One More Day Everywhere

by Heggstad, Glen

  Later, back in the storm, I realize it would have been wiser to quit at the one-hour mark when the shakes first started. Now there is nothing but freezing rain and fierce winds pounding the empty Siberian plain. By nightfall, when a small village appears, the early stages of hypothermia have already hit and my thinking grows mushy. Two federal marshals driving in off the roadway find me spinning my tires through muddy streets. They know something’s wrong and pull alongside, displaying hand-signs asking me to follow. Six blocks later, we arrive at a gray cement hotel without lights. Before I can step off the bike, they grab me by the arms. Shivers had turned to uncontrolled shakes, and I’m unable to walk on my own. Inside the aging hotel lobby, an overweight matronly desk clerk is bundled in sweaters and overcoats. So much for heat. I need to get warm immediately, so the marshals lead me next door to a warm, smoky café crowded with uniformed men playing cards. I’m uncertain if they are Tartars or Buryats, but they are friendly, bringing cups of steaming tea and huge metal bowls of vegetable soup. While I sit shivering, one of them pries off my helmet and motions me to remove my soggy riding suit. Siberians know the dangers of hypo-thermia, and they bring a heavy wool blanket and towel. After gulping down hot liquids, the shakes subside enough for me to strip off the rest of my clothes.

  One of the cops knows some English. Pointing to a table of middle-aged, chubby Asian women, he says, “Those girls want you for a bath.” Too miserable to care what this could entail, I think only of warmth. Hot water is nirvana. The women motion to their table, offering a bowl of Russian ravioli and shots of vodka. Alcohol is off the list, but the ravioli are hot and filling. One woman explains in broken English that they are nurses and their husbands are doctors at the regional hospital. They mention a sauna: Russian banya. I nod with relief, but no one heads for the door. Soon all the women depart but one, leaving me to wonder if they’ve changed their minds. Two hours later they return, telling me to follow their car.

  Entering the confined, aromatic kitchen of a fire-warmed wooden cottage, I see women from the café busy loading the table with fruit, vegetables and smoked fish. They’ve spent these last few hours preparing a feast and Russian sauna. Someone has built a fire under a huge iron kettle inside a wool-insulated cedar room for what will become the ultimate Siberian treat. A towel accompanies the welcome command, “Banya.”

  It’s routine now — snap some digital photos, load the laptop and seduce the crowd. The tired old and anxious young are the most amazed looking at their images on the screen. After a short slideshow, they insist that I sleep in their bed while they use the kitchen mattress. When speaking with strangers, it’s always best to avoid local politics, but several times they reiterate that they are not Russians but Buryats, descendants of Genghis Khan. They continue to live in this autonomous region to retain their identity, insisting even their passports state Buryat, not Russian.

  In the morning, another freezing storm pummels the landscape, bending stately birch trees like blades of grass in a breeze. The Bur-yats beg me to stay another day, but my visa is non-extendable and there could be trouble if I don’t exit Russia on time. To slow the cold, I bundle up in thermal underwear, two wool sweaters, electric vest, waterproof liner, fleece scarf, cold-weather gloves and riding suit. Within an hour, I’ll be scanning again for refuge, in need of dry clothes.

  Breakdown?

  August 30, 2004

  Tulun, Russia

  Two straight days on a mud road appearing like it had been assaulted with cluster bombs had scrambled my thoughts. Potholes were a half-foot deep and spaced so close it caused a first-gear creep for hours. In the middle of nowhere, with the next town a hundred miles away in any direction, even the amateur racecar drivers are forced to crawl for fear of damaging their ears. It was a perfect moment for trouble.

  It’s always best to prepare for the worst, to develop contingency plans for things like flat tires or breakdowns in remote locations during unpredictable storms. But where there is no immediate shelter, the best option is often to pitch a tent, wrap up in a sleeping bag and try to stay warm until the weather breaks.

  High-capacity fuel tanks provide extra-long-range riding when needed and can be left half-full when it’s appropriate. That morning, I had deliberately filled mine only halfway, to help me maneuver through the slippery conditions ahead. Five gallons less means 40 pounds lighter, a significant plus when trying to wrangle a 600-pound bike through mud. Even when the low-fuel light blinks on, it still means that there’s 120 miles left — provided the electronics are functioning.

  I always stash a set of spare keys on the bike where they are easy to access in emergencies. They are wrapped in soft duct tape and tucked up underneath the rubber boot on top of the gas tank, under the seat. But constant pounding and jarring from washboard roads disturbs everything, no matter how tightly packed. Pills turn to powder and even the foam padding in the rear top-box gets beaten into gum, sticking on the instruments it’s intended to protect. Most items change shape after only a few days off-road. Even knowing this, I never imagined a set of hidden keys could cause such a problem.

  About the time I started looking for a place to stop and get warm, without warning the motor quit. Not with a sputter — an abrupt cutoff. After a brief inspection, it becomes apparent that repeated attempts to restart will only lead to a dead battery. Bikes with carburetors are easy to repair. If necessary, even a lawn mower could be cannibalized for enough parts to get home. New BMWs come with electronic fuel injection, a superior method of metering fuel and supposedly bulletproof, but it’s also difficult to repair without tools. It’s a nagging fear, wondering what to do if this system malfunctioned here or in Africa.

  My brain overloads analyzing the problem. Is it a broken wire buried somewhere in the yards of electrical tubes? A burned-out circuit board? A malfunctioning computer? Chips gone haywire? How could I repair defective electronics out here? And what about that slowly expiring Russian visa? How will I ever get dry with the sun going down? The worst of my fears has arrived. But with my recently developed faith in people, I know that when I need a friend most, one appears. Short of emergency medical care, in the event of disaster, it’s safer traveling through developing nations than it is in California.

  The Trans-Siberian Highway is really just a lightly traveled, often barely passable, road. The forest here is far too dense to see into, yet it also provides a decent shelter from the storm. Rain still drips down, but the winds can’t attack. I only have to step a few feet into the trees for relief and to wait for someone to flag down. What can they do for me anyway, take me to a town? Leaving my bike out here is not an option. I would rather freeze.

  Hearing it before seeing it, a lumbering big rig bounces into view, rocking side to side over the mangled road. The truck stops before I have a chance to wave. I don’t need to understand Russian to know that the driver is asking what the hell I’m doing out here in this storm. The locals are always surprised to see me riding across Siberia, but doing it alone baffles them.

  The lower end of his tractor-trailer is 4 feet above the ground, but I pat my bike and point to the rear door. He considers the suggestion, and after a short conversation with his partner, they jump down from the cab, slipping on work gloves. All that’s left is for the three of us to raise up 600 awkward pounds of motorcycle over our heads and shove it into their trailer.

  I’m halfway through unloading my gear to ease the weight when a car stops and two muscle-bound racecar drivers step out to investigate. They recognize the situation, and before we can ask for help, they don their overcoats and head our way. With nothing to secure the bike, we wedge it against the wall between two massive spare tires and hope for the best.

  The big rig is actually a new deluxe-cab Volvo with plush interior, so the driver orders me to peel off my muddy clothes before climbing in. These two men live on the road, hauling dairy products between Irkutsk and Krasnoyarsk. This truck is their home, and they w
ant it clean. Minutes later, we’re tottering westward with the radio tuned to an international rock station. The nearest BMW dealer is further than their destination, but when we arrive at their main shipping warehouse, they meet a friend driving a similar truck scheduled to drive there that afternoon. Before switching trucks, I check to see what happens if I fire the engine one last time. Bang. It pops to life as if nothing ever happened. So what does this mean? Engine failure attributable to a wet connection? Maybe a loose wire temporarily barely reconnected? Whatever the case, we unload. It’s time to ride.

  After a test spin around the parking lot, everything seemed fine, and a wet electrical connection seemed like it had been the culprit. It should be easy for me to reach the dealer now, but before rolling onto a newly paved stretch of road, my new friends warned that a malfunction could easily happen again. They were right. Suddenly, just when I shifted into fifth gear, the motor shut down again, sending me coasting to the curb. Now, suspecting it’s a dirty filter or a faulty fuel pump, I unbutton the tank-filler to discover the real problem — no gas! Inside the lid, my set of jangling spare keys had severed the wires connecting the low-fuel light, the reason there had been no warning my fuel was about to run out.

  Within minutes, another trucker stops, offering some extra gasoline reserved for his generator. After siphoning enough to reach a station, it’s a massive relief to fire up the engine and be back on the road.

  Westbound to Moscow

  September 1, 2004

  Novosibirsk, Unofficial Capital of Siberia

  As cowboys love their horses, riders love their motorcycles. We get to know each other through customizing and maintenance checks. From meticulous tinkering and studying specs, we memorize their features and weaknesses while constantly drooling over the latest gadgets. Forged steel and machined aluminum rolling on vulca-nized rubber become sacred vehicles that we name.

  My mighty Blue Beast, survivor of a rugged Tran-Siberian crossing and stained from the red clays of Mongolia, has earned its place as my faithful companion. Capable of taming the roughest terrain and gobbling up long stretches of highway, its reliability is important to the success of my journey. On top of all that, it goes fast!

  At Russian police checkpoints, machine gun–toting guards stop me to point at flashing red numbers on radar guns. They don’t seem angry so I laugh aloud — only 80 miles per hour? But they are more interested in where I’m going, and before the wave me on, I must recite a list of recent destinations. So far, Russian cops have been friendly to the “Amerikanski” from “Calleekfornia.” Once, I’m even given the emblem off a police uniform, a souvenir from an otherwise forgotten moment in a distant land.

  Finally, the muddy roads of Siberia evolve into hardened Russian speedways with room to move. On Highway M-51, I am westbound to Moscow, blasting through the countryside like a bullet through the wind. I have two weeks left on my visa, with nothing to stop me now. My exit routes into Eastern Europe are a coin toss. Left to Ukraine or straight through Latvia and Lithuania into Poland. That will be decided at the appropriate fork. My only concerns today are about dodging storms and where to camp.

  A passing summer squall sets me squinting through my face shield at the glare from a setting sun glistening off slick black pavement. Twenty-one hundred miles to go — from Novosibirsk, it’s a straight shot over the Urals to the onion domes of St. Basil’s. After a loop around the Kremlin, I’ll be off to the Middle East via Europe, but for now it’s a ride into rapture. With a twist of the throttle, my iron steed snorts and stretches its legs, winding through the gears in a mechanical fury, flowing through the drive train to rushing asphalt below. Captured in the euphoria of rapid acceleration, as always, I can’t imagine a better state of mind.

  St. Basil’s Cathedral, Red Square, Moscow

  Intercepted

  September 3, 2004

  Omsk, Russia

  It’s best to avoid big cities on long trips; there is too much traffic and confusion, and food and shelter costs triple. Further west, I run into more affluent metropolitan areas, with expensive cars driven by businessmen with cell phones clamped to their heads. Searching for bargain hotels can waste a half-day, and it’s best to seek out restaurants long before you’re hungry. But as in the country, the simplest tasks can still be a hassle, and there is no room to relax. Reckless drivers moving through the rain on poorly lit, flooded streets are unnerving, and because there is nothing much to do now except ride and sleep, this is the one time I miss California. Other than sluggish Internet connections in dull, gray building basements, there is little to see in Russian cities. Cheesy museums and monuments start to look the same.

  In spite of wintertime temperatures of 20 below zero, Russian bikers pursue their passion with dedication. They live for their four-month riding season. As there are so few of them, they seek clubs for camaraderie. International motorcycle travelers are welcomed by such men when we’re riding across their country. Through Internet chat rooms, club members monitor riders heading their way, offering assistance and friendship. Diehards are often recognized by how they greet long-riders.

  Motorcyclists welcome motorcyclists on motorcycles. It’s a sign of respect when I see a dozen bikes heading toward me in the rain outside a city, ready to escort me in. Actually, it’s often easier to ride in alone, but it’s also impressive to see the spirit of like-minded fanatics infected with the same fever.

  The first question from the diehards: “Did you ride the stretch between Chita and Khabarovsk or take the train?” A cheer erupts when I tell them I rode it. Even by Siberian standards, it’s one of the toughest roads in the world. They are further impressed when they hear of my anticipated trip around the planet. For most motor-cyclists, this is a fantasy ride.

  The Other Men, a local club from Omsk, come to greet me on motorcycles, guiding me back to their bike shop clubhouse. A few of the riders have casts on their legs, reminders of the price of our passion. No drunks either — they ride sober, in sharp contrast to the Russian truckers I met, sucking on vodka bottles at breakfast.

  Until 10 years ago, the only machines available here were comical, Soviet-built Urals, unreliable copies of ’40s model BMWs. Now big, meaty imported Japanese sport bikes dominate. The locals have learned how to keep them running without access to the proper parts — they make their own on old, rusty lathes. When I discover another broken sub-frame bolt from my ride in Mongolia, they machine a new one from an otherwise useless chunk of steel. Drowning me in hospitality, they’ve taken to calling me the Siberian Viking.

  The plan was to reach Moscow quickly and head for Germany, but the pressure is on to attend a banquet this weekend. Every hour for the next three weeks is accounted for; it’s critical that I see that doctor in Munich. But since this is my first and likely last ride to Russia, missing this event would be a mistake. I’ll make the time up later.

  Life Road, the motorcycle club from Tyumen, also greeted me on the road tonight and brought me to their favorite café to present my slideshow. Later, at a hotel they recommended, I saw the valets opening car doors for guests, and I thought I must be at the wrong place. A snotty reception clerk confirmed it, announcing the hundred-bucks-a-night room fee. That’s twice my daily budget for everything and very expensive by Siberian standards. As I turn away laughing, the clerk says not to worry, the bill has already been paid by my friends. It isn’t just the price; it’s the attitude that comes with high-class hotels. Stuffy staff in crispy dress suits and there I am, with grimy gear slung over my shoulder and muddy boots. Country folk applaud a ragged traveler. Here, I am a pariah. Hands clasped, noses in the air, waiters in the restaurant make it clear I am not welcome. But it appears that some Russians are also angry with each other.

  The country is under siege again by Chechen terrorists, with two airliners blown up last week and all televisions now tuned to a current schoolhouse hostage crisis. Paranoia abounds. There are more secu
rity men here in business suits with earphones than guests. In this oil-rich region, an expensive hotel might be the least-safe haven.

  Asia to Europe

  September 8, 2004

  The Russian Urals

  Separating Europe from Asia, the Ural Mountains stretch south from the Arctic Kara Sea to Kazakhstan, affecting the weather as well as the politics. But that has little relevance today. As another icy drizzle blows in while riding the summit of a geographical dividing line, I realize it’s been days without sunshine. Although the countryside is cold, my favorite cowboy tunes are pumping through a set of iPod headphones, warming me with memories of sunny Midwestern rangeland. At the moment, with Waylon Jennings’s beefy baritone groaning about the simple, small town life, I am ready to ride to Luckenbach, Texas. And like every day in Siberia, I prepare for battle on the highway.

  While on lumpy sections of pavement, Russian truckers, likely drunk on vodka, greet me with games of chicken. Oncoming speeding cars tip side-to-side, overtaxing their suspensions enough to reveal daylight through open wheel wells, as everyone seems to be in a race for somewhere. Who backs down first? I never win, yet a stubborn streak compels me to play. Swerving to dodge potholes while locked into deep-sunken tire tracks becomes a spontaneous ballet of vehicular madness. I lose count of the close calls.