Firstly, this has taken a while for me to get around to (a year and a half to be precise.) Partly through sheer laziness and partly through a sense of feeling that it really will not be particularly interesting to others. It may not, you be the judge.
It all started when round the house of a good mate of mine 'Guy'. He said to me "'ere fancy riding to Siberia?" I shrugged my shoulders in an alcohol induced haze and said "yeah, go on then" and thought no more of it. Turns out he was serious. Guy is someone I have known for many, many years and we tend to go on bike trips together. We get on well, have a similar sense of humour and know to back off from each other when the other is getting the arse-ache with something.
We both ride R100GS Airheads. I've had mine about 7 years and Guy has had his for as long as I can remember (must be about 18 years). In that time he has put over £350k miles on it (yes that is correct). He knows them inside out and is also a motor vehicle engineering teacher. Nothing better than going away with your own mechanic. Although, scrub that – The look of disdain on his face as he pushes you out the way at the roadside is both funny and crushing in equal measures. He goes into teacher mode in an instant. My usual response is "fuck being one of your students!".
Anyway without further ado, the trip...
This pic was as a result of being self employed and getting all my work done and tied up with too much time to spare before the off. Guess which is me. Ego...moi?
Here's my motorised velocipede ready for the off. (with the front wheel of my old Harley jealously nudging it's front wheel into shot)
We opted for the Harwich-Hook of Holland ferry crossing and ride through Holland, Germany, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia and into Russia. We had a month for the trip. Guy being a teacher had a limited time so we couldn't really take any longer.
The plan was to go to a bike rally in Siberia in a place called 'Irbit'. Irbit is in the Ural Mountains a little way past Yekaterinburg. 'A' Marks the spot.
The reason for heading there was that a bike rally is held there every year run by a local bike club as a 'celebration of the motorcycle'. The town of Irbit is also where the 'Ural' motorcycle/sidecar factory is. The rally is held on land that used to be their social club type land. The factory is a smaller concern nowadays and apparently is owned by an American company. It used to be the primary employer of the town with them running camps for the children etc.
Now, my days of going to bike rallys have generally long since passed and if this rally was 30 miles from my house I would not have gone. However, when I go away on the bike I like to have a destination in mind. It all feels a bit pointless to me otherwise. Riding purely for ridings sake has always felt a bit empty to me. So, a destination we had.
First night camping in Holland and the first catastrophic bike failure – a blown headlight bulb. Comments such as "poor maintenance", "shoddy" and "should be ashamed" were thrown about with gay abandon. I received a stern teacher look for my trouble.
We pushed on heroically, not letting the aforementioned catastrophe dampen our British resolve.
We got through Holland and Germany, pretty sharpish with the only thing of note was seeing the transition from West to East Germany. Obviously that transition is diminishing as time moves on as the old eastern block style architecture gets replaced with less austere buildings. We pulled down a small lane for lunch and ended up here.
It was presumably an old track to a factory. Probably something innocuous like tin can factory, but I convinced myself we would be accosted by stern, huge, Eastern Europeans wearing leather aprons and carrying carving implements and gibbets. I was scared but didn't show it. We ate lunch amongst the broken asbestos whilst eyeing the track suspiciously.
Next up, another lunch stop. This time on a track to the 'Village of the Damned'. I was quite getting into the swing of things.
We crossed the border of Poland (no idea where) but it was a scruffy-arsed border town type place. As soon as we crossed, the main road changed to a broken up track going through run down little villages with chickens in the street and small, threadbare looking kids running about that stopped in their tracks as we rode through. Seriously poor looking places. Despite first appearances, that level of poverty didn't seem to last. We pushed on to find a place to stay and eventually ended up at the coast where we found a campsite for the night.
Next day was a drizzly and wet day so we thought "sod camping" and found a nice hotel. Here's my manky boots on their nice carpet and no, I have no idea why I took it either.
We stopped at a swanky restaurant for lunch. Freshly decorated by the 'Changing Rooms' team.
There was only one other family in there, that arrived as we had nearly finished our lunch. They were a Polish family and the waiters made a bit of a fuss of them and lit the candles on their table. Guy, huffed and commented "oh, we don't get any candles then". At this point the waiter came over to us and lit our candles. When he had turned and gone I started the self righteous guffawing and asked "So what have we learned from this? I'll bloody tell you shall I? Not all Johnny foreigners are as pig ignorant as us Brits and do speak other languages".
That night is was back to camping. The area was not exactly a touristy place so we decided to wild camp in the woods. A nice spot it was too.
Here's my bike with her flaps out, the saucy minx.
I'l explain. The table I made as purely an act of one upmanship (pathetic, I know). Guy phoned me before we left to say he'd bought himself a small camping table to take. I thought, "right ya bugger" "see how you like this". I had seen one made on UKGSer by somebody else so I shamelessly plagiarised the idea and made it before we left. It actually worked really well and is most handy. I nearly took a candelabra as the pièce de résistance but had to reign in my stupidity at the last minute.
Base camp:
We pushed on through Poland. Driving standards getting progressively worse the further east we went. Guy started complaining of hearing a whining noise coming from the rear of his bike. I thought he meant me and was taking the piss but no, he thought there was an issue with his gearbox or final drive (or more specifically the start of his output shaft bearing giving out.) I think it was causing him much angst throughout the day and we decided that it would be best to get a campsite early and he would pull the bike apart to check things out. Reason for the extra caution was that if we found anything major that could not be fixed on a campsite we would at least have recovery whilst in Europe. If it went after we had crossed into Russia it would have meant a whole new level of ball ache.
After enquiring whether I was needed I was sensing a bit of tension so went and washed my pants in the sink and then went and found a supermarket and bought provisions. Whilst in there, security was called and I was frisked and questioned in Polish. I shrugged nonchalantly as I had no idea what he was blathering on about. I gathered though that carrying a helmet and bag around was a big deal. Hey ho, there you go.
I got back to site and Guy was getting the bike back together after stripping the back end and finding no problem with the bike. Tempting, as it was to say something smug along the lines of "sometimes it don't do to know too much" I resisted as I didn't want to get an adjustable shoved in my mush. Guy paced a couple of laps of the campsite with steam coming out of his ears whilst I looked at my feet uncomfortably for a while. I did feel sorry for him though as I knew it would be nagging at him, the not knowing. To his eternal credit though, shortly after getting home about 7 thousand miles later. The output shaft bearing fails – Reeeeesspect!
We pushed on through Lithuania and Latvia. Nothing much to report there apart from the women – sheeiit (no photos, sorry). Being on a bit of a tight schedule we were really just pushing on so sadly as a consequence don't get as much time to soak up the culture as we would have liked.
Next stop, the Russian border...stay tuned.
It all started when round the house of a good mate of mine 'Guy'. He said to me "'ere fancy riding to Siberia?" I shrugged my shoulders in an alcohol induced haze and said "yeah, go on then" and thought no more of it. Turns out he was serious. Guy is someone I have known for many, many years and we tend to go on bike trips together. We get on well, have a similar sense of humour and know to back off from each other when the other is getting the arse-ache with something.
We both ride R100GS Airheads. I've had mine about 7 years and Guy has had his for as long as I can remember (must be about 18 years). In that time he has put over £350k miles on it (yes that is correct). He knows them inside out and is also a motor vehicle engineering teacher. Nothing better than going away with your own mechanic. Although, scrub that – The look of disdain on his face as he pushes you out the way at the roadside is both funny and crushing in equal measures. He goes into teacher mode in an instant. My usual response is "fuck being one of your students!".
Anyway without further ado, the trip...
This pic was as a result of being self employed and getting all my work done and tied up with too much time to spare before the off. Guess which is me. Ego...moi?
Here's my motorised velocipede ready for the off. (with the front wheel of my old Harley jealously nudging it's front wheel into shot)
We opted for the Harwich-Hook of Holland ferry crossing and ride through Holland, Germany, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia and into Russia. We had a month for the trip. Guy being a teacher had a limited time so we couldn't really take any longer.
The plan was to go to a bike rally in Siberia in a place called 'Irbit'. Irbit is in the Ural Mountains a little way past Yekaterinburg. 'A' Marks the spot.
The reason for heading there was that a bike rally is held there every year run by a local bike club as a 'celebration of the motorcycle'. The town of Irbit is also where the 'Ural' motorcycle/sidecar factory is. The rally is held on land that used to be their social club type land. The factory is a smaller concern nowadays and apparently is owned by an American company. It used to be the primary employer of the town with them running camps for the children etc.
Now, my days of going to bike rallys have generally long since passed and if this rally was 30 miles from my house I would not have gone. However, when I go away on the bike I like to have a destination in mind. It all feels a bit pointless to me otherwise. Riding purely for ridings sake has always felt a bit empty to me. So, a destination we had.
First night camping in Holland and the first catastrophic bike failure – a blown headlight bulb. Comments such as "poor maintenance", "shoddy" and "should be ashamed" were thrown about with gay abandon. I received a stern teacher look for my trouble.
We pushed on heroically, not letting the aforementioned catastrophe dampen our British resolve.
We got through Holland and Germany, pretty sharpish with the only thing of note was seeing the transition from West to East Germany. Obviously that transition is diminishing as time moves on as the old eastern block style architecture gets replaced with less austere buildings. We pulled down a small lane for lunch and ended up here.
It was presumably an old track to a factory. Probably something innocuous like tin can factory, but I convinced myself we would be accosted by stern, huge, Eastern Europeans wearing leather aprons and carrying carving implements and gibbets. I was scared but didn't show it. We ate lunch amongst the broken asbestos whilst eyeing the track suspiciously.
Next up, another lunch stop. This time on a track to the 'Village of the Damned'. I was quite getting into the swing of things.
We crossed the border of Poland (no idea where) but it was a scruffy-arsed border town type place. As soon as we crossed, the main road changed to a broken up track going through run down little villages with chickens in the street and small, threadbare looking kids running about that stopped in their tracks as we rode through. Seriously poor looking places. Despite first appearances, that level of poverty didn't seem to last. We pushed on to find a place to stay and eventually ended up at the coast where we found a campsite for the night.
Next day was a drizzly and wet day so we thought "sod camping" and found a nice hotel. Here's my manky boots on their nice carpet and no, I have no idea why I took it either.
We stopped at a swanky restaurant for lunch. Freshly decorated by the 'Changing Rooms' team.
There was only one other family in there, that arrived as we had nearly finished our lunch. They were a Polish family and the waiters made a bit of a fuss of them and lit the candles on their table. Guy, huffed and commented "oh, we don't get any candles then". At this point the waiter came over to us and lit our candles. When he had turned and gone I started the self righteous guffawing and asked "So what have we learned from this? I'll bloody tell you shall I? Not all Johnny foreigners are as pig ignorant as us Brits and do speak other languages".
That night is was back to camping. The area was not exactly a touristy place so we decided to wild camp in the woods. A nice spot it was too.
Here's my bike with her flaps out, the saucy minx.
I'l explain. The table I made as purely an act of one upmanship (pathetic, I know). Guy phoned me before we left to say he'd bought himself a small camping table to take. I thought, "right ya bugger" "see how you like this". I had seen one made on UKGSer by somebody else so I shamelessly plagiarised the idea and made it before we left. It actually worked really well and is most handy. I nearly took a candelabra as the pièce de résistance but had to reign in my stupidity at the last minute.
Base camp:
We pushed on through Poland. Driving standards getting progressively worse the further east we went. Guy started complaining of hearing a whining noise coming from the rear of his bike. I thought he meant me and was taking the piss but no, he thought there was an issue with his gearbox or final drive (or more specifically the start of his output shaft bearing giving out.) I think it was causing him much angst throughout the day and we decided that it would be best to get a campsite early and he would pull the bike apart to check things out. Reason for the extra caution was that if we found anything major that could not be fixed on a campsite we would at least have recovery whilst in Europe. If it went after we had crossed into Russia it would have meant a whole new level of ball ache.
After enquiring whether I was needed I was sensing a bit of tension so went and washed my pants in the sink and then went and found a supermarket and bought provisions. Whilst in there, security was called and I was frisked and questioned in Polish. I shrugged nonchalantly as I had no idea what he was blathering on about. I gathered though that carrying a helmet and bag around was a big deal. Hey ho, there you go.
I got back to site and Guy was getting the bike back together after stripping the back end and finding no problem with the bike. Tempting, as it was to say something smug along the lines of "sometimes it don't do to know too much" I resisted as I didn't want to get an adjustable shoved in my mush. Guy paced a couple of laps of the campsite with steam coming out of his ears whilst I looked at my feet uncomfortably for a while. I did feel sorry for him though as I knew it would be nagging at him, the not knowing. To his eternal credit though, shortly after getting home about 7 thousand miles later. The output shaft bearing fails – Reeeeesspect!
We pushed on through Lithuania and Latvia. Nothing much to report there apart from the women – sheeiit (no photos, sorry). Being on a bit of a tight schedule we were really just pushing on so sadly as a consequence don't get as much time to soak up the culture as we would have liked.
Next stop, the Russian border...stay tuned.
– obviously 
I'm digging guys sandals 
