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: