Bad weather requires study and an evaluation of the terrain for traction. Bare ground reacts differently to moisture. Sand gets firmer, dirt gets softer and red clay becomes slippery. Red clay when dry is hard as concrete; today, it’s slick like ice, and even knobby tires have no effect. There is a persistent fear of tires sliding out from underneath my overloaded motorcycle, resulting in a jolt that might dislodge those plastic stents precariously placed directly behind my belly button. To remain upright, our pace is constrained to a first gear crawl.
We started at 10:00 a.m., and even now, at 10:00 p.m., there’s enough remaining daylight to ride more as we roll up to the only hotel within a hundred miles. Not a hotel by Western standards, but rather a three-story decaying cement-block building that was formerly military dorms. The first two floors are uninhabitable, only the third has space to accommodate us in a cramped four-bed cubicle. The bathroom at the end of the hall is a mangled mass of cracked porcelain and rusted pipe. None of the power outlets work, but there is a flickering fluorescent-tube light in the hallway. Moments later, four policemen come to inspect our documents and recommend that we chain the bikes up inside their gates. Even that, they warn, is no guarantee against theft during the night.
Once bedded down, it is difficult to rest as my irritating stents compel stumbling down the sticky linoleum corridor for hourly relief. But even in between bathroom calls, there is too much sinister history to ignore. After all, this is the land of infamous gulags and mass starvation. Aware of the ghostly evil, I wonder who built this rotting structure? Was it the millions sentenced to slave-labor camps? Maybe those who died of disease and starvation? Tormented lost souls are moaning for remembrance, forcing me to review my history lessons.
First it was the tsars, then the Communists. In ships and in boxcars — hollow-eyed humans frozen in horror were condemned into a wasteland of waiting death. Soviet Gulags. Initially constructed for exiled criminals, then political prisoners and finally whomever Stalin felt like sending — he picked up where Hitler left off. Ghastly images of bones and chains rattle and howl inside my head, and, no matter how I turn, blood dripping from rafters haunts my dreams. After a night of clenched fists and grinding teeth, I awake more exhausted than when I’d gone to bed. Little Samurai is ready to ride at sunup.
A roadside cafe in Siberia
Food
July 29, 2004
Somewhere in Siberia
As warned, the further west we travel, the rougher the road. Strips of asphalt deteriorate between miles of rutted gravel grabbing our tires. The temperature has dropped into the comfortable 50s, and we’re dressed for a storm that doesn’t appear. When traveling without an itinerary, it’s best to not expect much, that way you’re seldom disappointed. It’s as fun to sleep in a tent as in a hotel, and as long as there are eggs in the morning the rest of the day’s hassles don’t matter. In the empty expanses of heavily forested Siberia, when we can find someone to ask for directions it still takes hours to locate run-down roadside cafés with limited menus. Eggs come only one way boiled, cut in half and smothered under globs of mayonnaise. At least they are eggs. Russians also make thin, sweet crepes called bliny, and I order enough of them to make the waitress gag. “Four?”
“Yes, four.” I insist by holding up four fingers.
I meant four pancakes — she thought four orders of four. Too embarrassed to acknowledge the error, Yasutomo and I gobbled them down as though that’s what we wanted in the first place. The bill — breakfast for two is less than five bucks.
At the local post office/telephone company, we found the only Internet terminal in the region. This is the last stop before jumping off into what is arguably the roughest part of the journey. As we could be out of touch for a while, we send final emails home. Jodie is growing impatient with what she considers a lack of communication on my part, and efforts to console her with weekly love letters are clearly insufficient. It appears as though she expected me to call her nightly. On the one hand, I don’t want her to worry about some of the difficulties on the road, but, then again, if she knew how hard it was to find Internet in these remote areas, she might understand.
Trans-Siberian 1000
July 30, 2004
BFE, Russia
My temporary travel buddy has been holding his own, but today he stands gasping at the challenge ahead. The Trans-Siberian Highway is everything it was reputed to be. Boldly beautiful, wet, muddy, littered with obstacles and dotted with unpredictable locals who respond to us in unusual ways. One minute Russian villagers are cold, ignoring our repeated requests for directions; the next they are friendly to a fault and reeking of alcohol. Where the vodka flows like water, most are wildly intoxicated by noon. We ponder a maze of side streets and dead-end back alleys in the morning — far too difficult without street signs or a guide. After signing autographs at the hotel, a young man in a business suit asks in a British accent if there is anything he can do for us. “Yes, please show us how to get out of here.” We agree he’ll pick us up at the Internet post in 30 minutes for an escort to the main road.
Exactly a half-hour later he appears with his private driver carrying a hardbound Russian road atlas. “A present for you my friends.” Then he leads us back to the dirt-surfaced Trans-Siberian-Highway, and we’re off, kicking up pea gravel with spinning tires. We’ve only had to stop for document checks three times a day, including when caught on radar for speeding. Each time we end up humoring the cops and posing for pictures.
The road is actually a raised gravel levy dividing thousands of square miles of swampland meadows. Long dark clouds of mosquitoes hover overhead, waiting for victims. At hourly pee-stops, huge horseflies instantly coat our riding suits. We only expose as much as we dare.
The vastness of the Russian Far East lowers the lid of a graying overcast sky, stretching the empty horizon almost wider than we can see without turning our heads. Flat, without a rise in any direction, the only interruption is thick, towering stands of white birch trees clumped together in between marshes. Tall silver poles with crowns of furry green flicker in the morning sunlight. Four-fifths of Russians live on one-quarter of the land on the opposite side of the country, west of the Urals. Most of Siberia is a powerful, peaceful land devoid of humans, except for those we encounter wandering drunk or huddled by fires along the road selling fruit and mushrooms. Living in dilapidated villages with ancient wooden cottages crumbling under their own weight, Siberians are sometimes rude beyond belief. Although there is only one main road, in small towns it feeds into an illogical crisscross of muddy alleys devoid of signs. When we stop to ask directions, the drunks scream and wave their arms, other times they just mumble in unintelligible one-sided dialogues.
By early afternoon, the highway has turned pure motocross. Deep gullies sever the road every 20 feet, but the earth is damp and firm. Unlike on the Bolivian altiplano, this time I am set up properly, with correct suspension and proper training. For three months before departure, I’d practiced with a heavier bike, working hard on mountain trails and long, drifting sand dunes. After Jimmy Lewis’s off-road riding school, I had a better idea of how to handle what lay ahead. And here it is.
After standing on the pegs for miles of gullies and bumps, my legs burn with fatigue. Yet it’s hard to stop grinning. Bring it on! Rising to the challenge, my dual-sport workhorse comes alive, never skipping a beat. Although weighted down with 200 pounds of extra equipment and fuel, it performs well enough to leave Little Samurai in the dust. After increasing the compression dampening, the suspension sweet spot appears to tame the terrain — as long as it remains dry.
Weather patterns have been established. Freezing afternoon storms blow in at 4:00 p.m., but to get our 12 hours in, we must ride until 10:00. Preparing for this early, I zippered into my rain suit before starting out in the morning. No matter what they claim though, no riding apparel is perfectly watertight. Strong winds eventually push tiny streams
of icy water through the neck and cuffs. The Savanna II crash suit holds the misery at bay for hours until, finally, even the electric vest can’t stave off numbing chills. But if you continue to ride wet, hyperthermia is a risk. We need relief.
Our maps indicate only emptiness ahead for another 65 miles, three more hours at this pace. Little Samurai’s riding suit is not waterproof, and his case of the shivers arrived long before mine. I’m unsure how long he can last. Finding immediate shelter is critical. It’s solid swamp on either side of the road so it’s impossible to pull off and set up camp. The tree branches would be too wet to burn anyway. Afternoon fun turns survival test as we are forced to ride even slower by the mud. The remote Trans-Siberian Highway often follows a parallel path to the Trans-Siberian Railroad, the longest tracks in the world. Vladivostok to Moscow is just under 4,000 miles through mostly remote wilderness — a transcontinental challenge by any standard.
Occasionally we pass directly next to it, and, for a moment, catch glimpses of comfortable passengers in lighted railcars. I imagine them sipping wine and nibbling French cheeses in their steamy, warm carriages. Yasutomo must hate me at the moment. Before we left together, he’d asked about taking the train to Chita instead of riding. My bellowing reply was, “Are we motorcyclists or what?”
I wonder now — as we ride into the night, blue with uncontrolled shivering — if he regrets his decision. Humming loudly inside my helmet is Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again,” and I tell myself once more that it’s good to be here.
Chilling in Siberia
July 31, 2004
The Road to Chita
Our guidebooks say that in this region, wintertime temperatures drop to 40 below zero but in summers we can expect anything from light snow up to a balmy 60 degrees. It was so cold this morning that we’ve opted to remain in our sleeping bags until a hazy morning sun warms the air. There was no shelter available last night, and after the “Let’s just ride another 50 miles” routine, we wound up wet-camping in the woods. We soon discover a massive public works project.
Taking advantage of extended daylight at higher latitude, Russian road construction crews work double shifts to finish surfacing their infamous highway. In such a hostile wintertime environment, it’s an engineering feat already, but they still have a long way to go. Although most of the steel-girder bridges are half-built, it will be five more years before motorists can roll from Vladivostok to Moscow on uninterrupted asphalt. For the last two hours, the mangled road has miraculously smoothed to four lanes of graded loose gravel trafficked by rolling heavy equipment shaking the ground beneath us.
Intimidating, futuristic 16-wheel dump trucks with hubs higher than my head pound forward in mile-long convoys kicking up long, choking clouds of cement dust. The way it spreads in solid gray swirls expanding into the sky, it’s like a detonating atomic bomb. Gritty dust clouds are so thick we can neither breathe nor see 50 feet beyond our windshields. I imagine that the lead monster-wagon is piloted by a cloaked Darth Vader sadistically enjoying his mischief. And there is no stopping and resting to let them get ahead; there are more convoys following behind.
Gravel roads, although firmer than mud, cause mild wheel-wobbling, making the bike sway as though riding on flat tires. Cognizant of variances in surface conditions, especially when the front wheel twists off in unintended directions, we lack proper control and have to resist the urge to fight the handlebars. Like flying an aircraft, good motorcycling requires delicate steering. To stay relaxed, it’s best to control the handlebars by pinching the handgrips with your outside two fingers and use the other two for brakes and clutch. Caution is critical. If we slow abruptly the weight shifts forward, loading the front end and digging the front tire into the gravel instead of rolling over it. This plowing effect can send the bike sideways into a horizontal slide.
Our best hope is to speed ahead of the pack during lumpy detours around uncompleted bridges where the speeding trucks need to slow down. Standing on the foot pegs, we bound over knee-high bumps like riding bucking stallions. Every inch is a spine-banging struggle with menacing grin. We’re winning.
Minutes later, we head the merciless procession but don’t dare stop and rest or the madness begins again. At 11:00 p.m., the sun is setting and we find a trail leading into a clearing through tall, pungent pines. Recalling warnings, we camp out of sight to avoid unwanted midnight visitors. Zipped in tight, not even the grumbling roar of the Trans-Siberian Railroad cars or the hoarse blast of the train whistle can disturb me now. The moment I’m tucked into my bag, exhausted from the day’s struggle, I tumble into comatose sleep.
An hour past sunup, the tents should be dried from the evening’s condensation, but an early morning freezing fog rolls in to delay the process. I holler to Little Samurai, “We can go now or wait for the sun to dry out our gear.” He thinks it’s best to wait also. Neither of us wants to admit we lack the strength. There is still half a liter of water and a dozen protein bars — I can hold out for a while, curled up in this mummy bag, so I am going back to sleep.
From Russia with Love
August 1, 2004
Final Stretch to Chita
The weather turns colder each morning, requiring layers of full foul-weather gear — sweaters, thermal underwear, electric vest and rain suit. Even then it’s hard to get warm. Last week, temperatures were in the 60s; now it’s the high 30s but the rain has subsided. Yasutomo was ill-prepared for this and is constantly shivering.
Back on the road, we battle for lead position against teams of Russian professional drivers racing to deliver imported Japanese cars from Vladivostok to Moscow. We only get ahead when the road returns to motocross and they slow to creep over massive bumps and gullies. It’s a friendly race we can’t win whether we’re ahead or not. When we grab the lead, to maintain it we ride a reckless pace with no time for photos. If the string of daunting daredevils takes over, we eat their dust. It’s either ride like madmen or suck dirt.
My jarred kidneys piped with plastic stents feel like they’ve been used as punching bags, and I must stop every hour to pee. To mea-sure the internal bleeding, I monitor urine color. It varies from pink Chablis to Burgundy when the terrain gets extra rough. When it hits a 50/50 mix, we’ll stop to rest. Until then, we push on to Chita for promised hot showers and Internet. Encrusted in white cement dust, our voices crack from parched throats and nasal passages caked with dried powder. But the equipment is more important.
Abrasive granite dust has invaded every opening. Switches, wiring harnesses, levers and even the sealed aluminum panniers produce little puffs of powder when flicked. The air filtration system is so clogged the bikes will not idle. There is also a gritty sound when I twist the dials on the digital camera, but the video gear was triple-sealed and has survived. Between the extreme beating and intensive dusting, our motorcycles have aged 20,000 miles.
At 9:00 p.m., we arrive at the last village before Chita, a mere hundred miles away — three hours if we push it. Since we’re no longer in a hurry, riding fatigued on a road this bad is foolish. We receive mixed responses from locals when we ask about hotels. “Gde gastinitza?” (Where’s a hotel?) Finding a place to sleep seems to be an unsolvable riddle until a red-faced old man behind a crooked wooden fence eyes us suspiciously through a missing slat. But soon he breaks into jolly shouting, swinging open two large wooden gates and motioning us in. We’re not sure what he wants, but he’s so close I can smell the fresh vodka on his breath. Everyone shouts here so we were not alarmed, but I try to determine what he’s saying. Yasutomo points to his wooden cabin, “Gastinitza?” (Hotel?)
“Nyet gastinitza!” But he continues to flail, waving us in.
What the heck, we’re out of choices, so we roll into a small pine-planked courtyard as he shut the gates behind us, still smiling and shouting. He points to himself declaring, “Pavio!” With finger gestures he indicates his age is 72 and then points to us. Next, the farmer�
��s wife rushes forward cradling a baby in her arms, and she, too, is laughing and shouting. Pavio, still waving, cups his armpits with massive hands, roaring, “Banya, banya!” (Bath, bath!) None of the cottages we’ve seen so far has running water or indoor plumbing, so we have visions of being handed buckets of ice water and told to clean up.
In the meantime, the hugging has started as we’re led to a smaller cabin inside the courtyard. Like everywhere here, I must stoop to enter. By local standards, it’s a studio apartment, complete with ancient wood-burning stove, broken black-and-white TV and lopsided kitchen table. There are two tiny beds with an overhead lightbulb — if there is an electrical outlet to charge batteries we’ll take it.
Within minutes, Pavio’s wife, Luba, is setting the table with mismatched plastic plates and cups then brings out an electric frying pan full of wallet-sized river fish. Pavio continues his tirade in Russian as though we’re engaged in deep conversation. We smile back repeating, “Spahcebo, spahcebo.” (Thank you, thank you.) He responds with long-ago memorized English, “Goot mornig, von, tvo tree.” Luba keeps loading the table — crackers, bread and a giant jar of ice-cold milk. Real milk, with a layer of thick cream floating on the top.
While we eat, from the small, smudged kitchen window, we can see Pavio carrying armloads of wood and tubs of water to another smaller shack behind ours. “Banya, sauna!” he shouts as he grabs Yasutomo by the hand and drags him into the shed. Ten minutes later Samurai emerges grinning. “Very hot, very good. You try.”
One More Day Everywhere Page 5