Category: Eat Sleep Ride Repeat 2024

Out we go into Poland and my mind is immediately mobbed. It’s overwhelmed and totally consumed. It’s running scared by all the things I’d put to the back of my mind suddenly running to the front. Thoughts I’d run away from all catching up with me at once. FUUUUUUCK OFFFFFFF. I can’t deal with this right now. Take a ticket and I’ll try to deal with you one by one. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Maybe. Never put off till tomorrow what you can put off till year is my motto. But I’ll have to face them soon i know.

And this shitting tossing bloody traffic is making me MAD. I’m on the motorway to Gdansk. It all comes to a stop. Fantastic. Just perfect. I filter for a while but the wanky steering has my arse holding its breath and eventually it has to breathe out. I’m paranoid about the bike overheating and i need to stop. There is an exit in a couple of miles but, of course, the Polish have decided to use the emergency lane to get to it and it’s blocked. So I just think bollocks to it. I stop in the fast lane up against the barrier. I put the side stand down, turn the engine off and I read my book. Yes I do because I’m English and I don’t care. At some point recently a robber came in the night and took all my fucks. The cars drive slowly past me and stare but who cares. I read a couple of chapters then I look for an alternative route but Google just says “Don’t bother. Come back tomorrow”. Filter out onto the A road and it’s just fucking chaos. Slow, tortuous and maddening. I stop to check where I am and some people are staring at me. Probably because I just shouted “CUIUUUUUUNT” 20 times at the top of my voice. I am very very very hangry indeed so I stop at a random station and chug a sausage which calms me right down. Has the same effect on my wife now i come to think about it.

Ride the last 100 miles chasing the sun and playing mental dodgeball with all thoughts of my impending mundanity when i get home. I can’t dodge them forever, but I can dodgeball them today.

The Bitch tries two more times to kill me a couple of times on the way into town to my hotel, just for a laugh. The last one she tried to throw me onto a curb. I guess at least this puts a big green tick in the “thank God I didn’t keep going east” argument, but a big red question mark in the “Will the bike get me home” one. Why are things never simple

As I ponder my fate, I wonder, did anyone ever ask for this as their last meal? I know I would

Woke up and went for breakfast, whistling “that will be the day that I die” for some reason. Really lovely food. Sunny weather. A good day for it. Is it suicide if you think something bad might happen but do nothing to stop it? Don’t ask me why I didn’t. I just like to trust to fate and let circumstances decide. Otherwise known as the stick your fingers in your ears and cross your fingers approach.

Pack the bike. Check the steering. No notches. Smooth but noisy. Take the callipers off, pump the pistons, inflate the tyres. Feels perfect. Let’s ride. It’s all bat shit boring fast motorway today anyway. 360 miles to run. If this is all you have to look at, then your mind tends to wander. I’m very quickly into muse control. The bike rides itself, just settles into its stride.

100 miles down. All fine. No problems. It’s bladder o’clock. Stop for coffee. An ever more impersonal and generic experience on the motorway. Just a function without any pleasure. I hate these places.

Back on the road. Another 100 miles and j pull into another motorway services. Bike still feels fine. I’ve been doing about 65. Some big filtering in some sections. All good. But I can’t put myself through the queue for spew experience again so I look up local cafes and find one out in a village about 15 miles away.

On we go. After this much riding my body is part of my bike. It’s completely wired in. It’s beginning to raise some concerns. Low level. Just monitoring. Get to the exit, take a tight right, ummmm ok. Not perfect but nothing too scary.

Stop. Wiggle the bars. No noise and no sticking. Go a couple more miles and come to a left right chicane up to a junction. Not too fast. Maybe 30-40. Left is fine. Right…. RIIIIIIIGHT. The steering locks straight. I instinctively punch the right of the bar hard to counter steer and it moves but it’s too much and the front wheel slides. Fortunately I catch it, get out the slide and make it round and to the junction.

OOOOOOOOO. KKKKKKKKK then. I survived. I don’t think my pants were so lucky though. They ARE Russian so they took the brunt of it and protected the rest of me. The odd thing is though my pulse is normal, no adrenaline in my mouth, no shaking, just nothing. That can’t be normal. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m about a mile from the cafe. Bike feels 80% so I ride slowly to an old building in a small village that I suspect gets one visitor a day max. Leave the bike in the sun. That will make it better I’m sure.

Go in and it’s a proper old mess. Like a horder’s front room. Shit everywhere. It looks like the local house clearance van discharges directly in this room. Excellent Now I promised myself at breakfast I’d have something savoury for lunch. I promised myself I wouldn’t have cake.

I order cake, with cream. Made with rhubarb out the blokes garden. Given that I only just shit myself 5 minutes ago, the rhubarb is unlikely to push any more poo out in the near future.

This is exactly what I want. A personal experience. The bloke is German and this building has been in his family since 1896, except when the communists forced them to leave during the war. He lives here with his Hungarian wife. The walls are covered in an eclectic collection of items from all over. Pictures from his family, his handball playing days, boomerangs, camels, chickens. All sorts. But I can’t stay here all day. I wonder if the bike is healed yet?

I ride very very carefully about 5 miles to a petrol station. Fill up. Put it on the centre stand and turn the bars. It sounds like it’s eating a sandwich made of bricks. The bottom bearing has collapsed. Take it off the stand and it’s totally fucked. The steering is super stiff and locking.

Saturday afternoon. Perfect. Beam me fucking up snotty. Do it. Do it right now!

But as bad as this is, it’s not nearly as bad as it could be. Google says there is a motorcycle repair place a couple of miles away, and a KTM dealer (closed for the weekend) about 20 minutes further on. I could have been standing at the roadside in Mongolia with this problem. At least I know where Shit and Happens have been waiting for me now. They’ll use the fact it could have been worse for mitigation but those little wankers are due a proper fucking slap.

I very very very carefully and extremely slowly ride the bike round to the repair shop. It looks an odd setup. Maybe even some sort of collective thing. I dunno. A bloke comes out and declares the bearings deceased but it’s too late to do anything today. We have a chat and I’ll talk to the Ktm dealer Monday and see if they have bearings, otherwise he will order some for Tuesday. I can disassemble my bike outside and borrow a few tools and they can help press the bearings out and back in.

There is a hotel about 15 mins walk away. By the time I get there in my leathers carrying my luggage in 30 degrees heat I can’t even sign the paperwork without dripping all over the counter and the form. But I’m safe. I’m alive. And I have a plan. The holy trinity I live by

I need some liquid. My dick is a dog end again and my neck has gone full on chicken gizzard. There is a supermarket just up the road. Walk in.. WTAF This is by far the biggest supermarket I have ever been into in my entire life. 2 stories.

Shit absolutely everywhere. It’s soooooo big that they have trollies with fucking GPS like terminals on to help you find anything I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s too much. It’s completely overwhelming. I almost have a panic attack.

It does confuse me that I can be on my bike going into a corner at maybe 40mph, have the bars lock solid, go into a front wheel skid and just make it round without throwing myself into the undergrowth and my body just goes “bovvered?”, but I step into an air conditioned shop offering everything known to mankind and my first reaction is to flee in terror.

But, as you know, my tracking skills are legendairy, and I can find what I want wherever they hide it

As much as I’m fucked off and frustrated and feeling hard done by today I know deep down inside that the situation I find myself in today is really why I do these trips. Yesterday I didn’t plan to nor expect to be where I am today. Yesterday I didn’t know anything about the nearest Ktm dealer or bald bloke at the repair shop or the world’s biggest supermarket. And as much as I ever very loosely plan the next few days, the actual future is only ever as far as I can see. Anything can happen and everything can change at any time. And that’s the joy. I can plan to do the things I want but quite often fate will plan things I will enjoy a lot more. It’s sometimes like it knows me better than I do. My wife would absolutely hate every single second of a journey like this. And I know plenty of others that would feel the same way. Nothing wrong with that. But I love it. I like the chaotic and unpredictable. I like having to constantly negotiate and navigate my way through. I like to quickly make plans A, B and C and moving from one problem to the next. It gives me some sense of achievement. I love the ever changing galleries I ride through. Whether I’m walking, riding, sitting and eating, on a train, a platform, a bridge or having a piss in the woods my eyes are constantly scanning, looking for photos. Looking for angles, watching and waiting for exactly the right moment, for the clouds to pass, for the car to move, for the fat ugly bastard in a bright yellow shirt to fuck stop taking selfies and get the fuck out my shot, for the long hair of the woman with the backless dress to blow and reveal her skin, for everything to just come together and ‘click’. I’m a sniper photographer. I watch. I wait. And if I get a perfect hit I smile. I print the pictures out and put them all on the walls in my escape capsules. Each one a bookmark into memory I can wander through at will.

These trips give me the ammunition I need to survive. And that’s why I do it. It’s cheaper than therapy. It’s not optional. Same with the blogs. I can talk to you and turn myself inside out in a way I would never ever do to your face. I’d flatly deny all knowledge of these written words because they’re from a different time and place when a very different persona was in charge. By the time we meet that persona will be safely locked away, totally separated from my other life. You’ll just see the facade persona. The wrapper. Unless you try very hard and dig very deep that is. Just be careful. You might not like what you see.

Anyway. Enough of that bollocks. How am I going to waste another day of my life without hurting or insulting anyone or getting arrested for taking a picture with a skin content of more than 20%? There are days when I like to have a few, select people around me and there are days like today when I think I need a separate planet just to myself.

I take a tram into Potsdam. It’s Sunday though and vertically everywhere is shut. Lazy bastards. I’m sure these two were on a tool shop website I was looking at. I NEED SOME TOOLS. GET BACK TO WORK YOU FECKLESS WANKERS.

And this is another of my pet hates. Buildings seem to be like people nowadays. They’re not allowed to age gracefully. They’re not allowed to settle and lean a bit, maybe have a few scars and wrinkles, they have to have cosmetic surgery and it makes them look like pert tits on a pensioner. Just completely wrong. The whole world is going fucking Disney

I need a leg fix. Yep… That would definitely fix it

A few hours killed I get back to my room to face a grim reality. Last night bought 2 litres of milk, a litre of cold latte and some juice. And now I’ve got about a glass of milk left to last me the next 12 hours. I may have to phone a help line

me: “I need to just pop back into Russia”
wife: “You need to just pop back into Russia”
me: To get Brian some hand cleaner”
wife: “To get Brian some hand cleaner”
me: “Why are you repeating what I’m saying back to me?”
wife: “I’m hoping you’ll see how stupid that sounds if I say it back to you”
me: “You’re hoping I’ll see how stupid that sounds if you say it back to me”
wife: “I see what you did there Why the actual fuck do you want to take all that risk and spend all that time at the border just to ‘pop’ back in to Russia. That would be like going to the moon for a piss”
me: “Well, I really do need a wee, and, I’ve never been to the moon”
wife: “Whatever. I give up”

Submission. Permission. Same thing right? I’m riding right past the door of Kaliningrad, and I need to achieve at least one of my trip goals. It would be a regret if I didn’t and my wife clearly stated that if I came home with any of those then there will be problems. This is my “get out the garage free” card. I’m going in.

Many of the borders to Kaliningrad are currently closed. There is, I think, one open with Poland and one with Lithuania. I tried the Poland one and that didn’t would out. I went on the web last night and booked a slot at the Kybartai crossing. If there are queues like Poland my hair trigger patience will expire and I’ll just go home in a sulk.

But first breakfast. I saw somewhere last night. I’m there early for when it opens. Along with a dozen others. That’s always a good sign. Doors open, and in we go. “Yebisah” by Mark Night is playing loud on the speakers. Forget what I said about tools, milk and nana cakes, Anywhere paying dance music at 7:30am surrounded by the scent of warm pasty and coffee. I’m buying a yearly pass.

You buy cakes by weight. Point and bag. “Two of those please, one of those and one of those”. She puts two of everything in the bag. I could correct her, but that would be rude. And I’m never rude.

Don’t fuck about. Go here. Bring your appetite and your dancing shoes. I’ll see you there.

The music coffee pastry combo completely recharges my smiles and I end up leaving very happy, but late. It’s about 130 miles and it’s a fractious ride, slipping and sliding about, the turtles head bobbing in and out with every near death experience. The Bitch is feeling major twitchy, like she’s pulled a muscle or something. She’s not happy about something for sure. That’s all I need.

Get to Kybartai and it’s cleared up a bit at least. I wouldn’t want to wait for hours in the pissing rain. Eventually find the “waiting area”. I’m a bit early. Maybe it will fill up later.

Or not. What exactly am I waiting for? 2050? A woman comes out a shed and just says “go”. I ride back up the road to the border barriers. There’s nobody in the hut. It all looks shut. There isn’t anyone else here. Then I see a small sign. Apparently you have to buzz yourself out of Lithuania now. Press the button, a remote voice says “I will open” and up goes the barrier. Never seen that before.

Ride round to the controls. I’m the only one there.

Jump start the nana behind the desk and I’m out in 10 minutes and through to the Russian side. It’s quite an eerie experience to be honest. Like a dream with nobody else in it.

Sometimes, like now, realty jumps right out in front of me and smacks me hard in the face with a bat. I’m here alone in no man’s land going back into Russia, poking the bear once more. Why am I here? I’m definitely not brave. Maybe I’m stupid. Or maybe it’s a coping mechanism. I know without any doubt that the world could happily cope without me, but I couldn’t cope with the world without moments like these. They’re my mental escape capsules. Places I can run and hide when I’m struggling with the reality in front of me. When the voices are in danger of breaking free and tearing into the tedious tosspot boring my bollocks off. . When a colleague is telling me he’s worried about his pet fish because it seems to be opening and closing its mouth more often. When someone is just wasting my life. I need to come back here, look around and breathe. I’m not unique. We all do it. I might have a few more capsules than most, and some might have some odd names on the doors, but it’s a basic human necessity.

Get to the Russian border. There is only one other car here. A Ukrainian/German/Russian who is currently being fined for trying to bring in too much cat food. It’s not even his cat. It’s his girlfriends. Yes really.

Passport. 5 minutes. Bike search. 5 minutes. Customs. 30 minutes. Done. Gone. I’m definitely dreaming. But I’m back.

Kaliningrad really is tiny. Maybe not much over 100 miles long and there aren’t many towns along the way. Pick another random place. An old building on the edge of town. Smells like your grandads house. Nice dirty. And you’re unlikely to get a room like this anywhere outside Russia.

I’m not sure if I can sleep in that bed though. The pillowcases don’t match the duvets. That’s like having a girlfriend with mismatched collar and cuffs.

Judging by the constant noise of what sounds like very big jets leaving, despite not having an airport, and having a big fuck off train yard, I presume this place has close associations with the Russian military machine. Parts of the town look like they’ve been used for bombing practice too

Still. It feels safe, and a long way from my reality, which is exactly what I need.

And.. these aren’t planes leaving every few minutes. They’re missiles. Probably cruise from the sounds of it, or big drones. They flare and make a LOT of noise for a few seconds then they’re gone and you hear them disappear on the wind. They’ve been going all day and they’ve got more frequent now it’s dark.

Took a while to get to sleep last night. The missiles were coming from somewhere close by. They had the intensity of airliner engines if you’re staying at an airport hotel next to the runway. I should have got on the bike to ride about for a look. I’m guessing they were on mobile platforms because yesterday the GPS was as accurate as a Trump financial forecast but today it’s back to normal. But I could easily be wrong. I have no idea what they have based here, and it could have been a drill or a training exercise I guess.

Go down to breakfast expecting a few dog biscuits, last week”s bread, instant coffee and powered milk but no, the resident cooking Nana wearing a big white hat is having none of that. Proper lovely breakfast and all the better for being a surprise.

I was being unfair to this place last night. There are a lot of lovely old buildings that were built with proper craftsmanship. Beautiful ornate ironwork, huge, thick wooden doors, proper style and presence. Both impressive and imposing. But when it’s shit, its proper shit. The other night I went into a big supermarket in Lithuania and just had to leave. The choices were too much. It’s totally insane. Going back into an average small town Russian supermarket puts the inequality into stark relief. Anyway, got my helmet tickled by two ladies used to handling small tools in another porn shop and out I go on the road to Kaliningrad.

“Knock knock. Your breakfast is ready” Best breakfast of the trip by far. This Nana has the cooking gene for sure. And she gives me another slice of her cake too. Jesus, how and why can a piece of bloody cake give me so much pleasure?

Take The Bitch for her breakfast and roll onto the road

It’s Sunday and the road is ours. The Bitch has obviously got an ear-worm she’s heard from the cafe when I was eating. She’s humming “Black Velvet” and slowly swinging her hips. She’s just gliding along in a trance. There was a time when she was younger that she wanted to be ridden hard and fast, drilled mercilessly like a road hammer till she perspired and yelled, but nowadays she’s more often like today. She wants to be ridden slower. She wants the lightest of touches. To be clutched subtly and gently. She wants me to just do as I’m told. I’m holding her hands in the cool sunshine. I can feel her pulse through my thighs. She’s in a happy place. I’m in a happy place. We’re in a happy place.

What I really need after that is some porn. Tool porn. If I could find a place with milk, nana cakes and tools, I’d move in tomorrow.

I need some proper hard core hand cleaner. It seems the EU is sanitising the grit content of our hand cleaners now. Replacing grit with bloody marshmallows or bubbles or some other bollocks. All to protect people mistakingly taking it nto the shower and accidentally skinning their sausages during a particularly vigorous wash. You do get some really stubborn marks on your sausage sometimes after all.

Anyway, the Russians like their sausage raw. Their hand cleaner is made from ground up tanks. Waste not want not

Take the road north to Pstov. A place full of history and with a big old Kremlin on the river. I bag a nice hotel on the water for a change.

Go for dinner and one of the girls wants to chat. She sits down and talks to me as I’m eating. I’m the first English person she’s ever met, poor love. Her English is very impressive indeed and she’s only young. “What do you want to do?” “I want to be a translator”. Rather than piss on her parade I wish her luck. That ship has sailed though. I hope she finds her way somewhere good regardless.

Head out of Pstov feeling a bit sad. I know that from here on I’ll start to feel reality rushing towards me and I’m not ready for that. My adventure quotient is abysmal and I’m almost embarrassed to go back and admit my defeat.

I follow the tree tunnel west until i’m the only one on the road. It feels like I’m coming to the last chapter in the last book in a series I really enjoy. I’m desperately hoping the author will write a sequel, and then I realise that I am the author.

I’ve been through this border back in 2017 but not from this direction. There is nobody here. No one at all. Russians can’t exit out of here. I see a young woman walk to the hut. I motion to the bike but she completely blanks me. Fuck, she looks trouble. This could take a while. I’ve arrived at shift changeover and they need to discuss in detail the bicycle and 3 pedestrians that have crossed in the last 12 hours apparently. I get the kindle out and sit in the shade to wait. There is absolutely no point trying to expedite this process. None at all.

But it turns out I may have miss-Bitched her. Once she’s sat down, booted up her face and logged it in she’s a changed woman. She calls me over, does my forms in about 10 minutes. Comes out and just pokes about in the panniers and sends me to passport control. 15 minutes later I’m out. Free to go Unbelievable. 15 minutes at the Estonia border and I’m left wondering what the hell just happened. Just for shits and giggles I text a to those who shall not be named. They haven’t replied. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

I’m in shock and I’ve now got all day to waste riding up to Tallin.

I waste the first bit having cake and coffee and considering the infinite nature of the universe where every possible permutation of events is unfolding. Somewhere in the parallel universe I am gently pulling undone the bow on the back of a woman’s dress. I’m sure this is completely normal.

The main road up is quite tedious. Tarmac, trucks and trees. Luckily, when I’m piste off, the satnav can take me off piste. It can throw some curve balls and let me get a wriggle on.

It’s getting really dark and I’m riding on the edge of some woodland when I have a very strange experience that I’ve never had before. At my age that’s very difficult to do, unless I accidentally type “tea bags milk duct tape swarfega” into the dark web that is, allegedly. As I ride I get a couple of super bright flashes of lightning come out through the trees and it’s not even raining yet. Either that or a Terminator has just come through a portal. I’ll have to keep an eye on the news.

And then comes the rain. I hole up in a petrol station and use the cross trainer toilet to pass the time but it’s waiting for me outside. It wants to follow me for the next 90 minutes into Tallin. It’s proper sniper rain too. Big wet bullets stinging and bursting against me soaking me to the skin. The Bitch is quite happy though, running along with her eyes half closed in ecstasy, water streaming off her hot bosoms and slowly down her rock hard bum, keeping her cool. She’s a moody monster some of the time but I can always sense when she’s happy. I know her well enough by now to know exactly what she likes and despite the shit conditions and the almost total water blindness I know I can leave the hard stuff to her and she’ll just take the strain and look after me. It’s like any relationship, it’s all about trust. I couldn’t do any of this without her. People shy away from Ktms thinking they will find themselves abandoned but the complete opposite is true in my experience. The Bitch has a heart and soul. She’s rarely the same two days in a row. She’ll play with your mind like any woman worth her salt will, but she’ll also know when we have to pull together and get out the shit. She and I share memories that nobody else on earth have. I talk to her sometimes. I often pat her shoulder like a horse too. And I always thank her when we arrive somewhere safe. When we’re away we’re all each other has. Together alone.

Get to Tallinn and the hotel feeling like a bloody otter after a swim. Get up to my room and discover I haven’t got the bike key. Back to the bike. Not there. Empty all my pockets, bags, feel the lining of my jacket. Nothing. Gone. I bet it’s those little bastards working through their local contracts. Pissing on me from a distance. Just letting me know they can always reach me. I have a spare but I have absolutely no idea what’s happened.

I’m in Tallinn to meet a mate from work and his family seeings as we’re both in the area He’s the owner of the most dry sense of humour I know and can mercilessly take someone apart without them knowing, until they get up and find they’ve been ripped a new arsehole

I knock on the door and have the odd sensation of seeing a familiar face in an unfamiliar place. His lovely partner and son are there too. She tells me she’s been reading my blog. This is where I really struggle. I struggle because it’s not the physical manifestation of me that writes all this nonsense. It’s my author ego. It’s someone that writes like nobody is reading. When I meet someone that’s actually seen and digested my innermost thoughts, particularly a lady, it’s like being caught with my trousers down. She’s very complimentary and sympathetic about all my woes though. She gives me a “you poor love” and he gives me a “you’re a fucking idiot”. Just as I expected. Sit down, eat and chat, chew the fat. A really lovely evening in good company. A rare occurrence for me.

I’m a very socially awkward soul. I often just cannot be arsed with all the etiquette of dealing with most people. The more I travel the more I feel alone, even at home, ofter feeling separated and out of place. I find my comfort zone has shifted. I now find myself taking comfort in discomfort, taking pleasure in displeasure. Adversity has become a drug and I’m an addict. I’m not sure what the treatment is…

Get to bed, turn out the light, FUCK. I know where that bloody key is. I rush downstairs and out into the car park and there it is. Sticking out the seat lock. I’d removed the seat to get some money out. TWAT. Anyway, it’s cold standing out here. I really should have put some clothes on. Or at least some pants

Jesus. I really feel like I got out the wrong side of bed this morning. Probably due to the fact that when I was startled by the alarm in the pitch darkness, I bolted upright and forgot to engage my “where the fuck am I” RADAR, jumped out the left side of the bed instead of the right and smashed my face straight into a wall.

It’s going to be one of those days. I can feel it already. The face plant has set my mood to dark and my temper to ‘hair trigger’. Everything is going to annoy me today. Even myself. I’m already annoyed that I’m annoyed. Today is a day I’ll have to try and be happy being unhappy.

Get out of Tallinn, stop for fuel, and the pump is an automatic one. That’s annoyed me already. The fucking screen is covered in blood and tears where other people have punched the fucking thing in frustration at it being such a stupid, illogical cunty fuckfest. I give it at least 10 seconds then i can’t take any more. I stick my helmet back on and fuck off up the road. Morons!

Get to the next station, and I’ve left the cap off my auxiliary petrol tank all the way from the last station. I’ve laid a trail of fuel 5 miles long. That’s annoying. Never one to miss an opportunity I do the world a favour, strike a match, light the trail and blow the automated station to fuck. You’re welcome.

I park my bike under a sign that I want to take a picture of when I have a wee. Come back out and some really annoying hells angel type has parked his pile of American pig iron right next to mine, even though there is about 250 acres of space in the car park. I make him bow down and lick my panniers as punishment. He was there for hours. I think he quite enjoyed it.

Stop. Type ‘where the fuck can I get a really shit, weak, luke warm and prohibitively expensive coffee round here’ into Google and follow its recommendation. I want to be annoyed now. I’ll be very annoyed if I’m not. Go to the cafe and order my coffee and an eclair. Sit down and the woman brings me a fucking PINT glass of coffee that she obviously only warmed up by holding it between her knockers for a few seconds. “FFS love. It’s fucking coffee you daft tart, not fucking breast milk. I want it hot, not bloody tit temperature”. I was suitably annoyed by that, but that didn’t make me any happier.

The ride went took me through Estonia, Latvia and into Lithuania. Flat and featureless as the front of my tighty whities. As inspiring as listening to a lecture from Jeremy Corbyn about manhole covers. Exceedingly fucking annoying. Grey, busy, and windy as all fuck. The tops of all the trees were all bent over like a load of pensioners walking down the verge and the leaves all had their backs to me. A sure sign the wind has a right strop on.

Get to my random small grubby town and hunt down the flat I’m staying in. It’s another panic hotel thing with door codes, funny handshakes farting a particular note and holding it for 10 seconds. Took me 3 tries and got me an impressive skid mark. Open the outside door and it looks like I’m going to attacked by drugged up zombies but open the door to the flat and it’s really nice. Absolutely nothing I can complain about.

Which is annoying.

Take a wander about but it’s all pretty dead

I did see this interesting door though. I’ll come back after dark I think. I just need to go and do something really naughty first

 

 

 

You’ll notice today that there is something missing from my bike. My spare tyres. Despite their protestations that I had to take them out the country, and the fact I paid a fine, the wankers just drove off with them in their clown car and wouldn’t give them back to me! BASTARDS

Anyway, after my 30p per minute, 2 and a half hour sleep I awoke with a massive .. careful… stretch. That always means a sleep coma when I’ve not moved a muscle. Despite my mind being awake though my bum was still asleep. It gave a significant snore when I lent over to get some bread at breakfast.

Total silence.

Bit awkward.

Saddled up, pressed start and away we go. My temper this morning is shorter than an Asian cock after an ice bath and I’ve got to make sure to keep it in check. It’s always like this when I’m tired so I have to make a deliberate effort to be methodical and not just start chucking stuff about.

This part of the trip is always going to be about just turning the handle. That said, if it were pissing down and miserable this would be a chore. But you really can’t be anything but happy when you’re scooting through lovely scenery in the 20 degree sunshine I’ve got 360 miles to do today and the first 200 are A roads. Or A++ roads in Lithuania’s case. I drop into Kaunas City for some lunch. A lovely old town with cafes away from the traffic and noise.

I get an hour back in Poland, get on the toll road and let my tired old brain have an hour or two off before holing up in Łomża for the night. Don’t do it. I did it so you don’t have to. Really. Don’t

Fuck only knows what happened with the pictures today. I threw 90% of them away.

Łomża was asleep when I got up. It looked exactly the same as when it was supposedly awake.

I’m on the motorway in a few minutes. I’ve got earplugs in which I don’t usually do and I can just hear the hum of The Bitch beneath me. She’s not a happy girl at the moment. Low speed riding is getting worse, I think (hope!) it’s because she’s having trouble breathing. Her air filter will be blocked with 10000 miles of shit but cleaning it involves a lot of disrobing and disconnecting, all of which involves risks I’m not taking. On the motorway where she can open her stride and run she’s fine.With the relative quiet and a fat line on the satnav saying the next turn isn’t for 250 miles I can start to reflect, replay and reassess bits of this trip.

When I was eating my breakfast this morning some very good friends of mine said they had been worried in case I was anywhere near the munitions facility that was delivered a 100 UAV shit storm on Wednesday morning. Well..it just so happens..

When I wrote my notes for Wednesday my entire cranial capacity was consumed with white hot rage about my experience at the Russian border, and I’d completely forgotten about that morning.

That morning I had been awoken by the sounds of percussion. Big percussion. I laid in my bed listening to what sounded like huge, but distant explosions. They were going on and on. It sounded like there was some firing going on too. I did cross my mind it could be an attack but I just dismissed it because I was quite a way from Ukraine. That and the fact the town I was in was obviously an army town with people in fatigues everywhere. I thought maybe they were just doing live firing exercises, even though the depth of the percussion sounds was very deep. I went down, sat in the dark and looked for news but couldn’t find anything. BBC is blocked and even VPNs don’t help.

But when I got out on the road there were loads of police cars going past at full speed with their lights on. I went into a fuel station and there were 3 police cars quickly fuelling up and fucking off. Then I saw police cars in the woods off the side, and a couple at some junctions.

So, in another strange twist of fate, I randomly chose to stay the night up the road from where Zelenskyy had aimed his ire. And it must have been the Toropets attack I’d heard. This run of being in a particular place when stuff is happening is really quite eerie. It might have some bearing on why I was fucked about to such a massive degree that evening too.

And then that made me think about a couple of days before when I’d watched what I assumed was a Russian UAV fly across some fields and head off east. Earlier that day, just before I’d seen a new field of graves, I saw a big plume forming to my right, then just after, another bigger one forming to my left. I thought it was strange at the time but you always assess a situation based on your knowledge and experience. I’ve never been in this situation before so I thought it could be burning the fields or something, but as the cloud grew it started to behave very strangely. It stopped climbing and instead the wind started to pull a diaphanous sparkling veil across the skyline. Like one of those half hight net curtains in a cafe being drawn. It seemed to reflect the light as though it had glitter in it. Not something I’d seen before. Given the fact many new graves were close by I assume there was a local military presence, and on reflection I think the UAV I saw was probably Ukrainian and on its way to make some more work for the Russian undertakers

Sometimes my life is just odd. I relate these things not for melodramatic effect. They’re just the facts. It’s scary, but also just experiences of life on the road. I was never in any personal danger or under any threat at all thank God, but it’s something I certainly won’t forget.

Unlike this ride today. It’s dull. It’s tedious. It’s like sittting on a plane for 8 hours watching a boring on-bike movie showing all the parasitic life that forms along these arteries. Appealing to the eyes, stomachs and wallets of the passing masses. All trying to distract drivers to come and make a small donation to their jars.

I’m in one such distraction, sitting drinking a coffee and letting the blood flow return to my arse. I’m looking out the window and there are 4 blokes round my bike. Pointing and talking. They’re there for a while. The Bitch is absolutely filthy. She’s scratched and scared. The windscreen is twisted slightly after heavy contact with some scenery. The panniers are dented. There is oil all over the back from a can that the top vibrated off of. The paintwork in the frame is worn through to the metal where my boots have rubbed. The tank has two wear spots where my knees have been. She looks like it’s been in the wars. But she looks beautiful. She looks absolutely perfect. I know people that wouldn’t trust a Ktm to ride to the supermarket. Those same people wouldn’t be seen dead on a bike like The Bitch. Well, that’s their loss.

The prices of hotels in the cities on my route home are still at ‘taking the piss’ levels. I’m not here to sightsee. I’m just mile munching so I find a cheap and I suspect, 90% unoccupied hotel a few miles off to the side at a truck stop. And truck stops means truck driver dinners. My favourite

After dinner, drugs. There must be a dairy drugs den here somewhere, I can smell it. Wander outside the cafe and there is a 24 hour shop next door. And all it sells is stuff for trucks. Where the hell have they hidden it? I close my eyes, follow the scent. Go through a few doors, it’s getting stronger now. Open my eyes… spoons. Another obsession of mine. Anyone that rides with me knows that the left pocket of my jacket contains many sachets of brown sugar, and a spoon. True story.

But no spoons today. Close my eyes.. open.. truck lights.

Again, The Bitch has a broken tail light, probably due to someone smashing their nose into it sniffing her tail in Uzbekistan, and a truck light would look good. But no. Last try. Here we go, I’m getting close, I fall to my knees, open my eyes. Oh yea. COME TO DADDY

Get up and go to breakfast this morning only to be presented with this. Looks like the hotel doubles as a penis reduction clinic. Still, waste not want not. I’ll stick one down my leathers and see if it bonds.

The satnav says 360 miles, 2 turns. That’s going to be interesting. I wish there were easy options to just put the bike on a train in Europe and fast track the hell in and out.

So all I can do is reflect. Again. And rant. Last night I saw something from someone that had completed an ‘Epic’ tour of his local Sainsbury’s car park in Dulwich. I responded, questioning the use of the word ‘Epic’ in this context and he responded as though I’d touched up his granny. Immediately wanting a pissing contest.

Nothing on this planet irks me as much as this modern propensity to use our beautiful language inappropriately. This fuckwangle insisted ‘epic’ means the same as ‘majestic’, despite one being a noun and the other an adjective. “Here is an idea Mr IQ of two. If something is majestic, use the word ‘majestic’, and if it’s epic, then use the word ‘epic’” But no. He still wants to fight.

It’s endemic. Every monosyllabic moron plucks superlatives out of their arse and sticks them all over their mundane mumblings in a desperate attempt to stop them sinking without trace into the social media cesspit.

“Had an EPIC night in with the neighbours discussing the pros and cons of 4 different wooden spoons”

Of course you did Malcolm.

“Hi. I’m Jaqui. I’m an amazing voluptuous Venus with an incredible smile, a nature as bubbly as a glass of fizz and I can knock you up a 5 Michelin star breakfast in the morning”

No Jacqueline. Your figure is a feat of origami using only fatty flesh flaps, you have the brains of a barnacle, the personality of a peanut and the cooking skills of a dog. There. Fixed it for you.

Does my head in. I try to keep out of it. You have to be realistic. I like to think I’m about average at most stuff. Averagely intelligent. Averagely educated. Below average on some things I’d rather not discuss and maybe a little above average at caustic character assassination, but never far from the norm. But most people now seem unable to accept that and are completely incapable of any sort of honest self reflection. I always like to lend them a hand when I meet them

Anyway. These trips aren’t ‘epic’. To me they’re simply adventures. Maybe some of it is about getting older and testing myself too. Not giving in. Keeping the dark thoughts at bay. I can’t emphasise enough how lucky I know I am to do them. But the flip side is they also come with guilt. Guilt at my good fortune. Guilt at my good health. Guilt at my ‘get out jail free’ passport. Guilt over having such an understanding wife and family. And, just occasionally, guilt at being such a selfish old bastard. I worry, too, that all this luck will suddenly come to an end. But I guess that’s just life. Life isn’t fair. That’s a fact.

Anyway, The Bitch is grumpy. She says she wants some selfies of the two of us to send to her mates. I usually insist on staying behind the lens but I want to keep her happy so i make an exception.

Unwilling to pay the price for convenience and a shit, cold coffee I take a 5 minute diversion and find cake and coffee heaven.

Tonight it’s Hamm. Full of German character. I took the smile detector out for a walk. Nothing. Nil. Nada. I do believe the EU has recently introduced a smile tax though. One young bloke stopped next to me on a bike in a service station today. Apparently I was wearing my invisibility leathers. I wonder where he thought the sound of “TWAT” being shouted had come from.

I was sitting the Polish truck stop the other night, watching about the floods they’re fighting. I cannot remember the last time I felt rain. Or even smelt it. Must be back in Kyrgystan a few weeks ago. Surely it’s time. But no. Bonkers.

I’m fuelling up and I can hear some loud quacking. I speak a bit of duck as it happens and it sounds like someone is trying to get my attention. He’s up on the roof. He’s asking if I know any unattached mallards. He’s looking for a mate. His name is Drake, he’s a fit 2m, 50kg 20 year old Scorpio with a steady job with good prospects looking to settle down in a little pond and raise some ducklings. He enjoys diving and sucking weeds. That will only make sense to one person I know

Back out on the road I can smell blood. I hope it’s not mine. On my last day in Russia I came across what looked like a Damien Hurst exhibit. A very large animal, maybe a moose or a bear had very very recently signed out after loosing a fight with a fast moving metal object. A long scrawled signature was laid out in blood along the road and I rode straight through it. It always takes a few days for it to permeate the layers of crap but now it’s reached the exhaust and it’s burning off. Either that or my bollocks are on fire.

All the traffic is slowing down in front of me. They’re all slavishly dropping to the Dutch speed limit. All submitting to the increasingly oppressive omnipresent threat of punishment for daring to ignore Big Brother. It struck me last night as I was waiting to cross a road in Hamm. The closest vehicle was in Latvia but people were still waiting obediently for their permission to cross. Everyone is paranoid about some twat in a hat jumping out the bushes and adding their name to some offence register. You feel it as you come into Europe. You can almost feel yourself being put back in a box. The European road network is awash with technology whose sole purpose is to drop turds in your porridge.

And that’s another attraction of these trip. You can almost feel the shackles falling to the ground when you exit the EU. You learn to live with the ever increasing pressure and control. Obviously all the outlying countries are now doing the same nowadays, but you’re not part of their flock and they generally seem to ignore you

I’m doing a soft landing, staying with my brother and his wife in Holland before returning to the motherland. And treating The Bitch to a night in my brother’s 5 star garage. I hope she doesn’t get any silly ideas.

Final day. I thought I’d celebrate by throwing The Bitch on the road and hurting myself . I was riding out of my brothers village in the pitch black and missed a turn. Went to do a U turn and suddenly I’m in the road and my bike is on my twisted foot OWEWWWW that hurt. I’d calculated the turn using the full width of the road and hadn’t seen the big kerbstones delineating the bike lane in the dark. My bad…. ankle. Two blokes immediately jumped out their cars and helped my right the bike and assess the damage. The bars are slightly turned to the left, I assume they’ve moved in the clamps, but it still rides ok so I’m off and running towards Calais. I’ve got 180 miles to do in 3 hours.

It’s Monday morning and the traffic is horrendous. Miles of motorway queues near every major junction. Filtering through with my confidence now low, my handlebars all askew and my left ankle sticking pins in itself every time I move makes the ride more fractious than I’d like but I make it to the tunnel and on to the train.

There is only one other bike on there. A BMW GS so shiny and clean I can’t bearly look it. He’s with his wife and they’ve been for a weekend away in Normandy. I’m not dissing that. This isn’t a cock waving contest. But he’s not taking to someone who looks like a scarecrow, smells like a tramp and rides a bike without a BMW badge on.

Before I know it I’m home. Back where I started. Completing the circle. Trip number whatever in the series of whatever plus who knows. Unpacking is a 5 minute job. All I need to worry about are the presents for my wife.

I remember asking one rider on a trip what he was going to give his wife when he got back.

“A big bag of washing and a hard-on”

Fair enough. I’ve got the bag of washing, but the only big, fat, solid swelling I can currently offer her is the one on my fucking ankle. I’ll guide her hand to it in the dark. See how that goes

Sit down. Breath out. Think. These last few weeks have done their job perfectly. They’ve got all my favourite emotions out the cupboard and exercised them, often mercilessly, until they’re fully sated and can be safely put away for a while without them moaning they want to go out.

As I’m riding along it would be easy to convince myself that I’m doing what absolutely everyone else wants to do. That it’s everybody’s dream. But of course, it’s not. Pretty well everyone doesn’t give a monkeys. They’re not interested. They would almost pay NOT to do it. And by the same token I’d probably rather slowly slit my shlong with a sharp samurai sword than indulge in their distraction of choice. So I just do these things for me.

Travelling overland like this is often tiring, boring, tedious, and at times even torturous. It’s frustrating, annoying, and can seriously test your patience. You’re often hungry, always filthy and you usually can’t remember what clean clothes feel like. You get bitten, you get sore and you get mad. But all of that can pale into insignificance in the blink of an eye with a smile from a stranger, a wave from a child, a nod from an elder, a laugh from a policeman, coming round a corner or over a hill to be twatted straight in the face with a simply stunning, fuck off view that consumes your entire headspace. Highs and Lows. Quicks and slows. Looking back all I see is a shit tonne of fun.

And if nothing else, this trip proves the old maxim is true.

“Life’s a BITCH”

Until the next time.. thanks for watching

Well nobody joined me in my room last night. I leave my boots at the door. Anyone brave enough to go past those is welcome to sleep next to me.

Sunshine. Again. This trip has been notable for the weather amongst everything else. Every day bar 2 or 3 has been sunshine. The days are growing noticeably shorter as I head north though.

In my experience, Russia was at the back of the queue for natural beauty. It’s largey flat and dull. I sat on a terrace last night listening to a combine clanking its way through the sunflowers. The fields here are absolutely vast. But while Russia lost out on the landscape, someone knocked over the bottle of feminine beauty and it got flooded. I was in Saratov the other night and found myself on my back on the pavement seeing stars after being hit with just one look from a tall blonde with 2 small kids. It’s rediculous. Loads of countries have good looking people though. America has some very fine looking examples, but, I’m convinced they’re all born with incredibly tiny heads. The doctors have to stick an airline in their ears and inflate them so as they appear normal, even though there is absolutely nothing inside. Ho hum..

I wanted to stop and take a picture of the Moscow Region sign but it was in some roadworks. I was fucking about for ages tryng to get the bike to stand up and not fall over. Then I get off and there is a police car parked behind me. Fantastic. Luckily he just motions through the windscreen at me that I’m not allowed to stop there. I put my hands up. He just pulls out back into the traffic. I walk slowly back to the bike and wait for him to disappear, then I take the picture anyway.

I wasn’t planning to ride into Moscow this trip but as I’m riding I get a text. ‘Jason. Would you please stop by for a chat if you can. Thanks. Vlad’. An offer I’d better not refuse.

I don’t have roaming when I’m away. I don’t want to be connected to home when I’m out in the road. I don’t want to know that Lidl is selling wellies for cats, or that Dominoes is doing a special offer where you only pay 100 times the cost of the ingredients instead of 200. I don’t want to hear people trying to be funny or adding lines or emojis and kisses to some inane and vacuous comment someone has made. You can all FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE when I’m out on the road. So anyway, I don’t have Vlad’s home address. I pull into a fuel station and ask a nice lady to help me. She downloads google maps and has a play, gives me what I need with a smile and I’m off.

As anyone that has done it will tell you, riding a bike into and around Moscow is quite an intimidating and navigationally challenging experience. There is also a shit tonne of extremely expensive metal that you absolutely do not want to come into contact with. I must have seen more Maybachs today than I’ve ever seen in my life. But anyway, we found our way to the big man’s gaff.

He greets me and sits me down at the other end of the long table. He seems friendly enough. He wants to see my photos, and he shows me some of his. He has some nice ones of Donald Trump with a hooker squatting over him, pissing on his head. Apparently, in his defence, Trump says she was only dying his hair. Sounds reasonable to me. Good job it wasn’t brown though

As we chat I can’t help noticing that he’s continuously popping what look like blue pills. Shit.. I hope that thing doesn’t reach down this end of the table.. but on close inspection they’re not Viagra at all. They’re blue smarties. Fuck! That’s the problem. He’s been on 100% blue smarties diet for the last 5 years. No wonder he’s causing chaos. I tell him ‘Vlad. You’re being a very naughty boy. Now give me that big pile of smarties and calm down before any people get hurt’. That should sort it. You’re welcome.

On which note. The war, though not immediately obvious, is very much front and centre. e.g. This promotion at a fuel station.

And everywhere you go there are billboards trying to recruit for the army. I was coming cross country this evening after making another navigational fau paux, and I saw flags flying in field. As I got closer it’s the same story. A new graveyard full of fresh wreaths and headstones. Then the same again about an hour later. Seems to be the poorer towns are suffering the most.

Another random low rent hotel where the reception area is so dark I have to do everything by touch. I can hear a voice but can’t see anyone. A clean basic room, with a key not a card, and a transport cafe across the road. This is what I’m going to miss the most. I’m already feeling a bit sad about it TBH.

I go out for a quick walk. It’s a very small town. A beaten up school. Old houses and flats. And there are a lot of people walking about in their fatigues. Discretion being the better part of valour I decide to show some respect and hang low, keep out their way. I’m finding I’m really reluctant to relinquish Russia. I was going to do a short day today and stay near the border, but, as I sit in the dark in reception this morning and plug ‘home’ into google maps it tells me there are still 3000km to go. So I’m really going to have to get on with it.

It’s an easy ride. Lovely and warm, a good road and I’ve got it mostly to myself. I will miss Russia but it’s easy to become complacent about my situation here. Everything is absolutely fine, until it’s not. My travel insurance is invalid here because  gov says not to go, so I’m riding commando and trusting to luck. It’s a risk, and not one I’m entirely comfortable with, but no risk no reward.

I need to buy a souvenir, for myself. There is only one small town left before the border so I divert in looking for a taxi. I see a row of them, go to the front, jump off the bike and get my spanners out. He’s got the door open and he’s sprawled across the seats. I point at the spanner and ask where there is a shop. He just picks his nose and points. There is a tool shop directly behind me. Tool heaven.

Get near the border and fill up with the last of the cheap fuel. I’ve still got a shed load of Rubles that I can either use as toilet paper, or spend in the garage shop. So I buy 200 air fresheners, some plastic cutlery, 3 cans of random sprays because I like the colours, and 3 sets of windscreen wipers. Front and back obviously. Perfect.

Get to the border at 3. I’ve been through here before and it was quite quick. But that was before. That was before they decided to turn it into the C&*TIEST FUCKING BORDER IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD. Seriously, this border is manned solely by C*^T high fliers. The C&@TIEST OF THE C^*TS. The creme de la C&&T. AHHHHHHHHHH

There are only 4 cars outside the gate. As I arrive they let a couple of cars in. After 2 hours they let me and one other in. And the C*^TFEST begins. I have been through a lot of borders in my time and this one takes the C*^TING biscuit. I’ve got to go through customs. There is some fat trollop in the booth and she is NOT interested. The people that were let through before me 2 hours ago are still waiting here. Nothing is happening. At all. For hours. The trollop has had at least two 20 minute fag breaks and her mate goes in for frequent chats too. There are 3 cars here and me. Just 3, and nothing has happened. For hours. Then some other little snivelling C*%T comes to look over the bike. Usually takes 30 seconds. But no. ‘Open’ ‘what? The fuel cap?’ ‘Open!’ And then he points at the seat. ‘Open’. ‘What? I motion that’s going to take ages’ because I’ve got to unload the rack and unbolt it. He smirks, shrugs his shoulders and fucks off. And doesn’t come back. CUIUUUUU*T!!! Another hour goes past. Nothing. A Volvo randomly pulls up with  plates, entering Russia. It’s a Russian that lives about 5 miles from me in Southampton. He says people wait 2 or 3 days here. He’s really happy because he only waited 5 hours this time.

As he’s standing there the trollop comes over and starts ranting and pointing to my tyres. The Russian starts interpreting for me. ‘This fat mingmong C*^TESS says there’s a problem with these tyres. They’re illegal and must not have been imported to Russia’ I may have to pay a fine, and I must take them out. ‘WHAT EXACTLY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I’M DOING YOU USLESS MOUND OF QUIVERING FLESH!’. He tells me I need to wait. They will need to write a special ‘protocol’ to let me take them out. FUUUUUCK THIS SHIT. Get me Zelensky on the phone. NOW. I want to make a donation.

So, after another 30 minutes they wheel out yet another from their never ending supply of massive CU*TS to weigh my tyres, photograph them, and write the protocol. As we speak I’ve been waiting another hour already. It’s gone 9pm and I’m STILL FUCKING WAITING. CUUUUUNTTTTTS.

It’s nearly 10 now. I did wonder why “knackered uncomfortable wooden bench at Russian customs” appeared as an option on Booking.com this morning. I read one review. It just said “BUNCH OF C*^TS!”

11pm. The chief C&£T took me outside 30 minutes ago. Used translate to tell me he’s going to write the protocol now. What? What was that document that took you an hour to write and I just signed then? ‘The legislation has changed. It may take some time. An hour or two’. Just dipping your toe into Russian bureaucracy shows exactly how shit things can get, and how quickly. This isn’t going to be over any time soon

12:30am …. Forget Putin. I’m thinking of starting WWIII. Right here. Right now

2am. I’m wishing there was a WORSE WORD THAN CUUUUUUUUUU*T for this fucking giant KNOBBER. He’s still not finished. And now he’s disappeared somewhere. Probably to send his wife a 3 word text that he’s going to CHECK AND RECHECK AND RECHECK AND PRINT OUT AND RECHECK THEN CHECK AGAIN AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I WANT TO CRY 

3am. He’s printed it out. It’s 2ft thick. He gives me two pens. ‘Two pens?’ “Da. You’ll see”. Not even a Russian ballpoint is up to signing one of these documents. I’m in purgatory. Almost every page, often 3 or 4 times, the pen nob is overheating. I’m signing “William Wlberwank”, “Trevor Tosshandle”, “Yuri Youreacint”, “Benjamin Buttonpenis”. “Idont Giveafuck”.

3:15. It’s done. I’m through. “Niet my friend. Now we go to bank”.

I’m beaten. I’m submissive. I let him drag me across the room and through to the bank to pay a fine. A nana with one finger and one eye hits the keyboard like an old clock ticking..

3:30. “Can I go now please? I’m done. Finished. Take me round the back. Pick a hole. Any hole. Just let me go. Please.”

“Niet. Photo”. So now they bundle me into the back of a wankered 4×4 with no exhaust and we wake up everyone in a 50 mile radius to drive out the border post and back into Russia. He motions to me to get out. Him and his mate make me walk away from the car up the road. This is it. This is where I die. Or get all my holes filled with baby gravy. But he just makes me hold the tyres and takes a picture. Then he wants me to turn round and photograph me from behind for his person album. I don’t fucking care by now. .

They take me back to the bike. A beaten man. I do some more paperwork checks and finally they point to go. To the Latvian border.

The scores today.

Russia: 12 hours 40 minutes

Latvia: 10 minutes.

A freezing, foggy 40 mile ride and I have to ring the hotel bell and wake the night porter at 4:45am.

I’m still planning to come back next year though.

Next Page

I’m out and away early. The Bitch is half asleep too. Coughing and spluttering and generally scaring the shit out of me with her refusal to accept my direct instructions. I try not to dwell on it, but fail. In my head I’m nearly home. In my leathers I’m still in Kazakhstan.It’s another busy morning out on the plainsNormality I have to ride past miles of static trucks before a border but today there are maybe only half a dozen. Perhaps they’re all at church. It is Sunday morning after all.

Passport control here checks you have a valid visa for Russia before letting you go into nomansland. When I came into Kazakhstan I saw the fuckwit put the Kazakhstan stamps on the page opposite the Russian visa. I knew that would cause trouble as there is now no more room on that page. And sure enough she has to hunt trough my passport 5000 times in an impressive display of OCD to check for other Russian stamps. I have a double entry visa this time and she needs to be sure to be sure to be sure I’ve not been in twice already. And then she has to check again.

Get to the Russian border and there is a queue so I do the usual British thing and join the back. But people get out their cars and tell me to go to the front. They even move so I can get through. Very gentlemanly behaviour indeed

I queue up and hand the lady my passport. I see her pick up her phone. Here we go. She gives me a proper evil state and takes the passport from the next person. After 10 minutes a clean and tidy bloke in a different uniform comes out and goes into her booth for a chat before coming up to me. He speaks good English. His first words are ‘Welcome to Russia. We have a problem’. Good start. ‘And you need to wait’. Ok then. At least it’s not a straight ‘Niet’. He supervises a good check of my luggage then he starts asking me questions.

‘Can i have your phone?’ I hand it over, unlock it and he spends a few minutes looking at my pictures.

‘Has anyone in Kazakhstan spoken to you in English?’ What?

And I just knew this was coming. ‘What do you think about the political situation?’ Can i phone a friend? I have a real aversion to lying regardless of the consequences. So I tell him his leader is a psychopathic megalomaniac intent on destroying the world… in my head.. because I never lie to myself.. but after a brief pause I just take a very careful walk through the political minefield spread out in front of me and just about manage not to blow myself to pieces. He’s absolutely impossible to read though. Could have gone either way. ‘You have to wait’ and off he goes again. I just sit on the ground, read my book and pretend this isn’t happening. 30 minutes later he’s back, my passport has been processed and I’m free to go. He’s only doing his job.

I’m let loose outside the gate and I’m back on Russian soil. If nothing else it just serves to remind me. If i attract the wrong sort of attention here and fall into the Russian beurocratic digestive system then I’m unlikely to be shat out for a very long time.

I may be in but it’s still 160 miles to any sort of proper civilisation. Saratov is my destination, on the Volga. But it’s still a few hours away. So I stop in a village where there is a scruffy cafe. It feels off somehow. Everyone is scowling. No handshakes. Nobody asking where you’re from. No engagement at all. It doesn’t feel right. My spider sense is flashing the exit sign so I just up and leave.

As I’m riding out the village I see a riot of colour down to my right. There are lots and lots of huge burial wreaths all over a piece of land, and what to me looks like a very disproportionate amount of brand new headstones. Ummmm.

Cross the massive Volga river and get to a hotel I stayed in 10 years ago. It was an old Soviet style one then and it hasn’t changed. I’m on the 10th floor and I go to put my boots on the balcony. I don’t think I’ll be leaning on the handrail. And there is a fucking great crack along the wall too. Good job this is only the 10th floor. If I was on the 11th I’d be shitting myself standing out here. Go for the usual afternoon wander but leave my inspiration back in my room. Never mind. These will have to do.

It’s time to stop messing about now and put some miles in. I need to split Russia into 3 days so I’ve picked a random point south of Moscow to aim at. I thought it would be about 350. The satnav says 440. Nothing I can do about that, just twist and go. This is where riding alone comes into its own. Only myself to worry about. Only my arse on the line.

Stop for fuel. Go to start The Bitch and she’s playing up again. Not starting for a few tries. She’s been doing it on and off for a while but the other day in the middle of Kazakhstan I thought she wasn’t going to start at all. Same at the Russian border yesterday. You know I swear that recently when the Russian’s bike wouldn’t start, I went to help and left The Bitch facing one way but when I turned round she had turned herself round to watch. She sees the Russian’s hike getting her G-Spot attended to and she thought ‘hey, I need a bit of that action’

So now she’s fucking with my head. Every start is a mind game. Will she/wont she. As I’m riding through the relentless tree lined tarmac tunnel I remember what this problem is. Christ knows what’s taken me so long. This feels like the exact same problem I had when I rode to Vladivostok in 2018.

The Bitch’s stater doesn’t engage directly with a flywheel like on a car, or some bikes. It’s a series of cogs. A cog on the end of the starter has a torque limiter, basically an interference fit that can only take so much torque. That cog connects to another bigger cog that has a sprag clutch onto the crankshaft. The problem is that the torque limiter seems to wear, and then it just spins without turning over the engine. Now I’m sure some of you didn’t understand a word of that, but it’s something I could well live without.

So I do the whole day with 2 only stops. And a very near miss. It’s inevitable that doing this many miles you’re going to have a ‘moment’ or two.

I’m riding along about 65 round a long left hand bend. Nothing in front, but a couple of trucks coming towards me. Just as the lead truck is about to reach me, a car that’s been hiding right under the truck”s bumper suddenly lurches out of nowhere to overtake. I’ve got headlights aiming straight at me and no time to think. All I can do is press the bars hard and swerve to the right. The driver grabs the wheel and pulls the car back and we pass each other maybe a meter apart. Imagine putting a draw string on your sphincter, and tying the end of it to a puppy, then throwing the puppy a ball. The moment that puppy runs out of rope is that moment I miss the car. It’s all just part of the game though.

Around dusk I’m riding along and there is a huge open field to my right. I see something coming towards me flying really low, maybe a couple of 100ft. It’s a UAV, quite large, presumably Russian. It does a sudden climb and a sharp turn and it’s gone. Maybe it saw me watching it.

I’ve done the 440 and I’m looking for a bed. There has only been one city and a few conurbations but nothing very significant. Russia really is a vast country. Every 30-40 miles there are truck stops and random scruffy hotels and cafes along the roadside. It’s luck of the draw. And it looks like luck is on my side tonight. Basic. Clean. A cafe. I may have to share my room with a random but who cares. This is what it’s all about. The different places. The ones that fall between the cracks.

Next Page

The Russia has been suffering the last couple of days. I think he’s consummated every toilet in the last 200 miles. So I left him to sleep and went out for a walk, and another shave. I’m determined to get a good wet shave this trip and it’s not happened so far. Walk in. Very hot towel. Good start. He’s not a Master but he’s doing ok. Feels nice and smooth, just a spray of something nice to finish. He grabs a can from the table, covers my eyes, and in an impressive slight of hand swaps the can for a petrol pump and pours 95 octane into all my open pours.

FUUUUUUUUCK THAT!! It’s a bloody good job I chose an S&M barber that’s for sure. If he hadn’t bound and handcuffed me to the chair and put a pool ball in my mouth when I sat down, then I’d have surely bitten my tongue clean off and hit the sodding roof.

I wander back looking for dinner. As I walk past all the queueing traffic, every car I pass starts revving. Must be my new cologne. Still, it does t stop me having the best meal of the trip so far. Oh yea. I need some new socks, so I spent 4 hours in here looking for a new pair. They only had some rubber ones, in different flavours apparently, and some with spikes on the inside. I presume that’s to aid circulation. I went for the spikes. Bit uncomfortable with my bike boots on but I quite like to suffer occasionally,  it makes me feel alive.

The Russian took some drugs last night, but this morning he’s still Russian.. to the toilet every 2 minutes. Poor bugger. It all stems from some Plov that we had at the rubbish dump in Murgab the other night. I ate one forkful and it tasted off. It tasted vaguely sweet like it had been retrieved from a month old takeaway box left on the sun. I only had the one forkful and it was enough to force me into leaving a big deposit of fly food during an emergency evacuation at the side of the lake the next day. But the Russian ate the lot.

So this morning I went for a huge fat boy English breakfast at the place I ate last night then we went for a tour of the Bishkek public conveniences. Just another city. Same same but different.

I only bought my ‘day’ eyes with me because I didn’t think we’d be riding at night. The Russian wants to stay for a while to try and wring his bowel dry so I leave him to join me later and head out of Kyrgystan and back into Kazakhstan. It’s a very busy border but it’s as quick and simple as it gets. In. Out. Shake it all about.

The road initially runs west for 150 miles back along the Kyrgystan border. It’s quite sad looking at the mountains. It’s like looking over your rich neighbours fence, when his athletic wife is playing tennis, after a swim. Forget I said that. That’s what happens when my brain has little to do. It wanders. It wonders. And she doesn’t play tennis either. She’s the captain of the Yummy Mummies beach volleyball team. Forget I said that too. Look at some mountains from afar like I did.

Tonight’s hotel is in the basement of the bargain basement’s basement again. It looks ok. But it has just a couple of minor flaws. The door to the room looks normal, but has a problem in that it only lets 80% of my body pass through it.

The enclosed shower cubicle also seems to be mounted on 2 marbles. When you get in it moves, tips and has you falling about all over the place. It appears, using only the powers of deduction you understand, to be an anti self-abuse prototype. Should someone be foolish enough to start burping their worm in the cubicle, it will fall on its side trapping the incumbent inside until the masterbation police can turn up to arrest them.

Yep you’re right…. It’s a slow news day.

Today is a head down, arse up day. As luck would have it there is an uncommon event happening this evening that the Russian and I are keen to witness if we can. We are in the vicinity anyway. In Kazakhstan, 450 miles away definitely counts as ‘in the vicinity’.

So it’s fuel, tarmac, and a long day playing catski and mouseki with the police.

With a short stop in Kzylorda for plov. The Russian will we riding alone tomorrow as he needs to do some big miles to be home in Moscow in 5 days.

I did think about going with him. Back in the mists of time when I was young and owned a comb, my arse was rock solid. It was so hard you wouldn’t be able to drive a nail into it. After I did an iron butt bun burner gold ride of over 1500 miles in 24 hours, Penzance to John O’Groats and back to Penzance, my wife very kindly suggested she’d like to put that theory to the test. She hired a nail gun, voluntarily dressed up like Sarah Connor, which was nice, and tried putting a full clip into my backside. The result? Bent nails. But now I’m over 60 and my arse is soft and wrinkly like a deflated balloon you find behind the couch three weeks after a birthday party.

So I decided I’m going to just keep the miles down. We did 450 today and the balloon just about stayed inflated but I don’t want to push my luck any further. A burst arse would be a problem to fix out here.

Anyhow. We eventually get to the semi-derelict building that will be our beds for the night. It’s a tip. It’s falling apart, the bathroom has biohazard written all over it and the place smells like it was decorated by Bobby Sands. There are probably only 3 or 4 other people I know that would stay here, and 2 or 3 of those live inside my head with me.

But the Nana in charge tells us we can watch the even out of the bedroom window.

We need to negotiate a price. These rooms are obviously in high demand. This isn’t something you can see every day. If this was  in the USA we’d have had to book it 2 years ago and sell a kidney to pay for it. I’m wondering if I have enough cash on me. But then she says ‘3000 each’.

‘What? Pounds? Dollars?’

‘Niet. Tenge’

So, that’s about £4.50 for the room for the night with a (long distance) view of the Baikonor launch site out the window. I think that’s what would be generally considered to be a bloody bargain.

I don’t know what the ‘right place right time’ odds are for this sort of thing, but, I was randomly in Florida on holiday and managed to see a Space Shuttle launch. Twice.  And now I’m here in Baikonor on a launch day too. My life does sometimes seem to be a series of very fortunate events.

Next Page

When I wake up this morning and sit up, the pillow comes with me. My beard has Velcro’d itself to my chin in the night. It’s now as long as my, almost nonexistent, hair and it’s difficult to work out which way up to put my head on in the morning. I need to get that sorted today.

But first I need to attend to The Bitch. She is due a blood transfusion and I know just the place. Zorro’s. Owned by a Swiss bloke, obviously. They rent bikes and also space and facilities for you to do things like change the oil. Or in The Bitch’s case, conduct an enema.

Get the tools out and it seems the rough roads have triggered the can of tyre sealant in the panniers. It hasn’t even sealed the holes in my tool bag. Fuck load of use that would have been then.

Anyway, I buy her the most expensive oil they have. Fully synthetic Motul 10/40. She more than deserves it. Adjust the chain a fraction, tighten some bolts and she’s ready for another 5000 miles back to her bed.. hopefully.

Fire her up, ride her back to the hotel and she’s purring away like the Cadburys Bunny… if she were a kitten.

Get out to find a beard doctor. But first my lips. They’re buggered. Chapped, sunburned and bone dry like I’ve been kissing The Bitch’s red hot engine goodnight. Walk into a chemist, point at my lips, and Katie Perry hands me a strawberry chapstick with a wink. She’s gone off cherry apparently.

Find a barber but they don’t wet shave. First world problems. So he uses a chainsaw instead. Whatever works.

Descend into the dark world of the have nots. Where people sit on a pavement all day everyday selling the same thing as the people either side of them until they die, whereupon their body is removed and the next generation takes over.

Five minutes walk and I’m in a cafe with the haves. Latte, warm mini quiche and a chocolate tartlet (I do love a tartlet). ‘How much?’ ‘£3 please’. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Ridiculous. You get so used to big numbers nowadays it’s often quite shocking.

I went back to the market to find something to secure my screen. I really wanted some ‘fat bird knicker elastic’ but all they could offer was something with the tension of a Thai tart’s tickle tackle. Markets always make my camera happy though

The Bitch knows it’s time to head towards home now. She’s caught the scent and she wants to run. If you habitually walk out and leave immediately after the climax then it’s been nice having you along for the ride. I appreciate your eyes making writing this fantasy/fact hybrid worthwhile. If you’re going to stick around as I descend from this euphoric high and back to reality then you’re more than welcome to stay and (hopefully) watch the miles roll by. I’d be very happy to have you along. Who knows, it might even be fun.

I point the little motorcycle on my satnav north and we’re off. Homeward bound. Still a long way off but every turn of the wheels is taking me in the right direction.

The whole morning my lungs are being beaten black and blue. I don’t want to breathe in. If it’s not the black spot of an overloaded 50 year old truck struggling up a mountain at 5mph, then it’s the blue smoke of an ancient Mercedes saloon with piston rings that fit the bore about as tightly as a catholic with 15 kids fits his wife.

Luckily I have a solution. K&N, purveyors of washable motorcycle air filters contacted me before this trip and asked me to prototype a pair of washable lung linings that travellers like me can have fitted. It’s not a pleasant operation. Removing and washing them is also an uncomfortable experience. And children, always remember not to remove lung lining 2 when lung lining 1 is still drying over the back of a chair. I did. I nearly died. Good job I can hold my breath for 20 minutes.

Anyway I used my rest day wisely and washed my lung linings yesterday. The bath looked like the whole of a colliery had used it after a shift.

And today they’re getting another battering as we head up towards Bishkek. It’s a dull few hours fighting idiot drivers that seem to have come direct from the doctors having been told they only have minutes left to live.

My camera also asked for a sleep in too. Apparently I’ve been overusing it and now it insists that its shutter gets some shuteye.

But 60 miles from the hotel that all changes. Mountains, vividly coloured water and smooth twisty roads you say? It would be rude not to.

Tonight’s destination is Toktogul Lake. Just a small one. Nothing special. And we are the only guests in a huge old soviet hotel. You know how that story usually ends.

Well you didn’t expect me to just go cold turkey did you. There is plenty of time for that later. We.. well the Russian.. gets chatting to a few locals on the beach. All drinking vodka before driving 49km back home through the mountains. They give me a HUGE shot and look at me. Fuck. My empty stomach immediately sends messages to my brain to suspend all cognitive function and I’m immediately completely wankered.

Today in the last day in the mountains. Still they’ll still be here if I come back. As long as I don’t leave it 20 million years.

Our hotel is bathed in morning sunshine. Our destination mountains are getting bathed in rain. We can see curtains of it falling on the horizon. But we live in hope. After an hour or so the rain starts so we stop to put the gimp suits on. The Russian’s bike won’t turn over. ‘I know what this is’ he says as he goes all motorcycle gynaecologist, sticks his fingers inside his bike and pulls out its G-spot. He then proceeds to short across its 2 little pink terminals and with a big spark the bike leaps into life. He looks well versed at it. Maybe it’s how he gets his wife started. I did notice that the lead he used was pink with hearts on . Russian women are notoriously difficult to get going.. apparently..

Off-road tyres and rain go together like tits and scissors. And I’d have done well to remember that as I entered a small village in the storm. I see a dog on the side of the road. He’s going to go for me. He’s off and running and he’s obviously been in training. The bastard is on course for an imminent appointment with my front wheel. So.. I change down two gears, accelerate hard, and mimic a slow motion sequence from The Matrix. The back wheel just kicks straight out and I’m massively sideways (probably about an inch) The front tyre and the dog’s nose kiss gently just as I steer and throttle back to bring the bike back into line. The Bitch could have done that herself but sometimes she likes to dare me. I can feel her laughing between my legs.. that’s not the first time I’ve experienced that sensation either

We’ve got some high passes to cross and as we climb the temperature drops. In the summer the mountains are awash with bees making мед, but now all the bees have carefully cleaned the nectar off their fur with their little honeycombs and flown south for the winter.

Get to the top of the first pass and it’s down near zero. Time to put the smugglers on then But the budgie has flown. I checked the nest . it”s been completely abandoned.

The next 60 miles are fucking freezing. We climb another pass, through some snow clouds chucking it all over the road, through a long tunnel and emerge to a mercifully dry, but still nipple tensingly cold descent back to ground level to defrost.

The ride into Bishkek is the usual bitch. It’s a massive one way system. The one way to do it is to look after number one and ride like a water droplet running down a window pain. Dodge and weave and jig and jink your way though it.

My Russian friend wants to travel a bit less exuberantly than I do so tonight we’re staying at a hostel. Now. Listen. Next time you balk at the price of a hotel room compared to that of a hostel remember this. A hotel spends money on signage so you can find the fucking place. It isn’t just a random door on a floor above a barber shop. A hotel pays a receptionist to take your money. It doesn’t ask you to get a card machine out the cupboard, plug it in, put in the amount you want to pay then hold your card against it. And when that doesn’t work the receptionist is unlikely to ask you to phone a random number and make an international bank transfer, and when that doesn’t work she’s unlikely to tell you to hide the cash In a cupboard and say she’ll collect it later. And hotel rooms give you your own bathroom, which is unlikely to contain enough hair in the shower trap to allow you to create a massive wig and become a Tina Turner tribute act.

But apart from that it’s perfect. You’ll also be glad to know that international bedroom borders are still being respected.

Next Page

When I awoke this morning all was well. The Russian hadn’t tried to occupy my half off the room. All he had done was to arrange half a dozen tanks facing me from the high ground of the windowsills and wardrobe. Seems fair enough.

We’ve only got 145 miles to do today. I always make the mistake of asking people what the road is like. I don’t know why I do it. ‘Well the first 144.9 is absolutely shit but the last 0.1 is fine’.

But. I do remember this bit. It’s not in the bin. It’s in my favourites. It’s one of the places my brain was showing reruns to convince me to take the harder route. One of the most beautiful places I know. It’s takes some effort to get to, and a lot of the time part of me is saying ‘why the fuck do you get into these situations?’, but then, a thankfully much larger part is saying ‘thank God you do’.

It’s a fucking hard day there is no doubt about it. The Bitch is definitely going to file for assault and battery as soon as we get home, but that machine is just incredible. Big respect to anything that can take such a massive beasting and keep moving.

A few days ago I missed a target for this journey. I hoped to find a priest that previously blessed my bike at a little village across the water from Afghanistan. I phoned him up. Made an appointment. Arraigned a time and place but he never showed up. Probably busy ironing his dress.

The today the ‘Blessing’ light came up on The Bitch’s dashboard. Oh shit. But one of my Angels obviously saw it and arranged an upgrade. Actual Jesus. As I live and breathe.

We overtook a group of 3 mental cyclists struggling in the mountains and stoped a few minutes later for pictures when they came and stopped for a chat. One of them was wearing a head covering with dense beard poking out. I told him he needed a shave. Fact is, he is travelling incognito, but he is actual Jesus. Reborn as a tall German. Who would have thought. He’s been travelling all over and he says he was actually first recognised in Iran from pictures they have of Jesus in their holy books. And then all the Iranians were calling him it all the time.

I asked him if he’d actually considered saving the world now he’s been resurrected but he just said he’d had a think about it, he thinks it’s way beyond saving, and he thinks one of his rivals has hacked the gene pool so he decided to say ‘fuck it’ and ride round the world on a bike instead. But he did deign to bless The Bitch for me.

Started her up, the light’s gone out. Job done.

When we get to the tarmac road my bike is shouting that something is wrong. The panniers have collapsed again, a common occurrence and mainly caused by my monkey mechanics, but a massive shit none the less. The Russian and I take them all off and replace some bolts but one has sheared and we can’t get the head out. Fuckidy tits and arse biscuits, buggery fart flaps and cock wombles.

We’re at Mogarb tonight. A tiny town at the end of the road. It looks like a refuse tip that’s come alive. People have crawled out the rubbish and made what they can in order to survive. But it does have lifeblood fuel. Served by a Nana from plastic bottles.

And it’s the home of The Master. Yep. I couldn’t believe it either. Jesus and The Master on the same day. The hotel is like your nan’s house. Falling apart, never updated, showers with walls thick with unmentionable fluids, and decor a gypsy would baulk at but who cares.

My Russian friend is keen to get this snapped bolt out. He has a word with reception to see if there is anyone that can help. Yes there is. ‘The Master’. Ok then. His assistant arrives on a bike and we follow him to the hideout… I mean squalid yard in the depths of the dump. Do you want to see ‘The Master’ at work? Now I must admit he’s aged quite badly, and changed race, but here he is at work with his sonic screwdriver. Gets the bolt out in no time and goes back to his time lord duties/working in the dirt keeping alive things that really should be dead. Like the NHS really. Still jobs a goodun and it’s fixed. Ready for another day of the same tomorrow 

The last few days I’ve been ignoring a problem. I’m well practiced at that. I could probably run courses on it. I even carry a bucket of sand with me to stick my head in.

I’ve ridden into Kyrgystan maybe 4 or 5 times through different border points and never needed a visa. The uk gov website says you don’t need one. The internet says you don’t need one. But, just by chance, the Australian I was speaking to last Sunday mentioned in passing about a ‘permit’. Apparently you cannot cross this southern border without a permit now. It’s impossible. No permit. No entry. They turf you out the crossing back into nomansland. You need to apply at least 3 days in advance. So I needed to apply Monday. He gave me a random WhatsApp number, I contacted it and the number said he could do it. I rode off into internet/phone silence. Monday evening I get a WhatsApp wanting more info. I reply but don’t get any response. Then I’m off into the boonies. No internet from then on.

Last night I spent an hour in the pitch black following a drunken mumbling elf in a pointed hat who clearly didn’t have a clue where he was going. Wandering around the rubbish dump to hunt down a random pile of rocks where I’d been told to pay $15 for the permit. A young man appears out the dark and takes the money. Says he doesn’t know if my permit is done. The internet has been down for 4 days. He’s says ‘probably’ be ok. Ok then. Thanks mate. Maybe I’ll just use half a bucket of sand then.

As I jump start my old bones out of bed I look at the floor at my pile of dirty, worn, battle scared kit waiting for me. My leathers are so crusted with sweat and dust they’re more like a suit of armour. All the zips on my bags are snagging and struggling. The clothes are filthy, my wash bag needs washing, my boots are humming all sorts of unsavoury tunes and my socks could be dropped by drone in a war zone. But I don’t see them like that at all. They’re all doing their job perfectly. They’re in this adventure with me. They’re scared and beaten but we’re all in it together. I love worn things. I love to close my eyes and run my fingers over my kit. Every nick and tear and mark is a memory. A bookmark into my in-brain entertainment system that can start a rerun in my head and take me to my happy places.

So. Head in sand. Off we go again. Head out, wave goodbye to Stig (of the dump) and track north.

This part of the route is, yet again, a montage of scenic masterpieces. It’s like wandering through the warehouse of ‘Mountains R Us’. It’s just bloody incredible. The road is tarmac and decent enough at first to let your eyes loose for a few seconds and breathe it all in. Deep deep breaths.

And then we get an even bigger high. Up to about 4600m. The sky is clear, the light is right, what a day to be alive.

Had enough of mountains. How about the bluest lake you’ve ever seen. Lake Karakul. Looks too blue to be true. Amazing.. again.

And just when you think you’ve seen everything, you come across a couple of Italians taking their dog for a very very very long walk.

The road predictably turns to absolute rat shit about 20km from the Tajikistan border but we climb again towards the roof of the world and touch the clouds.

I’m busting for a piss so I walk towards the edge but a guard shouts to use the ‘toilet’. I know that won’t be good, especially up here. It’s just 2 planks of wood resting precariously about a foot above a pyramid of stinking, warm fly food. As I look down to pee my sunglasses fall off and I just manage to catch them in a full on ninja swipe. If they go down, even if I can reach out and pull them out, even if they’re the most expensive sunglasses in the world, then they’re dead to me

Out of Tajikistan and 20km of nomansland. And certainly noroadbuildermansland. Large sections are a proper full on assault course, but a spectacularly beautiful assault course none the less.

Ok. Time to get out the bucket. We’re at the border. And just to make me even more apprehensive there is a Russian standing outside the fence that has been stood there 2 days already because he didn’t know he needed a permit. There is absolutely nothing there. No support. No food. No water. Nothing.

I stick my head in the bucket and ask the Russian to lead me into the compound, feeling the condemned man walking to the gallows. I’m waiting for the trapdoor to open. Waiting .. waiting .. there are footsteps.. and a tap on the shoulder and a very great sigh of relief. The permit has come through and I’m in. I was never really worried at all

So welcome to Kyrgystan. The weather is coming in and the wind is blowing sand and gravel across the road in clouds. But because he’s Russian my mate says he’s going to try and ride to Mount Lenin base camp about 30 miles away and camp. Of course he is. He’s probably going to spend the night half naked, up to his tits in snow, full of vodka singing Patrioticheskaya Pesnya.

It’s getting late so I head north 3 hours to Osh for a warm bed and proper food. I’ve forgotten what that feels like.

Hello old friend. I’ve missed you.

Next Page

I went to bed with the words of the Australian ringing in my ears. ‘Leave by 4:30’. Well that ringing didn’t transfer to my alarm. Fuck that! I’m not riding that road in the dark. I’d rather wait at some roadworks than wait in the morgue.

The light was just beginning to come as I gingerly put my front tyre on the sandy road and headed off about 5:30. Slowly does it. The road has a few brand new sections of about 2/3km each but the rest is still absolutely completely and utterly trashed. It’s worse than the Uzbek border road. Still, the scenery is ok.

I phoned up one of the Chinese contractors last night for a chat. I asked him to arrange a perfect piece of road where the sun would rise in a huge yellow ball and illuminate throw sharp rays of light across the water. Looks like I owe him one.

It’s still early and I’m clearly riding through some of the road works but I’m not stopping until I’m forced too. Some of the riding is seriously massively shit. Lots of steep cuts and diversions, sharp rocks, fine sand, mud. But mostly it’s the roughness of the road. It’s a proper bastard.

As I rode I ask myself, as I hit another hole and my balls hit my boots, would I rather have the rough or the smooth. And surprisingly I think I’d go for the smooth. It’s all well and good smashing the bike to bits and feeling like a riding God but I’m over 6000 miles from home and I need this machine to keep itself together and get me there. And the smooth would allow me to really look at all this incredible scenery instead of concentrating 300% on the road.

I keep dodging and riding past working trucks and equipment. One fucker turned on his bloody water hoses on as I was crawling past and I was left struggling up a muddy wet hill. Wanker.

Anyway. Eventually I was stopped. It was 7:30. The little bloke said it opens at 11:30 for an hour. But cyclists kept coming up and being let through. So eventually I convinced him to let me try too. I won’t do that again! Dodging fucking great loaders with 10 tonne rocks in their buckets in clouds of dust. I think I lost a few angels in those few minutes

The miles are crawling down. I’ve got 150 to do and I’ve done 45 by 12. Honestly. If I had a ‘beam me up Scottie’ button I’d have been bashing that thing with a hammer.

Then I hear a funny noise. I really don’t find funny noises funny. The panniers have collapsed again, and the tyre is being cut. I can’t fix it here so lash it all up and add it to my ever growing list of worries.

When I finally make it to the hotel I’m completely fucked. I’m way too old for this shit. My legs are shaking and I’m leaning to the right for some reason. Still, I guess I always have really. But I’m alive

I attend to The Bitch. Replace some bolts check her for bruises. The bracket on the auxiliary tank has cut into the edge of the tyre. You can see the clean black line round the edge. And taken from behind, as indeed is the Bitch’s preference, you can see the blocks on the left have been cut. Still, it’s only got to last another 5/6000 miles

And the road is so rough it has also destroyed my socket handle .. which is convenient.The next few days. More the same. Pray for me

Lots of bad dreams last night. I was glad to open my eyes and escape them. I can’t remember anything much about this next section. I think it’s called the Wakam corridor. Another ribbon laid down along the river between Tajikistan and Afghanistan. But first breakfast, or the terrace. Best coffee I’ve had for ages. The place is basic but clean and the bloke is very helpful. TBH I’d book it again for the coffee alone.

It’s very unlike me to bin a memory. In my whole life I’ve never binned enough to need it emptied. So it must have been bad. That’s my conclusion as I wander about making excuses not to go. To delay the terror and pain.

But when I finally get going I’m wondering what I was worried about. It’s a beautiful little strip of road. And it’s even smooth enough to keep all my unsecured body parts wothin a few inches of their designed location. I can watch across the river and see Afghan kids running about, people tending animals and working in the fields. It’s like an EYEMax super experience.

And it goes on and on and on. A beautiful wonderful ride through fields and small villages with the mountains keeping watch.

We get to some loose corrugated road and The Bitch asks me if I want to dance. I’m a shit dancer but if it keeps her happy I’m willing to try. Whenever we hit the corrugations I open the throttle and skim across the top with The Bitch dancing underneath me. I let he find her own rhythm, hold the bars lightly and let her lead.

The corrugations are making the bracket rub on the tyre and I have to do something. I’m going to have to twat it with a rock. But not just any old rock. Twatting rocks are graded according to the application. Too small and it’s about as effective as hitting a nail with your tongue. Too big and it’s like squashing an ant with a meteorite. No. There is a scientific calculation.

Enjoyment of twatting (100) times level of frustration (3) minus likelihood of serious and irreparable damage (150) minus ‘middle of bum fuck nowhere’ chance of recovery (144.6). So I need a 5.4 grade rock. Now as luck would have it I appear to have stopped at one of the world’s largest rock shops.

After an hour or two I find a 5.4, give the bracket a twatting, and it makes fuck all difference

Ah well. I’ll just have to forget about it and enjoy the ride.

I’ve got 40 miles to go. Jesus, I’ll be there in no time. What am I going to do all afternoon. Maybe go for a swim, or a sauna. Or, maybe not.

I come to a section of deep gravel and corrugations. I know the theory. Get off the bike. Call recovery. And get in a fuck off great big 4×4. But given I don’t have that option I have to get on my knees and crawl. This is why I binned this memory. 40 miles of gravel. I’m crawling along and the bike is overheating. I can maybe do 5 miles and I have to stop because it’s litterally boiling. I can hear it bubbling like a kettle. Good job I’ve got a good book with me. I’m sat reading and another bike comes the other way. First I’ve seen for days. A French bloke. Says he saw some others on Ktm’s with the exact same problem. 40 miles. 4 hours and a seriously strained sphincter.

Get to the 1 horse village where fuel is sold out the can. A Russian bloke turns up on a  bike swearing about the road too. I’ve just got the last room at the home stay. ‘You can share?’ ‘Err ..Ok’. So tonight I’m sleeping with the enemy.

There is absolutely nothing to do here. It’s 3 houses, a shop, a few dogs and 3 big 4×4 Pamir taxis that ferry tourists from Osh to Dushanbe. So I go to the shop with the russian and play ‘guess something they don’t sell’. We had to stop playing after 6 hours and still hadn’t guessed.

Next Page