Category: Eat Sleep Ride Repeat 2024

I’m really tempted to put some of this oil in The Bitch to see what happens. I mean it has all the right things on it. But that doesn’t always guarantee the contents does it. I mean the omission of a single word can change everything. If I write MASSIVE on the front of my pants it doesn’t magically morph my maggot into a monster does it.

And for those about to get into their solicitor and prosecute me under the trade descriptions act, I’ve since qualified my sausage signage with the word ‘DISAPPOINTMENT! !’. I even had a very nice young lady come round from the council. She read the sign then carefully unwrapped and inspected the contents before agreeing that in her opinion, the banner did in fact describe the contents perfectly.

But that was where the disappointment ended for today. The Uzbek border was a 20 minute breeze and the Tajik one took about the same though it helps if you’ve been there before. The only thing that keeps worrying me these borders is the way they look at me, then look back in the queue for other bikes. Then they say ‘один?’ Alone? And I’m left wondering if they mean ‘are you brave or stupid?’, or, ‘ok I’ll just phone my brothers and tell them to wait up the road with their Ak-47s and some rubber gloves’.

Anyway, as is often the case, you cross the border and everything suddenly changes. If there weren’t any people in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan there would be no reason to go. At heart they are flat featureless deserts, but Tajikistan had the forethought to grab all the scenery and lasso their border round it. What’s this I see? Mountains? Fuck yea.

Getting closer..

And Closer ..

The scale is getting more and more outstanding as we go. The road has to bend and buckle to the will of the mountains. They’re trying to build a new road but at the moment you’re on the original. Oh well.

At the very top you have to go through a tunnel. The Anzob Tunnel. Affectionately known as ‘The Tunnel of Death’. I forgot about this tunnel until I was about half way through, and half dead. It’s very claustrophobic, 2 way, 5km long, unventilated and largely unlit. It’s also on a slope so the old trucks chuff out clouds of blue smoke and scream like tortured demons as they go. It’s hell on wheels. You can’t see. Your eyes and throat sting and your ears are confused by all the noise and echos. But as the light slowly comes towards you and pops you out, then you get your prize.

Fuck sake. This place is absolutely incredible. I’d forgotten just how beautiful this section is. I’m properly in awe. I’m already planning my next visit. Wanna come. Go on. You know you do.

Get to Dushanbe and it’s just another big boring city. Standard buildings. Standard shops. These bloody ‘Bark at Your Dog’.. ‘Bury Your Dad’.. ‘Build Your Dreams’ Chinese taxis absolutely everywhere too.

Go out for some dinner at a place that has slop pots to choose from. “A bowl of those stuffed lungs from a very tiny cadaver please, I’m sure they’ll be fine”.

And you know what, they were bloody delicious.

I don’t like it here particularly, but that’s not the point. The man made stuff, I can take it or leave it. But I know Mother Nature made a real effort not far from here and that’s where I’m aiming.

After I’ve spent the night in my converted ballroom.

After dinner last night I was chatting to the owner of this bike.

Now normally I avoid people like this like the plague. They’re almost invariably insufferable knobs. The bike is covered in more stickers than a Tesco pork pie sitting on the ‘reduced’ shelf at 11pm on a Saturday night. “I went to Ky”.. “BEEN THERE. 15 TIMES ACTUALLY. GOING AGAIN NEXT WEEK”.. “I really liked T” “WELL I LIVED THERE FOR 5 YEARS AND FATHERED 12 CHILDREN. ONE IS NOW THE PRIME MINISTER”. No. They’re not for me but in this case maybe I just have to acknowledge the presence of a superior traveler. I’m certainly not going to get into a willy waving competition with him. Not after my one star sausage rating from the local council.

This bloke is an Australian. From Sydney. Though he is a Malaysian resident and has a Malay wife who travels with him. He’s going into Afghanistan today then into Pakistan then India and Nepal to fly the bike somewhere. He’s been travelling for 4 years. He was good to talk to. He listened. He asked. He answered. Good bloke. But he gave me some bad news about the Pamir.

It seems the Chinese delivered the Tajiks a massive roll of ready made road that they are busy laying over sections of the beautiful, rough, challenging Pamir highway. The Chinese are obviously famous for respecting these cultural icons and the will of the locals so they’re busy destroying large sections of what was one of the most beautiful roads to ride. The top, high sections are currently safe but it will come you can be sure. If you want to do it. Do it now. It might already be too late.

Get out the city and into the hills. Roads are perfect. Scenery is ‘acceptable’.

And without her asking, I even let The Bitch take a look.

Every so often there’s a small town, always with at least 99% of the population trying to cross from one side to the other. The other 1% taking it in turns to back out in front of me or squeeze me into oncoming traffic. I enjoy the challenge but I know one mistake and I’m fucked.

Then someone falls over in the World Scenery office and knocks the spectaculometer to 15.. possibly even 20. It’s just fucking bananas. The scale is off the scale. You can just see some roads where it winds down into the valley below. I’ve got birds of prey playing on the thermals, daring themselves like small jets, suddenly appearing from below my sight line and soaring up while screaming and laughing to themselves. It’s a truly incredible, unforgettable experience.
Eventually I come to a barrier across the road. We’re near the Afghan border now and you need an extra stamp on your visa to get access. I’ll get checked regularly now. And I’m in. A few miles later and here we are. I feel like driving over to see if they would like to sign my helmet or put a bullet through it. Apparently you can get a visa on the border at the moment but I’ve just run clean out of brave tablets. My bad.

So here was have it. Afghanistan on one side of the river and Tajikistan on the other. Lots of soldiers marching about on this side though which is new. And this is where the Chinese have replaced the old narrow rough worn road with a brand spanking new one.. so I really should spank it shouldn’t I. What a rediculous ride that is. I’m hammering along a silky twisty river road and watching Afghanistan pass by my right shoulder. I watch some Afghans on small bikes riding in the dust just a stones throw away. What must they be thinking?

Sometimes I ask myself if this is real. Sometimes I reach for the back of my head to see if I’m in the matrix. Sometimes it dawns on me just what an outrageously lucky old twat I am.

When I get to Kalaikum I deliberately choose to punish myself by staying in a shitty hostel where all the flies hang out. It looks like there is very little business happening. No other bikes at all.

And from ballroom to not much ball room tonight

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I was pondering why I wasn’t so enamoured by the Khiva fort last night, as i ate some delicious soup while feeding all the meat to the saddest looking cat in the world. Maybe it was a professional beggar though. Before it went out it would do its ‘hit by a car’ makeup, unarrange its hair, perfect its limp. Poor thing. I very nearly bought it a whole kebab.

Anyway, I think it’s because the fort has been over restored, and once you’re inside you’re like a tourist fish in a barrel. I don’t like swimming with the other fish. I usually want to swim in the opposite direction.

Out of Khiva.. what was that… a misfire? Jesus I hope not.. get some fuel and spend the first 2 hours at 30 mph in a fume filled potholed nightmare. I have to leave a big gap between me and the vehicle in front. If I don’t then I don’t see the big holes in time and I spend the next 10 minutes pressing my teeth back in with my tongue. But patience is expensive out here and nobody buys any. Any gap is filled immediately so progress is painful.

After a couple of hours I’m released into a new road across the desert. A 200 mile strip of concrete with barely anything anywhere along it.

For all my bullshit and bluster and nonsense, I do very often get tense and anxious, particularly on sections like this. My body is plugged into the bike like a human diagnostic machine. My knees are used like a stethoscope to monitor The Bitch’s heartbeat. My hands on the bars constantly assessing its reflexes. My throttle hand acutely aware of any change in response to my command. My ears are tuned to the regular music of my chain rattling on the bumps, the exact note of the exhaust, the tap tap tap of the tappets. Little yellow warning lights flash up in my head all the time. What exactly would I do if I broke down here, 100 miles from anywhere?

But I have to stop that train of thought. I have to give it a big red signal otherwise I wouldn’t get on the bike each morning. Sometimes it’s not easy though.

What is easy is the next few hours riding. It’s such a pleasure not to be thrown around like a soft toy in a puppy’s mouth for a change. Just watch the desert roll by out the windows.

After a couple of hours I can see what I know is a bike right out in the distance. Your brain is an amazing thing. How it works that out who knows but when I catch it up it’s a Russian rider. About 30 minutes later I stop at the first place selling Benzine after 130 miles of nothing, and the Russian comes in a few minutes later. His name is Yuri. Lives up near St Petersburg. He’s on a 1997 Transalp and he’s doing the Pamir too. We have a chat and his route is identical to mine. He says he’ll contact me later. Who knows. Be handy to have someone that speaks the local lingo. And I’m obviously keen to talk politics.

Get to Bukara and it’s the same same. A scrappy town with ragged roads and strips of shops selling who knows what to who knows who.

But once you get to the old city and start navigating the labyrinth of tiny old streets then everything changes. Nice botique hotel. A walk in the shadows and boom boom shake the room. Another fuck off mud fort for a start. Luckily I’ve been here before so i know my way about. And near the fort is the place where the eyes want to go. This is the stuff. This is much nicer than Khiva. It’s all spread out and accessible. And it’s a sight to behold for sure.

I sent this pictures to Daren our local tiler. Asked him for a price to do my house the same. He said he’d have to work out a quote. Could take a while. He said he’ll get back to me.. in 2037

I was looking at google maps last night. I have to zoom out to the maximum then scroll the planet to see home. That scares the shit out of me. I’ve done about 5500 miles so far and I’m still heading away for the next week or so. Sometimes it doesn’t do to think about it. I’m in deep though. Very deep.

My neck orange kept me awake too. It wanted to be scratched and petted. It’s obviously an attention seeker. I ignored it and ignored it but it only got worse.

You know that moment when a cat instantly sits down and swings its leg up to flick seven bells of shit out of an itch. That paroxysm of pleasure written all their little smug catty face? Well that was me this morning. Though I probably shouldn’t have used my leg. And I probably shouldn’t have done it at the breakfast table.

As i sat, lost in my postcoital haze, memories came to mind of a very close shave somewhere round here. Another reason for this journey. A last minute entry. I know exactly where to go.

The shop is just a cupboard in the wall. Too small of you’re too tall. I recognise the fella. I was last here 5 years ago. He looks a lot older. I’m sure I look exactly the same.

Sit down. Hot towel. Soap brushed on. He grips my nose to start, but what’s this? The bloke is shaking like a leaf. That’s not good. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had. I’m guessing they don’t include activities like shaving people with cutthroat razors at Parkinson’s treatment clinics do they? Too late now though. He knows he’s shaking. He’s being very slow and deliberate. He deliberately cuts off a lip and both ears before he’s finished. Still, having only one lip will mean my lipstick lasts twice as long, and no ears will make putting my helmet on much easier? WHAT? I SAID IT WILL MAKE PUTTING MY HELMET ON MUCH EASIER.

I’m riding an artery today to Samarkand. I take pictures of lovely things for a few minutes every day, but the reality is 6-8 hours on the bike most of the time. A non stop game of tarmac Tetris. Watching the gaps. Watching the shapes. Predicting the moves.

Now. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before but my old Pug dog, Ruby, had the good fortune to be born with the most fragrant Fanny in all of doggy land. Other girl dogs would point and whisper when we walked past. The males would patiently line up and wait their turn for a whiff. Sometimes right round the park. I honestly thought about charging.

Anyway, The Bitch seems to have the exact same problem. Every time I look in the mirror there is a car with its nose right up under her tail. Their bonnets bellowing in and out as they breathe in The Bitch’s bouquet. It’s a real fucking nuisance. I’m going to have to add something to her petrol to stop it. Some of that stuff the army used to use to make the soldier’s ardour softer. It’s got to be done.

Samarkand is a big old city. Same as all the others. In terms of architecture it seems anyway. Old is gold. New is poo. I took the camera out for a walk but it just sulked in my pocket for most the time.

Tomorrow I’m staying here. I need to check the bike over again before we head for the main event. The front is all shaking about whenever I hit a bump, and there are going to be a lot of bumps in the road I’m taking.

The Russian influence is getting stronger here too

I’ve been away for nearly a month now. I’ve never spent this long alone before and it’s an odd experience. Going through life, school, work, relationships, holidays, kids, is just really about distraction. Keeping your mind in check. An undistracted mind can easily take over and consume everything. Travelling overland on a bike gives me near 100% distraction for the hours on the road, and with a constant live stream of the unfamiliar when I’m off it. It’s like a 5000 mile line of cocaine. But when i get a gap, i get these odd reality checks. I try taking to myself about it but I’m not always a good listener.

I have very little correspondence with home too. I never have had when I’m away. But that gap is usually filled by my fellow travellers. Mainly Brian. Another distraction (love you Brian) But I don’t have that either this time. My daughter had my first grandchild a week ago as well. Yes, I know, you can email any comment to sheknewIwasgoingawaybeforeshegotpregnant@selfisholdbastard.com. This isn’t a rest day, it’s a day for self council. I’m about half way. I need to get my head down and get on with it. Entering the supportive bubble of a big city is easy. Bursting the bubble and leaving is sometimes not.

Fettle and fuck about with the bike for a while. Make it all sorts of promises if it gets me home safe. Give it a quick cuddle when nobody’s looking. It all helps.

She needs more oil. I’ve given her what I have and she needs more. I’m not seeing any motorcycles round here. Not any at all. Anything with 2 wheels has an electric motor rather than a beating heart. Taking of which, they’ve seriously upped the anti round here with the pavement terrorists. As well as electric scooters they have small electric sit on bikes for hire. Those fucking things come past you at 30 mph while you’re walking with a 5 year old riding and a 2 year old on the back. It’s the future, but maybe it’s really a way of reducing the population.

Anyway, get in a taxi. He understands what I want but he’s no idea where to get any. We seem to go round and round the city in ever increasing circles until we’re out in the countryside looking at bloody sunflowers. It’s not bloody sunflower oil I want mate! Eventually end up at an agricultural dealer who has 3 wheel bikes with trailers. Most of those bloody things are electric here now too. But he has some ‘3 wheel motorcycle oil’. Fuck knows what will happen if I put that in. Will The Bitch grow an extra wheel? I’ve decided it’s for emergencies only

It would be rude while I’m here not to overdose on old tiled buildings so I take a walk down to old town. If I’m keeping score it’s Khiva 6/10, Bukara 8/10, Samarkand ‘You’re taking the piss’.

I tried to contact tiler Daren. I want to upgrade my request to my house, garage and outbuilding in this style. He’s stopped taking my calls.

It’s difficult to describe the scale of these places. They’re fooking mahoosive.

I’ll tell you what though. Even Shania was impressed.

Wandering back from dinner last night and spotted this black shark amongst all the little cheap white fish. I wonder how many ‘have nots’ there have to be out here for this bloke to have a Maybach. The traffic was parted for it courtesy of a new, blacked out Range Rover. It was probably owned by someone who uses 4 fingers to hold there cock when they wee.. and 3 fingers get wet.

Oh.. and can someone please check on Barney the dinosaur. I think he’s been shot and used to make some trophy chairs.

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Muscle memory is an amazing thing. My muscles were recalling their memories of the last time I rode this section to Uzbekistan. It’s the section I fear most and I’m on my own this time. They’re refusing to take me to the bike. They’re like reluctant toddlers being taken to the dentist. I have to drag them kicking and screaming into the cool morning light.

It’s a really very beautiful morning. Mother Nature has turned the light to ‘soft’ and it’s draped all over the scrubby little buildings, the dilapidated train carriages, the old and beaten machinery. Heating it up gently for yet another days work.

Go to fuel up. This section is 320 miles with no fuel stations and almost nothing except for a border 80km in. It’s a rough scratch across a desert. It’s the worst road I know anywhere. Full the tank, the auxiliary tank and my fuel container. If I could swallow and regurgitate some fuel I’d do that too.

80km to the border is absolutely perfect. New road. Cool and calm. Easy riding. This border should be open 24/7… but it looks like it’s 7/24. The gate is shut, bolted, and unmanned. Google says this next section of 270 miles is 10 hours. It’s 8:30 already. I can really do without a delay. So we wait.

These borders remind me of refugee camps. All sorts of people seeimigly carrying all their worldly possessions shuffling along in the dirt and dust to cross. Fuck only knows where they’re going. Their will be old cars picking them up on the other side I guess. They’re all funnelled through a tiny gate like sausage meat. People can go through but no vehicles.

One hour. Two hours. Now im starting to get really agitated. Driving in the dark out here is a game of chance. After 3 hours I’m seriously considering ram raiding the gate and just letting the Ktm scream her way through with a manic laugh and a single finger in the air.

But just in time the bolt is drawn back and we’re off. Passport, done. I’m about to leave and an inspector comes to check the luggage. He grabs a guard, tears off a little strip of paper and I’m taken to customs. Another seagull feeding frenzy window. The guard pushes me in at the front and I can feel myself being stabbed in the back by dozens of angry eyes. The guard has accidentally torn my paper in two. But it gets stamped and proceeded anyway. 4 hours after arriving I’m headed for the exit. You have to hand over the piece of paper to show all the processing is complete. That’s ‘piece’ rather than ‘pieces’. He won’t let me leave. He wants me to go back and do it all again. Well that’s a hard NO I’m afraid mate. My patience is well into the red by now. There is a fight going on in my brain where someone is trying to grab the volume button and turn it right up. I just sit there and he gets google translate out.

‘Why did you tear the ticket?’

‘Because I really wanted to waste my life having an altercation with a 10 year old with a gun at a border crossing. I thought it would be a learning experience’.

Eventually he decides it’s all too difficult, and he’s getting daggers from the drivers behind me so he lets me through. Straight into another queue to the Uzbekistan border.

My leathers are so sweaty and so full of dirt that they have become a husk. I can relax all my body and still stand upright in them. I dare not fall asleep though. I might wake up as a skinny 6”4’ butterfly. That would be bad. Though I do fancy a go with a huge proboscis.

Another hour or so and I’m through. This is where humanity ends for the next 200 miles.

Out we go onto the road. This road is just indescribable. It’s totally destroyed. It’s very dangerous and the only sensible way to drive it is like the trucks do. They crawl along at 20mph and use their height to spot every hole then weave through the madness like drunk blindfolded 12 year olds.

Or drive at 50 and hope you skip over to the top of all the nastiness. That seems to be working for a while. It does sound like I’m driving in a car through a riot though. Big bangs and whomps, chains clattering, noises of money leaving my wallet. That’s all working well until I hit a massive yomp and I hear something really bad.

This could be better. I’m 200 miles from anywhere and my panniers have decided to shear some bolts, then collapse onto my auxiliary fuel tank, which has then rubbed on the tyre, which has then bent a mounting and split the tank pissing all the fuel out. That’s what’s known as an unfortunate series of events. Or a complete clusterfuck.

The panniers are now flipping about like a geriatric’s knockers and things have become a bit bent too.

Get the tools out. I carry some spare bolts and straps and I manage to use the big tyre levers to ‘persuade’ the frames into shape. Don’t know about the fuel tank though. That’s going to have to wait.

Now it’s 4:30 and I’m 200 miles out. My muscles are twitching from all the riding on the pegs. I’m not even half way. But I have to slow down.

The next few hours are just purgatory. Pure and utter purgatory. I’M SWEARING AND SWEARING UNTIL MY THROAT IS SORE BUT I STILL SWEAR SOME MORE UNTIL ITS RAW” AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I FUCKING HATE THIS FUCKING BLOODY SHITTY C&@T OF A ROAD”

After about 100 miles of this shit there is a dilapidated shack/Cafe where you can lie down for a while, listen to whale music and put £3000 in a swear jar. I do love these places. In the middle of absolutely nowhere. They really offer nothing except a collection point where humans can just look at each other and get solace that we’re all in it together.

Another few hours, and about 170 miles after leaving the border, the road suddenly turns from zero to 7. My eyes that have become swollen and huge can now shrink and have time off pothole spotting for a while, and the bike can use its forgotten top three gears. Just in time too. The sun held in the sky as long as it possibly could but now it falls over the horizon with a click and we’re into the dark for the last 90 miles.

I don’t want to think about those miles. Scary things going under the wheels. The roads are still really shit in places and the bangs and pings from the wheels confirm they’re still suffering.

The bike says 10 miles fuel. The GPS says 18. I’m crawling along in the dark. Counting down the inches.

I can see the hotel. I’ve been here before. I coast into the car park about 10, the bike feels exactly like I do. It’s totally exhausted. But what a bike that is. Big Respect to The Bitch. That was a day from hell. I’ll have a day off and look at her scars tomorrow. But fuck what a machine that is.

Now. Time for the white stuff. If you’re a fan like me, I can take you to a dairy drugs den in any city I’ve ever been to. I know them all. And this is a good one. They’ve got the hard stuff. 6% cream. Not for girls…

Today’s a down day. Time for licking wounds and listening to muscles shouting I TOLD YOU SO!

Checked The Bitch over and tightened more loose bolts. The windscreen was only as tight as an old blokes teeth too. She seems OK but I suspect she’s just holding her stomach in and pretending she’s still young.

Went to get some fuel. Almost the entire transport network here runs on LPG. Benzine is rare and expensive. I fill up the tank, and my spare fuel can, then go to ‘test’ the auxiliary tank to see if the elves fixed it overnight. Turns out the elves couldn’t get a visa I pissed out fuel over the forecourt.. and the next 5 miles up the road.

Nukus has a bit of a North Korea vibe to me. Streets and streets of identical buildings. Decaying and abandoned parks and attractions. Fuck knows what anyone does here for entertainment.

‘What shall we do this weekend kids? Why don’t we go out and count the leaves on a tree? That would be fun!’

‘Ahh dad, we did that the last 10 weekends in a row’

‘Ahhh.. but this weekend we will pick another tree’

‘Whoop whoop. Let’s go’

Thank your lucky stars that your soul wasn’t selected to inhabit a manifestation here. A couple of days is manageable. Being here for birth, marriage and death is unthinkable.

This place reminds me of North Korea. Streets and streets of identical buildings and identical cars. 99% of the vehicles are white Chevrolets, obviously conducive to cheap LPG conversion.

And the potholes are more common than sexual deviants at the BBC.

Still. I know there is wondrous beauty just beyond the horizon. The yin to this yang.

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I’m here in Astrakhan and I’m looking at the map. My planned point of re-entry to Russia is Saratov about 500 miles north of here. It would be so easy to just keep going north. Loop up to Latvia and home. From here everything is going to just get a bit harder. It’s going to be rough and hot and physical. I’m not as young as I was yesterday and it’s going to take more effort. But my eyes are very selfish and they want to go. They know there are delights that will leave their retinas reeling. They’re busy playing reruns in my head and they won’t stop nagging. The rest of my body isn’t so sure. My stomach would be happy to skip it. My lungs could do without the strain that altitude will put on them. My arse could do without being sat in a hot sweaty pair of pants all day long. So I leave it to my body to decide. Everyone has a vote. It’s the only fair way. And the result… the eyes have it. Of course they do.

I like Russia. I’m not afraid to admit that. It’s obviously struggling but that’s nothing new. The biggest country on the planet. A diverse cultural melting pot. It’s not surprising things kick off. But I like it and most the people are friendly and courteous if you show them the same.

At breakfast this morning I’ve had to send in the bum squad to install a fruit and fibre grenade in my colon. Now I’m going to spend the few days playing Russian Poolette hoping it doesn’t go off at some random roadside hole in the ground in the company of a million flies. Either way it’s going to be an epic event and I may well require stitches.

Out the city to the border. The roads are getting shitter by the mile. It’s always the same. I can feel my forks pumping like an adolescent rabbit’s hips at an orgy. And this is only the start.

I come to a floating bridge. It looks about 900 years old. Made of ribbed and linked metal sections. It’s fair to say there is a lot of play. As you ride, the bridge moves underneath you. If you have the misfortune to be crossing against a heavy vehicle coming the other way then you’ve got issues. The trucks create a wave in front of them and the water comes up through the gaps. As the wave comes towards you it bathes all the shiny metal plates with water. Riding on shiny, ribbed sheet metal is… challenging. Riding on wet shiny ribbed metal doing a wave motion is like riding over 1000, sweaty, hard bodied female athletes. I made it across with only a huge knot in my stomach to show for it.

In the name of science, I gathered together 1000 hard bodied female athletes, which took about 2 minutes round here BTW, and asked them all to strip naked and do 500 star jumps, which was pleasingly hypnotic, before lying in a row on the ground. I tried riding over them but fell off 58,256 times. Whoops. My bad

Russian border to Kazakhstan looks like a film set for The Apocalypse. But the people are friendly and don’t mind me pushing in.

I think I’m through the formalities when the young woman searching the bike says ‘follow me’. She takes me to a small room with a bloke at a desk, who hands me a questionnaire in English. A ‘conflict based’ questionnaire.

‘Do you have any connection with anyone serving in the Ukrainian military?’

No

‘What is your opinion on the Special operation by the Russian Federation?’

Errrrrr..

‘Do you consider the Crimean peninsula to be part of the Russian Federation?’

Awkward..

And various other death trap questions.

I switched my writing style to ‘doctors’ and scribbled some (hopefully unintelligible) platitudes, signed it, dated it, and scarpered. 

Kazakhstan boarder is a breeze by comparison, but no insurance booths anywhere. Commando I go across the plains.

Kazakhstan is vast, and flat, and hot, and windy. There are a few small towns close to the border of the usual style. Prefab houses thrown up along the road.

Then there is at least 150 miles of nothing at all. Kazakhstan. Famously not famous for its skiing.

The roads are being done but there are lots and lots of diversions into the desert. Sand. I hate sand. Confidence is the key apparently. I’m totally confident I’m going to bin The Bitch into a ditch. I often think she enjoys this more than I do.

Eventually humanity reappears and I can rejoin the human race for a moment.

As I approach Atyrau the roads just disintegrate completely. The holes are huge and they’re everywhere. I went down a few that I could only just see over the top of when I was at the bottom. They are premier league bastards and could stop your trip, or worse, in a second. Time to drop the speed from ‘cruise’ to ‘bruise’. The hotel is nice though. The Ritz (sans Carlton) flanked by a coffee shop on one side and a supermarket on the other. Perfect.

Go out for my evening sabbatical and I’m immediately struck by how Asian everyone looks. I’ve seen this before on the silk roads where so many cultures have passed through. This is very strong though. I could almost be in the far east.

With the internet free again of the Russian strangle hold, the populace here is all dead head down, slaves to the machines they can’t leave alone. It’s sad. Who’s to say what Russia is doing is actually benefitting their people? We all thought it was much better living in the 90s. Well Russia is still living more in the past and maybe it’s not a bad thing. It’s obviously not that simple but it’s also true that west isn’t always best.

Perhaps the biggest change I’ve seen across my journey so far in Turkey, Georgia, Russia and out here are the coffee shops. They are absolutely every bloody where. I’d say they are almost a plague. Think Turkish Barbers. So I tried one before I left but as seems to be common everywhere, they take this Bean to Cup thing literally. Literally one bean to one cup. All you get is beige milk. I’m not a fan of beige, unless it’s a 1970s Austin Princess.

I go and use my pocket money to fill up the bike. 21.5 litres. £6.54 It’s more per litre in  than it is per gallon here.

Out on the road it’s lots and lots more of this

Stop for a bit of this.

Take a look off a bridge. Anything this way? Nope?

What about the other way? Nope. Kazakhstan is largely featureless. Like Italy it doesn’t have anything that grows above 2” 6’.

Remember the transparent aluminium from Star Trek? Well here it is. I wondered why Captain James T Kirk was here was graffiti’d on the wall outside.

The road today is mostly pretty good but for a while it gets very very bumpy so I stand up on the pegs to help the suspension. Let my legs take the hits. Get your timing wrong though and your bollocks fly down and bash into your ankles. A few hours of that and my balls look like a couple of bruised apricots in a pair of old carrier bags.

And still more nothing. But I really like nothing. Sometimes there’s nothing better.

Today’s town is a tiny dot on the map called Beyneu. It’s where the fun begins. It’s all sandy streets and chatting nanas. It’s all big skies and edge of the desert air. It’s cheap hotels with furniture from a skip. It’s my kind of town.

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Here we go then. I’m expecting this to take all day and to involve a great deal of what might colloquially be known as ‘being fucked about’.

Get The Bitch out the orchard. From the mess all around on the ground she’s been binging on unripe apples. I hope she doesn’t deposit that over some Russian guard’s shiny shoes.

On my way out of town I stop to spend my last Georgian money on .. you guessed it.. another litre of milk. That’s 4 litres in the last 24 hours. Much of that was sweated out on the ridiculous ‘walk’ up to the church and back last night. It was a very very steep and rocky path for 2.6km. Everyone I saw was head to foot in North Face apparel. They all had backpacks and walking poles and climbing shoes and climbing glasses. I bet they had North Face tattoos too. I had a phone and an old pair of Teva sandals. I looked like bloody Gandhi compared to them. One of them even asked to take a picture of my feet! I do have particularly nice feet though, and I had just done my nails.

By the time I got to the top I was royally fucked and only 90% man and 10% milk instead of the usual 50/50. So that took some replenishment.

Anyway, coming out the shop I heard a giggled ‘hi’ from the car beside me. Before I knew it my helmet had jumped from the bike through the window and into a young woman’s hands for a fondle. And then into the back for more. My helmet is definitely not used to this much female attention first thing in the morning. Maybe it’s like Castle Anthrax. A last horah in the hands of young maidens before I go off to fight the knight in Russian armour.

The border is about 8 miles away, nestled between 2 small rocks. You can just about make out some trucks down there somewhere.

Borders and bikes work perfectly. I ride down past miles of queued cars and trucks counting off the hours of saved time until I just push in at the front and I’m out of Georgia in about 10 minutes flat.

Now the fun begins. There are a few miles of nomansland before the Russian border and it’s complete mayhem. It’s jammed tight. I sit in a tunnel with the trucks and the dogs, trying to breath sparingly, patience turned up to 11. Keeping the engine off. Slowly pushing into the light.

The Russians separate the lanes to the border to stop the drivers pushing in. They have lanes delineated with huge fuck off steel cables. The queue is from here to eternity so I get my book out and just start to read.

3 small Greek bikes appear behind me. They want to try and filter to the front. It’s always easier in situations like this to let the smallest bike go first and slip through, make everyone close their doors, flip in their mirrors, negotiate a little movement to make room. And then I can come through with the supertanker last. The bikes are at melting point by the time we get to the front but the Russians pull all of us into a separate lane to process us together. But she sees my British passport and tells me I have to ‘wait.. just a little while’. They want my phone. Last time they just wanted my phone ID but this time they want me to give them my phone, and my code, and they take it away into a small room for a long time where they can do whatever the fuck they like with it.

When I get my phone back it says it doesn’t want to talk about it. I plug the lightning cable in but it all loose and floppy. My phone has obviously been violated.. poor thing. I asked Siri a question and got a curt ‘Siri has left the chat. You are now taking to Natasha. Do as I say and you won’t get hurt’ in reply. Very comforting. She did ask me to rub her back while she made low purring noises though so maybe it’s not all bad.

Russian customs is always a head fuck. The kind of thing that would drive many people to absolute apoplexy. When they stamp your passport they walk off with your drivers license. You can’t get it back until you go through the customs process at a different window of a different building.

The customs office reminds me of a seagulls nest. Every so often the custom officer lands , opens the window and a million people wave their customs form like hungry chicks wanting to be fed. They choose one person, shut the window and fuck off for a fag for 15 minutes. When eventually they choose you, they scribble all over the form you’ve filled out to correct your mistakes then give you new forms to fill out properly. Then you go through the process again.

Eventually I’m done. Maybe 3 hours which is a record at this border. And I’m out. Breathing Russian air. I know where to get insurance. I go to get insurance. They’ve stopped doing insurance for bikes. Fucky wanky tits bum and arse. Now what. I stop at a couple of other roadside sheds. ‘Moto?’ ‘Niet’. Bollocksy toss wombles. Maybe I’ll have to go commando.

I’m just about to give up when I drive past a hut and hear a high pitch hiss coming from inside. On investigation there is a very attractive young lady that has lips like the Rolling Stones logo, and it appears one has sprung a leak. It’s loosing poutness rapidly and the noise is attracting dogs from all directions so in an attempt to make some money for a repair she has agreed to give me motorbike insurance, providing I spend the next 10 minutes with my finger in the hole. Sounds like a deal to me.

I can’t leave the poor girl with only one lip like a 80s Volvo bumper so I get the puncture kit out and effect a temporary repair.

Get to Vladikavkaz and the GPS goes out. Not surprising given the number of antennas everywhere. I know the hotel is by the river. I’ve been there before. I send my brain’s librarian down to find some reference pictures and we’re there in no time. They don’t change money though. Find a bank. They have a ticketing system for appointments. The next ticket is 4 digits. They only on double at the moment. The attendant has a think, leads me outside, round the corner and down the street, down into the basement of a hotel where there is an exchange. You wouldn’t get that in Southampton.

Back to the hotel. Cash only. No cards work in Russia. This hotel is expensive. It’s a treat. It’s a safe haven while I gird myself for the next few days ahead.

I go out for a long walk about the town. First thing you notice, no chub. No muffin tops. No legs touching from thigh to heel. No trousers round knees. Nobody dressed like they’ve been striped naked, covered in super glue then tied to a bucking bronco and let loose in a charity shop. Every one is clean and tidy. And the women. Quite often a woman will turn towards you and you’ll just go ‘OH JUST FUCK OFF WILL YOU. YOU’RE JUST WAY WAY TO ATTRACTIVE TO BE REAL. JUST TURN AWAY. PLEASE. YOU’RE HURTING MY EYES’. Seriously. They can untie a vasectomy at 1000m. We need to calm this gene pool down a bit. I know dozens of ugly blokes I could ship over here to sow their faulty seeds before this gets completely out of hand.

Someone is doing alright. There is even a Maybach parked just down the street.

And for anyone concerned about how I might feed my habit out here. Have no fear. All is in hand.

Breakfast today is a carefully choreographed event. This is where Robert Palmer got his inspiration for Addicted to Love. He must have sat here and watched the Russian swan waitresses with their sheer white uniforms, tight buns (both), their loose, fluid movements and their bodies that get out of bed 6 hours before their faces do. He must have just sat and watched.. and watched. I think I can see him still sat in the shadows.

I’m getting ready to leave. I need to go out to the chemists and buy some brave tablets, but I’m not brave enough. I saw a disabled young soldier begging last night. He had lost a leg. I wonder if he could feel my guilt as I walked past him. The people here are just people. Ordinary people. The pawns of politics like we all are.

I’m putting on my boots. What’s that under the bed? Right at back? It’s a pen lid with my teeth marks in it. Two down. Two to go. I think they’re going to be a lot more difficult though.

Out on the road it’s business as usual. Russian drivers could generously be described as ‘playful’ but in reality they’re truly adversarial. Put more simply, the fuckers are all out to get you. First near collision is with a bloody policeman who decides at the last minute to go round the roundabout on his phone in the outside lane right across my exit. This part of Russia is deadly dull. Flat, featureless and windy. It’s a dull ride until suddenly I realise where I am.

Grozny. Chechenia. When I was younger remember seeing images from the Chechen war that looked like the ones you see of Gaza today. But now the bullets have all been buried under tonnes of concrete and tarmac. I think it’s an unhappy truce though. It’s all Muslim down here which feels strange. All the blokes look like Castro on steroids too. I certainly wouldn’t cross one. In fact I’ve temporarily had to change a personal law on who can sign my helmet. It now includes girls, kids, and any Chechen, who can do exactly as they please.

I come to a town and I can see down a hill for miles that the traffic is completely static in my direction. I fear for The Bitch in these situations. It’s almost 40 degrees and she’s hotting up already. There is now other way for it, just cross the solid white line (a definite no no in Russia) and ride against the oncoming traffic. For about 2 miles. Get near to the front and I can see the problem. Two trucks have had an altercation and one is wedged across the carriageway.

I decide at that point to use the bike lane, aka ‘the pavement’ and I’m through and gone. I’ve got to say The Bitch did well though. I gave her a round of applause for that.

Eventually get to Machachkala and try to get a room. First place. Lovely looking boutique hotel that apparently takes foreigners.. doesn’t want to take British it seems. One look at the passport and ‘we don’t have any rooms’. That’s the first time in my life the British passport has felt more of a hinderance than a help. Across town to plan B. £30 and I’m in. Plus £70 for the stupidly expensive flower pot I smashed whilst parking my bike on the pavement.

Why am i here in this unknown city in the arse end of south east Russia? I dunno. I just don’t want to rush through and only see 2 lanes of concrete road. I want to grab my brain and swab it about soaking up as much of the planet as I can I guess. The Good, bad and the ugly.

This hotel is almost on the coast of the Caspian Sea so I took a quick walk down for a look. It was 7:30 in the morning and the beach was already full. There were fuck off huge rock men everywhere exercising and sweating rivets. There were 100 year old Chechens doing one finger pull ups and some others swimming whilst tethered to tankers pulling them into port. They’re not natural.

Don’t ever ever ever fuck with a Chechen. Or their pot holes either.

I’ve been starting to have some trouble with my face recognition. It keeps failing and going to the calculator. I’m guessing it’s something to do with the Russian seeds planted in the phone at the border. After one attempt I got a warning.. from Natasha. “I REFUSE TO LOOK AT YIOUR FACE UNTIL YOU GROW A PROPER BEARD YOU FUCKING DIRTY UGLY BRITISH PIG DOG”. So that’s me told then.

Stop for some petrol, and some prayers. A lot of petrol stations have these little mosques attached. Maybe so Allah can easily get a cold coke if he needs one. I wander around for a wee and on the way back I pop in, ask Allah if he wouldn’t mind getting off his phone for a minute and I have another quiet word. Like I said. Cover all the bases

Look at this though. 25 litres for less than £15

The road today is bleak. Here it is

And here it is again 150 miles later. Same same. Hot, windy as all fuck and largely straight as an arrow.

Stop for a fridge raid. These are fast becoming an addiction too. Who doesn’t like a juicy pear.

There is a disabled dog on the forecourt. Poor bugger has had a broken leg and his front paw is all bent back into a stump that he can’t put pressure on. I know a certain little lady that would not leave the premises without giving that dog a treat so I go and buy the biggest fuck off Russian sausage in the fridge, cut it into 3 and give it to the hounds.

I am so over not being able to book hotels in Russia. 35 degrees, body milk low, Ktm with its tits on fire in the traffic. Hotel No1. ‘Full’. Hotel No2. Closed. No3. Taking the piss. No4. Full. No5. ‘Sorry. full’. No6. ‘Are you sure this isn’t a prison?’ By the time I’m on my way to No7 after 2 hours and nearing sunset I’m seriously considering buying a fucking flat here tonight, that would probably be easier. And that’s about what I end up doing as they only have a suite left.. of course they do. Well let me tell you.. it’s not going to smell to suite in the morning.
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Went down to look at the bike this morning and to fill the expansion tank again. And looked at the front calliper. And the front fork. And it looks like one of the front fork seals is leaking. Of course it is. I’m sure The Bitch is spending all her lonely hours waiting alone in scruffy yards just thinking of things to fuck with me. I actually suspect she’s self harming.

I need to find a tool shop. I need 6,7 and 24mm spanners to attend to the current woes. Nobody speaks English, and google thinks a shop selling demolition equipment is what I need. It might be right come to think about it.

So I grab a spanner and wander around at breakfast looking for help. I see a table with some blokes in branded working clothes. I wave my spanner and one bloke immediately whips out a receipt with an address.

Follow the satnav into an edge of town messy maze of places keeping prehistoric vehicles alive. I’m getting close when my 360 google head spots a spanner on a shop front. Among all the chaos, there is beauty.

I love spanners. I love their weight and balance and feel in your hand. So I buy an extra one just because I can.

It’s a long day of hours of nothing punctuated with towns where it feels like the end of the earth. Bodies and vehicles everywhere. The Turkish don’t care, so i don’t care either and go full on pushy bastard. I even sat my bike in front of a car, looked at the driver, tuned the engine off and crossed my arms because he wanted me to turn out of his way.

Getting close to Iran too now.

When I got to Van everything was fine until about a mile out. Then the traffic got so bad I had to abandon for a while. I was getting loads of people hooting me and when I stopped there was petrol pissing out the vent on my extra fuel tank all over the wheel. Of course there was. And the bike was having another meltdown and pissing itself in public. Of course it was. After about 30 minutes a bloke came out the shop I was parked out side. He’d used google translate. It said ‘roadside assistance?’ Oh yea. I’ll just call the AA. Nice of him though. The day was nicely finished by the hotel not being where booking.com said it was. Which was nice.

I’ve been fighting with myself all day today. Thinking about cutting back. Taking a different route home. Avoiding all the places I know I’m going to suffer. Maybe just parking the bitch in a lake and flying back. I know there is trouble ahead.

Thing is, my whole life and career I’ve not been very good at anything much. I’m just very very bad at giving up.

And another worry I’m having is the almost total lack of other travellers. I must have seen about 3 or 4 in the whole of Turkey, and none over this side at all.

Maybe I’m just here at the wrong time of year. Of perhaps I’m here at the wrong year of time.

I’ve been having a bad run of hotels with dysfunctional air conditioning, or in last night’s case, missing. It was roasting in room 101, yes really. There was a window but it stepped straight out onto an internal building aperture with a flat roof. My wife would have closed it. Bolted it. Put bars across it. She would be paranoid about being molested in the night. Me, I set the window wide open. I left a light on. I put out a sign. Nothing…

The Bitch was right where I left her. Leaning against the wall surrounded by people already hawking cheap plastic washing up bowls. I know I berate that bike but I do love it. It’s like a Moroccan donkey. It gets kicked, beaten and bashed but still it goes ever forward.. hopefully. I even feel guilty about it sometimes. Until it suddenly flashes ‘front brake switch failure’ before I’ve even got into 3rd gear..

Get out of Van ASAP. If ever you’re thinking of going. Stop right there. Don’t do it. Stay way way outside on the lake. Van is an absolute hole.

The satnav is going bonkers. Must be getting close to the Iranian border. It keeps loosing its mind. Unable to decide anything.

The mountain tops are dotted with all sorts of nefarious infrastructure. I’m probably right now riding through the equivalent of a microwave. I stop the bike, run up the hill to one of the Iranian outposts, grab a big red phone on a desk and shout WILL YOU LOT PLEASE KEEP THE FUCKING NOISE DOWN. You’re welcome.

I’m on the way to reason No 1 today. I want to see if I can get served coffee in the small town I got refused at couple of years ago. It’s all very quiet and empty. Walk in and it looks like it’s under new management. Womanagement. I’m surprised the wokarati haven’t got their tits in a tangle about that word yet. It’s sure to come. Anyway, these women manage to make me the best cup of coffee I’ve had in Turkey. And cake too. The cake has some ice cream in the middle. Ice cream of unknown provenance in places like this can often be a short cut to the shits but I’ve had so little to eat though I reckon that would just be like squeezing the very very last dregs out of the washing up liquid bottle.

I have a second cup, just to check I’m not dreaming, then I’m on my way. One down, three to go.

I come over the top of a mountain and see another familiar shape on the horizon. Mount Ararat sitting patiently with a nice white hairdo of clouds.

Doğubeyazıt is the town at its base. It may well have been the first place on earth. Right now it looks like the last place.

I’ve been through here a few times now and I’m on first name terms with Noah. He invites me in for a camel milk coffee and then spends the next 2 hours complaining about how since Covid his vets bills have gone right through the roof. I go to the gift shop on the way out to buy my wife something.

What does every wife want? Big rocks? Of course they do. But my wife is different. She wants them as they are now, not as they are after waiting a few million years with a few millions of tonnes pressing down on them. She wants random junk from special places. And who am I to argue.

Another couple of hours watching the massive world go by and I’m in Kars. Last stop in Turkey. Time for another shave.

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Get to the Turkey border and I’m expecting a delay of at least 3 inches of growth in my beard but it’s all straight forward and done in a flash.

The fucking wind is absolutely relentless and I’m not in the mood today. It’s shaking me about constantly to the point it’s hard to actually see. I’ve decided to stop short today and find a scruffy hotel at the roadside. Hot, tight and sweaty sounds great when you’re taking about a set of OnlyFans triplets but not so good when you’re taking about Istanbul traffic and you’re feeling sick astride a montage of melting metal.

Last night I went out looking for a shave at a Turkish barbers. Easy right? Wrong! I had to walk for miles past countless boarded up shops with ‘moved to Middlesbrough’, ‘relocated to Romford’ or ‘Pissed off to Peterborough’ scribbled on the fronts. Queues of hairy men withs beards down to their balls are desperately wandering about seeking help. I walk on and eventually find a bunch of youths with cut throat razors that they’ll put against my neck and I’ll pay them money. As I leave I see a bloke running past full pelt. I assume by the fact that there is an angry man chasing him, followed by his wife and kids, that he’s a pickpocket and he’s been rumbled. They quickly catch up with him, a crowd forms and the robber is given summary justice. He’s given a thorough flip-flopping by the whole family and is left bruised in the gutter smelling of feet and fear.

I went to lie down to read at 7pm and woke up at 7am this morning. Whatever it is I’ve got is pretty evil. It could be COVID. I’ve certainly not lost my taste though. I mean I still have a penchant for petit blondes, fine art and expensive cutlery. It’s just my digestive system seems to have fallen out with my appetite.

Anyway. Looks like rain again.

It’s more of the tarmac treadmill today. I’m heading for the Bosphorus bridge. The roads are all polished and smoother than an alopecia sufferer’s skin after a good waxing. That and the fact that the Turkish drivers seem to have joined the premier league of the world’s most dangerous makes it a no blink ride but I’m always happy to see the bridge. This is where it begins.

Definitely a different audience this side of the bridge

I think this one signed it ‘resting bitch face’

I often find myself in the less salubrious side of town and tonight is no exception. It’s scoring a very high 95% graffiti coverage and I’ve left The Bitch with strict instructions to bite first and ask questions later

I’ve not been to Ankara before. The camera wants to go out for a quick recce of the local area. It’s not constantly diving back into my pocket for fear of being snatched, and none of my spider senses have bothered to alert me so its not as bad as it looks.

And I just know the bathroom is going to sound like someone is trying to start a 30 year old Alfa Romeo in the morning after this

I woke up and heeded the Ktm call to prayer I could hear basting from some Akraprovics somewhere in the distance. I followed my ears to the local orange temple, took out my prayer mat and placed on the floor in front of the service desk and started chanting paragraphs from the user manual, making sure to shake my beads and make the dollar sign.

My prayers were met by a young Turk fluent in 50% English. He missed out every 2nd word. But I got the gist. They don’t have the discs in Ankara but there are apparently some in Istanbul. So either i make a 600 mile round trip or I wait a couple of days for them to roll over all by themselves. So option B it is. The Bitch has a discorectomy operation booked for the 14th at 2pm. I just have to kick my heals until then.

I’m bored already. Ankara is a pretty bland place. Bloody hilly though and laid out over a natural bowl. I took a long hot walk up to the castle. All those blokes in ages past that gave their lives to build a big fuck off castle just so people could open little shops selling cheap crap to people with no taste. What a waste.

Yesterday I was so bored I almost went to a museum. I know. But I pulled back right at the last minute thank God. I walked another hour in the heat to some big monument/museum place just for a gander. On the way I passed some massive military looking building with a big silver badge on the top. There were army everywhere and there was a billboard outside showing off all the multitude of methods Turkey has for killing people. Planes, guns, drones, the Turks are big on killing machines of all sorts. I was going to take a short video of the billboard but I noticed a bloke in plain clothes but with a radio looking at me. Time to move on I think

Got to the big fuck off monument. It was monumental.

Went looking for some Turkish baths but couldn’t find any nearby. On the way back i did pass a couple of dirty nanas outside a small massage shop. I reckon within 10 seconds of getting you on a bench they’d be tugging your todger like someone trying to start a reluctant lawn mower. I don’t want to have a nana accompany me to hospital with my togder in her hand so I give that a miss.

I hang around the hotel as long as I can then make my way very slowly up to the Ktm dealer. I’m 3 hours early. I walk in and I see something on his desk. It’s a disc. Singular. He says Istanbul on had one original. It’s like going for a transplant and seeing they only have one lung in the bucket.

But all is not lost. They did have a pair of competition discs that will fit. But they might not arrive for 3/4 hours. I go and find a coffee house to get out the heat and read. I go back in a couple of hours and the bike has been moved. And it’s wearing new discs! It’s done. The mechanic says one of the discs wasn’t just warped, it was sort of folded. Makes no sense at all. Maybe someone ran into the bike in a car and bent it. Who knows. But he didn’t know how that could have happened at all.

Who cares. I now have front brakes that can make my eyeballs pop out and squash against the visor .. if I really want.

It’s gone 2 and the bed is 280 miles away so I race the sun to the horizon all the way to Silvas. I loose by about 10 minutes. Silvas is hot and jammed. And when I get to the hotel the Ktm embarrasses herself by pissing coolant all over the car park. KTM. Keep Taking Money. It never ends 

I sometimes think I’m not human. Today taught me otherwise.

It’s a very beautiful and very cool start to the day. 20 degrees is a real breath of fresh air. I think I even slept through morning prayers.

Today’s target is the Karanlik Canyon. A 10km off road ride through chipped out tunnels next to the river of a .. yep.. canyon. It’s right in the middle of bum fuck nowhere so I head for the nearest town to sponge up with as much fluid as my body can take.

I thought the road started at the town but it’s a long 40 mile detour round and through a beautiful strip of mountain road. Narrow, tight and often fucking steep. The Bitch is getting hot. When I stop I can hear coolant pissing out and hissing on the hot engine. I’m so over this bloody bike. It’s all I can do not to just give it an oh so gentle push when it’s on its side stand near a 500m shear drop onto rocks. It would probably still run though. Fucking thing. Maybe I’ll donate it to the Russians if I ever get there.

Get to the start of the tunnels and it’s time to get my muscle memory out of its box and plug it in. If you like off-roading in pitch black tunnels and on strips of road etched into the rock just a few feet wide then this is the place for you. When I’m actually in these places I often wish I was back home, sat at my computer with a nice cold drink looking at them on the screen. In reality the thermometer is reading 43 degrees and my soul is getting edgy that my body isn’t coping. It’s difficult to admit sometimes that maybe you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We get out alive and make it to the next village. I run around the supermarket dripping everywhere and necking everything that is below 40 degrees before going through the checkout with a dozen empty cans and bottles. And I’m still thirsty.

I go to get some fuel. Go to get off the bike and nearly just fall to the ground. I’m beginning to wonder if both me and the bike will make it round this trip this time. Might be time for a good think.

The ride to the hotel is another bendy blinder. A roadbuilding masterpiece threaded up, around and over the mountains. Trouble is, going up is making the bike hot again. Get to town and I have to turn it off at every light. And it’s not always happy to restart. Get to the hotel and there is brake fluid all over one of the callipers too.

Beam me up scotty..

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Take The Bitch for a quick liquid breakfast and we’re on our way.

I’ve quite a way to run today. 360 miles of A roads through Germany, Austria and into Hungary. I’m going this way because I’ve not done it before and it should be quite nice, and also because a day’s tolls on the Austrian motorway is equivalent to a trip into space on Blue Origin.

It’s also a low photo day. The ride is over 8 hours so I’ll split it about 2/3/3. No time for messing about.

Now you might think that a day riding a motorbike across miles of smooth bendy tarmac, alongside fat twisty rivers and through valleys filled with fields of sunflowers would be fun. A pure blue sky and bright sunlight shining the way. A big engine filling the air with loud Austrian rock and roll. I can see how you might think that, but it obviously wasn’t all fun and games. I mean I had to stop once at a cafe by a big river and be served coffee and cake by a young lady that has mistakenly picked up her two sizes smaller sister’s T-shirt and shorts. I had to endure the scent of oven fresh strudel mixed with warm body lotion. Now I’m not complaining, I’m quite prepared to just suck these things up and get on with it. But it’s not easy.

By the end of the day The Bitch is bored. She wants to play a game. ‘What do you want to play?’ I ask. ‘Hide and seek’ comes the reply. We’ve played this before in Siberia and I nearly died getting her out of her hiding spot. But anyway, I rode into a field on the edge of some woodland, turn around and count to 20. And she’s gone.

WTF. I hope she’s not run home or gone looking for food. She’s got to be in there somewhere. I smell her before I see her, but she’s done a reasonable job.

Now all I have to do it ride her out.

I get to Veszprem quite late and the hotel/haunted house is unattended. I can’t open the gates so the Ktm has to breathe in and go through the side gate. She got wedged but it’s amazing what 150hp and an angry hot and sweaty rider can achieve when they want to.

Go down town looking for milk and dinner. Get the milk and sit in a restaurant but I have absolutely no appetite for anything but sleep. I’ve not eaten properly since leaving home. My bowel is bunged up like a blunderbuss, rammed with a riot of roadside rubbish it’s not used to. Once I’ve pulled the trigger on that I hope things will get back to normal.

Went for breakfast and someone had at least turned up to serve one coffee and one croissant. I’m not sure if she was a human or an apparition but she managed to sign my helmet at least.

The sky is grey and it’s started to rain. It’s too hot for the biker gimp suit so I just head off and soak it up. The roads are polished and smooth and double dodgy in this drizzle.

I’ve been riding about an hour, going across country again. Satnav said over 8 hours when I left but it’s only 360 miles. It must have got it wrong. I come to a small rough roundabout and I’m on my way off the bike for sure. It’s suddenly all over the place and I think I’ve run over glass or something and both tyres have deflated. The bike just about stays upright but I’m thrown into the path of a big artic truck approaching straight at me. I lurch to the side to get out the way and stop with my heart in my mouth. In these situations the little autopilot in my head jumps out of his chair and immediately takes over the reins. He frantically pushes and pulls at the pedals and levers until he had it under control, then he finally sends a quick email to my consciousness saying I might want to check my underwear. That’s the email I receive as I sit there in the road. Looking around, all the signs are there. There is an old filling station on the roundabout, and there are quite a few decrepit trucks parked out front. They’ve obviously pissed diesel all over the road and the drizzle has produced a Torvill and Dean practice area. They should have put a sign like this up.

Everything can go to shit in the blink of an eye…

Hungry is pretty low rent out in the countryside. Small villages with single story houses and the odd shop selling everything from pills to pyjamas. It’s fucking windy today too. I looked at birds.com and they’re all grounded. Probably explains why there is a pigeon waiting at a zebra crossing. No word of a lie, I stop, and the pigeon looks both ways to check nobody is watching then quickly flies at about 2ft over the crossing before landing and walking up the street. True story.

I get to a Serbian border crossing. Not a busy one. Here is the approach road. Say nav still says 6.5 hours. ‘You can’t cross here, it is not an international crossing’ Bollocks. Another delay in an already long day. Another 25 miles east and a hot queue.

I’ve been through here a few times and it’s often taken a while but this time it’s almost instant. Serbia is gradually being enveloped into the EU fold and I’m guessing this border will soon disappear completely.

I go for some fuel. Nice shiny fuel station. All modern and fancy. But it won’t accept my card. I try a few times and it’s not having it. I try another one. Not having that either. So I pull the €50 joker from my pocket and play that. That works..

But now I wonder if I’ve blocked my card. Or if it doesn’t work in Serbia. I want to use the toll road but I’ve got no local cash. I spend the next hour worrying about unblocking my card from down here, and keeping off the toll roads. Crawling along until I come to a big town with even bigger and shinier fuel stations. Try to buy a coffee.. offer the card.. look at the woman’s face.. hear a beep.. see a smile. Thank fuck for that. Put the satnav back into toll roads and see 4 and a half hours turn to 2 hours 20.

I eventually get to Paraćin just after 6. It’s a random Serbian town where everyone dresses in 2nd hand clothes and nobody seems to walk around with their faces stick to their mobiles. A prober old Eastern European place. And all the better for it.

And it even has milk porn. This is like the top shelf of the newsagents for me

I’ve been having a bit of trouble with the bike the last couple of days. The front brakes are pulsing really badly like the discs are warped. It’s making slow riding very difficult as the forks go up and down. The Ktm must have phoned the mother ship last night because there are a team of Ktm technicians waiting for me this morning, all dressed in company colours, and a fuck off great big crane in case we have to throw the bike in the river.

I bought some brake cleaner yesterday and I take the calipers off, push the pistons out and spray copious amounts of the evil fluid everywhere. It’s vicious stuff and I should really be wearing a hazmat suit but I’m sure holding my breath works just as well. Reassemble the brakes and stand the team down. She’ll have to learn to swim another day. Let’s see how that feels.

It’s an easy ride today. I can’t be arsed with the A roads. This part of the trip is really foreplay anyway. I’m keen to get out of Ursula’s grip ASAP so we set the throttle to cruise and watch the world go by. It wasn’t so long ago Serbia was at war and we had NATO troops round here but now it’s all new tarmac and Armco same as everywhere else.

Crossing into Serbia was a breeze. Getting out is going to be an exercise in patience. This isn’t going to take long…

As usual, I packed loads of patience because I’m going to need it later in the trip. I join the queue, take a small dose of Patience and see how long it lasts. A Greek bloke is wandering about and comes over to me to ask why I’m not pushing in. I tell him I’m British and my queueing gene is very strong. But it only lasts so long and after an hour I start the bike and start shaving paint off the cars with some extreme filtering.

I’m getting towards the booths and there are a mass of small huts selling vignettes. This used to be the preserve of Switzerland. You had to buy a vignette to use their roads, but now everyone is doing it. The EU isn’t quite as united as it wants people to think. The Euro stopped in Germany. Hungary uses Forints and Bulgaria uses Lev. Ummm.

Anyway, I’m think they might not let me back into Bulgaria unless I have a vignette so I head for the mass of stumpy Slavs with tatty tats selling worthless stickers to the captive drivers. In the middle of all these low hairlines and beady eyes is a thing of real beauty. A young woman is leaning against a wall wearing a tight suit that a black cat would be proud to own. She’s almost too beautiful to look at. I have to close one eye for fear of getting an overdose. Surely she should be selling bags of her breath on OnlyFans rather than hawking stickers amongst the rabble. I ask her for a vignette for the bike. She could have charged me anything and I’d have paid it without question but to give her her due she says I don’t need one for the bike. So I buy a big yawn from her for her trouble and then rejoin the queue.

I would post a picture but such is the current situation on social media I’d probably be arrested for incitement to furiously masterbate.

Back in the queue I meet a couple of young Serbians going ‘abroad’ for the first time together on a motorbike. Sounds like it’s just a dirty weekend in Sofia but that’s a good a place to start as any.

After 2 hours I’m through. My patience is wearing thin but now I know how long a single dose lasts. A couple of hours gets me to Plovdiv near the Turkish border. As i arrive the heavens open. I’ve never understood that. If the heavens opened wouldn’t angels fall out rather than rain? Makes no sense to me. I sit on the terrace under a glass roof as a bolt of lightning strikes the conductor rod just above me. Flash to bang in no time at all.

Another evening, another old town. Definitely looking more Eastern here though. I’ll soon be crossing the divide.

Today is just a SitRep. I’m feeling absolutely shit and want to sleep till Christmas

Out towards Turkey and the satnav is saying 110 mins delay. That can only mean one thing and sure enough I soon meet brakes lights coming back towards me. A few miles of hot filtering not helped by my bucking bronco brakes and I reach the front. Someone has decided to park their car upside down in the fast lane and few others that were doubtless following at less than 2mm have helped the inverted car along the carriageway in a friendly game of bumper cars. There is shit absolutely everywhere.

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