grolyat
Active Member
Staffordshire, UK to Kaliningrad, Russia – Summer 2013
I'd spent four exhausting days in the Ukraine, but the soldier at the border to Poland was adamant - I couldn't cross here on a bicycle. He circled another checkpoint on my map, the only one where pedestrians and bicycles were allowed, and helpfully worked out that it was a mere 210 kilometres away (more than 120 miles) in completely the wrong direction. I tried to explain, with the map and helpless gestures, that I was spending my summer holiday trying to cycle to Russia, meandering through as many countries as possible, but he was unmoved.
The Ukraine had been the toughest country so far. The city of L’Viv had seemed prosperous, judging by the expensive cars in the huge traffic-jams, but out in the countryside I'd been shocked by the ramshackle villages, the appalling road surfaces and the apparent lack of modern industry and agriculture. Men were working in fields with scythes and pitchforks; women were selling things at the roadside, often just a couple of pairs of shoes or a bowl of potatoes. Teenagers, bizarrely, were mostly engrossed in their mobile phones, although the young ones always waved to me and called out.
Cycling here had been hard; I was tired from picking a route through the vast potholes and brick-patched repairs like a kayaker through rapids and fighting for the occasional ribbon of smooth tarmac against rusty buses and ancient, overloaded trucks. I also discovered that the most depressing sound in cycling was the clatter of approaching hooves as yet another one-horse cart overtook me on a hill. Of course, signposts and place names were confusing too, and navigation difficult, because of the Cyrillic alphabet.
I’d come to the eastern side of Europe deliberately, to stretch my comfort zone and to see a bit of the world that was new to me. I wasn’t a cycle-touring novice, having ridden across the USA and Australia in the past decade, as well as thousands of miles in the easier parts of Europe, Scandinavia, Canada and the Far East. Despite being fifty-six, and considerably overweight, I knew I could cycle all day, covering a hundred miles if necessary, before finding somewhere to sleep – mostly in my tent in a forest, or (preferably) in a cheap room in an “Agroturystyka” farmhouse. The destination target this year was Kaliningrad, in the separate bit of Russia that is part of the Baltic States. I’d always been fascinated by Euler’s mathematical theory based on the Bridges of Konigsberg - now called Kaliningrad – and it seemed like a reasonable idea to cycle there and ride over a couple of the old ones which remain.
I’d worked out a rough route that should take me six weeks… cycling from Staffordshire to Harwich, thence across Denmark and southern Sweden before taking a ferry to Poland. I subsequently rode to the geographical compass points of Poland – the northernmost, westernmost, southernmost (involving serious mountains) and the easternmost. An anti-clockwise circumnavigation would allow me to nip back-and-forth into Germany, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, the Ukraine, Lithuania and (finally) to Russia. I bypassed Belarus. Each country used a different language and a different currency – facts which added considerably to the mental challenge. Road conditions varied too, from the sublime cycleways of Denmark via the well-organized infrastructure of Berlin to the brutal high-speed traffic on some of Poland’s narrow highways.
As part of the preparation for the trip, I had been to Polish language evening classes so I could (in theory) shop for food, get a room or ask for directions. I also learned a minimum of “Good day” and “Thank you” in every other language, using sound clips downloaded to my phone. It worked, up to a point, but I did miss being able to easily chat to strangers, as you do when touring in North America or Australia. For reasons of stubbornness and reliability, I always ride a singlespeed (42 x 16) when touring. The bike, a Surly CrossCheck with hydraulic rim brakes, was wonderful, suffering just one puncture and one split tyre, both caused by road conditions in the Ukraine.
My best memories of the trip are about the people I met. Absolutely everyone, in every single country, was pleasant and helpful, despite my abysmal efforts to communicate by words, gestures or pictures. Shop assistants would painstakingly count money from my confused hands; people were patient if I needed directions, waitresses in cafes would smile as ordered food, seemingly at random, from their menus and (best of all) farmhouse hosts would let me use their washing machines. As you know, summer cycling kit acquires a distinct aroma after a week or so which is best addressed by the hottest possible wash.
My impasse at the Ukrainian border was solved by nice people too. Ivan and Vira (off duty policeman and teacher of English respectively) spotted my predicament and calmly put my bike and kit in the back of their van and invited me to hop in the front. We got into Poland just four hours later, after interminable queues and checks by soldiers with guns, soldiers with clipboards and soldiers with screwdrivers (to check behind door panels.) I tried to pay Ivan and Vira for their help, of course, but they refused point blank. We did exchange a good few laughs, plus photos and email contacts though. They went off to do some shopping and I gratefully turned north, towards Lithuania. I arrived in Russia two weeks later, exactly on the date allowed by my visa. I’d ridden a shade over three thousand miles in six weeks, with just three rest days. Getting home was much easier; I just packed the bike in a big bag and caught a flight.
I was pleased to be home; the trip was right at the very limit of my capabilities. I’m a lucky guy, not only because my amazing wife lets me get away on these periodic jaunts but because I live in a time and in a place where such travel is possible.
I'd spent four exhausting days in the Ukraine, but the soldier at the border to Poland was adamant - I couldn't cross here on a bicycle. He circled another checkpoint on my map, the only one where pedestrians and bicycles were allowed, and helpfully worked out that it was a mere 210 kilometres away (more than 120 miles) in completely the wrong direction. I tried to explain, with the map and helpless gestures, that I was spending my summer holiday trying to cycle to Russia, meandering through as many countries as possible, but he was unmoved.
The Ukraine had been the toughest country so far. The city of L’Viv had seemed prosperous, judging by the expensive cars in the huge traffic-jams, but out in the countryside I'd been shocked by the ramshackle villages, the appalling road surfaces and the apparent lack of modern industry and agriculture. Men were working in fields with scythes and pitchforks; women were selling things at the roadside, often just a couple of pairs of shoes or a bowl of potatoes. Teenagers, bizarrely, were mostly engrossed in their mobile phones, although the young ones always waved to me and called out.
Cycling here had been hard; I was tired from picking a route through the vast potholes and brick-patched repairs like a kayaker through rapids and fighting for the occasional ribbon of smooth tarmac against rusty buses and ancient, overloaded trucks. I also discovered that the most depressing sound in cycling was the clatter of approaching hooves as yet another one-horse cart overtook me on a hill. Of course, signposts and place names were confusing too, and navigation difficult, because of the Cyrillic alphabet.
I’d come to the eastern side of Europe deliberately, to stretch my comfort zone and to see a bit of the world that was new to me. I wasn’t a cycle-touring novice, having ridden across the USA and Australia in the past decade, as well as thousands of miles in the easier parts of Europe, Scandinavia, Canada and the Far East. Despite being fifty-six, and considerably overweight, I knew I could cycle all day, covering a hundred miles if necessary, before finding somewhere to sleep – mostly in my tent in a forest, or (preferably) in a cheap room in an “Agroturystyka” farmhouse. The destination target this year was Kaliningrad, in the separate bit of Russia that is part of the Baltic States. I’d always been fascinated by Euler’s mathematical theory based on the Bridges of Konigsberg - now called Kaliningrad – and it seemed like a reasonable idea to cycle there and ride over a couple of the old ones which remain.
I’d worked out a rough route that should take me six weeks… cycling from Staffordshire to Harwich, thence across Denmark and southern Sweden before taking a ferry to Poland. I subsequently rode to the geographical compass points of Poland – the northernmost, westernmost, southernmost (involving serious mountains) and the easternmost. An anti-clockwise circumnavigation would allow me to nip back-and-forth into Germany, the Czech Republic, Slovakia, the Ukraine, Lithuania and (finally) to Russia. I bypassed Belarus. Each country used a different language and a different currency – facts which added considerably to the mental challenge. Road conditions varied too, from the sublime cycleways of Denmark via the well-organized infrastructure of Berlin to the brutal high-speed traffic on some of Poland’s narrow highways.
As part of the preparation for the trip, I had been to Polish language evening classes so I could (in theory) shop for food, get a room or ask for directions. I also learned a minimum of “Good day” and “Thank you” in every other language, using sound clips downloaded to my phone. It worked, up to a point, but I did miss being able to easily chat to strangers, as you do when touring in North America or Australia. For reasons of stubbornness and reliability, I always ride a singlespeed (42 x 16) when touring. The bike, a Surly CrossCheck with hydraulic rim brakes, was wonderful, suffering just one puncture and one split tyre, both caused by road conditions in the Ukraine.
My best memories of the trip are about the people I met. Absolutely everyone, in every single country, was pleasant and helpful, despite my abysmal efforts to communicate by words, gestures or pictures. Shop assistants would painstakingly count money from my confused hands; people were patient if I needed directions, waitresses in cafes would smile as ordered food, seemingly at random, from their menus and (best of all) farmhouse hosts would let me use their washing machines. As you know, summer cycling kit acquires a distinct aroma after a week or so which is best addressed by the hottest possible wash.
My impasse at the Ukrainian border was solved by nice people too. Ivan and Vira (off duty policeman and teacher of English respectively) spotted my predicament and calmly put my bike and kit in the back of their van and invited me to hop in the front. We got into Poland just four hours later, after interminable queues and checks by soldiers with guns, soldiers with clipboards and soldiers with screwdrivers (to check behind door panels.) I tried to pay Ivan and Vira for their help, of course, but they refused point blank. We did exchange a good few laughs, plus photos and email contacts though. They went off to do some shopping and I gratefully turned north, towards Lithuania. I arrived in Russia two weeks later, exactly on the date allowed by my visa. I’d ridden a shade over three thousand miles in six weeks, with just three rest days. Getting home was much easier; I just packed the bike in a big bag and caught a flight.
I was pleased to be home; the trip was right at the very limit of my capabilities. I’m a lucky guy, not only because my amazing wife lets me get away on these periodic jaunts but because I live in a time and in a place where such travel is possible.
