There they are again!

We eat delicious blinis in the restaurant belonging to Gastiniza before setting off. Today we’re serving pound cakes with sweetened quark. We fill our stomachs to stock up on energy for the 50-kilometer stretch ahead of us. As we saddle our horses outside, the Chechen from yesterday greets us again. Although we can barely communicate, he wants to give us his cell phone number. “If you are ever in Chechnya, please come and visit me,” we understand.

The road winds its way over gentle hills again. In addition to the cuckoo and the loud twittering of birds, we also hear the constant croaking of frogs. The bikes make a good impression on us and if our bodies hold out we will certainly reach Eastern Siberia with them. “Over there! See?” calls Tanja. “What is it?” “Well, there she is! The Gastiniza!” When we reach the overnight accommodation after more than four hours and 53 kilometers, I am somewhat shocked by the condition of the Gastiniza. Did they look like this on our last stage? Probably. I had only become accustomed to the completely neglected state of many accommodations. “I don’t think it’s managed,” I say to Tanja. “Hm, why don’t you ask at the petrol station there,” she encourages me. “Da, eto Gastiniza rabotajet”, (Yes, the Gastiniza is in operation), I understand a mechanic. We let our bikes roll up to the strange, run-down house. While Tanja guards the bikes as usual, I scout out our accommodation. I enter the bunker-like building. It smells musty. A new door fixed with construction foam squeaks in the hinge as I open it. The loud roar of a lonely television immediately resounds towards me. There is an abandoned table in the room. Behind it is a pane of glass behind which cookies, potato chips, beer bottles etc. are stacked on a few shelves. A woman in her 50s sticks her head through the hole in the glass front. “I’m delighted when she understands my Russian and nods her head. “Yes, we have a room. You are welcome to see it. It costs 400 roubles (11,- ?) she answers my questions kindly. Then she leads me up a steep, breakneck iron staircase to the second floor of the bunker. I climb up after her, careful not to fall off the thing. “So guests with hip, knee or back problems will probably never reach their room here,” I think to myself. Once upstairs, it smells like a typical station toilet. Except that there is no train station here. At the end of the short corridor, she opens the door to a room containing three simple beds. “Cold,” she says and closes the window whose pane seems to grin at me with its fierce crack. “There they are again, the Gastinizas of Russia. Arrived in the reality of a bicycle traveler in the heart of Mother Russia,” I say: “We’ll take the room.” “Good,” (Charascho) replies the lady and climbs down the neck-breaking stairs ahead of me.

After I have filled out the papers with her, Tanja carries all the equipment into the house. While I’m getting our bikes ready, a very friendly Russian speaks to me in reasonable English. “Hello, my name is Igor. I saw you yesterday at the rest stop near Mikhailovka. It’s fantastic what you’re doing there. If you need any help, let me know. You’ll find me up there in the service station,” he says. We talk for a while until he lets me continue. Then, when Tanja returns, we push our noble steeds into a garage that is sealed off with an iron gate like Fort Knox. “I have a problem with the trailer,” Tanja says succinctly. “What is it?” I ask, not suspecting anything good. “When I take a bend, my rear wheel brushes against the trailer,” she explains, which startles me. In fact, the distance from the trailer to the rear wheel is too short and the wheel touches the base plate of the trailer so much during strong steering movements that it almost locks. “Well, you were lucky. If you had driven into a tight bend, you would definitely have been thrown,” I say. “What are we going to do now?” asks Tanja. “Looks like a heavy repair.” “Maybe you can ask the man who just offered to help you?” “Good idea. I will,” I reply, unhitching the trailer and pulling it to the nearby petrol station.

At this point I have to mention that we received brand new bikes from riese und müller. Not that the old Delite Blacks were broken, on the contrary, they lasted the last 6,884 kilometers to Samara without any repairs. However, riese und müller has decided to replace the Delite Black with a very robust bike specially designed for traveling. That’s why we got the Super Bike “Intercontinental”. A truly amazing machine that always causes a stir with its appearance, even in Germany. Before we loaded our new Intercontinental onto the plane, we naturally put it through its paces in Germany. Everything had been checked to the best of our knowledge and the bikes were ready for the continuation of our Trans-East expedition. Unfortunately, we left the USED supporters at Iversky Monastery last time. So we couldn’t try them out in conjunction with the new bikes. And now that’s exactly what’s not working with Tanja’s Intercontinental. No matter how perfectly you prepare a trip, there will always be something unforeseen.

Lost in thought, I reach the petrol station. “Hello Denis!” Igor immediately greets me again with a handshake. “Can I help you?” he asks. “Yes, look. We need to move the floor plate of this vehicle back by 3 centimeters. Can you do that?” “Of course we can. No problem at all. We’ll do it right away,” he says with a laugh and pulls the part into his brother’s workshop. It doesn’t take long and the new holes are drilled. Unfortunately, they don’t have any tools in the workshop to countersink the screw heads into the base plate. “I’ll take you to Bolshaya Glushitsa, it’s not far. We can buy one of those drills there,” he suggests. A little later, I’m sitting in his car. In the small magazine (store), Igor immediately pulls out his wallet to pay. “But I’ll pay for that. You’ve already done enough,” I say gratefully.

After an hour, the base plate of the wheel trailer is moved backwards and the damage is repaired. “What do I owe you?” I ask Igor and a mechanic who helped out. “Well, nothing. It was an honor to be able to help you,” he says with a friendly grin. The other man says something back in Russian. “What did he say?” I want to know. “Oh, that’s my boss. We both work in a brewery and are only here to visit my brother. But my boss said it would be nice if we could have a beer with you tonight?” “Of course. I just have to write a bit, but it’ll work out later. What do you think about 7 p.m.?” “I’d love to,” he replies.

I go back into the Fort Knox garage and click Tanja’s trailer onto her bike. “A perfect fit,” I say happily. Then I adjust the saddle angle, find a new place for my air pump, move the radio speedometer because it kept failing and then go to our humble abode to write a few notes and upload pictures to the laptop. So everyday travel has me back in its grip. “So how was the shower?” I ask Tanja, who is just entering our room. Although the shower chamber in the Fort Nox garage has been eaten away by the ravages of time and all the pipes are gnawed away by rust, there is a small trickle of hot water. “Who knows what tomorrow will bring. You should go too,” Tanja recommends.

This has never happened to us before!

Later, we sit in a small separee of the tiny restaurant. The nice woman who checked us in prepares fried potatoes with fried eggs and a special Russian cold soup (Okraschka). We drink beer and enjoy the delicious food. Suddenly, a man of about 60 with white hair and a big belly enters the room. He speaks loudly and seems to be the boss of this house. Then he comes to our table and greets us. We understand little of his words. Apparently part of his family lives in Leipzig. “Germany is a good country. I like it and I like the Germans,” we understand. Suddenly he leaves again. It only takes a few minutes before he reappears and puts 200 roubles each next to Tanja’s and my plate. We look at him in amazement. “Sponsor. I am your sponsor! You don’t have to pay for your room under any circumstances,” he says with a laugh and before we can say anything back, he’s gone again. “What can you say to that?” I whisper. “You really can’t think of anything else,” says Tanja. “We’ve never experienced anything like this during our entire trip. Is he just going to give us our money back like that?” I say, still shaking my head in amazement.

Igor and Sergei arrive at 19:00. They bring a few bottles of beer and put them on the table. In the course of the conversation, it turns out that Igor lived in Eastern Siberia for many years and has only been back here for a few months. “I used to work at a diamond mine. My wife still works at the mine. But she’ll be back soon. By the way, my brother is a famous professor. He is a scientist and has visited half the world to give lectures. If you want, I can give you his address. He lives in Novosibirsk,” he says. When Igor and Sergei find out that we are going to Bolshaya Chernigovka tomorrow, they immediately tell us about the restaurant Picnic. “You absolutely have to go there. They have great food. You know what? We’ll visit you there tomorrow. What do you think, Sergei?” Igor asks his boss. “Good idea. Then we’ll drink cognac. Do you like cognac?” Sergei wants to know. “I actually prefer beer. Cognac is definitely good, but as cyclists we can’t drink hard stuff. It won’t work the next day,” I explain. “Well then, just go by car the next day! Ha, ha, ha!” he replies, laughing heartily. “The best thing is to invite you to a Russian banya (sauna),” suggests Igor with shining eyes. “Without me, please. I’m always far too tired in the evening,” Tanja interjects. “Me too,” I add, in order to prevent an eternal car journey and a wild bender in good time. “All right, no banya then. But we’ll come anyway. Maybe you’d like to have a little cognac with us? Ha! Ha! H!” asks Sergei, snorting with laughter. Now two street policemen enter the simple pub. “They’re friends of ours. They’re good policemen,” says Igor in English. As they walk to our table, their pistols wobble in frayed leather holsters on their belts. “Alex,” says one of them in a deep voice and offers me his plate-sized hand in greeting. Igor and Sergei explain in a few words what we are doing here. They are amazed and then sit down at a nearby table to eat a borsch (stew, Russian national dish).

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