Muzhi

Cautiously the door opened and the policeman peered in for signs of movement. There were none, just heavy breathing interrupted by the occasional snort of sleep. Out of the slits in my eyes I watched him slowly turn around and quietly close the door again. It was nine o’clock and time to get going. 

Our next stop was for fuel in Muzhi, a largish bump on the river’s bank. The new normal meant were greeted by the overly attentive police, who were busy dragging Geordie, Pat and Guy around every shop in town as they searched for a shovel - the three of them having arrived an hour ahead of us. A quick lunch and we were back to trying to get the bikes started. For us that meant fixing Eva's carburetor choke. The spare carby we’d bought in Irbit came in handy and proved there is some upside to 60 year old technology with a common design standard.  

Out on the zimniks we cherished the rare occasions when we found glare ice. It meant we could speed up and enjoy Eva's desire to go - for at least a short while. Then the ruts and potholes would reappear and before long we’d be digging ourselves out again. One long stretch of good road led us straight towards a zimnik maintenance team. Three trucks working in concert is all it takes to maintain the ice roads in tip-top condition. A plow smooths the way and is followed by an enormous flatbed truck carrying water that drips directly onto the snow. Lastly, a transport truck pulls three gigantic tyres across the newly formed ice smoothing it out. The process is a constant battle. Soft patches give way under the weight of traffic and form divots that the wind blows snow into solely to trap nutters on Urals. Nature is fully in charge in these parts. 

A Slice of Siberia

The landscape was changing again. River crossings became wider and more frequent. Villages spread out and everything felt more remote. Azov was our last checkpoint of the evening. The road guard kept the barrier down and would not let us pass. He didn’t lift it until he was sure we understood we had to go to the local police station to check in. When we got there, Guy, Geordie, and Pat had already arrived and were busy warming up. Between the three of them they had managed to replicate every daft thing Zaya and I had done over the past week, only they did it in in a matter of minutes earlier in the day. Pat and Guy had failed to crest a steep riverbank and duly slid backwards into a snowdrift. As they dug out Geordie spent his time practicing doughnuts on the ice. In his final attempt at a 540 spin he disastrously caught a wheel. His bike reared up and over and crashed on top of him. Luckily he was unhurt even though he knocked a big dent in the fuel tank with his knee.

An old fisherman, Sergey, strode into the police station and impishly charmed his way into our hearts. With shining eyes and a crenelated smile he welcomed us, told stories and insisted we come to his house for dinner. Zaya listened and videoed and translated for us. Once all the other teams had arrived, the police insisted we stay put for the night and sleep in the village hall. We checked out our digs, found the outhouse, and then made our way en masse to supper. 

With long confident strokes, and a little theatrics, Sergey first shaved off the frozen fish’s scales. Next, slices of flesh curled and broke in a welcome heap on the cutting board. He pointed at us with the sharp end of his knife, urging us to try this delicacy with a little mustard and salt. And what a treat! Solid fish, rich in oil, melted on your tongue with fiery, spicy mustard to complement its wintery flavor. Mustard with the ability to tickle your nose and bring tears to your eyes, the way it used to be when I was a kid. Snug in the little dining room, the entire group gathered around the table enjoying Sergey’s generosity and playing with his grandchildren. Vodka? Of course! It would be rude not to! здоровья! Good health! We smiled and laughed. 

Walking back to our sleeping quarters for the night, my breath instantly condenses and floats beguilingly under the bright white street lights. It was really, really cold. 

Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Cylinders

Instead of turning the corner to follow Paddy and Nick, Zaya kept straight on and plowed into a snowbank. Eva stopped - just altogether stopped. Between us we got her turned around and were trying to figure out what happened when the other team showed up. Rob, a Londoner who sounds like he just walked off the set of a Guy Ritchie movie, came over and asked if he could help. Not being sure what was wrong, we explained that Eva had died, even though there was plenty of juice in her battery. Turns out Rob’s bike had exactly the same problem two days before and the solution was to run a wire from the positive battery terminal directly to the starter. Ten minutes of crimping and taping later Eva was running again and we were very grateful for the advice. 

Earlier that morning Nick and I had taken a taxi to the police station to fetch our bikes. Strolling in in our fat suits past a group of thugs who looked like they had just posed for a series of mug shots, we managed to grab the attention of an officer in her mid 30’s. With dark brown hair, four inch heels and a tight pencil skirt she was no babushka. By this time my adventure beard was grotty enough that, when combined with 10 days lack of sleep, I looked like crap. I figured her willingness to help was all down to Nick’s good looks. She confidently bossed her male colleagues about until one of them found his keys and led us out a back door to the impounded vehicle area. Returning to our hotel we then putzed around for a couple more hours. At lunchtime I saw Rico and Björn, almost like an apparition, orbiting the town’s center and gathered them up. Over tea they brought us up to speed on what had happened back in Priobe. To keep their engine running they tried to drive around the hotel. They only got halfway. Their bike simply stopped and wouldn’t restart. Help eventually arrived and they had to buy a big new car battery, by which time we were long gone. To make matters worse they were only running on one cylinder and progress was slow. 

After fixing Eva the road conditions deteriorated sharply. The zimnik would be nice and smooth for 500 metres then dissolve into five kilometres of ruts and potholes full of loose snow. Standing on the pegs helped me find a line of attack while simultaneously keeping my tailbone from being bruised. At one point the road bent around a copse of trees at an incline of 25 degrees. In a moment of panic Eva slid sideways on the glare ice until we gripped some softer snow at the edge of the river and bounced. Whew! 

The next biggish village sat on a high bluff looking out over the main river. A side road ran directly from the shoreline past a couple of grounded fishing boats and straight up onto the main street. I eased on the throttle and with plenty of runway made it quickly to the top of the hill. As we crested out of the shadows, the sun dazzled me and I saw a car bearing down on us. We came to a quick stop just before the car crossed the intersection. Slowly, with agonizing anticipation, Eva started rolling backwards, down the hill, the steep hill we’d just climbed. No front brake. Useless rear brake. Lots of rapid mental calculations and vocal swearing. I decided to swing into a snowbank and we came to a rapid, safe rest. Zaya and I looked at each other for a moment, exhaled, and then got out and started pushing. At that point, Nick and Paddy, who were laughing hysterically, came over to help. It was then I decided if there’s one thing a geezer and a young woman need on the Ice Run, it’s a couple of big, strong Yorkshireman. Paddy, in his quiet deadpan way, said watching us was a bit of a spectator sport. I’m not sure it was a compliment. 

We're the Police, We're Here to Help

The police are everywhere in Russia*. It was at a crossroads outside Nyagen that I first realized we were being watched over like kindergarteners on a field trip. It became more and more apparent the cops were in contact with each other and were handing us off from one station to the next. I think they had two goals: firstly, as ambassadors they wanted make sure we got all the support we needed, and, secondly, do their best to ensure we didn’t kill ourselves and generate a huge amount of complex paperwork. Their attentiveness reached its apex in Bezerovo. There they met and guided us through town, watched our bikes as we checked into a hostel, flirted with Zaya, and then escorted us to their brand new police station so they could lock our bikes up overnight. We couldn’t have been more conspicuous if we’d wanted to be. 

By now the lead team was probably a full day or more ahead, but after driving over 200 kilometers in one go we had at last caught up with Geordie, Pat and Guy. Everyone else soon followed us into town. Everyone that is except Björn and Rico who were still missing in action. Our hostel was the cheapest place we could find and the receptionist gave Zaya a quick lesson in Russian gender politics by making her take a room of her own. For us men, we booked a shared room, scheduled our showers, and marveled at how a building without any right angles could actually remain standing. 

Just before we ate we let slip that we were still looking for one other team and the police duly set off in search of the missing Swiss. Around 10:30PM the cops returned saying they’d found our comrades camping about 45 minutes south. At first they thought the tent had been abandoned, but they were there after all. A few days later Rico pointed out there is a reason you don’t wake up a hibernating bear - they get really cranky when you get them out of their nice warm bed in the middle of the night for no good reason. And, no, they didn’t want to go with the officers to a hotel, no, really, thank you, we just want to sleep. 

During dinner the group swapped stories about the meteor, tipping Urals, and snow camping. We downed local brandy under the encouraging auspices of a drunken self-appointed mentor. And somehow I sensed things relaxing, the inherent competitiveness giving way to a collective appreciation of “isn’t this a bloody awesome adventure?” Yes it is! Siberia is bloody awesome! And there was more to come… 
_________________________

*Click here for our Mongol Rally view on Russian police

Slim Pickings

Turning west, the zimnik led us back towards evergreens and low hills. The sun shone brilliantly, casting deep shadows across our path through the woods. As intimidating as the ice road sounded, it was far easier than what we had faced in the first few days. As I drove along, Rico’s advice maundered through my head, “Keep very steady on the throttle, find the sweet spot and only move it forward or back a couple of millimeters. Like Olly said, make love to your bike.” I stroked her and caressed her, and, despite one pirouette, Eva responded in kind. At a T-junction we followed the sign, and Sergei’s map, and turned left towards petrol and lunch. 

The little town of Igrim has tidy streets, modern apartments, and well mannered children. A gentleman we met at the gas station led us to a cafeteria where we wolfed down borscht, olivje (traditional Russian salad with peas and beetroot) and a kind of shuba (a ‘fur coat’ salad with carrots and onions, and in this case not herring, but mystery meat). Both the latter dishes were rich with mayonnaise, which, along with sour cream, is a staple ingredient of Russian cuisine. The restaurant’s manager, like many other Russian women my age, was built like a life-sized babushka doll. And like others I had met, she chastised me for buggering about on a motorcycle in the dead of winter and not being at home with my grandchildren. I appreciated her bemused attention. 

On the northern end of town the zimnik sat at the bottom of a high, steep riverbank. We followed a friendly taxi driver cautiously through the backstreets until we started downhill. Suddenly Nick flew past us, feet out like Fred Flintstone, trying to slow down La Poderosa before the intersection. Sweeping through the corner, the lack of traffic was probably the only thing that saved his and Paddy’s lives. Despite myself I couldn’t help but laugh in sympathy. 

There’s a scene in Blazing Saddles that you might remember, the one where Black Bart and the Waco Kid build a fake toll booth to slow up the bad guys. Leaving Igrim was no different. A tiny hut stood alone on the wide, empty plain, with only its candy cane gate blocking our way to Bezerovo. “We're gonna hafta go back and git a sh**load of roubles!”, I said in my best Slim Pickens voice. The guard gave me a quizzical look and slowly lifted the barrier… 

Two Teams Forward, One Team Back

Zzzzzzzzzzzzz! I grew up in Chicago where the winters are harsh and the women are hairy. Or are the winters hairy and the women harsh? (Get on with it! - ed.) It wasn’t, therefore, a great surprise that our hotel was ferociously overheated. Opening the window merely led to a binary standoff between the blood crystalizing cold outside and thermo-nuclear furnace inside. My ears were cold and my feet were melting, and still I slept the sleep of a sterno-infused vagrant underneath the 47^th street bridge in January. (Will you please get on with it! - ed.) 

First down for breakfast at 8:00AM, the appointed time, I turned my attention to the TV. It had the good sense to be showing a documentary on the history of Ural motorcycles. And there they were! Our guide at last week’s museum visit in Irbit, Sergey-the-boss of the factory, and a whole raft of wonderful Ural film clips dating back to the second world war. Note to The Adventurists: you should track down this 60 minute film for Ice Runner's movie night. Sadly it was over by the time the rest of the team turned up. Eggs, toast, packing and, what’s this?, the local chief of police to show us the way out of Priobe and onto the zimniks. 

The sun inched towards what was sure to become a beautifully clear day. All engines throbbing we were ready to leave. Like Nick and Paddy, Rico and Björn had to keep their bike moving or the spark plugs would foul and the engine would stall. So around the corner they went as we all followed the policeman. Or so we thought. The four of us, Nick, Paddy, Zaya and I arrived at the last petrol station in northern Russia, filled our bikes and waited for Björn and Rico who should have been just behind us. We asked the chief if he’d seen them. He had no idea where they were. I called Rico, no answer. Hmmm… Now what? This didn’t make any sense. They couldn’t have simply vanished. After 10 more minutes we figured that either they had lost patience and gone ahead like the night before, or they went to Plan B, whatever that was. We were all baffled. Then, even though it somehow didn’t seem right, we decided we’d continue on in case they had indeed passed us. 

Following the police car out onto a tall berm, we turned right and three kilometers later said our thank-you’s and slid down a side track towards a vast white expanse that seemingly stretched out forever. Pine trees quickly faded away behind us. In their place bare willows, low shrubs, and bullrushes obstinately poked through the snowdrifts waiting for warmer weather. My initial impression of the zimniks was how well maintained they appeared. In the first 20 minutes of our ride we saw three huge earth movers busily shaping the road. Another 20 minutes later we came across our first zimnik crash. A family in a 4x4 had run smack into the back of a huge flatbed truck and a passionate argument was in full swing as we needled our way around them. We paused, tried Rico again on his cell phone, and asked a passing driver if he had seen another motorcycle like ours. He said, sure, just up the road there is a bunch of your guys. And in less than five minutes we had caught up with Ben, Arran, Ben, Jenna, Rob, and Thomas as they broke camp. They hadn’t seen Björn or Rico either. It was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma… 

(to be continued...)

To Nyagen, and Beyond!

Revelries over, morning had broken with air so cold and dry it made you cough as soon as you stood outside and inhaled. Kickstarting Eva proved a good way to clear my addled head, only she wouldn’t start. Eventually we tied her to Björn’s bike and pulled to her life. As we were futzing about, my mittens had sneakily dropped off the sidecar and I threw a full-on hissy fit searching for them. Luckily Zaya saw them lying in the middle of the road before I burst a blood vessel. We finally got underway. For the first couple of hours things went steadily, then Eva started acting up and finally died on a hill 15 kilometers outside the city. It was Sunday. 

“You just missed your friends.”, said the tall, square jawed policeman who had pulled us over almost as soon as we entered Nyagan. His confirmation that we were dead last didn’t help our mood. Still, we did as we were told and followed him to the main police station to register our visas. 

Finished with our visa paperwork we were shown the way to a clutch of repair shops and several hours passed as we watched a team of technicians, led by Vitaly, wire up a new headlamp switch and battery for Eva’s failing electrics. The charge? Nothing, it's from the heart! Thank you! спасибо! Then, just as we were finishing, we noticed the rear tail light wasn't working. Having bypassed the lamp's standard wiring in Uray it took another 15 minutes to hook it up to the new circuit. Tiring of the delays, Björn and Rico took off and agreed we'd see them in the next town. Another officer, off-duty this time, escorted us out of Nyagen and told us that the police in Priobe would find us and show us the way to a hotel. Driving at night wasn’t our first choice, but we had time to make up. This was the last stop and for all we knew the last outpost of civilization before the zimniks, the ice roads that would lead us another 600 kilometers to the Arctic Circle and the finish line. In Priobe we met the others in our hotel’s cafe for a bite and a beer. We felt good that we’d made it as far as we had in two long days, then wondered how far ahead the others were. 

Dedicated to her documentary, Zaya stayed up all night downloading data and charging batteries. I don’t know how she does it. Fading into bed I felt like I needed a week’s sleep just to catch up.

Roadhouse Rave

Nyagen lay some 350 kilometers away along clear, asphalt roads. Our agreed plan was for an early start and a heavy hand on the throttle, but we didn’t leave Uray until past noon. At the halfway point the sun dipped to the horizon and we stopped for gas. Clear skies meant that the temperature would fall quickly and that my glasses would freeze behind my goggles, making me completely blind. It was now −17C and Zaya bravely took over as I hid behind the sidecar’s windscreen in relative comfort. Our intermediate goal was dinner at a roadhouse another 40 kilometers up the road towards Talinka.

In the gloom and the cold we drove as fast as we dared and arrived at the roadhouse in pretty short order. After we had eaten and we debated whether we should camp for the night or continue on to Nyagen. I wanted to stay, Björn wanted to go on and we went at each other for a bit. Finally, we decided to put it to a vote and the majority agreed that carrying on in the dark, freezing conditions, didn’t make much sense if all it meant was getting to Nyagen at 3:00AM.

The temperature was now below −25C and Zaya sweetly started working her magic on the roadhouse’s manager, asking if it was possible to sleep in the restaurant’s warm little dining area. Lest you, dear reader, get the wrong impression, our roadhouse was the size of a single mobile home, about 8 feet wide and 30 feet long. The manager was smitten and conferred with his staff. With incredible hospitality they said, no, that we should sleep in their bunk house out back and they would sleep in the restaurant. The price? Nothing, no charge, but we are going to celebrate! At which point both Björn and I lit up, our tensions vanished and with Zaya we fully embraced the moment. The others made their various ways to bed while the three of us danced, sang, and drank ‘tomato paste’ vodka with the manager, his two ladies, and a few truckers until the very wee hours. For the record, tomato paste vodka has a simple recipe: take one empty jar of tomato paste, go round back to the 500 litre barrel of vodka, fill, swill, and repeat until blotto.

This video pretty much sums things up.  

Meteor - Right!?

Surreal - adjective, unreal, bizarre, unusual, weird, strange, freakish...

It was past 10:00PM and we’d spent the entire afternoon working on our bikes with the coolest mechanics in Siberia’s most tricked out man cave and were just settling down for dinner with a side of vodka and accordion music when the TV blew what was left of my brain cells out. The images on the screen couldn’t have been more surreal or terrifying. A meteor had exploded over Chelyabinsk, a mere 600 kilometers south, and with the force of 440,000 TONNES of TNT it leveled buildings and injured hundreds of people! I mean Wilco Tango Foxtrot?? What were the chances? Really, what were the chances of being at galactic ground zero for an asteroid strike? (Well, actually, I did the math and it’s about 1:451*. Which means it’s way, way easier to be pink misted by a meteor than win the lottery.) According to the news we should never have seen 9:31 that morning. Had we not, we would have missed an entire litany of coincidences, comradeship, and good fortune. 

With all the energy we could muster and our faltering Urals would allow we left our hotel early. Our objective? The mythical city of Uray, so famous that even Dexys Midnight Runners wrote an ode to the place in 1982 and the song** shot straight to number one in the charts. Uray meant petrol at a pump, it meant food on a plate, it meant garages with spare parts. It meant we had survived the Road of Death.

Standing a little nonplussed at the side of the highway, Nick and Paddy waved back at us. Something in their body language gave me pause and we turned around to make sure that they were okay. “Nah, bloody thing won’t start,” Nick, in his broad Yorkshire accent and pointing at ‘La Poderosa’ said, “It’s completely knackered!” “We can give you a tow,” I said offering Rico and Björn’s services in absentia. “That would be brilliant!”, he said. A hundred kilometers later we had long since missed the meteor and it had missed us, but we had at last found Uray. In one phone call we met up with the same stable of mechanics that the lead team had seen the day before. Severally, almost ten guys worked on various parts of our bikes. Eva had lost fourth gear sometime before the accident and now her windscreen needed replacing. Björn and Rico’s bike needed timing and wheel bearing work, while La Poderosa needed a kick in the butt. In the melee we discovered the leading team’s dirty tricks squad had bought every bearing in town. Given the amount of play in our wheels it seemed unlikely that the bearings would have enough enclosed space to actually seize in any case.

Repairs completed we segued into partying at a local restaurant with Uri, Pascha, Alexsander, Sergei, and various partners and spouses. After the main course, Sasha cranked out a few Russian gypsy punk songs on his squeezebox. Speeches were made, bottles of vodka consumed and plans formed for reuniting in backwoods adventures and July’s annual Irbit motorcycle rally. My windshield expert, Alexsander, leaned over and looked at me with great seriousness and said, “In life you need four things: fire in the eye, fire in the heart, fire in the soul, and fire in the arse!” As for fire in the sky? Well, not so much, we both laughed heartily. _______________________________________________
* As a Google recruiter, this one is for Rico. Here goes:

• Area of earth’s surface: 510 trillion m2

• Area occupied by average human: 1m2

• Odds of any one individual being hit directly by a meteorite: 1:510 trillion

But we know that the meteor left a much wider path of destruction. For our poetic license we took:

• Area of Galactic Ground zero (GG0): ((600km*1000)^2)*pi = 1.13 trillion m2

• Likelihood of a human being hit while standing in GG0 at time of meteor impact: 1:451

** Come On, Eileen (To-Uray-eh!) 

Flipping Urals!

The day started slowly. After an hour troubleshooting their broken headlamp, Pat and Guy realized the rat’s nest that is Ural wiring wasn’t about to yield. Eva was running a bit rough, but started soon enough. Björn and Rico’s bike, however, was acting up and mis-firing on one of its two cylinders. We left with the intention of reaching the next major town and a mechanic. About 40 kilometers out and 20 minutes into Björn’s second repair, we split into two teams and Zaya and I hung back with he and Rico.

Light snow had dusted the icy road making it wildly slick. The treacherous conditions presented us with a whole new lesson in throttle handling. Now a tiny bit too much oomph meant a 360 degree spinout (which can be fun). The ruts were smaller, but trickier. Struggling for control we hit one at the wrong angle and I rolled on the throttle a little heavily. The bike snapped to the right and when the sidecar wheel caught on a patch of snow we summarily flipped over. I went down first and hit my head and the bike landed on top of us. Looking up I did a quick inventory. Pain? No. Twisted limbs? No. Breathing? Yes. Bleeding? No. Zaya - you okay? Yes. That out of the way the next thing I noticed was petrol and oil leaking out - crap - have to turn this thing over or we’ll be stuck. Pushing against the sidecar felt oddly soft and I realized that I was pushing on Zaya. By this time Rico and Björn had pulled up. With their help we managed to wriggle out and together put Eva back on her tyres before she lost all her fuel. 

There are three main things they teach you in motorcycle training school. Don’t drink and drive, always wear a helmet, and make sure that you are in the right frame of mind. Two out of three won’t do. I was sober and wearing a full face, DOT approved helmet, but realized that in my frustration with the day’s late start I was over cranking things in the conditions. Rico said later that the crash looked really ‘awful’ and fortunately neither of us was seriously hurt.