I don't know why we at least didn't bring a mosquito net. Back home before we set out, Libor had asked me if he should pack a tent. I said no. In the world of mosquito madness I would have given half of the world for it. I keep rationalizing that no one would have wanted to carry it and that it might have made us more visible than would be good for us. Who knows how it would have been.

    A week passed and we got across Balchaz, Hungry Steppe, Karagand, Astan and Kustanaj, along the so-called northern route to the Russian border. Our transit visa was good for five days to the exact date. We had to plan carefully in order to arrive at the border in time, but not too early. And it worked out. We arrived in the afternoon and around midnight were able, to the astonishment of the customs officers, enter Russia.




    That day we realized a strange and unusual thing for us. As we moved northward, the days grew longer and longer until suddenly it was 1 a.m. and we were speeding along with sunglasses on towards the setting sun. It was here that we finally realized something was amiss. But on the one hand it was good because the day was long and we had more time to ride, time for our journey being scant.

    Celjabinsk, Ufa, Samara, Penza, Voronez and Kursk - these cities still lay ahead of us. Some 2300 kilometers in five days wasn't a good score, but we believed we'd make it. After all, we were through the worst. The Steppes behind us, civilization within reach - or so we thought. There are many sayings applicable to our situation then. "Don't count your chickens before they're hatched" , "Look before you leap", "It's never so bad that it couldn't be worse" are a few that come to mind.

    The first day of riding in Russia was fine in all respects. All except that somewhere we had lost the antique auto atlas. Our motorcycles expressed their ailments regularly, but we were quite used it by now. And maybe it was this way because the weather had been good and we had forgotten to pray for it. Briefly put, it began to rain. In the beginning there were storms and showers that chased us away. The next day it turned to a steady downpour along with a drop in temperature. Everything soaked through, frozen joints, stiff muscles that we felt only due to the shivers that shook our bodies. Numb fingers wouldn't hold a wrench or screwdriver. Even occasional clutch gripping was a problem. Each kilometer was paid for heavily.

    On the fourth day we arrived in Lipjeck. The heavy rain continued and the city was one big river. It was the biggest flood in a long time. My Ural had begun, some kilometers still out of the city, to backfire and give out the hollow sound of incompletely burned fuel. It had swallowed a gulp of water. At first we rode at 40 km/h then 30, then 20, until we came to a complete stop. Then my bike sped up and immediately slowed again. It began to drive me crazy.

    We were soaked through, frozen and still a way out of the city. We dreamt of a dry bed, a sauna, a hot shower, tea with rum, good food and dry clothing. None of this we had and the blame we gave to the motorcycles and our own folly. I guess we were intended to take it all, when the Ural barely made walking pace in the flooded streets and those around us sped by, as if they were competing at who would cover us with the most water. We were at the edge of our strength physically as well as mentally. I don't know about Libor, but Blanka and I put on stone faces with hope that this agony must end sometime.

    I'm not surprised that at hotels they told us they had no vacancies, which in Russia outside of Moscow is quite strange. One look at us was enough to suddenly make the worst lodgings in town full. They sent us here, they sent us there, we felt like diseased sheep. Then one lady at the hotel Zvezda took mercy upon us. We were saved. Hot water, a dry bed - our dreams were being fulfilled. It was a shame that we only had one more day to make it. We felt like passing the rest of our wretched lives in that hotel. I truly don't know where we found the strength in the night to travel on. We were already considering taking a train that would carry us home in comfort, laughed and thought to ourselves ironically, "Perhaps the sun will come out tomorrow and all will be well". But inside we all knew how it would be. It was 350 km to the border and at a walking pace in the rain, that was impossible. Not in one day. And those fines for overextending our visa would ruin us!

    In the morning the sun was shining through scattered clouds and it had stopped raining! I still couldn't feel my skin and there was nowhere to pinch me. I wanted go back in and come out again. Nothing changed. We began to dance. A thin twig thrown to the drowning man. The motorcycle agreed to go a little further and so we set off. It's a sign, a sign that in the end it will work out, we cheered ourselves on. And it did. For two hours. Then it started to rain again and the old problems returned.

    It had been dark a long time when we reached the Ukrainian border. That we should really be cold was confirmed by the hail that had accosted us several times along our way. We arrived one hour after midnight. The Russians were hesitant for a while, but the Ukrainians behaved like true Slavs. One of them invited us for some bacon and a swig of brandy. For a moment were suspicious that in the mean time someone would clean out our sidecars or that once over the border they'd give us a breathalizer to get a hefty fine out of us. But actually, by now it was all the same to me. We were falling asleep standing up with exhaustion and with the feeling of having reached our goal, we didn't care anymore. The customs official even told us where we could sleep. Down in the village were a lot of abandoned houses and he told us to choose one and have a good sleep. That was exactly our plan. And my friend the motorcycle's also. Only he fell asleep before he should have. I couldn't wake him for the world. We used a rope and let Libor tow us to the 25 km distant village. The first abandoned barn was ours for the next twelve hours.

    The sun had begun to set in the sky when we woke up. Now I knew for certain that we would all get home even should we have to carry the motorcycles on our backs. We had plenty of time. Down in the village we created quite a stir, in which an old-timer with a lightbulb and wire worked on my half-dead motorcycle friend. It was long process, but fortunately successful in the end. Yes, when you say, "Ural", you always find a friendly motorcycle enthusiast/mechanic. Not only once were we, during such a social event, as motorcycle repair unquestionably is in Russia, invited to drinks and dinner afterward. In this historic village, Slavic generosity is still a certainty. Civilization is a good thing, but it often brings with it, next to technological progress, alienation. You know how it is.



    In Kiev a certain history and beauty suddenly becomes apparent. The atmosphere itself, as well as the people themselves, seem livlier. It is a pleasant change from run of the mill Russian cities. Blanka took us to a calm spot near Dnepr, which she knew from last year. Here we were supposed to recuperate. Wash our clothes, ourselves and have a good meal. Not to mention we'd been dreaming of soaking up some sunshine with our frozen bodies for a long while now. We'll be home soon and have to look at least half-way decent, so as not to embarass ourselves. This we realized from the strange looks we received from the local residents who had apparently no longer any appreciation for Ural motorcycles and cotton coats.



    At a leisurely pace we chewed through the final third of our journey. A part of the way we even transported our bikes in an Avia truck, when were loath to tempt the corrupt police and the strength of our motors, not to mention spending money on expensive gasoline. We crossed the border on our own however. This took all day, though, before the Ukraine customs officers let us through. It was torture after such a long journey to sit and see home just the other side of the customs house, even though we were only just at Slovakia, and not be able to get there like the rows of continuously forward-moving expensive cars.

    Fried cheese, delicious draft beer and smiles we gave out and received followed. One old lady was even taken back to her youth and saluted the German army which had just seemed to pass her. But it wouldn't have been a proper finale if we hadn't gotten soaked with rain, as usual. The Czech customs officers, in their surprise, completely forgot to check our technical licences and green vehicle cards, so hard-won on the Russian beaurocratic field of battle, and instead just walked around our hellish machines shaking their heads.

    And that was that. Riding gracefully, we arrived at our homes and in peace enjoyed all of their available comforts. Today we're already used to cell phones, computers, microwave ovens and all that civilization has developed. But, like others, we feel freer on the road.

    We had experienced one of our wildest adventures. We're glad to be home and happy as before. And next year we would like to travel the southern road in Kazachstan. "Why?", you may ask. Maybe because we still can.