Abrupt end to the journey?

On today’s route, the often bumpy strip of asphalt moves away from the shores of the lake for a few kilometers and winds its way over the foothills of the nearby Chamar-Daban Mountains. We go up and down again for up to 600 meters. If we thought we had finally conquered the South Siberian Mountains from Irkutsk onwards, we now have to realize that we are still struggling. “The mountains will accompany you all the way to Ulan-Ude,” says a truck driver. As we have been working our way over mountain ranges for a good 1,200 kilometers now, we take his statement relatively calmly. “A few hundred kilometers of mountain landscape more or less doesn’t matter to us!”, I shout laughing and confidently into the steel-blue Siberian sky. Then suddenly a strong wind comes up. Although we haven’t mentioned him by name since the beginning of our Kazakhstan crossing, he still seems to find us from time to time. “We should come up with another trick. The master is probably smarter than we thought,” I joke. Then a few ten and twelve percent gradients force us out of the saddle. We work our way up, meter by meter. We had actually planned to celebrate Tanja’s birthday in Ulan-Ude, the capital of the Republic of Buryatia, but we only have 2 ½ days left until August 30th. With the now incessant ups and downs, there’s no way we’ll manage the 210 kilometers ahead of us. “As it stands, that’s just wishful thinking,” I say, panting heavily as I reach the next summit. “No problem. Then we’ll celebrate my birthday wherever we happen to be at the time,” is Tanja’s calm reply.

Spoke breakage

To the left and right of the arterial road are water and marshland areas, making it difficult to find a place to camp for the night. We even spend our lunch break directly on a gravel path that leads from the road into the taiga. Despite the strong and cold headwind, the many mountain ranges, the poor camping facilities and the prospect of not getting to Ulan-Ude as quickly as planned, we are in high spirits. “Pliiiing!” I suddenly hear a metallic sound I’ve never heard before. I examine my bike with a scrutinizing glance while riding. Nothing to see. Thank God. “Probably just a stone that’s bounced against the frame,” I think as one of the brake shoes on the rear wheel starts to grind against the rim. I dismount to take a closer look at the cause. “What is it?” asks Tanja, who is cycling up over the ridge at this moment. “I don’t know. The brakes are dragging,” I explain and am about to drive on when I realize the cause. “Oh no. I just don’t believe it. A spoke is broken!” “What, a spoke? How can that happen?” “Olkhon. It’s a souvenir from Olkhon. The gravel and clay roads on this wonderful island were apparently too much.” “Can you fix it?” “A broken spoke? I’ve never done that before. But the problem is that I don’t even know if we have spare spokes with us,” I reply, realizing with this statement what consequences this dilemma could have for the continuation of our journey. “You have spare parts for almost everything, don’t you?” “Yes, but we had stowed the spokes in the seat tube of the previous bike, the delite black. I don’t think I thought about putting any in the seat tube of the Intercontinental during the stress of preparation. At least I can’t remember.” “Then we were also on the Kazakhstan stage without these things?” “Could be,” I say, and now I’m really nervous and frantically looking in my spare parts bag for the thin pieces of wire that have suddenly become very important. “So there are none in here. That means the journey is over at this point,” I say in frustration. “Not again,” Tanja replies, because last year in late fall we had to break off our trip early due to a broken drawbar in the Siberian pampas. “If we’re lucky, there are bike stores in Ulan-Ude that stock such spokes. We would just have to try to get our road trains there. We don’t have enough time to request them from Germany. Our visa is no longer sufficient for that.” “Now have a look in the seat tube. Maybe there are some in there after all,” Tanja encourages me. When I unexpectedly discover the spare spokes there, it takes a load off my mind. “A mechanic from riese und müller must have put them in there during the last service,” I say with delight. “You guys are just great!” I shout and tear open the package. When I check the length of the spokes, I’m startled again. Too short. Full of hope, I slit open the second packet with my Leatherman and lo and behold, this time I have the right ones in my hands. “It’s only 16 kilometers to Babushkin. Do you think it makes sense to drive there? You could repair the damage there in peace and quiet.” “I don’t know to what extent the statics of the rim are already weakened? What if more spokes break due to the heavy load? That would be really fatal. But now, here on the side of the road, a repair like this?” “You have two hours. Then the sun goes down,” Tanja points out. “I could manage that,” I reply and start to unload my Intercontinental.

In fact, I manage to pull in the new spoke before the sun sets and the cold sets in, and adjust it so that nothing grinds. “Wonderful!” I say happily and am really a little proud of myself. “I was always afraid of broken spokes. It’s not bad at all. If it happens again, I’ll be much faster. It’s only worrying if something like that happens in stormy weather or driving snow,” I say, letting my sumo bike roll down the hill.

The sad place Babushkin

We reach the desolate village of Babushkin, where 7,600 inhabitants live today. We slowly drive our horses against the cold wind into the village, which was once named after the nearby river Mysowka, on whose banks the first Russians settled as early as 1690. The fact that Babushkin was once an important place of trade when the exchange of goods with China became increasingly intensive 150 or 200 years ago is no longer even imaginable. After long journeys full of privation, the traders stopped here with their carts before continuing their journey along the coast or across the Baikal. Large herds of cattle were also driven here from Mongolia to be slaughtered or processed in the city. We cycle past dilapidated factory buildings and half-collapsed apartment blocks. They bring back memories of this place in the middle of the 19th century. was once a sad temporary camp for exiles. However, there must have been a lot of hustle and bustle here when the harbor was expanded in 1880. Just nine years later, the eastern section of the Trans-Siberian Railway reached the up-and-coming Babushkin. As the expansion of the Transsib line stopped here for the time being, hundreds of passengers and complete railroad trains were ferried across the lake to the other shore on a large ferryboat every day between 1900 and 1904. From there, travelers could continue their journey on the Transsib to western Siberia and Russia.

“Is there a gastiniza here?” I ask a passer-by. He directs us to a street café. When I look at the room on offer, it takes my breath away once again. In a windowless, damp hole, with moldy plaster crumbling from the walls and lying in small piles on the floor, there are two worn-out divans that strangely remind me of the time of the forced laborers. “What do they want for it?” I ask, finding my tongue again. “If you only stay until eight in the morning, 350 rubles (8 euros) per person. “Thanks, but to be honest, the room is terrible. Is there another Gastiniza in the village?” “Yes,” the employee answers and gives me directions.

On the street, I ask a woman who hides her face behind large sunglasses long after the sun has set. She grabs my shoulder, swaying, obviously trying to keep her balance. “In the café back there,” she blows a huge plume of alcohol into my face. Tired and exhausted after a long day, we continue our search. We learn about a three-story prefabricated building near the train station. There will be accommodation there. A better-dressed lady leads us to the back of the completely run-down building. In fact, there is a sign above one of the doors stating that we have come across a gastiniza here. “Just a moment, I’ll call the phone number,” we understand the older woman pulling out her cell phone. We understand having to wait 20 minutes. Then maybe someone will come. Sweaty, we now stand at the back of a broken prefabricated building in the cold wind and look out over the tracks of the Trans-Siberian Railway. Every few minutes, a tinny voice echoes over to us from the loudspeakers on the tracks. The Baikal, whose shores nestle right up against this spawn of ugliness, doesn’t make the bizarre picture any prettier at this time of year.

Sure enough, after 20 minutes an old woman wobbles over. She shows us one of her two rooms. It is a four-bed room, which is acceptable compared to the moldy bunker of the street cafe. “1,500 roubles” (“34 euros”) leaves us speechless. “That’s expensive,” we say. “Well, the bed costs 375 roubles. (8.52 euros) If you move in here, I can’t rent out the other two beds today,” she replies. Tanja and I look at the clock almost simultaneously and ask ourselves who might still be looking for accommodation in this deserted town at 8:30 p.m. today? Without saying a word, the landlady suddenly says. “Well then, just give me 1050 roubles (23.86 euros). We agree. As we don’t have the right change, she promises to give it back to us tomorrow. We quickly try to get our bikes and trailers into the stall. The problem, however, is the door lock. Due to painting work, the latch of the side door cannot be opened and therefore the trailers cannot pass through the frame. With a lot of patience and strength, I can loosen the fastener with my pliers. We are finally in our accommodation, away from the biting mosquitoes, the drunks and the cold wind.

The lady who brought us here lives in the next room. Although we try to explain to her how tired we are, she talks incessantly about her journey. Then she pulls out her camera and shows us terrible pictures of Baikal, some houses and people. “We’re really tired,” Tanja says repeatedly, but she can’t be dissuaded from continuing her story. Tanja is now trying to prepare our dinner on the stove in the kitchen as I write this. Suddenly the lady looks over my shoulders and reads aloud what I’m writing. “You know. I’m a professor and I work in Moscow. I teach languages at the university. You see, I can still read German,” she babbles. I struggle not to go mad and continue typing. “I don’t understand her,” I keep saying until the professor finally gives in and leaves me alone.

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