Monday morning I arrived at the office of Dong Chun Ferry, Ltd and right away we got to work getting the bike released from customs. I handed over several documents for copying, and was kindly given access to a computer with a fast internet connection. After about an hour, I was handed over to the tender mercies of the Top Gun Kelly McGillis lookalike Katia, who would assist (in a big way) the process of getting insurance and temporary vehicle importation papers. Across town we filled in forms, waited, filled in forms, waited….eventually handing over cash and in exchange receiving the documents that would make it possible to ride legally in Russia. Back at customs, more cash was handed over for bike storage, and after a brief search around the expansive customs yard, I was reunited with my grimy steed.
I paid Katia the agent fee (money very well spent), she said Good Luck, and I was with my bike, with t-shirt and shorts, sandals, helmet and gloves. Not the best riding gear for frantic inner city traffic, but eventually I found my way back to the Moryak in one piece.
Mid-morning the next day, I lit out for the 1800-mile flog to Chita. Fresh fruit was cheap and cheerful at roadside stands, and delicious meat-filled rolls helped keep my energy and spirits up. The road was every sort of pavement imaginable, with some sections of bone-jarring hardpacked dirt riddled with softball-sized holes. I rode well into evening, with daylight lasting until well-after 8PM, and eventually started looking for a place to camp for the night.
My first choice was to explore a road that lead down from the built-up surface of the highway. Right away I realized that this was a mistake as the bike started slipping on the mud and grass of the bottomlands. I was able to get the bike turned around, but getting back up the slippery slope to the road had me dumping the bike. No damage done, but the practical matter of having zero traction had me wondering how I would get back to the tarmac. During these thoughts, the mosquitoes noticed there was a fresh blood supply available and cruised in for the feast. Most were kept at bay by my riding gear, but some were able to find the chinks at get their evening’s meal. While the mosquitoes sang in their thousands I unloaded the bike and walked it up the muddy slope, carefully playing the clutch and throttle, smelling gasoline and wondering how much I’d lost during my spill.
Eventually I was back on the road, with a new camping mantra: When searching for rough camping in eastern Russia, never go downhill from the road, but seek high ground. The next search yielded much sweeter fruit:
The next day started out through fog.
In Khabarovsk, I stopped for gas and refreshment and started chatting with a man who was re-mortaring the steps to the gas station. (We chatted in as much as two people can chat who know only a few words of each other’s language.) A few minutes two more helpful folks joined our party, and eventually I was given directions on how to get on the Amur highway out of the city.
Not all paved roads are the same. On the road to Chita were hundreds of miles of new, bowling-alley smooth tarmac, followed by hundreds of miles of road buckled and potholed by seasons of harsh Siberian freeze-thaw cycles. There are still a few dozens of miles of unpaved sections, sporting a surface swiss-cheesed with divots just large and deep enough to hold a softball. Avoiding them is impossible, so all you can do is try to pick the cleanest line possible, knowing that a bone-jarring ride is in store at any speed.
During a rest stop, a boxy Lada pulled in, and out stepped two guys and a lady, the guys packing semi-auto pistolas. They identified themselves as detectives and started in with the hard questions:
“What is your name?” “Where are you from?”
“Want some lunch?” Can we sit on your motorcycle?” We exchanged souvenirs: I received a box of matches and two 10-rouble notes, all signed by them; they received US$1 bills, signed by yours truly.)
Wild campsites were plentiful. This one was next to a babbling stream.
After 4 nights of camping since Vladik, I overnighted at the Panama City Hotel in Chita for a proper hot shower and internet connection. The hotel was easy to find because it’s the only sign that isn’t in Cyrillic.
On the highway I hit my oil-change interval, so I bought (and paid dearly for) synthetic 10w-40 oil, and changed the oil at a rest area. I also cleaned and oiled the drive chain.
At Ulan Ude, I stopped at the main square for a rest in the shade, and a photo of your chauffeur under the largest head of Lenin in existence(!)
One more day of ride-eat-sleep, and I eventually made it to the shores of Lake Baikal.
From Babushkin I skirted around the southern shores of the lake, and later the mountains offered up the first fine twisty roads since Korea. I had to carve with care: Russian drivers will pass on blind hills and corners!
From Baikal I would backtrack to Ulan Ude, then head south toward Mongolia.
random adv inmate following your trip. best wishes and stay safe!