Prishib , Astrakhanskaya to Volgograd (Again)

Near misses - 0
Mechanical issues - 1
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 153 miles
Total distance - 4679 miles

It was the morning of Friday the 15th of June and I was stuck in the semi-desert of Southern Russia with a non-running ZX7R. I'd had a reasonable sleep in Vitali's Son's bed and Vitali was now up and around fixing us a cup of tea.

Cast you minds back to the proposed onwards route (spanner is current location, onwards route in red);



This route was always going to be a bit of a stretch. I had (expensive, due to Euro 2012) accommodation booked in Kiev on the Sunday night, and a day trip to the Chernobyl exclusion zone booked on the Monday. There was no way I could alter those plans and so i'd taken the decision that if and when the bike was working, I would have to head to Kiev by the shortest route. Still no mean feat being some 935 miles and a border crossing away. This was a shame, as it would mean missing out on the dunes and camels, the buddist city of Elista, Crimea and the Black Sea, but I could hardly complain.



Vitali had found a Russian-English text translator via mobile internet and showed me the translation of a message; 'we can go get the candles from the shop'. I nodded in agreement but did not share his confidence, thinking the chances of being able to buy potentially unusual sized sparks plugs off the shelf was remote. I was also not convinced that the bikes problem could be explained fouled plugs, but had to respect the fact that he'd probably forgotten more than I knew about a lot of things.


After our tea, we wheeled the ZX7R back to the 'workshop', lifted off the tank etc. and removed the spark plugs. Vitali then gestured for me to get into a van with a tall thin guy who I reckoned was one of the two grim faced guys who'd started the fire in the bin in the workshop the evening before. I would climb into a fair few vehicles during the course of the day, and the procedure was usually similar; climb into vehicle, wind windows down as quickly as possible (all side windows have secondary mossies nets inside), fumugate the cabin to kills the few dozen mossies that managed to fly in when you opened the door and then pass the driver the screwdriver/pliers/whatever from the glove box so that they could perform whatever improvised starting procedure was required by that particular vehicle.

Every other shop in Russia is an auto parts shop, although the anonymous frontages can make some of them difficult to spot. Library picture of a shop in Prishib;






We drove to various shops in various villages trying to source the correct spark plugs. A quick google shows the population of the nearby village of Nikolsky to be around 5000, yet it can support at least three auto parts stores. They were interesting places, anything from a full set of model specific floor mats to a prop shaft could be bought straight off the shelves. As long as the parts were for a Lada.


The hunt proved fruitless and so we returned to the workshop to find Vitali blowing out the fuel lines. In absence of any other options, the bike was reassembled and started. It seemed to be running normally so I decided i'd ride it up and down the road to see how long before it cut out again. Sure enough it died after a few minutes, so I started to do a three point turn on the bike to head back to the workshop. To rule it out as a possible cause of the problems, I reached down and felt the fuel pump. The pump did not appear to be working and despite the bike only running for a few minutes, was hot enough to fry an egg on.

I limped the bike back to the workshop with this news, whereby Vitali put my multimeter on the pump ('sourcer' in Russian) and confirmed it was knackered. There wasn't a hope of sourcing a direct replacement around here, so a bodge would be required, even just a bodge to get me back as far as Volgograd where Viktor at custombike may be better placed to help. What followed was a series of attempted bodges, some of them inspired. Countless trips to auto stores and unsuccessful test rides would be made as well as a couple of visits to the adjacent restaurant for mashed potato and beef patty (I never did figure out who was paying for my meals in there, but it wasn't me and nobody wanted any money).


Repairing the existing pump was explored, but it was partly a welded construction, preventing any such repair.

Gravity feed was looked into, but the fuel was sitting too low for this to be practical

Next we purchased a brand new Lada sourcer (£40) along with some fuel lines ('schlanka') (£3) and grafted it onto the bike 'outboard'. It turned out the pressure of the new pump was waaay higher than required and when the ignition was switched on, the bike leak fuel out of every orifice.

Next several different ways of bleeding pressure away from the carbs were explored, Vitali described a kind of partially recirculating system but we couldn't find any of the auto stores selling the necessary T-pieces to make it work.

Vitali also had an idea of connecting the Lada pump to the breather pipe, but the metalwork required under the petrol cap made this a non-starter.


All of these ideas were explained and discussed easily, despite neither of us having any common language. Mime was the order of the day although its seems bodge artists brains the world over work in much the same way, often one of us would start to suggest an idea and the other would understand immediately.



By mid-afternoon, we were out of ideas. Vitali told me to go with one of the guys who was nearby for a rest and he would ring when he had an idea. I got into the blokes battered VW Golf with him, an unusual car around these parts, but normal service was resumed inside when he reached over for the pliers in order to turn the snapped off key in the ignition.

This guy appeared to be in his late teens and also lived in Prisib. We arrived at what I assumed was his house, the exterior was a fairly standard ramshackle affair, but the interior was quite different. A marble floored entrance area lead to a huge living room, decorated in creams and golds, with liberal amounts of ornate cornicing and expensive looking solid wood furniture. My host put the TV on an english speaking channel and promptly fell asleep. A period of hours elapsed and I was starting to worry. I was being shown tremendous kindness but I really wanted to get the bike fixed and let these people get on with their lives.

Some time in the evening a phone call came and I was ushered back into the Golf. We drove through the village and bounced along the unsurfaced road back towards the M6. As we got close the driver of the Golf pointed and said 'Vitali!'. I looked to see Vitali howling past helmetless on the ZX7R, an awesome sight.

Vitali pulled over next to the now parked Golf, visibly shaking and muttering to himself in Russian. He had a look of disbelief on his face and whilst shaking his head and blessing himself repeatedly he handed the bike back to me saying 'rroboto, rroboto' (working).

He later mimed he'd taken it up to 9000RPM in top gear (130MPH or so), which on that road, would have meant the wheels would have touched the ground, oooooh, every 30 yards or so.


Whilst I was looking the bike over, he pushed a small white object at me and was explaining excitedly how he had got inside the original fuel pump and insulated the coils with this white stuff. I laughed when I saw what he was thrusting at me, it was a few cloves of garlic! He'd used the thin skin as an insulator and the pump now appeared to be working perfectly. He said something along the lines of 'I know in my heart this will get you back to Volgograd' and shook my hand a few times.

I settled up with Vitali as best I could, giving him most of the money I had on me (unfortunately only about £30) and the lightly used Lada fuel pump. It wasn't nearly enough considering the time he had given, but he seemed happy enough. He suggested that I wait until the following day before attempting the ride back to Volgograd, as it was now 7.00pm. I told him I would prefer to leave immediately even though it would mean hitting the shockingly bad roads of Volgograd after dark. I didn't want to impose myself any longer and I really didn't fancy the 3 hour trip in the heat of the day with a bodged pump. The plan would be to head straight to the Flamingo Motel where I had stayed a couple of nights earlier and then ring Viktor at custombike the following morning.

My belongings were by now spread throughout a fair few buildings and dwellings in and around Prisib so it took a little while to round everything up, there was also a lot of goodbyes and thank yous to say. I popped into the restaurant to buy some water and was given water and snacks free of charge. I returned the flip flops I had borrowed from one of the guys, stuck my bike boots back on and got suited up.


It seemed this interlude was at an end and it was with mixed feelings that I bid fairwell to the people of Prishib. It was a very lonely moment when the bike had first coasted to a stop just a few miles up the road, but it was an equally lonely moment leaving the security of Prishib and heading off across the semi-desert on a bike with a garlic infused fuel pump.


Myself, Vitali and Vitali's Daughter moments before I departed. Taken behind Vitali's house by Vitali's Son;




I left Vitali and his kids with a wave and a few bips of the horn and headed back out onto the M6. I had my 10-ish litres of 'okay' unleaded that Vitali had put in the evening before and I had programmed the satnav with the location of a decent petrol station 50 miles away. It was what would on any previous day have been a short 137 mile jaunt back to Volgograd, but obviously this evening things were a bit iffier.


I reckoned I had a reasonable chance of finding help in Volgograd, I could head to the Flamingo Motel where I knew there was an english speaker, I had Yuri and the Hotel Europa as back up. Failing both of those I had the mobile number of Tvor's (guy who flagged me down in traffic to give me money) Armenian friend. I also had the number of Viktor at custombike, who I knew was familiar with Japanese bikes.

The bike ran okay for the first few miles before dropping onto three cylinders, then two cylinders, then zero cylinders. Bugger. I'd covered all of 12 miles. I couldn't really turn back to Vitali now, but I had barely started the journey. Even if the bike started after being left to cool for ten minutes, and then ran for another 12 miles, it was going to take me 5 hours to get to Volgograd with the last three hours being covered in darkness.

I waited a few minutes, started the bike easily enough and set off once again. The bike was running a bit rough but seemed happy enough at around 70mph in top gear. I held the throttle as steady as I could and kept an eye on the elapsed distance, every mile that clicked over was reassuring. The 12 mile personal best came and went, and I relaxed and stopped watching once 30 miles had been clocked up.

The planned fuel stop came and went without incident, but as I reached the satellite towns of Volgograd the bike started making some horrendous noises and became increasing vibey. I suspected it was the headers working loose again, but as it was now dark and the bike was otherwise okay, I didn't want to chance stopping. I arrived noisily at the Flamingo Motel at 11pm, booked myself in, bought a few s in reception and fired up the laptop to read everything there was to read on the internet about fuel pumps

Day 15, June 17th - Volgograd to Venyov

Near misses - 2
Mechanical issues - 1
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 530 miles
Total distance - 5209 miles

Today began with a phonecall (actually a skype call through my laptop) to Viktor at custombike to try an arrange a replacement fuel pump. It had also dawned on me that my Visa ran out the following day. I now cursed not applying for the Visa for the longest possible time, there is no requirement to stay in the country until the visa has expired, but you absolutely cannot overstay. This was another very good reason why an effective repair had to be performed today and the earlier the better.

It was Saturday morning, but I hoped custombike would be open. I got through to Viktor and explained I had a fuel pump problem, he realised who I was immediately. He informed that he did indeed have pumps in stock but today was a 'holiday', the shop would be open again tomorrow. Bugger. I told him of my Visa issue and after a bit of 'dak dak dak' (i think this is Russian for errrrm) he said he would meet me there in 20 minutes. What a hero

Whilst waiting for Viktor at the shop, a couple in their thirties arrived in a car and started erecting some kind of rickety wooden platform outside the shop. The man introduced himself as Andrei and he rode a CBR1000RR. He fetched his laptop from the car and showed me his profile on vk.com (Russia Facebook, basically) whilst his better half mixed up some gobbo and then started plastering around the upstairs window of the bike shop. I laughed at this sight and whilst he was aware that this would be amusing to a foreigner told me that 'in Russia, men and women, same'. It wasn't the first time i'd had that explained to me, but it was the funniest.

When Viktor arrive in his Lada Samara, he set to work testing the pump and confirmed it was working normally. I had difficulty explaining what repair had been performed on the pump as he did not recognise the word garlic, but he replaced the pump with one from a ZZR400 upon request. While I was watching laptop videos of Andrei playing guitar heavily stoned, Viktor tightened the header pipes (5 of 8 studs could be spun by fingers) and Andrei's partner finished plastering around the upstairs window.

I settled up with Viktor (£120 IIRC), checked with him that the sat nav was sending me the correct way to Kiev and set off around 1pm. Due to the poor quality of many Russian roads, the fastest route to a destination can be fairly indirect. In this case I was going to be riding north up the M6 to within 100 miles of Moscow, before switching onto another federal highway to make it south west to Kiev. This would be a 985 mile trip, of which the first 500+ miles would be on the same M6 that i'd traveled down four days earlier. This was a disappointment as its not exactly an interesting road the first time around, so no need to see it in reverse.




Thankfully (sort of) Mother Nature had a treat in store for me and a magnificent storm started to brew.





For a few minutes after it started to lash it down, I sheltered at a petrol station to make sure I was as waterproof as I could be and then set off. This was the first rain i'd come across in Russia and it became clear that their roads provided sod all grip when wet. It seems the water just sits on the surface of the road; I went from one aquaplane to another and the big toe of each foot started to become painful due to the jets of water leaving the front wheel. Wheelspin, wheelspin, bar-waggle, wheelspin, foot knocked off peg, wheelspin, rinse and repeat. Not the most pleasant few hundred miles of riding, but I can't say it was boring.


By 11pm the rain had long since stopped, I was around 100 miles south of Moscow and was looking to park up for the night. It was pitch black now, the main road was okay-ish, but still threw in the odd curveball here and there such as the old sudden drop onto the substrate routine. I wanted to check the map so indicated to pull over, slowing from around 70mph. Checking my mirror, I could see the car behind was not slowing, nor moving to overtake, but simply closing the gap.

In what turned out to be a terrible decision, I elected to avoid being shunted or delayed by pulling over onto the thin hard shoulder at around 50mph. There looked to be a bit of a drop onto the shoulder, but that tended to be the case in these parts. I pulled in with my mind comfortably focused on getting a good night's kip when my trousers turned seven different shades of brown. My heavy eyelids had confused 'hard shoulder' with 'surprisingly ****ing deep gravel' and the rather unexpected loss of traction was almost as surprising as the sound of a thousand russian pebbles peppering the radiator. I can only imagine what the driver of the following car thought when his headlights caught the sight of a big silver bike ploughing through the gravel, leaning back towards the road as the side of the front wheel grazed along the 4 inch step up to the carriageway. Seconds later I was sat on the bike, stationary. Exhaling.

It was definitely time to park up for the night. The map showed that if I turned off the main road there was a hotel in a town around 12 miles East, the added benefit to taking this 'detour' was it would cut around 30 miles of the journey to Kiev. Bonus. I expected this shortcut to involve a stretch of tarmac a monster truck would struggle with, but being a back road I figured there would be plenty of camping opportunities; I could simply pitch my tent and regroup in the light of day.

I passed through tiny, sleepy villages, some teenagers were boozing on a flatbed, a dog ran out, all very twee. The windy, well surfaced road made me feel at home, it could have been any back road in Lincolnshire. Then, a steady 50mph I hit the biggest mother effer of a pot hole in all of Russia. I disappeared from view momentarily, before re-emerging head bearings destroyed, fork seals finished off, bike vertical, engine at the red line, catching some sick air. As I looked down on the road far below I considered going for a 'heel clicker' but opted instead to land sideways with the bars crossed up.

Its a cliche, but i've absolutely no idea how I stayed on the bike. Nearly stacking it twice in 20 minutes brings home where you are and what you are doing. Again I will express my disbelief at the size of Russia pot holes, how do they get so big?

Not a moment too soon I arrived in the small town of Venyov; allegedly there was a hotel of some description at the cross roads. Being midnight on a Saturday, the shadows were alive with the sounds of laughter and breaking glass. I passed by the scenes of merriment, parked the bike at the lifeless, street light-less cross-roads and had a wander around in the hope of discovering which one of the unlit, anonymous buildings was the 'hotel'. With no obvious clues, I made use of Russia's finest resource, the good nature of its people. I spotted an elderly woman hobbling along the footpath - now in England, i'd have to be careful not to frighten such a lady at this hour of the night, but in Russia, there are no such issues - and asked her of the whereabouts of the hotel by saying 'oteli' and doing the palms together for a pillow thing.

She responded with what sounded like an incredibly complex set of instructions, which if followed to the letter, would result in access to some accommodation. Seeing I did not have a clue, she beckoned me and I dutifully followed her around the back of a building, through a gap in a fence into a pitch black garden and up to an imposing door. She rattled the knocker and after a minute or so a kindly looking lady with gold teeth answered.

The elderly lady presumably told the proprietor that I needed a room. When the response came I didn't need to have much Russian to understand the phrase for 'Russian Passports only'. Herself and my elderly assistant then had a bit of a debate, the crux of the issue seemed to be that the gold-toothed hotelier couldn't be bothered to file the paperwork associated with taking a foreign guest. The elderly woman had my back though, she countered with what seemed to be double-headed argument; i) it was late ii) this is the only accommodation for miles. Goldie teeth had to concede that this evidence was compelling and welcomed me in. A well appointed room with lounge area cost me the princely sum £8 for the night and was lovely.

Day 16, June 18th - Venyov to Kiev

Near misses - 1
Mechanical issues - 0
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 484 miles
Total distance - 5693 miles


I awoke from my last night in Russia, i'd only experienced it for 8 days, but had loved it. I hadn't bothered unloading my bike the night before as this was purely a pit stop. This meant i couldn't wash, but I wasn't expecting to have to impress anybody with my cleanliness. I had ran the Almax through the back wheel last night to secure the Almax more than anything;





I wasn't sure what the border crossing from Russia to Ukraine was like, and i'd read that progress on Ukrainian roads could be slow. Partly for these reasons I wanted to hit the road early, although mainly because I was also hoping to get to Kiev early enough to get out on the lash.

The directions for the day were easy enough, get on the M2, the E95, done. Somehow while passing through the town of Tula however, I got lost. I did circuits around the town centre for an hour or so, and when passing over what would be my final Russian 'level' crossing, smashed the belly pan of the ZX7R.

All things being considered it could have been worse, it was only a last second bit off acceleration that prevented the bike getting beached on the tracks. On the downside, the broken bit of fairing was one of the anchor points, so now the left hand side of the fairing was just hanging by, er, the other mounting points presumably.



Other than that hiccup, the journey out of Russia was relatively uneventful. I saw plenty of these type of houses between Moscow and the Ukrainian border;





This isn't a great photo, but sums up what a lot of ordinary Russia looks like. An old guy selling produce from an old Russian car, endless so-so surfaced, straight road, Ladas, trucks, trees.



As I approached the Ukrainian border there were many people popping out from behind bushes and holding up signs as a vehicle passed. Thinking they might be selling currency, I stopped and inquired. They were selling (presumably illegal) vehicles documents for ten euros, although I was unable to establish whether it was a log book or an import certificate. Either way, it makes a bit of a mockery of all the form filling at the border posts.

The Russian border crossing itself was straightforward enough, I filtered past the long queue of cars (this is standard practice for motorcycles it seems) and entered the compound. There a slight holdup when a truck crashed into a beemer, but once at the border post I was invited by an official into the guard room for a while. It was unclear what the purpose of this was, but it was most amusing to see Russia's finest wisecracking in the office and swapping what seemed to be tales of drunkeness.

On the Ukrainian side a guard seemed unsure whether my vehicle insurance was valid, but was friendly enough and spoke reasonable english. He filled my immigration card in for me as a 'gift from the Ukraine', then 'jokingly' asked for a gift from me. I laughed at his excellent 'joke' and took the form.

I accelerated into the Ukraine for a few hundred metres, past a long queue of stationary lorries before performing an emergency stop to buy currency off an old lady. I didn't have a clue what the exchange rate was, but assumed that if I acted with extreme confidence and said nothing, she wouldn't rip me off (I googled the exchange rate later and found out i'd done very well!).

At a fuel stop, I made a mistake. Due to having the same 'system' as Russia, paying for petrol involves putting nozzle into the tank and then going to pay before filling up. I had gotten into the habit of removing the key from the tank cap when doing this. In hindsight, this was asking for trouble. I filled up, went and got my change and set off onto the motorway, quickly getting up to about 90mph.

I felt the familiar cool sensation from the now full tank on the inside of my thighs, reassuring, I had enough fuel now to reach Kiev. The I felt the cool sensation spread to my groin, then the cool sensation became a burning sensation. I looked down to see the tank-cap flapping in the breeze and 95 octane flowing generously onto my now irritated scrotum. Looks like I forgot to lock the tank then. I veered into another petrol station, braking heavily and killing the engine as I did. I got the bike on the sidestand, grabbed my water and ran away lest the fuel ignited causing more widespread pain than that of a burning scrotum. I turned my back to the bloke paying for fuel at the kiosk window and did my best to wash the fuel off. I presumed and hoped the bloke would assume I was just having an erratic widdle on the forecourt.

This is the Ukraine, I stopped here to collect some soil for my friends Ukrainian Grandfather;




I was misinformed about the Ukraine, I was told the roads would be crap and crawling with police, but this was not the case. I didn't have sat nav maps for the Ukraine, so was going to find the hotel by the GPS coordinate. According to the coordinates the wife had text me, it was in the middle of the Dniepr. I assumed this to be a mistake, but no, it turned out my hotel, was actually a bo-tel;




Nice view from the bar though, rowers on the Dnieper;



After Russia, Kiev was very much back to civilisation. Skyping the Wife in the hotel bar;



I didn't make it out on the lash in the end, just had a quiet few s and some food in the hotel instead. I though I spotted a nice steak on menu for £7, until I did my sums and realised it was £70! I managed to combine two light bite type things into what was essentially sausage and chip which totaled around £15, not cheap for Kiev.

Secure bike parking was something I was concerned about in Kiev, but a word with the security guards was all that was needed, I could park my bike in front of their 24/7 manned hut where they'd keep an eye on it. The main reason for coming to Kiev was not for the Euro 2012 championships, but to visit Priyat, in the Chernobyl exclusion zone. This was something i'd wanted to do for a long time, so I double checked the location of the rendezvous point while kicking back in the bar.

Day 17, June 19th - Kiev and Pripyat, day off

Near misses - 0, well a bit of radiation
Mechanical issues - 0
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 0 miles
Total distance - 5693 miles


Today would be exciting and the excitement started sooner than I expected. I arrived at the RDV point dressed appropriately for the trip (thick clothes, long sleeves etc.) but inappropriately for the weather (hot) to realise I had left my passport at the hotel. A passport is essential for access to the zone, so it was a case of catching the metro back to the hotel, a five minute run to the hotel, five minute run back from the hotel and then back on the rush hour metro where some lucky girl got my now incredibly sweaty pit in her face.

There were 12 of us on the trip, myself, an American (who managed to be later than me) and 10 (very polite) Swedish football fans. We were driven two hours by minbus to the 30km exclusion zone where we were met by the guide, a young, slightly zany lady called Yulia. From there we drove to the 10km exclusion zone where there is another border post. Once inside the 10km zone, stuff starts to get real.

Pripyat, founded in 1970, declared a city in 1979, abandoned in 1986


Here's what caused the problems. Underneath that crumbling sarcophagus is whats left of reactor 4





Pripyat bus station;

Inside;


Route map on the wall;


Somebody left their shoe in a locker;


This building was next to the reactor 4 sarcophagus. I don't know what it is, but we were told not to photograph it. Note the soldiers, there were a fair few of those in the exclusion zone. Its not all abandoned, there is a special train service which runs exclusively for those who work within the zone.


Gynecology chair outside the abandoned hospital;


Before and after shot; the photo was taken in 1985;


Chernobyl town, inside the exclusion zone. This was where we had lunch, it has a permanent population of around 5000;


In the stream by the power plant, into which the cooling water was discharged, are huge cat fish, over 2m long. Their size could be due to the irradiated water, or it could be down to the fact that a minibus load of tourists feed them loaves of bread every day. We threw half of a very big bloomer in to see what would happen. A shoal of little cat fish started to nibble at it, before a big lad rose from the depths like a surfacing submarine and swallowed it whole. Rubbish photo;






Here's Yulia, I think that's the supermarket in the background


That's the minibus driver ruining this photo;


Here's the fairground, this was where we saw the highest radiation, 20 microSV/h;








I saw this old record lying on the ground, last listened to on or before the evacuation of the 26th of April 1986;


It turns out its a compilation of fairly cheesy songs for women. Here's track three, 'Clouds in the River' by Igor Ivanov. Its like hearing sounds that have been trapped for 26 years. A bit.










The door to the theatre;

Day 17 continued, June 19th - Kiev and Pripyat, day off

Near misses - 0, well a bit of radiation
Mechanical issues - 0
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 0 miles
Total distance - 5693 miles

Here's the town's stadium. It had just been completed when the town was evacuated so no events were ever held here.






Sad room;




Nature is very much reclaiming the city






The moss absorbs radiation like a sponge and gives significantly higher readings that the surrounding concrete




A portrait of John Cleese




The supermarket has seen better days




Here's a monument to the firefighters who gave their lives trying to extinguish the fire in the reactor and prevent further explosions. Its situated in Chernobyl town



Also in Chernobyl, is a memorial which features the names of Ukrainian and Belorussian villages that had to be abandoned.



On the way back out of the 10km exclusion zone and the 30km exclusion zone, everybody needs to pass through these archaic looking scanners. We were all declared 'clean', although I strongly suspected the scanners didn't work

Day 17 continued, June 19th - Kiev and Pripyat, day off

Near misses - 0
Mechanical issues - 0
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 0 miles
Total distance - 5693 miles

The trip to Pripyat was very much worthwhile. It cost £150, which whilst a bit steep for a day trip, is worth paying for what is a very interesting and more or less a unique experience. The guide was knowledgeable; the story of the meltdown and the immediate aftermath gives an insight into politics behind the iron curtain. The attempt to cover up the implications of the explosion undoubtedly harmed the health of many.

The evacuation did not begin until 36 hours after the explosion, until that time the residents had gone about their business as usual. On the night of the explosion, many had congregated on a bridge (now dubbed 'the bridge of death') to observe the spectacular rainbow flames coming from the burning reactor. When the city was evacuated the residents were told the evacuation only be for three days, so they should bring only essential items. This was a lie, most possessions including family pets were left behind, they would never return to their homes.

There is plenty of photos of Pripyat (much better than my badly taken mobile phone pictures) so there's little point me adding all of mine here. Also, my photos are less interesting than many for two reasons; 1) it was June when I visited, the vegetation makes the place far less bleak and obscures many buildings from view 2) tourists are no longer permitted to enter buildings. If you are planning to visit, I would recommend going when the leaves are not on the trees.


The minibus dropped us back in the centre of Kiev at around 6.00pm. As Euro 2012 was on, there was a large (and extremely loud) FanZone in the centre of the city where I would return after nipping back to the hotel to change. Kiev has a very cheap and efficient Metro system, its 17p for a journey regardless of the destination, although you may have to rub up against irradiated tourists.


After a change of garb at the Bo-tel, rang the Wife to arrange my return to the UK. This would be my last night of the 'holiday', with the journey from Kiev to Lincoln being a necessary evil. A ticket was booked on the Hoek Van Holland to Harwich ferry which left HVH at 9.00pm two days later. I hadn't really worked out how long it would take me to get to the ferry port, but two days sounded enough to cover the 1400 miles.

I returned to the FanZone as quickly as I could and proceeded to get super drunk on lager whilst watching the Ireland Italy game.




The crowd consisted of mainly Ukrainians as Ireland and Italy were actually playing in Poland. I got talking to a fair few fans and got to appreciate how different their views were on certain subjects; racism for example. After a few minutes of talking to one guy who seemed a fairly enlightened soul, he casually asked 'so, what do you think to racism? Is a good thing, or a bad thing, what's the story?' I gave him my relatively liberal view and he listened intently while pulling occasional facial expressions which suggested that my views were both interesting and novel to him.

All of the Ukrainian football fans asked about football hooliganism when they learned I was from England. They seemed to know plenty about the scene, down to the clothing labels worn by various firms. These peculiarities aside, a very pleasant time was had by all.

After the game I caught the Metro back towards my hotel to an area I had earlier noticed had a high density of bars. It was a strange area, I was fairly drunk by this stage but as I remember it, it was a kind of closed down fun fair place with the only light coming from neon signs. Beer was sold from 'bars' that had no indoor area, a bit like buying from a burger van. Whilst everything looked fairly ropey, as in the Russian cities, I felt very safe wandering around Kiev alone, much safer than in many english cities. I wandered back the hotel around 2am nicely oiled, it had been a successful day.

Day 18, June 20th - Kiev to Rzeszow, Poland

Near misses - 0
Mechanical issues - 0
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 530 miles
Total distance - 6223 miles

With the last major sight of the trip seen and all body parts still intact, it was just a case of bringing it on home. To stand a good chance of making the ferry (which now seemed needlessly difficult to reach in time) I needed to get into Poland on today. This would leave me with a clean, border-crossing-less journey to the ferry terminal the following day. After the first late night of the trip I didn't get up until 11.30am and despite spending the previous 9.5 hours in bed, felt knackered. After slowly loading up the bike and struggling to find my way out of Kiev due to heavy traffic and lack of mapping, it was 1.30pm before I was properly on the road.

This day passed largely without incident, even the border crossing was painless. I would have expected the EU to be tricky to access from the Ukraine, but this was not the case. I entered Poland at 8pm and traveled west until dark, whereupon I sought refuge in a guest house on the outskirts of Rzeszow, south east Poland. I'd covered 530 miles and had been yawning all day but for £30 I enjoyed the finest accommodation of the trip, the guesthouse being extremely well appointed.

It was 10.15pm when I was shown my room and expecting an early departure in the morning, I didn't bother going back downstairs to unpack anything from the bike. According to the sat nav, it was 14.5 hours to cover the 950 miles to the Hook of Holland, I needed to be there by 8.30pm at the absolute latest, which accounting for the time difference (if there was one) meant I had to set off at, er, not sure. I set my alarm for 5.10am, climbed into bed without brushing my teeth or anything else and hoped for the best


Only two photos from this day;

A MIG something or other over a roundabout in the Ukraine;





The sun setting as I head towards Rzeszow, Poland. I took this purely so I had a photo taken in Poland;

Day 19, June 21th - Rzeszow, Poland to the Hook of Holland

Near misses - 1
Mechanical issues - 0
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 1003 miles
Total distance - 7226 miles

Day 19 Rzeszow to the ferry at the Hook of Holland


My alarm went off as planned at 5.10am and after an initial moment of wondering where I was and what was happening, I was down the stairs, on my bike and back on the road for 5.15am.

Sportbikes don't make ideal touring bikes, but one thing they are good at doing where conditions allow, is covering distance quickly. I always make sure to fill up with fuel the night before so I start the day with a full tank; there's something pleasing about chalking up 150 miles before you've fully woken up. I had confidence in the ZZR400 fuel pump by now, so didn't mind giving it big licks on the lightly trafficked motorway.

Luckily the weather was fine all day, as it would have been a miserable day in the saddle otherwise. The speed limit on Polish motorways is a generous 140kph, so the surrounding traffic tended to be moving at a reasonable pace. The day consisted of ride, ride, ride, peel into a service station, emergency stop at the pumps, fill up, stuff a king sized snickers and some water into my face, accelerate the hell out of there again. I liked to think that these were F1 style pit stops and enjoyed doing them as quickly as possible, my personal best came relatively early in the day when no queue in the shop allowed the perfect pit stop. Aside from standing still whilst filling up, I didn't actually stop walking/riding at any point. So proud.

I made two errors on this day;

1) Keen to push on and still 400+ miles from my destination I fell asleep momentarily in the outside lane of the motorway. I pulled over as soon as I could and without getting off the bike, I leaned it onto the sidestand, put my helmeted head on the tank bag and fell asleep immediately. I am not an day time sleeper, so I must have been shattered to drop off that quickly next to a busy motorway.

After the power nap I was back on the road, feeling refreshed.


2) At 7.30pm I traveled westward on a narrow peninsula and arrived at the ferry terminal. It was sailing at 9.00pm, so either my clock was wrong, or nobody else was catching the same ferry as the place was dead. I walked into an office of some kind to ask about the ferry and the 'ut oh' I got from the dutch member of staff did not fill me with confidence. It seemed I'd arrived at the freight terminal, not the passenger one which was 2kms away, slightly embarrassing, but no biggie.

Unfortunately, it was 2kms as the crow flies and happened to be on the other side of an estuary. Being on a non-flying motorcycle I would have to go by road which was a cool 25km back to the nearest tunnel that passed under the estuary separating me from the passenger ferry terminal. So an unexpected 50km round trip, but with an hour to do it in. However, with it likely being the last bit of moderate excitement of the trip I decided to cover the 50km is as short a time as possible, overtaking, undertaking and lane splitting all the way there. Enter the winners circle!




I made it to my cabin on the correct ferry at 8.05pm and took the photo below. I had covered 1003 miles since 5.15 that morning, 530 miles the day before and having not washed since Kiev my face was stained with 1533 miles worth of Ukrainian, Polish, German and Dutch road grime.

It had been an amazing trip, I was still in one piece, so I treated myself to a nice few s in the ship's bar. In the bar I browsed through the photos on my phone, the shots taken in Norway on day two seemed a lifetime ago. Content, I got gently sloshed whilst enjoying the memories. I'd do it again tomorrow

Day 20, June 22nd - Harwich to Lincoln

Near misses - 0
Mechanical issues - 0
Crashes - 0
Distance covered - 170 miles
Total distance - 7396 miles

Back in Blightly it was drizzling and the roads were narrow and busy. The 170 miles stone's throw to Lincoln passed without incident.

Here's my bike before the trip, In its 12 year life prior to the trip it had covered 21500 miles, but it was just about to add 7400 miles to that in 20 days.




Here it is just after the trip, not too bad considering it had been dropped twice, ploughed into gravel and railway lines, been airborne off potholes, seen snow, steppes, desert, city mayhem and lots of rain.




It seems that the indicator lens cracked (and repaired) in Sweden on day one didn't make it home. Photographic evidence shows it was last seen on the bike at Vitali's house in Prishib, Southern Russia, 2000+ miles back. I'll probably not be seeing that again then

Nice write up, thanks for pending the time to share your adventure.

JC

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A big boy did it and ran away.

That is an outstanding report! Well done. I haven't been further than Western Europe myself but hope to do something similar some day. Just wondering, as a family man myself, how did the wife feel about you going?

We don't have kids so I think she just had a great time! I'll ask her to be sure

What a great write up. Thanks for sharing it with us, I really enjoyed reading it

Hello, dear lloyd_christmas.

Here is i found some nice moments. That's great:

1st. Irish pub - there's one everywhere.

2nd. ...I browsed through the photos on my phone, the shots taken in Norway on day two seemed a lifetime ago.

How said is deeply, and reflect entire report, indeed.

You had a good & dense, intensive adventure. Please, take my congrats. Your report is very well, of course. Thankee.

Sorry, maybe, i have mistake and you already told about it? Tell me, please. What is your weight and height? If it does not a secret. I mean, what's can you say about feelings from a long trip with ZX-7R. Is it comfortable? Exactly for your human body, directly.

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The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain.

I found I got cramp in my legs most days after around 3-4 hours of riding. I just extended my legs out to the side for a few minutes whilst moving. Looks funny but gets rid of the cramp! I had no other problems.

I'm 1.85m and 83kg.