CUUUUUNT. WELL THERE IS GOING TO BE PLENTY OF TIME FOR THAT NOW YOU PITIFUL PILE OF PUBIC EXCREMENT”

And I’d thought i had maybe bought myself a little luck this morning too
I was just about to abandon the dribbling drunken giggling Russians and head for bed last night when there is a sound of angry metal bees outside the gate. “Don’t open the gate” I cried but it was too late. A drunk Russian tripped and fell into the gate and open it went. Then through the gates came the Mongolian Horde. Ripping up the air and spraying benzine perfume everywhere. Nine bikes and 4 cars full of an assortment of men, women and children. Out they all came and into the building. Claiming beds and couches, getting big boxes of food out and cooking up clouds of smoke.

Mongolians. I think poor. I think yurts and desert. I think hunting on horseback and wrestling covered in fat. I think playing football with a dead sheep. I don’t think of them riding Harley Davidsons and modern Honda motorcycles. I don’t think of them as having cars even, yet here they are. One of them says hello in perfect English. He and his wife were educated in Wales and both speak English as well as most Englishmen. Their chaos is going to take a few hours to subside so I just stick some ear plugs in and go back to plan A. Sleep.

I’m up early because I plan to get to the freighters ASAP. Maybe they can get the bike on a train today. While I do want to leave, I’m also quite uncomfortable about leaving this temporary place of sanctuary. Going back out on my own into the scary Russian wilderness with a patched up radiator.

I’m wandering about making excuses that delay my departure. I’m looking at one of the riders’s Africa Twin. His back tyre is toast and he’s only just started his trip. My tyres are the same size.

Lady Luck is a busy lady. She cannot be everywhere at once and occasionally she can do with a hand. So i hand the Africa Twin rider my spare tyres. They should get him round his trip. And hopefully Lady Luck will get to hear and do me a favour in return one day.

But not today.

Don’t do this adventuring thing. Just don’t. Ever.

Woke up thinking what the actual FUUUCK have I got myself into here. This is really not good at all.

My Russian mate has given me an address of a ‘bike post’ about 100 miles away. These are a network of community run sort of road houses where bikers can meet, stay, eat and hopefully help each other. I’m thinking this will be a waste of time but it’s Saturday and the freighters he suggested will most likely be closed for the weekend.

Go to the garage. Fill the expansion tank with antifreeze.. again. Start her up and head off. The route back is steep and tortuous. The bike isn’t getting an easy ride but the gauge isn’t moving. The thing is though, my right foot is getting hot. It’s getting hot because it’s covered in hot water. Hot water that should be in the engine, not on my boot and leg. Stop after 50 miles and refill the expansion tank. This bike is not going to get me home in this state. That’s a fact.

I stop at a jet wash. To clear the radiator. Because that will fix it. NOT

Get to the location and it’s an abandoned building. BEAM ME UP SCOTTY. DO IT RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!

I hear footsteps approaching in the puddle of tears im sitting in with my thumb in my mouth. A bloke with a pork pie hat on. He points at the closed building, picks up his phone and looks at me. Someone will be coming in 10 minutes. Now all you lot who are hard anti-Russian haters can just fuck off right now. Forget what you see, what you read and what someone told you.

The Russian people are generally extremely helpful, very polite and show no animosity whatsoever. If today proves anything it’s that they’re good people. They look after each other and strangers too. Obviously that’s a generalisation but I would not get the same levels of help and patience in many countries I go to. Not unless there was something in it for them.

So we look at the bike. Water is dripping on the floor from the front. I can see at the top left of the radiator it’s all wet but that’s where the pressure cap is too. Water leaks are an absolute prize bastard to pinpoint at the best of times.

I know what’s coming. But I don’t want to do it. And The Bitch doesn’t want to get naked and be examined and poked at by Russian men. Well I’m afraid love this is what happens if you piss on my feet.

Take all the clothes off, and the tank. It’s all wet around the pressure cap but there is water everywhere. One of the blokes examines the pressure cap. Pokes it. Blows it. Declares it operational. Or should that be ‘Russian operational’ I get the torch and have a look at the radiator.

There is a mount just above the fans and at some time or another I have hit a speed bump the size of Alison Hammond and it’s actually bent the mount and compressed the top of the radiator. Cunty arse wanky knob pimples. Shit fuck shit shag and bollocks. FUUUCING HELLLL.

So now we go next level. Out comes the radiator. A bastard job. And here I have it in my hand. I can’t see a hole but I’m not Joe 90 and I don’t have glasses thicker than a submarine door. So we jump in a car to go and see a mechanic. We arrive just as a couple of SU-27 fighters scream over and head west.

The mechanic has spent the morning bathing in soot and oil. He’s like a miner/oil rig worker cross breed. I’ve never seen anything like it. Jeeeeesus Christ almighty. I walk in through a gate and a rabid dog comes running only to be drawn up by a chain an inch from my leg. Another old bloke is sitting smoking. Pissed as a fart. But what a face this bloke has got. A proper old face with a map of his life etched into his skin. Clear blue eyes swimming about in a mist of cigarette smoke. I want to take his picture, but he doesn’t look too friendly.

The oily chimp grabs my radiator, starts up a small compressor and sticks a rubber bung in the upper hose hole, holds his hand over the lower hole and gets his mate to stick his finger in the other one while they dip it in an old bathtub full of filthy water.

And there are bubbles. The radiator has a hole in where it has compressed. I’m out of swear words by now. I just grab shit and happens and squeeze the little bastards until their eyes nipples and balls stick out. YOU LITTLE FUCKERS.

Oily chimp issues instructions to someone and I jump back into the car to go to the local Petrol Station/bakery/porn/automotive pastes and potions shop. The bloke I’m with doesn’t know what exactly to buy so I do a supermarket sweep and pay half their yearly turnover. Back to the oily chimp and he declares one of the selections suitable and then proceeds to destroy my radiator by rubbing it hard with a piece of sandpaper manufactured some time around 1910 and used constantly since. He pours on some cleaning fluid, makes up the aluminium glue and slaps it in. Then tells us to fuck off for 20 minutes.

Outside the front of the place there is an old bus. The door is open and I go and sit down for a cold drink. Blue eyes comes in and sits across from me. This is one of those times where the world goes quiet. Where there are only you and him. You can focus on nothing but his face.

He starts talking. I don’t understand most of it and he had a very croaky voice. I suspect from what he says he has throat cancer. He’s got some gold teeth and I ask him about them. Turns out he was a boxer. I can see it in his nose. You’re so fixated on the eyes you don’t notice much else. I look at his hands. He gabs my hand and he pulls, hard. I pull hard back. He starts to smile. We’re there both pulling against each other, smiling, minds meeting. It’s a rare spell and it’s soon broken by oily chimp coming on and saying the radiator is done. I make bubble noises to ask if he tested it and he just laughs and smiles too. “You think I’m an amateur?”. I dunno mate. I’ll find out later.

The driver takes me back to the bike stop. I ask if I can stay a couple of nights. He says stay as long as you like, then buggers off and leaves me all alone in the building.

This would never work in . There are tools here. There is a kitchen with a fridge and cooker. Washing machines. And a shit load of “hot beds”. Choose one and hope the last occupant didn’t have anything nasty. I’m past caring. Way way past.

I start putting the bike back together but I don’t start it and test it. If I tell myself it will be ok I might sleep tonight. If it’s still fucked I don’t want to know until tomorrow.

This is getting very hard and very tedious now. I’m making myself promises that I must keep. I want to stay on the island in Lake Baikal in a few days. I need to treat myself and I need just a few hours away from this road.

A couple of nose bags turned up last night. Seeing them on the road you think they’re custom made in Chinese sweatshops and cost a week’s wages. On inspection however, it’s the usual pragmatic Russian approach of cheap foam and a shit load of sticky tape.

Today is a special day. We’re climbing the hill out of town and The Bitch’s Odometer clicks over her 100th birthday. Ktm speeds and distances are about as reliable as a man measuring his own Hampton but I’ll take it anyway. Given all that she’s done it’s quite appropriate she passes this milestone out here on the “Sibir”. I just hope. I really really really hope she can get us both home safe and sound. I’m a fucking stupid distance away now. And I’m feeling a little .. apprehensive.

As I rode out towards Irkutsk and Lake Baikal the road narrows and the traffic thins out which is both good and bad. Good in that the riding is easier but bad in that my brain fills the gaps with what if’s and starts opening scary doors to bottomless pits of darkness.

I do actually begin to recognise some of the road now. The odd filling station, or a vista opening over a hill. And I’ve got the train for company too now. The track was running alongside again today and I slowed right down to rode alongside it for a while. That’s a comfort at least.
Stopped for fuel just outside a town and all was well. Go about 100 yards down the road and the satnav says I’m doing 90mph, but I’m doing about 30. It says I’m riding west, even though I’m going east, and it suddenly adds about 59 miles to my elapsed miles… it’s gone absolutely bat shit crazy like I’ve never seen before! And then the signal goes completely.
Now I’m not sure but this may be the place recently visited by a truck full of drones. It’s was out this way for sure. Either way, there is a new concrete ring road round the town and I would take a bet that going inside would not be encouraged. Strange things indeed.

The bloody bike is overheating again now. It gets hot very quickly and takes an age to cool. This could be bad. I’ll just have to fill the expansion tank at every fuel stop and cross my fingers. Pray for me..

And to top it off, I try to put the bike on the centre stand and I snap the fucking bloody bastard tossing mirror off . I grab some bloke from the car park, show him my empty tube of Liquid Metal/PlayDoh they sell in Russia and he goes fast forward jibber jabber and starts pointing. He shows me a picture of a shop then shows me it shuts in 30 minutes. Off I trudge in my leathers, sweat pouring down my back, heart heavy in my chest. Find the shop at least. It’s a small town. A half horse town. But he has liquid cheese and I buy as many as he has.

I’m getting really worried now. Properly worried about this overheating. There is no water in the oil, it’s just getting hot and throwing the water out. Let’s just see what tomorrow brings.

My moods are still going up and down faster than knickers in a knocking shop. When I went to bed last night I was for putting The Bitch on the train in Irkutsk and taking it back to Moscow. I get outside this morning and she’s looking at me with that “WHAT?” look on her face. I don’t argue with her when she’s in this mood. It would be like playing catch with a glass bottle of nitro glycerine.

I’m almost at my furthest east now. I’m over 6k. In a couple of days I’m turning first south, then west and back towards home. Maybe The Bitch can make it. I’m thinking of letting her ride topless. Let the breeze blow between her bristols and see if that helps. She’s well up for that, but I’m not sure I have enough sun tan lotion to cover a pair that size.

Stop early for a change. A cafe at the end of the universe. Flat horizon all around. They do eggs. I fancy some eggs, bread, and maybe a couple of those arsehole, scrotum, lips, tits and tackle ‘meat’ patties that girl over there is eating please.

“Any special requests?”

“Yes please. I’d like that waitress with the really runny nose to walk about in the car park for 20 minutes with my meal until the entire plate is absolutely brimming with snot”.

“Da. No problem”.

I FUCKING HATE snotty eggs. I HATE THEM. But I’m so hungry I close my eyes and suck the snot through my teeth pretending it’s just jelly

It’s only 300 miles today. A short one. The traffic has been light and I’ve not seen the temperature gauge move at all. She’s playing with me. I know she is.

I’m looking at her right now. Parked in the shade at the hotel. Butter wouldn’t melt. She’s looking back. Enigmatic. Inscrutable. What the fuck is going on with her. Can that lump of metal get me 6000 miles home? Will she?

This afternoon she was in full on head fuck mode. I am staying on the south shore of Lake Baikal. The biggest fresh water lake in the world. It’s over 500 miles long I was going to stay on an island but that would have added another 300km.

The road goes over some mountains and down a long steep narrow twisting road into the bay. The road has a queue of traffic nose to tail 5 miles long. The trucks are all crawling down in low gear and this is absolute death for The Bitch. So I start riding up the inside, outside, over the white lines, anywhere to get an advantage. I’m crawling along but the temperature isn’t going up. Result I think. Amazing. Fantastic.

I see a police car in the queue. Fuck fucking FUCK fuckidy fuck. I go alongside. Ask if I can go on the outside. Crossing the line. That’s normally plod’s favourite crime out here. He angrily just waves his hand, which I take as “please, be my guest” and go full English and drive on the left as much as I can. But it’s painfully slow as there are trucks and cars crawling up too. I get a massive shock as I hear 2 lorry tyres explode just behind me. Fuck, I thought I was being attacked!

Eventually I get to the hotel and the gauge still hasn’t changed. When I turned it off it made a sort of “I’m done” noise. And there has obviously been lots of dirty brown liquid squirting out from somewhere. Maybe the gauge is fucked now too. I haven’t tried restarting it yet. I’m worried it just won’t. Can someone please put me in touch with a psychologist so they can tell me just why the actual fuck I do these things.

I was thinking about catching a film about Lenin… but now I have an urge to catch a taxi.

Can anyone hear me? Does anyone have the number for International Rescue

I’m up early and leave the giggle of girls in bed. Their beds that is not mine. My bed wasn’t made for giggling.

The sun is coming up and I’m riding alongside the Trans Siberian. There are two red locomotives running alongside me and singing on the tracks like sirens for me to follow them over the horizon. I can still hear them after they disappear into the trees.

The sky is busy getting its clouds in orders Mother Nature’s first chore of the day. There isn’t much traffic about yet and I have the road mostly to myself. Myself and a fuck off huge bird of prey that is. It’s stopped at the side of the road for a breakfast take-away but the take-away has other ideas and struggles free and falls to the ground as the bird takes flight.

Not things I usually see on my commute to work in Southampton. Although I do see the odd black clad vermin furtively fucking off down a footpath on an electric scooter with a bag of swag stolen from someone’s car.

A few hours in I stop for a piss. Again. I forgot to pack my old bloke piss blocker tablets. Now I need a slash every 10 minutes and my old man has retreated to such an extent it looks like a discarded fag end. Maybe I’ll go to a pharmacy tomorrow and whip it out to see what they suggest. Perhaps they have miracle grow for men out here. Only one way to find out.

Might as well have lunch too. It’s more of my favourite school dinners. The menu is .. for decoration only so I point to what I think is an omelette but appears to be pig road kill that was run over by a cheese lorry.

The sky has been full of big black boxing gloves full of rain all day. They’ve been punching the ground and it’s very wet but luckily they only got me with a few glancing blows

Today I’ve been thinking. When I hear people say they’re in two minds, why am i always in 12 minds? What exactly the fuck is working with me? I spend all my life listening to different opinions inside my own head. That’s what’s fucking me up at the moment. Whoever I’ve got in there at the moment are real worriers. And I think I’ve worked out what’s happening. I think that as I go, I pick up restless souls at the roadside. I’m just a traveling soulsman. They jump on board, get inside my head and start throwing their weight about. I think a few days ago I must have stopped by a mini bus load of abandoned worriers. But today at lunchtime I think I picked up a couple that have heard I WAS going to “almost madness”. And now they’re in my fucking ear too. Jesus I cannot win.

Get to Novosibirsk and it starts to rain. The traffic last time I was here was epic, and today in the rain it’s even worse. Get to the dealers with bubbling oil and water. “Oil please” “Da” “how much?” “12800 rubles”. WTF! 4 litres of Motul oil is £125!! Shit a fucking brick. Supply and demand. What can you do. I could put the cheap Russia equivalent in but The Bitch but she is my lifeline. I bend over, pull my hidden wad from my anal cavity and make sure to give him the ones from the outside. He can’t change it till tomorrow but he lets me change it in the puddles out the back.

Back into the traffic. This is the worse by far so far. Absolute gridlock and The Bitch hates it. I’m filtering and I come alongside a police car. I knock on the window, motion if it’s ok to filter and he says go ahead. Filtering shares the shit out of me out here. One wrong move and .. I don’t want to think about it.

The dealer suggested a hotel in town. I get there. Can’t find it so I park on the pavement to go look. A bloke and his mate come up to me. Shake my hand. His name is Nicoli and he is “gypsy”. I should have left right then and there.. I can’t park on the pavement. He goes to talk to a couple of blokes sitting behind me parked in a car. They have a bit of a shout and they move so I can park.

“Pop pop. Gunman” says the gypsy pointing at the car that’s moved. “Bad man. Gangster”. For some reason I think that’s fine and go to find the hotel before actually processing what he’s told me, thinking it’s probably not the best neighbourhood to stay in and riding away quickly like a girl.

Stop at the first hotel descent I can find. Today is a day my wallet obviously wants to stretch out its wings and let the money fly out. I walk in and I know I stink. I can smell my boots and they are a long way from my nose. I check in and stand at the lift. I let everyone get in and go without me. I don’t want to be responsible for a lift full of guests passing out. Me and the flies go to my room to peel off the crust of another day.

Take a walk around. Novosibirsk is a shit hole. It’s dirty and noisy and falling to pieces. Even the grandiose old station is looking sad and has a homeless nana sleeping on the ground in front of it. Look at this place and whatever your place looks like, be glad you don’t live here.

It’s late and I want to go to bed so I buy some random pots from the supermarket for dinner.

I’m not eating properly and I’m shitting like Jessica Rabbit so I need to sort myself out.

Get out of Novosibirsk and the satnav says “Siberian highway”. That’s good to see at least. Still a fuck load of miles to do though before I turn around and loop back. Russia is just so indescribably bloody MASSIVE.
Mother Siberia is in a foul mood and she’s throwing a fit. Rain, wind and thunder are all on the menu. All this trucks are just throwing filth all day long and as soon as it rains, the Trans Siberian becomes like one long LGBTQ+ zebra crossing. All I can see is a long rainbow of diesel and it’s scaring the shit out of me. I had to go into a town for fuel and it was even worse. If I’d have come off I’d have had a big rainbow printed right down my leathers. It’s on and off all day and my mood goes up and down with the sun and the rain.

Yesterday’s road kill lunch got up early this morning and said it had to leave ASAP. I am glad I’m not a toilet. Tried again today. No slop pots to point at so I just pointed at people’s meals instead. Let’s hope this at least forms some lumps.

You get very used to having cars and trucks overtaking towards you and in the main they’ll get back in about .5 of a second before making contact with the bike, but every now and again, when a truck decides to jump a link in a Truckapilla and cannot get back in, then you’re confronted by furiously flashing lights and you know you’re in a deathly game of Truck, Biker, Scissors. Taking to the gravel emergency lane would make my sphincter implode so I use close my eyes and head for the small gap between truck and tragedy and hope for the best.

Loads of roadworks still. 10 minute waits. Lots of the cars are still wearing their winter duvet nose bags.

Stop for a coffee and fuel. A nice blonde lady offers me a mini-tart “from my heart”. Not something that I usually get offered at the M3 services

It’s getting late. It’s raining and I’m tired. I see a cheap hotel, give a nana £25 quid and get a key to my cell/room.

Shit and happens have been swinging off the wing mirror and broken it again too. Little fuckers. I’m going to take this out their pocket money.With skills like these, I should definitely apply for The Great Pottery Throw Down

 

 

Out on the ‘road’ today, I was mostly thinking about garage conversions. I was thinking that if I told my wife I was coming back now she would go ahead workout any consultation, throw an old mattress on the floor, put a metal bucket in the corner and a dead hedgehog to wipe my bum with and it would be a fait accompli. If on the other hand I threw my phone on the back of a truck and surprised her, then maybe I could at least get a dead rabbit.

It’s been a shit day. The traffic is shit. The roads are double bastard fucking unbelievable cunt cunty cuntfest shit and it’s been 15 degrees with a wind that South America would be proud of. And the towns I went through.. Jesus Christ almighty. If I saw a perfect, freshly layed dog turd, still glistening with its analotic birth fluid, I’d take a fucking picture of it because it would be by far the nicest thing for miles around. It’s shit. Look.

My problem is the roads. I came through here in 2018 with 3 mates and we went right across to Vladivostok. The roads were passable, and they went through towns and villages. They went through the fields and crops. They constantly zig zagged across the Trans Siberian railway. It was a lovely journey. But NOW. Everywhere is dull monotonous dual carriage way, often in a state of complete roadwork chaos. I’ve been through more roadworks today than the last 5 years put together. Miles of trucks crawling along, their backsides wobbling to and fro like a chubber whose legs touch all the way form ankle to arse. I’m really not sure how much more of this I can be bothered with.

Now.. where is my sketchbook. I need to draw a plan of this garage conversion.

I’m forcing myself to go east. Each night when I get to my destination I’m determined to turn round, but I go for a walk and I can’t give up. I’m at war with myself and that means I’ll never win. I’m forever coming up with new coping mechanisms. Things to convince me to carry on.

This is all my fault of course. Believing my own publicity and thinking I’m still 30 years old. I’ve seen a fair few bikes out on the road today but i bet almost all are on one way trips. And they are all exclusively Russian. I doubt many are riding out AND back all this way. That would be FUCKING INSANE I should have given this a lot more thought. I should have put my bike on a train in Moscow to way out east and ridden to “almost madness” from there. That would have been the sensible option. But I’ve never been sensible.

I did see a woman trapped in the back of a truck. I thought of calling for help, but then I thought bugger it, I’ll rescue her myself

At least the road finally ran out of dual carriageway today and became more the road I remember, albeit a lot busier. Fuck it’s busy now. All day you come across Truckapillars. Maybe 10-15 trucks in a tight convoy, all trying to overtake a truck speed limited to 1 mph less than theirs at the front. You have to jump from truck to truck and drop into the 20ft vortex in between. I had some very close shaves today. So close that even Shit and Happens stopped squabbling in the back seat of my head.

Got to Omsk and the place looks like a bloody bomb site, which given the current circumstances isn’t completely unfeasible, so I ditched the ghetto and picked a random motel in the main road. Just alongside the Trans Siberian railway line. I’m very glad to see that

Turns out it’s run by a giggle of young girls. Maybe I’ll stay here instead of going home to my bed and bucket

Left Konstantin at 8. Had a plan to ride about 420 miles. I want to be at a particular point in 10 days. Then there is a big decision to make.

I spoke to Konstantin last night about the next bit of the route. He tells me I could ‘probably’ use the fast toll road. There are no toll booths and it’s all done electronically and because my number plate isn’t Russian I’d ‘probably’ be ok. I’m not sure where ‘probably’ falls in my risk assessment. I let fate, or rather the satnav decide. And before I know it I’m on the M12 toll road.. probably.

I don’t like this. This is the Russian fast lane. This is where all the elites and the moneyed people are. It’s way out my comfort zone. I’m getting fuel and a Maybach pulls in along side. I go in for a coffee in the service station and it’s very odd. Everyone is wearing modern clothes, designer glasses, expensive watches.

There are screens and automated food and it’s like I’ve walked into another country. I don’t like it. I feel completely out of place so I stand outside and admire the scenery. There are a load of expensive bikes in a row. All fat Harley Davidsons. And Hell there is an angel. Tall and slim, she has obviously been very carefully denuded before being slowly lowered to the very top of her hips into warm liquorice and then laboriously polished to a liquid shine. I don’t generally like liquorice but I think I can feel a craving coming on. I wonder if it’s salty

My head is in turmoil. I’m having a mental tug of war. And I’m shit scared if I’m honest. I’m really questioning my choices. Most of inner voices seem to have ganged up together and are, unusually, speaking with one voice. They’re not comfortable with this. They say they’ve humoured me before but they want me to know they think this is foolhardy. And there are the distances. 550 miles today and almost no gain on the map. Russia is a truly vast place. As usual I delegate the decision to my inner procrastinator. I should have a decision… eventually. Until then it’s just me and the little man in my head controlling the bike. It’s pointing east.

This trip isn’t about lovely beautiful scenery and feasts for the eyes. The photos will be just functional and for reference. This trip is about the grind. Fighting fears and fucking consequences. I can see this being my last big trip. That’s what I have to tell myself, and The Bitch too. Come on girl.. just one more time. Take care of me please.

So it’s 34 degrees, there is hardly a drone in the sky so let’s just do this.
It’s a very dull ride, only punctuated when I go across a huge bridge over the Volga and the satnav going out again. I see a storm shadow off to the side, scratching its head and consulting a paper map.

Get to Kazan as the clouds burst with a massive wet BOOM. Nothing does depressing like Russia in the rain. I’ve not got a reservation. “Full”. I start to cry. “You want one room?” “No I thought I’d book a group of 10 so i can spend an hour in each you dozy tart”. “OF COURSE I ONLY WANT ONE” “Ok. 44000 rubles”. Another kick in the wallet. I’ll sleep on the roadside tomorrow I promise myself as I look out at the rain hurling down outside.

It was always a fools errand…
Kazan was hot and sunny and once again the satnav and Google decided to both shut there eyes and sing ‘na na na I can’t hear you’. There is a helicopter manufacturing plant here so loads of Russians are running about with big nets catching the GPS signals and keeping them for themselves. Which is nice.

I didn’t have any dinner last night so I should be raving hungry but Russian breakfasts are mostly absolutely fucking disgusting. Worse than Chinese and that’s saying something. So a couple of sticky buns and I’m away, riding into the sun until the men with the nets have run out of energy and a few signals get through and help me on my way.

I’m trying for another 450 miles today. The first 100 is soon gone. Stop to look at the GPS and I’m about 3k in. Before I left I spent a few hours laying a trail of cheap hotel breadcrumbs for me to follow and I can see them beginning to appear on the screen. I pick one but the satnav can’t find a route there. I think I’m just going to have to get comfortable with knowing I’m heading in the right direction much of the time on this trip.

It looks like Russia is gradually building a motorway that’s going to all the way across the country. The Trans Siberia will no doubt eventually be overcome by the march of new tarmac but that’s a while off yet. For now, the motorway starts to stutter into roadworks and then into single carriageway with yet more. It’s a fucking mess and it’s hell on wheels. And more to the point, it’s very very slow. I’ve been on the bike 10 hours today constantly and not done 400 miles. I’ve not had time for a meal either.

Then I got to Ufa… I’m riding through the city and it’s the usual metal mayhem. I’m surrounded by melting cars and riding into the sun when i feel the bike disappear from under me then hear two big metallic clangs. I’ve obviously ridden through an epic pothole and the poor bike has dinged her rims. The front tyre is still up but I’m only riding slowly. A few minutes later I’m following a truck and there’s suddenly a big plume of blue smoke as he locks the tyres and swerves to the right. It’s too late by the time the hole appears in front of me and again the bike takes a big kicking.

I follow the trucks, crawling along at 35-40. If I fall back to see ahead to overtake then at least two cars behind me will overtake me on the inside because they can’t have more than 2ft between them and the car in front. I spend an hour working my way up the queue only to be pulled over by the fuzz and then watch the trucks all go past me again.

I get to some toll booths. Stop the engine. Go to start the engine. Sounds a bit odd, looks a bit odd too. The engine has started but none of the instruments are on. Fuckerdy duck, wank wibble and tits. That’s not good. And that’s a decision made.

I was aiming to meet up with another Russia at ‘almost madness’ but personal circumstances meant I couldn’t leave UK until later than I wanted to but Konstantin was right. This is impossible in the time I have. I simply cannot do the mileage I need to do in the time I need to do it. Add to the fact that once the bike starts acting up, that’s a big comfort blanket that’s pulled out from underneath me. This was a fools errand. I thought I could be Mr Big potatoes, but instead of King Edward’s, it turns out I have tiny Lidl salad spuds.

Satnav has been saying it’s an hour till my destination for the last hour. It’s just not happening.

I pull up red safety switch and press the “Fuck This” button. I’ve had it. This is not going to work. I’m over 3000 miles from home and all the signs are telling me to make that number smaller, not bigger.

I’ve never done this before but I’m calling it a day and turning back towards home tomorrow. Something just doesn’t feel right. I’m old enough and experienced enough to know this won’t work out how I want it to if I carry on east. I had an inkling before I left but I had to at least try.

….Plan B
Book a non commital hotel 300 miles north. Not really east or west. Head or heart. The first 20 miles takes an hour

So I turn left and head across country. It’s clear. It’s a bit rough but it’s green and hilly and I’m not constantly staring at the chuff of a truck. My feelings are shifting all the time. My moods are swinging like a male stripper’s tummy banana during a naked 100m hurdles race. I’m all over the place. I see a random cafe in the middle of nowhere.

Walk in. Breathe. Ask for a coffee and go for a piss. That’s all it takes. Defeat is a very bitter pill to swallow, and it won’t stay down. I bend over, retch and throw it up into the gravel. It’s done.

All it took was the scent of a long drop toilet. A cup of 100 octane with 20 spoons of sugar. A random tattooed fat bird and her husband smiling, shaking hands, chatting in an empty cafe in the hills. This is the tonic to my ills.

Last night it all got on top of me. I wanted an out. An excuse. A get out of jail free card. I was fucked off with it. The relentless mundane motorway miles. The never changing scenery. I guess the whole journey so far has been a head down, arse up race against time. Seeing Plan A dissolve into impossibility was too much. My little brain was blinkered and obsessed.

I woke up to a text from my wife. “Don’t you dare come home and spend the whole fucking winter lying on the couch bloody moaning about what you should have done. Just fucking do it. Otherwise you’re moving into the garage”. I understand that her language of love might be difficult for an outsider to understand but she’s just telling me she wants me to be happy.. I think.

My Australian mate is a little more helpful. “Why don’t you go to Mongolia, it’s just up the road”. Yep, a couple of thousand miles up the road that is. Maybe 7/8 days ride east.

But standing there in the cool sunshine surrounded by .. nothing.. it makes perfect sense. Mongolia was on the itinerary anyway so let’s go. As I ride my head looks at a mental map and works out a rough route and it’s done.

Then shit and happens see my mood has lifted and decide they want to play. This road looks smooth but is deceptively rough. It’s like riding down the back of a Shar Pei dog and it’s shaking the bike to bits. First, the satnav goes off. Then my bloody mirror shakes itself free of its epoxy shell. It’s flopping about like a dog’s tongue hanging out a car window. Bugger bollocks tits and ARSE this is getting on my NERVES. GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK YOU LITTLE WANKERS!!

The mirror is going to take some more effort. I see Brute force and Ignorance get out the panniers and start legging it down the road to look for help. Christ he can run. 20 minutes later I see him standing outside a big tool shop outside a small town. He’s climbed up outside and is waving to me.

Walk inside and it’s tool heaven. Big tools. Small tools. Bearings for cars to space shuttles. Spanners for trucks to tricycles. Tools tools and more tops. Strictly not for girls They have exactly what i need, all for £3

An out out I stop for fuel and coffee on the main road. A young bloke and his wife approach me, ask me where I’m from and he launches into perfect English. There really are a lot of smart Russians out here. Christ I’ve been to towns in America where they can’t understand English He’s very interesting. Gives me his honest opinion on the current situation. And about Georgia too. About the toxisity of social media and propaganda. A smart bloke indeed.

Head into Perm to the hotel, which is luckily located 3.5 miles from where it’s GPS coordinates say it is. I absolutely love it when that happens last thing at the end of the day. Honestly I do. I swear I do. Well.. I swear.. and that’s the truth. Until I’m very very sore.

Apply fix number 2 to the mirror. Looks lovely. The Bitch has promised to not look.

Perm is just another big city. Same same but different.

Looks like there is some connection to a bear here. There is a big bronze one outside the hotel. I can’t help trying to feel a connection with my recently deceased little pug, “Bear”. I hope he’s watching. I hope he’s with me. I run the nose for luck.. I think I’ll be here until 3 in the morning

Third time lucky. Fingers crossed. A quick prayer, a wish and a promise. Up at 6 and out at 6:30 in the pissing rain. The place is still deserted except for the toast ghost who’s been wandering the corridors all night.

25 minutes later I’m back where i started. I’m about an hour in and I’m falling asleep on the bike, rain pattering on my helmet when I hear a couple of bikes pull up behind me. They’re Kazaks and they’ve been to Norway to see the fjords. One of them walks up to the customs hut and asks if we can come through. Bugger me they say yes and much to the disgust of the car drivers we’re in. Maybe Lady Luck got the desperate text I sent her last night.

An hour and a half later we’re waiting at the entry to the Russian side. Matey has a word and again, to my amazement, we’re let through to join the queue. Now this is where I have a problem with the word queue. Queue implies some movement, however small, in the direction of your goal. Unless your goal is to wait till you die then decompose on the tarmac

There is next to sweet fuck all happening. Anywhere. They take out passports and tell us to wait inside. I imagine it’s like you imagine an old Russian border post to be. The scent of urine in the air, paint hanging game-fully onto the walls, an old nana with a mop and bucket not achieving any cleaning, just evening out the dirt. The waiting begins. Maybe 90 minutes we get our passports back. Stamped. Fantastic. But now it’s customs. This is where I had problems last time with some tyres I was carrying. Just for shits and giggles, and because I like to double dare myself, I’m carrying tyres again just to see what happens.

Customs is where you queue behind cars that have to completely empty every bit of luggage onto a table that then looks like a bargain basement stand at a car boot sale. I have never ever seen so much absolute shit it all my life.

Then you have to carry every bit of luggage across to a building to be x-rayed, and then when it’s empty you take the actual car to be x-rayed too. We had 3 cars in front of us 2 hours ago and they’re still here. The Kazak was speaking to the old bloke in the car in front. He’s been in the queue for 28 hours. He saw me yesterday. He saw me get rejected and leave, then he saw me arrive again this morning.

We’ve been here about 5 hours now. And the demons in my head are well awake and restless. I can hear them kicking at my teeth. My eyeballs are like boiling water where the angry mob I carry in my head are beating their fists against them, trying to brake through and unleash spit and venom at all and sundry. Whenever you see me being impatient, this is why. It’s because I have to save all my patience for when I’m in the presence of truly spectacular fucktards. But I’m running out, fast. 2 more hours later and I’ve reached the xray machine with the bike. It’s not obvious where to go and there is a woman shouting and screaming at me. “If you don’t shut the fuck up love I’m going stake you to the ground, turn the x-ray up to 200 and leave you there till your tits are fried and your brain is bubbling out your ears”… I scream into my helmet. Which helps, but has left a few scorch marks.

Then, suddenly, 10 hours after I arrived I’m set free into the motherland. Go to get some bike insurance and change some money at a little hut. “dollars to rubles” “da”. She uses google translate. “New notes with stripe”. Fuck. She only wants nubile notes. I show her some adolescent notes that have been nervously stoked and gently fingered but she’s not keen on those. That could be a problem. A lot of my notes are not in the first flushes of youth.

Anyway, that’s to worry about later. Now it’s 100 miles to an old soviet style hotel near a river where the theme is the colour brown and style is strictly retro.

“Do you want to erase all memories of today? This will permanently delete the whole experience”. “Errrr .. yes”

Starts off ok. Nice walk in the morning sunshine. Watching the Russian world go by.

No key cards here. You get a lump like a massive Rolo and you look like you have a rare occurrence of “triplicus testiculareous” if you put it in your pocket.

And why waste money on expensive stickers to warn of high voltage electricity when you can get the kids from the local school in to draw on the boxes. You might want to turn the electric off first… or maybe not

Went to change some money at the bank suggested by the nanas on reception. Which was now boarded up and closed. So I walked a while and into the biggest bank I could find. People everywhere and a ticket machine with a zillion screens to choose from. I ask a random bloke and he presses some buttons, gets me a ticket to ride. My numbers up, I’m sat in front of the change woman, and I’ve forgotten my passport. 20 minutes later I’m back. I press every combination on the screen and get 50 tickets with every option covered, then I sit like a bingo player and wait for the call. I get the same nana and she goes through the protracted process of a million forms. The she has to have another teller come in plug in her key too to confirm the deal. All this before she shows me the exchange rate, which is, as you can imagine, is akin to having both fists simultaneously rammed into your rectum. My money has gone from pounds to euros to dollars to rubles and it’s got raped every step the way. I have a finite amount of cash for Russia. It’s my single and only lifeline. There is no backup. My cards don’t work out here. So it’s a bit of a dare to set off east. I see it as like money hourglass. Cash is falling from the top to the bottom and I have to leave before it’s empty, but at moments like this I just see a big lump fall down and disappear. I have to recalculate. Money/days. I’ll have to be very careful.

I’ve got 300 miles to meet my Russian friend. Leave at 10. Piece of cake. Even time to stop for a look at a new statue. There is a lot of 80 year anniversary celebration here and say what you like about them, they do seriously good statues.

The ride is slow and gets ever more busy as I get closer to Moscow. The satnav seems to be playing up. Dithering about and delaying decisions, often until after I’ve passed a turn. Moscow is a headfuck to navigate at the best of times. Huge multi lane roads everywhere with fast and aggressive drivers and gridlock everywhere. It’s a real maze of a place. All of a sudden, just for shits and giggles, the satnav looses satellites, and they don’t come back. The reason they don’t come back is because Russia is jamming them for the entire centre of Moscow. Welcome to hot metal hell. I’m totally fucked. I’m in the middle of Moscow and not a fucking clue where i’m going.

I’m making random choices. The roads have no pull offs or stopping places. I’m just swept along like a leaf on a river. Talking of which, I end up on the bank of the Moskva. Pull up in front of some gates and get the phone out. It doesn’t know where I am either. Oh dear. I pick a route out and hit go but it’s not tracking my position at all. It’s all just vague. All I can do is try to keep the sun at my back to head east, and keep stopping to work out from the rivers, the roads going overhead and other visual clues approximately where I am, then try to work out where to go. The phone is in my tank bag so I can’t see it. I just jump into the traffic and guess. Go for a mile and try again. 2 hours later the satnav kicks back in and my arse can breath a fart of relief. Finally pull up at my friends house about 3 hours late at 8pm, completely fucked but once again in awe at what The Bitch can tolerate. We’ve been in a lot of stupid situations together but that was one of the stupidest.

I spoke to my mate about my plan. He thinks I’m mad. He thinks it’s not possible. And now I’m scared. Tomorrow is day one of the long haul. I’ve got a long long way to go in the next 10 days. Ummmmmm

Wake up paralysed with apathy. I just can’t move. I’m feeling deflated and defeated. Where the fuck did I put my Gotovation? Maybe I didn’t pack it. I did leave in a hurry.

Move my head and look out the window. What’s that? An arrow in the sky? It’s pointing towards Russia. Either The Reaper has been out with his skywriting pens or a plane has lost a wing and had a terrible accident. Either way, I’m taking it as a sign.

As I’m walking back to the hotel there is a ping in my pocket. It’s from the Russian I met in Tajikistan last year. He’s just this moment bought a house to the east of Moscow and he’s waiting for a visit. “Hold on mate. I can be there in 2 days”. “Excellent. See you then”. Sorted. And just like that, my Gotovation jumps up from under the duvet like a dog that’s heard the word “walkies”. That’s all I needed. I’m just a dog. Throw me a stick.

Even The Bitch has pumped herself up at the news. Her front tyre has only lost a few psi in the last few days, and the oil leak isn’t constant, it’s like my own personal leak, it only happens at the most inconvenient moments.

I’m suddenly feeling much better. I’ve got purpose. The next target is set. Everything looks more rosy. Like the tall blonde basking in the sunshine at a pavement cafe, her lips wrapped round the rim of an ice late. 100m further on there is a woman on a run, doing her lunges and distracting the traffic. I’m soon joined in the traffic by a little lady biker, her long ponytail/lead running all the way down her back to her bum. I’m thinking it can’t get any better when a cycle path joins the road, and there is slim Lycra goddess with her hands behind her back, slowly roller-skating in a rhythmic, totally hypnotic motion. As luck would have it, the speed limit for the next 20 miles was 10mph. What are the odds?

I tell you. It’s a good job I’m now a dysfunctional old man. A man that’s changed his ‘Under Armour’ underwear for ‘Out of Order’, a new absorbent range by M&S for the older, less watertight gentleman. It’s lucky I’m not 18. Jesus I wouldn’t be able to stand upright round here for fear of slipping and sliding around in my own semen.

I’m out in the countryside. The Bitch wants a word. She wants me to tell her I still find her attractive. She wants some tasteful pictures done. Artfully blurred to hide the wrinkles. This usually involves me riding down some scary muddy track or across a field, on in this case, both. Still, she’s working hard and I want to keep her happy at all costs. What the lady wants..

Next stop is a completely new kind of enterprise. A ‘coffee and power’ shop. A place people can go to spend €30 on coffee shipped and trucked half way round the world while saving €10 on fuel. Genius

These two were offering a different ‘plug-in’ service behind the sheds..

And this bloke wouldn’t let his lady more than 2ft from his side

The euro cash tsunami hasn’t quite reached the border yet and there are loads of roadworks. Each with a separate traffic light. Each with a wait up to 8 fucking bloody wanky tanky tosspot minutes. I definitely started overheating, and leaking..

Get closer and the weather is ganging up for a proper fight. I hope Mrs Stalk has an umbrella.

Rezekne is another familiar town. Last time I was at this hotel I arrived at 5am. This time I’m early enough to get some proper sleep and prepare for tomorrow. It gets shabbier every time i visit. I believe this is called an ‘honest repair’. “Honestly, I fixed it.. using my toothpaste”

Get some dinner, buy a beggar some beer and hope I don’t get madam fat fingers at the border tomorrow

Last night I sat the shit and happens brothers down for a talk.

“If you little fuckers fuck me about tomorrow there’s going to be fucking hells to fucking pay and I’ll twat you so hard you won’t know which fucking way is up”. As usual with kids, you ask them to do one thing… and they do the complete opposite.

Got to the border about 9. This one was quite chaotic. I did “pause” at the back of the queue but the driver motioned me forward so I went right down the front. Waited for an hour, they let 3 cars and me in. All very civilised.

A young very sullen woman who looked like she’d had her face smacked every day since birth motioned me over. Passport. Check. Motorcycle passport. Check. Driving license. Check. European insurance (even though I’m leaving Europe) check. Vehicle inspection certificate. What? What the actual fuck? In all my years of travelling I’ve never been asked to produce my MOT certificate. And I don’t have one with me. “It’s online”. “I need original. Or I’ll cry”. [lie mode on] “It’s only online. We don’t have a certificate. I can show you on the website”. I don’t wait for a reply, I just show her the page and thankfully she decides to accept rather than burst into tears. We go to the booth, she stamps my passport and she looks at the computer. “You haven’t made a declaration”. Don’t push me love, else you’ll get a declaration you don’t quite bargain for. But she leads me from the booth to the big building. The big building always means trouble. Only bad boys get taken to the big building. “Wait here”. Fuckidy tits. Here we go again. Wait for an hour until I’m called to an office. “You haven’t made a declaration” “What exactly the fuck are you on about?” Since 1st January 2025 you need to declare your vehicle is entering Latvia. It’s new EU rule 1298374666651515516891.222399. Of course it bloody is. Seems it’s like the vignettes other EU countries use. But this is to help them track you down for speeding etc. Yet more big brother bollocks from the bloaty money pit in Brussels. “It’s too late to register. You have to pay a fine”. Of course I do. “It’s €55”. Of course it is. Pay that and go to customs. And wait. 2 hours and absolutely nothing is happening. Lots of tip tapping behind the glass but no windows opening. 4 hours I’ve been here and I can’t even leave Latvia. Eventually a window slides open and in my haste to get my passport and V5 out, a few €50 notes pop out my plastic wallet. Blokey asked me where I’m going and for how long. I fall for it and tell him the truth. He tells me I’m no longer allowed to take cash in Euros into Russia. New sanctions. He asks me how much I have with me. I say ‘a few thousand’. He knows how long I’m away, he knows it’s cash only and he knows I’m not going to survive on €300 for 6/7 weeks. “Come with me. We must count your money”. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh fuck. We go back into the big building. I know the place off by heart now. And into an office to count the cash. It’s a significant amount. “You are being refused exit as you cannot leave and enter Russia with any Euros in cash”. Excellent. Just perfect…

“You can’t take any currency of any EU nation. USD and Pounds is fine”. Well great. The Russians prefer Euros because they’re plastic and don’t bend, fold or wrinkle like a snotty rag. I do have some dollars but many are not the best quality. So now I’m royally fucked. I have to turn round and sort myself out. He recommends a bank back where I started. It’s 1:30 pm. It’s 40 miles back. Before i can leave they have to anul my entry stamp, and I have to spend 30 minutes making the “declaration” so I can re enter Latvia. Of course I do. Shit and Happens have really pulled out all the stops today.

Get to the bank. “We don’t have cash and we don’t offer that service”. I think I have a puncture. I can feel myself deflating, sweat pouring down my back, wanting to sit down and not get up. “Try this place. They sometimes change money”. I get on the bike, ride to the place, go trough the motions, knowing shit and happens have got her before me. Pull the door. It’s locked. Back to the bank to ask for help. “This is only a small town, with 5 banks, 3 huge supermarkets, a big college and loads of people, we don’t have cash here. You need to go to the next city back, it’s 100km. But our bank there won’t have cash either”. FUCKING HELL. What use is a bank without cash.. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH”.

Google tells me there is Forex place embedded somewhere in a shopping mall 60 miles away so off I go. It isn’t Bluewater. It’s a scrappy collection of shops under one roof but the one shining light is a tidy blond with lovely nails sitting behind a sheet of glass. She might as well be an angel. “Euros to Dollars?” “Yes. How much?” “Lots. Big lots” “No problem, I just need to see you passport and know where you work, what you do for a living, how you got the cash, what you’re using it for for, how long it took you to save it, and where are you going with it”. Big brother is watching your every move.

But right now I don’t care, and she gives me a big wad of freshly minted $100 bills that the Russians will croon over. Perfect.

So now I’m about 100m from the border, it’s 6pm and I’m screwed for the day. I need to cross in daylight so the Russian road insurance booths will be open otherwise I’d have go straight back to the border.

Option 2 is another panic hotel 15 miles from where I started this morning. And I didn’t panic this time, I kicked the fucking door down. Travelling is supposed to be about meeting people and having new experiences, not decoding complicated emails and fighting with key safes. The hotel is deserted anyway, except for a ghost of someone who appears to have killed themselves making toast. I can smell it everywhere I go.. And cats. The place is absolutely full of cats. My bed has a lion on it, and the bathroom was done by the bloke who honestly fixed yesterday’s shower.

I arrive 10 minutes before the supermarket, and the whole village it seems shuts their shutters for the night. Don’t judge me. I went to the drug store and got a 3L prescription. I need something to take the edge off.

 

I’m headed for Frombork in northern Poland today, about 350 miles. Poland has been busy laying down smooth €100 notes in the form of new toll roads and I’m soon on autopilot again.

Today I’m really wondering why I’m doing this again. Trying to work out my motivation. I guess the truth is that as I get older I’m increasing feeling like my soul is staring out the windows of a rapidly dilapidating, almost derelict house. The thatch has all fallen out, the front garden hasn’t been mown for years, the paintwork is all worn, the ceilings are saggy, the front door doesn’t close properly any more and the plumbing is all shot to fuck. I need to do the things I want before it’s condemned and demolished. And I want to do the thing I’m trying to do this time. It’s been an itch for a very long time. There is a famous Dutch woman world motorcyclist called Itchy Boots, well I’m the old English equivalent, Itchy knackers, and it’s time they were scratched.

Back to reality, my stomach is making emergency calls to my head so I head into the nearest big town. I walk about 200m from the bike and someone taps me on the arm. I told you I was a world weirdo magnet right? Well I turn round and there a some scruffy individual looking at me and wanting to shake my hand. I thought he was a motorcyclist because he’s all dressed in dark clothes but he says not. He says he’s a member of the ‘black’ something. Anything that begins with ‘black’ isn’t likely to be collecting money for small children with cancer. I ask him about his arms. They’re covered in tattoos but it looks like both have been tightly wrapped in wire then had a current passed through them. It’s a mass of cut scars from top to bottom. “Ah” he says. “Prison”. Ok then…. Time to say goodbye I think.

It’s a really pretty town though with a big square, a river and lots of beautiful people.

Eventually the road narrows to a 20 mile avenue of trees up to the town on the coast. A beautiful ride. A sinuous slinky ride. A ride so good that The Bitch has decided to sing

Frombork is a tiny place on a big lagoon. It has a huge fuck off cathedral on the hill so God can look down on you and make sure you’re praying. I’ve got this praying thing down to a fine art now. I pray that my hair won’t suddenly grow and I won’t suddenly wake up like Paul Michael Glaser from Starsky and Hutch. I pray that my tummy banana won’t go on a sudden growth spurt and burst forth like a baby’s arm holding an apple, and I pray that Billie Piper won’t beat down my bathroom door and run into the shower with a new bar of Wrights cold tar soap. Well, the last one did actually happen to be fair but she bought Pears instead of Wrights so I had to turn her away. Anyway, I have 100% success rate with praying.

That’s why I’m a believer

Check into the hotel. I know it’s the one for me, it has a motorcycle in the dining room.

Go out for a saunter. It’s a really tiny place. It would almost fit in my pocket. Yet another secluded spot on the planet for souls to congregate.

I’m about 20 minutes from the Russian border with Kaliningrad here. I wonder what tomorrow will bring…

Well today didn’t exactly go to plan. Woke up early, had breakfast, pontificated, dithered, because I didn’t want to get to Kalingrad to early. The border is only 20 mins up the road.

Rode slowly towards the border, through a small town, overtook a nun on her way to work, watched a bird of prey grab its breakfast from a field, and arrived at the border. It was empty, except for someone in a hut that came out to tell me it was closed and I had to use the one further south. Excellent.

Turn round and immediately nearly stuck my helmet up a stalk’s chuff as it took off from the roadside with a mouthful of nest. Bloody hell those things are HUGE. I had to duck out the way of it’s undercarriage.

Get to the other border at 9:30. There is quite a queue. Single file. No pushing in. Wait your turn.

Two hours later. You can’t see the difference can you.

4 hours later. I’ve moved about 300 yards

5 and a half hours later… 400 yards. It’s 3pm and they seem to be letting 8 cars through every 1 .5 to 2 hours. I calculate I have about another 5-6 hours wait, plus 2 hours to get through, then an hours ride. The total calculation comes in as “fuck this” so I decide to leave. It’s a shame but I was only going to be in for one day and by the looks of it it’s taking just as long to get out. My schedule doesn’t allow for that. Kaliningrad is just a side show and I have to concentrate on the main event.

I remember last time I came out. A 12 hour epic. I was talking to someone then that said it can take days to cross from Latvia but I didn’t believe him.. until now. Plans have to be flexible and I’m skipping to plan B. Get to the Latvia/Russia border ASAP, pack loads of food and drink, and wait. I can go to Kaliningrad on the way back.

So 3 pm, 250 miles of A roads and a time zone change gets me to Kaunas in Lithuania around 10pm. Knackered and fucked off, mojo on the low low, mood as dark as the cool night sky.