Encore une fois

[monkeyboy]

The Russian gets up at dawn and heads north. He’s got some proper mikes to do today.

I give it an hour, go and take some pictures of some old solid rocket booster parts kicking about outside my window, as you do, and follow. Back to riding alone and all the things that come with it.

It’s blowing a proper bastard crosswind and it’s making life very very difficult, quite scary and not a little bit dangerous. It’s impossible to explain to someone that doesn’t ride a bike exactly what riding in these conditions is like. There is so much turbulence behind the trucks in this high wind that your body gets pushed and pulled and thumped and bumped as if you were in a scrum of people having an altercation. Invisible bodies pull at your jacket, push you in the back, knock your head sideways. It’s very difficult to even see to overtake because your head is being pulled about and shaken. When you do overtake you’re riding on a tightrope between the vacuum towards the truck, and the deflected wind going over the top and round the front. When you get to pass you hit a wall of wind that you have to physically lean into, like trying to go through a curtain without using your hands. It’s extremely tiring and absolutely no fun at all. But soon it’s all done on autopilot.

With no other distractions, my mind’s curator starts doing his rounds. Looking in the corners. Trying the locked doors. Looking through the keyholes. Trying to resist temptation. It’s like having a huge, red, self destruction button sat next to the mouse on your computer. You don’t want to touch it. But you will. First with one finger, then two, and before long you’ll have your hand resting lightly on it, gently rubbing your fingertips over it, wondering. Then you’ll get an email, press the button and the mail won’t open, and you’ll be desperately trying to pull the button back out. That is the game my curator likes to play when he’s not got any other distractions.

Luckily, as I’m pulling out a fuel station the Russian appears. He’s been messing about and had fallen behind me. So my mind’s curator has to get back to his desk. I’m sure he will have other chances for his mind games before this trip is over.

I’ve decided to pull up 150 miles short of the Russian’s destination tonight. We say our goodbyes and he heads off. He’s a nice, average, normal bloke. He likes a laugh. He’s helpful and considerate. He’d make a good friend. Even though he’s a Russian.

I’m staying at a truck stop. These are my absolute favourite watering holes. I get really excited walking into the cafes. They’re like school dinners to me. If I want a piece of carrot cake with a poached egg and some gravy then nobody cares. I don’t have to sit in a suit at a table with a starched napkin and pay £200 for a small plate of ‘turtle toes and newt nipples bathed in a warm cloud of fish farts’ thanks very much.

After dinner I step outside to take a few pictures. I turn around and see this. Defenders? What are they doing here. But these aren’t Defenders. They’re Defender-sans. Chinese copies. They simply do not give any fucks at all when it comes to plagiarism

I’m just doing a short hop today for a couple of reasons. I need to do some trip planning, and I need to see a specialist. Rumour has it that the specialist I need to see resided in Aktobe, so to Aktobe I go.

This bloke could do with seeing a specialist, in packing light. The tyres must be running at 200psi on this thing. Fuck knows how the roof rack stays on

Get to Aktobe and there is a Chinese plated Africa Twin there. Looking all shiny and new like it was dropped from a space ship.

Take a quick wander but this place is going to get a 10 on ShitAdvisor. It’s just another blank city. But it does have the required specialist thank God.

I’ve set myself a target to be home. 10 days. About 3500-4000 miles including into and out of Russia. So now I need some new pants.

I wash my T-shirts, socks and pants regularly. I rinse them in the shower most days and occasionally get them laundered but I worry I might be like PigPen and not recognise my own scent. There is a bloke at work that I’m convinced has brown rings in his pants going all the way back to the 1960s. I can tell if he’s working the minute I step out my front door in the morning. And I live 10 miles away. I don’t want to be that bloke.

The other reason is I need a change of configuration. I need some with negligible to no room in the front with room for a huge extension at the rear. The reason for which will soon become clear.

So I buy some military series camouflage ones, just in case I have to ditch the bike and my leathers in Russia and run into the forest without being seen.

The person I’m hunting has to have a peculiar and rare genetic predisposition to do this job. They need to have been born with a tiny, pursed, cat like mouth together with overly large and plump lips in order to get a perfect seal on the client. ‘What is this job to which you are referring?’ I hear you cry. Well I’ll tell you. It’s a ‘bootie inflator’. Of course it is.

I’ve got about 3500-4000 miles to do in 10 days and I think I’m loosing air. I can’t take any risks. I need bootie inflation and I need it now.

Get to the clinic and she’s just like I expected. Tiny, lovey glossy coat, fluffy tail. Perfect. She hands me an inflation chart to choose from. I make a quick calculation. 10 days x inflation loss per day and I choose the Kim Kardashian option. She lets out a little mew. She knows this is going to take a while. Anyway I adopt the brace position and give her access to the valve and there she blows. And blows. And blows until I’m jammed between the floor and the ceiling.

Perfect. Now I’m ready to face the ride home. My only fear is if I get a bumture I’m going to shoot straight into space quicker than that Baikunor rocket I watched the other night.

Ahhhh the ramblings of a mischievous mind. Hopefully normal service will be resumed shortly.

When I came back to the hotel last night I had a note from the Africa Twin rider saying he would like to have a chat. The wise word of a friend of mine immediately came to mind. ‘Never ever engage with a lone travelling motorcyclist. They’ve not spoken to anybody for months and it’ll be like walking into a hotel, turning on your phone and connecting to the wi-if for the first time in 3 weeks’. But I did it anyway.

He’s from Shanghai and speaks better English than I do. Shanghai is famously vehemently anti-motorcycle. See that number plate. The code allows him to travel in all but a very small area of the city. Price tag? $30,000

Anyway, talking to him was a very weird experience indeed. It was like speaking to a Chinese reflection of myself. He’s travelled extensively and all of his thoughts mirrored mine exactly. He said the same of mine. It was so odd that this morning as I’m riding I’m wondering if I just imagined him. Did my brain create a Chinese clone and I was just taking to myself? I mean he was smart, eloquent, engaging and well mannered, patient and he didn’t swear once. That’s me to a tee

Out on the road it’s yet another beautiful sunny morning. I like to think I’m sensitive to the changing light and Kazakhstan mornings and evenings have some of the best. How can light affect my mood so much. Christ knows, but just being in it makes me happy. It looks like most traffic goes north from Aktobe into Russia instead of west. I’m all alone for long periods today. Just me and a purring Ktm thinking of home.

I keep finding myself completely lost in thought. Looking through the window of the door to all the stuff I have to sort out when I get back. It’s been building and building and now there is a massive queue outside like I’ve announced I’m opening a new NHS dentist. But then my brain will put a sign in the window saying ‘back in 10 days’, pull down the blind and dump my consciousness back into the middle of the Kazakhstan wilderness again.

A big part of doing this trip is to keep my memories alive. To do a senility check. To make sure my grey matter remembers what matters. Somewhere in my head there is someone with a big box of jigsaw pieces from previous trips. They keep themselves amused by constantly scanning and analysing the vistas. Everywhere has changed, everything is different but every so often I’ll feel a click as they find a match and slide an old piece into whatever scene I’m looking at. I can usually recall what I was doing and who I was with, not all of whom are still alive. Bringing ghosts back to life just for a moment. All the distractions I need to keep my mind out of mischief.

Uralsk, like everywhere else out here has changed massively, but it’s still just a dull collection of people and concrete. I’m really looking forward to going back into Russia tomorrow. To some cities more than 5 minutes old.

I’m still on a hunt for the perfect shave and I’ve got enough stubble to warrant another go. Find a place but it seems to be run by a mob of yoofs. Oh well. Nothing ventured nothing gained. I’m going in.

Hot towel Foam Sharp blade. The second the razor touches my skin I know I’m in trouble. The blade is as blunt as the end of my knob. I’m in proper pain and I’m considering bailing right now. His razor is randomly moving about all over my face like a dog running in the snow. My body has turned on the emergency sprinklers and he’s having to constantly apply more foam as it’s washed away the floods of tears erupting from my eyes. It’s brutal. And it’s shit.

Still. The moral of this story is never let anyone shave you that isn’t old enough to shave themselves. I just hope the Russians will match my passport picture to my half man half skeleton visage tomorrow.

 

[ATT]

If you are not writing a book, then it is quite simple, I will find you and I will kill you.

Seriously man, you have a talent, I know this because I am so very easily bored and wish I could do what you do...You are a natural, you have to do it....Not just for you, but for the enjoyment that so many people need in their lives....You have an ability, a special skill set, you need to unleash it to bring enjoyment to the masses who can only dream of doing what you have done, you bring pictures alive in so many ways, not just with your skill, but your words.

Do not waste your talent, as it is a gift.

And thank you, from all of me and that is me, for sharing and bringing enjoyment to me and my wife...She loves your pictures, as do I.

You are some kind of special, man, you really are.

 

[GSian]

If you put this into a book I would buy it. Even-though I've read it here (so far).

TBH, most of the work is done, by the time it comes to an end there is the contents of the book. Just put it all together and find a publisher.

 

[The Other PaulG]

If you put this into a book I would buy it. Even-though I've read it here (so far).

TBH, most of the work is done, by the time it comes to an end there is the contents of the book. Just put it all together and find a publisher.

If you have not already done so, look up his previous trip reports. Equally brilliant with a blend of upper-acute observation, wit and sensitivity. More lovely girls, too.

I agree that there are hints of the best of Dan Walsh, Hunter S Thompson and now that he's started talking to his alternate self, Pirsig. Just fabulous and yes, combined with superb photography, I'd be buying the book and gifting it to every mate who needs an injection of life in their lives.

 

[monkeyboy]

I’m out and away early. The Bitch is half asleep too. Coughing and spluttering and generally scaring the shit out of me with her refusal to accept my direct instructions. I try not to dwell on it, but fail. In my head I’m nearly home. In my leathers I’m still in Kazakhstan.

It’s another busy morning out on the plains

Normality I have to ride past miles of static trucks before a border but today there are maybe only half a dozen. Perhaps they’re all at church. It is Sunday morning after all.

Passport control here checks you have a valid visa for Russia before letting you go into nomansland. When I came into Kazakhstan I saw the fuckwit put the Kazakhstan stamps on the page opposite the Russian visa. I knew that would cause trouble as there is now no more room on that page. And sure enough she has to hunt trough my passport 5000 times in an impressive display of OCD to check for other Russian stamps. I have a double entry visa this time and she needs to be sure to be sure to be sure I’ve not been in twice already. And then she has to check again

Get to the Russian border and there is a queue so I do the usual British thing and join the back. But people get out their cars and tell me to go to the front. They even move so I can get through. Very gentlemanly behaviour indeed

I queue up and hand the lady my passport. I see her pick up her phone. Here we go. She gives me a proper evil state and takes the passport from the next person. After 10 minutes a clean and tidy bloke in a different uniform comes out and goes into her booth for a chat before coming up to me. He speaks good English. His first words are ‘Welcome to Russia. We have a problem’. Good start. ‘And you need to wait’. Ok then. At least it’s not a straight ‘Niet’. He supervises a good check of my luggage then he starts asking me questions.

‘Can i have your phone?’ I have it over, unlock it and he spends a few minutes looking at my pictures.

‘Has anyone in Kazakhstan spoken to you in English?’ What?

And I just knew this was coming. ‘What do you think about the political situation?’ Can i phone a friend? I have a real aversion to lying regardless of the consequences. So I tell him his leader is a psychopathic megalomaniac intent on destroying the world… in my head.. because I never lie to myself.. but after a brief pause I just take a very careful walk through the political minefield spread out in front of me and just about manage not to blow myself to pieces. He’s absolutely impossible to read though. Could have gone either way. ‘You have to wait’ and off he goes again. I just sit on the ground, read my book and pretend this isn’t happening. 30 minutes later he’s back, my passport has been processed and I’m free to go. He’s only doing his job.

I’m let loose outside the gate and I’m back on Russian soil. If nothing else it just serves to remind me. If i attract the wrong sort of attention here and fall into the Russian beurocratic digestive system then I’m unlikely to be shat out for a very long time.

I may be in but it’s still 160 miles to any sort of proper civilisation. Saratov is my destination, on the Volga. But it’s still a few hours away. So I stop in a village where there is a scruffy cafe. But it feels off somehow. Everyone is scowling. No handshakes. Nobody asking where you’re from. No engagement at all. It doesn’t feel right. My spider sense is flashing the exit sign so I just up and leave.

As I’m riding out the village I see a riot of colour down to my right. There are lots and lots of huge burial wreaths all over a piece of land, and what to me looks like a very disproportionate amount of brand new headstones. Ummmm.

Cross the massive Volga river and get to a hotel I stayed in 10 years ago. It was an old Soviet style one then and it hasn’t changed. I’m on the 10th floor and I go to put my boots on the balcony. I don’t think I’ll be leaning on the handrail. And there is a fucking great crack along the wall too. Good job this is only the 10th floor. If I was on the 11th I’d be shitting myself standing out here.

Go for the usual afternoon wander but leave my inspiration back in my room. Never mind. These will have to do

It’s time to stop messing about now and put some miles in. I need to split Russia into 3 days so I’ve picked a random point south of Moscow to aim at. I thought it would be about 350. The satnav says 440. Nothing I can do about that, just twist and go. This is where riding alone comes into its own. Only myself to worry about. Only my arse on the line.

Stop for fuel. Go to start The Bitch and she’s playing up again. Not starting for a few tries. She’s been doing it on and off for a while but the other day in the middle of Kazakhstan I thought she wasn’t going to start at all. Same at the Russian border yesterday. You know I swear that recently when the Russians bike wouldn’t start, I went to help and left The Bitch facing one way but when I turned round she had turned herself round to watch. She sees the Russian’s hike getting her G-Spot attended to and she thought ‘hey, I need a bit of that action’

So now she’s fucking with my head. Every start is a mind game. Will she/wont she. As I’m riding through the relentless tree lined tarmac tunnel I remember what this problem is. Christ knows what’s taken me so long. This feels like the exact same problem I had when I rode to Vladivostok in 2018.

The Bitch’s stater doesn’t engage directly with a flywheel like on a car, or some bikes. It’s a series of cogs. A cog on the end of the starter has a torque limiter, basically an interference fit that can only take so much torque. That cog connects to another bigger cog that has a sprag clutch onto the crankshaft. The problem is that the torque limiter seems to wear, and then it just spins without turning over the engine. Now I’m sure some of you didn’t understand a word of that, but in essence it’s like tits on tomatoes. It’s something I could well live without.

So I do the whole day with 2 only stops. And a very near miss. It’s inevitable that doing this many miles you’re going to have a ‘moment’ or two.

I’m riding along about 65 round a long left hand bend. Nothing in front, but a couple of trucks coming towards me. Just as the lead truck is about to reach me, a car that’s been hiding right under the truck”s bumper suddenly lurches out of nowhere to overtake. I’ve got headlights aiming straight at me and no time to think. All I can do is press the bars hard and swerve to the right. The driver grabs the wheel and pulls the car back and we pass each other maybe a meter apart. Imagine putting a draw string on your sphincter, and tying the end of it to a puppy, then throwing the puppy a ball. The moment that puppy runs out of rope is that moment I miss the car. It’s all just part of the game though.

Around dusk I’m riding along and there is a huge open field to my right. I see something coming towards me flying really low, maybe a couple of 100ft. It’s a UAV, quite large, presumably Russian. It does a sudden climb and a sharp turn and it’s gone. Maybe it saw me watching it.

I’ve done the 440 and I’m looking for a bed. There has only been one city and a few conurbations but nothing very significant. Russia really is a vast country. Every 30-40 miles there are truck stops and random scruffy hotels and cafes along the roadside. It’s luck of the draw. And it looks like luck is on my side tonight. Basic. Clean. A cafe. I may have to share my room with a random but who cares. This is what it’s all about. The different places. The ones that fall between the cracks.

Well nobody joined me in my room last night. I leave my boots at the door. Anyone brave enough to go past those is welcome to sleep next to me

Sunshine. Again. This trip has been notable for the weather amongst everything else. Every day bar 2 or 3 has been sunshine. The days are growing noticeably shorter as I head north though.

In my experience, Russia was at the back of the queue for natural beauty. It’s largey flat and dull. I sat on a terrace last night listening to a combine clanking its way through the sunflowers. The fields here are absolutely vast. But while Russia lost out on the landscape, someone knocked over the bottle of feminine beauty and it got flooded. I was in Saratov the other night and found myself on my back on the pavement seeing stars after being hit with just one look from a tall blonde with 2 small kids. It’s rediculous. Loads of countries have good looking people though. America has some very fine looking examples, but, I’m convinced they’re all born with incredibly tiny heads. The doctors have to stick an airline in their ears and inflate them so as they appear normal, even though there is absolutely nothing inside. Ho hum..

I wanted to stop and take a picture of the Moscow Region sign but it was in some roadworks. I was fucking about for ages tryng to get the bike to stand up and not fall over. Then I get off and there is a police car parked behind me. Fantastic. Luckily he just motions through the windscreen at me that I’m not allowed to stop there. I put my hands up. He just pulls out back into the traffic. I walk slowly back to the bike and wait for him to disappear, then I take the picture anyway

I wasn’t planning to ride into Moscow this trip but as I’m riding I get a text. ‘Jason. Would you please stop by for a chat if you can. Thanks. Vlad’. An offer I’d better not refuse.

I don’t have roaming when I’m away. I don’t want to be connected to home when I’m out in the road. I don’t want to know that Lidl is selling wellies for cats, or that Dominoes is doing a special offer where you only pay 100 times the cost of the ingredients instead of 200. I don’t want to hear people trying to be funny or adding lines or emojis and kisses to some inane and vacuous comment someone has made. You can all FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE when I’m out on the road. So anyway, I don’t have Vlad’s home address. I pull into a fuel station and ask a nice lady to help me. She downloads google maps and has a play, gives me what I need with a smile and I’m off.

As anyone that has done it will tell you, riding a bike into and around Moscow is quite an intimidating and navigationally challenging experience. There is also a shit tonne of extremely expensive metal that you absolutely do not want to come into contact with. I must have seen more Maybachs today than I’ve ever seen in my life. But anyway, we found our way to the big man’s gaff.

He greets me and sits me down at the other end of the long table. He seems friendly enough. He wants to see my photos, and he shows me some of his. He has some nice ones of Donald Trump with a hooker squatting over him, pissing on his head. Apparently, in his defence, Trump says she was only dying his hair. Sounds reasonable to me. Good job it wasn’t brown though

As we chat I can’t help noticing that he’s continuously popping what look like blue pills. Shit.. I hope that thing doesn’t reach down this end of the table.. but on close inspection they’re not Viagra at all. They’re blue smarties. Fuck! That’s the problem. He’s been on 100% blue smarties diet for the last 5 years. No wonder he’s causing chaos. I tell him ‘Vlad. You’re being a very naughty boy. Now give me that big pile of smarties and calm down before any people get hurt’. That should sort it. You’re welcome.

On which note. The war, though not immediately obvious, is very much front and centre. e.g. This promotion at a fuel station.

And everywhere you go there are billboards trying to recruit for the army. I was coming cross country this evening after making another navigational fau paux, and I saw flags flying in field. As I got closer it’s the same story. A new graveyard full of fresh wreaths and headstones. Then the same again about an hour later. Seems to be the poorer towns are suffering the most.

Another random low rent hotel where the reception area is so dark I have to do everything by touch. I can hear a voice but can’t see anyone. A clean basic room, with a key not a card, and a transport cafe across the road. This is what I’m going to miss the most. I’m already feeling a bit sad about it TBH.

I go out for a quick walk. It’s a very small town. A beaten up school. Old houses and flats. And there are a lot of people walking about in their fatigues. Discretion being the better part of valour I decide to show some respect and hang low, keep out their way.

Im finding I’m really reluctant to relinquish Russia. I was going to do a short day today and stay near the border, but, as I sit in the dark in reception this morning and plug ‘home’ into google maps it tells me there are still 3000km to go. So I’m really going to have to get on with it.

It’s an easy ride. Lovely and warm, a good road and I’ve got it mostly to myself. I will miss Russia but it’s easy to become complacent about my situation here. Everything is absolutely fine, until it’s not. My travel insurance is invalid here because gov says not to go, so I’m riding commando and trusting to luck. It’s a risk, and not one I’m entirely comfortable with, but no risk no reward.

I need to buy a souvenir, for myself. There is only one small town left before the border so I divert in looking for a taxi. I see a row of them, go to the front, jump off the bike and get my spanners out. He’s got the door open and he’s sprawled across the seats. I point at the spanner and ask where there is a shop. He just picks his nose and points. There is a tool shop directly behind me. Tool heaven

Get near the border and fill up with the last of the cheap fuel. I’ve still got a shed load of Rubles that I can either use as toilet paper, or spend in the garage shop. So I buy 200 air fresheners,some plastic cutlery, 3 cans of random sprays because I like the colours, and 3 sets of windscreen wipers. Front and back obviously. Perfect.

Get to the border at 3. I’ve been through here before and it was quite quick. But that was before. That was before they decided to turn it into the C&*TIEST FUCKING BORDER IN THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD. Seriously, this border is manned solely by C*^T high fliers. The C&@TIEST OF THE C^*TS. The creme de la C&&T. AHHHHHHHHHH

There are only 4 cars outside the gate. As I arrive they let a couple of cars in. After 2 hours they let me and one other in. And the C*^TFEST begins. I have been through a lot of borders in my time and this one takes the C*^TING biscuit. I’ve got to go through customs. There is some fat trollop in the booth and she is NOT interested. The people that were let through before me 2 hours ago are still waiting here. Nothing is happening. At all. For hours. The trollop has had at least two 20 minute fag breaks and her mate goes in for frequent chats too. There are 3 cars here and me. Just 3, and nothing has happened. For hours. Then some other little snivelling C*%T comes to look over the bike. Usually takes 30 seconds. But no. ‘Open’ ‘what? The fuel cap?’ ‘Open!’ And then he points at the seat. ‘Open’. ‘What? I motion that’s going to take ages’ because I’ve got to unload the rack and unbolt it. He smirks, shrugs his shoulders and fucks off. And doesn’t come back. CUIUUUUU*T!!! Another hour goes past. Nothing. A Volvo randomly pulls up with plates, entering Russia. It’s a Russian that lives about 5 miles from me in Southampton. He says people wait 2 or 3 days here. He’s really happy because he only waited 5 hours this time.

As he’s standing there the trollop comes over and starts ranting and pointing to my tyres. The Russian starts interpreting for me. ‘This fat minmong C*^TESS says there’s a problem with these tyres. They’re illegal and must not have been imported to Russia’ I may have to pay a fine, and I must take them out. ‘WHAT EXACTLY THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I’M DOING YOU USLESS MOUND OF QUIVERING FLESH!’. He tells me I need to wait. They will need to write a special ‘protocol’ to let me take them out. FUUUUUCK THIS SHIT. Get me Zelensky on the phone. NOW. I want to make a donation.

So, after another 30 minutes they wheel out yet another from their never ending supply of massive CU*TS to weigh my tyres, photograph them, and write the protocol. As we speak I’ve been waiting another hour already. It’s gone 9pm and I’m STILL FUCKING WAITING. CUUUUUNTTTTTS.

It’s nearly 10 now. I did wonder why “knackered uncomfortable wooden bench at Russian customs” appeared as an option on Booking.com this morning. I read one review. It just said “BUNCH OF C*^TS!”

11pm. The chief C&£T took me outside 30 minutes ago. Used translate to tell me he’s going to write the protocol now. What? What was that document that took you an hour to write and I just signed then? ‘The legislation has changed. It may take some time. An hour or two’. Just dipping your toe into Russian bureaucracy shows exactly how shit things can get, and how quickly. This isn’t going to be over any time soon

12:30am …. Forget Putin. I’m thinking of starting WWIII. Right here. Right now

2am. I’m wishing there was a WORSE WORD THAN CUUUUUUUUUU*T for this fucking giant KNOBBER. He’s still not finished. And now he’s disappeared somewhere. Probably to send his wife a 3 word text that he’s going to CHECK AND RECHECK AND RECHECK AND PRINT OUT AND RECHECK THEN CHECK AGAIN AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I WANT TO CRY

3am. He’s printed it out. It’s 2ft thick. He gives me two pens. ‘Two pens?’ “Da. You’ll see”. Not even a Russian ballpoint is up to signing one of these documents. I’m in purgatory. Almost every page, often 3 or 4 times, the pen nob is overheating. I’m signing “William Wlberwank”, “Trevor Tosshandle”, “Yuri Youreacint”, “Benjamin Buttonpenis”. “Idont Giveafuck”.

3:15. It’s done. I’m through. “Niet my friend. Now we go to bank”.

I’m beaten. I’m submissive. I let him drag me across the room and through to the bank to pay a fine. A nana with one finger and one eye hits the keyboard like an old clock ticking..

3:30. “Can I go now please? I’m done. Finished. Take me round the back. Pick a hole. Any hole. Just let me go. Please.”

“Niet. Photo”. So now they bundle me into the back of a wankered 4x4 with no exhaust and we wake up everyone in a 50 mile radius to drive out the border post and back into Russia. He motions to me to get out. Him and his mate make me walk away from the car up the road. This is it. This is where I die. Or get all my holes filled with baby gravy. But he just makes me hold the tyres and takes a picture. Then he wants me to turn round and photograph me from behind for his person album. I don’t fucking care by now. .

They take me back to the bike. A beaten man. I do some more paperwork checks and finally they point to go. To the Latvian border.

The scores today.

Russia: 12 hours 40 minutes
Latvia: 10 minutes.

A freezing, foggy 40 mile ride and I have to ring the hotel bell and wake the night porter at 4:45am.

I’m still planning to come back next year though.

 

[monkeyboy]

You’ll notice today that there is something missing from my bike. My spare tyres. Despite their protestations that I had to take them out the country, and the fact I paid a fine, the wankers just drove off with them in their clown car and wouldn’t give them back to me! BASTARDS

Anyway, after my 30p per minute, 2 and a half hour sleep I awoke with a massive .. careful… stretch. That always means a sleep coma when I’ve not moved a muscle. Despite my mind being awake though my bum was still asleep. It gave a significant snore when I lent over to get some bread at breakfast.

Total silence.

Bit awkward.

Saddled up, pressed start and away we go. My temper this morning is shorter than an Asian cock after an ice bath and I’ve got to make sure to keep it in check. It’s always like this when I’m tired so I have to make a deliberate effort to be methodical and not just start chucking stuff about.

This part of the trip is always going to be about just turning the handle. That said, if it were pissing down and miserable this would be a chore. But you really can’t be anything but happy when you’re scooting through lovely scenery in the 20 degree sunshine I’ve got 360 miles to do today and the first 200 are A roads. Or A++ roads in Lithuania’s case

I drop into Kaunas City for some lunch. A lovely old town with cafes away from the traffic and noise.

I get an hour back in Poland, get on the toll road and let my tired old brain have an hour or two off before holing up in Łomża for the night. Don’t do it. I did it so you don’t have to. Really. Don’t

Fuck only knows what happened with the pictures today. I threw 90% of them away

Łomża was asleep when I got up. It looked exactly the same as when it was supposedly awake.

I’m on the motorway in a few minutes. I’ve got earplugs in which I don’t usually do and I can just hear the hum of The Bitch beneath me. She’s not a happy girl at the moment. Low speed riding is getting worse, I think (hope!) it’s because she’s having trouble breathing. Her air filter will be blocked with 10000 miles of shit but cleaning it involves a lot of disrobing and disconnecting, all of which involves risks I’m not taking. On the motorway where she can open her stride and run she’s fine.

With the relative quiet and a fat line on the satnav saying the next turn isn’t for 250 miles I can start to reflect, replay and reassess bits of this trip.

When I was eating my breakfast this morning some very good friends of mine said they had been worried in case I was anywhere near the munitions facility that was delivered a 100 UAV shit storm on Wednesday morning. Well..it just so happens..

When I wrote my notes for Wednesday my entire cranial capacity was consumed with white hot rage about my experience at the Russian border, and I’d completely forgotten about that morning.

That morning I had been awoken by the sounds of percussion. Big percussion. I laid in my bed listening to what sounded like huge, but distant explosions. They were going on and on. It sounded like there was some firing going on too. I did cross my mind it could be an attack but I just dismissed it because I was quite a way from Ukraine. That and the fact the town I was in was obviously an army town with people in fatigues everywhere. I thought maybe they were just doing live firing exercises, even though the depth of the percussion sounds was very deep. I went down, sat in the dark and looked for news but couldn’t find anything. BBC is blocked and even VPNs don’t help.

But when I got out on the road there were loads of police cars going past at full speed with their lights on. I went into a fuel station and there were 3 police cars quickly fuelling up and fucking off. Then I saw police cars in the woods off the side, and a couple at some junctions.

So, in another strange twist of fate, I randomly chose to stay the night up the road from where Zelenskyy had aimed his ire. And it must have been the Toropets attack I’d heard. This run of being in a particular place when stuff is happening is really quite eerie. It might have some bearing on why I was fucked about to such a massive degree that evening too.

And then that made me think about a couple of days before when I’d watched what I assumed was a Russian UAV fly across some fields and head off east. Earlier that day, just before I’d seen a new field of graves, I saw a big plume forming to my right, then just after, another bigger one forming to my left. I thought it was strange at the time but you always assess a situation based on your knowledge and experience. I’ve never been in this situation before so I thought it could be burning the fields or something, but as the cloud grew it started to behave very strangely. It stopped climbing and instead the wind started to pull a diaphanous sparkling veil across the skyline. Like one of those half hight net curtains in a cafe being drawn. It seemed to reflect the light as though it had glitter in it. Not something I’d seen before. Given the fact many new graves were close by I assume there was a local military presence, and on reflection I think the UAV I saw was probably Ukrainian and on its way to make some more work for the Russian undertakers

Sometimes my life is just odd. I relate these things not for melodramatic effect. They’re just the facts. It’s scary, but also just experiences of life on the road. I was never in any personal danger or under any threat at all thank God, but it’s something I certainly won’t forget.

Unlike this ride today. It’s dull. It’s tedious. It’s like sittting on a plane for 8 hours watching a boring on-bike movie showing all the parasitic life that forms along these arteries. Appealing to the eyes, stomachs and wallets of the passing masses. All trying to distract drivers to come and make a small donation to their jars.

I’m in one such distraction, sitting drinking a coffee and letting the blood flow return to my arse. I’m looking out the window and there are 4 blokes round my bike. Pointing and talking. They’re there for a while. The Bitch is absolutely filthy. She’s scratched and scared. The windscreen is twisted slightly after heavy contact with some scenery. The panniers are dented. There is oil all over the back from a can that the top vibrated off of. The paintwork in the frame is worn through to the metal where my boots have rubbed. The tank has two wear spots where my knees have been. She looks like it’s been in the wars. But she looks beautiful. She looks absolutely perfect. I know people that wouldn’t trust a Ktm to ride to the supermarket. Those same people wouldn’t be seen dead on a bike like The Bitch. Well, that’s their loss.

The prices of hotels in the cities on my route home are still at ‘taking the piss’ levels. I’m not here to sightsee. I’m just mile munching so I find a cheap and I suspect, 90% unoccupied hotel a few miles off to the side at a truck stop. And truck stops means truck driver dinners. My favourite

After dinner, drugs. There must be a dairy drugs den here somewhere, I can smell it. Wander outside the cafe and there is a 24 hour shop next door. And all it sells is stuff for trucks. Where the hell have they hidden it? I close my eyes, follow the scent. Go through a few doors, it’s getting stronger now. Open my eyes… spoons. Another obsession of mine. Anyone that rides with me knows that the left pocket of my jacket contains many sachets of brown sugar, and a spoon. True story.

But no spoons today. Close my eyes.. open.. truck lights.

Again, The Bitch has a broken tail light, probably due to someone smashing their nose into it sniffing her tail in Uzbekistan, and a truck light would look good. But no. Last try. Here we go, I’m getting close, I fall to my knees, open my eyes. Oh yea. COME TO DADDY

Get up and go to breakfast this morning only to be presented with this. Looks like the hotel doubles as a penis reduction clinic. Still, waste not want not. I’ll stick one down my leathers and see if it bonds

The satnav says 360 miles, 2 turns. That’s going to be interesting. I wish there were easy options to just put the bike on a train in Europe and fast track the hell in and out.

So all I can do is reflect. Again. And rant. Last night I saw something from someone that had completed an ‘Epic’ tour of his local Sainsbury’s car park in Dulwich. I responded, questioning the use of the word ‘Epic’ in this context and he responded as though I’d touched up his granny. Immediately wanting a pissing contest.

Nothing on this planet irks me as much as this modern propensity to use our beautiful language inappropriately. This fuckwangle insisted ‘epic’ means the same as ‘majestic’, despite one being a noun and the other an adjective. “Here is an idea Mr IQ of two. If something is majestic, use the word ‘majestic’, and if it’s epic, then use the word ‘epic’” But no. He still wants to fight.

It’s endemic. Every monosyllabic moron plucks superlatives out of their arse and sticks them all over their mundane mumblings in a desperate attempt to stop them sinking without trace into the social media cesspit.

“Had an EPIC night in with the neighbours discussing the pros and cons of 4 different wooden spoons”

Of course you did Malcolm.

“Hi. I’m Jaqui. I’m an amazing voluptuous Venus with an incredible smile, a nature as bubbly as a glass of fizz and I can knock you up a 5 Michelin star breakfast in the morning”

No Jacqueline. Your figure is a feat of origami using only fatty flesh flaps, you have the brains of a barnacle, the personality of a peanut and the cooking skills of a dog. There. Fixed it for you.

Does my head in. I try to keep out of it. You have to be realistic. I like to think I’m about average at most stuff. Averagely intelligent. Averagely educated. Below average on some things I’d rather not discuss and maybe a little above average at caustic character assassination, but never far from the norm. But most people now seem unable to accept that and are completely incapable of any sort of honest self reflection. I always like to lend them a hand when I meet them

Anyway. These trips aren’t ‘epic’. To me they’re simply adventures. Maybe some of it is about getting older and testing myself too. Not giving in. Keeping the dark thoughts at bay. I can’t emphasise enough how lucky I know I am to do them. But the flip side is they also come with guilt. Guilt at my good fortune. Guilt at my good health. Guilt at my ‘get out jail free’ passport. Guilt over having such an understanding wife and family. And, just occasionally, guilt at being such a selfish old bastard. I worry, too, that all this luck will suddenly come to an end. But I guess that’s just life. Life isn’t fair. That’s a fact.

Anyway, The Bitch is grumpy. She says she wants some selfies of the two of us to send to her mates. I usually insist on staying behind the lens but I want to keep her happy so i make an exception

Unwilling to pay the price for convenience and a shit, cold coffee I take a 5 minute diversion and find cake and coffee heaven.

Tonight it’s Hamm. Full of German character. I took the smile detector out for a walk. Nothing. Nil. Nada. I do believe the EU has recently introduced a smile tax though. One young bloke stopped next to me on a bike in a service station today. Apparently I was wearing my invisibility leathers. I wonder where he thought the sound of “TWAT” being shouted had come from.

I was sitting the Polish truck stop the other night, watching about the floods they’re fighting. I cannot remember the last time I felt rain. Or even smelt it. Must be back in Kyrgystan a few weeks ago. Surely it’s time. But no. Bonkers.

I’m fuelling up and I can hear some loud quacking. I speak a bit of duck as it happens and it sounds like someone is trying to get my attention. He’s up on the roof. He’s asking if I know any unattached mallards. He’s looking for a mate. His name is Drake, he’s a fit 2m, 50kg 20 year old Scorpio with a steady job with good prospects looking to settle down in a little pond and raise some ducklings. He enjoys diving and sucking weeds. That will only make sense to one person I know

Back out on the road I can smell blood. I hope it’s not mine. On my last day in Russia I came across what looked like a Damien Hurst exhibit. A very large animal, maybe a moose or a bear had very very recently signed out after loosing a fight with a fast moving metal object. A long scrawled signature was laid out in blood along the road and I rode straight through it. It always takes a few days for it to permeate the layers of crap but now it’s reached the exhaust and it’s burning off. Either that or my bollocks are on fire.

All the traffic is slowing down in front of me. They’re all slavishly dropping to the Dutch speed limit. All submitting to the increasingly oppressive omnipresent threat of punishment for daring to ignore Big Brother. It struck me last night as I was waiting to cross a road in Hamm. The closest vehicle was in Latvia but people were still waiting obediently for their permission to cross. Everyone is paranoid about some twat in a hat jumping out the bushes and adding their name to some offence register. You feel it as you come into Europe. You can almost feel yourself being put back in a box. The European road network is awash with technology whose sole purpose is to drop turds in your porridge.

And that’s another attraction of these trip. You can almost feel the shackles falling to the ground when you exit the EU. You learn to live with the ever increasing pressure and control. Obviously all the outlying countries are now doing the same nowadays, but you’re not part of their flock and they generally seem to ignore you

I’m doing a soft landing, staying with my brother and his wife in Holland before returning to the motherland. And treating The Bitch to a night in my brother’s 5 star garage. I hope she doesn’t get any silly ideas.

Final day. I thought I’d celebrate by throwing The Bitch on the road and hurting myself . I was riding out of my brothers village in the pitch black and missed a turn. Went to do a U turn and suddenly I’m in the road and my bike is on my twisted foot OWEWWWW that hurt. I’d calculated the turn using the full width of the road and hadn’t seen the big kerbstones delineating the bike lane in the dark. My bad…. ankle. Two blokes immediately jumped out their cars and helped my right the bike and assess the damage. The bars are slightly turned to the left, I assume they’ve moved in the clamps, but it still rides ok so I’m off and running towards Calais. I’ve got 180 miles to do in 3 hours.

It’s Monday morning and the traffic is horrendous. Miles of motorway queues near every major junction. Filtering through with my confidence now low, my handlebars all askew and my left ankle sticking pins in itself every time i love makes the ride more fractious than I’d like but I make it to the tunnel and on to the train.

There is only one other bike on there. A BMW GS so shiny and clean I can’t bearly look it. He’s with his wife and they’ve been for a weekend away in Normandy. I’m not dissing that. This isn’t a cock waving contest. But he’s not taking to someone who looks like a scarecrow, smells like a tramp and rides a bike without a BMW badge on.

Before I know it I’m home. Back where I started. Completing the circle. Trip number whatever in the series of whatever plus who knows. Unpacking is a 5 minute job. All I need to worry about are the presents for my wife.

I remember asking one rider on a trip what he was going to give his wife when he got back.

“A big bag of washing and a hard-on”

Fair enough. I’ve got the bag of washing, but the only big, fat, solid swelling I can currently offer her is the one on my fucking ankle. I’ll guide her hand to it in the dark. See how that goes

Sit down. Breath out. Think. These last few weeks have done their job perfectly. They’ve got all my favourite emotions out the cupboard and exercised them, often mercilessly, until they’re fully sated and can be safely put away for a while without them moaning they want to go out.

As I’m riding along it would be easy to convince myself that I’m doing what absolutely everyone else wants to do. That it’s everybody’s dream. But of course, it’s not. Pretty well everyone doesn’t give a monkeys. They’re not interested. They would almost pay NOT to do it. And by the same token I’d probably rather slowly slit my shlong with a sharp samurai sword than indulge in their distraction of choice. So I just do these things for me.

Travelling overland like this is often tiring, boring, tedious, and at times even torturous. It’s frustrating, annoying, and can seriously test your patience. You’re often hungry, always filthy and you usually can’t remember what clean clothes feel like. You get bitten, you get sore and you get mad. But all of that can pale into insignificance in the blink of an eye with a smile from a stranger, a wave from a child, a nod from an elder, a laugh from a policeman, coming round a corner or over a hill to be twatted straight in the face with a simply stunning, fuck off view that consumes your entire headspace. Highs and Lows. Quicks and slows. Looking back all I see is a shit tonne of fun.

And if nothing else, this trip proves the old maxim is true.

“Life’s a BITCH”

Until the next time.. thanks for watching

 

[HGS]

Outstanding trip report
The level rose quickly and has remained all the way through
A real joy to read.....
My favourite line
'There are probably only 3 or 4 other people I know that would stay here, and 2 or 3 of those live inside my head with me.'

 

[monkeyboy]

I really have to thank you all for these very complimentary comments. I really am not worthy of any sort of comparison with the likes of Hunter et al. I’m just a normal, average bloke with 15 personalities, a travel addiction and a penchant for having my helmet handled in public by attractive women.

If you met me you’d probably forget me within 2 minutes. My customer facing persona can be quite anonymous. It just lets all my other personas sit and watch and wait until they get near a keyboard where they can be let loose to run riot.

Whenever I think of writing a book the ‘don’t be such a massive egotistical twat’ personality takes charge and puts me firmly back in my place There are so many good travel writers on here. We all have our different styles and tastes and mine definitely doesn’t suit everyone for sure.

So thanks again for spending the time to read this report, and for all the lovely comments. They mean a lot to me.

This is sure not to be the last. There is still some life left in this old body, and The Bitch too. I already want to go again. Next time I want to go LARGE

 

[GSian]

If you have not already done so, look up his previous trip reports. Equally brilliant with a blend of upper-acute observation, wit and sensitivity. More lovely girls, too.

I agree that there are hints of the best of Dan Walsh, Hunter S Thompson and now that he's started talking to his alternate self, Pirsig. Just fabulous and yes, combined with superb photography, I'd be buying the book and gifting it to every mate who needs an injection of life in their lives.

For sure I will be doing that, once this one is over.

TBH, I miss the lack of more recent Dan Walsh books/trip journals. this is as good, if not better.

 

[Oldrat]

I really have to thank you all for these very complimentary comments. I really am not worthy of any sort of comparison with the likes of Hunter et al. I’m just a normal, average bloke with 15 personalities, a travel addiction and a penchant for having my helmet handled in public by attractive women.

If you met me you’d probably forget me within 2 minutes. My customer facing persona can be quite anonymous. It just lets all my other personas sit and watch and wait until they get near a keyboard where they can be let loose to run riot.

Whenever I think of writing a book the ‘don’t be such a massive egotistical twat’ personality takes charge and puts me firmly back in my place There are so many good travel writers on here. We all have our different styles and tastes and mine definitely doesn’t suit everyone for sure.

So thanks again for spending the time to read this report, and for all the lovely comments. They mean a lot to me.

This is sure not to be the last. There is still some life left in this old body, and The Bitch too. I already want to go again. Next time I want to go LARGE

I’ve really enjoyed reading your excellent trip reports, you should take up writing professionally.

Looking forward to future instalments and digging out older reports that I‘d not known existed.

Keep up the good work Monkeyboy, along with each and all of your personas.

 

[Davey B]

Whenever I think of writing a book the ‘don’t be such a massive egotistical twat’ personality takes charge and puts me firmly back in my place There are so many good travel writers on here. We all have our different styles and tastes and mine definitely doesn’t suit everyone for sure.

It would suit enough to make it very much worthwhile methinks....you have a very rare, great use of words, great photography...give it a go...pretty please.

 

[Tinytim]

And so it ends , ( for now) .
Really really enjoyed every bit of it thanks.

 

[Zorro]

If you have not already done so, look up his previous trip reports. Equally brilliant with a blend of upper-acute observation, wit and sensitivity. More lovely girls, too.

I agree that there are hints of the best of Dan Walsh, Hunter S Thompson and now that he's started talking to his alternate self, Pirsig. Just fabulous and yes, combined with superb photography, I'd be buying the book and gifting it to every mate who needs an injection of life in their lives.

A book would be a best seller, no doubt. Not just in the ‘travelling / adventure’ class but also in the philosophy or “get a life” class. I have been lucky enough to have joined Monkeyboy on a few of the long rides East. This report reflects perfectly his personality. A very impressive man, and I hope he won’t mind me saying so, eccentric and mad as a hatter! We rode what probably was the most difficult ride ever along a flooded track in torrential rain in Tibet, at night… There was no one better to ride alongside in that tricky situation. If you really want adventure, do join one his rides, you will never forget it! If he’ll have me back, I know I will

 

[monkeyboy]

A book would be a best seller, no doubt. Not just in the ‘travelling / adventure’ class but also in the philosophy or “get a life” class. I have been lucky enough to have joined Monkeyboy on a few of the long rides East. This report reflects perfectly his personality. A very impressive man, and I hope he won’t mind me saying so, eccentric and mad as a hatter! We rode what probably was the most difficult ride ever along a flooded track in torrential rain in Tibet, at night… There was no one better to ride alongside in that tricky situation. If you really want adventure, do join one his rides, you will never forget it! If he’ll have me back, I know I will

Mate. One of my personalities is crying Coming from you that’s praise indeed. Big thanks. I really appreciate that.

Speak soon

 

[monkeyboy]

A book would be a best seller, no doubt. Not just in the ‘travelling / adventure’ class but also in the philosophy or “get a life” class. I have been lucky enough to have joined Monkeyboy on a few of the long rides East. This report reflects perfectly his personality. A very impressive man, and I hope he won’t mind me saying so, eccentric and mad as a hatter! We rode what probably was the most difficult ride ever along a flooded track in torrential rain in Tibet, at night… There was no one better to ride alongside in that tricky situation. If you really want adventure, do join one his rides, you will never forget it! If he’ll have me back, I know I will

And I distinctly remember that night in Tibet. It’s branded on the inside of my skull like graffiti. It was all going great until i went into the word’s biggest puddle and hit a Chinese submarine. Wandering around at 3am waking random hotel receptionists until we found our beds. Yep. It’s not for everyone, but it is for the likes of you and me

 

[RedRick Esq.]

I have been waiting until the end to say

That was fantastic and thank you for the write up

 

[Redboots]

Enjoyed that. Thank you!

 

[theoneandonly]

well that made me late for work this morning.

 

[Flintlock]

What a read!
So enjoyable, combined with your photos - pure joy.
Thank you for sharing.

 

[cjw]

Outstanding report, thoroughly enjoyable, thank you very much