Cold thundershowers and headwinds

Although it is quite noisy because of the arriving and departing trains, we slept well. Recharged with new strength, we swing onto the Brooks saddles and leave the city under heavy storm clouds. The wind blows towards us. But as we are driving in the same direction today as yesterday, we are confident that the road will wind in the direction we want after the next bend. We have not yet left Dzhankoi behind us when the gates of heaven open again to spoil our day with their cold wetness. “We have to put on our rain gear!” shouts Tanja. “Over there under the tree,” I reply. We stop next to a road checkpoint. Like us, the police officers have chosen the best place for their job. One of the law enforcement officers comes strolling over to us. “Where are you from? What, from Germany? And you want to go to Burma?” he shakes his head in disbelief as we try to find shelter under our raincoats as quickly as possible. “How much does a superbike like this cost?” he asks, pointing at our vehicle with his stick. Since I can’t name the price of our bikes in such countries under any circumstances, I try to avoid answering. “Man! Come here already! We have to work!” his colleague shouts angrily at this moment, which is why the man hurries away. As we drive on, it is pouring with rain. The road does not wind in the desired direction as we had hoped, so we have to fight against strong side and front winds. Our bikes bump over broken glass as they always have. We manage to avoid many of them, but in the bad weather we only see some of them late. Sometimes too late. Crick, crick, crick, I hear it under my front wheel. There is thunder and lightning above our heads and we think we can feel the earth shake. Whoosh! Whoosh! The water hisses over us as the car tires whizz by through the water. Woohoo! Woohoo! The gusts sweep through the tree-lined avenues and give our horses a nasty side blow. My legs are getting heavier and heavier. Our breath rattles. “Just don’t stop! Otherwise we’ll cool down immediately,” I shout to Tanja, who is making her way through the terrible weather behind me. Then a car driver stops in front of us and halts our ride through the unchecked water. “Where are you from? Where are you going? What?” he asks and is surprised by our answer. We apologize. At around 13 degrees and the strong wind, we can’t afford to stand still on the open prairie. Minutes later, a moped rider pulls up next to us. The same questions, the same answers. The pillion passenger opens his eyes as he understands. But he is so drunk that he clings to the person in front of him like a tick and turns his eyes back and forth in confusion. The journey continues. It flashes. Then, with only a fraction of the delay, it smashes glaringly into the field next to us. Far enough away not to endanger us but close enough to almost fly out of the saddle in fright. Where will the next lightning strike go? Stopping and seeking shelter is not an option. There is nothing but a few trees at the side of the road. Close your eyes and go on. Go on, go on, go on. This thunderstorm also stops. I long for the heat of Moldova. After the heat in Ukraine just a few days ago. It’s strange that people always want what they can’t get. “Which is better? The heat or the cold?” I ponder to myself, panting. “It’s all crap. We should plan our next trip to Hawaii. It won’t be so cold or hot there.” I babble. Because of the exertion, we sweat under our rain gear, which is why we are now also soaking wet from below. Moisture from the inside and moisture from the outside should actually cancel each other out. But it does not. We have to make sure that we keep the wetness warm from the inside. It works. Only my thighs feel like lead today. The trailer is particularly heavy during these hours. We’ve already cycled 50 kilometers without a break. The distance from village to village suddenly increases. “Phew, the headwind is killing me.”

Suddenly a pub appears at the side of the road. It’s not a mirage. We leave the wet asphalt strip and lean our roadtrains against the wall of the house. A vegetable soup and salad give us renewed strength. The water croaks in the shoes under the table. Then it goes on. Suddenly, the foothills of the Crimean Mountains appear on the horizon. The landscape changes. Then, after six hours and 67 kilometers, the island to the rescue. A service station offers rooms for tired truckers. We are only cyclists, but we still get a bed. I’m looking forward to the hot shower. With the last of my strength, I stumble up the stairs to the second floor. When I push the plug of the hot water boiler into the socket, it starts to smoke strangely in the wire mesh. It flashes briefly and smells a little. “I think the boiler has just given up the ghost,” I say to Tanja, bitterly disappointed. The result is to scare the cold body with cold water. Oh no. After a short break, I type the day’s short recordings into the laptop, load the pictures and drag myself and Tanja down to the ground floor for dinner. Tanja is feeling much better again today. “How does she do it?” I whisper to myself. We each tuck into a plate of spaghetti, soup, salad, white bread and a couple of beers. Then off to bed. At 9 p.m., my matte body falls into a restful deep sleep.

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