Team Ballistic - Romania '05

Our waiter is a great salesman and entices us into a “traditional” starter, which can’t have been too bad, as I’d no time to get a picture before it was 90% demolished.

Suddenly one of the Bandicat’s spies blew his cover, all for a scritch on the head and a bit of spicy sausage.

So easily bought, these spy-cats.

But the add-ons for the main course of steak and chips were a bit “tangy”….

Notice, the by now mandatory Murfatlar wine. We finished off the Pinot Noir and started on the Merlot. All superb.
Fed and watered we stumbled down the lane and to bed.

Day 8, Saturday:

We’ve booked another night at Pension Warthe and today are going to have a ride of The Trans-Fagarash Road: Built by despotic ruler Ceaucescu in an attempt to prove his superiority over nature, the road some 120km in length soars to 2034 metres at Lake Balea. Whilst you may swelter at km 1 it may be sub-zero at the lake. Thank you Lonely Planet.
Breakfast was superb: Cheese, sausage, peppers, salad, bread and a ham omelette!
We headed west-ish: Rasnov, Zarnesti, Recea, Victoria and back onto the main Highway 1. We turned south to Cartisoara and onto the road. Initially pleasant and meandering, by the time 30km are clocked you will have reached the falls:

Some 5km earlier I’d had to stop and put my fleece on under my Gore-tex jacket.

At the lake I stopped to capture the serpent-like curls of the north side of the pass:

My hands froze in the moments needed to take the picture.

And we were swift to move on through the tunnel to the south side of the pass.

This was at least as beautiful as the north side but with gentler roads. On the south slope we stopped at a café where the waiter spoke no English or German and the menu was in Romanian.
We took a chance and Brian & Paul got tripe soup and mine seemed to be vegetable with bits of beef that aren’t of any other use. Nice though, back in the warm sunshine.

Curiously, I noted that all the dams had armed guards on them.

The rest of the route paled into insignificance save an unusually persistent Kamikaze taxi diver whom I decided to wind up and colossal and unsigned road subsidence, which I may have shown already.
I wanted to find Dracula’s Castle today, but there seemed to be 1 every 10 yards, though I never did find it and so continued “home” to Pension Warthe.
We again dined at Steijings and super-waiter inflicted a jug of “traditional” Romanian mineral/fire water, served innocently in a glass jug with 3 brandy bowls.
Again, we dined like kings and Murfatlar shares may have gone up in value.
My notes say “Put 0.5L of oil into Skinny and 4L of Stella into me” – sounds like a good night?

Day 9 – No idea.

What day is it? Dunno, but Ro.FM is reassuringly in touch with the 80’s and drags me from my slumber.
We eat our salad and ham omelette brekky and pay our 2 squillion bill and move on.
Today we are cheap: We head, on main roads and smooth tarmac towards Sibiu.

Although we may have been travelling too fast?

Although overtaking was always possible.

From Sibiu we continue along the main road, but elements of our party spot a corner to cut….and I wish to state right now that I do not bare any grudges about this part of the tour, as it will prove to be a demon burying exercise for a paranoid like me and I didn’t know any better.
We cut off the main drag short of Sebes but not without annoying a brace of traffic cops: No crossing the centre-line on A roads will reach the UK eventually.
The road is initially sealed but turns to dirt:

But this is an adventure and we are “in the scenery”. Smell the drying sheep fleeces, dude!

The road got a bit more bumpy, but on entering the village, tarmac appeared.
It was Sunday and church was kicking out. I’m not religious but the church was beautiful:

I was conscious that I was in danger of treading on toes, so I stopped, took in the detail of the church/temple….and took a picture.
I was, as I pulled away, engulfed by youngsters offering me bread, in the form of loaves that they were all carrying. I guessed that it was some sort of fast ‘til after Sunday Mass deal. The welcome was without reserve and almost brought a tear to the cheek.
After the village the tarmac just dissolved. I (We all) ended up trail-riding a 1200cc motorcycle on terrain not dissimilar to my failed Welsh 2 Day Trial entry:

Fortunately, the main road was not far away.

D’oh!
We (I) reasoned that it couldn’t be this bad for much longer.
I was to be proved wrong ……..and how.

The bright, overhead sun disguises the craters that make up what I chose to call “The Road of Bones”. When we came across places where logging traffic had been, just add 2 feet of mud.
If you haven’t been there you cannot imagine the unending battering that a public road can administer. I felt something deck at least 4 times. Thankfully on my return home, I cannot find the evidence…. Unlike Brian.

In a brief respite from motocross hell, we rode over the sturdy concrete surface of a dam…. And Skinny’s arse slewed crazily sideways. Oh lordy! It would appear that I had a puncture:

Bugger me! We are as near to the middle of nowhere as I have ever been. I take a swig of water and fetch the BMW tyre repair kit from ‘neath Skinny’s saddle.
I read the instructions to death before removing a large plaster-board screw and performing a sacred ritual involving glue, rubber doobries and pointy, hooky things.
Using the CO2 cartridges I re-inflate the tyre: Hard as a whore’s heart says Paul fondling the tyre. Whoopee! I have survived. I am Grizzly Adams on a feckin’ motorcycle.
We set off.
5 miles later the bike slews sickeningly sideways again, exiting a corner. Only 6.5 psi remained in the tortured tyre. I have visions of being stranded, if not here, in some remote village waiting for BMW Emergency Assist to parachute a tyre in.
It is decided that Brian should ride ahead to look for a means of repair and that Paul will follow me as I crawl along on my almost flat tyre. I know this won’t work. The tyre will demount from the rim and be wrecked. My supposedly fragile alloy wheels will be buggered and we will be having pine – needles for supper.
We ride on and I wait for the wheel-spin that will announce the tyre’s departure from the rim. It doesn’t come: We continue on the terrible road and I pray the rocks won’t dent the wheel rim.
In all we ride 30Km of dirt track before the tarmac. The return of tarmac and a sign saying “20Km to Petrosani” have surely never been more appreciated. Adrenalin coursed through my jaded cadaver and I dared pass a car on a downhill stretch. Paul says I hit 50 mph, the tyre was smoking and left a big black line round the corner – Wish I’d seen it!
In Petrosani Paul finds a tyre fitter – The Romanian equivalent of Kwik-Fit, open, at half past five on a Sunday, in the back of beyond. Local yoofs in a VW Golf insist on escorting us there with hazard lights flashing.
Tyre yoof re-does my repair, but the tyre still won’t hold air and he finds another puncture and fixes that with the same licorice shoe-lace stuff he did the first with.
During this time, it transpires, Brian arrived in town, found a pump and some sealant and set-off back up the road. Somehow we’ve missed him.
With fuel warning lights on we somehow fail to notice a Shell petrol station in Petrosani and continue on our intended route, hoping to meet Brian on his way back any minute. At Hateg we stop to refuel at a large LUK petrol station. We text Brian (who would be back up “The Road to Hell” and hence without a signal) and take advantage of the station’s facilities.
We continue north, mobiles in tank-bag map pockets, so we’ll see any incoming texts or calls, through Calan and onto the main road toward Deva. The sun is low, the drivers utterly suicidal and Paul dives into the carpark of the Motel Alaska. It’s just a roadside Motel but I’m bolloxed and I see they appear to sell food and beer and have beds too. We take a triple room, hoping Brian gets our messages.
We wash and change. I have never looked forward to a beer so much. I, with help from my friends, have bloody-well survived. All the worries and “what-ifs?” are pointless. You can sort most things with a few good mates and if you can’t, why waste energy worrying?
After about the 3rd beer, sat outside I see Brian speed past in the fading light. He couldn’t have seen us if we’d set a flare off.
Later Brian texts to say he’s 30 miles the other side of Deva and will see us on the road in the morning – Phew!
The beer flows and default steak & chips is consumed.
238 miles.

Day something….10..possibly Monday?

If you’re in the right mood even a Motel can look nice: