It's one o'clock in the morning. Eight Russian bikers and two wives/girlfriends, Gareth and I fill every available space in Alexi's small apartment. His 17-year-old daughter sulks in the bedroom playing a TV game, resentful of this sudden invasion of her space. Three-litre plastic bottles of beer have appeared, as well as cognac - the drinking has begun. As if out of nowhere, Russian sausage, soft cheese, sliced tomatoes and bread are put on the table and roughly chopped with a wicked-looking sheath knife with a bone handle. A girl sitting pressed against me on the couch - early 20s, dark hair with a lock dyed red which hangs over her forehead - leans over me and with beery, sausage-laden breath murmurs huskily in my ear, "You're going to have a Russian experience." The warmth of her body against me and the intimate, beery way she spoke makes me wonder whether this Russian experience might involve things of a fleshly nature and whether they will blow my head off with a shotgun if I refuse. The other girl sits quietly, almost haughtily (she doesn't speak to us at all, I think because she has no English) and I realise she was the one I saw emerging from the outside sauna the previous night, her pert breasts braving the cold. Then a type of ravioli, a Russian favourite, is brought to the table and someone drenches it with sour cream. People lean forward and help themselves; a fork is pressed into my hand and voices encourage me to eat. I do and it is delicious. In the corner of the room, the TV continues to play some badly acted local soap, as it has done since we got here, part of the mutter of background noise. The talk, mostly in Russian, is about the ride that day, the accident. One bearded biker has a thick layer of sour cream spread on his sunburned nose - an effective remedy for wind and sunburn, they tell us. More beer is poured and then the bottle of cognac is cracked open. After a while, I quietly excuse myself and head for the bedroom. Two bikers lie in sleeping bags on the floor. Alexi's daughter still sits stoically at the computer, playing games, ignoring us. They have all insisted that Gareth and I sleep in the double bed ...
Editor's Factoid
Last year Lawrence Bransby, 60, and his son Gareth (with whom, at the age of 17, he completed a 3-month trip across Africa on old Yamaha XT500s in 1996) embarked on a 8,500 mile trip to Archangel and Murmansk in Russia. On the way they chanced upon some of the Russian Black Bears Motorcycle Club members on their way to the White Sea coast north of Archangel for their annual jolly and were invited to join them.
What followed was a memorable 4 days…
Their first night with the group was spent camping in a field about 18 miles east of Vologoda. The next finds them in Alexi’s apartment in the town of Kotlas where this article begins...