Together with Maxim, on the eve of the motorcycle season, we will remember our youth with Soviet motorcycles, listen to his story about bikers in the USA and Belarus and find out why motorcycles can be more than just a hobby. We are publishing his story in full.
Maxim is a biker from Gomel with 20 years of experience. I started by traveling on old Soviet motorcycles, then I came to the USA, switched to American bikes and transferred all my friends to them.
To get to Crimea, I cooled the cylinders with water from the Zhiguli windshield washer reservoir
“I received the coveted category “A” at the age of 16, and before receiving my “license” I rode “Delta” and “Riga” mopeds. You could say it all started with mopeds. After all, after riding a bicycle, it’s a delight: you ride on two wheels, and you don’t have to pedal. But I got my license, sold my Delta moped and bought an old 1989 Voskhod. It is clear that he spent more time tinkering than driving. But these are also moments of delight when the motorcycle itself takes you somewhere. Especially after your efforts with wrenches. It was here that he acquired his first skills in repairing equipment. Since then I started traveling.
It was 2002. I am 18 years old, after the sale of Voskhod, I only had enough money for a Java, so I bought it. Moreover, disassembled, in bags. “360”, 6-volt, but I switched it to 12 volt. I brought these bags to the basement. There he cleaned and washed the parts, sent some things for painting, and the assembly itself took place in the apartment. I really wanted to assemble a motorcycle and go on a big trip! Completely assembled and capitalized the engine. We sat down with friends and went to Crimea.
The adventures began immediately. After 15 kilometers the pistons began to jam. The motor is capitalized and “tight”. We stopped, cooled down, and moved on. To solve the problem, I hung the windshield washer reservoir from a Zhiguli car on the arc. I placed the button on the steering wheel and the tube in front of the cylinders. And when pressed, water sprayed onto the cylinders. This is “liquid” cooling. But eventually the engine was run in, the problem went away. For three years in a row, every summer we went to Crimea with friends on motorcycles. We traveled the length and breadth of the peninsula.
There were a lot of breakdowns and adventures, because the journey for an old Czechoslovakian motorcycle is not short - 1300 kilometers one way. There was also something that broke the piston and came back on one cylinder. Or the fork cut off in gear, and I had to drive the whole way in third or fourth speed. In general, the technology of the USSR, even the Czechoslovak “Java”, left much to be desired. The most successful passage took only a day. The worst thing was that it took three days to return home because of the rains. “Java” normally travels 100-110 kilometers per hour, at this speed you can easily get to Crimea. Despite all the breakdowns, risks, adventures and fatigue, this is such a delight that it’s difficult for me to put into words. And breakdowns only added “zest” to the adventure. If you even just got there, you have already accomplished a feat.
Instead of a preface. Today a buyer was found for my Java and she will soon leave me. The elderly man remembered his youth, how he once wanted Java, so he responded to my ad. Just like I used to be. Let him be happy now. I looked at her and memories came flooding back. She gave me so many happy moments, so much joy. I always brought it back from my trips, well, almost always. Only once did the relay fail. But Java carried me as long as she could until the battery ran out completely. However, it’s my own fault, because I read about a weak generator, an article in the old magazine “Behind the Wheel,” but did nothing. I wanted everything, Java in stock and traveling far. However, I will write about all this in my post. My friends and colleagues had a tradition of going to the bathhouse on December 31st. They always celebrated Russia Day with small trips by car. They drive in two cars to somewhere not very far away, usually three or four of them, so that they can fit in during the holidays. But three people travel all the time. Lyokha is a tow truck driver, Dima is an office driver and Vladimirych is a forklift specialist or, as we also call him, a guru. And they also take with them one of their colleagues, someone who can find time for these trips. In 2014, this holiday was celebrated for 3 days. They then decided to take a ride along the Sayan Ring. For insurance, they planned to take one day off and complete it in 4 days. This route is, of course, conditional.
One day we were sitting in the lodge, having tea, Dima and Lyokha were discussing in advance the route of the upcoming trip. The lodge is our usual gathering place in the morning, sometimes in the evening at lunchtime. They sit and decide how best to drive, where to take shortcuts, where the road is more interesting. I don’t remember which of them invited me to go with them. I gave preliminary consent, it was necessary to coordinate with the family so that there would be no discrepancies. You never know what kind of dacha business will appear. Then they set a condition for me: I was going to Java. In Java, so in Java. I myself wanted to travel this route back in 2012, but I went to Abakan and welded my leg there. By June 12, everything turned out well, I decided on the dacha affairs and with a clear conscience began to prepare for the trip. In Java, I changed the oil in the fork, washed the carb, changed the spark plugs, and lubricated the chain. For this trip I bought specially: a sleeping bag, the one that unzips and becomes a blanket, a self-inflating mattress, as this and subsequent trips showed - a great thing, new ankle boots, I took a tent from my brother, but never used it. On 11.06 in the evening I loaded it all onto Java, added a pump, cameras, 2T oil and went home. When I arrived home, I loaded it all into the trunk of my Volga and drove the Java to the parking lot. Then he went home, went up to the apartment and began to pack his things. We had dinner with the family and at 22:00 I went to bed. At first I tossed and turned, due to the excitement before the trip, but soon fell asleep. This morning my alarm clock woke me up at 5:00. I quietly got ready, drank a cup of tea, took a backpack with my things and went to get Java. I took it from the parking lot, turned off the engine in front of the house so as not to wake up the residents, and drove the car up to my Volga. I took things out of the trunk, placed and secured everything in Java. Then he rolled her out of the yard in his arms, started the engine and drove off towards adventure. Driving around the city this early is a pleasure: it’s cool, no cars, no congestion. I left the city and headed west. I decided to bypass Divnogorsk with its passes and “mother-in-law’s tongues”. Yesterday we decided on the time and place of the meeting. At 10 o'clock in Novoselovo at the ferry. The drive to get there is 270 km. The morning route is deserted, 50 km to the village “In Memory of 13 Fighters” flew by unnoticed. There is an interchange, straight on the road to Novosibirsk, to the left it goes to Abakan, which means I have to turn left. Novoselovo is just between Krasnoyarsk and Abakan. I’m driving, my soul rejoices at the road, it’s a good day, grace. The Java runs 90-100 km/h without straining, which is much more than that, especially with such a load. Soon I got onto the Abakan highway, there were 160 km left to the collection point, but on a mountain road, the speed dropped to 70 km/h. About an hour later, someone behind me began to honk, I looked in the mirror, it was Dima in his Toyota minibus with Lyokha driving along, propping me up. Took it to the right, missed it. They honked around me and disappeared around the bend. Somewhere at 9:25 I drove up to the turn to Novoselovo, there was a gas station nearby, and at the same time refueled. I filled in 10 liters, but there was still two liters of space left in the tank, which means the consumption was small, considering that I was driving through the mountains. I drove past the village itself and approached the ferry. And there they are already waiting for me. Dima with pies, Lyokha with cognac, Vladimirych with mineral water. I snacked on pies with mineral water and refused cognac. Here the loading onto the ferry began. Friends' cars were already in line, but they drove me in first and sat me in a corner.
Then they started starting up the cars, they stuffed them like sardines in a barrel.
The ferry took 30 minutes to cross the Krasnoyarsk reservoir. I relaxed and enjoyed the views of the Yenisei.
Here is the other shore near the village with the drug addict name - Anash.))))
The unloading began, I rolled down first, then the others.
When everyone moved out, they decided to unload Java and put their things in Vladimirych’s Mercedes.
Further our path lay in the village of Tanzybey, in the foothills of the Sayan Mountains. We left and drove based on my speed. I was in front in Java, then Toyota, bringing up the rear in our Mercedes mini column. Traveling without luggage became much easier. An hour and a half later, I stopped to warm up in some village. I don't remember the name. We stood in front of a neat church. We stood there, took photos, then I stretched my lower back and we moved on.
We stopped at a gas station in Sayansk, I filled up another 10 liters, turned to the trunk, and there was no bottle of oil. Then Vladimirych drove up and returned what I had lost to me. The bottle somehow managed to get loose, as Vladimirych noticed. I poured oil into the tank and drove on. Before I had driven a few kilometers, a cloud rolled in and it began to rain. I didn’t stop, my jacket held water, my combat boots did the same, and my jeans dried out on their own when we came out from under the cloud. Soon peaks with snow caps appeared on the horizon - the Sayans. So soon Tanzybey will be our first overnight stay. Next came a gravel road of varying degrees of destruction. I was already tired and drove without paying attention to the road, over bumps, holes, and ridges. I no longer had the strength to go around. The day began to slowly decline when we noticed a small turnoff to the river. We turned and drove out into a clearing on a high bank. This is where we decided to camp.
They set the table, cut up sausages, tomatoes, cucumbers, poured Posolskaya and drank the first, then the second, then Dima started working on the meat.
We were sitting blissfully, suddenly we heard the sound of a two-stroke engine. Soon Ant's scooter appeared. Vladimirych exclaimed, “Oh, biker!” and waved his hand. Grandfather, who was riding Ant, noticed us and turned to our clearing. I refused vodka, but drank coffee.
The grandfather turned out to be a local dissident. He began to scold all the authorities, from Lenin to Putin. Not finding any support from us, he packed up and left. He was left with a double feeling: it seemed like they weren’t persecuting us on purpose, but not finding support among us, he seemed to be offended. We sat for a while, then Vladimirych summed it up: “Not our man, pour it!” The entrecotes are also ripe here, which is also a good reason to pour it and drink it. Don’t think anything bad, we are not drinkers, but if you get together occasionally with good company and a good snack, why not? Especially in the fresh air. When it started to get dark, I counted the empty bottles, counted six, and realized it was time for me to sleep. He laid out a self-inflator under a birch tree next to Java, took off his boots and pants and fell into bed, covering himself with a sleeping bag. I didn’t take off my shirt; it has long sleeves, and I always throw my hands on top of the blanket. At least some salvation from mosquitoes. This is where I slept, under a birch tree.
At five in the morning the alarm on my phone went off. I forgot to turn it off, I had to get up, reach into my pants for my cell phone and turn it off. After that, I lay back down, covered myself with my sleeping bag and just started to fall asleep, Vladimirych woke up and said, “Get up guys, the fish is leaving!” — woke everyone up. He slept like a “real driver” in his car under a light blanket, froze in the morning and alarmed everyone. I didn’t calm down until I lit a fire and warmed myself up. When all this fuss was over, I fell asleep. The next time I woke up was when the sun began to shine on my face. I open my eyes and see Lyokha cutting a spruce tree, wow!
The pot was already boiling with all its might, I got up and went to the river to wash myself. While I was doing the morning procedures, my ear was ripe. What a joy it is to sip fish soup after yesterday’s libations, and from a common pot!
Lyokha, Vladimirych, Dima are already dressed.
After such a royal breakfast, I began to get ready, and at the same time calculated the mileage for yesterday. It turned out to be 630 km, which is decent for me. We closed the camp, collected all the garbage in the clearing into bags and moved towards Tanzybey. In the village itself I refueled again.
We left the village and here they are MOUNTAINS!
We stopped, I gave the camera to Lyokha and he became our staff photographer.
I was driving, he took pictures of the beauty around me, and of me from behind, sometimes.
We drove past a snowdrift, two meters high.
Java rode through the mountains with dignity, jumped up hills, and took turns easily. I drove and enjoyed the gorgeous views, drank the cleanest cool mountain air. Beauty, you have to visit the mountains, at least once, but visit them, otherwise your life will be in vain. So we reached the avalanche gallery, in front of it there is a platform with shamanic pillars and a memorial plaque.
Here is the gallery itself, we simply call it a shelf.
We rested a little and moved on. Words are not enough to describe the surrounding views, see photos.
Shelf from the inside.
Chapel at the site of the death of Alexander Lebed.
Mountain Lake.
This is me, view from the back.
Me too, front view
We made our next stop at a mountain river to drink water. The water is cold, but tasty, I have never drunk anything like it anywhere else. And around there is a sea of zharkovs, which is what we call the Siberian swimsuit flower.
Fry.
We got drunk, washed up, and moved on. It started to rain, but it just scared the rain and stopped.
The road went along the river, with a rock on the right and a river on the left.
A cloud peeked out from behind the rock, but then took pity on me and left.
At the entrance to the village of Aradan we met bikers; as it turned out later, they were going to some kind of rally in Kyzyl.
We drove past, passed Aradan, drove off a little and I stopped, excuse the detail, to run to the bushes. Just then a column of bikers started walking, they honked at me, I waved to them.
Smile and wave!
I ran across the road, and Lyokha caught me.)))
Classic, biker.
We drove a little more and entered Tyva. There is a traffic police post at the border. They waved a wand at me, I stood up, followed by men in cars. The inspector, a Tuvan, was taken aback and asked, “What, are you on an expedition?” “No, we’re going on vacation,” we answered in unison. He checked everyone’s documents, made copies, wrote them down in a journal and released them, wishing them a safe journey. Here comes Tuva! We entered a border village and took a photo at a Buddhist stupa. The old Tuvan woman walked away from her, looked at us disapprovingly, but remained silent.
Then the road went along a picturesque valley, smooth only around the terrain. Here I lay down on the tank and turned off the gas to the fullest, squeezing all the 125 km/h out of Java!
It’s a pity that the photo doesn’t convey even a thousandth of the beauty of this valley. You just have to visit such places to see it. The road went uphill again, and it began to rain again.
We passed the pass and here it is, the capital of Tyva, the city of Kyzyl.
We walked through Kyzyl without stopping; the next overnight stop was only 50 km away along the road towards Mongolia. The road went along the steppe. There is space all around, I can’t even believe that we were driving through the mountains. So we got to Lake Khadyn. We found a place, set up camp, set up a table, and headed out the other way. Then one more at a time, Dima began to cook lamb shurpa, and we went for a swim.
Lake Khadyn.
Black sand at the bottom of the lake.
Our camp.
In general, this lake is ideal for families with children. The shore is flat; I have to walk about a hundred meters to get to waist-deep depths. While we were swimming, the shurpa was ripe, and it wouldn’t be a sin to drink for this matter. We drank, ate shurpa, drank some more, in the fresh air for some reason the vodka doesn’t taste right. We sit almost sober, peaceful, satisfied with the journey we have taken. We remember with laughter how Vladimirych woke us up in the morning.
Shurpa.
This is bliss that makes your hair stand on end!
Then Ivan, our mutual friend from Kyzyl, arrived. He once told me about this lake. Ivan arrived with a jet ski, of course we posed for memory, but we didn’t ask. Our principle is: There is no place for a drunk to drive! And we always adhere to it.
I'm scalding, my hair is flying! )))
And this is Ivan, for real.
We watched Ivan ride his jet ski and decided to celebrate this event by drinking to the Krasnoyarsk-Kyzyl friendship. Having noted this, Lyokha went to feed the seagulls, which had been swarmed by a large flock. They sent Lyokha away, meaning from the camp. There weren’t enough of these seagulls here; they’ll still crap on everything here. From these insidious birds, everything can be expected.)))
Then they rolled on more and more than one at a time, it was already dark and they began to get ready to sleep. They removed the table and laid out all the self-inflators together on the grass so that Vladimirych would also have a place to sleep. Today I didn’t count the bottles anymore, but there were definitely more than six of them.)))
Moon over Khadyn.
So, happy and peaceful, we fell asleep. Only the heroic snoring was heard across the steppe, I don’t know about the others, but mine for sure.
Four wheels carry the body, two wheels carry the soul
During my motorcycle-riding youth, there were few Japanese motorcycles. Many drove old Soviet vehicles. Or on homemade products: they installed engines from the “Zaporozhets”, converted “Urals” into choppers, and so on. In general, we were spinning as best we could. But the biker movement had already begun to take shape. Back in those years, I joined the first Belarusian club Iron Brothers. I myself am from Svetlogorsk. I remember that in the 2000s the first “foreign cars” began to appear there, and they were mostly sportbikes. So, my friend got a Suzuki GSX-R 400. I rode it and realized that I needed to switch to something new. After Soviet motorcycles, this is just heaven and earth.
After some time, I also got a Japanese sportbike – Honda VTR 1000 SP-1. I was 22 years old. Of course, the young guy after “Java” only needs “liter-sport”. It was from Europe, it was damaged, I restored it myself. The fork was bent, the headlights were broken, the plastic was broken. Can you imagine what it’s like to switch from a Soviet motorcycle to a Japanese liter bike? It feels like you’re straight from the Lada to a spaceship. Which does not break, but at the same time accelerates like a sports projectile. Acceleration to “hundreds” took less than three seconds!
I’ll be honest: I was scared to follow him into the garage. This is a dangerous motorcycle. But when you sit down, you realize that you are in control of everything, and the fear goes away. There is an understanding of what should be done and what should not be done. Due to this, I drove away all this time without any accidents. There were minor falls, scraped knees and plastic, but I never had any serious accidents or broken arms or legs. That's why I say: don't be afraid. They say that four wheels carry the body, and two wheels carry the soul. For me, being a motorcyclist means being free. And freedom is worth the risk. Which can be minimized if you drive with your head. I've covered tens of thousands of kilometers - and nothing.
