Left Konstantin at 8. Had a plan to ride about 420 miles. I want to be at a particular point in 10 days. Then there is a big decision to make.
I spoke to Konstantin last night about the next bit of the route. He tells me I could ‘probably’ use the fast toll road. There are no toll booths and it’s all done electronically and because my number plate isn’t Russian I’d ‘probably’ be ok. I’m not sure where ‘probably’ falls in my risk assessment. I let fate, or rather the satnav decide. And before I know it I’m on the M12 toll road.. probably.
I don’t like this. This is the Russian fast lane. This is where all the elites and the moneyed people are. It’s way out my comfort zone. I’m getting fuel and a Maybach pulls in along side. I go in for a coffee in the service station and it’s very odd. Everyone is wearing modern clothes, designer glasses, expensive watches.
There are screens and automated food and it’s like I’ve walked into another country. I don’t like it. I feel completely out of place so I stand outside and admire the scenery. There are a load of expensive bikes in a row. All fat Harley Davidsons. And Hell there is an angel. Tall and slim, she has obviously been very carefully denuded before being slowly lowered to the very top of her hips into warm liquorice and then laboriously polished to a liquid shine. I don’t generally like liquorice but I think I can feel a craving coming on. I wonder if it’s salty
My head is in turmoil. I’m having a mental tug of war. And I’m shit scared if I’m honest. I’m really questioning my choices. Most of inner voices seem to have ganged up together and are, unusually, speaking with one voice. They’re not comfortable with this. They say they’ve humoured me before but they want me to know they think this is foolhardy. And there are the distances. 550 miles today and almost no gain on the map. Russia is a truly vast place. As usual I delegate the decision to my inner procrastinator. I should have a decision… eventually. Until then it’s just me and the little man in my head controlling the bike. It’s pointing east.
This trip isn’t about lovely beautiful scenery and feasts for the eyes. The photos will be just functional and for reference. This trip is about the grind. Fighting fears and fucking consequences. I can see this being my last big trip. That’s what I have to tell myself, and The Bitch too. Come on girl.. just one more time. Take care of me please.
So it’s 34 degrees, there is hardly a drone in the sky so let’s just do this.
It’s a very dull ride, only punctuated when I go across a huge bridge over the Volga and the satnav going out again. I see a storm shadow off to the side, scratching its head and consulting a paper map.
Get to Kazan as the clouds burst with a massive wet BOOM. Nothing does depressing like Russia in the rain. I’ve not got a reservation. “Full”. I start to cry. “You want one room?” “No I thought I’d book a group of 10 so i can spend an hour in each you dozy tart”. “OF COURSE I ONLY WANT ONE” “Ok. 44000 rubles”. Another kick in the wallet. I’ll sleep on the roadside tomorrow I promise myself as I look out at the rain hurling down outside.
It was always a fools errand…
Kazan was hot and sunny and once again the satnav and Google decided to both shut there eyes and sing ‘na na na I can’t hear you’. There is a helicopter manufacturing plant here so loads of Russians are running about with big nets catching the GPS signals and keeping them for themselves. Which is nice.
I didn’t have any dinner last night so I should be raving hungry but Russian breakfasts are mostly absolutely fucking disgusting. Worse than Chinese and that’s saying something. So a couple of sticky buns and I’m away, riding into the sun until the men with the nets have run out of energy and a few signals get through and help me on my way.
I’m trying for another 450 miles today. The first 100 is soon gone. Stop to look at the GPS and I’m about 3k in. Before I left I spent a few hours laying a trail of cheap hotel breadcrumbs for me to follow and I can see them beginning to appear on the screen. I pick one but the satnav can’t find a route there. I think I’m just going to have to get comfortable with knowing I’m heading in the right direction much of the time on this trip.
It looks like Russia is gradually building a motorway that’s going to all the way across the country. The Trans Siberia will no doubt eventually be overcome by the march of new tarmac but that’s a while off yet. For now, the motorway starts to stutter into roadworks and then into single carriageway with yet more. It’s a fucking mess and it’s hell on wheels. And more to the point, it’s very very slow. I’ve been on the bike 10 hours today constantly and not done 400 miles. I’ve not had time for a meal either.
Then I got to Ufa… I’m riding through the city and it’s the usual metal mayhem. I’m surrounded by melting cars and riding into the sun when i feel the bike disappear from under me then hear two big metallic clangs. I’ve obviously ridden through an epic pothole and the poor bike has dinged her rims. The front tyre is still up but I’m only riding slowly. A few minutes later I’m following a truck and there’s suddenly a big plume of blue smoke as he locks the tyres and swerves to the right. It’s too late by the time the hole appears in front of me and again the bike takes a big kicking.
I follow the trucks, crawling along at 35-40. If I fall back to see ahead to overtake then at least two cars behind me will overtake me on the inside because they can’t have more than 2ft between them and the car in front. I spend an hour working my way up the queue only to be pulled over by the fuzz and then watch the trucks all go past me again.
I get to some toll booths. Stop the engine. Go to start the engine. Sounds a bit odd, looks a bit odd too. The engine has started but none of the instruments are on. Fuckerdy duck, wank wibble and tits. That’s not good. And that’s a decision made.
I was aiming to meet up with another Russia at ‘almost madness’ but personal circumstances meant I couldn’t leave UK until later than I wanted to but Konstantin was right. This is impossible in the time I have. I simply cannot do the mileage I need to do in the time I need to do it. Add to the fact that once the bike starts acting up, that’s a big comfort blanket that’s pulled out from underneath me. This was a fools errand. I thought I could be Mr Big potatoes, but instead of King Edward’s, it turns out I have tiny Lidl salad spuds.
Satnav has been saying it’s an hour till my destination for the last hour. It’s just not happening.
I pull up red safety switch and press the “Fuck This” button. I’ve had it. This is not going to work. I’m over 3000 miles from home and all the signs are telling me to make that number smaller, not bigger.
I’ve never done this before but I’m calling it a day and turning back towards home tomorrow. Something just doesn’t feel right. I’m old enough and experienced enough to know this won’t work out how I want it to if I carry on east. I had an inkling before I left but I had to at least try.
….Plan B
Book a non commital hotel 300 miles north. Not really east or west. Head or heart. The first 20 miles takes an hour
So I turn left and head across country. It’s clear. It’s a bit rough but it’s green and hilly and I’m not constantly staring at the chuff of a truck. My feelings are shifting all the time. My moods are swinging like a male stripper’s tummy banana during a naked 100m hurdles race. I’m all over the place. I see a random cafe in the middle of nowhere.
Walk in. Breathe. Ask for a coffee and go for a piss. That’s all it takes. Defeat is a very bitter pill to swallow, and it won’t stay down. I bend over, retch and throw it up into the gravel. It’s done.
All it took was the scent of a long drop toilet. A cup of 100 octane with 20 spoons of sugar. A random tattooed fat bird and her husband smiling, shaking hands, chatting in an empty cafe in the hills. This is the tonic to my ills.
Last night it all got on top of me. I wanted an out. An excuse. A get out of jail free card. I was fucked off with it. The relentless mundane motorway miles. The never changing scenery. I guess the whole journey so far has been a head down, arse up race against time. Seeing Plan A dissolve into impossibility was too much. My little brain was blinkered and obsessed.
I woke up to a text from my wife. “Don’t you dare come home and spend the whole fucking winter lying on the couch bloody moaning about what you should have done. Just fucking do it. Otherwise you’re moving into the garage”. I understand that her language of love might be difficult for an outsider to understand but she’s just telling me she wants me to be happy.. I think.
My Australian mate is a little more helpful. “Why don’t you go to Mongolia, it’s just up the road”. Yep, a couple of thousand miles up the road that is. Maybe 7/8 days ride east.
But standing there in the cool sunshine surrounded by .. nothing.. it makes perfect sense. Mongolia was on the itinerary anyway so let’s go. As I ride my head looks at a mental map and works out a rough route and it’s done.
Then shit and happens see my mood has lifted and decide they want to play. This road looks smooth but is deceptively rough. It’s like riding down the back of a Shar Pei dog and it’s shaking the bike to bits. First, the satnav goes off. Then my bloody mirror shakes itself free of its epoxy shell. It’s flopping about like a dog’s tongue hanging out a car window. Bugger bollocks tits and ARSE this is getting on my NERVES. GIVE ME A FUCKING BREAK YOU LITTLE WANKERS!!
The mirror is going to take some more effort. I see Brute force and Ignorance get out the panniers and start legging it down the road to look for help. Christ he can run. 20 minutes later I see him standing outside a big tool shop outside a small town. He’s climbed up outside and is waving to me.
Walk inside and it’s tool heaven. Big tools. Small tools. Bearings for cars to space shuttles. Spanners for trucks to tricycles. Tools tools and more tops. Strictly not for girls They have exactly what i need, all for £3
An out out I stop for fuel and coffee on the main road. A young bloke and his wife approach me, ask me where I’m from and he launches into perfect English. There really are a lot of smart Russians out here. Christ I’ve been to towns in America where they can’t understand English He’s very interesting. Gives me his honest opinion on the current situation. And about Georgia too. About the toxisity of social media and propaganda. A smart bloke indeed.
Head into Perm to the hotel, which is luckily located 3.5 miles from where it’s GPS coordinates say it is. I absolutely love it when that happens last thing at the end of the day. Honestly I do. I swear I do. Well.. I swear.. and that’s the truth. Until I’m very very sore.
Apply fix number 2 to the mirror. Looks lovely. The Bitch has promised to not look.
Perm is just another big city. Same same but different.
Looks like there is some connection to a bear here. There is a big bronze one outside the hotel. I can’t help trying to feel a connection with my recently deceased little pug, “Bear”. I hope he’s watching. I hope he’s with me. I run the nose for luck.. I think I’ll be here until 3 in the morning
