First day on the road

Despite our inner excitement, we slept well and deeply. Confident and full of anticipation, we swing out of the bunk bed. We pack the rest of the equipment into the saddlebags and take the trailers and bikes out of their compartment. “My God, who’s going to cycle all that? No one can manage that,” I moan, my euphoria somewhat dampened when I can no longer get the lid of my trailer box shut. Once again, I take out the entire content and reorganize it. “Good morning. How are you?” says Michael, who is just coming in the door with his girlfriend Tatjana. “I think we need a support vehicle for the whole route. Let’s lift the trailer. I’d like to know how heavy it is,” I reply. “Umpf, super heavy. You’re going to move all that with your own muscle power?” says Michael, looking at me skeptically. “Well, we don’t want to, we have to. Somehow we managed to pedal all that stuff from Germany almost 7,000 kilometers to Samara. But now I’m asking myself how we managed it? It’s the technology that’s getting to us. Look, the laptop alone weighs seven kilograms. It’s heavy, but it’s also robust. A normal laptop wouldn’t be able to withstand the vibrations. The satellite phone is not light either. But we need it for reporting on our website. Then there are two video cameras, two Leicas, lenses, tripod, power supply units, cables, batteries, etc. All just so that we can document our trip. A pile of additional material that is indispensable in our case. Well, I don’t want to complain about that. That would be like hitting my own fingers hard with a hammer. It’s part of the journey and the journey is our life. That’s all right. It’s just that part of my mind, and soon all the muscles in our bodies, are complaining about it,” I explain to Michael as we drag the box outside, panting loudly.

“Tanja and Denis! Mother Superior is expecting you right now,” says Sister Katja, who has really grown on us. We immediately interrupt our work and go with Michael to the head of the monastery to say goodbye and thank him for his hospitality and help. “Just come in,” she invites us into her rooms. We are allowed to sit down at a small round table while Mother Superior Johanna and another nun look for something in a large bookcase. “Ah, there he is,” she says and pulls out a large illustrated book. “As a parting gift, I would like to give you this book. It is a beautiful copy in English and shows many of the Russian monasteries. There are now 500 of them in our country again. The people here went through a very difficult time. Thank God they have a strong faith. This enabled them to survive many hardships. Faith is important and helps especially in times of need. We are glad that things are looking up again in Russia and that people can now go to churches and monasteries to pray without being punished or persecuted,” she explains, leafing through the thick illustrated book. Tanja and I look at each other a little sheepishly, because our current charging situation makes it impossible for us to accept her gift. “Thank you very much, but we can’t find any more space in our saddlebags at the moment,” I say. “I almost thought so. Well, you can take it with you when you visit us again,” she replies with a kind smile. After receiving God’s blessing from her and handing her an envelope with a small donation for the construction of the monastery, we make our way to the exit of her rooms. “Please come back and let us hear from you during the trip. That would make us all very happy and reassured,” she says before the door closes.

Then we load the equipment and the bikes onto an ancient Russian van. Katja gets her beautiful winter coat so that the bikes don’t lie against each other and get damaged during the short transport to the city limits. We place it between the two frames as padding, tie the bikes down and are suddenly ready to leave our harmonious, peaceful home of the last 10 days behind us and cycle into the wide, unknown world. We hug our friend Michael, his girlfriend Tatjana and his friend Alexej, who came by especially to witness our departure. “Here, I have a little present for you,” says Alexei and hands me a bottle of homemade apple juice. “Thank you very much,” I say, hoping not to upset my stomach on the first day. “It tastes delicious. I brew 70 to 80 liters of it every winter in my garage,” he replies as if he had read my mind. “Hm, remarkably good,” I praise after taking a big sip. “Ha, ha, ha,” is the cheerful reply from Alexei, the man who repaired our trailer a few days ago. Then we get into an old run-down Lada and follow the small truck. In the rear-view mirror, our Russian friends are getting smaller and smaller. We wave. “Maybe I’ll visit you tonight. Call me when you get there,” Michael calls after him. Then our little convoy turns the corner and Iversky Monastery is out of sight.

We leave the metropolis of Samara in beautiful weather and pleasant temperatures. We pass the Volga, which we have followed on our bikes for 1,000 kilometers. We take another look at the beautiful waterfront promenade with its many small restaurants, cafés and bars. Then it’s through the rush-hour traffic, past ugly factories, over bridges and before we know it we’re on a road with little traffic that leads to Kazakhstan. Katja is allowed to accompany us today. Matron Johanna allowed it. She happily holds Tanja’s hands. Communication with her is getting better every day. She has learned a few words of German and English while the odd Russian word pops into our heads. Suddenly the rickety van stops in front of us. About 25 kilometers behind the monastery, on the side of the M32 federal road, we unload all our equipment. We are ready to go in less than a quarter of an hour. Although I don’t know if you’re allowed to hug a nun, I hug Katja to say goodbye to her. She returns the friendly hug and gives me a big hug too. “I wish you a safe, healthy and successful journey,” she says, turning to Tanja. The two had a very good rapport from the very first minute. They also hug each other tightly and wish each other well. Then Katja wants to be photographed again with Tanja’s super bike. In the meantime, the driver shows me where we are and where the next gastiniza is.

Cuckoos and little traffic

“Da ßwidanja!” (Goodbye) we shout and wave to Katja and the two riders as our sprockets turn for the first time on this stage after all the preparation. After just 500 meters I have to adjust my saddle and handlebars. Because of the transport from Germany to Russia and because we had no opportunity to carry out a real test in the monastery, we are now forced to make all the fine adjustments during the initial kilometers. The first few meters are very unfamiliar, especially with the heavy load. Our horses sway back and forth, but after a few kilometers our bodies begin to remember the strain and the sequence of movements. Half an hour later, the left handlebar ear simply gives way. Result, screw thread in the bucket. Thank goodness I can find the right screw in our spare parts. Then it goes on.

The weather is ideal for this day. With maximum temperatures of 24 degrees, light cloud cover, absolutely no wind and only slight hills, we make good progress. “Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!”, the familiar call of this bird family, of which there are around 140 species in the world, soon accompanies us incessantly. As far as I know, the call of our native cuckoo, which is widespread in Eurasia as far as Japan and North Africa, is probably the best known bird sound. We see it as a good omen for our journey. To the left and right of the road are rows of trees. Every now and then a truck overtakes us at a great distance. To our amazement, the roadsides are not dirty. Since Hungary, Serbia, especially in Romania and Ukraine, the roadsides have often been littered with garbage. In Russia, too, people throw away everything they don’t need. Environmental protection is hardly an issue in these countries. But only a few people drive here. So probably very little is thrown out of the car windows. A treat for our eyes. “This is exactly how I imagined a cycle tour through Russia!” exclaims Tanja. “Me too,” I laugh, satisfied with myself and the world.

After about 27 kilometers, we rush down the first hill. My speedometer shows 54 KMH. “Don’t drive too fast!” warns Tanja. At the bottom we see the first Gastiniza. I park my super bike between the cars. People immediately come up to me, gather around my bike a little shyly at first and start asking me the first questions. “Where are you coming from? Where are you going?” When they understand, the astonishment is, as always, considerable. “How much do your great bikes cost?” is then the second most important question. We don’t understand the question,” is our standard answer, so as not to arouse envy and to protect the wonderful road trains from theft. “Under no circumstances should you leave the bikes there overnight. They’ll be gone tomorrow for sure,” a man from Chechnya warns us. “Come on, I’ll show you where the garage is,” he says and leads us to a workshop in the backyard of the Gastiniza. There we are allowed to lock up our bikes in a car paint shop.

For 950 roubles (26,-) we get a small, clean and new apartment. That means a living room, a bedroom, shower and WC. A real luxury compared to the monastery room. As no hot water has been coming out of the tap for a few days due to the building work in the monastery, we particularly enjoy the hot shower. In the early evening, there’s a knock on the door. Michael is standing there. He actually made it a point to visit us again. In a long conversation, he goes through the map of Kazakhstan with us. “There is very bad water in the town of Aktöbe. You have to be careful there. Also, under no circumstances should you visit the area around the town of Semey in the far east. That’s where the Russians carried out their nuclear bomb tests during the USSR era. The land there is certainly contaminated.” I mark the areas that are dangerous for us and we go through our planned route with him again. “So we’ll steer clear of Semey, but we’ll have to put up with the bad water from Aktöbe. We only drink bottled water anyway. So no problem,” I say. Suddenly it’s 23:00. Because we want to continue tomorrow and have to get out earlier than usual, we are probably saying goodbye to our friend for the last time. “When I have a better car, maybe I’ll visit you in Germany,” he says. “Sure, but call first. Who knows if we’re not living with an Indian tribe in the jungle somewhere in the world,” I reply with a laugh.

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