Only two minutes

While Tanja takes the rare opportunity to visit one of the Internet cafés, I sit in the uncomfortable hotel lobby and feed the 750 pictures of our steam locomotive experience into the archiving program on my laptop. What a time-consuming job. Groaning, I’m stuck in the plastic armchair while a woman pulls money out of the machine right next to me. A guest asks for her blouse, which she left in her room a day ago. The manager talks to a businessman in front of me. I would love to edit our photos in our room, but since we had to check out at 12:00 noon, I’ll just use this inconvenient place. It’s pouring outside. The temperature dropped by 15 degrees for a short time. “And are you finished?” asks Tanja, standing in front of me dripping wet in the late afternoon. “Oh well. I’ll need at least two more days,” I reply grumpily, closing the Itronix. We collect our bikes, trailers and Ortlieb bags from the small luggage room in the basement of the hotel and stow everything in the hotel lobby. There we get ready to leave under the curious and puzzled gaze of the guests and staff.

As we carry our bikes outside, the rain has stopped. As we started our Baikal adventure three weeks ago today and have not been on the road with our heavy trailers since then, it is not easy for us to maneuver the fully loaded road train through the city’s rush hour traffic. After the first few meters, I long to return to the tranquil island of Olkhon. The insane traffic of a big city, the exhaust fumes, the stress and the many lanes demand our full attention. Relieved, we reach the city’s main station. Hundreds of pairs of eyes watch the two foreigners as they push their strange-looking vehicles through the station halls. “Moschna fotografirowat?” (“Can I take a photo?” asks an elderly woman excitedly. “Moschna”, (“You may”), Tanja replies kindly as I set off to get us two train tickets. I quickly find the right switch. Surprisingly, the officer is very friendly and even speaks a few words of English. As we want to take the normal train this time, which also accepts our bikes, the tickets cost only 166 roubles (3.77 euros) instead of 1,000 roubles (22.72 euros). Because the bellboy had bought the wrong tickets a few days ago and the hotel had charged me 500 roubles (11.36 euros) for them, I was pleased to have managed to get the right tickets so quickly.

“Do you know which track the train leaves from?” Tanja asks, checking the electronic information board. “Oh dear. Look at that. The train arrives at 18:48 and leaves again at 18:50,” I remark. “Oh dear. How are we supposed to find the right track, get the bikes and trailer there and load them into the wagon in just two minutes? That’s impossible,” says Tanja, visibly nervous. “It is. I think they announce the track at least 10 minutes before departure. That should be enough,” I reassure us. We watch the scoreboard intently. Trains to and from Vladivostok and Moscow come and go. On average, the platform is actually announced ten minutes before departure. We think about how we are going to manage to get the bikes and trailers down the steep stairs, cross the underground corridor to the individual tracks and then carry everything up the stairs again. “We’ll bring the bikes down the stairs before the platform is announced. I’ll wait down there next to the road trains and stay in eye contact with you via the stairs while you keep an eye on the information board,” is my suggestion. “Good idea,” replies Tanja. Ten minutes before our train arrives, there is still no platform number. Tanja and I glance nervously at each other. Tanja can’t stand it any longer and asks at the counter. “You’ll have to wait,” is the answer. Seven minutes to go until departure. Suddenly there is movement among the waiting people. “Platform five!” shouts Tanja, jumping down the stairs. We grab the sumo bikes and race along the corridor. A corpulent, friendly woman follows at our heels. “I’ll help them,” she says frantically, calling out to the crowd for helping hands. Two young men immediately carry my trailer up the stairs, while the woman tries to push my riese und müller up the steps with me. Five minutes to go until departure. Suddenly the woman falls. I let go of my bike. It tilts to the side. In a flash, I grab the woman under the shoulders and intercept her fall. The helper is now crouching on her knees in front of me, breathing heavily. “Go on, go on!” she urges me to leave her where she is. Nevertheless, I help her up. “Have they hurt themselves?” I ask worriedly, while the young men lift their bikes up with Tanja. “No, no. Come on. Otherwise you’ll miss your train,” the lady warns me to hurry. Three minutes before departure, our helpers and we are standing on the platform, breathing heavily. The woman ruined her pants in the fall. She tries to clean the stains on her knees with spit. “Balit?”, (“Are you in pain?”) I ask again. “Njet, njet” (“No, no”) she replies, panting and smiling at me. “The train is coming!” someone shouts. The local train arrives on time. “Quick, quick!”, our helper asks us all again to load all our belongings into the wagon. I grab the last two saddlebags as the doors close again and the train starts to move. Tanja and I look out of the window to wave to our little angels again. All we can see is her limping down the stairs again.

“Done,” blows Tanja with relief, settling down on one of the benches. “Where do they have to go?” a passenger asks me. “To Baikalsk.” “Ah, do they take their bikes over all those high mountains?” “Yes. That’s what we were advised to do.” “It was good advice. The hairpin bends are narrow and busy. Dangerous for cyclists. Where are you actually going?” “Our visa for Russia expires in three weeks. We have to be in Mongolia by then.” “Malazee. (Fantastic) I’m a cyclist too. If you need a helping hand to get off, I’ll be happy to assist you,” he offers and sits down again a few benches behind us.

We enjoy the wonderful train ride over the wooded mountains. When we reach Baikal again, the sun is just setting. At 22:30, the train stops for just two minutes at an abandoned railroad embankment in the middle of nowhere. “Quick, quick!” the cyclist warns us again to hurry. We get the Ortlieb bags, bikes and trailers out of the waggon, throwing them rather than carrying them. We have barely got everything onto the meadow next to the railroad embankment when the local train gives the signal and disappears into the darkness. “And now? Where do you think Baikalsk is?” wonders Tanja. “Let’s load the bikes first,” I reply as an eternally long freight train thunders menacingly past us. In the blackness of the night, the tracks are a little eerie. On the other side of the tracks are two men who watch us smoking cigarettes. Traveling at night is not necessarily advisable due to the enormous alcohol consumption of Russians. But now we have no other chance. “Where is Baikalsk?” I ask a dark figure who emerges from the darkness and walks past us. “On the gravel path to the road, then through the tunnel and always keep right,” he explains. We mount our steeds and pedal off into the night. There are no people to be found that we can ask for directions. I follow my instinct. We actually reach a few residential bunkers. Young people explain the direction to Gastiniza. It takes a while to find the accommodation. Drunken guests stand in front of it. “Where are you from? What from Germany? Ha, ha, ha,” they laugh. “My name is Sergei,” says one of them in broken German. “As usual,” I think to myself. Tanja has reserved a room for us from Irkutsk because it is high season. “Come on, I’ll help you. Hi, hi, hi,” says Sergei, completely drunk and wants to grab Tanja’s bike. “Nooooo!” she shouts and rescues her noble vehicle. Sergei refuses to be dissuaded and now tries to heave the trailer down the cellar stairs. It takes a lot of effort and strength to prevent him from ruining our equipment during transportation. “I’ll help you carry the bags into the room,” he giggles, amused. “Thank you very much,” says Tanja. “Hi, hi, hi. But absolutely,” he replies. “Now leave the guests alone!” the woman at reception saves us, whereupon Sergei trolls off in a huff.

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