Travel Story: lawrence bransby - russia
The next day, another early start and a long, hard twelve hours' riding - 400 miles - but such a joy. Even the long sections of dirt were enjoyable in a way - testing but seldom dangerous for Gareth and me on our big trailies. Sasha struggled somewhat on his road bike and on a number of occasions I thought he was about to crash, legs flailing, bike slewing this way and that when he hit a particularly large ridge of sand but, fortunately, he never went down. Probably about 60 miles of the 400-odd we did today were on dirt; it rained a little during the morning which at least helped settle the dust. As we made our way north, the trees became shorter and less thickly self-seeded, their growth stunted by the long, cold winters and weak summer sunlight; the Sevdvina River, alongside of which the road made its way north, was wide and shallow, the water level very low at that time of the year but still beautiful and slow-flowing. As we neared Archangel, we linked up with other motorcyclists along the way, many of whom we recognised from our camp in the field two nights before and who greeted us warmly. We passed Archangel, stopping to drink a toast of vodka from a motorcycle indicator lens, then on further north until we took a soft sandy track that led us onto the beach, the heavily laden bikes slithering and roaring and throwing up high rooster tails as we struggled through the sand to our camp, saded by a grove of low pine trees, the White Sea just 40 yards in front of us. Across a small bay, the smoke from Severodvinsk was visible in the distance. (We only realised later that we were camping in an area restricted to foreigners and were liable to arrest and a hefty fine - Severodvinsk is where the Russians build their nuclear submarines and, obviously, a rather sensitive place!)
It was 10pm before we had the tents up, the sun still well above the horizon where it seemed to hover while the earth turned slowly beneath it for hours of twilight at this high latitude - 64.5 degrees North, just south of the Arctic Circle at 66.6 - and, even though it was mid-Summer, the temperature dropped very quickly at night or when the wind blew. A driftwood fire had been lit, rock music was playing powered by a small generator, potatoes cooking in the massive cast-iron samovar which had been transported to the beach (with a more than ample stock of booze) in the back of a van.
News had come through that another two bikes had crashed on the way: Daniel and his wife Anastasia were evidently barged by a "red-neck" in a car; a few of the bikers decided to rough him up but, in the push and shove, trying to manoeuvre the offending car off the road by barging it with their bikes so they could get at him, two of the bikes crashed and Anastasia fractured her leg.
It had been a long, hard day and, with the noise of Russian voices all about, rock music beating into the night and the fire flickering in the darkness, I retired for the night filled with a sense of satisfaction that this was what we had come to Russia for. And it was so good that my son was sharing it with me.