excerpt from Away From Here

After a breakfast of tinned fish, pickles and nescafe, which I'd now no option but to like, we packed up and rode east...again. This time we were bound for Tsontsongel. I think today was affording me some of the prettiest scenery I'd come across. The valley's were so fertile and verdant, with rivers running through, forests, group of Ger's surrounded by livestock, and people riding horses everywhere. Every moment I was stopping to take photos, so decided that this was getting me nowhere and that I needed to ride.

When we got to Tsontsongel, we stopped for some food. Some ladies outside the cafe were clearly taken by the black lambs wool on my saddle. They kept rubbing it and chatting among themselves. I made the sound of a sheep and said 'Irlandia', which they thought this was hilarious. Now, Sami had been wanting one of these saddle accessories for some time, for they keep you cool in the heat and warm in the cool, and a Mongolian fleece would be a nice souvenir. After all, wool (camel, yak or whatever) is one of their main exports. Thus, he tried to make his desires known these women. One of them called over a bloke who sped off on his little motorbike. Moments later he pulled up with a white canvas bag. Would this be Sami's lucky day? Out of it came this massive fur coat, which I can only presume is the sort of thing these folks wear when it gets to -45 in the winter. The price was equivalent to $50 which was a steal for this authentic fur, so I told sami to buy the coat, cut the bottom off for his seat and donate the rest to the poorest looking punter in the assembled throng of onlookers. Sami felt this wasn't the best course of action, so I tried the coat on, much to the amusement of all.

We left Tsontsongel on the right road, but Tuomas didn't think it was. We spent the next hour taking various tracks out of the place, but ended up back on the first one we'd chosen. When you're trying to cover ground, this feels like a colossal waste of time. How and ever, we were one the track now, and the scenery just kept getting better. Before long 2 Polish lads on African Twins, riding from Vladivostok pitched up in front of us. I can't remember their names, but they were good boys. After some banter, we moved on and started climbing higher. After passing through countryside which looked particularly 'Flintstone-esque' we got to 2600m. This peak hosted the biggest prayer shrine we'd seen to date. There were a few people gathered at it and a woman was sprinkling vodka over it, while someone else was putting money under a stone at it. Reverently, and with Pauli's help, I placed my final 'awayfromhere.org' sticker high up on the sign close to it. I got this old Mongol gent to point to it for comedy purposes. If you manage to reach this point at these GPS co-ords (coming soon) and take a photo with the sticker, I'll buy you a !

Polish riders

Toconsengel

Our waitress at the cafe ;-)

Touching up my sheep

I really should have bought it

Horse riding

a local rider, as Pauli the map king consults a local for directions in the background...who, like most Mongolians, has no idea what a map is

tree climbing goats

break time

Sami (Tirpse) and Tuomas

riding

Leaving my mark

he found it, so he gets a

shrine

pauli

Sami

Again, we moved on. Our destination was 'The White Lake'. We'd heard that the water was so pure that you could drink it and that it was set in a splendid valley with one or two Tourist Ger camps. It was unfortunate that you had to negotiate the worst road in Mongolia to get there. It was a road of sorts, as opposed to just a track, which are often easier to ride. It was host to pot holes my height deep, so you could do yourself some real damage. All of us, trying to nurse our bikes through this minefield, fearing for our rear shocks, got to the end of the lake and could see what we thought were the Ger camps. We noticed a couple of Western girls sitting by their tent with 2 Mongol chaps. So, we pulled over to find out their story. They were French and were hitchhiking and walking across Mongolia. Their 2 friends were a little behind and if we found them we were to instruct them as to where they were. The guys pulled away first as I finished practicing my French. Two mins later I was after them. .
Sadly, misfortune was about to befall me. As I was riding this track and doing 50-60 mph, this dog started running alongside me. This wasn't an unusual situation because it happens out here with great regularity. I'd already given one dog a taste of my boot about 3 days ago. All of a sudden I became fearful of this dog and having no back brake after realising earlier in the day that the pads were really shot and the brakes were down to metal on metal (I was going to change them at the Ger camp that evening), I didn't want to anchor up on the front brakes on this stoney gravel road, so I blipped the throttle to leave the dog in my rear view mirrors. I knew instantly that it was confused and in a fraction of a second, it pulled out in front of me causing me to hit it full tilt. There was no way I was holding the bike up, and I, with it, went down hard and slid up the road. I recall my head hitting the deck and the next thing standing up and seeing two Mongol lads approaching me on a motorbike with mine lying upside down on the road. I knew this wasn't good. I looked around for the dog and saw it yelping up the road hobbling. If I hadn't broken its back, I'd certainly broken ribs and most likely punctured its lungs, leaving it maybe an hour to live. I was all out of sympathy after its foolishness.
The Mongol guys were keen to get my bike up, but I was in a fit of rage kicking a post at the edge of the track. I realised that it was a precipice leading down to the river, so it was good I was on the right side of it, if indeed there was anything good about this situation. Eventually, we righted the bike and I knew that it was poorly. I was aware of pain in both wrists, but a quick inspection revealed nothing severe. Truly, I was more concerned about Pietro. His binnacle and screen had nearly been ripped off, and the engine bars on the right side were contorted into the most bizarre shape. 'This is the end of away from here', I thought. I tried calling the boys to get them to back up to me, but couldn't get through. 3 mins later Sami rode up and saw the mess. He got me a bottle of water from his bike and told me to sit at the side of the road while he checked out Pietro. His recommendation was that we could cable tie the binnacle together and if the bike started, it might yet be rideable. Tuomas arrived and sawed off the remains of the engine bars on the right side. I was sad; Pietro my trusty steed was badly injured.
I managed to get on the bike, started it, and discovered that it sounded like a bag of bolts. Something was wrong, but diagnostics would be reserved until we hit our lodgings for the night. I and the bike, limped the few kms into the tourist camp, where our hosts took my stuff off the bike as my wrists were too sore to do anything. We were taken to our two two person Gers that had the stoves lit and were very cosy. Under normal circumstances I would've loved this, but my mind was elsewhere. As I attempted to ride back to the camp I was rehearsing the incident in my mind. I was also going through a battery of diagnostics on the bike as I listened for the slightest noise which might indicate a fault. It was already clear that the engine bars cross bar had bounced back and hit one of the header pipes. Pietro's new found flatulence was because the header pipe had been separated from the engine block, causing it to blow out. On top of this, I would be a mirror down for the rest of the trip, a creak in my neck up from the angle of the instruments, and sore from turbulence owing to the screen no longer working. The handlebars were pointing all directions, and my bags now had a few holes in them. As for me, I hadn't spilled any blood, but the wrists kept getting more painful, and the left one began to balloon, discolour and feel like it was on fire. I remembered the same thing happening when I broke my wrist snowboarding a few years ago. At the time, I didn't know it was broken, and plied it with deep heat and went back up the mountain the following day. Sick of the persistent clicking, 18 months later my sister forced me into her work for an x-ray. The doctor then looked at me like I had had a frontal lobotomy and said that my wrist had been broken in 3 places…18 months ago and what did I expect him to do now? Long story short, I suspected that I'd fractured one of the bones in my wrist, as I couldn't rotate my hand at all, but a cast was the last thing I'd need, because as long as Pietro could still ride, then so must I!
This entry was written about 3 days later as I couldn't type.


moments before my spill

moments after my spill

our Ger

trying to sort my wrist

gotta keep smiling though

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Great write ups Si.

I'm rapidly thinking of not going to Scandinavia as planned next year and maybe doing Mongolia!

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Live life now - you only get it once.

you should...it'll cost you less and it'll be much better craic and more satisfying!

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It must’ve been a combination of worry and pain which kept me awake last night, for sleep eluded me. I was dropping Nurofen Forte’s like Jacko and I may as well have sat there whistling dixie. It wasn’t long before I could hear Sami scratching around the Ger. He said he was getting cold, and to be fair, when the little stove in the centre went out, they weren’t a warm place to sleep. It was now obvious why Mongols live on a diet of fat lardons, for it was a good 40 degrees higher than what they’d be getting in a few months time. Sami tried to light the fire, as I looked on, as good as useless. Which was more to the pity, because he was making a real ham-fisted effort at lighting it. I then rummaged around in my bag and threw out a toilet roll, which he soon got to work on. When that had burned through without the wood catching, I threw him all my duplicate documents from my tank bag, when that didn’t work, he burned his duplicates. For just a moment I longed to be back home for the 12th July, when northern Ireland shows the rest of the world what a fire is really all about. Actually I didn’t, I hate the 12th celebrations and Mongolia was sufficiently far enough away for me to forget about them.

Anyway, Sami eventually pulled on all of his training in the Finnish army, and got enough of a fire going to heat a small marmot. He then went to sleep, leaving me to ponder my canine induced afflictions.

Sami and the fire that wouldn't light

It was a beautiful morning. I had looked forward to a shower, as it had been a good few days since my last ablutions and as I couldn’t ride today, I fancied at least sitting around in a state of moderate cleanliness. We were told that the hot water wouldn’t be on until 5pm. Unhappy, and watching my hand swell by the hour, we set to work on the bike. Tuomas and Pauli took off what was left of the engine bars, straightened the front wheel, yokes, and handle bars, and put in new rear brake bads. There was nothing that could be done about the blow out, so Pietro not only looked like he’d been in the war, but sounded like he’d been dropped out of an airplane at high altitude.

After the necessary repairs were completed, Sami, Pauli and I trekked up a hill, relaxed in the sun, did some laundry, and read. Dinner that night was Yak meat, and was very very good. We had a couple of s, looked back through photos on my netbook and had a good laugh at some of our situations. Much of it seemed so long ago and so many miles ago. It was time to turn in for another night in our Ger’s. We hoped that my wrist was up to the job of clutching tomorrow. As for holding the bike up if it started to go down, it no longer mattered.


taking off the adv-spec engine bars

my gift to Mongolia

back on with the handlebars

still not set right

hours later

Tourist Ger camp in the background behind Pauli

A young 18,000 year old volcano in the background with the crater in it

Sami doing his best Beavis impression with the lower mandible of some animal's skeleton

a little local kid

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We all got up and had a leisurely breakfast. I then sat in front of the computer and updated my journal entries. During this time I was wondering how I’d ride further with my left hand being virtually incapacitated by now.

I knew there was a doctors place in the nearby village of Tariat, but frankly, I trust my own skills more than I would these fellas. They’d probably try and splint it with a yak bone or rub the Mongolian equivalent of a docken leaf on it. Anyway, plaster cast was not an option as I didn’t need immobilisation. Sami and I joked that so far we’d a cow, a horse and now a dog between both of us, and through various incidents we’re both sporting very painful and slightly limp wrists. Note to others, bring good wrist supports when travelling out here! And beware of animals, they seem to fling themselves with gay abandon at sizeable motorbikes.

It was soon time to pack and go. We rode all day on some dubious roads. Very soon there were patches of tarmac which were kissed by all of us after the seemingly interminable sand and dirt. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been lamenting the end of the dirt, but as it was, I was more grateful than anyone else. While we were waiting for Pauli whose tool tube had opened and spilled tools over the place, we met an Italian guy – Enrique – who had been riding his bicycle from Italy for 4 months and was riding to Australia. He was a brilliant bloke and I hope he gets on well. As we were chatting 2 Slovakian lads pitched up who were riding a Yamaha trail bike and one they’d rented as they had a camper van parked somewhere nearby. Again, some great chat with good people. However, it was time for us to go again. We pulled into some village for lunch and had some very mediocre (being generous here) eats.


Enrique

That night we pulled off onto a hill and it looked like rain was looming. The thing about this part of the world is that when it rains, it really rains. Dry land can be completely submerged in no time. This means that at worst the ground gets saturated and your bike falls over (as had already happened on our first night in Mongolia with Pauli), or you awaken on your thermarest/lilo! We tried a few different places and settled on a spot. I have to say, I felt really sick and it was all I could do to get my tent up. In fact, Pauli had to help me with it. It was clear that things were going from bad to worse for me. Somehow, I’d gone from buzzing every morning when I got up and claiming that it was the best day of my life every evening when I turned in, to losing heart in the adventure. Travelling had now become purely functional for me, as I just wanted to get me and the bike back home by now. The riding was too painful, my bike was in tatters, and now something else was starting to hit me. The boys believed it was self-induced bad karma. I wanted to tie one of those blue prayer rags that you see on the shrines on the mountain tops onto my bike. However, I couldn’t find any to buy anywhere, so we passed a small bush at the side of the road which appeared to have one wrapped around it. I backed up, had a quick look, and decided that it wasn’t worthy of the term ‘shrine’, and that it would suit my bike better. Minutes later, as you’ll see from the photo after the accident, it was tied to me left handguard. A couple of hours after this, I hit the dog, and now, something else was nipping at my heels.

I told the guys that I couldn’t stand up and Sami would have his evening on his own. Climbing into the tent and lying down offered some relief, but it felt like the mother of all battles was going on in my guts. All night I was dizzy, burping, belching and rolling around in extreme discomfort. I wondered if it was some kind of vertigo that I’d gained after the dog affair, because normally my guts would be immune to less than good food. This made for yet another night of patchy sleep.

Sorry I haven’t many photos for a few days. Getting my helmet on and off and taking out the camera was too much like hard work now.

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Today we rode to Karakorum. This town was build by Genghis Khan’s son in 1235 and was the hub of the Mongol empire and the former capital.

Like everyone does, we visited the Erdene Zuu (Precious Buddha) temple there. This is the oldest temple in Mongolia and was one that pretty much survived the destruction of religious establishments in the 1930′s. None of this meant much to me at the time as I still felt really crock. I walked around the place waiting for tidal diahorrea and was desperately hoping that it wouldn’t happen in one of the little rooms with the religious adherents. So, we looked at Buddha, and Buddha, and Buddha, and Buddha, each of them differing only in their facial gestures. Pauli and I got somewhat bored after our second one because we both felt that once you’ve seen one Buddha, you’ve seen them all, and given I’ve been to Thailand and seen the sleeping Buddha, the standing Buddha, the fighting Buddha, the farting Buddha and the Buddha Buddha, it wasn’t terribly novel. I was partially restarted at the fact that this was religion turned commercial paradise. Priests were praying for people when money was handed over, and everything cost money. Taking a photo inside was 10,000 Tugrick. When they wanted a photo beside my motorbike, I suggested that that too would be 10,000T. I was almost tempted to throw some money out and ask one of the monks to lift the curse of the stolen prayer rag off me, or else just pray that he’d invoke the divine imodium for me.

Karakorum monastery/temples

i hope this door knows what it's in for

not good times

The Pauli Khan

a monk

Mongolian hunting equipment

Some time later, we left Karakorum eager to get to the Oasis Guest House in Ulann Baatar. We rode the 400kms and half way along, the road was under construction, so we were back on the dirt for 30kms for the last time. The rain came on pretty heavily and we finally got to the outskirts of the city. UB has a population of around 1.4 million, which is more than the rest of Mongolia put together. I had heard it was an absolute armpit, but the degree of armpit-ness exceeded our expectations. The poverty here was really in your face. People attempted to live in Gers close to the city, I guess aspiring to have some of the riches that were here, but instead they lost all the advantages of living in a Ger on the steppe (no yak shit for the fire, so you need to pay for fuel, no running water like they have in the streams on the steppe etc). 15 years ago, there was not a car in this city, everyone was on horseback. Now, as in most cities, you’ve a glaring gap between some of the poorest people in the world, and the SUV toting yuppies.

The Oasis Guest House was showing on my GPS as 10 miles from where the traffic became intense. Rather than sitting there in deluge rain and traffic which obviously conformed to no road laws whatsoever, I started lane splitting hoping that the guys would stick with me. About 1 mile from Oasis, we lost Sami, but hoped he’d find us.

We checked in and there were 4 places left, it was so busy. This was to be in a Ger out the back. We got the stove lit and dried our gear. While we were doing this, we met Hubert (from Paris/New York) who is travelling for 10 years on a Ural. He sold up everything he had when he was 58 and reckoned he could stay on the road for 10 years. He’s done 6 years to date and has some cracking photos and stories to show for it – The Timeless Ride Hubert Kriegel BMW Motorcycle Raid World Travel Sidecar Adventure Gespann. He arrived in Mongolia in November in the snows and spent 30 days staying with a nomad family in a Ger on the steppe. He’s picked up Mongol well and has a great understanding of life here owing to the depth of relationships he’s built with the nomads. Sami found a suitable drinking partner in a German adv rider called Faulker (sp?). I crashed pretty early.

Hubert and his Ural

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At 5:30 I still hadn’t slept as my stomach was doing somersaults. Knowing that it was 10:30 at home and she’d be up, I texted Siobhan, a doctor friend who had put together one of the medical kits for me and told her I was confused as I had a very sick stomach but no sign of the runs. She told me to start on the Ciproxin anti-biotics she’d given me which is best for bad diahorrea etc. I went out to the bike, saw Hubert still sitting in the cafe at his computer (where he stayed until midday the next day!), fetched the tablets, took one, and tried to sleep for an hour or two. I attempted some breakfast and then sat in the cafe catching up on the internet. I was sitting with the guys when all of a sudden I jumped up from the table and made for the nearest toilet. I was so glad I had some ceramic to sit on and not one of those ski-jump wooden boxes with a hole in some 2×4′s they prefer here. On that ceramic, everything became clear. I had food poisoning. As though further clarification was needed, I went to the Ger 1 hour later, then spent quite some time throwing up. Oh the relief. I knew this was going to be the road to recovery. The irony was that I’d longed for some pasta, a burger or something resembling home cuisine for weeks now, and now that I’ve finally arrived in a place that had a menu I could understand and enjoy, I couldn’t eat any of it!

The holy grail - the medical kit with cyproxin at 5am

We met a lot of travellers, in overland vehicles and bikes. Oasis is a great set up. It began when Rene and Sybille went out to Mongolia 15 years ago to work with Help International Christian Mission. Since then, they’ve started this sustainable business model which gives locals employment and it opens its services beyond tourists like me, but showers, launderette, hairdressing salon etc, to locals. I was very impressed and it’s definitely the place to stay if you visit Ulaan Baatar.

at the back of the Oasis guest house

Rene and Sybille

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We tried to get up early and hit the road, but as Hubert says, we're worse than women to get out in the morning. I think it's because we've achieved what we set out to do, and now everyone is in lazy mode, knowing that it's a pretty dull and long run home.
Eventually we got squared up and packed up, and took off back through the hole that is UB. I would've taken photos, but I didn't want to ruin your day. Having back-tracked around 10 kms through traffic, we took the road north to Darhan, which would then lead us to Altanbulag and the delights of yet another Russian border. It was rather inclement and the guys all stopped to put on their rain gear. Seeing the temperature drop and not needing rain gear, I thought I'd join the party and put my heated vest on for the craic. I wasn't especially cold, but I figured that since I'd brought it, I might as well use it. I'm glad I did, for it dropped to 5 degrees; the coldest temperature thus far on the trip. After some 400kms we made the border. Believe it or not, I got through the whole process from Mongolian exit to Russian entry in exactly one hour. This goes down as the fastest border crossing to date, with the most pleasant and efficient officials too. Once across, we stopped at the next town, fuelled up, got some food for the camp, and then pulled off the road 30kms later in a nice little secluded spot in the woods. We sat around reminiscing and I continued to experience a weird stomach. I didn't take the full course of Cyproxin as I only had 2 days as opposed to the 3 days, so I wondered was this responsible. I knew one thing, I needed to eat. I think I've already lost about 7 or 8 kgs on this trip and with this gut issue, each day saw me getting closer to the gulags, in more ways than one. Tuomas had brought about a 15 of these pukka dehydrated camping meals at over 8 euros a pop. Given I had to eat something and I didn't want to cook anything, I bought one of these gourmet dry packs off of him. Perhaps foolishly, I took the chilli con carne, and it gave me a sleepless night. Note to anyone coming this way, invest in about 10 of these meals and reserve them for Mongolia, you'll be glad you did!

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I was up early as yet again, I hadn’t really slept well. The sun was arcing into the sky and it looked set to be a beautiful day, so as everyone arose, so did the optimism. Sami was singing ‘Back in the USSR, don’t know how lucky you are…’ and everyone seemed glad to be homeward bound. We did the usual stove fire up for teas, coffees, porridge and whatever else, and then ablutions, and hit the road. From the outset, today seemed like it would be a feast for the motorbike rider, from the stunning Siberian wilderness, to the twists in the roads. I rode most of the way to Ulan-Ude on my own because the guys seemed to be doing a bit of faffing around with something or other, and I have to say, that feeling of not having to look out for someone or hang around, brought back the feeling of freedom you get when it’s just you and the road.

When I reached Ulan-Ude, I saw the sign for Chita and Irkutsk. As I contemplated this trip, I seriously considered heading to Magadan, and this filter lane to Chita would spell the beginning of that long section. While I was still somewhat tempted on this beautiful day, my budget, my guts and wrist, and the state of the bike kept me firmly on the road to Irkutsk. In addition, I didn’t see the point in riding to Magadan if you weren’t then shipping to Japan or the US. It would be a long ride home and with all the Kamaz trucks building the new federal highways in high Siberia, it was a fight I didn’t want to pick. Magadan can wait

So I kept on the bypass around Ulan-Ude and stopped at what looked like a fast-food truck stop kind of cafe. It was closed, so I jumped back in the saddle and was stopped at a Police checkpoint. ‘Documente, passport, motorcycle passport’ was barked at me. Seriously, how did this tulip think I had got this far, on my charm and wit alone? These guys are like robots, they’re switched on in the morning and go through the same old mechanised routines daily. As I was finishing up with him, Toumas and Pauli pulled up beside me. Since I’d done the dirty work, they were signalled straight through. And so cue the fun and frolics of South Baikal. This was a hoot. It was like the north coast road of Ireland stretched over 200 kms. The bends and switchbacks just kept coming. The only thing you had to be careful of was the occasional wrongly cambered corner or green tarmac, but on the whole it was riding paradise. In fact, I’m going to dedicate today’s ride to Richard McVicker from Ballymoney. Richard was paralysed after a very bad bike accident in Ballymoney 2 years ago when someone drove out on him. That he survived at all is a miracle. I was working when the news came in that a few streets away, there’d been a bad bike accident involving a local fella. Shortly afterwards I found out it was Richard and it was touch and go as to whether he’d make it. Suffice it to say, he’s wheel chair bound and paralysed from the waist down…for now;-) but still being a brilliant father, son, husband and inspiration. Anyway fella, this one was for you!

This road needed full attention, but it was difficult to give it that when you were riding the side of Lake Baikal. This lake is the deepest in the world owing to the fact that it sits between two tectonic plates, and yet is only 30-40 kms wide. Its water is so pure that you can drink it, and it freezes over in depths of feet in the Winter with completely transparent ice. I’ve seen photos, but someday would like to witness this steel ice myself. Separating us from the lake were the tracks of the Trans-Siberian railway, and often a huge Russian train would rumble along beside you. We got very up close and personal with these tracks because at the very southern tip of the lake there’s a railway crossing, but there was a traffic queue of about 2 miles leading to it. We didn’t know what was going on, and knew that while Russian freight trains are large, they don’t take so long as to cause a 2 mile traffic tail-back. Being on bikes we filtered to the front of the queue, and could see a big crowd of railway workers and various bits of machinery obviously dedicated to laying new tracks etc. I got speaking to a lass who had some English and she stated that they were replacing 1 km of track. ‘How long will this take’, I asked, ’6-7 hours I think’. We all gasped at this and then began wondering if it might be possible to ride the bikes over. Tuomas got the bit between his teeth and I could tell he wouldn’t rest until we were on the other side. When the repairing carriage had gone over and there was some space, he grabbed some planks to lay across the tracks. Some of the officals started shouting and the berated Tuomas backed down. 10 mins later after some more machinery passed, the same officials we building bridges over for us. Civilians and railway workers alike all gathered around to cheer and help. Tuomas shouted, ‘Simon, you go first’, and so with apparently no option, I ‘dropped in’ and with a few heaves and pulls from the workers, eventually got across. The others followed suit, and the cheers went up from all the workers for the welcome distraction of fixing the tracks. Meanwhile, car drivers looked on jealously!

railway workers

new track being laid

getting Pauli across. only in Russia! we all rode away thinking 'you've just got to love this country'. health and safety is not a concept yet thought of.

The south end of Lake Baikal

Sami

We pressed on to Irkutsk with me and Tuomas reaching it first. I was couchsurfing there and the others were going to try and find a biker bar and some cheap accomodation. As Tuomas and I waited at the side of the road for what seemed like an hour for the others, a very kind random lady had bought us a huge watermelon and a bottle of water. Quite how she thought we were to transport this colossal fruit on a motorbike I’ve no idea. I needed to be at my Couchsurfing hosts place, so I flagged a taxi, threw the watermelon in the back and told him to drive me to Pervomaiski. I would catch up with the boys later. As it happened, later Sami had flagged down a local biker who was no help at all and decided that they’d ride through the city and find somewhere to camp out the other side. This would be the last I’d see of them, and sadly didn’t get a chance to say farewells. My plan was to sit tight in Irkutsk, shake off this lingering tummy problem and wait for Kristian and Gesa who were on their way up from UB.

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Si

Keep them coming mate.. I think ive read them over and over !! I did try to follow your blog but got a bit lost on the page !!

If your ever over in the North of England I have a spare bed going.. and will probably pick your brains for hours lol

Ive decided come 2012 Im off on my RTW...

Cheers
Geordie aka Will

I sat around Irkutsk for the next few days. I spent a good bit of time reading my mate Kester Brewin’s new book ‘Other’ and listening to the new Arcade Fire album ‘Suburbs’. Around this I was visiting the toilet about every 15 minutes, and wondering how I could possibly have anything left in me. It turns out I didn’t, I was just shedding body weight…quickly. Things did begin to pick up though and I did start to feel considerably better. On the 8th October, Tatiana, my most gracious and generous host, wanted to take me to Listvyanka on the west side of Lake Baikal. It’s a bit of a tourist resort around 60kms from Irkutsk, but was well worth the ride out. We bought a couple of s, ate Omul (smoked fish out of Baikal), sat in the sun, and chatted to some locals. When it was time to turn back, we stopped off at her parent’s Dacha where her mum had just made fresh Borsch from vegetable in their vast allotment while her granpa was making a massive pot of blackberry jam. I admired the simplicity and purity of their life out here. When not working, the whole family drive a few miles into the country to their Dacha, where they sit around in the Banja (sauna), and eat their own grown food around the table together.

With Tatiana at Listvyanka

Enjoying the late Siberian summer sun

Kris and Gesa eventually arrived at Tatiana’s. It was great to see them again as it felt like some much had happened since we parted ways half way through Mongolia. After all of the gear was brought up to the apartment, we got dinner on the go, had a few s, and caught up on everything. We spent a few days hanging out around Irkutsk and did very little but eat, wash clothes, and laugh. One evening, Tatiana took me to the Banja at her parent’s Dacha. She got the fire in it going and some friends arrived. It was an interesting experience and one I’d definitely repeat. You put on a little felt hat (to protect your head allegedly, as the heat is so intense) and go into the hot room. You’re then to lie on the bench and someone beats you with wet Birch leaves. I had no idea what the purpose of this ritual was, but it does leave you feeling like you could take on the world. Tatiana and Sergei took turns to whip me with the branches and it was all a little ridiculous. I was thinking, ‘if only my mates back home could see me wearing this ridiculous felt hat and enduring such flagellation!’.

After several days recuperating and recharging at Tatiana’s, it was time to get on the road. We knew that it was going to be an absolute trek to Moscow, along straight, flat tarmac with nothing but Birch forests to look at. Since she was out at work and didn’t know we were going to be leaving this morning, we wrote a letter and left Tatiana some gifts, so that she wouldn’t be too disappointed to return and find the smelly bikers had departed.

In the evening we’d be camping and we didn’t really want to waste time by having to dive into various towns for food stops etc, so we went to a supermarket and bought as much stuff as would fit on the bikes. The long trek west of 5000kms to Moscow began. On the way out of Irkutsk I stopped at a few car mechanic places to try and get some chain lube. I’d been running it dry since early Mongolia as the oil and sand creates an emulsion which just trashes your sprockets and chain, but now with long straight road, I was in desperate need of some. I had no joy anywhere.


got any chain lube?

About 70kms later, I was gearing down from 6th gear, and things were not well with Pietro. I pulled in at the side of the road and blew the horn to K&G in front to do the same. I knew the clutch had gone. With 37,000 on the bike and much of that off-road, it was about time. To confirm my hunch, I phoned Alan at Hursts in Belfast who on speaking to one of his techs, said, ‘yup, your clutch is shot, you’ll be needing a new one’. I got him to hold off on posting one to see if I could find a new one in Russia. In the meantime, I needed to get the bike back to Irkutsk. Not having roadside recovery for Siberia, I called Tatiana who had arrived home from work by this point and was saddened by our leaving. I told her what had happened, and asked if she could arrange a recovery truck. A little while later she called back to say it was far too expensive and that she’d drive out. To be honest, I didn’t see what that’d achieve given she drove a little Toyota and there was no way we could tow the bike or get it into her boot. Nevertheless, I had come to understand Tatiana as being beyond capable, so it was just a waiting game to see what she’d magic up.

On the phone to Hursts Motorrad

nothing to do but wait

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3.5 hours after we pulled in with Pietro limping, Tatiana did arrive. Before long she was on the other side of the road trying to flag down a trucker. As you can imagine, it wasn't long before a few vans, cars, and trucks arrived - the power of the feminine huh?

flagging a truck down. roadside recovery Russian style

None of the first batch worked, as we’d no way of lifting the bike up into some of the Kamaz trucks or vans that were stopping.


willing, but how?

Eventually she saw one with a crane, and the boyo pulled in. A quick exchange in Russian between him and Tatiana saw him leaping out of the cab and instantly transform into a superhero, minus the cape and red undies. Well, he might have had red undies, but I wasn’t so concerned that he need be in uniform for this occasion. He started working his mojo on the crane while Kris and I started trying to figure out a way to get it lashed up for a hoist.

giving Pietro a g-string

more of the same

our superhero

more straps needed after the first attempt

Kris, focused

clearly i'm slacking on the job

the lift again

dusk

Pietro in traction

swinging

a more unusual angle of the BMW F800GS

anyway, more to come later…got to run out the door here.

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going places now

onto the ambulance

landing

the recovery team at work

detaching

in place

a well worked rear end


securing

So as was definitely not in our plans, we headed back to Irkutsk, one bike down and heavily laden with food. I jumped in Tatiana’s car and K&G tailed us to the town centre. Our superhero didn’t have a permit to allow him to drive down to the railway station, so he took me to the top of a hill from where I could almost completely freewheel the bike to the front door of the terminal. After unloading the bike, I offered him about $30, which he at first wouldn’t take. He claimed that he knew what it was like to be stuck on the road and just as he has received help, he likes to help others. In the end I forced it into his pocket and he was quietly grateful. This was yet another instance which highlighted the supreme generosity of the Russian people.

unloading in Irkutsk

On getting the bike down to the railway station, I bartered with some fellas to see if I could store the bike in their container. 400 rubles for the night was steep, but not know the area, it gave me peace of mind. I would go back down in the morning and remove it before trying to stick it on the trans-sib to Moscow. All that remained to be done that evening was for us all to go back to Tatiana’s again, cook up a good meal, and laugh about the fact that we seemed destined to not get out of Irkutsk. If this continued we’d have to start working out rental splits. I did wonder about this road out of Irkutsk, as it wasn’t long into the same journey that Pauli’s bike stopped going. After messing about with recovery trucks and tampering with the bike, they discovered that his battery had no longer any water in it, and it merely required a top up before he would be off again to Finland. Other than the roads through Europe, it seemed ironic given that this was the most plain sailing part of the ride thus far.

The following morning I got up early and headed down to the railway station to rescue the bike. As would be common practice in Moscow, I had to awaken some boys sleeping in some cave of a container to get it out. I pulled it over to where I saw another guy up on the platform putting his in a container. The closer I got, the more I thought that I recognised him. Hardly possible I was thinking, owing to the fact that I’m not terribly well connected in these parts. Anyway, I needed to know the protocol for getting the bike on the train and how much it would cost. He looked up, saw me, and we realised we’d both met over a month ago in Barnaul. He turned out to be Michael, the doctor who took Sami to the hospital to get his hand x-rayed and was a very decent lad. Apparently he’d been riding some off-road around Baikal when the bike went down and since wasn’t working, so he was freighting it to Novosibirsk. Anyway, I got some pointers from him, tried a couple of offices, and ended up speaking with a legend of a guy, Yvgeney in office 18 of a freight company at the station (make note of this if you’re passing through this area). His prices were a quarter of the price of everyone else’s, and as he spoke a few words of English, it made life a bit easier for me. From there I waited around for the passenger ticket offices to open so I could find out how much it would cost for the 3 of us to get a coupe to Moscow together. Female Russian officials are not a little scary. They generally bark in contempt at you, and I thought if this is her at 10am, I certainly wouldn’t want to be seeking information at 5pm! Anyway, after some plaintive questioning, I got the relevant info, parked the bike up against a wall where I as assured it would be safe until the next day, and was then picked up and brought home.

The next day, Kris and I were to ride his bike down to the station, meet our friend Yvgeney, and build our crates to freight the bikes. It turns out that they had no crates, so the cost came down from 135 euros to 95 to freight them all the way to Moscow. With our 250 euro tickets pp on 2nd class, this wouldn’t be a whole lot different to riding them, when you take into account tyre wear and fuel expenses etc.

We spent pretty much the whole day in our new friend’s office and it was actually very good craic. Tatiana came down after work with Gesa and ironed out anything we couldn’t translate. By this time, Yvgeney had gone out and bought a bottle of Capatainski rum and was shouting us all to a few celebratory shots. He hadn’t made very much of us that I could understand, so, ever the cynic and former car salesman, I thought that there must be some kind of sting in the tail here.

riding with Kris

doesn't she just look lovely?

Kris and Yvgeney

waiting to be weighed

We wondered how we’d weigh the bikes, as the scales were about 2 feet off the ground and were clearly not long enough to get the bikes onto. Yvgeney kept harping on about having all the benzine emptied out of them, which was easy on Kris’ bike owing to the simply removal of a fuel hose, but with mine it was more difficult. We’d just filled them for the start of the run to Moscow, so we weren’t keen on throwing good fuel away. I think he understood and told us to pretend they were empty. With some pushing and pulling,we got them onto the scales diagonally and found that mine was 233kg and Kris’ 270. Prices were worked out accordingly and then we left the bikes in the corner of the loading bay, where apparently they’d be put on at 1am that evening.

in the cargo bay

buying our tickets

Irkutsk railway station

Later that day, we spent some time on the phone and internet trying to source me a clutch in Russia. We went to various aftermarket parts supplier stores, the BMW car dealership, and other possibilities, but there appeared to be no clutch for an F800GS in all of Russia. Motorrad dealers in Moscow were all quoting 28 days before they could have one in. I then asked Alan at Hursts to stick on one in the post to me and Simon Race, who was a great help, forwarded me the address of Tom Reiter who works in Moscow and would be the willing recipient of it. Tony who rode with Walter Colebatch in Sibirsky Extreme last year advised us to grease the part up some and put in a beaten up old box so that it looked second hand and thus not get stuck at the Russian customs. All things being well, it will be there in Moscow when the bike arrives, the day after I do. Administering peace in Israel/Palestine would’ve been a more straight forward task than all of this, but eventually we got it sorted, so we went off to celebrate in the Bierhaus in central Irkutsk. After the privations of Mongolia, it was so good to be nursing a pint of the black stuff!

The Bierhaus

The following morning it was time to pack up and vacate Tatiana’s yet again. After several elevator rides down, we shoe-horned all our gear into her car and onward to the train station. Having everything on the motorbike and the ease of packing it in the morning and riding off was something I took for granted. Lugging baggage around and using public transport was such a pain in comparison.

packing again

Gesa is the lead singer of a band called Munavoi and when I saw her in this picture in the lift I thought it’d be a good band shot…if she were with her band.

departure

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Sometimes journeys are long. Sometimes journeys are very long. And just occasionally, sometimes journeys are far too long! This was my experience of the trans-sib from Irkutsk to Moscow. Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect. My experience of trains was limited to the Bangor West to Holywood to Belfast Central as a child, the First Great Western when I worked in England, or the London Underground. Frankly, if I’d been stuck on any of these for 4.5 days, it wouldn’t have been a whole lot different.

Kris and Gesa got a cabin with a wonderful lady by the name of Lara, who was Italian, but spoke fluent Russian, French and English. She was a big advocate of Russia having once lived and studied in Leningrad as it was then known. Also in their cabin was a little old Ukrainian man who seemed to have got his day and night back to front, owing to the fact that he’d sleep all day and when people were bedding down for the night, he’d get up, make a massive bucket of coffee, and read while the rest of them slept. I, on the other hand, had a wholly different experience. My coupe was like a wild west brothel, minus the sex and prostitutes. It started off just dandy when I had an elderly couple from Omsk who between them had ‘you’re welcome’ or possibly, ‘your welcome’ as their only English. One would have thought that words like ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘where is the…’ might have been more useful, but ‘you’re welcome’ was all their teacher deigned useful for whatever sortees they might have had to make into an English speaking world. Actually, I say ‘English’, but we all know that it’s really an American phrase, said in response to almost anything. I often wanted to abuse this limitation in language by asking her if I could, just for the craic of it, swot her husband around the head when he wasn’t looking. When he looked at me in a fit of red rage, I could then feel vindicated that she approved the action.

Back to the point. They got out at Omsk, which was sad as I actually learned most of the precious little Russian I have from this couple. Let’s face it, when you’re stuck on a train for 4.5 days with nothing to look at, it’s a good use of your time. The brief silver lining was that I’d have the whole coupe to myself. Or so I thought. I say brief, because at the same stop, a Russian bloke got on. Watching the speed at which he made up his bunk and settled in, made me think that this guy is a professional trans-sib traveller. I struck up some conversation with him, and it turned out he was a terribly decent chap too. He mustn’t have thought the same about me, because he only lasted 12 hours. Through Chelabinsk, Yekaterinburg and Samara etc, I had countless Russian men in and out of my room, much to the amusement of Kris and Gesa. It’s quite disconcerting when you go to bed (bed=generous description for a top bunk just wide enough but too short to get much beyond foetal) in a room with one group of (russian) men, and awaken to a completely different set. I was grateful that nearly all my stuff had enough Kazakh and Mongolian desert remnants to make it look entirely worthless for theft and subsequent resale.

So the carriages alternated between 1st class, 2nd class, and then at the back you had the ‘Gulag section’, which to all intents and purposes looked like it was full of people being transported to the Siberian gulags. It was open plan and was largely Russians who were travelling here, aside from the odd pommie school teacher or student. In our carriage you had a big hot water urn, and a toilet cubicle. The urn was for preparing ‘dinner’. Masterchef this was not. You had to somehow programme your brain that the only remaining food in the world was Korean noodles, requiring steeping for 3 mins in boiling water, by which stage the enclosed chemicals could sufficiently tenderise the plasticised noodles.There was a restaurant cart, but it was distinctly ‘Russian’ (used pejoratively this time) and about as inviting as dinner at a landfill site. Needless to say, we passed on it.

Reading, playing cards, taking photos of the same thing over and over again, looking out at impoverished villages, monitoring how rapidly your BO was evolving and in relation to the speed of others, getting off at the odd place to buy a blini off a be-scarfed little local lady, or counting the hairs on your arm, were about the sum total of the activities on the train. One of the highlights of the day was when one of our two carriage attendants would mop the floors. The journey got a little more interesting when we passed many of the peat fires in the distance which had been responsible for emptying Moscow when we got there. If you had ever considered the trans-siberian, my recommendation is to make sure you do the Beijing-Ulaan Baatar-Irkutsk leg for sure, for here lies the scenery. Birch forests get a bit same ‘ol same ‘ol after the first 100kms (with 4900 remaining). Also, the lower the train number, the better quality, ie., number 1-9 (and in particular Baikal no9) are the hoi polloi, with anything over that slowly degenerating. We were on number 81, and very nearly booked 395, which presumably is full of decaying bodies and half-wits.

I think she's saying 'you're welcome'

Kris, taking another photo, of another Birch tree

Gesa buying raspberries from a platform business lady

medicine

stretching the legs

relieved to be off for 10 mins

reflections on the trans-siberian

back on the wagon

In Ykaterinburg, we knew there was a Kremlin which was worth a visit, but we only had 30 mins. On the way, I clocked the golden arches, normally filtered out on principle by me when at home, but on this occasion, a McDonalds was like air to a drowning man. Gesa and Lara had the Krem in their sites, and while Kris and I wanted a few photos, Ronald McDonald’s house of hospitality was very much on our agenda. We told them we’d see them back at the train, and thanks to their persuasive skills we did. It turns out that the train had loaded and was ready to depart, when we were nowhere to be seen. We rounded the corner and saw the doors all closed and could hear Gesa gulderin’ (‘shoutin’ for the non Ulster-Scots readers) out the door ‘schnel’. With thick shake and coke flying everywhere, we usain bolted down the platform and lept onto our dreamboat to paradise.

towards the Krem

burger bliss

loosing it

Finally we got to Moscow. This journey, which had reminded me of CS Lewis’ epic book ‘The Great Divorce’, terminated at 4am in Kazansky train station. We lugged our stuff out of the carriage and got a taxi – which, incidentally, was our first intro to Moscow prices ($30 for 4kms) – to Godzilla’s hostel.

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After we checked into Godzilla’s, which was a hostel of impeccable standards, we lay down for an hour or two, and then took off around the centre of Moscow. I was astounded at how empty the place was, as I had heard that it was on a par with London or New York in terms activity. It was later that I learned most of the city was still elsewhere because only days before it had been under a cloud of smog from nearby fires. True enough, we noticed that everything was still too hazy to take any decent photos and the air quality wasn’t even blackwall tunnel never mind alpine.

We wandered around Red Square, the Kremlin, St Basil’s onion temple, the Duma, Lenin’s mausoleum, and various other places of historical and non-historical significance.

St Basil's in the background

Tourists, us? No.

the railings were allegedly because they were setting up for a big red square U2 concert in front of Mr Lenin's mausoleum. I'm sure his waxiness was enthralled at the prospect. I just hope, for the sake of the Russian people, he doesn't respond to Bono's singing of 'Rise Up', should that feature in their set!

Shane MacGowan on the underground. Let's face it, if I looked like him, I'd want to be kept underground too.

Russian Metro

Our bikes were supposed to arrive that evening at 1am at Jaroslawski station, so we managed to stay awake through the day in order to head out there in the evening to be reunited with our machinery. On getting out of the taxi (I was now down a kidney), we messed around at the train station and generally only saw scores of homeless people and wild dogs. We were passed from pillar to post, in and out of warehouses and rooms with largely naked men sleeping in bunks. I think I’ve covered this before earlier in the blog, so I’ll not rehearse it all again. Suffice it to say, the bikes got lost and arrived later than they should’ve done. Better late then never though. We were still faced with the task of how to get mine back from the station. We asked a few guys with trucks, but it soon became apparent that however generous people outside of Moscow were, people inside it were inversely proportionately generous…ie., selfish. Unless I parted with my final kidney, all of my money, my parents money, and the crown jewels (like I had a say over these), such an act of altruism was as likely as George W. being invited to headline at this years Mecca Television Awards (MTV). Our only other alternative was for Kris to tow me. There was one obvious problem with this plan – from where do you tow a bike? There’s nowhere to attach a tow rope too, so we figured the only way was for me (with my still gamy wrists) to hold the rope, while Kris deftly guided us through Moscow rush-hour traffic. Mercifully, they have unbelievably long periods between green and red lights here, so that meant we could dive across roads when necessary. Eventually, and much to the relief of my right arm and general well-bring, we made it back to the hostel and were greeted with cheers from the few sitting outside.

Inspecting the bikes after their arrival

a cylinder head

leaving the railway station

fun...like heart failure

on the pull

so when do we get there?

slipstreaming

a new cocktail idea - the moscow tow-rope - ingredients on a postcard

the bikes' new home for a few days

Go back into the archives and you can read Moscow in real time. For now though, let it be said that I went to the ballet and thoroughly enjoyed it. Godzilla’s is very central and everything pretty much a short walk away. In addition, the police station is outside the front door, so it’s very safe. So safe in fact, you can, as you see above, leave your bikes outside the front door of the hostel as the hostel also has got a 24hr security camera looking down on them.

at the ballet

he thinks i'm not enjoying it

Waiting for the clutch was getting to be a pain. I was constantly checking parcelforce to see if it had moved on their tracking page, but it was very definitely stuck like a kipper bone in the oesophagus of Russian customs. Different people were telling us different things, and it ranged from ‘ah, y’all have it tomorrow’, to ‘make yourselves comfortable, you might be collecting the pension here’, which, according to Moscow standards, would be quite the windfall I suspect. Kris and Gesa were brilliant and sucked up the expense of staying longer so that we could all ride back and end this adventure together.

Eventually though, I got tired of the uncertainty. Partly out of boredom and partly to be ready for when the clutch did arrive, I got stuck into stripping it down. In the absence of a workshop, I got out my tools and camping stool, and just turned the pavement into an impromptu workshop. Scott, who was the American manager of the hostel and a brilliant lad, had no complaints with me doing this. That he was a rider too and was, later that week, about to go and take delivery of his new GS helped my cause I think. In fact, his presence was invaluable, because before he moved to Russia, he was a transmissions mechanic in the US, so when I got the clutch taken apart, he was able to look at it and tell me what had actually happened to it.

Scott, on his favourite perch

dismantling

a broken clutch

lining the plates up

inspecting

housing

refitting

pretty much done. time for a test-ride

It turns out that the main nut on the thrust pin in the clutch had completely come off. All of the friction plates were in surprisingly good order given that the bike was nearing 40k miles and had seen a lot of 1st and 2nd gear work. We put the whole thing back together and were sure to douse the main nut with thread lock. I struggled to get the gear change groove into the right place inside the clutch as it seemed to be a case of trial and error. I summoned Scott down, who sat staring at it on his lap for 3 mins, silently, and got it first time. It’s always a pleasure to watch a professional work! My one concern was not having a new gasket for the housing, but Kris meticulously cleaned the whole thing with WD40.

I took the bike for a quick ride around the block and concluded that I didn’t need to wait for the new clutch. It would get me home as was.

We packed up the room the next morning, said some final farewells, and pointed to the road out of Moscow. I still needed chain lube as I still hadn’t managed to get some.

leaving moscow

farewells

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