Wind, rain and sore bottoms

On today’s day of our trip we are hit by force four winds from the side. The anemometer shows gusts of 22 kilometers per hour. Now we can really feel the heavy luggage. My trailer feels like I’m pulling an anchor. There is no doubt that our bodies are not yet trained for this. Whenever we drive out of the lee of the tree-lined avenues that accompany us, the wind blows hard. Of course, it’s not comparable to the eternal storm that hit us for almost 2,000 kilometers last year. Nevertheless, we are surprised to feel a similar wind again at the beginning of June. “I thought the wind had something to do with the coming winter? But now summer should be starting and it’s already here again!” “It’s probably just an approaching thunderstorm,” Tanja replies, thinking positively. “Thunderstorm!?” In fact, it starts to rain. The temperature drops to 15 degrees. We unpack our rain gear and pedal on towards the last Gastiniza before the border. After an hour today, my backside is already starting to hurt. Because of the new wheels, we also have new leather saddles from Brooks. They are always tricky at first because of their hardness, but after about 1,000 kilometers, they are said to have adapted to your backside. But at the moment it feels more like my butt is adapting to the saddle and I have to admit that’s a sh… feeling. The easy climbs give me the rest for today. “It’s only 5,000 kilometers to Lake Baikal,” I grumble with a hint of irony in my voice.

After three hours of rain and great exertion, we should actually be soaked with sweat. At least that’s our experience of the last few kilometers cycled from Germany to here. But, lo and behold, my body is still dry under the Gore rain jacket. The membrane does what it promises and wicks moisture to the outside without letting moisture in from the outside. A fantastic feeling not to have to cycle in the wet and a fantastic feeling this time to have a cycling clothing supplier that meets the highest quality standards.

Suddenly my chain starts to click with every revolution. “What a mess!” I shout, expecting the worst. I stop immediately to inspect the chain and sprockets. “So, what is it?” Tanja wants to know. I discover a small stone jammed in a sprocket of the chain tensioner. “It’s just as well I stopped straight away. The stone wouldn’t have done me any good in the long run,” I say, lifting my aching backside back onto the wicked leather saddle. “Doesn’t your bum hurt?” I ask. “Yes, yes,” Tanja replies, panting. Due to the persistent rain, the road is suddenly completely filthy. The mud is thrown over the equipment by our tires and it only takes a few minutes for the shine of our super bikes and the beautiful new bags to disappear. “That’s a shame, but maybe it’s a good idea before the border,” I think.

Back and forth and desolation

At around 14:00 and after 40 kilometers we reach the village of Bolshaya Chernigovka. At the side of the road, we discover the restaurant Picknick, which Igor highly recommends. We ask for a gastiniza. They send us on but we find no sign of accommodation. We turn back and ask at the restaurant. None of the people standing around know anything. It looks like they are travelers waiting for their bus. I enter the street restaurant and ask. The waitresses shake their heads, but one of them sends me back in the direction we came from. To fortify ourselves, we first eat one of our delicious Rapunzel chocolate bars. With a little more energy, we set off on our search again. In the meantime, I can hardly sit up and am already tired after just a few days, far too tired for my taste. At the end of the village, we ask a woman at a bus stop. “You have to go to the center,” she says firmly. We cycle into the center. To the left and right of us are wooden barracks in absolute disrepair. None of the wooden fences are intact. The desolation and endless poverty of the area is frightening. We have never seen anything like this in Russia before. Perhaps because we are now further east or because this area is close to the border with Kazakhstan? Who knows? A small, rickety car stutters past us. The driver with Mongolian features stops, pulls open the door and asks where we’re from. He can’t believe it. Makes sounds of surprise that we have never heard before. He understands that we are looking for accommodation and offers us a ride ahead. We follow him. After two kilometers he stops and points across the village pond in the direction we have just come from. “The Gastiniza is cloudy there,” he says. “How are we supposed to get there?” I want to know. “Well, push your motorcycles over the bridge,” he says, pointing to large stones that protrude from the water like islands. “Impossible. Even if we get our bucks across the pond in one piece, we’ll sink into the mud on the other side,” I say to Tanja. “So we have to go back?” “It looks like the woman at the bus stop sent us in the wrong direction,” I reply meekly. We wave again to the nice old man in his broken-down car and turn back. Back on the main road, lightning starts to flash. Dark, threatening clouds are gathering. The wind is getting stronger by the minute. We stop in front of a completely finished, box-like house, which is more like an abandoned factory building. “Judging by the direction, it must be the Gastiniza,” I say. “Never,” answers Tanja. “Let’s ask,” I reply, rolling my bike into the yard. It doesn’t look quite as bad on the back of the building. In fact, we discover a small sign on one of the windows that reads Gastiniza. A load off our minds. I enter the building to ask for a room and am surprised. Inside it is almost new. The room is very clean and can be compared to a small apartment. Bedroom and living room with new furniture and a separate shower room. Perfect. Fantastic!

We have just managed to get our equipment inside when the wind reaches force 8 and whistles around the house at 67 kilometers per hour. We drove 10 kilometers back and forth to find this accommodation and we were really lucky to get a roof over our heads before the storm hit.

After a wonderful hot shower, we set off for the picnic about 500 meters away. Strong and cold gusts of wind make us walk as if we were drunk. In the street restaurant, which looks like many others we have visited in Russia, we find a seat under a flat-screen TV that mostly flickers with American music videos. At the end of the room, we enjoy a good overview. Travelers sit at simple tables on lightly upholstered metal chairs to the left and right of the elongated room, which measures around 300 square meters. It is empty in the middle. A woman is constantly cleaning up the dirt that guests carry in from the muddy forecourt. At one bar there are fridges with different types of beer. Vodka, cognac, champagne, wine and all other imaginable spirits can be found on the shelves and are available for purchase. The nimble waitresses hurry out of a door and bring the guests goulash, pork, soups, bortsch, mashed potatoes and, above all, the much-loved chips. Everything is heated in the microwave so that the restless traveler can be served quickly. Although we try to strictly ban microwave meals from our lives, this is hardly possible in the East. The invention of this unhealthy food heater is a blessing for most people in the world. Tanja and I mourn the time when food was still warmed on the fire or stove. But times have changed. We are curious to see whether the Kazakhs also use this electron slingshot to kill their food.

We are just about to satisfy our ravenous appetites when Igor calls us on his cell phone and cancels. “Unfortunately, we can’t come. Work got in the way,” he apologizes. “Could be because you don’t want to drink cognac with them,” says Tanja. “Could be,” I agree with her.

We look forward to your comments!