Ashes to Boonville

Chapter 15: Amur Highway Begins

2010-01-18T21:42:00.000-08:00

As I leave the city of Chita, I stop to take photographs beneath a road sign and Alan parks his Tiger behind me. Yes, we’re still together. Despite the latest outburst of racial abuse, this time directed at the Chinese, Alan’s decided against taking the Trans Siberian Railway to Vladivostok and will follow me along the Amur Highway instead. I’m beginning to regret making the promise to his parents that I’d get him across Russia safely, but it’s my bed and I’ll just have to get comfortable lying in it.

It’s been raining overnight, the roads are wet but thankfully the clouds are beginning to clear. The sign seems obvious, it’s all in Cyrillic lettering but that’s something that we’re now beginning to understand. A few weeks ago back in Sochi, this alphabet had been a total mystery to both of us, but by trying to read the hundreds of road signs that we‘ve seen each day, we can now read the signs without even thinking. It’s not something that we’ve learned, it’s just something that’s happened. The lettering is beginning to look normal, but then I’m dyslexic and maybe that just makes it easier for me. ‘’M58 Amur, Khabarovsk 2165Km’’. The Amur Highway was officially opened by Vladimir Putin back in 2005, and if I say so myself, perhaps a little prematurely. It’s the final piece of a road network that will eventually link St Petersburg in the West with Vladivostok in the East, making it the longest continuous road in the world. It’s a remarkable achievement to have any road at all running across Siberia, but to say that it would be completely finished by 2008, was perhaps a little optimistic. The Amur Highway clings to the border with China and is shadowed all of the way by the Trans Siberian Railway. Eventually it will be a perfectly smooth seven lane super-highway, reports from other travellers suggest that this might not be true … but we’re about to find out for ourselves.

I’m following the map and compass, but as there’s only really one road to take, then navigation really isn’t an issue. We start heading East on beautifully smooth tarmac, it‘s only single carriageway, but at least it‘s paved. The forests seems to have ended to the West of Chita and were riding through steppe. Lush rolling grasslands from horizon to horizon broken only by the occasional red and white radio mast rising upwards into the sky. As if to confirm that we’ve taken the correct road, we see the first convoys of Japanese cars coming towards us with no regard for speed limits. Their bodywork covered in thick beige coloured mud, perhaps an indicator of what road conditions await us. We pass occasional cafes and fuel stations, small villages with wandering cows and very few people. The density of population has fallen dramatically, we’re slowly moving out into the wilds of Siberia. I’m growing in confidence, the road engineers have clearly been busy completing Puttin’s gift to the Russian people. The tarmac stretches over the horizon and we’re making good progress. It’s a long road, but thankfully it’s not a straight one. Perhaps the planners rode motorcycles because they’ve certainly kept it interesting. It’s actually quite good fun and I‘m beginning to wonder what all of the fuss was about. For the first 200km East from Chita, I’m beginning once again to think that the travellers have exaggerated their lot. The road is perfectly fine and even Alan‘s beginning to relax. Beneath the sign marking the beginning of the Amur Highway, I‘d stood for a photograph with arms held aloft, my fingers forming the ‘Victory‘ sign, but I’d forgotten that pride usually comes just before the next fall. Just as I’m dreaming of a warm bed in Vladivostok, and even possibly completing the Amur Highway in just two days of riding, the situation changes dramatically. The tarmac just vanishes, no warning, no signs, just a black line across the road where the tarmac stops and the sand begins. We hit the sand at speed, it catches us by surprise but our speed probably saves us. A fast bike generally keeps going in the same direction. The pace slows, the surface is wet which thankfully makes the sand firm and almost rideable, but the spray from the wet surface covers everything. The road is awash with water and it’s impossible to pick out and avoid the pot holes. It’s not the smoothest ride that I’ve ever enjoyed, but it’s certainly one of the most intense. It’s like riding on a moonscape, craters are everywhere and in the places where they lack depth, they make up for it in number. Then just quickly as the tarmac had turned to sand, it now turns to gravel. Deep fine gravel that sends the bikes in every direction but forwards. It takes some getting used to, I try to pick out the shallower areas where the convoys of cars have spread the chippings, but that means riding in the centre of the road. It’s certainly now wide enough to be a seven lane super highway, and one day it will be, but at the moment everything travelling on this road uses one single track, the centre line. Every few miles it becomes an unintentional game of ’Chicken’ with the cars travelling towards us. We all want to keep to the centre, the Japanese cars to avoid the costly damage from stone chips and the tow hapless riders to avoid falling off in the deeper gravel to the side. It’s a battle of wills and the main danger is that once you commit to leaving the passable central track, you hand over control of the bike to the contours of the road. If the oncoming Japanese car decides to break away in the same direction as the bike, then things become interesting. We’re slowly developing a strategy to combat this. Stand up on the bike, look purposeful and don’t give way. Hold the centre line and wait for the cars to move, and thankfully they usually do. Having said all of that, it’s uncomfortable in that it isn’t smooth and some of the deeper sand and gravel surfaces take a great deal of concentration, but so far it‘s been an awful lot easier than most of the horror stories that I‘ve read.

Last night I found a secluded campsite at the opposite side of the Trans Siberian Railway. It was down a muddy track and through a small stream, but once through these minor inconveniences, it opened out into a glorious lush green meadow filled with thousands of tall wild and brightly coloured flowers. I got Alan’s bike through without difficulty but on the second journey on my own Tiger, I dropped it. I was at a standstill when the bike eventually fell, but I think Alan at least now understands that falling off the bike is just an unavoidable part of travelling. There was no real damage, sadly not even a scratch to commemorate the event. Despite the Triumph Main-Dealer kindly warning me that the Tiger would never make it to Vladivostok, these Tigers are seemingly built to last and the reliability has been prefect. Apart from a touch of accident damage to Alan’s, and a snapped clutch cable on mine, they’re never batted an eyelid. It’s quite amazing, and while talking of amazing, Alan offered to cook dinner last night. Unfortunately, progress in the kitchen was already quite well advanced, but I hope that it’s a sign of things to come.

This morning Alan told me that for the majority of last night, a bear had shared our camp. I’d been snoring for the duration and thankfully Alan hadn‘t woken me. If I’m being honest, I’m glad that I was asleep, because the sight of me screaming like a girl would not be very pretty. It’s only our second bear encounter but I have a feeling that as this road takes us to more remote parts of Siberia, such encounters are inevitable. We follow the basic rules of not leaving any traces of food around the camp, but to be quite honest, I know as much about bears as I do about nuclear physics. Hopefully the bears only come around at night and unless they take offence at my snoring, then I shouldn’t really get in their way and annoy them.

This evening we stopped at a roadside service station, which is a little misrepresentative as it didn’t actually have any services, just a large gravel car park and a ramp where the Kamas truck drivers could fix their aging vehicles. To the side of the car park was a small Russian Orthodox Church no larger than a small bedroom and protected by a small stray dog who refused to move from it’s doorway. It was about two hours before sundown and I headed off to try and find a rough campsite for the night leaving Alan to look around the church. A few miles down the road I found a suitable site and returned to the car park. There was no longer any sign of Alan, but his bike was still there so I knew he hadn’t gone far. After a few minutes, the door to the small church opened and Alan emerge looking far more cheerful than he had done at any time during the past few weeks. We didn’t really talk and it’s a difficult thing for me to explain, but after we left that tiny church, Alan took the lead and rode with a degree of confidence that he hasn’t shown since leaving England. We shot passed the campsite that I’d found but that didn’t really matter, Alan was riding confidently and I was happy to relax and follow him. A few miles further down the road, Alan flashes his brake light, turns left onto a small rough track and finds an ideal camp ground for the night. We pitch the tents and start a smoky fire to keep the mosquitoes at bay and then Alan prepares my first meal and coffee of the trip so far. His mood has lifted and the dark cloud that has followed us from Switzerland seems to have vanished. Vladivostok is still some 2,500Km away and we still have at least a 1,750Km to ride on these marginal roads, but fingers crossed, I think Alan has finally found his feet.

After pitching camp about a hundred metres from the highway and safely hidden from passing traffic, we meet Alexander. Miles from any village, deep in the heart of Siberia, Alexander appears silently on foot and stands motionless at a safe distance from our hidden camp. We watch him from the security of our hideout, hidden in the foliage but with a campfire raging behind us that somewhat compromises our stealth. He’s dressed in military fatigues, carrying an old army rucksack and a walking stick fashioned from what looks to be an old chrome umbrella without it‘s material covering. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of me and as with all travellers that we meet, Alexander is invited to share our fire, our coffee and what little food we have. He asks if we know of the old border crossing into China where there’s a small Church, a place where he intends to spend the night. We show him the photographs that I’ve taken of the Church whilst Alan had been inside. It’s some ten kilometres back along the road and Alexander nods, this is his destination for the evening. He mentions that this particular church has a special significance to travellers along the Amur Highway, but he chooses not to explain why. He simply looks towards Alan and smiles almost like a father smiling at his son. Alexander is a ‘Kazakh’ and very proud of his heritage. He talks in excellent English, his words are few and well chosen with long pauses for thought and reflection in between. We ask very few questions and we’re content to simply listen to this old man’s stories. Alan’s sits at Alexander’s feet and listens intently to his every word, his eyes focused on his gnarled face. Alexander talks of exploring the area north of Vladivostok and the island of Sachalin by bicycle, of encounters with wild bears and tigers. He tells of his time in the Atlas Mountains and of his youthful days on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. For the past ten years Alexander has been wandering the world in search of something, but he knew not what he was looking for until recently. Born in what is now a part of Kazakhstan, Alexander is walking from Vladivostok to St Petersburg where for the princely sum of 60,000 Roubles (£1,500) he will receive a Russian passport and a small plot of land on which he’ll build his house and grow vegetables. Although he was born a ‘Russian’, as a citizen of Kazakhstan he now needs a Passport to visit what he considers to be his own country, a country for which he has fought in many conflicts, a country that he now feels has abandoned him. We ask Alexander about the legality of purchasing his Russian passport but he just shrugs his shoulders and returns to his steaming coffee. He looks around our makeshift camp and asks if we’ve encountered any bears. He advises that we hang our socks on nearby trees as this will mark our territory and any bears will be scared away, or perhaps Alexander has simply smelt our socks. As darkness begins to descend Alexander rises and starts heading towards the church at the old border crossing into China. I offer to take him there on the bike but he refuses. As quickly and mysteriously as he’d arrived, he’s gone. I feel guilty, I walk out to the road with the intention of insisting that he lets me take him the ten kilometres back to the church on the Tiger, ….. but he’s nowhere to be seen, Alexander has disappeared.

Later that evening, Alan revealed that just before reaching the small church on the Amur Highway, he'd enjoyed an experience with God. Alan had seen a hand reach down from the heavens and lift him up from the dangers of the road. From that point onwards, his confidence had lifted, he knew that we would be safe. Alexander arriving at our camp and mentioning that church had to Alan been almost like a confirmation of what he had seen and felt. Up until that point, neither Alan nor I were believers in any particular faith, but now for Alan that seems to have changed.

In the past two days we’ve encountered many more bikes heading west across Russia. First there was Yoshi, a Japanese guy on an Africa Twin heading up towards Finland. Yoshi told us of Yuki, a lone Japanese girl some three days behind him on a small Suzuki who’s riding around the world for her second time. We chat for a few minutes and replenish his empty water containers before waving goodbye. Two hours later we meet Yuki on her Suzuki Djebel 250, hot on the heels of her fellow countryman Yoshi. Either Yoshi had over estimated his own speed, or underestimated hers. She’s fun, she’s confident and she also knows that she’s closing in on Yoshi, a prospect that seems to excite her. I fill her exhausted fuel tank from my jerry can and then she races off long the road in hot pursuit.

A little later in the day we see a Harley Davidson appear from the dust. It’s parked to the side of the road and we pull over to see if we can help. As the dust settles we see a line of similar Harley’s parked behind it and we’re introduced to the ‘Korean HOG’s’. (Harley Owners Group). There are seventeen of them travelling in convoy with a large support truck from Vladivostok to Hamburg. We exchange stories and gifts and we’re assured of a warm welcome if we should ever visit Korea. They’re surprised to learn that the road they are currently travelling on will not improve until they reach Chita, they’ve read the Russian press reports about the seven lane super highway and are wondering when it begins. The news that we give to our new Korean friends is not good, .. It doesn’t begin, … it doesn’t exist, .. This is about as good as it gets. They’re crestfallen, two of the bikes have already succumbed to the rigors of the road and are now riding on the support vehicle, … they’re going to need a much larger truck. Unfortunately the news of the road east for Poor Circulation is equally grim, more of the same and even less of the high quality petrol, but at least Vladivostok is an awful lot closer than St Petersburg.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 14: Lake Baikal

2010-01-18T01:42:00.001-08:00

We arrive at the ferry terminal for Ol Chon. It’s an arrangement of two almost identically derelict café’s, a rough concrete ramp and in the best traditions of Poor Circulation, the ferry is just disappearing into the distance. It’s only a thirty minute crossing and it should give us time to find fuel for the bikes. Alan and Rick, a BMW riding German who stayed with us Irkutsk, advises me against it. They want their bikes to be as light as possible when they negotiate the sand roads on the island. They probably have a valid point, but I’d much prefer to struggle with a slightly heavier bike in the sand than to run out of fuel and have to push the bloody thing through it. Anyway, the way that Alan and I ride across the rough stuff, a few extra kilograms isn’t really going to make a world of difference.

In the least derelict of the two cafes they order ’Shashlik’, an assortment of barbequed meats that are usually served with fried potatoes, and I head into the hills in search of a fuel station. I stop next to an old lady who I find walking in circles with a pair of rather handsome cows and ask her where I can find benzene. She's the perfect caricature of a Russian Lady; rotund with a ruddy complexion beneath a large flowing head scarf, a floral print dress and as she smiles and points towards the very top of the hill, two perfect rows of golden teeth. I smile back and head off up the rutted tracks towards a radio mast at the top of the hill. Here in Siberia, if your looking for fuel in towns and villages where nothing is signposted, the fuel station is always located close to the radio mast. Find the radio mast and you’ll find your next supply of fuel. At the top of the hill, on the best parcel of building land in the area, with magnificent views across Lake Baikal, I find the shabbiest fuel vending facility that I’ve ever seen. I hand over my Rubbles to the beautiful young girl behind the wire mesh screen and I tell her ’’Dupulna’’. It’s probably the most important Russian word that I’ve learned. It seems to mean that I’ll fill up the Tigers tank and then return for my change when it‘s done. It works a treat and with the tank now brimming with the lowest grade fuel that I’ve used so far on the journey, I walk to the edge of the cliff and take in the stunning view. Looking down onto the lake from the edge of the petrol shack - you can hardly call it a filling station - I can see just how beautiful Lake Baikal really is. It’s a freshwater lake, the deepest in the world, and the Island of Ol’Chon stands just a few short miles away from the shore. Up here on the hill it’s windy, but the surface of the lake is millpond still. There’s something very special about the colours, they’re too sharp and perfect to be natural. The view seems to have been painted by humans, a representation of how the perfect Lake should appear and it’s far more beautiful than I’d ever imagined. Already I can feel that there’s something very special about this place. It has an amazing sense of ’presence’, a spirituality that‘s impossible to describe. Using my £3.99 binoculars, I can see Alan and Rick in the café way down below on the concrete jetty. They’re tucking into their barbequed meat, origin unknown, and the ferry is making it’s way back towards us. As it chugs slowly through the bright blue water, the ripples that it creates on the flat surface seem to continue on forever, nothing stops them., eternal waves The few small houses that I can see have all seen better days and rusting hulks of long abandoned Lada’s are everywhere, but for all of that, this is one of the most beautiful places that I have ever had the good fortune to stand. I don’t want to leave. It’s beautiful here, but the ferry wont wait and the road that I used to reach this point will not be as forgiving on the way back down. Time to leave.

As we board the ancient ferry, memories of our attempted exit from Albania come flooding back and we tell the story to Rick. Rick is a well prepared traveller, a traveller who knows his geography far better than we do. He already knows that the lake in question doesn’t stretch all of the way into Kosovo and he seems surprised that we hadn't already known that. He suspects that our level of research and planning is inadequate and in beautiful Germanic fashion, he doesn't hesitate to remind us. But we still laugh. Just like in Albania, the ferry is old, it has the same broken boarding ramp and has thus become another ‘Roll-On Reverse Off’ vessel. This is something that we’ve become accustomed too, but the situation today is made much more interesting by the number of cars that are towing fully loaded trailers and will need to reverse off the ferry when we reach Ol‘Chon. Given the narrowness of the vessel, it could be quite interesting. The voyage takes less than thirty minutes and the people aboard the ferry are mostly silent. For the first time on ‘Poor Circulation’ our motorbikes are ignored as the people quite rightly concentrate all of their senses on the surrounding lake and landscape. It’s just an amazingly beautiful place. These people are not tourists, they're local’s who probably make this journey on a regular basis, yet still they gaze in silence at the landscape. It really is that captivating. The air is fresh and clear, the waters are still and there’s a slight shroud of pure white mist that adds a certain mystery to everything. It reminds me of my favourite place in the world, Lake Dahl in Kashmir. Even above the throbbing of the Russian vessels ancient diesel engines, there’s a serenity in both of these places that’s so difficult to find and absolutely impossible to explain. Because of political unrest, Lake Dahl is now a difficult place to reach and Lake Baikal is geographically almost at the centre of Russia, but if anybody ever has the opportunity to visit either of these places, then the journey will be very worthwhile. You can not be disappointed.

Two months earlier and we could have ridden the bikes onto the island as Lake Baikal would still have been frozen. Ol’Chon is connected to the mainland during the summer months by the ferry and in winter by a frozen road of ice. In spring and autumn, the Island is totally cut-off for several weeks as the ice is too thin for vehicles but too thick for the ferry to cut through. Watching the island come ever closer, I begin to think that if you’re ever going to be isolated from the world for several weeks, then Ol’Chon might not be the worst place to be. But then again, this is the height of summer and in winter Siberia probably looses some of it’s charm, but at least the mosquitoes would be gone. Once again, they’re eating me alive.

The road towards the ferry had been ‘marginal’, but the road on the island is slightly worse. The tarmac ended sixty miles ago and the hard packed stone has turned into loose packed sand. The Tiger’s, and riders, are not best suited to these conditions and our progress is painfully slow. Alan is struggling with the surface. He lacks the confidence to stand up on the bike and use the throttle in order to keep everything moving in the right direction. It’s not easy, because when every instinct is telling you that if you don’t slow down then you’ll fall off, the safest thing to do is accelerate and apply great dollops of power to the rear wheel. The slower you ride the harder it is. On the other hand, Rick is in his Germanic element aboard his ‘Dakar Spec’ BMW and doing his utmost to make us look like the amateurs that we clearly are. Despite Alan’s early misgivings, Rick has turned out to be a really great guy to have around. Shortly after we'd met on the road towards Irkutsk, he’d informed us quite seriously that ‘’German’s have no sense of humour’’, and in true British fashion, we’ve tested this statement to the limit. Rick and I have offered Alan the same riding advice but while I try to gently encourage Alan to use higher revs and lower gears, Rick just tells him to stop being such a girl and demonstrates the required actions by shooting off into the distance at every opportunity. Alan’s worried that he can’t keep up, that he’s slowing us down, that we’ll get separated and lost. I have to keep reminding him that we’re on an island. Just how lost can you get?

After finding a small but remarkably well stocked shop where I fill up with provisions, we ride passed ‘Nikita’s’ homestead. Nikita’s is a famous travellers resting place but it’s renowned for it’s late night vodka parties, so we search for an isolated spot where for at least a couple of nights, we can camp peacefully and undisturbed. As we head out onto a small grassy peninsula, the track turns to a deep sand path running through low dunes where the Tigers immediately begin to sink. I encourage Alan to speed up and allow the bike to ride over the sand rather than just trying to plough through it, but it’s difficult. I search ahead and find better tracks for him to follow across the short grass where the sand is partially bound together by the root systems, but each time a sand dune appears in our path, we have to return to the track where it’s much more difficult. Then, we hit a particularly deep patch of sand on the good track and Alan backs off the throttle. The Tiger’s tail weaves as the front wheel buries itself and eventually he topples over. The sand is beautifully soft and there’s no damage to the bike, but Alan‘s had enough fun for today. He‘s caught his ankle beneath the pannier and while clearly nothing's been broken, it‘s painful and he‘s worried that another accident could put an end to his journey. With Rick miles away in the distance, we pick up Alan’s bike and I set off in search of the perfect a campsite.

With Alan safely sitting beside his upright bike, I quickly catch up with Rick and we start having fun racing each other through the dunes. There’s no way that the Tiger can match his BMW for ability, but as a courier, I’m not averse to creating my own short cuts. For about half an hour, we have the absolute time of our lives. But then, I embarrass my nation by trying to cut across a dune that proves to be impossible. The Tiger digs in, I kiss the sand in front of me and Germany claims victory. The Tiger’s buried to the wheel spindles in soft sand and with a cheery wave, Rick vanishes into the distance. I push and I pull, I rev the engine and I bury the Tiger deeper. I sit down and open a plastic bottle of freezing cold beer that I’ve bought at the small shop and wonder if I could have come to rest in a more beautiful place, and the answer is definitely no. I sit for about thirty minutes without a care in the world and then a small speck of black appears on the horizon. I assume that it’s Alan, back on his Tiger and riding to my rescue. The speck gets larger, it’s a bike but it’s not Alan, it’s a Honda Transalp. A few minutes later, a long haired and smiling Belarusian is sharing my beer and looking at the buried Tiger. We could move it but even without speaking, we both know that the beer will be finished long before the Tiger turns another wheel. This is Ol’Chon and all urgency has been left behind us on the mainland. Rick eventually arrives on the scene, delighted at my plight and grinning from ear to ear. He ignores the laws of physics that have conspired to trap my Tiger and rides into the same sand dune, with exactly the same results. Unfortunately for Rick though, the ice cold beer has all been drunk.

As darkness approaches, we’ve released the bikes from the dunes and made our camp. I’ve walked back and ridden Alan’s bike to the campsite that we’ve found on an outcrop of grass sitting just above the lake. The fire is burning and the pasta is washed down with the remaining bottles of beer that were stowed in Alan’s topbox. The Belarusian has returned to his organised campsite and the soft sounds of distant drum and bass signifies the beginnings of a wild party for him and his friends. A small group of fellow revellers arrive in their old VW Camper and encourage us to join them, but we’re shattered, we need rest. We’re just not really ’Ibiza’ people. At around ten o’clock, there is the inevitable power failure, the distant Club 18 - 92 falls silent and I sleep the perfect sleep.

The most beautiful morning, not a cloud in the sky, not a mosquito in the air and a small herd of cows wandering along the white sandy beach in front of my tent. I’ve brewed the morning coffee and the minutes that it takes for the kettle to boil on the Primus is often quite strangely, my favourite part of each day. I feel like the only person in the world, everything is peaceful, no problems exist and here on Ol’Chon, those feelings are magnified beyond belief. It's not that I don't like people, it's just that sometimes I prefer solitude and this place is like a little piece of heaven on earth. Eventually, weary eyes emerge from tents, blinking in the blindingly low sun. We drink coffee together and make a plan for the day. It’s the best plan possible, no plan at all. Rick and I go in search of firewood but it’s really just an excuse to start racing again. We clown around like teenagers until we arrive at the top of a very steep slope above a football pitch sized piece of perfectly green grass. Once again, Rick decides to demonstrate the supremacy of his competition prepared BMW over my humble ‘Street Bike Tiger’. I watch with much amusement as he drops down the steep incline and enters an area of deep bog where the BMW slows to an embarrassing halt. He pushes, he pulls, he pants and if I'd paid more attention to my German teacher at school, I could probably also confirm that he swore. After an appropriately long yet diplomatically important delay, I eventually manage to stifle my laughter and ride down to help Rick extract his bike from the mud that has swallowed his once infallible machine. For forty-eight hours, Rick has been offering his advice on all aspects of my life in general and motorcycling in particular and annoyingly, he‘s usually been absolutely right. Now, smiling, I choose this moment to impart a little of my own basic knowledge. ‘Rick my friend, here in Siberia if it’s ‘Green & Lush’ it’s probably not a football pitch, it’s more likely to be a bog’. As we stand admiring the glorious Tiger standing proudly in the sunshine on much firmer ground, I do believe that Rick nods his head in agreement. We rock the BMW back and forth, the mud squelches around it rims but fails to extract itself from the messy gloop. Rick starts the engine and either by accident or by design, gains revenge for my British arrogance. I push from the rear, Rick opens the throttle and within seconds I’ve become the comedy Mud Monster from Hell. But once the laughter has subsided, Rick does at least apologise

We’ve spent two nights camping above the beach overlooking Lake Baikal. I’ve cooked ponnini bought from the local store, we’ve eaten locally caught fish, smoked sausages and we’ve drank endless quantities of beer and vodka that's been cooled to perfection in the freezing waters of the lake. For forty-eight glorious hours we’ve simply kicked back and chilled out. After eight weeks of travelling this has been the first real break and I don‘t think that either of us knew just how tired we actually were. But it’s time to start moving, Rick wants to get to Mongolia ahead of the rains and I think that Alan just wants to get off the island as quickly as possible. Since dropping his bike in the sand, he’s allowed his confidence to drop even lower. He’s making mental monsters out of the roads back to the ferry and no matter what we say to try and help him, he can’t seem to squash his fears.

As we take down our makeshift camp and load the bikes to leave, we're all silent. It is by far the most beautiful place that Poor Circulation has visited so far and if we ever experience other places that can compare to this, then we’ll count ourselves to be very fortunate indeed. We’ve covered just over 10,000 miles to reach this place and on our way back to the mainland, I have a special treat in store for Alan. It’s a sight that will hopefully make him forget about broken roads, a place so beautiful that it’s impact will stay with him forever. Yesterday, Rick and I found a place on the island just to the rear of Nikita’s Homestead that is beautiful beyond words. From the rear of a small complex of ramshakle buildings, there is quite simply one of the most beautiful and peaceful places on this earth. A place where a lush grass slope runs down to a sheer cliff overhanging Lake Baikal below, where single trees stand upright against the force of gravity mirroring a tall white rock rising proudly from the still and pure blue waters of the lake. Where the cows and crickets make the only noise and if any people do roam into this area, they do so in voluntary silence. It is spectacular and mind blowing, a place whhere you can only stand and admire one of natures finest offerings, absorbing all that you can see and feel. I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to many amazing places and to witness natures splendour, but with perhaps only one exception, this is the most beautiful of them all and makes every one of the miles taken to reach it seem totally insignificant. Nervous of the roads, Alan had stayed in camp and missed this spectacle yesterday, but for the return journey to the ferry, I’ve worked out a longer route that will avoid the worst of the tracks and make it easier for Alan to negotiate. I head out, with Alan and Rick following. Across the unavoidable sandy areas, I stop my bike, walk back and then ride Alan’s Tiger forward. It takes time, but we’re in no great hurry to leave this place. After about an hour and a half of riding, we arrive at the front of Nikita‘s. I stop the bike and invite Alan to walk the remainder of the way down to the spectacular view at the rear of the buildings. Unfortunately, having spent an extra hour getting Alan to this point, he refuses to walk to the view. He feels that it would be better if we just made our way to the ferry and back onto the mainland as quickly as possible. It’s difficult to describe exactly how disappointed I feel, not for myself, but for Alan. I was excited about seeing the expression on his face when this amazing sight unfolded before him. He will never have seen anything quite like this and possibly, he never will again. We’ve ridden more than ten thousand miles and Alan has the once in a lifetime opportunity to experience one of natures finest offerings anywhere in the world. He’s the length of a swimming pool away from it, but having travelled so far to reach this point, he feels that it’s not worth walking around the corner to experience it.

Before we continue towards the mainland, I top up Alan and Rick’s bikes with the spare fuel that I’m carrying on the side of my Tiger, but it’s not going to be enough. I’ve only got five litres and both of their bikes are almost dry. We ride on in hope, but halfway to the ferry terminal Rick’s BMW splutters to a fuel starved halt. I unpack my bike, find the siphon hose that’s been tucked away in a pannier and invite Rick to start sucking. He seems not to like the taste of petrol and wants me to do it for him. I think he’s joking, but he’s Rick, and Rick simply doesn’t joke. I offer the siphon tube to Alan who also needs fuel, but he looks uncertain too. He’s never done it before and asks why I can’t do it for both of them. It’s the final straw, I’ve had enough of playing Mother and I flip. I find every possible toy and throw each and every one of them right out of my pram. Do they expect me to do everything? I've cooked every meal, I've made every cup of coffee, I've washed every pot, plate and pan that’s ever been used, I carry all of the equipment and have to make every single decision. It’s probably not pretty, but I rant for a good five minutes and while Rick looks on quite sheepishly, Alan’s chuckling and seems to think that my comments are directed only at Rick. I’ve let off steam but I’m still blazing with anger and need to get away from them. I could siphon the petrol myself, it's not exactly rocket science, but at this moment in time I need space far more than they need fuel.

I start the Tiger and speed off towards the ferry. It's the fastest that I’ve ridden in days. It feels good to be away and by myself for a while. Of course I don’t abandon them, I’m just making some time for myself and my thoughts. I ride into a tiny village where I find a hidden fuel shack and fill up my tank and the empty petrol container. I've been away from them for about an hour, not because that’s how long it's taken me to find the fuel, but because that’s how long it's taken me to calm down. When I return, Rick and Alan are unsurprisingly exactly where I’d left them. Sitting beside the road and seemingly without a care in the world. They’d known that I’d be back with fuel at some time, they just didn’t know exactly when. I give them the fuel can and Rick empties half into his own tank but Alan hesitates. He doesn’t want to put the lowly ‘’80 Octane’’ into his tank. It’s the same fuel that I’ve been running on for the past three days and more importantly, it’s the only fuel that we have. I suggest that if he’s not happy with the quality of the fuel that I've just found him, then he’d better start pushing. With the prospect of thirty miles back to the ferry, 80 Octane suddenly becomes acceptable, but it doesn't stop him from whining about it.

I’ve vented my anger and hopefully things will start to improve. They’d got the message and it isn’t a message that I ever want to repeat. If they’d wanted a cook and bottle washer to come along with them, then they should have brought their Mothers. I feel bad about my anger, I’m in one of the worlds most beautiful places and I’ve lost my temper. I can hear Mum telling me to calm down and I can hear Dad telling me to give them some more. This time Mum wins, but if there is ever a next time, ….. then Dad will definitely have the upper hand.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 13: Volgograd

2010-01-04T13:29:00.000-08:00

The first thing that I see is the statue of Mother Russia. We might still be many miles away from the city of Volgograd, but she stands tall and proud before us. Baking in the midday sun and watching over the people, keeping them safe, giving them hope, reminding them of their rich history. The second thing that I see is the approaching policeman and it’s at this time that I wish I hadn’t stopped to take photographs of the military statue containing two T72 tanks at the side of the road. ’’Priviet’’, with my Sunday best smile, an outstretched hand, a pair of Poor Circulation badges, one for him and one for his colleague still sitting baking in the white Lada. A few photographs both on and off the bike, no attempt to part with either Roubles or documents, and we’re safely on our way again. We’ve passed through several check-points since leaving Rostov and with a little more experience under my belt, I seem to be avoiding the earlier traumas of Russian officialdom. Alan just lets me get on with it, but that seems to be working quite well. Dealing with the police when you know that you’re not going to hand over any money for something that you haven’t done, is for me at least, actually becoming a fun part of each day. The driving habits of the locals still takes some getting used to, but at least it’s friendly. Seeing an old Lada overtake you for the seventh time in as many miles, with waving passengers hanging from it’s windows taking photographs ,is actually becoming the norm. Doesn’t that happen everywhere?

It’s easy to find, and so it should be, it’s certainly big enough. I’ll leave wikipedia to provide you with the accurate dimensions, but if from a distance the statue of Mother Russia looks enormous, then when you stand at her feet and gaze upwards you can really appreciate her true size. She’s one big woman. For an hour, we walk around her base and visit the eternal flame that casts shadows across the names of the million or so lives that were lost here during the siege of Stalingrad in 1943. Back in the car park, Yuri, a stocky chap with tattoos everywhere and a suspiciously missing finger, guards our bikes. We hope. It’s Sunday and the good people of Volgograd have seemingly all converged on the statue at the same time. It’s beautiful, but it would be better to come back when it’s quieter, and hopefully not quite so bloody hot.

Back in the car park, Yuri has indeed looked after our bikes and nothing seems to be missing. He introduces us to Tamara, a busy little tourist guide who thankfully speaks good English, and so she should because by day she’s an English teacher here in Volgograd. We ask about motorcycle shops in the city, places where we might be able to acquire tyres for the bike. On a map that I’ve torn from a large brochure advertising the annual Volgograd Motorcycle Show, which it turns out will not take place until 12th of July, Yuri and Tamara draw several crosses. We think that we’ve identified the most promising location, and I think that I can probably find it. Yuri then suggests that we could come and stay in an apartment belonging to one of his business associates, but Tamara takes us to one side and gently dissuades us from accepting his generous offer. I’m not sure why, but as Tamara points to her own hand indicating the tattoos on Yuri‘s, and the obviously missing finger, I get the impression that Yuri’s business associate, might in fact be a ‘Business Associate’ in the Russian sense. We thank them both and prepare to leave Mother Russia behind us. I press the button on my key fob but the Tigers alarm will refuses to disarm. I try again, but still no joy. I take out the spare key that I’m carrying with me and try again, but still nothing. Yuri wanders up to me and smiles. He points to the red and white short-wave radio mast that towers above us and says something in very fast Russian to Tamara. She looks towards me with a slightly worried expression. My alarm will not disarm because the radio waves interfere with the system. I’ll need to move the bike at least two kilometres away from the mast before it will work. Apparently it happens all of the time here and Yuri seems to make a good secondary income from helping car owners to overcome the same technical problem. Unfortunately, the Triumph system is a mystery to him, and so we must push. After freewheeling down the hill with my alarm shattering the peace of a Sunday afternoon in this place of great respect, we roll to a halt at the traffic lights where the road begins to rise. I take out the towrope and try to persuade Alan that towing a stricken motorbike was a common thing in Russia when miracle of miracles, the alarm deactivates. An on looking taxi driver suggests that I’m a very lucky boy. Normally cars have to be towed almost into the heart of the city before they can be started. Thanks for the early warning.

We find the first cross on our sketch map of Volgograd. It turns out not to be a motorcycle dealership as promises but instead, it’s a small marquee in the car park of a shopping centre and contains around nine or ten Japanese bikes. It’s closed and will open again at 10am the tomorrow. It’s still blisteringly hot, we’re shattered and I decide that we‘ll leave a message here and then go on and find the cheap hotel that Tamara has recommended. I hastily write a note explaining who we are and that we need help in looking for tyres here in Volgograd. I attach a Poor Circulation badge and a copy of The Riders Digest magazine to the note and slide it under the canvas door of the marquee. Then, we cross our fingers and head off in search of a bed for the night.

We’ve been told by Tamara that the Hotel Tourist on the north side of the city is cheap and a popular destination for European tourists. Trying to follow the inadequate map, we pass through a complex of dull and dreary tenement blocks where the endless grey of the concrete is only broken by the brightly coloured washing that’s hanging from every balcony. Dogs snap and bark at our ankles and the road turns from asphalt to stone, and then to sand. At the banks of the River Volga we turn left. The light is fading and as far as Volgograd is concerned, we feel that we’re now definitely riding on the wrong side of the tracks. This area is not what I‘d call posh and it seems like an unusual location for a tourist hotel. Behind us is an abandoned factory of unknown purpose, and to the side of it I see a sign written large in Cyrillic script, ‘Hotel Tourist’, but the sign fails to say ‘welcome’. The Hotel Tourist is another relic of an age when authority liked to keep it’s visitors cosseted and cared for in an easily managed environment. It is in every way aside from it‘s name, an exact replica of the Hotel Moscow in Sochi. On entering the foyer it feels as if we were the first visitors to this once almost grand establishment since the fall of the Berlin wall. It’s not quite the ‘shabby chic’ that I’d hoped for, it’s really less ‘chic’ and more ‘shabby’ than even my eclectic tastes are prepared for. However, with the prospect of a few days staying in Volgograd and at just £12 per night, The Hotel Tourist will be absolutely perfect.

Geographically speaking, ‘Wits-end’ is surprisingly close to ‘Care-free’, but from my position here on the ground, that proximity is quite difficult to appreciate. Beyond observing the interaction between a drunken Russian and a prostitute in the bar, the Hotel Tourist is doing nothing to lift Alan’s spirits. We’re both worried that tyre issues could be the end of Poor Circulation’s ride across Russia, but while for me that would be the biggest disappointment imaginable, for Alan I think it would come as an absolute godsend. We’ve discussed the various options that a lack of new tyres would present, and there are seemingly only two. My preferred choice would be to continue riding until we can go no further on these tyres. At that point, we’ll buy a cheap van, or a Lada with a large trailer, load the bikes onto it and drive to Vladivostok where we’ll sell the temporary vehicle before leaving finally Russia. Alan’s preferred option is to avoid the expense of even trying to obtain tyres here in Russia and to head straight for the Trans Siberian Railway, load the bikes onto the train and be whisked along, admittedly very slowly, in relative safety. I haven’t come all of this way to avoid the hardships, it’s the difficulties that make each journey what it is, and it’s always the people who help you to overcome those difficulties that end up providing you with the richest of memories. Whatever happens, we’ll be alright. We’ll get to Vladivostok before our visas expire, we’re just not certain of exactly ‘How’ at the moment. Both of us are mentally exhausted and Alan is really suffering from long days on the bike in the heat of the Russian day and I can understand his concerns about the road ahead. I hope that a few days resting here in Volgograd will do him some good. A time to recharge his batteries and prepare himself for the difficulties that inevitably lie ahead of us.

On our first morning in Volgograd, we wake to find that the laundry we’d painstakingly washed the previous evening in the hotels tiny bath, and then hung on the balcony to dry, had blown away during the night and was now probably lost forever. This sad loss was then followed by the Hotel Tourist’s complimentary breakfast, and oh how we cried, me because it was funny and Alan because he was starving. To be fair, we did eventually both see the funny side of the situation and if we do happen to see a local guy wearing one of Alan’s Nike Tent-Shirts, then imagining the final destination of our underwear will provide more comedy moments to brighten our day, and hopefully lift Alan from his apparent state of depression.

As promised on my hastily scribbled note of the previous day, we arrive on foot at the temporary bike showroom in the car park of the shopping centre at around 10am. A young man becomes busy on a mobile phone and remains so for several minutes. We inspect the collection of bikes with feigned interest and I wonder if I’ve chosen to head for the wrong cross on our map. Just then, an aging Honda CB1000 arrives, one of the biggest bike that we’ve seen in Russia so far, and with an English speaking rider. He explains that they’ve received our note, but sadly he expects that such tyre sizes will not be available in Volgograd, and then he too becomes busy on his own mobile phone.

A Land Rover Discovery, incongruous to the area and fitted with every available extra including blacked-out security glass, screeches to a theatrical halt outside. Slowly, a man emerges with tightly cropped hair and large frame. He introduces himself as ‘Roman’ and shakes our hands firmly before talking loudly to the others in very fast and forceful Russian. Within seconds we’re racing through the streets of Volgograd towards destinations unknown in the back seats of Roman‘s Land Rover, a man that we have never before met. We avoid traffic by using the pavements where pedestrians politely step out of our way. We bounce across building sites where workers scatter and as we emerge back onto the more usual carriageway, policemen run into the road and instead of stopping the speeding Land Rover, they halt the oncoming traffic and provide us with right of way. The policemen nod to Roman as we speed past them and the heads of the drivers in the stationary cars, all seem to look enviously in our direction. We have no idea who Roman is, but it’s not too difficult to guess what kind of business interests he represents, for here in Volgograd, Roman appears to enjoy not only immunity, but also assistance from the law. In London I’m a despatch rider, I move around the city quite swiftly, but I have never travelled through any city, in any vehicle, quite this quickly before, I feel like I’ve just joined The Sweeney and Jack Regan is now my personal driver.

At a large and almost empty workshop somewhere close to the main railway station, we’re invited to use the Internet at what I assume to be Roman’s desk. We have an email from Igor, a man who we’d briefly met back in Rostov. Igor is offering to introduce us to his friends in the next city up the River Volga. There’s another email from Chris, a stranger to Poor Circulation who has been following our progress on my Blog. Chris has provided us with a telephone number that we can use if further police harassment takes place whilst we’re in Russia. Slava, a stocky younger friend of Roman, arrives at the workshop. He drives a black Mitsubishi, same cropped hair and same blacked-out windows. He speaks more English than Roman and announces that they are best friends business associates. Slava’s telephone rings and the ringtone is not one that we‘d expect to hear in Russia. It’s actually a voice recording, an English voice and it‘s worryingly loud, ‘Hey dickhead, … answer the f**king phone’. Slava laughs and jokes that he and Roman are ‘Volgograd Business Men’ and declares that in Moscow they refer to Volgograd Businessmen as ‘Gangsters’, but I’m not certain which part of the statement is supposed to be the joke. In this city, Roman and Salva seem to know everybody, and everybody seems to know them. They live their lives constantly shouting at people or talking enthusiastically on their mobile telephones. I decide that our large cross on the small map had been in exactly the right place. Poor Circulation has once again landed firmly on it’s fortunate feet.

We unsuccessfully search the Internet for tyres before being whisked away at speed down side roads towards an anonymous building that sells imported Taiwanese scooters and tyres. Amongst the racks of products, we find perfect tyres but none in sizes that will fit the Tiger’s wheels. We head back to Roman’s workshop where people seem to constantly come and go but where no ‘workshopping‘ ever seems to take place. Shadowy faces look at Alan and myself before turning towards darkened corners where they seem to prefer conducting their conversations. Doors are closed and voices are often hushed, business is taking place here ‘Roman Style’.

It’s lunchtime and we’re taken to yet another anonymous looking building behind who’s doors we find a dark yet inviting restaurant. ‘Restaurant’ by day and ‘Gentleman’s Club’ by night, it doesn‘t advertise the fact, but it doesn‘t need too, it has that certain feel and it’s obvious. The restaurant if full of diners, mostly men wearing sharp business suits or official uniforms with lots of brass and braiding. A central table is cleared for us, the incumbent diners are moved and as they shuffle to their newly designated table, they glance towards Roman and politely smile. We’re bought lunch by our new best friends and the food is delicious, they order it for us and we fill our faces on new and interesting dishes. Then, we’re once again back at the workshop where we find that suitable tyres are available, but in Moscow. It’s not a problem. Roman has family and friends in Moscow, and no doubt many business associates too. They will collect the tyres in Moscow, pay for them, and place them on overnight transport to Volgograd. Roman will have them collected from the terminal here in Volgograd and fit them to our Tigers on Wednesday. We must find a bank quickly, Roman must transfer some money to Moscow in order for the tyres to be purchased this evening and so once again, we race off into Volgograd. Nothing that Roman or Slava ever do is done at anything other than racing pace, especially their driving.

With the money transfer completed, we’re taken for a tour of the city by Slava whilst Roman conducts a little more ‘business’ elsewhere in the city. Roman had driven his Land Rover quickly, but that was nothing in comparison to Slava. From the outside, his black Mitsubishi looks sleek but quite conventional. However, the large red Brembo brake callipers peeping through the overlarge rims, the discreet cooling vents cut into the bonnet and the unmistakable whir of a rather large turbocharger speak volumes about the cars hidden potential. We learn that Slava works for the Government, the Russian equivalent to ’HM Customs and Excise’, but he seems to be very much his own boss. He drives with a one-handed casual confidence as we experience what must surly be the fastest ever comprehensive tour of Volgograd. Slava’s father is Chief of Police here in Volgograd and he informs us that now we’re the best of friends, we’ll have no more official problems. It seems that both Slava and Roman have family connections that are important in these parts, and here in Russia, important connections seem to mean everything. Slava and his brother are both Manchester United fans, and they enjoy watching live games in the local bars amongst a predominance of Chelsea fans. Slava’s brother is a Spetznez Officer and they seldom seem to have any problems, which on meeting them both is really not surprising. I’ve spent years with various friends in Blighty without knowing an awful lot about them, but in a single day with Roman and Slava, I feel that I know almost everything about them.

As evening falls, we arrive at a traditional Cossack Restaurant called ’Trolly Wally’, where Roman is already waiting for us. The staff and customers all seem to hush and watch as we enter, deference is shown and our corner table is dealt with immediately. The food is endless and the vodka flows freely. A small group of suited Russian ‘Businessmen’ rock on their benches as small square glasses clink together in toasts and a group of traditional Cossack singers entertain our table. Like the earlier lunchtime restaurant, ’Trolly Wally’ probably isn’t mentioned on any tourist map, but it certainly should be. However, Slava tells us that the Russian’s like to keep the best things for themselves and once again, we’re not allowed to pay for anything and that includes the taxi that returns us to our hotel. As Slava climbs out of our taxi at his parents waterside home, we promise to send him a Man United scarf when the journey is finished. ‘’Rooney, … Rooney, .. Rooney’’ , Slava shouts as he stumbles away into the darkness. Tonight he seems like the happiest person that I‘ve ever had the good fortune to meet.

This evening was spent with Roman, Slava and their stunningly beautiful friend, Hadjet, with whom Alan has fallen hopelessly in love. Again we were wined and dined at their expense before being taken for a night time tour of this beautiful city. In Volgograd the people are rightly proud of their amazing city and in the centre there stands one tree and one solitary building. These are all that remained standing after the siege on Stalingrad in 1943. Everywhere around the city are reminders of the 1.5 million people who perished here during those few months almost sixty-five years ago. We’re taken to ‘Pasha’s House’, a corner edifice that was once a building where for one month in November of 1943, opposing forces fought floor by floor to gain or regain advantage. The line of the street in front of the house marks the thirty meter piece of ground stretching back towards the River Volga, the only piece of land which remained under Russian control and at it’s centre, the last remaining building. A brick built mill with a tall tower that stands wearing the scars of the battle along side a museum that we are yet to visit. Everything else in Volgograd, and I mean everything, has been rebuilt since that time and is as friendly and inviting as it’s people. Volgograd is indeed a stunning city, and we’re proud to have made such good friends in our time here. Perhaps it’s the influence of the stunning Hadjet, but Alan’s definitely looking slightly happier than he has done for weeks. He’s started to smile and so after Roman dropped us back at the Hotel Tourist, I celebrate by taking him to the bar for a beer. We talk about the journey ahead and watch the ladies of the night go about their duties. It’s a fun thing to do, but only if you can resist falling for their womanly charms, which of course we can.

The tyres have arrived and the bikes are in Roman’s new workshop. The two mechanics have worked to fit the new rubber and generally check the bikes over ready for our departure. We’d planned to ride both bikes back to the Hotel Tourist in preparation for an early departure in the morning, but Alan has forgotten to bring his keys with him. Thankfully, we’re in Volgograd where such minor details are irrelevant. It’s decided that we’ll stay for an extra day, and even better, an extra day at our hosts expense. We’re taken on another high-speed tour of the cities bars and restaurants with Roman and the beautiful Hadjet. Hadjet is intrigued by the story of Poor Circulation and as an interpreter for an oil company here in Volgograd, she speaks perfect English. Alan enjoys talking with her and that’s a good thing, it’s quite possibly the first real conversation that’s he’s initiated since Mark and Lee had left us back in Germany, and that was more than four weeks ago. Hadjet explains that in schools here in Russia, they learn to speak English by reciting Shakespeare in class. If that’s the accepted method of teaching English here, then it’s even more amazing how so many Russian‘s can actually speak English. Hadjet finds it difficult to understand why we don’t really appreciate Shakespeare and Dickens, Wordsworth and Byron, because here in Russia they love and celebrate their great writers. She politely informs us that we should be ashamed of ourselves. I can’t stop myself from smiling as I wonder if the great Russian writers had appreciated the hospitality of the gulag‘s quite as much as their people had appreciated the words that had sent them there. Thankfully, it was only a thought and not something that I said out loud, but I was a little embarrassed that such a thought had even entered my head. Besides, some of our own distinguished writer‘s became familiar with the insides of prisons for various reasons, and so were we British so very different from the Russian‘s?

Once again we’re wined and dined and end the evening at a Bikers Bar where we meet local riders with an assortment of bikes ranging from a ‘Tricked Hyabusa’ to a ‘Chopped Ural’ of uncertain vintage. The mosquitoes are hungry tonight and are feasting on my blood, but strangely they leave Alan’s blood alone. Roman vanishes for a few minutes and returns with two tubes of insect repellent which seem to do the trick rather better than the more toxic, and less effective, full strength ’Deet’ that we’ve brought with us from Blighty. Hadjet warns me ‘’You should not fear the mosquito in Stalingrad, but you must fear the mosquito in Siberia, … they are very large indeed’’, She mimics a helicopter and we all laugh. It’s also funny how many people born long after the second world war, still refer to this city of Stalingrad. A business associate of Roman’s laughs along with us and then seemingly corrects Hadjet‘s earlier statement , ‘’don’t worry about the mosquito in Siberia, …… in Siberia you only need worry about the Mafia’’.

It’s now Thursday the 12th of June, Russia’s National Day and a holiday for everybody. The bikes are ready and were going to ride them north for two days up the River Volga before turning east and heading for Irkutsk and Lake Baikal. However, just as were planning our exit from Volgograd, Roman screeches to a halt in front of the hotel. He has other plans for us today. As we climb into his car, he informs us with a huge smile that we’ll have absolutely no problems with the Mafia in Siberia. He points to his mobile phone, “Roman and Slava have many Friends“. The good people of Volgograd are out and about in their Sunday finest as we head towards the Quay. Admire the boats cruising up and down this huge river, one boat seems to be travelling much faster than all of the others. It leaves a plume of water that’s visible from a great distance. This particular boat is a little larger and fancier than all of the others and it’s heading for the quay where we stand. Of course, this boat belongs to our friend Slava. ‘’Priviet Geoff and Alan, this is Russian boat, fastest boat on all of the Volga’’. I suspect that fast boats and independent businessmen go hand in hand in these parts, but then who am I we to complain? We cruise the Volga at 58 Knots and entertain the bathers and cruisers with wild plumes of spray while Russian rock music blasts out from the boats formidable speakers. We approach smaller moored vessels where bikini clad maidens stand and wave. They call to Slava and Slava calls back. Slave knows everybody on the river, especially the most beautiful girls. Captain Slava and First Mate Roman are in their elements and this is definitely the only way to live in Volgograd.

After being chauffeured back to our hotel this evening, we once again visit the bar where everybody wants to meet and be photographed with the two mad English bikers. At the table next to us sit four new ladies of the night. They are as stunning as they are fragrant , they rock gently in unison to the sounds of Euro-Trash and smile to all and sundry. Gentleman callers sit with them for a few minutes at a time. They purchase drinks for the girls and then move on to pastures new. In stark contrast to the drab and dull interior decor of this never exclusive hotel, the atmosphere around the girls is both bright and electric. The girls smile wistfully towards us and we of course smile back. Poor Circulation are just killing time and enjoying the cheap entertainment whilst the girls have far more commercial motives for being here. And so it is that shortly before midnight on our last night in Volgograd, we once again bid the girls farewell and retire early with our virginities and wallets in tact.

In Volgograd, a hastily written note, a copy of The Riders Digest were pushed beneath the door of a makeshift motorcycle showroom, and Poor Circulation is suddenly back on track. Many thanks go to Roman and Slava for helping us to solve our tyre issues and for keeping us royally entertained during our time in Volgograd. But also thanks to CitySprint for turning many stones in trying to send tyres to us as quickly as possible. And also to The Riders Digest for opening doors that would otherwise remain closed to us. It is with great sadness that we have to leave our new best friends behind, but we will always have the most amazing memories of our time here in Volgograd. Hopefully there will be future encounters with Roman and Slava, Volgograd’s finest ‘Legitimate Businessmen’, but in the morning we move on.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 12: Turkey

2009-12-29T10:31:00.000-08:00

We ride east hugging the coast, and for no reason other than the attraction of it‘s name, I turn off the main road and head into the town of Biga. I pull over at a seemingly functional ATM so that Alan can start developing his emergency fund and I hear a bike passing in the opposite direction. As we discover that although the ATM is working but has no Turkish Lire, I hear an English voice behind me and it‘s not Alan. I turn around and see a cool young dude riding a Yamaha Virago. He’s wearing wrap around shades and no crash helmet, “follow me, we drink tea together“. We follow the Yamaha around the corner and enter a cobbled street cearly marked, 'Pedestrians Only'. We park the Tigers on the pavement in front of a row of shops and close to a rather cool looking old Jawa chopper the likes of which I‘ve never seen before. We're introduced to Teyfo on the Yamaha. Teyfo owns the 'Converse' shop in Biga, his friend Ayhern sells handmade ethnic jewellery from the stall behind us but passes the slack-time by entertaining shoppers with rock ballads on his acoustic guitar. Ayhern owns the Jawa that everybody seems to deride but that I really quite like. Then into the pedestrian street comes a Suzuki GS500 with two people aboard. We've already seen them today, twice in fact, They've been following us from Lapeski and apparently trying to flag us down and escort us to this very place. We’re introduced to the rider, Volcan and his passenger, Oz.

..................... Ayhern on his chopped Jawa, AKA 'Gorilla Bike'

.................... the 'Biga Boys' ... Oz, Volcan, Teyfo and Ayhern

Together, like long lost friends, the six of us sit between the shops talking about England, Turkey and motorbikes. Hot refreshing Chai (tea) arrives glass after glass and occasionally accompanied by rounds of beautifully toasted panini with tomato, cheese and salami. Teyfo brings out a 'Cura', a lute like instrument and begins to accompany Ayhern on his guitar. We have a rendition of Turkish folk songs followed by Bob Dylan. It’s by far the best improvised busking session that I've ever had the good fortune to attend. These guys are actually very good

............................ Teyfo plays the Cura

Oz explains that he owns a Fish and Chip shop in Devon and is back in Turkey for a few months before the summer season begins again in England. He and Volcan were on their way to Istanbul to meet with friends when they’d seen us pass them on the main road. They’d chased us on and off for the last hour and thankfully hadn‘t given up. We then meet Savas from 'Ismet Otto', the local Michelin dealer and he’s going to check out the price of replacement tyres for the Tigers. He shakes hands and leaves us in order to go and carry out some research on our behalf. Ayhern presents us each with a bullet necklace and invites me to ride his Jawa 250 chopper. It looks cool, I used to own an unchopped version back in the seventies, but mine was a 350cc circa 1974. Ayhern looks puzzled, his is newer “Korean, .. 1992, .. not Jawa“. No matter what it’s called or where it came from, it's still by far the coolest bike on the block. We follow Teyfo to Ismet Otto where Savas tells us the price of Michelin's in Turkey. Bloody hell! We thought that the petrol in Turkey was expensive but the tyres are even worse. We decline politely and hopefully we'll find affordable replacement rubber in Russia. Volcan needs to oil his chain before he sets off for Istanbul and they decide to take us to the Auto Souks.

Teyfo has a secret, a secret that apparently only I can be shown. But, I must promise not to tell another living soul. I ride pillion on his wobbly Yamaha around the Auto Souks as more of his friends wave and shout to us. We arrive at a small industrial unit where I'm introduced to an elderly and distinguished looking gentleman. I'm warned that I can speak openly with the man but not to physically touch him, unless of course the old man invites me to do so. We smile and the old man, apparently comfortable with my ability to maintain the secrets that are about to be revealed to me, invites me to follow him into his workshop.

Three secrets are revealed to me, each of which in Teyfo’s eyes at least, is a little more amazing then the one before. The first of these secrets is being guarded by a snappy little dog that is tethered on a short rope and trying hard to bite at my ankles. In fact, it turns out not to be guarding the secret at all because the snappy little dog is the secret itself. It’s not a dog, it’s actually a Jackal. I’m not entirely sure why this is such a secret, but then I’m not entirely familiar with guard dog etiquette in these parts.

For the second secret to be revealed, I’m escorted to the rear of the garage and taken to what I suspect to be the enclosed maintenance pit, the sunken trench that’s used to inspect and repair the undersides of vehicles. An old heavy and oil covered trap door is lifted and I’m invited to look down into the pit, but all that I can see is darkness. Then, a switch is thrown and light comes up from the bottom of the pit, but it’s not an inspection pit at all. I’m looking at an amazing natural formation of rocks, an underwater cave formation that is teaming with fish of all varieties and what I assume to be the king of the pond, a giant grey moray eel that must be at least two metres in length. I’m stunned, this is totally surreal. In a grimy old garage unit in the town of Biga, beneath an unremarkable floor the likes of which you would see in any other such garage, I’m staring down into a natural aquarium that would not look out of place as a Florida tourist attraction. I have no idea why it’s here, where the fish came from or even why it must remain as a closely guarded secret, but I’m grateful that they’ve shown it to me. I’ve made a deal with Teyfo, a deal whereby I agree not to reveal the three secrets until at least a year after the date on which they were revealed to me.

But that still leaves the third. and in their eyes at least, the most amazing of the three secrets. I’d actually seen it on the way into the garage, it’s not something that’s hidden or even disguised, but it’s something that only a motorcycle fanatic might recognise. At first I hadn’t been certain and I’d moved in for a closer look but the old man had quickly drawn me away and introduced me instead to his jackal. As the trapdoor is closed and the lights to the underground aquarium extinguished, Teyfo asks me if I know what the third secret might be, and I tell him yes. It’s a part of motorcycling legend, a thing that I’ve seen in photographs but never actually seen in the metal. It’s not a disappointment, it’s a beautiful thing and given more time, I would love to inspect it more closely. But sadly, there is no more time. The old man embraces me and kisses me on both cheeks, he’s party to the deal that I’ve made with Teyfo, he’s happy for me to reveal his two weird secrets in a years time, but the third is unfortunately, to remain a secret.

Volcan and Oz decide that we should follow them to Erdek where we can swim and then camp by the sea. Erdek is on their way to Istanbul and they’ll say goodbye to us from there. We follow them on the bright yellow GS500 Suzuki at remarkably high speeds. Erdek it is some 70 miles away but it takes very little time to get there. The sea water is the warmest yet and we swim and talk in the shallows for at least an hour. A local boy is enlisted to guard our bikes while all afternoon the people at the Albatross Cafe Bar provide us with free beer and chai. Ayhern arrives carrying a small notebook that I’d accidentally left back in Biga. It’s a notebook that wasn’t important but a notebook that he’d never the less brought seventy miles on his old Jawa to return to it’s owner. To celebrate Ayhern’s arrival, Oz takes us all out to dinner in the centre of town and even though we’ve just found another ATM that dispenses Turkish lire, we’re not allowed to pay for anything.

After dinner, Ayhern gives guitar lessons to a local girl while we head away following Volcan and Oz to find a suitable camping ground further down the coast. We head along the coast road and as the sun sets, Volcan stops for the fourth prayers of the day, the mahgreb prayer at sundown. With all of us being strangers to this area, we request the assistant of two local brothers who are probably in their late sixties. Within seconds of meeting them, I’m riding pillion on a scooter of unknown vintage and heading east along the coast.

At a small beach we pull in to inspect a potential campsite right down by the waters edge. Two men are already camping there and a heated discussion takes place. One of the campers brandishes a rather lethal looking snake that has just been killed by his dog and shows me it‘s head. I think that he’s possibly trying to scare me away from wanting to camp here. Despite my aversion to snakes of any variety, the beach looks ideal and the tow men, who turn out to be brothers, seem to live here on a permanent basis in two tents with a small snake catching dog and a slightly larger boat. After the discussion ends the rider of the scooter raises an eyebrow to me 'Quais Sidiqu?', good my friend, I raise a thumb in response. 'Coola quais al humdililia', and the deal for the nights camping is done. I invite Oz and Volcan to share our tents for the night, it’s the very least that I can do in response to their amazing hospitality, and I will admit to having a personal ulterior motive. They’re heading to Istanbul and I hoped that given the assistance of two local willing and friendly guides, I could convince Alan to follow them and thus take the special package to Istanbul. Unfortunately it wasn’t to be, Alan still didn’t feel confident enough to take on Istanbul’s traffic or to be left alone for a night with the beach brothers here on the Marmaras Sea. And so it was that Istanbul joined Whitby and Oberammergau on the growing list of failed destinations for Poor Circulation.

Sadly we say goodbye to Oz and Volcan, it's already 9pm and they’d hoped to be in Istanbul at 1pm. They’re already eight hours late and have several hours of riding ahead of them. As we watch them ride off into the night, Ishmail, the elder of the beach brothers, invites us to join them for 'chai' on the sand by the waters edge. We sit in silence, listening to a dolphin chuckle and vent just a few meters from the shoreline. We’re drinking hot sweet tea with two strangers who are at this precise moment in time, the closest friends that we have in this world, Ishmail and Kalam.

.................... Camping on the shore of the Marmaras Sea

After a hard days riding, where many stops were made to remove wandering tortoise from the road, we finally come to the Black Sea. This is the coastline that we’ll follow until we reach the port of Trabzon from where we’ll sail overnight to Sochi in Russia. I’d originally planned to ride up through Georgia but it appears that since leaving home, they’ve again fallen out with the Russian’s and all hell is about to unleashed. I hate watching war’s on the television and seeing the aftermath of them in the Balkans and Gallipoli is about as close as I ever want to come to one and so unfortunately, Georgia will have to wait until more peaceful times exist. It’s blisteringly hot and we search for another camping ground as close to the Black Sea as is possible.

I ask at several places but people just smile and keep sending us in opposite directions where we find motels and lodges, but nowhere suitable to pitch tents. We could wait until dark and sneak onto a suitable piece of land, but there’s no cover available for an illicit daylight entry into anywhere that might be even remotely suitable. The beach would be my preferred option, but unfortunately the narrow sliver of land between road and beach is either already developed or currently under construction. It appears that the once secret Black Sea Coast has now been discovered by the money makers and is in the process of being exploited. After several false hopes have been dashed, I bite the bullet, ride back down the road and ask the security guard at the most exclusive looking housing complex along the whole of the seafront if he’ll allow us access to his fine beach for a spot of overnight camping. Eventually he succumbs to my charms and after being bribed with the handsome prize of a Poor Circulation badge, he allows us to pass through his immaculate security barrier. Once safely past the barrier, we come across an almost perfect beach but it’s impossible for us to get the bikes through the steep dunes towards the flat beach beyond. It’s fair to say that neither of us has yet mastered the art of riding on soft sand.

As we’re scouting for an alternative entry to the tempting beach, we meet Ali. He and his father both have houses on this luxurious new complex and we’re welcome to pitch our tents and enjoy free and unrestricted access to all of it’s facilities. An hour later, the tents are pitched above the Black Sea and we’re enjoying strawberries dipped in honey on Ali’s beautifully appointed veranda. Ali turns out to be non other than Ankara’s Chief of Police, our equivalent to the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Force. Together with Ali’s retired father and their respective wives, we fill our bellies with gorgeous food and make every effort to exhaust his seemingly endless supply of freezing cold beer. I can‘t help laughing because as we eat the fresh strawberries, the two wives keep licking their lips and exclaiming the taste to be “bollocks“. I have no idea what ‘bollocks’ actually means in these parts but once again in Turkey, Poor Circulation has landed right on it’s feet. As the sun sets, I sit alone on the beach writing my diary and drinking ice cold beer. In the past four nights I’ve camped on four different beaches at the edge of four different seas across two different continents. Tonight there probably won’t be any dolphins to entertain me and the sun will not sink into the Black Sea in front of me, but life really can’t get much better than this.

The roads along Turkey’s Black Sea coastline have been something of a revelation. Before starting this journey, it had been nothing more than a line that I’d drawn on the map that would take me towards Russia. Each day, the views from the coast road fills my imagination with dreams of building a house on the cliffs above the beach or in the shelter of the perfectly formed and unspoiled coves that appear around every bend on this magnificent winding road. The people are so friendly and each day is broken into segments when we meet new people and share bread and chai by the side of the sea at their expense. Nobody hurries here, except on the roads which can be manic at times, but turn down into a cove and you’ll find a small café close to the waters edge and sit on a veranda above the sea, surrounded my an arch of red roses and enjoy the most refreshing glasses of chai that you can possibly imagine.

The experiences in Turkey have been sufficient enough to warrant their own individual book and are too many in number and richness to mention in depth. There was the rural baker and what we assume was his father who without a word of English between them, plied us with freshly baked bread, chai and conversation for two hours beneath a ramshackle shack in the absolute middle of nowhere. A night spent sheltering from a significant thunderstorm on the long tables beneath the canopy of a closed café on the seafront. The 3:00am visit from the cafés owner who rather than lambasting us for soiling his premises, opened the café and provided us with free food and drink until dawn. The police officers who stopped us for inadvertently speeding and allowed us to walk away from four hundred Euros in fines by accepting signed copies of The Riders Digest and Poor Circulation badges in return for our freedom. We had been speeding, but it had also been accidental, for how were we hapless travellers to know that Turkey actually has two different official speed limits, one for vehicles and another for motorbikes. The fact that we’d actually been breaking both of those speed limits now seems to be quite irrelevant. Once the handcuffs and guns had been returned to their pouches and holsters, we’d ended that legal interface by posing for endless photographs and promising to say nice things about them in our Blog’s. Forget package tours to Greece and Spain, steal yourself a motorbike and head down to Turkey’s Black Sea Coast, the road is not as stunning as that running down the Adriatic in Croatia and the fuel is far more expensive, but it’s unspoilt here and the people are the most generous that you could ever wish to meet. It seems that on this journey the people who have the very least of anything, give the most of everything and ask for nothing in return. And for that, we are both truly thankful.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 11: Into Asia

2009-12-27T05:47:00.000-08:00

Entering Turkey could really not be any easier. We pay £3 for one months worth of motorcycle insurance and £10 for a three month visa. There are no additional taxes, official or unofficial, no palms to be greased nor pockets to be lined. It’s just polite and efficient. You pay the money, the visa is stamped into your passport and you ride on through into Turkey. Despite the best efforts of Tony Blair’s government to tarnish our reputation around the world, being British still gives you certain advantages, like ’Visa on Arrival’. It makes travelling an awful lot easier than it might be, and for that I am increasingly grateful.

Safely across the border, we pull into the first petrol station that we see. Just as I’d done when entering France, I’d foolishly thought that the fuel here in Turkey would be cheaper than in Greece and I’d waited until we’d crossed the border before filling up the almost empty tank. I didn’t have any Turkish Lire, but thankfully they happily accepted my Euros. We’ve got an awful lot of Turkish miles to cover before we reach the Russian border and let me be the first to declare that Turkish petrol is bloody expensive. It worked out at just over £6 per gallon, which is 20% higher than it had been in London. Because of this, our ride across Turkey might now become be a rather slow and economical one.

I’d always intended to ride East and spend a few days exploring the amazing city of Istanbul. It’s a place that Mum and Dad had considered visiting shortly before Dad had been diagnosed with prostate cancer back in 1997. Istanbul wasn’t one of Mum’s ‘official wishes‘, but it would be nice to take them there. Unfortunately, Alan doesn’t feel confident enough to ride into the city and although the navigation and traffic won’t be easy, I think he’s worrying about problems that don’t really exist. Istanbul is fun, vibrant and wild, and if your going to officially cross from Europe into Asia, then crossing through Istanbul is probably the most memorable way of doing it. Sadly, it now looks like Istanbul just isn’t going to happen. The alternative route is to head down onto the Gallipoli Peninsula and then cross The Dardanelles from Europe into Asia. I’m quite gutted that we won’t be going to Istanbul becasue I know that once there, Alan would absolutely love it, but I also want to see Gallipoli. I’ve never been to Gallipoli and I’d like to see for myself where so many lives were needlessly lost in The Great War, and perhaps I’ll get to sneak back into Istanbul when we turn North and head towards the Black Sea. I hope so, it’s important to me and if Alan is confident enough to ride with me, then he really won‘t regret it.

After a short ride to the Turkish town of Kesan, we’ve turned south and arrived in the port of Gallipoli. I find an ATM that thankfully gives me the option of conducting my transaction in ‘English‘, but strangely it will only give me Euros. Turkey isn‘t a member of the EU and because of certain political and human rights issues, it might be some time before full membership is achieved. I can understand them accepting Euros, but not being able to access the local currency seems a little bit strange. I don’t mind using Euros, but when all of the prices are advertised in ‘Lire’, doing the mental currency conversions will be a bit of a pain in the arse. Thankfully, at the third bank I find an ATM that allows me to withdraw Lire and I find out that I’m not quite as wealthy as I’d hoped. It’s nice to have a wallet full of notes with the number ’1000’ written large in each corner and lets face it, that’s never going to happen for me when I’m dealing in Euros, Pounds or Dollars. Unfortunately, it’s not going happen with Turkish Lire either. At approximately 1.8 Lire for each 1 Euro, other than it’s name, the Turkish Lire has no similarity to Italy’s former currency and it seems that at least until I reach Russia, I’m destined to remain poor.

Back at the bikes, I meet a young guy from Hackney who’s returned to Turkey in order to complete his National Service. He seems quite unphased by the whole experience and he’s certainly not missing East London. He wishes us good luck for our journey and as he wanders away, he’s replaced by three young kids who are fluent in the essentials of English. "Beckham", "Ronaldo", "Rooney", "Chelski", "Man U". They pose for photos and will only leave me alone after they’ve eaten all of my biscuits and relieved me of three Poor Circulation badges and a copy of The Riders Digest. We’ve been in Turkey for less than a day and we’re thankfully already back to interacting with really friendly people. It’s great, everybody wants to talk and kill time with us. We’re probably less than a hundred miles from the border with Greece, but the people here seem to be much more approachable and friendly.

I check out the times of the ferry crossings to Lapeski on the opposite side of the Dardanelles. They seem to run every half an hour throughout the day and the total cost will be just six lire. That’s about £4 for both bikes and riders and it’s an absolute bargain. With our exit route from the peninsula arranged, I head back to the Tigers that Alan‘s been guarding for the past hour. He seems to be standing alone, staring at his mobile phone and I’m worried about him. My anger of a week ago has slowly been replaced by concern, he seems to have withdrawn even further into himself and appears unable, or unwilling, to do anything but follow me everywhere that I go. He’s run out of cash and I encourage him to use the ATM that has just worked perfectly well for me. He’s hesitant, he has no idea what he’ll do if the machine swallows his card and refuses to pay-out the cash that he‘s requested. I try to reassure him and explain that it’s exactly the same as it would be at home. If the ATM keeps his card, then we tell the staff in the bank and return tomorrow, show the relevant ID and retrieve the card that they‘ve rescued from the ATM overnight. If it just refuses to pay out the cash, then he can either use one of his alternative cards or rely on his emergency cash fund. Whatever his concerns are, he needs to get cash from somehwere. Alan’s got three cash cards to choose from but at the moment, he seems far happier to rely upon mine. He doesn’t seem to be convinced by my explanation but finally, he wanders away and returns to the bikes aboutan hour later. He’s used his card, he’s got his money and thankfully seems to have relaxed a little. It’s just as well that Alan‘s found the confidence to use the Turkish ATM , because he’s just informed me that he hasn’t actually brought an ’Cash Emergency Fund’ with him. It’s not that he’s forgotten to bring one, it’s just that he didn’t feel safe carrying any quantity of cash with him on the journey. I’ve got Dollars, Euros and Pounds hidden in various locations, mostly concealed in the lining of the jacket that never leaves my sight and on the Tiger which if stolen, would stand out like a sore thumb in any of the countries that we’re planning to visit. We’d talked about the need for emergency funds before we’d set off and I’d assumed that he’d organised one for himself. Tomorrow, we’ll be entering Asia and the rules of Europe will no longer apply. If we get into a scrape then cash will possibly be our only saviour. Corrupt policemen and other assorted officials will seldom accept Visa or Master Card for the discreet enrichment of their personal retirement funds and we already know that in order to exit Russia, by Air or by Sea, it’s unlikely that anything other than cash will be acceptable. We sit down and have a serious conversation about the things that each of us needs to do, but I’m reaching the stage where I feel that I’m ’telling’ Alan and not ’asking’ him. I feel like a school teacher and I get the distinct impression that Alan hasn’t thought anything at all about the possible challenges that are ahead of us.

South of Gallipoli, I guide us west at Kilye Cove and head for the war memorials at the centre of the peninsula. It's Sunday, it's early afternoon and the tourist coaches are moving thousands of people around the area on the narrow and melting road system. We visit Johnston's Jolly, Lone Pine and Quinn's Post Memorials where the mood is sombre and reflective. Here it’s mostly Australian and New Zealand boys who are buried yet their graves and memorials are still immaculately maintained. Gallipoli is often seen as just a joint Australian and New Zealand campaign, but the number of British casualties was actually far higher than for all of the other allied forces combined. At the first of the memorials that we visit, if you ignore the burning midday sun then you could easily think that you were back in Ypres or Flanders.

Without knowing anything about the history, in places like this you can simply feel that at some time in the recent past, a catastrophic event has taken place. The Gallipoli campaign was an attempt in 1915 by allied forces to capture Istanbul and secure the supply route to Russia through the Bosporus to the Black Sea. The Royal Navy had first attempted to destroy the defences on the peninsula with a massive artillery bombardment but had suffered heavy losses before withdrawing to safer waters. In April 1915, divisions of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) had landed on the beaches of Gallipoli but the Ottoman’s had been well prepared for the invasion. The unsuccessful campaign lasted for almost eleven months and during that time more than one hundred and thirty thousand lives had been lost. Following the end of World War I, the Dardanelles Commission reported that the Gallipoli Campaign had been badly planned, poorly researched and that the British Government had exasperated the situation with it’s procrastination and incompetence. Sound familiar?

Higher up in the hills, thousands of families gather together at noon and pray at the Turkish Memorials. Following the ‘dhuhr prayers‘, they sit down on large blankets and enjoy their food and drink together.

In stark contrast to the ANZAC memorials which are beautiful but sombre, the Turkish memorials seem to feel more like an area for reflective celebration of the young people who are buried here. They're not celebrating war or victory but they seem to remember the lost lives in a way that we would find difficult to accept in Northern France or Belgium. It's actually very refreshing to experience this at first hand and we could probably all learn some lessons here. I leave the Turkish memorials with a better understanding of what happened here in Gallipoli. But, unlike at pervious visits to Ypres, I’m not heavy with regret but filled with confidence that if the people of the world can continue to view the needless destruction in this way, then there’s a greater chance that such conflicts will never be repeated. "Inshallah".

We’ve found a deserted camping ground close to the small hamlet of Kum on the southern tip of the peninsula. The tents are pitched as close to the sea as possible and I’m sitting looking at the bikes. In fact, we‘re both sitting down and looking at the bikes. Seeing the ages of the fallen young soldiers back at the memorials has reminded me of just how lucky we are. Alan seems to think that what we are attemting to do on this journey is somehow a great hardship for us, but it's about time that he got a little bit of perspective on life. I can almost hear Dad shouting from the Tiger ... "you don't know you're bloody born lad". We’re both hungry but Alan seems to think that the Primus stove and food will somehow leap from the Tiger and commence preparations for dinner without any form of human assistance. Maybe he really believes that the kitchen fairy and her pot washing assistant have travelled with us from England and that all of his meals and drinks have been appearing by magic. It’s time for him to learn that they don’t. Cooking meals and brewing coffee is all part of the journey and I don’t mind doing it, but having cooked every bloody meal, made every single cup of coffee and wash every dirty dish on the journey so far, I’ve had enough of being his skivy. Tonight, I’ve decided not to cook and Alan doesn’t seem to be in the least bit bothered. I thought that he’d maybe volunteer to do some cooking himself, or at least volunteer to make the coffee, but he hasn’t and so he’ll just have to stay bloody hungry.

I’m now sitting on the empty beach with a pack of cold beer and my diary. I’m watching the sky turn a deep shade of orange as the sun finally sets. It’s beautiful here and the only sound is that of the waves and a few hungry ducks that have gathered a few metres behind me in a small fresh water pond. The bottom of the sun touches the sea and I’m sure that I can see the still waters boiling all around it. It begins to sink deeper as the sky beyond the huge orange orb turns to inky blackness awaiting the arrival of the moon. Next to me on the still warm sand, sit’s the small yellow spectacles case in the CitySprint bag and I hope that Mum and Dad can appreciate the beauty of our new surroundings. It’s not Istanbul, but as compromises go, it‘s a pretty dammed good one. It’s the first time that I’ve taken the package away from it’s hiding place since we left the Alps, but tonight it feels appropriate to reintroduce them to the journey. Watching the sheer brilliance of this sunset, I can now understand why ancient civilisations thought that the sun actually fell into the sea each evening and rose from it again the next morning. It’s one on the most inspiring sunsets that I’ve ever seen in my life. I’ve switched on my mobile phone and once again on this journey, I’ve got full signal strength in the absolute middle of nowhere. I’ve sent a text message to Hannah back in England, I’m missing her laughter and friendship but I expect nothing more that a very limited literary response from her. She’s a teenager so it’ll probably be ‘OK‘, which now seems to have been shortened still further to just ‘K‘, but at least her daily emails offer more substance. Perhaps she thinks that Vodafone charge by the letter, or perhaps she’s just as I said, simply a teenager.

I wake to the sound of the Muezzin calling the faithful to the dawn 'fajr prayers'. I don’t understand all of the words, but I love the sound. It reminds me that I’m travelling and it’s an exciting start to a day. Alan’s head pokes from his tent but his opinion of the prayer call seems to differ wildly from my own .... “that’s a right f**king racket“. I brew the coffee as usual beofre we pack the tents and I guide us back to Gallipoli for the morning ferry into Asia.

On the ferry from Gallipoli to Lapeski, I meet my new best friend, Osman. Using sheets of paper upon which he’s written various English phrases, he practices his English with me. While we talk and joke together, he holds tightly onto my knee or my hand, sometimes onto both, but never onto neither. His English is very good and in return for spending time with him, I get the opportunity to practice my amazingly rusty Arabic. I give Osman a Poor Circulation badge and it's almost as if I've just handed him a priceless diamond. He's almost in tears and can't stop thanking and hugging me. Alan keeps looking at us with a furrowed brow and a strange expression upon his face. He’s probably wondering if Osman is gay? Wondering why I’m not pushing his hand away from my knee or why when Osman shakes my hand and says a final farewell as the ferry lands, he continues to hold onto it while doing so? The crossing has taken thirty minutes but it actually feels more like five. As we prepare to ride our bikes off from the ferry and into the town of Lapeski, Alan asks me about my physical interaction with Osman. I can't stop myself from laughing. I think Alan’s probably worried about a sudden change in my sexuality, but I can only smile and say to him ....... ‘Welcome to Asia’.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 10: Escaping to Greece

2009-12-27T03:39:00.001-08:00

Thankfully, entering Greece from Macedonia is simplicity itself. We seem to have escaped the chasing police Lada and arrive at the border with nothing in pursuit. Ignoring protocol, we jump straight to the front of the long line of vehicles, show our passport and ride into Greece as quickly and innocently as possible. We've absolutely no idea if Macedonia is a member of Interpol, or if indeed Interpol actually has members, but hopefully they've all got better things to do with their time than to chase us.

Once safely into Greece, we pull to the side of the road and decide on our direction. It’s overpoweringly hot, the traffic is suffocating and we decide that our best option is to head for the nearest stretch of coast and hopefully a beach to rest our aching bones for the next few days. We'll recharge our batteries, drink Retsina and eat fish until boredom moves us East once again. In stark contrast to Macedonia, the traffic here in Greece is heavy but the rules of survival are familiar. Be confident and ride like the road belongs to you, and only you. Be selfish with the asphalt and avoid being intimidated by others. In short, if we adopt a 'London' attitude then we'll probably survive.

We crack-on and follow the compass towards the nearest coastline and arrive as night falls at a beach complex called Retikas, a little to the east of Thessaloniki . It's not on any of our maps and Alan's trusty Sat Nav suggests that we're already in the Aegean Sea. All of that matters little because the ground is flat, the Taverna is open and the Retsina promises to be cold. The grilled sardines arrive and the night is completed with Greek coverage of the Eurovision Song Contest, a contest that they seem to take very seriously in these parts. I meet the local Priest with his long flowing beard. He loves England amost as much as he loves drinking beer. We talk for at least an hour, he‘s warm and friendly and constantly laughs at everything that he says. He notices the 'Buddha' around my neck and he chuckles. He has one wife and five beautiful children, but I‘m not sure what that has to do with Buddhism and I try to tell him that I‘m actually agnostic. This doesn’t seem to phase him. He’s obviously a pragmatic priest. He asks more and more about the journey and as I talk, he just smiles and nods until I’ve finished explaining. Then, he scuttles away to his car and returns a few minutes later with a small case containing what I suspect are the tools of his priestly trade. He asks if he can have the special package and it’s difficult to refuse, he is after all a priest. In a language that I could never understand, and doing things that I’ve never before seen, he blesses first the package and then the two Tigers. I assume that it’s a blessing and not a curse in response to my admission of faithless, but I could be wrong. At least to me it looked quite spiritually official. Unfortunately, with the ceremony completed, I have no more beer to share with him and the Priest decides that the Raki transported from Albania is not quite to his liking. He wishes me well, we say 'goodnight' and in the morning, I guess we'll simply see what the day brings for each of us.

This morning, camping only meters from the Aegean Sea to the side of a Taverna where the owner has kindly allowed us to pitch our tents for free, I awoke to glorious sunshine. I’d shared my little tent with three mosquito and now have eight more bites to add to those collected back in Kosovo. But, perhaps due to the retsina, it had been a wonderful nights sleep. This morning I’ve discovered that this area is called Epanomi and that the reason behind the freeness of our camping, might have something to do with a young lady by the name of Teresa, a girl who has an obvious attraction to Alan. Teresa had served us our meals and drinks in her mother’s taverna last night. The service had been ’attentive’ and as the night had progressed there had been much rubbing of breasts upon shoulders. Alan’s not mine, and thankfully his shoulders and her breasts, because the other way around would have been altogether just a little too pervy. We’d laughed about it at the time, politely of course, but Alan had played the role of the English Gentleman quite perfectly. He’d resisted temptation and while he might now be comfortable with his noble restraint, it seems that Teresa is not quite so understanding. This morning as I’d reclined upon a sun lounger on the perfectly empty beach, Teresa had arrived. She’d looked all elegant in her overlarge sunglasses and carefully arranged layers of free flowing white chiffon that did little to disguise the bikini below. It was a bikini that suggested a continuation of wartime fabric rationing here in Greece and I got the distinct impression that it wasn't being worn for my benefit. She’d asked where Alan was hiding and I’d pointed to the green tent beside the black Tiger pitched to the side of her Mother’s restaurant. She’d simply smiled and skipped happily away towards it. That was almost two hours ago now and I haven’t seen either of them since. I’ve killed the time by fashioning interesting hair styles on my chest using the ’SPF 50’ sun cream as a substitute for styling gel. A punk’s Mohican, a rockers quiff and even a quite convincing Bobby Charlton comb-over. It’s not that I’m bored, it’s really just a reflection of how my mind works when it’s idle. The sun cream is less like a lotion and more like goose fat, probably designed specifically for Geordie’s and Goth’s and I just hope that it’s up to the job of protecting my pale English skin while I wait politely for the ‘All Clear'.

We’ve spent a second night camping at Epanomi and it’s the sort of place that perfectly suites my penchant for idleness. It would have been easy to stay much longer but we’ve only got eight days until we’re due to enter Russia and at our current rate of progress, it will take every one of those days for us to reach the border. We’ve been riding east all day and stopping to look at anything and everything of interest. It’s hot, in fact it’s very hot and we find ourselves being constantly drawn back towards the coastline in search of the refreshing cool breeze from the Aegean. We somehow manage to miss the town of Lagos and instead find ourselves in a small marina that we think is called ’Fanari’. It’s clearly a place that’s had an awful lot of recent investment with it’s new parks, promenades, trendy cafes, small nightclubs and bars, but the place is almost deserted. In an empty café, we eat kebabs and ask the waiter if there is anywhere to pitch our tents for a night. He studies the map and then points to a place a little further east. ’Fanari Camping Ground’, we can camp there.

A few miles beyond the strangely quiet marina, we stop in front of the huge blue and white sign; ‘E.O.T. Camping Fanari‘. At it’s entrance, there is an office and a toll-booth, but the barriers are closed and secured with great lengths of chain. Looking through the grimy office windows, we can see that the place has in the past been highly recommended. Rosettes for quality and service adorn the walls, but the annual sequence of coveted awards seem to end abruptly. ’Campsite of The Year 2004’, and nothing thereafter. The monkey that lives on my shoulder is talking, then shouting and then screaming at the top of his squeaky little voice. Curiosity overcomes me and I scramble over the barriers while Alan finds a slightly easier path through the seemingly unlocked pedestrian gate. What we find inside is rather spooky, and as the sun finally sets, it becomes quite bloody scary. It’s a site of some fifty acres and contains perhaps five hundred touring and static caravans, each positioned in a small enclave with it’s own once beautiful private garden. The caravans are all empty of people, but filled with the evidence of previous inhabitation. The people have gone, but they’ve clearly left in a hurry. Evidence of partially eaten meals sit on tables, sinks full of dirty crockery and fridges filled with the rotten remains of fresh produce. Every single caravan, large and small, expensive and economy, has been abandoned. The overgrowth around the site suggests that the place has been untouched for probably two or three years. But why? At the opposite side of the campsite, we find an abandoned shop, a restaurant, a café and a long empty swimming pool. Vandals have destroyed everything and left their ‘Tags’ on every flat white surface. Over the crumbling wall is a private beach. A few hundred metres of pristine sand with strong high fencing at either end. We take photographs and video before realising that back down in the shaded site, the paths are now in total darkness. We’d both love to know the story behind the abandonment of ‘E.O.T. Camping Fanari‘, but neither of us is keen to continue our exploration in darkness. I won’t say that we run, but we definitely exit at a pace that's slightly faster than a hurried walk. Thankfully the Tigers are exactly where we’d left them, unmolested by ghosts and able to transport us away from one of the scariest places that I’ve ever had the pleasure, or misfortune, to visit.

We spent last night camping on the beach next door to another taverna and woke this morning with the Aegean lapping at the doors to out tents. Today we plan to go into Bulgaria and then return to Greece before heading towards Turkey and Istanbul. My map shows a small road heading north from the town of Komotini towards the Bulgarian border where we could probably cross, but Alan’s Sat Nav still suspiciously shows nothing. Using the compass and a little blind faith, we’re riding north along roads that have never seen tarmac and remind me very much of our recent exploits in Albania. The signs for the small villages are all in Greek and don’t appear on my map, but we keep on riding, always heading north. At a small village, knowing we're close to the Bulgarian border, we stop for water and ask in the local store for directions. We’re ushered to the local Mayor's office where it’s clearly explained to us that although a route once existed to the border, it’s impassable on a motorbike. The Mayor then explains that there is no ’official’ crossing point into Bulgaria. On further questioning he makes it clear that a 'secret path' does exist and that it’s known only to the locals. Unfortunately, as the ‘Mayor’ he could not possibly assist in the illegal entry of persons unknown into Bulgaria, but with a mischievous grin in his eye, he slips me a small scrap of paper on which he’d been scribbling as we'd talked. Outside in the sunshine, we take a closer look at it. He’s marked the route towards the old illegal border crossing, the landmarks that we should look for and the military posts that we should avoid. Result.

Outside of the village, we climb high into the hills, avoiding donkeys, snakes and tortoise at every bend. The road becomes the most difficult yet but the Tigers perform well. Even with tow knobs like Alan and myself doing our level best to crash at every opportunity, the bikes save our bacon on more than one occasion. We accidentally ride straight passed a military post that the Mayor had advised us to avoid, but the bored soldiers just seem to look at us with a hint of suspicion before returning to their task of sleeping. We turn east along an even rougher track for about six kilometres following the line drawn on the roughly sketched map. Finally we spot it. Amid a tangle of razor wire, the white skeins and posts that mark the border between the two nations. We consult Alan's Sat Nav which has not shown a road for the past two weeks, but what it now clearly shows is that we straddle the border between Greece and Bulgaria. We’ve found the unofficial crossing point into Bulgaria. In truth, it was always an illegal crossing point into Greece that had been used by Bulgarian’s wishing to flee the Eastern Block, we are just using it in reverse. Ten years ago we could probably have been shot on sight for this. Perhaps it’s still a serious criminal offence today? But what the hell, there are probably already arrest warrants issued against us in Macedonia. We might as well add Greece and Bulgaria to the list and just hope that Interpol are busy doning more important things.

We move razor-wire to the side and ride the Tigers across the border to take photographs of them inside Bulgaria. After taking photos and inspecting the now derelict camps where people had no doubt hidden whilst awaiting for the ideal crossing opportunity, we make our way along the footpath towards the small town of Kimi. Unfortunately, the going becomes impossible for both bikes and riders and sadly, we admit defeat and turn back in the direction from which we‘d come. Though we were never officially there, Bulgaria is another unplanned country on the Poor Circulation list and to prove that we’ve been, Vodafone have been kind enough to confirm the fact by sending us 'Welcome to Bulgaria' messages on our mobile phones and the best news of all, we've crossed a border where no taxes were payable, local or otherwise. Fantastic.

Other than my meeting with the priest, the short and illicit adventure into Bulgaria and a rather spooky tour around a deserted campsite at Farani, Greece has actually been something of a disappointment. I’m not sure what I’d expected, but it seems that the people here are perhaps a little bit shy. Except of course for Teresa, but Alan still claims that she never actually arrived at his tent that morning. When we stop here in Greece, the people observe us from a safe distance and they don’t approach us unless we approach them first. Maybe it’s a cultural thing, but I’m actually beginning to miss the poking fingers and personal questions that are openly asked in the Balkans. Perhaps Asia will be different?

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 09: Albania

2009-12-24T11:24:00.000-08:00

We find ourselves between the towns of Sukobin and Muriqan and continue along the road to until we find the promised border crossing into Albania. With our documents already prepared, we approach the crossing with caution. The road is narrow and dusty, there's more sand than tarmac and a warm wind is blowing clouds of sand across our path. We arrive at the small and ramshackle border post and I‘ve got the theme tune from a spaghetti western playing in loudly my ears. For some reason, I’d been nervous about this crossing but I really needn’t have worried, we’ve left Montenegro without any formality, we didn’t even stop. On the Albanian side, a well armed cordon of guards is waiting to greet us and I have the feeling that our luck is about to change. I’m invited to present my passport and the formalities begin. An American UN official is inside the small hut and clearly encountering problems. Apparently he’s mistakenly taken his Russian friend, or as he explains to the non-smiling border guard 'a friend of his wife', into Montenegro for a days shopping. Unfortunately, they hadn’t realised that she would require a new visa in order to re-enter Albania. She is now barred from re-entering their country and nobody seems to be impressed. Behind us, a young guy and his seriously pregnant wife have just driven non-stop from London in a car belonging to his friend. He lacks the correct papers to bring the car into Albania and he’s suffering in the intense heat of the afternoon. But, I imagine that he’s still not suffering half as much as his wife who looks as if she could go into labour at any minute. A gun carrying guard calls my name, ’’Goffry Tomak’’ , and I resist the urge to correct him. He smiles and asks me for an Entry Tax payment of ten Euros. I know that it’s a very local form of taxation, a payment that will later be divided between members of his team, but it’s a small price to pay to ensure swift access to what is probably going to be the most lawless of nations that we're likely to visit. I hand over the crisp Euro note and encourage Alan to do the same. I get the feeling that if we resist the unofficial ‘Entry Tax‘, then a special ’Argument Tax’ might also become payable. Besides, they all seem to be holding menacingly large guns and that‘s incentive enough for me. These are not the first guns that we‘ve seen on the journey, but they are the first guns that look like they've recently been fired. We smile politely, pay the tax and move on into Albania.

The road that we’ve followed to the border seems to disappear from my map as it crosses into Albania. I cross check with Alan’s Garmin, but on the Sat Nav the road doesn’t seem to feature on either side of the crossing. In fact, no matter how far he zooms out on the Garmin’s screen, it seems to show very little of anything. But, it’s not all bad news. My compass says that we’re heading east and that's good enough for me. We’ll head in that direction until we find the road that does appear on my map and then follow it all of the way to the next town. That town is called Puke, and I’ve no idea what we’ll find there. But, if the Albanian’s have taken the time to adorn it with such an inviting name, then it would be rude of us not to pay it a visit.

Some of these early roads in Albania are really quite bad, but as we move hopefully closer to Puke, they seem to be getting an awful lot worse. In between avoiding the potholes and unforgiving patches of deep gravel and sand, I try to recall everything that I can about Albania, and I will admit the it really isn’t very much. I know that Albania was once a part of the Ottoman Empire, thus it’s Islamic roots, it once had a King called 'Zog' and that in the early 19th Century Lord Byron came here and spent time with Ali Pasha, the Lion of Yannina and ruler of Albania. Byron was here as part of his Grand Tour, a voyage of discovery across Europe, but I seem to recall that his main reason for visiting Albania was to get thoroughly buggered at every possible opportunity. I’ve no idea how successful that particular part of his mission had been, but at this moment in time, Byron’s eclectic sex life is of far less importance to my future than the condition of the roads. They’re not good and to describe them as ’roads’ is really to misrepresent them. They’re little more than badly maintained cart tracks and along both sides, and stretching way beyond, are festering mounds of rotting garbage. Steam rises from them and a stench fills the air that’s impossible to describe. You don’t just smell it, it burns your throat and nostrils and you taste it. It’s rank, it’s disgusting and outside of official landfill sites, I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. It’s offensiveness has us riding a little faster than we otherwise would, but in the race to escape its noxious effects, we’re losing.

Eventually, the sand and gravel transforms into badly maintained tarmac and we find ourselves on the edges of a town that seems to have no name. I stop and consult the map. We’re definitely on the right road but it’s difficult to work out exactly where we are. I ask Alan if his Sat Nav is showing anything that might be of help, but It isn’t. I take a look at the screen and it shows a river that runs to our right, but no town, no roads and nothing to indicate exactly where we are. The sun is low and we want to find somewhere suitable to camp before darkness falls. We start out again and head towards what we assume to be the centre of the town. The dusty streets are lined with the same discarded rubbish and the people just seem to sit amongst it as they go about their lives. Young kids notice us coming and must see us as something slightly more interesting than whatever it was that they were already doing. They rush out at our bikes, touching, grabbing, waving. More of them are arriving by the second and we‘ve been forced to slow down to a walking pace. Their attention seems friendly at first, but their growing numbers make it increasingly claustrophobic. Each time we stop, the crowd of kids grows, the average age increases and the early almost polite requests for "Euros Mister" have now become demands with menace. I don’t stop to count them, but there must be a group of at least a hundred people running after us and more are joining with every metre. We come to a narrow bridge and have no option but to stop. The crowd immediately engulfs us and the people are tugging at my pockets, pulling at the tent and trying to relieve me of the Primus stove that‘s attached to the side of bike. We’re being mugged by kids from as young as three or four years of age and their parents are encouraging them. The bridge across what I now see to be a filthy litter encrusted river is made from ancient wood and only wide enough for a single line of vehicles. A line of traffic is coming from the opposite side and the old railway sleepers that form it’s base are dancing beneath their tyres. Cars, old model Mercedes wearing faded paint and the scars of too many lost battles fill the bridge from bank to bank and we’re trapped. The bike suddenly lurches to one side and I almost lose balance. An adult, possibly the father of the teenage boy who’s hand is now buried deep in my forward tool bag searching for treasure, is trying to yank my tent away from the top of the pannier. "Bollocks", I didn‘t sign up for this shit. I twist the throttle, drop the clutch and the Tiger jumps up the step onto the main platform of the bridge. I stand up on the foot-pegs and rattle across the unsecured planks with the rear tyre spinning wildly and the sound of the Tiger’s growl alerting the people ahead. Thankfully Alan’s hard on my tail but the braver elements of the crowd are still giving chase. Towards the centre of the bridge, men of all ages stand tight against the edge, their fishing lines and hooks hanging over the inadequate rail and into the filthy waters below. The startled fishermen squeeze as close as they can to the flimsy looking safety rail and the oncoming Mercedes thankfully make as much room as they possibly can. We squeeze through the narrowest passage and miraculously, seem to avoid hitting anybody or anything. It’s just as well that the cars and people made way for us, because we sure as hell were in no mood for stopping. Welcome to Albania where the touring has become travelling.

In the relative safety of an open road without buildings or people, we stop to draw breath. We seem to have escaped with our possessions in tact, but the thick nylon chords holding my tent to the pannier have been neatly spliced and only a single elastic bungee is now holding it in place. The canvas lid on my tool bag is open. Thankfully all of the tools still seem to be in there but sadly, there are no severed fingers in amongst them. It’s the first time that either of us has felt any sense of danger, but it’s behind us now and thankfully we’re able to laugh about it. We're still intent on reaching the town of 'Puke' but now we have even less of an idea about what we might find once we get there. However, we’ve stopped close to an old pole which at it’s summit has the remnants of a sign for ‘Puke’, so at least we’re still on the right road. It's starting to get dark and the prospects of reaching Puke, or of finding a safe and stench-free place to camp are looking quite unlikely. ’Official Camping?’’ Forget it, this is Albania. According to my map, we're on the outskirts of a town called Shkoder and we both hope that it‘s far more welcoming than the last town.

"England? England?" ...... "I Love London". I see the bike in the gloom and at first I think it’s a Yamaha XT600 that’s been heavily crashed or stupidly modified. Apart from the obvious lack of headlight, something else seems to be missing from it‘s frame. The guy is waving at me, he’s shouting, but we’re travelling in opposing directions and I simply wave and continue along the road. Avoiding what appears to be a rotting dead cow in the centre of the track, I reach the brow of a hill and look backwards over my shoulder. Alan has vanished. Please God not here, anywhere else but here, don‘t get separated now. Alan will be freaking out and I honestly can‘t blame him. We’ve been in Albania for less than three hours and already experienced more challenges that we’ve encountered on the entire journey so far. It’s travelling, it’s what we came for but I think that Alan’s finding it more difficult to adapt to the sudden change from Montenegro. I think for a moment, '’Engine'‘. The thing missing from the Yamaha XT600 was it's engine, the crazy guy who loved London was riding a motorbike without an engine. Hoping for the best but fearing the worst, I spin the Tiger around on the dirt road and race back down the hill. Just as my worry starts turning into mild panic, I see Alan riding towards me. In front of him I can see a silhouette, a bike of some description, a bike without a headlight, a bike without an engine. "Meet Jack, he's taking us for a cup of tea".

We sit in a small cafe, centre of the room, centre of all attention. Jack explains that for five years, he lived in London as a refugee and he's now back in Albania and finding things are economically difficult. He’s built his own home here in his native Shkoder and we're invited to come and eat with his family. Jack’s English is good and we tell him or our traumas in the last town, the town without a name. Jack looks worried, he shakes his head and tells us that Albania is full of criminals and thieves, that we were lucky to escape with our belongings. Jack invites us to camp in his vegetable garden, he has dogs to guard our Tigers and we‘ll be safe there. He’s a nice guy with a friendly smile and lets face it, it’s the best offer that we’re likely to get this evening. Jack asks us to follow his bike closely, he has no lights and will use ours to light his way home. We start the bikes and begin following him back to his house. He cuts away from the main road, along rutted dust tracks, across railway lines and even along railway lines. Its dark and there are no street lights, in fact there is no electricity and his crazy modified bike, which I can now see is fitted with a replacement engine from a diminutive Honda C70, has no brakes. The Tiger’s lights are helping him along, but with Jack riding only slightly ahead of us, we have to anticipate his next movement very quickly and he’s not making things very easy for us. His arm signals are more cool than effective, he darts suddenly left and a pair of 300Kg fully loaded Triumphs try to turn on the same axis and prevent this madman from running into a blind ditch and killing himself. The lanes that we’re riding are dark, the houses have disappeared behind us and even the old factory units on either side of the road are beginning to vanish. It’s impossible to see where he’s taking us, but it’s certainly to a place where few people dwell. On a relatively straight stretch of track, I reach down into the pouch containing my emergency petrol can, pull out the eighteen inch heavy steel wrench and slip it down the side of my left boot. Better to be safe than sorry. Across more railway lines, beneath the legs of pylons that seem to carry nothing more the hopes of future electricity and finally we arrive at a house. It's a big house surrounded and hidden by abandoned industrial units. Lights shine from every window and the front door is open. A dog barks loudly, a group of people come out onto the veranda and their beaming smiles are caught in the Tigers headlights. Jack is off his bike and talking animatedly with what I assume to be his wife and family. With a certain amount of embarrassment, I discreetly slip the wrench back into it’s holder and switch of the bikes engine.

It's as nice a house on the inside as it appears to be from the outside and his family are welcoming. We eat in their best room, we share food they can ill afford to give us and they refuse to take any money in return. We drink Raki that Jack makes illegally in one of his many outbuildings. We eat salad and cheese that Jack’s wife has made with milk from her many goats, we drink homemade wine and then finish of with a feast of Goulash and home baked bread. We were probably full after just the second course but it’s impossible to turn down such amazing hospitality. Their attention to every aspect of our comfort and wellbeing is fantastic. The Raki is strong, I’ve never tasted it before and doubt that I’ll be adding it to my list of favourites, but it warms every part of me and sends my mind away on a journey that‘s totally independent of my legs. I’ve no idea what time it is, but we’re shown to a bedroom that contains a double bed and a makeshift single on the floor. I guess that it’s actually their own bedroom and heavens only knows where Jack and his wife will be sleeping?

For some reason, neither of us have a hangover this morning, which given the amount of alcohol that we consumed, is really quite remarkable. Outside in Jack’s yard, we inspect his bike in daylight. It turns out to be a marvel of improvised engineering. If we ever considered our budgets to be small, and at times our actions to be inventive, then looking at Jack’s Honda-Aprilia-Yamaha-Bitza, puts all of our own challenges into perspective. It's a minor miracle that it actually works at all. Proudly, he shows us his vegetable garden and the developing vineyard that‘s heavy with ripening grapes. He gives each of us 3 litres of Raki to take with us on our travels while his ever smiling wife cooks our breakfast. Jack lives with his wife, his son who once represented Albania at gymnastics, his sister who has recently separated from her violent husband and his delightful niece who this morning has dressed in traditional Albanian costume and poses for pictures in front of the bikes. Jack consults my map and scratches his chin. He looks some more and then finally shakes his head. “The road to Puke is bad, .. very bad, .. especially for bikes and too many bandits, you not be safe going to Puke“. Jack looks genuinely worried for us. It’s important to him that we leave Albania with only the best possible memories and he probably fears that seeing any more of his country will destroy that prospect completely. He points to my map and suggests that we can take a ferry boat from Koman in the mountains. It will take us directly into Kosovo and will be much better than taking the dangerous road. Jack explains that Albania has an unemployment rate approaching 90%. It has no government to speak of and that crime is a very serious issue. I’m sure that he’s exaggerating but given our limited experience of his country, his exaggerations are probably a lot closer to the truth than any preconceived notions that I may have held. I look back at the map but I can’t figure out how we can get from Koman to Kosovo on a ferry. The water simply doesn’t seem to stretch that far and in my experience, ferries usually need water upon which to sail. But hell, it’s the best plan that we’ve got and Jack’s the local expert. We pack the bikes, say farewell to his wonderful family and follow Jack on his Bitza along the track that we no doubt travelled the previous evening. I have to say, it looks no less menacing in the daylight.

Jack leads us back through his town of Shkoder and he seems to be taking the non-direct route. To everybody he sees, he waves and announces us as his friends visiting him from England. It takes forever, he has many friends, many people that he wants to impress. But eventually we run out of town and the road begins to rise into the mountains. As our altitude rises, the smell of rotting garbage slowly disappears and the air becomes crystal clear and perfectly breathable. The contrast is amazing, we’re riding on admittedly very rough roads, but away from the ravages of humans, the countryside here is stunningly beautiful. Over the past decade it seems that Albania has advanced beyond recognition. The people have turned from a productive society to a consuming society, they have embraced the ideals of the West but without the finances to enjoy them in the round. They have welcomed the arrival of pre-packaged food but have no infrastructure to deal with the resulting waste products. Wherever humans dwell in Albania, the land is unfortunately drowning in garbage and it seems that nothing can, or will, be done about it. They could start by providing litter bins, but then they‘d need a system for collecting them, and then a system for disposing of the waste. If jack’s claim of 90% unemployment is even close, then it simply isn‘t going to happen as the government will have no tax revenues to spend. Perhaps the Albanian border guards also receive very low incomes and thus enhance them by enforcing local taxes at the point of entry. I’m now only surprised that those local taxes were so low.

Jack’s Bitza wobbles slightly more than normal, and then wobbles some more before finally he falls off it. He’s not drunk, he has a puncture. I offer to fix if for him but he insists that were running short of time. We have to make the ferry from Koman by 11am, and the ferry will not wait for us. With his hands, Jack demonstrates the speed and ease with which the ferry will whisk us away from Albania and into Kosovo. “Go now, .. go go go”. He gives me rough directions and we set off towards the town of Koman and the ferry onwards. An hour later, we stop to consult our map and find ourselves in the middle of a very 'blank' area of Albania and so employ Alan’s sat nav, only to see the not so comforting sight of the small motorcycle icon on an otherwise totally blank screen. If there were words on the map, then I'm sure that they would read “Beware .. there be monsters here“. With no more information available to clear our geographical fog, we simply head for the next range of hills. The road surface worsens as we go and the larger pot holes are now deeper than the Tigers spindles. There’s much more sand than tarmac and then there’s no tarmac at all, just dust and debris beneath our wheels. To one side of us is a drop of several hundred feet down into the ravine below and to the other side, a steep rock wall that rises to the clear blue sky. At intervals that are far too short for comfort, memorials mark the places where the journeys of others have ended prematurely. Hopefully, we won’t be adding to their numbers today. The road is blind and narrow, streams flow across it. There is some traffic sharing our road, and although it’s not a lot, overtaking it is a matter of blind faith. Despite the danger and discomfort, we place our trust in every deity known to man and press on towards the 11am ferry.

The town of Koman seems to consist of 3 small cafés and 2 even smaller houses. We ask about the ferry and we’re waved onwards higher up into the mountains. We head on, climbing until we see before us a hole in the rock face. Not quite a tunnel but also not quite a cave. We enter nervously. The floor, walls and ceiling are all of the same sandy texture making navigation difficult. We keep riding into the darkness fuelled only by the knowledge that retracing our route to this point would be almost suicidal. I’m in the lead and I brake as hard as I possibly can. Ahead of me, and now moving slowly in the glow of the Tigers’ headlight, is a reclining cow. It appears to be sleeping, but I’m not even sure if cows ever sleep. Whatever, it certainly isn’t scared of Tigers and it’s not going to move for me. As I turn the tigers lights left and right, I notice that the cow is not alone, there are at least twenty of them sharing the coolness of the tunnel. With my feet paddling on the floor, I slowly edge my way between the napping herd of bovine and the stone tunnel wall with Alan following close behind. After what feels like a lifetime but is probably no more than two or three minutes, a natural source of light appears in front of me. We ride towards it and emerge onto a large concrete jetty that‘s bathed in beautiful sunlight. I have never before been so grateful to see the light of day. This is the ferry terminal from Koman to Kosovo and the next stage of our journey is about to begin.

A small Albanian man wearing a big smile and cheap crumpled suit, approaches us. He’s too slick for his own good, too friendly for my liking and that probably makes him a 'fixer'. He confirms with a golden grin that the 11am ferry was in fact, the 10am ferry, and that it departed exactly on time. We’re unlucky. The next ferry is at 15:30pm, “Inshallah“. We call an emergency board meeting and make two executive decisions. Firstly, we're not going back down the road that we've just ridden and secondly, Mr Fixer's palm will remain ungreased by Poor Circulation. Thankfully, living on bikes makes unplanned delays like this slightly more bearable. We carry everything that we need with us and so do what every other Englishman would do in this baking midday sun. I light the Primus and make a brew. 'Top tea sir'.

Finally, at a little after five in the evening, the Roll-On Reverse-Off Ferry - one of the platforms at the end of the ferry isn't working - chugs slowly towards our new home on the concrete dock at Koman. With the appearance of the antiquated vessel, the vehicles that have arrived to join us start their engines in earnest and prepare to board the vessel, a vessel that is still at least a kilometre away from us and is yet to unload it’s current cargo of vehicles. We're English, and so we coolly wait our turn and drink another cup of refreshing tea. We don’t rush at the best of times and in this sort of heat, we don’t rush for anything. As we slowly finish our tea, a uniformed official arrives and inspects our passports. We’re asked to pay a further ten Euros for the privilege of leaving Albania and are invited to board the ferry. We end up wedged between lorries and cars as the ferry finally casts off and heads for Kosovo. We're running late, but it's not that we have any fixed appointments and at least we‘re moving again. We head to the top deck of the vessel and watch as the mountains flow past us providing amazing view after amazing view. The rock faces rise from the perfectly still waters almost vertically to the clear blue sky above.These mountains are unspoilt by man and are truly spectacular. Along the side of the ravines we can see the alternate to the ferry, the road that Jack had warned us about. He was quite right, the narrow ribbon of road looks far worse than anything that we’ve experienced so far. Not wishing to appear like a biking pussy, beneath my breath I thank Jack once again for everything that he‘s done.

The one hour sailing has taken almost three and we’ve just arrived in Kosovo. It’s already after 8pm and the sun has dipped behind the mountains. I’m amazed at the lack of formality as we clear customs without payment or fuss and ride into Kosovo. After leaving the ferry terminal, we’ve been on the road about half an hour and I have to say that it’s equally as bad and dangerous as the roads that we’ve left behind us in Albania. Then, we come across the first road sign. I consult the map and then look back at the road sign. I’m confused and we stand sliently scratching our heads. Together, we looked at the sat nav and now we’re even more confused. I look back at my map, but this time I use the magnifying glass to more closely inspect the detail. It then dawns on me why the roads are so bad and why the customs formalities had been so sloppy. We’re still in bloody Albania.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 08: Italy

2009-11-14T11:19:00.000-08:00

Since Mark and Lee left us back in Germany, a lot has happened that isn’t contained within this limited Blog, five whole chapters in fact. From the Black Forest, we’d ridden down into Switzerland and spent a little time exploring the amazing Rheinfalls. It was there that Alan had for the first time voiced his firmly held belief that people from the Indian sub-continent should not be allowed to visit such places of outstanding beauty. At first I’d thought that it was his immature attempt at a very bad joke, but sadly it wasn’t. I think that Alan was quite surprised when instead of agreeing with his racist views, I simply offered to tear him a new arsehole. Our roads would have parted at the time, but Alan isn’t yet confident enough to ride on alone. I offered to escort him back to Calais, but he wants to continue onwards until he feels more comfortable in his surroundings. We’ll see what the next week brings, but it’s surprising what you find out about people when you travel together .......

Having spent amost a week travelling through Switzerland, Liechtenstein and Austria,this evening we head towards a campsite close to the town of Nevergal in Italy, but it’s a town that we simply can’t find. It’s marked on the map but there don’t appear to be any roads that lead towards it. Using the compass from a known point on the map, I navigate along any track I can find that seems to lead in the right direction. The tarmac has ended long ago and halfway up a hill that seems to have turned into a mountain, we arrive in a village of no more than twenty houses. At a ‘Y’ junction, an old man sits in an even older rocking chair, eyes closed and holding his ample belly. I flip up the front of my helmet and ask ‘Nevergal?’ He opens his eyes, chuckles and wobbles his belly. He turns his head towards the right and nods. I lift a thumb and an eyebrow and nod in the same direction. In fluent English, he nods back with a smile. For the next three miles we travel along increasingly rutted and washed-out gravel tracks catching occasional glimpses of the snow capped Dolomite's to the north of us. The road keeps on climbing, it’s rough going and the only people that we see are serious climbers carrying ropes and crampons. We smile and they look back at us with a mixture of disdain and disbelief. I get the feeling that not many vehicles ever make it this far, but we‘re not on any vehicle, we‘re riding Tigers. I stop and show a smaller group the ’X’ on my map. They point along the track and all that I can do is hope that they‘re right. A few torturous but fun miles later, we find that it was worth the effort.

The chalet at Nevergal appears like a beautiful mirage before us and the most beautiful girl that we’ve seen so far on the journey, points us towards a suitable camping ground. We quickly pitch tents and retire to the chalet’s fully stocked bar for an evening of silent voyeurism. As the night progresses, cars arrive and obviously drunken drivers wobble into the bar. Several hours later, they leave even less stably than they’d arrive and drive off into the murk, often without the assistance of headlights. A small ever changing group of people sit together on tall stools in a circle and talk animatedly in a language that I don’t understand. Jimmy James and the Vagabonds, Archie Bell and the Drells, Tavares and other assorted hot hits from the 1970’s fill the room from unseen speakers. An outrageous fluorescent shell-suited local arrives and joins the small group on the stools. He flirts with the beautiful girl from the reception and she seems to appreciate his slavering attention. My shorts are not designer, my sandals have seen better days but my tee-shirt’s non-synthetic and perhaps there’s hope for me yet? Only joking, I was always a little bit rubbish at cricket so although batting above my average wouldn’t be difficult, I know a limitation when I see one. Alan’s happy to sit alone but I’m here to learn new things and decide to join the small and happy group. What I learn is that I speak absolutely no Italian and that their English is just as limited. It doesn’t seem to matter, they ask me questions that I don’t understand and give answers that they find equally incomprehensible. Nobody is really learning anything but the drinks are flowing and once again on this journey, no money seems to be changing hands. It seems like a free for all and I get the distinct impression that here in Nevergal, the locals make their hay shortly after the sun shines. The winter-set have gone with the last of the snow and the summer-set are yet to arrive. During this period of lull, the locals seem to drink freely from the profits of the tourist. I’m not sure if that’s really true, but I what I do know is that once I’d joined the group, nothing from that point onwards was ever paid for.

This morning I woke to a wonderful view of the Dolomite's and shared coffee with a German cyclist by the name of Thomas. He’d arrived late last night and possibly on account of my snoring, had pitched his tiny little micro-tent at the opposite side of the empty site. We share tales of our respective travels and Thomas shares with me the fact that at the opposite side of the chalet is a beautifully paved road that would have brought us directly to Nevergal. He points towards the Dolomite's and the rising sun, which suggests that the paved road would have involved a significant detour, but I don’t really care. I’m glad that we hadn’t found that road because the ride across the top of the mountain had been a great experience and the memory of the old pot-bellied villager, napping in his filthy white vest, is a memory that I’ll cherish for a very long time. Thomas’ cycle tours are an annual event, always travelling alone and always transporting his trusty bicycle by train to the starting point of his journey. Aside from tent, sleeping bag and spare clothing, he’s carrying next to nothing on his cycle and simply picks up everything that he needs by interacting with strangers that he meets along the way. Thomas insists that the most important thing that he carries with him is his curiosity and I can’t help but admire his spirit and determination. He’s taught me more in ten minutes of conversation that I’ve learned on the entire journey to date. I’d like to tie his bicycle behind the Tiger and bring him along with us, but that’s not possible. Thomas has a new mission for today. He’s heard on the local grapevine, namely a pizza restaurant that he’d visited yesterday evening, that the comely receptionist from the lodge is inclined to provide favours to passing strangers. He wanders off towards the showers with a bar of soap, a change of lycra and a skip in his step. He’s a confident guy and I fancy that his chances of success are quite high, Good luck Thomas, you dark horse.

Thomas the cyclist had been right. Nevergal does have a road and I’m buggered if I know how I missed it yesterday. What’s even more mystifying is the fact that we can’t even find it on the map today. It’s definitely here, because we’re riding on it. We’ve dropped down from the heights of Nevergal to the shores of a mirror flat lake with magnificent views of the snow capped Dolomite's in the distance. Officially this road heading towards Vittorio Veneto is called Route 51, but it’s known locally, and even signposted, as the ‘Death Road‘. It’s quite an emotive name and the small shrines placed periodically at each beautiful curve attest to the accuracy of it’s name. We pass a small bike dealership appropriately named ‘Death Road Motorcycles’ and stop for fuel a little further along. Above us, towering 100 meters in the air, is a flyover, a ribbon of aerial carriageway the likes of which I’ve never before seen. It seems to exit from the side of a towering mountain and runs winding and slim for as far as the eye can see. About it’s tiny footprints on the valley floor, there’s no graffiti, no smell of stale urine and no abandoned furniture or shopping carts. This is an Italian flyover and bears absolutely no resemblance to any of it’s British counterparts. It’s a beautiful sight but I have absolutely no idea how to get onto it or even where it would take us. It’s a supermodel of a road, a curving body held high above the valley on legs of pipe cleaner slenderness. I’d love to ride on that magnificent elevated road but the garage owners English is worse than our combined Italian and no matter what questions we ask, the response is never anything more than a toothless smile. Unable to find a way onto it, I content myself with the view and the hope that one day, all flyovers will be built like this.

As we continue to head east, Italy is becoming visibly poorer and the roads more congested. It’s not that there’s any more traffic, it’s just that there seems to be far less tarmac. The landscape has become flatter and less involving and everything that has been built, has been located at the side of the road. Nothing exists behind those buildings and there are no areas of countryside between them. It feels as if we’ve riding through the longest town that has ever been built. I’m already missing Germany, Switzerland, Austria and the Alps, but at least I’m enjoying the warmer air down here at sea level. Everything seems to be slightly more East than West, and even the toilets have changed. Gone are the thrones that we English favour and in their place, foot printed basins that employ little in the way of posterior support and have plumbing that favours function over form. We’re still in Italy, but it’s clear that we’re closing in on the Balkans.

We’re approaching our last port of call in Italy, the coastal resort of Triest. As we drop down towards the Adriatic Sea, the aerial view of Triest is really quite beautiful. A crescent of white buildings nestling on the small plateau between the hills and the deep blue of the sea. It’s the first time that we’ve seen the sea since leaving the ferry back in Calais and I’m getting a distinct ‘Summer Holiday’ sort of feeling. I have a sudden urge to knot a handkerchief, roll up my trousers and start complaining about foreign food. But, before I can come over all British, I‘ve got to survive the journey down to the promenade.

The traffic is London-like and in the interests of personal safety, we revert to courier mode. As I refuse to jump a clearly red traffic light ahead of me, an Alfa Romeo mounts the rear of my bike. I turn around and stare at him and he responds by nudging me again. I've no alternative but to offer him an internationally recognised gesture, to which he immediately offers a suitable response. The lights change and I’m off down the road and safely away from the dangers of Alfa aggression. A second car then decides to aid his own progress by violently nudging me to the side of the road. I’m already travelling at well above the legal speed limit but I‘m too busy trying to keep the bike out of the gutter to offer the driver an immediate response. He's visibly laughing at my distress and seems to think that it's the funniest thing ever. At the next set of lights I pull alongside the offending car, select neutral and with one swift kick, remove his wing mirror with the sole of my boot. He’s not at all happy but that just makes it a level playing field. He’s just tried to kill me and being cordial isn‘t uppermost in my mind. Intent on replicating the wing mirrors damage on his Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses, I reach in through his open window and try to grab his face. With a screech of tyres, he pulls away across the red light and escapes the Tiger’s wrath. I’m ready to give chase but in the melee of traffic and violence, I’ve lost sight of Alan in my mirrors.

Aside from the traffic chaos Trieste is a beautiful place. Sandwiched on a narrow sliver of land between Slovenia to the east and the Adriatic Sea to the west, it reminds me of a budget French Riviera and even the wild traffic has it’s visible attractions. Everybody who isn’t driving an expensive car in a murderous fashion seems to ride a scooter wearing what I can only assume to be the very height of Italian fashion. Girls with long flowing hair and sunglasses the size of small television screens pull up to the traffic lights and place their delicate Jimmy Choo’s onto the hot and dusty tarmac for stability. Everybody here has style, mountains of style, and having clearly spent so much of their time on presentation, it‘s amazing that they have enough time left to ever venture outside. It just makes me feel so bloody English. A weekend spent on New Bond Street with an unlimited line of credit and a personal shopper and I’d still look pretty much the same as I do now. I’m just not Italian and never will be.

This morning I had one of life’s personal comedy moments but sadly, or thankfully, there were no witnesses. In the shower house of our latest campsite, I inserted my fifty cents only to find that in the absence of any taps, the shower was programmed to start instantly. Unfortunately, the coin mechanism was inside the small shower cubicle and I was still wearing my clothes. The door was too small to open without standing directly beneath the stream of water and I enjoyed my first unintentional fully clothed soaking of the week. My washed clothes from yesterday evening were still laid out on the Tiger to dry. I had no dry clothes to wear, but thankfully it was a wonderfully warm morning. In an attempt to hasten the drying process, I walked into the local village. I’ve found a great little pastry shop there where I buy delicious marmalade croissants and the elderly girls giggle and refer to me as the crazy English biker. It seems that height is attractive in these parts and they ask where my tall friend is today? I tell them that he’s still sleeping and with more giggles and furtive winks, they ask me where? I’m tempted to tell them. It’s an interesting village and across the road from where we’re camped, is a well stocked supermarket where the display of produce owes little to convention. Everything in there is arranged in the most chaotic manner making it almost impossible to find anything that might actually be on your shopping list. On the first visit I mistakenly bought pizza yeast thinking that it was butter. But, I still enjoy going there and the printing on top of their till receipts always makes me smile. ’’Gonad Supermarket,… Happy Shopping’’ .

In many ways I’ll be sorry to leave Italy, but the £20 per day budget can survive no longer in these stylish and expensive parts. While in Italy it would have been great to visit Rome, Florence, Venice and Vicenza, and had this been ‘Rich’ and not ‘Poor Circulation‘ then I’m sure that I would have done the full grand-tour. But it’s not and I haven’t, so I’ll try not to whine about it too much. We need to move onwards into more reasonably priced areas and this means that we’re about to leave Western Europe behind us. So far, the only challenges that we‘ve faced have been wholly of our own making and the journey itself has been easy. The Balkans is uncharted territory for both of us, but then apart from France and Germany, every other region has been too. But, I suspect that this is where the real ‘travelling‘ is about to begin.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 07: Into Europe

2009-10-16T04:03:00.000-07:00

It’s Thursday the 1st of May 2008, and would you believe it, it’s stopped raining. Here in Folkestone, we’ve been joined for the first few days in Europe by Mark Wallis and Lee Crahart. For the first time since the Moto Challenge GB of 2004, the four members of 'Team Hap Hazard' are reunited. In July of that year, geographically lost and mentally confused, we’d come together as strangers on a bridge above the M4 Motorway in deepest Gloucestershire. For the next seven days, we’d hill climbed, navigated and raced our weird assortment of bikes across England, Wales and Scotland. Three thousand road miles of laughter, three circuits of deep adrenaline joy and the occasional lunchtime pie. What a fantastic week it had been for us all. By comparison, the other twenty teams in the competition had all seemed to be far more professional and properly prepared for the challenge. We’d been neither, we were team ‘Hap Hazard’, along for the fun with none of the gear and no idea. The other teams hadn’t taken us seriously but that‘s hardly surprising, because we hadn‘t either. We probably looked like nothing more than four clowns on an assortment of rusty old nails but beneath that comedy façade, there‘d been a determination to get things done. We’d attacked the challenge with stealth, gusto and only a minor amount of crashing. The competition had ended in Kelso and when the final scores had been calculated, 'Team Hap Hazard' had ridden away with a rich embarrassment of trophies. It had been a good week, an amazing experience. Now, being reunited has brought back all of the memories, this is going to be a very good week.

The ferry terminal at Dover seems deserted by people but infested by container lorries. There are just no people, perhaps ‘passengers’ all take the tunnel these days? Alan and I hand over our complimentary vouchers courtesy of P&O Ferries and the attendant looks back towards the four parked bikes. We smile a lot, we mention our charities, we talk about low budgets, we mention the fantastic support that’s been provided by P&O Ferries and how without there help, our journeys would not have been possible. Behind us, Lee and Mark fidget with gloved fingers in small jacket pockets looking for money for the fare. Perhaps the attendant thinks that they’re searching for their own complimentary vouchers, or perhaps he’s just impatient or bored. Whatever he thinks, no money changes hands and with just two free tickets, four bikes and four bodies board the 9:30am crossing to Calais and this could be the perfect start to our European adventures.

At passport control, they simply wave us through. Wearing full-face crash helmets with tinted visors, we could be anybody, but nobody seems to care about details like that. Perhaps leaving the country is easier than entering it? From the rear of the ferry, looking down onto a vast expanse of concrete covered from end to end by huge articulated container lorries, I wonder if any of them are carrying illicit human cargo. It’s hard to understand the lengths that some people will go to in order to enter the UK, especially as we’re so keen to be leaving. Maybe once I’ve seen a little more of life in the Balkan’s and Russia I’ll understand their motivations a little better, but until that time arrives, I’ll go and find out what a Euro note looks like. Yes, an experienced traveller and I’ve never held nor spent a Euro in my life. The last time I was in France I was spending Francs, and in Germany Deutschmarks, it’s really been that long since I’ve travelled anywhere in Europe. I hand over a hundred British Pounds and they give me more than a hundred Euros’ in exchange. It seems like a fantastic way to grow your money. I should really do this more often. To be honest, they could have handed me notes from a French Monopoly game and I wouldn’t have been any the wiser, I’m British, I probably would have smiled and simply said Thank You.

It’s a ’Roll-On Roll-Off’ ferry and even this early in the morning, people are seemingly rolling off drunk. Not us of course, we stick to the latte. As we dock in Calais, nothing is checked. We expect to gather at immigration control and develop a plan for the remainder of the day, a day that is now one hour shorter. But there is no immigration or any other form of control. With Mark in the lead, we just Roll-Off the ferry and keep on riding. I notice that we’re following signs for Dunkerque which I guess is part of a plan to visit places of military interest along the way. The truth is, there is no real plan, Mark is our European expert and for this part of the journey and geographically speaking, we’re nothing more than his willing bitches. Sitting back and enjoying the views. The roads are quiet, very quiet, too quiet. Since leaving the ferry terminal in Calais we’ve hardly seen another vehicle all morning. The shops seem to be closed and France is still sleeping. We need petrol urgently but every fuel station that we’ve seen has been closed. Of course, what an idiot I am. In Britain we celebrate May Day on the first Monday in May, it’s more convenient that way and everybody knows where they stand, but now were no longer in Britain. This is France and today is Thursday, it’s the 1st day of May, today is their public holiday and the French take their holidays very seriously indeed. The Tiger is capable of covering 260 miles on a full tank of petrol but unfortunately our tanks had not been full. Believing that petrol would be far cheaper in a low taxed economy like France, we’d avoided filling up in Blighty and hoped to now save valuable pennies, or cents by buying French petrol. This fiscal master plan is about to spectacularly backfire and we have two simple choices. We can either find somewhere local to camp for the night and get hammered earlyier than planned, or we can try and ride to Lille and find a fuel station that's remained open in the larger city. My decision, my fault, guilty as charged. We meet at the side of the road and decide that we’ll head to Lille.

With Marks SatNav duly programmed for Lille, we set out again. On our right we pass three impressively tall chimneys belching plumes of white smoke out into a cloudless lunchtime sky. The road is a dual carriageway, wide, smooth and at these low fuel saving speeds, amazingly boring. Several minutes later, we pass another three impressively tall chimneys belching out the same plumes of white smoke, but this time they’re to our left. We stop to consult and coordinate their three different Sat Nav’s. After several minutes of conversation that I simply don’t understand, they’re confident that between them they now have the correct route. We start out again on our journey towards Lille. Thirty four miles into this latest stage of the journey, the three impressively tall chimneys appear once again on our right and I begin to wonder if the French have their own word for deja vue.

A short break to consult my ancient but seemingly reliable map of France, and were back on track. We leave the boring dual carriageway and move swiftly along on smooth ribbons or tarmac between low fields bordered with trees and narrow canals. It’s really quite beautiful and just how France should be. Just as our confidence in reaching Lille before the fuel supplies expire, we encounter diversion signs and follow them around villages, along tracks through fields, through farm yards and then back onto the original roads. It’s a public holiday and what do the French people do on holidays apart from eating and drinking? They indulge in their strange passion for cycle racing and close half of the Nations roads. Unfortunately, today they seem to have selected the roads that we want to use. Approaching one village, we encounter a road block and stand aside to watch almost a hundred lycra clad fitness freaks with suspiciously smooth legs glide past in a cavalcade of fluorescent splendour. The diversions are everywhere and if we're forced to follow them all we’ll have absolutely no chance of ever reaching Lille on the remaining fuel. We hatch a plan, but it’s not a very good plan. It might not work, but even if unsuccessful, it will at the very least give each of us something to tell our grandchildren in our twilight years. At the side of the road, I retrieve two bright blue CitySprint vests from my topbox and Alan and I put them on. At the next diversion sign, instead of being turned away by the Gendarmes, they pull aside the barrier and wave us through. We dare not breath lest our fortunes should change, but we do dare to smile. Through the centre of the village, the streets are lined deep with people. They triumphantly wave their tricolour’s and take photographs as we pass them. They think that we’re marshal’s for the event, they think that we belong here. They expect to see the cyclists close on our tails, but all they actually see are four haplessly smiling Brit’s waving back at them and progressing seamlessly along closed roads towards the promise of plentiful fuel in Lille.

At the exit to the fuel station in Lille we laugh and compare receipts. The bike with the largest remaining supply of fuel contained just 0.4 litres. That’s approximately three miles worth. As for the other three bikes, assuming that the manufacturers specifications for the size of their fuel tanks is accurate, and that the French fuel pumps have delivered an accurately measured quantity of unleaded 97 Ron, then each of them has already run out dry. We’d been cutting it fine to say the least, but at least we’d made it. I’d anticipated potential fuel shortages on the journey across Siberia, but it hadn’t even crossed my mind that on day one in Europe we‘d encounter the same problem. Lesson number one of this journey has been learned; fill up with fuel whenever the opportunity arises, no matter how expensive it might appear. When compared to pushing a 300 Kg bike for any distance, it's a very small price to pay. My blushes have been saved, but my money has not. Fuel in France is actually more expensive than it is back in Blighty, bugger. With fuel rations restored, we’ve decided to head for the Belgium town of Chimay. I've never heard of it either. But according to Lee, there’s a small brewery there that provides free tours and beer. Enough said, time to move before it closes.

Out of nowhere, Chimay appears. We’re back to following Mark and I’m getting lazy. I hadn’t even noticed that we’d entered Belgium, or indeed left France. Looking around this old market town, I can see that the blue white and red tricolours of France have changed to the black yellow and red flag of Belgium. I certainly didn’t see a border crossing. The brewery seems to be closed until Monday and so the promise of free ale has vanished. But, there must be other things of interest in the small and quaint town? We’ve passed what appears to be a suitable campsite a few hundred meters back down the road and it’s now time to seek out a venue for the evenings entertainment. We shoot off in different directions agreeing to rendezvous back at the bikes ten minutes later. Alan, Mark and Lee have little to report and I’m not telling them what I’ve found, but if they’re game for a laugh then we’re sure to be in for an evening of appropriate fun and frivolity.

The campsite’s fine. After experimenting with my limited command of the French language, they’ve only charged us for one single site and before the sun sets over Chimay, the tents are erected and the four of us are looking up at the sign above the small and ancient building in a narrow cobbled street away from the main market square. ’The Queen Mary’, ’Bikers Welcome’. It looks to all intense and purposes like an old coaching inn that you might find in Oxford or Stratford Upon Avon. It’s the sort of venue that here in Europe might often be seen with a Watneys Red Barrel hanging above the door, the sort of place that I’d ordinarily want to avoid at all costs. The three of them look at me slightly crest fallen and suspicious. It’s not the quintessential European Café-Bar that perhaps they’d hoped for, but at least if serves ale and they haven’t yet seen inside. Alan goes in first and I know what he’s about to see. He fills the entire entrance with his huge frame, ducking down to avoid hitting his head, he enters and then turns around with a huge smile on his face. He’s laughing, he can hardly speak, ……. "Lads ….. you’ve got to f**king see this".

We sit squashed into the smallest space that was ever designed to contain four fully grown people and stare around the room in amazement. The bar tender lovingly scrapes a quantity of froth from the top of the final litre of bier and delivers them to the table along with four small menus. All around the long narrow bar is memorabilia from motorcycle racers that we’ve never before heard of. Everything looks suspiciously familiar but it’s just now quite right. The mannequin standing in the corner looks a little like Valentino Rossi and at the other end of the bar, stands Troy Bayliss. Around the walls, signed sets of racing leathers, fairings and belly-pans from seemingly famous racing bikes and riders, but again, they’re not quite accurate. Either, these are from local riders that we simply haven’t heard of or they’re homemade replicas. Bangkok specials, "TAG watch sir, genuine 100%, big discount ..... two hundred baht".

We try to order food from the short menu while the third round of drinks is being lovingly prepared. “Non, .. err non, … err non mousier”. Nothing is available, the menu is as genuine as the memorabilia on the walls. I can't stop laughing, I'm having a ball, this tiny little place just keeps getting better and better. Finally, I’m invited to inspect the small fridge in the kitchen and I ask the ‘Chef’ to cook everything that’s available; two beef burgers, three cheese burgers and four packets of microwave chips. The menu is strange, the memorabilia is distinctly odd, but all of this is nothing compared to the people who are flowing into the small bar. It’s fancy dress but nobody has seen fit to warn us. It’s karaoke night in Chimay and the local aficionados have turned out in there droves to join in the fun. It’s a joke, a wind-up, it has to be, nobody can be taking this seriously? Our table is littered with the debris of our gastronomic disaster and we’re laughing uncontrollably at everything. Everything is quite simply odd but at the same time, utterly fantastic. I feel hands begin massaging my shoulders and hear a strange voice uncomfortably close to my right ear. Alan is laughing so much that if space allowed, he’d fall from the banquette. An alarmingly unconvincing transvestite has taken a shine to my upper body and is whispering sweet and seductive nothings through garlic laden breath into my ear. He wants to hear my sexy English accent. I tell him that Geordie probably doesn’t qualify as English but he wants to hear it anyway. Mark is falling across the table mouthing like an expectant goldfish, "f**king hell, f**king hell, f**king hell", but mostly it’s just uncontrolled laughter from all of us. The rules for the karaoke competition are announced with horrendous whining feedback from the MC’s microphone, "testing one two, ….tap tap,… one two testing", but obviously in French or Flemish or at least something other than English. I’m saved, the transvestite is the first to sing and struts down towards the MC with a mince the likes of which I’ve never before seen, and I’ve seen a few in my time. The music starts, it’s an old song, possibly Edith Piaf, it suits his voice, but perhaps I’ll not tell him that when he’s finished. He’s actually quite good, everyone gives him a warm round of applause as he closes the final note. He’s been a big hit, he’s popular, he now has many new friends and thankfully for me, they’re all at the opposite end of the bar. I’m left in peace but I must admit, my neck and shoulders feel absolutely wonderful. It’s probably close to midnight, I’m wearing my watch but it’s difficult to tell which hand is long and which is short. The bier must be very strong in these parts, it‘s certainly very cheap and plentiful.

This morning, there’s not even a hint of a hangover. Perhaps I was dreaming last night, maybe in my dream I’d walked through a looking glass and entered an alternative world where strange creatures of the night perform karaoke. I pull on my very English tourist attire of shorts socks and sandals and head for the showers. It feels like lunchtime but nobodies about, it’s actually 7:00am. Refreshed and back at the tent, a short stout German man with shaven head, handlebar moustache and black leather waistcoat is beckoning me towards his small caravan. Not again for Christ’s sake, why is it always me? He greets me at the entrance to his awning with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and tells me to take it away with me, to share it with my friends and to bring back the pot if we would like some more. I thank him and wander back to the tents where Alan, Mark and Lee are all rising. The coffee is delicious, strong and aromatic, they ask where it came from and I point to the stout bald German fellow. He’s looking directly at us with a huge smile, standing guard above us at the edge of his temporary territory. ’’Good ya?’’

We’re heading for Landau in the Black Forest of Germany and the promise of some of Europe’s best biking roads. ’Best Biking Road’ is a term that I hear a lot but the beauty of any road often depends on the person, the bike and their mood at the time, one man’s heaven can often be another man’s hell, it‘s always subjective. In a small car park we stop to consult the map and are soon joined by two local lad’s riding Triumph Daytona 675 sport bikes. They keep their distance, there are four of us and only two of them, we are a group and even for fellow bikers we’re seemingly difficult to approach. A single biker will more easily interact than a group of bikers, it’s not really a ’biker’ thing but more of a ‘human’ thing. We’re looking at a map and three SatNav’s whilst trying to decide which road to take, we’re strangers in a strange land and not fifty meters away from us reclining on a mound of ploughed snow, rests the font of all local knowledge. I grab the map and a pair of Poor Circulation pin badges and approach the oracles. They don’t hesitate, there’s no difference of opinion, they point directly across from the car park to a narrower road, the B500, the perfect biking road. With badges attached to their perfectly styled full leather suits and their reputation for hospitality glowingly endorsed, they’re off. No ’mirror, signal, manoeuvre’, no ’life saver’ glance across the left shoulder,…. just the clunk of first gear engaging, a nod of the heads, fistfuls of throttle and two perfectly executed wheelies across the main road and onto the B500.

Minutes later we’re following the path that they’ve shown us, but without the wheelies. It’s not that we can’t execute wheelies, given a little practice anybody can lift the front wheel of a motorbike. The main problem is not the lifting of the wheel, it’s executing a safe landing of the wheel afterwards. You can practice starting a wheelie a hundred times, but once you have the wheel some distance from the ground and your feeling very proud of yourself, you’ll then realise that as it’s the first time that your front the wheel has airborne, you’ve never actually had the opportunity to practice your landing. Until I’ve mastered the black art of wheelies then I’ll consider them to be both dangerous and irresponsible, if it’s something that I can’t do, then it can never be classified as being anything other than foolish. I’m following Lee with Alan and Mark behind me. The tarmac is beautifully smooth and the spacing of the trees within the forest to either side of the road allows you to see anything that might be coming towards you around the next corner. The pace is steady, relaxed and enjoyable, the air in the shadows of the forest is clean and cool. We drop down a steep incline towards a sharp right hand bend and glancing through the broken forest to our right it’s clear to see that there’s nothing coming in the opposite direction, the corner is safe. There’s no tell-tale brake light but the popping from Lee’s double under-seat exhaust pipes tells me that he’s dropped down one or two gears. I pull wide to the left using the opposite side of the road and point my eyes hard to the right, the direction that I want the Tiger to follow. Lee drops in first and heads for the apex, I turn later and clip the same apex but I’m carrying more speed, speed that I need to stop his BMW from vanishing ahead of me as we climb upwards and into the hills. Alan and Mark are soon out of sight behind us, we cruise around the blind left hand corners and scratch around the open rights, all of the time climbing towards the summit. In the slower corners, I can see Lee looking back at me through his mirrors and we’re displaying similar degrees of smile. We catch and pass a couple of slower bikes before cresting a hill and dropping down towards a one hundred and eighty degree right hand bend across a small stone bridge. Through the trees to the right, a flash of yellow, a flash of red, the two Triumph Daytona’s from the car park are coming back in our direction. With only our half of the road to use, we scrub off speed and take tighter lines for safety. Mid-corner I meet the yellow Daytona coming in the opposing direction, I raise my right hand in the traditional British biker salute. He’s German, he has style. His left knee is balancing the bike and dragging hard against the tarmac, sparks are flying from his worn titanium knee-slider, his left hand is off the handlebars and pointing just slightly away from his body, no face is visible through his almost black tinted visor, his fingers are forming the ’Victory’ sign and he’s just far too cool for us Brits. The German’s are riding enthusiastically and I can understand why I’d found them in the car park reclining on a mound of snow. They’d clearly been cooling down following an earlier ride, this road is amazing fun but it’s awfully hot work. Realising that we’re actually two of the slower kids on this block, we back off the pace and pretend that we weren’t even trying, we enjoy the ride and wait for Alan and Mark to catch up. At the summit, we unpack the picnic lunch that’s been distributed amongst the available space on each bike and wander into the forest to eat.

As evening arrives, the four tents have been pitched in front of a large ski chalet overlooking a valley at Linach Schwartzwald where Mark and I prepare dinner on our primus stoves. Pasta, onions, tomatoes, cheese and bread are all washed down with a not insubstantial quantity of beer that‘s been cooled to perfection in the small millpond behind us. We talk inevitably about our chance meeting on the 2004 Moto Challenge and the foolish things that we each did during the course of the event. We’d laughed at the time and we’re still laughing now some four years after the event has finished, literally. Although we didn’t know it at the time, it was the last Moto Challenge GB that was ever held and the trophies and titles are possibly ours to keep and cherish forever. It’s just as well, we’re all older now and my days of racing are certainly behind me, but given the experience of following Lee on the B500 at Landau today, given the chance again, I probably give Moto Challenge one last shot. The skies are clear and with no light pollution up here in the mountains, for the first time on this journey we lay back on the cold but dry grass and admire a perfect display of night time stars. By 9:00pm, the still night around the picture-perfect ski lodge is disturbed only by the sound of snoring campers, of which I was most surely the worst culprit.

At 6:04am, the sun rose above the mountains to the east creating a diamond ring effect similar to that seen at the beginning and end of a solar eclipse. The birds had been singing for an hour and now the shadow of night raced quickly up the valley towards us being chased by the rising sun, Helios was chasing Artemis, the sun chasing the moon and even using high definition cameras the pictures would have been a poor reflection of the reality, you simply had to be there to appreciate the splendour. It was cold, at 5:00am I’d been woken by an aching bladder and had marvelled at the amount of frost that had formed on the inside of my tent. We’re camping at over 3,000 feet, we’re below the current snowline but during the Winter months, this valley is a ski slope, of course it’s bloody cold. A month earlier and this ski lodge would have been filled with young dudes catching air of their snowboards by day and trying, probably quite successfully, to bed every chalet girl in the neighbourhood by night. But now it’s our turn, the snows have taken the ’Ski Set’ to the Southern hemisphere and the roads and valleys are left to the bikers who marvel at the same geography, but for very different reasons.

A small chapel stands beside the perfectly still pond, decorated with a million small wooden shingles and more beautiful because of it’s years of neglect. The kettle sings on the primus stove and aside from the singing of a thousand early morning birds, it’s the only noise that can be heard. It’s a Monday morning, friends will be rising in England and thinking of the working week ahead. It’s probably raining in London and while many of the less enthusiastic despatch riders will be rolling over beneath their duvets and dreaming of a warmer home in South America, the remaining hardcore will be rubbing their hands with glee at the prospect of making decent money. Even on the best of maps I’d struggle to find this place but my mobile phone is showing five bars of clear signal. I send an early morning text message to everybody at CitySprint who appears in my address book, they’ll hate me for it, but I guess that this is just one more reason to add to a no doubt very long list. By 7:30am, everybody is awake and the kettle has been constantly boiling since dawn, they talk about the cold and who snored the loudest during the night but have no idea of the sunrise that they’ve missed. It’s not a mystery, the sun tends to rise and set on most days and for me, being able to witness both events as often as possible is one of the greatest pleasures of travelling. Every day is the same, but every day is amazingly different, it’s one of the best things about this world and it comes to you absolutely free of charge, and that really is my kind of price.

It’s a sad day, Mark Wallis and Lee Crahart are returning to England, riding home, returning work and back to normality. Their journey will end in approximately six hundred miles, they’ll retrace the path and no doubt return to Blighty in the pouring rain. They don’t want to leave and we don’t want them to go, but they have responsibilities, they’re adults with homes and families, but Alan and I are not.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 06: The UK Tour

2009-10-05T08:36:00.000-07:00

Last night after leaving the Ace Café, I came home. The road was calling, but my bed was screaming louder.The prospect of warm shelter for one more night, a comfortable mattress and an electric kettle were all too inviting to ignore. I like my new tent, but it’s not like we’re married. That's not meant to be an excuse, just a statement of fact. It wasn’t a cop-out, it just seemed like the most sensible thing to do. I got up this morning long before the sun and I‘ve lost count of the mugs of coffee that I‘ve drunk. I’m too excited, I want to get going now, start riding, no delays. I telephoned Alan an hour ago and he was almost ready to go. We’ll meet in thirty minutes time at a small petrol station standing midway between our homes. The single room that I’ve called home for the past five years is almost empty, I’m confident that I’ve got everything I’ll need for the next few days. The Tiger’s fully laden with luggage but I’ve got absolutely no baggage. I've discovered a new feeling. It's way beyond a sense of freedom but I can't really put it into words, at least none that would do it justice. I’m looking at everything that I own and anything that happens from here onwards will be down to me, a direct result of the decisions that I make. With the door locked behind me, the Tiger comes to life at the first touch of the button, it’s a good start.

I beg a second mug of coffee from the garage owner and send a text message to Darryl Booker. Darrly’s a good friend that we’ve arranged to meet at Squires Cafe Bar in Newthorpe around lunchtime. I tell him that we’re running on time, we’ll see him at 1pm, and I wait. I talk to the local villagers as they fill their cars with petrol. People who’ve never before spoken to me are suddenly interested in my world. Perhaps they’re just being polite or maybe they’re just happy to see the back of both me and the old despatch bikes that have blotted the beauty of their perfectly manicured village for the past five years. Either way, I’m happy to pass the time with them while I shelter from the rian. I check my mobile phone, five bars of perfect signal but no more news from Alan. I’m impatient, I can’t keep still. I telephone Alan for the fourth time and now he really is on his way to meet me. We're running late but it’ll take more than poor punctuality to spoil my day. The rain finally stops, the sun brakes through the clouds and Alan’s Triumph finally potters into view. He pulls alongside my bike, removes his heavy Winter gloves and starts toying with his newly acquired satellite navigation unit. He’s having problems with the functions. He knows that I’ve been waiting here for hours but explanations don’t seem to be uppermost in his mind. With a puzzled expression he presses more buttons and looks to the small grey screen for some answers. I’ve been stationary for too long, I need to ride. I pull on my helmet, start the Tiger’s engine and set out for North Yorkshire. The plan is to meet Darryl at Squires and then ride on to Whitby where we’ll camp for the first night and get hammered in a pub belonging to a mutual friend. Free food and beer, life is good. We were due to meet him an hour ago but we're still two hundred miles south and there's no time to lose. I’ve sent several more text messages to Darryl explaining that we're running late, but he hasn’t responded. I just hope that he’ll still be there to meet us.

‘’14’’, ’’15’’,…… ’’18’’, the junctions of the M11 Motorway click past as we cruise somewhere above the legal speed limit but below the territory of the instant driving ban. The M11 becomes the A1 North, same tarmac, different speed cameras. Peterborough, Grantham, Newark. I look in my mirrors and see Alan standing up on the bike to stretch his substantial legs. He wants to stop for a break but the Tiger’s are good for at least another hundred miles before needing fuel. Too much coffee, my bladders screaming for relief, but we’re late. We’re four hours behind schedule and I really don’t like the idea of erecting a tent on a windswept cliff in total darkness. We really need to arrive in Whitby before nightfall. I ignore the sign for the service station and pull out to overtake a line of fast but slower moving vehicles. Alan reluctantly follows my lead. The next service station is thirty two miles ahead of us. That’ll do nicely.

For the first time since the opening of the new bypass back in 2005, I choose the right junction and find the road to Squires at the first time of asking. Even before our gloves have been removed, a smiling Darryl Booker is thrusting steaming mugs of coffee and hot Cornish pasties into our cold and eager hands. Delicious, pasties have never tasted so good. We laugh and joke together as the sun starts melting into the distant hills. It’s too late to try setting out for Whitby. Darryl's been waiting here for four hours and looks like he needs a real drink. We get permission to pitch our tents in the sloping field above the car park. But, if the erection of tents is to take place in darkness, then it might as well be executed by drunkards. It seems rude to leave the lovely warm pub, so we don’t. It was a great evening filled with endless piss-taking and laughter but I honestly hadn’t intended to get quite so drunk. The landlord who was following the Poor Circulation Blog, had at times seemed alergic to our money and the beer had flowed almost freely. It was hospitality at it’s finest and the only price to be paid will be an uncomfortable night in badly erected tents and tomorrows inevitable hangovers.

It’s St Georges Day, Wednesday 23rd of April 2008. Since leaving Squires at 8am this morning the rain has been pouring non-stop. This is England and rain is something that you come to expect. What we lack in the way of climate we certainly make up for in weather. I just hope that the next twenty four countries will be climatically more accommodating. Last night I’d had the bright idea of waking early and taking the special package to watch the sunrise from the cliffs above Whitby's harbour. It was a drunken idea that hadn’t been greeted with universal enthusiasm. On peering from my tent at 5:00 am this morning, I’d had to agree that it wasn‘t the finest of plans. Instead of breaking camp, I’d rolled over in a perfectly warm sleeping bag and prayed that the overwhelming desire to pee would eventually disappear. Mum and Dad would understand, they didn’t like riding in the rain any more than I do and I can always visit Whitby on the way back down south.

Still on the A1 and heading North, at Leaming Bar we stop to let Alan squeeze the excess water from his brand new ‘Frank Thomas’ fully guaranteed, waterproof suit. Darryl and I absorb some much needed caffeine as we watch. Darryl’s wearing a torn and battle scarred ‘Dainese’ suite that’s older than his teeth, while I’m wearing bargain-basement Army Surplus ‘Gor-Tex‘. We’re both bone dry and warm, but we’re seriously trying not to laugh at Alan. Frank Thomas was one of the companies that we’d approached for ‘free samples’. They of course had refused, but Alan had invested anyway. Watching Alan steaming in the warmth of the roadside café, I’m now quite thankful that they'd declined our request. Riding in the rain I can almost live with, but riding with a wet body and arse is something that I’ll probably never get used too. We’ve got just over an hour in which to reach St Teresa’s Hospice in Darlington and then a promise from the Met Office of universal sunshine for the remainder of the day. If all goes according to plan, which is of course highly unlikely, then we’ll reach Gretna Green by mid afternoon and be tucking into beef & ale pie in Eskdale this evening. To get there, we’ll be riding along some of Britain’s finest biking roads. It could just turn out to be the most perfect day.

At St Teresa’s Hospice, everybody knows Barbara Thomas, she‘s a legend. I see faces in the small crowd that I recognise. Smiles coming from beneath large corporate umbrellas, friends who’d visited Mum in hospital, people who came to her funeral celebrations and even nursing staff who’d cared for Dad almost ten years ago. St Teresa’s is a building like any other but it’s the people that work in and around it that take it into a totally different dimension. A visit here is inspirational and you can’t help but leave this place feeling uplifted and firmly believing in the inherent goodness of people. I feel proud to be representing Mum and Dad who in their retirement years, had devoted much of their free time to supporting the work of the Hospice. I’d like to mirror their actions but I’ve absolutely no skills that could be of any use to them. All I can do is to try and raise a little money to support the care services that they provide. I’ll try to raise five thousand pounds within the next year. It's a sum of money that will keep those services running for a period of just twenty-four hours. In the scheme of things it’s not a great deal, but at least it’s a start in repaying them for the help that they give to people when they need it most.

It was BBC Radio Tees, their microphone hovered in front of my mouth as I tried to answer the questions. The reporter had asked me to turn off the Tigers engine but the photographer had asked me to leave on the lights. The interview lasted several minutes and a guard of honour had been formed for our departure. Volunteers, Clients, Nurses, Staff and Friends all lined the driveway and waved for the benefit of the cameras. The BBC reporter stood back and announced to his live audience, the departure to Poor Circulation. “Bollocks Bollocks Bollocks”, my Tiger refuses to start. The battery that I‘d always intended to replace but hadn’t, was now dead. The good people of County Durham had just been informed that a journey of 25,000 miles was about to begin, but I couldn’t even make it out of the Hospice car park. When things like this happen, all that you can do is laugh. A push-start with the assistance of four hysterical nurses failed to bring the Triumph to life but provided the Northern Echo’s photographer with an almost perfect photo opportunity. Everyone seemed to be genuinely concerned. They’d seen through my veneer of false confidence and their initial doubts had turned into certainties. But, it really wasn’t a big problem, just a huge personal embarrassment. With a set of jump leads attached to the Tiger’s heart and the bikes alarm system drawing more attention to my predicament, the bike finally spluttered into life. I climbed aboard, flipped down my visor and the guard of honour finally got to fulfil it’s duty. Waving and smiling, we filed past them and out into the wide world beyond.

With Triumph either unwilling or unable to help me at such short notice, I contacted the local Honda dealership and found that they had a perfect replacement battery in stock. They immediately put the battery on charge and when we arrived to collect it, they would accept nothing more than their own trade price plus the VAT. It was a quarter of the price that Triumph had tried to charge me when I‘d first considered replacing it. It was a great result. They’d been listening to the live news report on BBC Radio Tees and pissed themselves laughing when the Tiger had refused to start. “Poor Circulation eh!'' He wasn't gloating too much .... ''Are you the poor bugger who couldn’t make it out of the car park?”. “Yes folks, that would be me“. Ten minutes later, the Tiger's good to go, and it's warm handshakes all round. To David Burrell and all of the staff at White Bro’s Motorcycles in Darlington, I say a very big thank you.

In warmth of Auntie Richard's Cafe, there was a unanimous show of hands. The plan to ride up to Scotland was abandoned. We blamed the weather, our lateness and the possibilities of fuel shortages north of the border. But, if the truth were told we were really just being amazingly lazy. Instead of Scotland, we’d head towards Hawes for afternoon tea and then onwards to Boot in Eskdale where we’d make camp and enjoy what is quite possibly the worlds finest Beef & Ale pie at the Boot Inn. It was a good plan and in celebration, the rain stopped and the sun broke through the clouds. I led the way out of Darlington towards the farm at Oxen-le-Fields and collected a quantity of soil from the spot where Mum and Dad‘s ashes had first been scattered. I added the soil to the special package before sealing it tight and hiding it away in a secret compartment beneath the Triumph’s tank-bag. I now had everything that I needed. We were good to go.

The roads to Hawes were empty and the famous Penny Garth Café was reached in reasonable time. Delicious fresh bread rolls with chips, good coffee and the revelation that Alan had left his mobile phone back at Squires. Bugger. It was a new phone and Alan had spent most of the previous evening trying to transfer photographs and ringtones into it’s memory whilst taking the piss out of my ancient Nokia Bricklet. On leaving the pub we'd all been quite pissed, and when packing this morning, hungover. It's more than likely that Alan's phone was somewhere on the bike. The population of Hawes looked on as we undressed Alan's Tiger. Everything came off the bike, every roll unrolled, every pack unpacked. But, it just wasn't there. Darryl immediately volunteered to ride back and collect it but given Squires' record for free hospitality and Darryl‘s thirst for good cider, it was more than possible that we’d never see him again. We hatched an alternative plan; Alan’s brother Steve would drive up the following day, collect the offending phone from Squires and then meet us at the campsite in Boot later in the day. It's only the third day and we’ve already missed Whitby, bypassed Scotland, replaced a battery and lost a mobile phone. We’ve covered one percent of the journey in what should be the easiest country along our route. If this is a sign of things to come, then we were certainly heading for some very interesting experiences.

If the roads from Hawes to Lake Windermere are interesting, then the roads from Windermere to Boot are spectacular. If God rode a Triumph, then this is probably where you'd find him. From Ambleside the road climbs towards the Langdales where we turn away from the main road and head out over the two great passes; Wryno’s and Hardknott. Shuffle forward in the seat, toes poised high on the footpegs and knees gripping the Tiger’s ample fuel tank. Select third gear and feel the silky smooth torque of the Triumph’s three cylinders do battle with geometry and geography. Head held high along the straights looking out for oncoming traffic and good-looking sheep. Across the cattle-grid, the stone walls disappear and the landscape opens out across the hills. You can’t help but catch your breath. The scenery is rugged and beautiful, masculine and stark with a quality of light that defies description. The ribbon of road stretches out as far as the eye can see and not a single part of it is straight. A dab of the rear brake before tapping the inside of the handlebars and dropping the Tiger down towards the first clipping point of the bend. Still travelling too quickly, the road too narrow and the footpegs grinding hard against the tarmac. Bodyweight dropping to the inside and tightening the bikes turn. Exiting the bend and still with a little tarmac to spare. Lifting the bike easily with the throttle and accelerating towards the next hairpin bend with newly found confidence. Smile and repeat. The Triumph’s throttle is perfect, the engine counters the excess weight and the power delivery is oh so silky smooth. The Tiger loves these mountains more than I do and just takes everything in it‘s ample stride. It should be fat, awkward and cumbersome, but it’s not. It makes me relax. It’s far more capable than I am and doesn‘t mind constantly reminding me so. It makes me look almost competent and masks my mistakes perfectly. Perhaps I‘ve misjudged it, it‘s not a bike that I‘d ever considered falling in love with but on these unforgiving roads, it seems to have shed it’s dowdy underwear and slipped into something far more appealing. It’s not exactly Agent Provocateur, but it’s definitely a move in the right direction. We’re not racing, we’re just enjoying these empty open roads on reasonably swift motorbikes. If we encounter any traffic, ramblers or animals, then we’ll slow down and become responsible pillars of the community. But until that happens, we‘ll just have fun.

For three glorious days we’ve explored the limitations of the Triumph’s and enjoyed the breath taking beauty of the Lake District from our base at the Hollins Hall camping ground. Thanks to the generosity of the site's owner, our camping is free for the duration which leaves us with more money for social matters. For two unforgettable evenings, we’ve enjoyed wonderful hospitality at the Boot Inn and have unanimously voted their Beef & Ale Pie to be without doubt, one of the finest examples in all of England. Steve Kelly and his wife Nicky have joined us. They’ve brought Alan’s mobile phone from Squires and presented us with an exquisitely decorated cake with which to celebrate our departure. It’d sad to be leaving them, but leave them we must. A last trip to Waswater, quite possibly the most beautiful part of England’s most beautiful National Park. I’ve learned a lot about the Tiger and it‘s capabilities, I’ve learned even more about the packing and unpacking of equipment and I’ve discovered that despite it’s name, the Lake District only includes one lake. There are more than eighty ’Tarns’ ’Waters’ or ‘Meres’, but Basenthwaite is the only Lake. It just goes to prove that your never too old to learn. All that I need to know now, is why Tarn’s, Mere’s and Water’s are different from 'Lakes?

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 05: The Departure

2009-09-29T02:19:00.000-07:00

It's Monday the 21st of April 2008, departure date. OK, departure date should have been the 23rd of April, St Georges Day. But if you could make Christmas arrive two days early then you probably would, so why not departure date? Anyway, today's the Queen's birthday and that's good enough for me. On the downside the weather isn't great, it’s pouring with rain, it’s England. The Tiger’s taking shape outside, every item has it’s designated place and every tiny space has a designated item to fill it. Apart from the two suitcases that will be stored with friends, my entire world is piled high and wide on the bike. It’s really not much to show for forty-five years of existence. But it’s all mine, everything‘s paid for. Well, that's not strictly true. Apart from the Tiger, most of the things hanging from it have actually been borrowed, begged or stolen. Brake pads, crash bars, tools and spare parts have all arrived in response to a hundred shameless begging letters. The petrol in the tank has been provided by CitySprint and the ticket in my pocket by P&O Ferries. Some things are still missing. A passport with a visa for Russia, a Credit Card. The passports are with the ’Fixer’ in London awaiting the granting of business visas for entry into Russia. They’ll arrive on the day that we leave for France. That's ten days from now, perfect timing. Unfortunately, the Credit Card is more of a problem. That’s a lie, ’I’m’ actually the problem, unwashed and seemingly unworthy of credit. I’ve got one Cash Card for the Nationwide Building Society but no access to credit. But that’s alright, if needs arise then I’ll just have to get all inventive. In my waterproof jacket, in the areas normally designated for protective armour, I have dollars, lots of dollars. I exchanged the contents of my bank account for American dollars. They offered me two dollars for every one pound and it seemed rude not to accept. When I collected them this morning I felt like the richest man in the world. I'd requested 'small bills' and they'd delivered. It makes it look like an awful lot more than it really is. “Are you going anywhere nice Mr. Thomas?“ That question worried me. Ten minutes earlier she’d confirmed with that my ATM card would work in a long list of different countries. Oh well, I just hope that I don’t get robbed.

The Triumphs are much heavier than I’d expected. They feel too wide for the slender gaps in the rush-hour traffic. It’s quite possible that each pannier would qualify for it’s own unique post code. The extra weight is compressing the suspension, but I still can’t touch the floor. Perhaps like my old school blazer, I’ll eventually grow into it. The A406 North Circular Road is busy, congested, cold and miserable. We‘re thirty minutes late for our rendezvous and progress through the murk and traffic is painfully slow. The rain pours without mercy. We filter line-a-stern between the stationary vehicles making our way towards the Ace Café in North London. It’s approaching seven in the evening, the work-a-day folks in their cars and vans are heading home at the end of their working day. Alan and I are at odds with the mood of the road, we’re not heading home. We’re not travelling to or from work. We’re about to begin the greatest journey of our lives and we‘re probably the only people smiling on the A406 tonight. It’s Monday evening, but for us it could be absolutely any day of the week, it really doesn’t matter. The one hundred and seventy five days ahead of us represent the longest weekend that either of us is ever likely to enjoy. We're just starting the longest holiday of our lives. We ignore the rain and concentrate on the suicidal traffic that seems intent on ending our journey before it’s even begun. The gaps that we aim for have narrowed and we draw to a claustrophobic halt. There’s simply way too much traffic for the amount of available tarmac. The white van ahead of us has deliberately pulled across to blocked my path. I bring the flabby Tiger to a halt and standing on tiptoes, flip open the front of my helmet. Fifty miles into the journey and already I wish that I was riding my nimble despatch bike. I catch the van drivers eye in his dinner plate sized mirror, he knows exactly what he’s done and smirks back at me. I can’t help chuckling to myself. On any other day I’d mentally if not physically be kicking the living crap out of him and his vehicle. But today the anger just washes over me. At this precise moment in time, I couldn‘t possibly care any less. Another driver and his rear seated family spend a minute admiring the maps on the side of my pannier. He catches my eye and smiles. His car slowly inches backwards creating the gap required for our progress to continue. A wave of my hand in recognition of his generosity and a beaming smile for the now gurning kids in the rear seats. We wriggle the Tigers through ninety degree turns aiming towards the newly found daylight ahead of us. Through his mirror, I catch the swing of the van drivers head. We’ve changed lanes and for the briefest moment, he can’t understand where we’ve gone. The van jumps on its axles, he’s engaged first gear but he’s too late. His front wheel turns outwards from it’s arch and inches towards the bike but he doesn’t have enough space to complete his blocking manoeuvre. With a deliberate clip of a pannier against his front bumper, I squeeze past him on the inside. He’s expecting me to give him the ’finger’ but today I’m not peddling anger. With my helmet front still flipped, I turn my head and blow him a perfect kiss. Progress resumes and I‘m still head over heels in love with this world and it‘s many amusing people. I look in my mirror and catch Alan’s wide-eyed stare coming straight back at me. He hates riding in London only slightly more than he hates riding in the rain. But more than anything else, he hates following me on a bike through London. Unfortunately there’s little I can do to change those elements tonight, so we keep on moving.

The unmistakable ‘Ace of Spades’ finally appears through my grime covered visor. A traffic controller wearing florescent yellow waterproofs rushes to move traffic cones that block our way into the Ace Cafés car park. A car park that’s already full to capacity with an eclectic assortment of motorbikes. He’s seen us approaching, we’re unmistakable, he offers a smiling salute and points towards a gap at the front of the main entrance, an area that’s been reserved for the Triumph’s of Poor Circulation. The fifty yards of pavement between the road and the designated parking pace see’s people flocking around our bikes. I recognise beaming faces that I hadn’t expected to see. My pannier clips the protruding exhaust pipe of a parked bike that I didn’t see. A hand reaches out. It catches the small black bike mid fall and prevents a perfect demonstration of domino felling along a line of twenty other parked motorcycles. A worried and straining face beams back at me, a face that I recognise. With one fleeting movement of his hand, Julian from ’Boxertrix’ has saved both my blushes and my no claims bonus. He will forever be my hero of the Ace Café. I'm supposed to be riding around the world but I can't even negotiate my way around a familiar car park in North London. What a tosser am I.

We park the Triumph’s side by side in the designated area and try to dismount. We’re surrounded by people. Pointing, poking, shaking, asking. Everybody’s laughing, smiling, joking. It all becomes little more than background noise in a carnival of activity. A sausage sandwich is thrust into my hand and somebody grabs my arm, turning me around to face an unknown photographer. An arm around my shoulder and a strangers face beaming brightly next to mine, ‘flash’. I see Alan, his body drowning in a sea of people, his head bobbing above them wearing a look of total bemusement. A microphone is held alongside my sandwich and another smiling stranger is asking me questions to which I can’t find answers. I’m being interviewed by John Chatterton-Ross, Director of Public Affairs from the FIM (Federation Internationale de Motorcyclisme). I’m overwhelmed, he’s genuinely interested in what we’re doing. A man with a hyphen is asking me for details. That’s something that usually only happens after I’ve clipped a Porsche in traffic and we stop to trade insults and insurance policies. I try to concentrate on John’s questions and answer them as best I can. He asks about the ’Special Package’ that I’ll be carrying with me but I can’t tell him the secret of it’s contents. I wonder how he knows about something that’s yet to be revealed to the public at large. He smiles a conspirator’s smile, he has his secret sources. My hands are filling with gifts from unknown donors; a Mars Bar, a giant mug of steaming coffee mysteriously containing the perfect amount of sugar, forty Euros’ in notes and an inch or two of business cards. It’s a totally new experience. I’m a despatch rider, I live my life in a world that’s way beneath the recognition radar. It’s an anonymous place where colleagues don’t know my name, nor I theirs. To other despatch riders I’m ‘Blue88’ and I presumably live on my bike. We speak together only in ‘Post Code’. Names, proper names, only become known when you die, when your call sign is placed to one side and you finally become a person to them. “Ah, so that was his real name. Two kids? Wow, I never knew that”. Anonymous and impersonal, it’s the way we like it.

As John Chatterton-Ross blends backwards into the mass with his microphone, an instantly recognisable character is standing with me. We’re posing for a photograph between the two Triumph’s. He smiles at the camera and thrusts a pair of classic white wool biking socks into my open jacket, "it’s going to be quite cold in Siberia Geoff" . It’s Mark Wilmslow, owner and saviour of the Ace Café and he knows my name. Mark reminds me of my Dad, or rather he reminds me of my early and distorted image of Dad. A true Rocker; black boots with overlapping white socks, dark blue Levis, studded leather jacket, red neckerchief and a perfect quiff that defies gravity. He’s not a throwback to the 1950’s, he is the 1950’s. We talk for a few minutes as the mass of people begin to exit from my life and return to their own. I meet the group from Boxertrix, they’ve arrived from all across England on their BMW sports bikes to simply wish us well. For two glorious years I’d ridden and raced the same bikes as them. They’d helped me with technical knowledge when things had gone wrong. They’d helped me with free spare parts when things had been broken. Their goodwill and endless generosity had kept me on the road. In order to raise money for Poor Circulation, I’d sold the bike that had connected us, my beloved BMW R1100S, the 'Boxer'. The common thread had been broken. I‘d deserted the clan, yet still they‘d braved the worst of British weather to come and see us safely us on our way. I was moved. They invited Alan and I to join them in Wales for their annual gathering over the coming weekend. It was impossible to refuse and another country was added to our list.

It was 10pm when I finally managed to reach the inside of the Ace and meet up with friends from The Riders Digest. They were there celebrating the transformation of the UK’s best independent bike magazine into a National publication. If truth be told, the evenings crowds had arrived for them and we’d simply been feeding from their ample trough. It felt like a thankful return to normality, these were people that I knew. We were all in some way professional riders and most of us have backgrounds as couriers. The back slapping and congratulations had stopped, I’d returned to being ‘Blue88’. Outside in the busy car park, the people had wondered what it must be like to set out on a bike journey around the world. It seemed that they saw us as being somehow different from themselves. But the truth is that we’re no different at all. Here, sitting in the warmth amongst friends, the people understood what we were doing because each and every one of them had done the same thing. They hadn’t all ridden around the world, but each of them had sacrificed at least part of an otherwise comfortable life in order to dedicate themselves to a two wheeled dream. John, Dave, Harriet, Lois, Rod, Simon, Martin and Milks, they’d already been there and sent back the postcards. Now, it was simply our turn to do something.

With the shutters falling on the Ace Café, we gathered in the car park for photographs and final goodbye’s. We’d meet again in six months time. There seemed to be no doubt in their minds that Poor Circulation would succeed. Milk’s then made the final offering of the day. A small plastic duck was attached to the side of my Triumph using cable ties. It was the ’Dakar Duck’, a tiny yellow mascot that had seen him complete his first Paris Dakar Rally just a year earlier. It was now our turn. I’d carry Dakar Duck around the world and then pass it onto another rider for it’s next adventure. We waved them farewell, started our engines and set out on the first leg of our journey.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 04: The Planning

2009-09-20T01:03:00.001-07:00

Within a week of mentally committing myself to the journey, using my old world atlas and a borrowed calculator, I’d formed the skeleton of a plan. According to my rough calculations, my chosen route would mean riding twenty thousand miles across twenty different countries and would take approximately twenty weeks to complete. In my only bank account I had two thousand eight hundred pounds and when I divided that by twenty weeks, it left me with a budget of around twenty pounds per day. All nice and neat, riding around the world using the newly invented ’Rule of Twenty’. The thorn in the side of this beautiful plan was quite simple, I didn’t have a bike to ride nor enough money in the budget to buy one. I calculated that for the bike, equipment, medical insurance and passage across the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans, I’d need to find at least another five thousand pounds. It was money that I didn’t actually have but at the time, it really seemed like nothing more than a minor ‘detail’. I knew that I’d somehow find the required money and that Poor Circulation would happen.

When it came to choosing an actual starting point, there'd only ever been one serious contender, the ‘Ace Café’ in London. The remainder of the proposed route was dictated primarily by cost and conflict, I didn’t have much money and I really didn’t like the idea of getting shot. I needed to avoid wars and any regions where the temporary importation of bikes was either prohibitively expensive or legally forbidden. For those reasons, Iran, Afghanistan, India, Burma, China and the African Nations would all be off limits; too expensive, too dangerous, or too much of both. Along the way, there were some specific places that I wanted to visit, places that had been important to Mum and Dad. It wasn’t until after Mum’s death that I discovered that they’d actually enjoyed a life of there own, a personal life beyond the traumas of parenthood. In a small suitcase, I’d found an album compiled by Mum. It chronicled their fifty years together, it was filled with mementos and photographs that would have been discarded by anybody younger. The notes written in Mum’s spidery hand alongside photographs and press clippings pointed to places that held a special place in their hearts. I began adding place names to the route, places that I’d visit along the way. Whitby in North Yorkshire, their favourite place in England. Darlington in County Durham, their home town and the location of St Teresa’s Hospice, the charity that I‘d chosen to represent. Oberammergau in Austria, a town they’d visited on two separate occasions for the famous ’Passion Play’, an experience that they’d both thoroughly enjoyed. Then, down the Adriatic Coast to Dubrovnik, a town where they’d shared their favourite holidays before internal conflict had torn it apart. From Dubrovnik, I could continue south into Greece and then head east into Turkey. I would cross into Asia through Istanbul, a city that they’d hoped to visit, a plan that had been discarded when Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, another dream that was never fulfilled. From Istanbul, I’d follow the Black Sea coast across northern Turkey and into Georgia before entering the vastness of Russia. It would be nice to inject the Russian experience with additional adventures down into Kazakhstan and Mongolia but that would mean additional visas, additional costs and headaches that might be better avoided. From Magadan in far eastern Russia, I’d fly to Anchorage in Alaska and follow the Pacific Coast Highway south through Canada before joining California Highway 1, the road Mum wished that they could have ridden together on their own Triumph. In the hills above Boonville, the place that Mum considered to be the most beautiful on earth but that Dad never saw, and with the grandchildren that Dad never met, their ashes would be scattered. I doubt that this is what Mum had had in mind when she’d uttered those words back in Darlington, but she’d known me for more than forty years and ’conventional’ had never really been a part of my resume.

From Boonville, it would then be a simple case of heading east to New York and finding the cheapest possible means of getting myself and the bike, safely back to Blighty. I’d keep the whole journey as simple as possible. A solo circumnavigation using map and compass, no satellite telephone or navigation systems, no support crew, just one man and his bike. The plan really was that simple, or that naive, depending on how you wanted to look at it.

To this point, Poor Circulation had only existed within my own mind. The various maps on my walls and the auctioning of my life’s possessions on eBay were the only evidence of my plans. At any time I could have cancelled, changed my mind, abandoned the plan and nobody would ever have known that I‘d failed. I knew that the planning process could drag on and that no matter how much I prepared, or how much research I undertook, I’d never feel fully ready to set out. Given my penchant for extreme laziness, I knew that if this journey was ever to start, there were two important things that I urgently needed to do. The first was to set a departure date that I’d have no option but to meet and secondly, I’d have to start telling people about what I was going to do.

First in line for the good news was my daughter Hannah. I’m not sure exactly what reaction I’d expected from her, but I needn‘t have worried. In her teenage eyes, this journey was simply the coolest things that any Dad could possibly do. She wanted to come with me but we both knew that such a thing would be impossible, impossible for now at least. She asked if I’d expect her to eventually do the same with my ashes. I didn’t know, but I promised not to die until we’d at least discussed the matter further. Hannah’s only real concern was simply that I didn’t embarrass her by "saying stupid things" or by acting like a "complete dork". I promised to try and she proceeded to give me my first geography lesson in almost thirty years. Apparently,"Yugoslavia’s so last century". Because of my geographic ignorance, Poor Circulation had just increased to 25 Countries and I’d identified the need to replace my 1970’s Readers Digest World Atlas.

Next in line for the news was my brother Alan and his family in Boonville. At first he’d thought that I was joking, that I was taking the piss. He’d failed to see the funny side. I’d told him that I was coming to California and he’d suggested a website where I’d find the cheapest possible flights. I’d told him that I was coming on a bike and bringing Mum and Dad’s ashes with me and his reaction had been to hang up the telephone. Eventually it had sunk in, his younger brother was seriously going to ride to Boonville. He didn’t doubt it, he didn’t question it, he didn’t even point to the many potential dangers, he just uttered the word "awesome" several times over and asked if there was anything that they could do to help me. Of course they could help, I desperately needed money. When you’re growing up together, older brothers can be a pain, an unavoidable burden to bear. Being four years apart and with very little in common, we’d never been particularly close and as adults, our lives had moved in very different directions. However, the aging process of parents had drawn us back together, friends and brothers with a common interest, the interests of Mum and Dad. Together we worked though the outline of my plan, he offered to bridge any financial chasms and together we decided upon the starting date. April 23rd 2008, St Georges Day, very appropriate.

With a starting date set, it was time to start fleshing out the skeleton of the plan. Aside from watching Ewan McGregor and Charlie Boorman in ‘The Long Way Round’; a production that made their journey seem all but impossible for any individual to achieve, I knew absolutely nothing about riding around the world in the twenty-first century. I registered with the website ’Horizons Unlimited’, a forum for long distance two-wheeled travellers. I was surprised to discover just how many ordinary riders had already bought the Round The World tee-shirt. All of the information that I needed was right there, a one stop free shop for would-be travellers. A few days of browsing reaped a harvest of riches and saved me months of preparation time. I quickly learned how to sort the wheat from the chaff and discovered that the armchair travellers with their dusty passports enjoyed using words such as; mustn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t and impossible. On the other hand, those who’d already sent the postcards simply wished me luck and told me to ignore the adventures of movie stars and their resting actor friends.

I had around half the money that I thought I’d need, no bike and even less credibility, but at least Poor Circulation had gone public and I had no option but to continue. I’d been warned that any form of ’Sponsorship’ would be out of the question. Apparently there was a recession looming and financial support that was scarce in times of plenty, would now be non-existent. I didn’t expect to receive offers of free motorbikes but I figured that if I didn’t ask for anything, then I’d receive absolutely nothing. I made a list of everything that I thought I might need and composed appropriate begging letters. My simple plan was to ask for small things, low value items that to me would add up to a great deal but to each individual supplier would be of very little financial consequence. To broaden my list of potential donors, I co-opted the assistance of my good friend, Alan Kelly. After bribing him with homemade steak and ale pie and lashings of beer, we worked through the plan and developed a broad list of potential suppliers. Alan had very little confidence in the success of this part of the project, but he was intrigued by the broader adventure. He too had harboured a dream of one day riding around the world and by the evenings end, he was joining the journey.

With Alan Kelly now joining me, the choice of bike was easy. He already owned a Triumph Tiger 955i, all shiny and new and paid for. I didn’t consider it to be the most appropriate bike; too heavy, too tall, too complicated and too expensive. However, on the plus side it was a Triumph and that made it the perfect choice. I checked the dealerships, the classified adds in magazines and the Internet. Many Tigers were available, but all were far too rich for my budget. My bank account had swelled through the sale of my world on eBay and long hours despatch riding, but it was still standing on the shabby side of poor. The Tiger had to come cheap. It was frustrating, I was placing bids on eBay and watching the Tigers escape me; "Sold" £4,510.00, "Sold" £4,320.00 …. "Sold" £4,725.00. But then it happened, perhaps there’d been a surge in recent Tiger sales, maybe all of the would-be purchasers had already achieved their dream of Tiger ownership or possibly the market had just reached saturation point. "Triumph Tiger 955i. 2004 Cast Wheel Model. Lucifer Orange. Full Luggage. 3,000 Miles. Owner Selling Due to Ill Health. No Reserve". I watched the auction for two days, no bids, no activity, no movement. I crossed my fingers and placed my initial bid. The price began to move: £2,500.00 …. £2,550.00 …. £2,600.00. In the final seconds of the auction, the price jumped to £3,300.00, the upper limit of my bid. "Congratulations Blue88, you have won the item". It was great news, I had a bike. On the downside, my bank account was almost empty and it was only two months before departure. I had little left to sell on eBay and I needed to make money quickly.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 03: The Decision

2009-09-17T08:33:00.000-07:00

‘’If your moving home, press 1, ….. For payment options, press 2, …. For new TV License applications, press 3, alternatively, please hold and an adviser will be with you shortly’’. For several minutes I sat listening to the soft but unsatisfying music whilst starring at an open can of beer perched tortuously just beyond my reach. Too distant for the telephone cord but too close for temptation. ‘’We’re currently experiencing an unusually high level of demand for our service, we apologise for this delay and wish to remind you that your call is important to us, please continue to hold and an adviser will be with you shortly‘’. After too many minutes of wasted life, the telephone was eventually answered by Vicky and I was able to inform my ’Customer Service Adviser’ of Mum’s recent passing, and thus the need to cancel her Television License. Following her protocols to the letter, Vicky offered her sincere condolences before confirming my identity to a degree that suggested an alarming number of fraudulent license cancellations. Following more than twenty minutes of ridiculous questioning, Vicky chirpily informed me that the TV License had been successfully cancelled and that a refund of several pounds and many pennies would be credited to Barbara Thomas’ bank account. She then warned me that if within the next three months Mrs Thomas’ circumstances should change, then I must inform TV Licensing immediately. I assured Vicky that if Mum should rise again, then TV Licensing would of course be the very first to know and quickly replaced the receiver. The final administrative loose end of Mum’s passing was complete.

And so it was that slightly older and marginally wiser, a few days after Mum’s funeral I was back in London delivering anonymous packages on a motorbike and calling myself a ’professional’. I’d missed a month of work, a month of income that I couldn’t afford to lose and I needed to make back the money as quickly as possible. I wasn’t quite on the poverty line, but for once in my life I was determined to get a head start on my monthly bills and establish a degree of financial flexibility. I was working long days and covering huge distances but the controllers at CitySprint were good to me. If I accepted the jobs and didn’t mind where those deliveries would take me, then they were more than willing to keep feeding me the work. In an unequal division between work and sleep, the days, weeks and months passed without notice and aside from Sunday afternoons spent with my daughter Hannah, there seemed little room for anything else in my life. As summer turned towards autumn, I received a second reminder from the funeral directors that Mum‘s ashes were still awaiting collection up in Darlington.

The receptionist at Seton Leng Funeral Directors looked on with some amusement as I carefully placed the urn and cremation certificates into the canvas pannier on one side of my despatch bike. Her amusement might well have changed to astonishment if she’d seen or known anything of what was about to follow. Within the hour, the majority of Mum’s ashes had been scattered at Oxen-le-Fields, the land that Dad had helped farm for almost sixty years of his life and the place where his own ashes had been scattered eight years earlier. Having scattered them across the same piece of ground, I wasn’t sure what I should do next. I didn’t feel that a prayer from an atheist would be appropriate, so I simply laid a handful of wild flowers where the ashes had fallen. I could have purchased a proper bouquet for the occasion, but both Mum and Dad would have cringed at my wastefulness and the bitter truth was that I really couldn‘t afford them anyway. I stayed there for a while and found myself needlessly tidying an area of wild garden that really didn’t require any interference from me. It was natural, leave it alone, move on.

On old familiar roads, I headed away from the farm and immediately began picking up the pace. I passed from County Durham into North Yorkshire and on through the busy market town of Richmond. The tiny village of Reeth slipped past in a blur of empty tea rooms and I kept on riding. With no particular destination in mind, I enjoyed the freedom of the empty moorland and headed wherever my heart dictated. I was riding a rental Honda and if ever a soulless motorbike had existed, then this was it. The Honda CBF600 had been my companion for the past six months and unlike any of the bikes that I’d previously ridden, I’d never experienced one solitary moment of connection. It was a bike without a heart. On a daily basis it had sucked enthusiasm from me and even the strangulated exhaust note seemed to whisper a single repetitive word ’whatever’ ‘whatever’ ‘whatever’. But on this crisp sunny afternoon, the bike had miraculously transformed. For the first time in it’s short but tortured life, the needle on the Honda’s rev counter had found a new home in the upper reaches of the scale. The tyres had somehow discovered the art of speech and were giving a full and detailed commentary on the tarmac conditions below. The small hero spikes at the base of the foot-pegs began kissing the ground at every opportunity and the soundtrack to the journey had changed from the usual easy listening garbage to ‘Paint it Black’ by the Rolling Stones. The throttle had lost it’s elasticity, it had become directly connected to the rev counter. I twisted my right wrist and the little Honda stood upright off every apex and chased towards the next vanishing point on the sweeping road ahead. I squeezed the brake with two fingers and the bike lost exactly the right amount of speed without ever shaking it’s arse in protest. The gear selector was redundant, the six ratios in the gearbox seemed to be hard-wired to my thoughts. I wasn’t physically riding the bike, I was mentally wringing it‘s neck and it responded perfectly. In almost a million miles of riding motorbikes, I’d never before felt so connected to a bike, I’d never before ridden so smoothly or smiled so widely in surroundings that were quite so perfect. This was upland farming country, the adventure playground of my youth, the place where family weekends had been spent camping with the old Triumph Thunderbird and it’s family sized sidecar. For sixty minutes of my life, I enjoyed what I can only describe as the most perfect journey to nowhere.

At Tan Hill, the highest pub in England, I sat catching my breath on the moor and enjoying the views over the North Yorkshire Dales. In the background, the Honda’s tortured engine "Pinged" and ‘’Cracked’’ as it cooled down in the late afternoon breeze. Beside me on the spongy moorland grass sat two metal urns of similar colour and dimension. In the first were the remaining ashes of Barbara Thomas and I’m sure I could hear her ’tutting’. Perhaps she hadn’t appreciate the swiftness of the journey or the wildly crossed-up landing from the hump-back bridge when crossing The Stang, but from the second urn I swear I could hear chuckling. In that urn were the remainder of George Thomas’ ashes, ashes that everyone including myself, had seven years earlier seen scattered across the land at Oxen-le-Fields. My brother Alan had found the urn at the bottom of Mum’s wardrobe. It had contained two small photographs taken back in the days when they were teenage sweethearts and a small quantity of his ashes that Mum had secretly kept in reserve. Like the air around me, my mind was clear and at that precise moment in time, just as Mum had predicted in the ambulance, ‘I knew what to do‘. Sitting quietly on that moor, the pieces of the jigsaw had suddenly fallen into place, the dye was cast and ’Poor Circulation’ was born.

Almost exactly a year earlier, the 6am alarm had prised me from a perfectly warm and comfortable bed. It was a cold and cloudless morning, the old Suzuki Bandit that I’d purchased for the princely sum of six hundred pounds, had barked into life at the second time of asking and I’d ridden out towards Chelmsford for my daily contract job carrying sensitive financial data into the heart of London. With a low sun burning like magnesium on my sleepless eyes, I’d bumbled along with the sad-faced commuters enjoying the freshness of the air and the familiarity of a bike that I’d ridden for almost a quarter of a million miles. I’d been in no hurry, I’d known that I’d have plenty of time to absorb some rudely saturated fats and a dose of hot caffeine at the industrial estate diner before meeting my collection deadline. At the roundabout I’d turned East towards my destination and accelerated gently up to the speed limit ..….. ’Crunch’.

I’d heard the screams, but thankfully they hadn’t been my own. My head had pointed downwards and through my visor I can remember seeing only the clocks of the bike and several pairs of feet frantically running around me. My hearing had acquired super sensitive status, I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t moving, why the bike was seemingly upright yet my feet were not on the floor and I couldn’t move my body. I’d heard a woman’s voice so close I’d thought that she was actually on the inside of my crash helmet, ’’He’s dead .... oh my god he’s dead’’. I’d known that I hadn’t hit anything, but I’d also known that this wasn’t my usual riding posture. It had slowly dawned on me that there’d been an accident, a collision of vehicles that for some strange reason I’d heard but hadn’t seen. It had been an accident that involved other people. I’d felt no pain and therefore it couldn’t have involved me. As the number of feet around me had multiplied, I can remember turning my head and trying to sit upright. But I couldn’t move, something was keeping my head pinned down against the bikes console. ’’Oh my God he's moving, .... he’s still alive’’ , it had been the same female voice but this time it sounded further away. I’d then heard a second voice, a male voice, the voice of a man clearly affected by turrets, his language had been memorable but unprintable. I fear now that this male voice might actually have been my own. ’’I think he’s trapped ..... oh my God he’s trapped on his bike’’, it was the females voice again. ‘’Are you alright sweetheart?’’, …….. ‘’Can’t grumble petal’’.

With ambulances, fire crews and the police soon in attendance, the young lady had been escorted away for her own protection and after ensuring that no bones had been broken, I was prised from the crippled bike. Unfortunately, my leather jeans had become pinched in the newly formed crease between the seat and the fuel tank. My pants had refused to follow my body upwards. On the third or fourth attempt, I’d eventually been lifted clear of the bike whilst quietly thanking Mum for her constant reminders to always wear clean underwear, and loudly asking a fireman to pull up my jeans. At the side of the road and with my trousers back in a more appropriate position, I’d been able to survey the scene of what had still felt like somebody else’s accident. The bike was standing upright in the centre of the road, it’s back had been broken, the frame was bent at ninety degrees and the rear lights were now pointing skywards. About it’s rear quarters there was a car, a silver Ford Focus seemingly caught in the act of mounting the bike. Car and bike had become one, a union of unequal’s where there could be no possible winner. The driver insisted that he'd been blinded by the rising sun. He’d followed me from the roundabout with the preconceived notion that all bikers were idiots. He’d expected me to accelerate like a madman. Unfortunately, he'd chosen this moment to race me in a competition that I’d never had any intention of entering. To the car driver, this had seemed like the most logical thing to do. But I’m a professional, I’d followed the rules to the letter and my beloved Suzuki Bandit had paid the ultimate price for the car drivers limitless stupidity. The road was measured by the police investigations unit, the scene was photographed, witness statements were taken and of course, no charges were ever brought.

Two things were born of that union between car and bike, things that would later prove to be essential to the progress of this tale. The first of these was my discovery of Google Earth. At home, with no roadworthy bike and a temporary inability to sit down, I’d stood at my computer and surfed the world wide web. The swelling of my testicles had deterred me from my more familiar internet browsing activities and whilst killing time, I’d downloaded the Google Earth program. I’d been amazed at just how easy it was to navigate my way around the world, everything seemed smaller and much more manageable than I’d ever thought possible. I’d followed roads and tracks that headed in an easterly direction, I’d found crossing points when I encountered oceans and detours around the world’s many war zones. Within a matter of hours I’d navigated my way around the world and returned safely to my original starting point in London. Suddenly, my teenage dream of following Ted Simon’s example and riding around the world actually seemed possible. I had neither the time nor the money to actually do it, but at the time my balls were certainly big enough for the task. I knew that whatever it took, I’d someday find a way, and a valid reason, to do it.

The second thing that emerged from the accident was a cheque, a sum of much needed money from the car drivers insurance company. Over the intervening months I’d gradually replaced those items that had been destroyed in the accident, including the bike, and the cheque had arrived as a pleasant and unexpected surprise. The cheque had been waiting for me on my return to Essex, it was dated the 14th of March 2007, the day of Mum’s death. Even though the Suzuki Bandit had been valued at a full one thousand pounds more than I’d actually paid for it some two hundred thousand miles earlier, it still wasn‘t a huge amount of money. But, to a guy who had nothing, it was certainly a step in the right direction.

And so, with a pair of almost empty urns secured in the panniers of my bike, I left Tan Hill and headed south towards London. It was a fast journey, my mind was alive with the possibilities and everything was clear, there were a million things that I needed to do and very little time in which to do them. I was going to ride around the world, I would carry my parents ashes from London to Boonville in California. I'd take Mum and Dad on a journey that they could never have imagined. Dad would get to ride down California Highway 1, he’d get to meet the grandchildren he'd never seen ….… and Mum’s final wishes would be granted.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 02: The Passing

2009-09-17T07:11:00.000-07:00

‘’Blue88 empty Nottingham, see you guy’s next week’’. I switched off the phone before the London controller had time to respond. I didn’t want another job, you can only have so much fun. I broke away from the daily despatch circuit and rode up to Darlington. I had every intention of returning to London in the next few days, but my life had always been full of good intentions. It wasn’t a journey that I’d really planned. Since first hearing of Barbara’s pending gall stone operation I’d always intended to be at her side. Not actually during the operation you understand. Just the before and afterwards. I really don’t react well to blood. Over the telephone, Mum had told me ‘not to bother coming up‘, she’d told me that it was just a ‘simple procedure‘. She’d insisted that I ‘wasn’t to worry‘, she was speaking the false language of parent. I was late getting there. That’s nothing new for me. I’d arrived while she was still in surgery and the staff had been kind. They’d allowed me to sit outside in the corridor. They’d ignored the fact that I was dripping gallons of dirty rainwater onto their once sterile floors. They’d kept me informed as to progress. They’d supplied me with cups of coffee, a dry towel and a room in which to change into my sadly non-existent dry clothing. I’d waited and waited. The smiles of the staff had become slightly more forced as the hours had passed. The rainwater lake beneath my feet had begun to evaporate. The dampness of my leathers had achieved temperate parity with that of my body before finally the news came. Mum was now in ’recovery’. I wasn’t sure if that was a position or a state, but she’d be returning to the ward within the next hour and I was more than welcome to stay with her.

The Consultant Surgeon had informed the Consultant Oncologist, who’d informed the Registrar, who then behind a closed curtain, informed Mum. Later in a small private office on Ward 42, Mum gave me the news that no child ever wants to hear. She stood in front of me looking nervous, frail and jaundiced. She insisted that I sat down before she would speak but I already knew that it wasn’t going to be god news. The gall stone had proved to be something of a red herring. The operation had revealed that her outward symptoms were caused by something slightly more serious, slightly less curable. Mum had cancer of the pancreas. As with all things in life, she was ridiculously practical about the diagnosis. Her only concern was the fact that I’d arrived straight from work and hadn’t thought to bring any clean underwear with me. My fault entirely. I should never have told her the truth about my wardrobe situation. But Barbara Thomas is a very difficult person to lie to. When it comes to my indiscretions, She‘s like a bloody oracle, the all seeing eye. Trust me, I‘ve had forty-five years of being ‘found-out‘. Anyway, when the person that you love the most informs you that they’re about to die, but of far more importance to them is the availability of clean underpants, then it’s difficult not to laugh. The news was bad, but it hadn’t come as a complete shock. You didn‘t need a medical degree to realise that Mum‘s condition was something a little more serious than a removable gall stone. I guess I’d been as prepared as I could have been, but can you ever be properly prepared for such times?

My brother Alan arrived from California and together we sat in Ward 42, talking, laughing and reminiscing with Mum. We talked for hours about the happier family times of which there were many, and the sad times of which there were thankfully very few. We talked about the extended family, about holidays on the motorbike and about Dad. Mum was a popular patient, her connections with the church, with St Teresa’s Hospice and various other voluntary organisations that she’d somehow found time in her busy life to support, ensured that at each visiting time ’Bed 4’ in ’Room C’ was always a hive of activity. Surrounded by a meadow of flowers, we watched as people came and went; family, friends, acquaintances, strangers, some that we recognised, many that we didn’t. It should have been a distressing and difficult time for everybody, perhaps selfishly so for Alan and myself, but Mum bravery made it easy for everyone around her.

My abiding memories of that time are of short days filled with laughter, of visiting times chaotic with chair shuffling attempts to stay within the hospitals ‘4 Visitor Rule’, and the private moments for Alan and myself when the nurses had allowed us the privilege of ‘after-hours’ access. It was during one of those ’after hours’ conversations that I listened to words that would change my life forever. In order to understand how a seemingly innocent conversation was later translated into the biggest adventure of my life, it’s important to understand something about the landscape upon which Mum’s words had been sown. To find my own personal position on a map of world religion, you’d need to locate Paganism and then start heading East. I don’t have a religion. If I was a practicing label-whore, I’d definitely be wearing ‘Agnostic’. Barbara Thomas on the other hand could only be described as a ’Pragmatic Methodist’. She believed in the benefits of abstinence but still enjoyed a medicinal measure of single malt whiskey. She favoured science over creationism but held her own private views on the immaculate conception. She had the strength to examine all aspects of her beliefs yet her personal faith in the existence of one God was always beyond question. I can’t say that Mum believed in the traditional Christian concept of heaven, but what I can say with absolute certainty is that Barbara Thomas believed that what awaited her after this life was something far greater and less temporary. Whilst I’d always accepted the religion’s chosen by other people, for the first time in my own life, seeing the strength and inner peace that her faith provided her, I was actually beginning to feel envy. While I certainly wasn’t about to find my own religion, the area in my heart labelled ’Religious Tolerance’, was certainly earmarked for immediate expansion.

"I don’t have any regrets in life, but there are two things that I wish might have happened". It was early evening, Mum was tired and her eyes opened and closed as she spoke. She was refusing the drugs that would lessen the pain, she wanted her mind to be alert and active until the end "I wish your Dad could have lived long enough to visit the farm in Boonville, he would have loved Sam and Willow to bits". She smiled as she thought about it, and she was right. Five months earlier, Mum had spent several weeks in Boonville with Alan, his wife Torrey and her latest grandchildren, Sam and Willow. Dad had died in 1999, a few months before Alan had moved permanently to California, a year before he’d married Torrey, two years before they‘d moved onto the small farm to begin a life of self-sufficiency. Mum had fallen in love with Boonville, the beauty of Northern California, the warmth of the people and the log strewn beaches of Mendocino County. She‘d been ill at the time, but silently so. It was just something that she never mentioned. Reading between the lines, it‘s now clear that she‘d known that it would be her final vacation. She was chuckling. She didn‘t think that Dad would have tried smoking the local crops, but he would have appreciated the fine wines of the Anderson Valley. "Geoffrey …. they wear tee shirts and sandals on their motorbikes …. even in Winter". She shook her head in disbelief. "We always wore Wellington boots and waterproofs". Mum took some water, not even a sip but a wet cotton bud brushed across her cracking lips. It was all that she could manage. "If only Dad could have ridden his bike down that beautiful road near Fort Bragg ..... I don’t think they have Triumph’s in California, but he would have loved riding on those roads in a tee shirt ..... I doubt that he’d ever have wanted to come home".

.............................. George & Barbara Thomas 1997

............................... Sam & Willow, Boonville California 2007

..................................Mendocino County Beach, California

The days passed, I’d procured replacement underwear and a military operation was set in place to marshal the increasing number of visitors to Mum’s bed. She fussed over things that are only important to parents; how to cancel the milk delivery, had the window cleaner visited, how would we pay for the funeral, were we eating properly and could we do something about her bloody hair? Mum wanted to come home to die but she was hesitant. The medical staff wanted her to remain in hospital and of course like any parent, she didn’t want to make a fuss. Together we made a pact; Mum would return home when the timing was right and if that eventually resulted in charges of kidnapping, then Alan and I would take our chances in court and Mum would forgive us our criminal convictions from heaven. Fourteen days after first entering hospital and with help from the Ward Sister and what seemed like every other member of staff at the Darlington Memorial Hospital, most of whom were by now Mum’s personal friends, we arranged to make good her escape. An ambulance crew agreed to stay behind at the end of their shift in order to quietly transport Mum home. I travelled with her in the back of the ambulance, a beaming smile filled her face. Bright white teeth against a deeply yellow pallor, but sadly a bouffant that still had a life of it’s own. As the ambulance doors were opened, Mum squeezed my hand and strained to whisper, "Geoffrey ….. you’ll know what to do".

The funeral arrangements were easy, Mum had left a folder of notes containing precise details of everything from her caterers of choice to the people she would like to give readings and the hymns that we should sing. She’d left noting to chance, or more importantly, she’d left nothing of consequence for Alan or I to decide upon ourselves. We simply telephoned the numbers written at the bottom of each note and the people who answered our calls knew exactly what needed to be done. Where possible, we followed Mum’s wishes to the letter and where no instructions existed, we simply followed our instincts and sought guidance from her closest friends. We were warned that Mum’s estimation for the number of people who might wish to attend her service, was grossly inadequate. Barbara Thomas had a wide circle of friends but absolutely nothing that you could describe as an ego. Leaving nothing to chance and erring on the side of safety, we doubled the estimations for everything and hoped that we’d got it right.

In the official cars were Alan and myself, the three UK based grandchildren; Rory, Molly and Hannah and Mum’s two closest friends, Bette and Sue. Certain family members perhaps felt that they should have taken priority over Mum’s friends and that they themselves should have been invited to ride with us. But they weren’t, it was a time for celebration and not a day for whining. As the procession headed towards the Methodist Chapel on Cockerton Green, Mum’s place of worship for the past twenty-five years, it quickly became apparent that Mum knew even more people than we’d realised. From every road leading towards the village green, dark-suited people walked in the same direction. They paused and bowed their heads as the coffin passed. The Green itself was a mass of people, the narrow road to the chapel was lined deep with well-wishers on both sides and we knew that we should have ordered a much bigger church.

The service was special, of course it was. It was for Mum and by Mum. Of all the funeral’s that I’ve ever had the misfortune to attend, it was refreshing to see a Minister who actually knew and understood the person to whom he refereed . Bette Dobson, as per Mum’s request, gave a reading that was a perfect a reflection of her life. The service ended with a hymn, the title of which I cannot remember but the impact of which I will never forget. The organ began playing a tune that was unfamiliar to the ‘Brothers Agnostic’ occupying the front row of the Chapel. But it seemed that aside from members of our own immediate family, we were the only ones who didn‘t recognise it. Alan and I physically ducked as the packed Chapel behind us, and no doubt the Green and Street beyond, spontaneously erupted into song. It reminded me of New Orleans. I was expecting tambourines and sousaphones to enter at any second. The people were actually dancing in the isles and belting out the lyrics. This was supposed to be a funeral and not a wedding service. It was absolutely brilliant. We watched in amazement, the church folk were singing and dancing while our relatives looked at Alan and I with confusion writ large across their faces. Perhaps they thought that we’d just pulled off some sort of practical joke. We hadn’t, although at Dad’s funeral Alan had taken account of his farmer’s love for vegetables and festooned his coffin with a fine arrangement of edible flowers, namely cauliflowers. But this spontaneous eruption of song and dance was certainly not of our making. We were standing in the front row wearing brand new thirty-five pound suits, and unless somebody else was planning to die in the very near future, it was probably the last outing that they were ever likely to enjoy. We smiled at each other, shook hands, pretended that nobody else was watching and proceeded to get down with the local Methodist Massive. We didn’t know the words to the hymn but that mattered little. Everybody was singing. Everybody was having fun. Everybody was smiling. And hopefully one day, all funerals will be just like this one.

Later, in the overcrowded Chapel Hall, Selby the Methodist Minister declared that it was the best attended service that he’d ever had the privilege to conduct. But, there was one minor problem. The ‘Collection’, which had surprisingly contained only notes and not the more usual assortment of coins, had been the largest that the Chapel had ever received. This was terrific news for Selby, but Mum’s instructions on how those donations should be divided between the Chapel and her favoured charity of St Teresa’s Hospice, had been unclear. Alan had no idea what Mum‘s wishes would be, but I of course would ‘know what to do’. I told Selby to keep all of the donations for the Chapel and that St Teresa’s Hospice would benefit in other ways. I can clearly remember Alan throwing me a marginally perplexing look, but I truly had nothing at all to tell him. There was a loose jigsaw of a plan in my mind but I didn’t have the picture that would guide me towards the solution. I knew that St Teresa’s Hospice would be compensated in some way, it was just a little too early to explain ‘How‘.

If I too had been American, then perhaps as Selby had walked away from us shaking his head in disbelief, we would have executed a ‘High Five’ in celebration. But I wasn’t American and Alan was just far to cool a person for such actions anyway. Our plan, hatched during the thirty second interval between the funeral service and buffet reception, had been both simple and effective. We’d issued five crisp twenty pound notes to strategically placed people in the hall. We then asked the three angelic grandchildren to carry around the donation plate and instructed them to approach those people that we’d identified first. It had worked like a dream. People had followed the generous lead of those early donors, everybody was still buzzing from the service and had happily emptied their wallets in celebration. Later that evening, as we finished the last of Mum’s single malt and were about to start on her collection of lesser blends, we had a moment to reflect and feel guilty about our charitable actions. But it was certainly no more than a moment.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Chapter 01: The Beginning

2009-09-10T06:20:00.000-07:00

Where to begin this tale? After much deliberation, somebody suggested that I try ‘The Beginning’. It’s quite difficult to argue against such logic. ‘The Beginning’ would indeed be a very good place to start. But exactly when was ‘The Beginning?’

Every year on the 18th of April, I’ve celebrated my birthday. It‘s a fact and I’ve got photographs to prove it. Your birthday’s one of life’s certainties. Your age changes every year but the date remains the same. Then one day, you accidentally open a dusty old suitcase and suddenly all bets are off. The confusion begins. The beginning isn’t where it used to be and history has changed. For forty-five years I’ve been celebrating my birthday in the right month, but probably on the wrong day. To many people, not knowing on which day you were born might seem just a little bit strange. Well, welcome to my world.

I’ve always known that I was adopted. My parents, George and Barbara, did nothing to hide that fact from me and I’d done nothing to find out any more about it. You see, I’m inherently lazy. I was born lazy and have dedicated much of my life to the pursuit of idleness. Discovering more facts about my history would’ve involved reading, and reading had never been my strongest subject. So, for forty-odd years I’d known that I was adopted and never had the slightest inclination to learn any more about it. Then after Barbara‘s death in 2007, in that dusty old suitcase, I found the documents that she’d kept safe for forty-five years.
___________________________________________________

Dear Mrs Thomas,

Will you please meet me at Hope Dene, La Gloucester Road, Newcastle -on-Tyne on Wed, for a very nice baby boy.

This is the Salvation Army Mother & Baby Home, if you come by train, come to Newcastle Central Station, cross the road and walk to the foot of Westgate Road, it is only 3 minutes walk, almost opposite the old assembly rooms, there is a bus stop. Get any of the following, 33, 33a, or 43 trolley buses, they all go along Elswick Road, ask to be off at Gloucester Road. They put you right off at the home, you just walk back a few yards and you are at the gate.

I would like you there at 2-30p.m. and I will be there to meet you.

He is nine weeks old, baby of a very nice girl, he has not been Christened.

The girl is very anxious to get back to her own home, as no one knows about this, she is supposedly away working, also she is in the Women’s Territorial Army, and if she does not report next Sat, will loose her stripes.

He will have clothes to travel in and you will be given a tin of food, and his routine.

Sorry for the short notice.

Miss M Hedley, Welfare Worker
_____________________________________________________________________________

My life began in Newcastle, April 1962, precise date unknown. My biological mother was a young and shamefully single girl. Her surname was Barnes, her first name was Missing. Miss Barnes was an NCO in the Territorial Army and she’d endured a secret pregnancy far away from the gaze of her family. My biological Father doesn’t get a mention. I therefore assume that after completing his active service atop of Miss Barnes, he went absent without leave and vanished into the night. On all documents, he’s simply referred to as ‘Unknown’. Apparently, my provisional name was Garry-Anthony Barnes. Yes, two R’s in Garry and a hyphen before Anthony. I’m not sure if that‘s a good name or a bad name. Hyphens were certainly not common in the world of my childhood. The discovery of an alternate ’Birthday’ and ’Name’ had come as something of a shock to me, but the fact that I was now a confirmed ’Geordie Bastard’ seemed of little surprise to my friends.

So, my life’s great adventure had begun. I became the latest resident of the ‘The Jarrow Deanery Moral Welfare & Adoption Society‘ in Newcastle Upon Tyne. The first few weeks of my life are really quite vague. I don’t have any memories but what I do have is a medical card from the Adoption Society. It’s a very full medical card. As babies go, I clearly wasn’t the healthiest example. The runt from a litter of one. I can only imagine that I was prodded, pinched and poked by prospective parents. Parents who ultimately returned me to the shelf and chose a healthier specimen to go. Desperate to remove me from their otherwise viable inventory, and no doubt reeling from the cost of my early dependency on drugs, the Adoption Society made a concerted effort to move me on. Thus, the letter above. Back in the 1960’s, I’m sure that adoption was still optional. But, the letter to my prospective parents reads much more like a summons than a request. However, if Mrs Thomas accepted the call to Newcastle, then I’d get a new home and Miss Barnes would presumably get to keep her stripes. A win win situation. Well, that is unless you happened to be Mr & Mrs Thomas. Suckers.

I really don’t remember meeting the Thomas’s on that day. Presumably they’d arrived while I was sleeping and quietly whisked me back to their home in Darlington. In fact, it must have been a very long nap because my first real memories of them are from when I was three years old. I seemingly bypassed babyhood and woke up as a toddler. I was sharing a small terraced house with George a farm labourer, Barbara a full-time mother and an older Brother called Alan. There was a fluorescent swearing budgerigar called ‘Joey‘ and an bi-polar mongrel named ‘Laddie‘. There was also a favourite toy. In fact it was the only toy that I can ever remember playing with. A small metal rocking horse that went by the name of ‘Thunderbird’. It was indeed the most handsome of toys. The most amazing thing that you could ever imagine. It was in a word, magnificent. For some strange reason, instead of braying like a horse, ’Thunderbird’ always made the sound of a motorcycle. All day long, Thunderbird scooted around the living-room wearing parallel tracks in an already balding, but financially irreplaceable, non-fitted carpet. With hindsight, it was probably the newly named Geoffrey George Thomas who was making those noises. But, in my minds eye, Thunderbird was always a beautiful motorbike and never a crappy little rocking horse . There was even a splendid uniform that I’d insist on wearing before riding Thunderbird. A white leather crash helmet, a dandy set of split-lens goggles and the biggest pair of leather gauntlets imaginable. I’d been amazingly fortunate in my choice of permanent parents. I’d somehow persuaded a working class couple, a family who lived life on laughter and ate from the land, to take me into their humble home and shower me with love. It was a time long before the arrival of disposable nappies, wet-wipes and automatic washing machines. The 1960’s were an era when parenting was an altogether more hands-on and earthy experience, a time when being a parent was indeed a difficult labour of love. The clinching factor in allowing the Thomas’s to adopt me was actually quite simple; George Thomas couldn’t afford a car and so instead, he rode a motorbike. It was a sky blue twin cylinder Triumph Thunderbird attached to an amazing family sized sidecar. Ignoring Farley’s Rusk’s and my own beloved Thunderbird, that motorbike was the most beautiful ever made. The sidecar was the ultimate adventure playground for adventurous kids. Forget cup-holders, this came complete with two lines of seats and a magazine rack that overflowed with pencils, crayons and colourful sheets of sugar paper. It even had a sun-roof. Perhaps a bit of a waste in Darlington, but none the less it was a lovely feature to have. Every journey was an adventures and the sidecar became my most favourite place in the entire world. My love affair with my new family and motorcycles had begun.

The years swiftly passed, my bed grew smaller and ‘Joey’ eventually stopped swearing. For my staunchly Methodist Mother this was a great cause for celebration. Unfortunately, the fact that the reformation of his language was quickly followed by the cessation of his breathing, was not. In quick succession, ‘Laddie’ went for his annual visit to the vets and failed to return. Disturbing as that might have been for a young boy and his slightly older brother, it was at least two weeks before either of us even noticed that he was missing. It’s fair to say that with the onset of age, Laddie’s bi-polarity had increasingly favoured the darker side and where he’d once been the life and soul of every single day, his final departure had actually come as a relief to us both. Looking back, and armed with a greater understanding of George Thomas’ penchant for fiscal prudence, it seems much more likely that Laddie would have faced the muzzle of Dad’s .22 rifle sooner than Dad facing the prospect of an unnecessary vets bill. But what young boys don’t know, wont hurt them. The passing of years and various pets was something that I‘d taken in my ever lengthening stride. But then, at the tender and impressionable age of ten, the unthinkable happened. One summers evening Dad returned from work but his arrival was notable for it’s stealth. Gone was the unmistakable fanfare that always announced his return to the family home. The ‘thrump thrump thrump’ of the Triumph‘s engine had been replaced with the simple and grossly unsatisfying ‘thunk‘ of a closing metal door. The Thomas family had moved into the twentieth century. We’d succumbed to peer pressure and to the devilish taunts of consumerism. Joey had been replaced by an enormous goldfish and Laddie by a pigeon-toed rabbit, both of which had been positive moves, but now the magnificent Triumph had been replaced by an ugly Austin Van. Many years later, I discovered that Mum and Dad had worried that as I grew older, the stigma of not being able to afford a car, and the subsequent school bullying, would have been too much for my frail body to withstand. If only they’d asked me. I wasn’t deprived because we didn’t have a Car, I was the proudest kid in school because we had a ’Motorbike’. Anyway, I only got bullied at school because I was an arrogant little shit wearing my brothers old clothes and for supporting my Dad‘s beloved Manchester United. When it came to my daily bruising, the Thomas families means of transportation had never been a problem. If only I’d known this at the time then I could possibly have saved the Triumph. But it was gone and progress had prevailed. My love of motorcycles would continue, but aside from the occasional farmland adventure on a BSA Bantam or James 197 of dubious origin, usually to the accompaniment of Dad’s wise words, ‘don’t tell your Mother’, my love affair with motorcycles would be placed temporarily on-hold.

Finally, after five thousand eight hundred and forty-four, five, six or seven days of waiting, it arrived. More important than puberty and more exciting than Christmas, my 16th Birthday. One month earlier I’d invested the proceeds from three years of early morning paper-rounds into a slightly battle scarred Suzuki moped. My Provisional Driving License took pride of place in an otherwise empty wallet. Crisp, clean and unblemished by endorsements. For the first time in my life, I could legally ride on the roads of Great Britain. For three consecutive summers of seemingly endless sunshine, I rode an increasingly bizarre range of motorcycles to places both new and exciting. Discomfort and distance were irrelevant. I was young, I was cocky, and unlike the rusting wrecks that my student budget afforded, I was invincible. Every journey involved mishaps, breakdowns and adventure. I was on a voyage of discovery and all of these things simply added to the richness of the days. I discovered a taste for beer and a liking for unconventional cigarettes. The eclectic pleasures of the ‘Bike Rally’ and the absolute wonderment of obligingly virtuous girls. I’d been given a sense of absolute freedom and being just smart enough to understand that those halcyon days would inevitably come to an end, I was determined to extract every possible ounce of pleasure from every single available moment.

Beyond the marvels of ‘Bike Magazine’ and ‘Motorcycle Weekly‘, it’s fair to say that I’d never been an avid reader. At school, the sheer drudgery of Steinbeck and Shakespeare had done nothing to wet my appetite for literature. I couldn’t absorb the words that they’d written and none of it seemed in any way relevant to the life that I knew. At school they’d called me ’thick’ and my response had been to stop trying. They’d then told my folks that I was ’lazy’, and my response had been to stop caring. At eighteen, and not knowing what I wanted to do with my life, I’d lied about my height and gained a place at Leeds University. In Leeds, they hadn’t called me ’thick’ or ‘lazy’, they’d simply called me ’dyslexic’. Bollocks, it was another new word that I couldn’t spell. But, within months of discovering this posh excuse for my laziness, I was reading like a fish.

One evening Stephen Corby, a fellow member of my rag-tag motorcycle group ‘The Bowes Winos‘, handed me a book that he explained would probably change my life. It became the first book that I ever read on a voluntary basis. Cover to cover in one session. Not a word missed, not a moments pause. I was hooked from the very first sentence ......... “When the reserve tank ran dry too, the engine choked and died, I guessed I was ten or fifteen miles from Gaya. The thought was disagreeable. It might mean spending the night there, and somewhere I had read that Gaya was the dirtiest town in India“.

In the author of that book, I’d found my inspiration and mentor. A man who was living my dream. An explorer who travelled around the world on his Triumph Tiger. I’d been introduced to Ted Simon and his book ’Jupiter’s Travels’. For the first time in my life, I developed a keen interest in geography and dared to begin dreaming of the impossible. If I’d had the money at the time, I would have packed up my acne cream, started the bike and headed out to retrace his journey. Sadly I was a student and appropriately poor. I didn’t set out to follow in Ted Simon’s tyre tracks, but I did buy a Readers Digest World Atlas.

Save for the efforts of Sheikh Yamani and the one pound gallon of petrol, those early years of growing and riding turned out to be a glorious time of discovery and adventure. At aged sixteen, a journey of a million motorcycle miles had begun. A journey that many years later would see me riding around the world on my own Triumph Tiger. An odyssey that would adopt the title of ‘Poor Circulation‘ and as Stephen Corby had so correctly predicted, would change my life forever.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas