Encore une fois
- Thread starter monkeyboy
- Start date
I only really seem to do these long distance ones nowadays. I used to commute every day but changed job and now only ride very infrequently here at home. That's why all this frustration builds up inside me to the point I'm going to explode if I don't let it off somewhere. My head needs space. The Bitch needs to go out for a proper run too, not to sit in queues crawling through the concrete jungle that now surrounds me. This was a new helmet needed to be bedded in with the warm caresses of as many feminine hands as I could persuade to fondle it. I always have the pens with me though, just in casethis could be a @MikeO pic
'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.......'
would he write something like that
enjoy the rest (if its not already happened)
please explain the helmet (fnarr) only on looong distance trips or all the time
Cracking!! 
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.
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 calipers too.
Beam me up scotty..
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.
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 calipers too.
Beam me up scotty..
Shortly after joining this site, one of the first threads I read was an epic adventure by monkeyboy and thinking to myself, kin ell I'm a bit out of my depth if they're all like this on here.
Glad you're back and setting off again. Great photos and reading as always. Looking forward to more.
Glad you're back and setting off again. Great photos and reading as always. Looking forward to more.
I remember that one on my beautiful old 1150 GSA. I loved that bike.Shortly after joining this site, one of the first threads I read was an epic adventure by monkeyboy and thinking to myself, kin ell I'm a bit out of my depth if they're all like this on here.
View attachment 353906
Glad you're back and setting off again. Great photos and reading as always. Looking forward to more.
My beautiful and, usually nonchalant wife was less than happy with the route I was taking for this one. As were my kids. And my friends. And pretty well every one I spoke too except one fellow lady traveller thats been all over the place and never let anything stop her. So I went with her 'Fuck it, you only live once' advice instead
This was a new helmet needed to be bedded in with the warm caresses of as many feminine hands as I could persuade to fondle it.
My beautiful and, usually nonchalant wife was less than happy with the route I was taking for this one. As were my kids. And my friends. And pretty well every one I spoke too except one fellow lady traveller thats been all over the place and never let anything stop her. So I went with her 'Fuck it, you only live once' advice instead
I bet you got a bollocking when you got home.
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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. Must be close to the border.
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.
I’m taking the scenic route out of Turkey. Climbing the mountain fence that separates it from Georgia.
Starts out cold. The roads are packed. Can’t move for caravans and blokes in Lycra shorts. Jesus this is going to take forever.
Everywhere you look it’s just chaos. Grid locked, the weather is shit and the landscape is batshit boring too.
The only thing keeping me awake is the gravel all over the roads everywhere. I associate the word gravel with words like crash, and other words that rhyme with it … like rash.. and cash.
Last time I was here the border control was like a Gazan Hamas hideout that had been visited by the Israeli army but now it’s all shiny, new and fast. Georgia is quick too because the bike is already in their system.
Go to get insurance and it’s a hole in the wall operation. Like a drugs exchange. I imagine…
There is a young lady behind a piece of glass. She asks to see your documents, and then she asks for your credit card. You just put in the drawer and she pulls it closed and smiles. Christ knows what I’m paying for, or how much it is. I’m not sure by I think I see a pair of bright red Jimmy Choo stiletto’s on the screen. Well she does have a nice smile. I’ll be willing to make that donation in the spirit of entente cordial.
My Satnav is throwing an epic shit fit and has completely lost its mind. I think it’s trying to take me to The Riddlers hideout. That would be interesting.
Tonight it’s Tblisi. A nice city but my mind is on other things. I have to keep moving. I must not stop.
And Georgia knows how to treat the good stuff too. Thank fuck for that!
I’ve not got far to do today so I’m in no hurry to leave. Tonight’s abode is cash only so I take a quick tour of the underground graffiti gallery
Not an invitation I’ve seen advertised before but yes.. let’s go. I was born ready. My brother remembers a competition we had as kids when I did 15 farts in a row before I started suffering bowel dangle.
I had the hotel ship in a female receptionist overnight so as my helmet could get its usual goodbye tickle
Out into the mayhem we go. I take what they call the ‘old military road’ north through the greater Caucasus mountains. It’s a peach. Or a strawberry. Or whatever you fancy. But it’s definitely not a lemon. It’s starts at a lake.
There is a cafe at the lake with a Russian woman that looks suicidal. She motions me up to the terrace and then collapses down in a chair beside me. She looks so sad. I ask her what’s wrong. Her voice says ‘nothing’ but her face says ‘everything’.
Me.. I can think of worse places to be on a sunny, hot Monday.
I’ve decided to try and eat something. So I order ‘something’. When it arrives I feel my eyes contact my stomach and they get a small nod of approval. Hopefully they’re friends again. It’s about bloody time. I’ve eaten so little over the last couple of weeks I’ve achieved near weightlessness.
I go to leave and The Bitch is bitching that I just leave her in the car park and go see the sights. She never gets to see all the nice things. So I take her to the viewing platform and let her look for herself
The ride is …
And when I get to the cheap little hotel and open my door, the view is..
I want to visit the church Gergeti Trinity Church. I tried and failed last time. Now, all religion is bollocks. Thats the limit to which I’m willing to debate the subject. Anyone who believes there is a being greater than themselves to whom they must be subjugated, and in return can delegate all responsibility for all their actions is bound to a life of subservience. But. I make a pilgrimage on foot all the way up to the church and have a quiet word. It never hurts to make a cheeky side bet.
On the way back I saw some Russian bikers that had just come through customs. They’re off down to Turkey then I think their welcome runs out. They said riding through Russia should be ok. Just be careful and don’t do anything stupid. That’s exactly what I’m famous for.
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. Must be close to the border.
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.
I’m taking the scenic route out of Turkey. Climbing the mountain fence that separates it from Georgia.
Starts out cold. The roads are packed. Can’t move for caravans and blokes in Lycra shorts. Jesus this is going to take forever.
Everywhere you look it’s just chaos. Grid locked, the weather is shit and the landscape is batshit boring too.
The only thing keeping me awake is the gravel all over the roads everywhere. I associate the word gravel with words like crash, and other words that rhyme with it … like rash.. and cash.
Last time I was here the border control was like a Gazan Hamas hideout that had been visited by the Israeli army but now it’s all shiny, new and fast. Georgia is quick too because the bike is already in their system.
Go to get insurance and it’s a hole in the wall operation. Like a drugs exchange. I imagine…
There is a young lady behind a piece of glass. She asks to see your documents, and then she asks for your credit card. You just put in the drawer and she pulls it closed and smiles. Christ knows what I’m paying for, or how much it is. I’m not sure by I think I see a pair of bright red Jimmy Choo stiletto’s on the screen. Well she does have a nice smile. I’ll be willing to make that donation in the spirit of entente cordial.
My Satnav is throwing an epic shit fit and has completely lost its mind. I think it’s trying to take me to The Riddlers hideout. That would be interesting.
Tonight it’s Tblisi. A nice city but my mind is on other things. I have to keep moving. I must not stop.
And Georgia knows how to treat the good stuff too. Thank fuck for that!
I’ve not got far to do today so I’m in no hurry to leave. Tonight’s abode is cash only so I take a quick tour of the underground graffiti gallery
Not an invitation I’ve seen advertised before but yes.. let’s go. I was born ready. My brother remembers a competition we had as kids when I did 15 farts in a row before I started suffering bowel dangle.
I had the hotel ship in a female receptionist overnight so as my helmet could get its usual goodbye tickle
Out into the mayhem we go. I take what they call the ‘old military road’ north through the greater Caucasus mountains. It’s a peach. Or a strawberry. Or whatever you fancy. But it’s definitely not a lemon. It’s starts at a lake.
There is a cafe at the lake with a Russian woman that looks suicidal. She motions me up to the terrace and then collapses down in a chair beside me. She looks so sad. I ask her what’s wrong. Her voice says ‘nothing’ but her face says ‘everything’.
Me.. I can think of worse places to be on a sunny, hot Monday.
I’ve decided to try and eat something. So I order ‘something’. When it arrives I feel my eyes contact my stomach and they get a small nod of approval. Hopefully they’re friends again. It’s about bloody time. I’ve eaten so little over the last couple of weeks I’ve achieved near weightlessness.
I go to leave and The Bitch is bitching that I just leave her in the car park and go see the sights. She never gets to see all the nice things. So I take her to the viewing platform and let her look for herself
The ride is …
And when I get to the cheap little hotel and open my door, the view is..
I want to visit the church Gergeti Trinity Church. I tried and failed last time. Now, all religion is bollocks. Thats the limit to which I’m willing to debate the subject. Anyone who believes there is a being greater than themselves to whom they must be subjugated, and in return can delegate all responsibility for all their actions is bound to a life of subservience. But. I make a pilgrimage on foot all the way up to the church and have a quiet word. It never hurts to make a cheeky side bet.
On the way back I saw some Russian bikers that had just come through customs. They’re off down to Turkey then I think their welcome runs out. They said riding through Russia should be ok. Just be careful and don’t do anything stupid. That’s exactly what I’m famous for.
This is as good as I've read and that's saying something.
Rivetting
Rivetting
Excallent as always 
Thank you
Best line so far . . .
"Maybe I’m just here at the wrong time of year. Or perhaps I’m here at the wrong year of time"
Keep it coming squire, keep it coming . . .
"Matron, more popcorn please"
Thank you Best line so far . . .
"Maybe I’m just here at the wrong time of year. Or perhaps I’m here at the wrong year of time"
Keep it coming squire, keep it coming . . .
"Matron, more popcorn please"
Your mix of photos are great colour and random b and w works a treat fantastic rr
No idea what you do for a career...it should be something to do with writing travel books/blogs and photography. You have a superb ability to write and a rare eye for brilliant, interesting photos. Seriously good (reminiscent of Dan Walsh from 20 yrs ago in BIKE)
Write a book ...please
You're very kind Davey
I used to love reading Dan Walsh in Bike and to be compared in any way to him is really is an honour. I was a software engineer for many years, then took redundancy and did photography for a while but now I'm a stevedore in Southampton docks. That lets me bugger off for extended periods if I want. And I do want 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 rediculous ‘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
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.
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 rediculous ‘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
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.
That bridge looks familiar... 
That bridge looks familiar...
That’s the puppy
I went across another later on in Kazakhstan where half had actually sunk and there was a big drop from one part to another
>>That’s the puppy Fun isn’t it
From memory, fuck no!
It was a long time ago when god was a boy.
Fun isn’t itFrom memory, fuck no!
It was a long time ago when god was a boy.
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