Russian Tales: Around the World on a Harley-Davidson

IN LIEU OF A PREFACE

At first, we had no names. Nor, to be honest, did we have much of a future. We were sitting idle in garages, each in a different corner of our native America, laid up after stupid accidents and waiting for someone to decide our fate. Most likely, we were bound for the scrap heap—a ridiculous end for city-bred Harley-Davidson Sportster 883s. We had dreamed of far-off roads, the glare of oncoming headlights, cities brimming with music and love—and then, just like that, it was over. Our road had been cut short in the most absurd way, almost before it had begun.

Then, all at once, a rumor reached us: we had been sold. Sold for scrap-metal prices, no less. And we were being shipped to another continent, to mysterious Russia, about which we had heard the wildest stories back home. Our engines shivered with the promise of adventure.

“What do you know about Russia?” we asked each other.

“Practically nothing. It’s the biggest and coldest country on earth. And the people there are wild and unhinged—or so they say in the States.”

“And now it’s going to be our homeland. How do you like your new motherland?”

“At least it won’t be boring. Plenty of room to ride...”

In Moscow, we met our new owners: Maxim Privezentsev and Vladimir—Volodya—Roshchin. They were two very different men. The older one, Maxim, was about forty; the younger, Volodya, twenty-seven. Both were deeply in love with Harley-Davidson, and when the talk turned to travel, there was no other name for them. In their eyes, a Harley was the only honest motorcycle.

That flattered us, of course. There was just one problem: we looked thoroughly unpresentable—battered, maybe, but unbowed. They looked us over with sympathy. We knew at once we had ended up in the right hands. Not that we had much choice. It was either the junkyard or these two.

It turned out we had been bought for a trip around the world. A mad decision, wouldn’t you say? We are, after all, city bikes by nature. We’re good for chasing girls, rolling up to a bar, or racing friends from light to light; but covering more than 50,000 kilometers in eight months, without long stops—that takes something else altogether. No Sportster had ever attempted a crossing like that before. Usually, people choose KTM or BMW for such hauls—the sort McGregor and Boorman rode. Or specially prepared Japanese machines. But Roshchin and Privezentsev wouldn’t hear of it: it had to be a Harley. And the simplest Harley at that, stripped of every fancy frill.

Soon we learned a few amusing details about our riders. Each of them held a respectable job in the northernmost metropolis on the planet, and yet, through various twists of fate, both had found themselves at odds with the law. The guys had the good fortune to live in an era when disputes in Russian capitals are settled by means of criminal cases and prison terms, just as a decade earlier they had been settled by gangsters, mob showdowns, and shootouts. But “serious trouble sobers a man up,” as Maxim likes to say. Interrogation records, recognizance not to leave town, meetings with lawyers—all of it works like a sharp spice, whetting one’s appetite for life. It also forces you to look at things from another angle. To reconsider, to rethink. Above all, to understand yourself—your road and your time on this earth. And to see the people around you in a different light. The dream of this journey, and the preparations for it, became a lifeline thrown to them by the future, helping them swim out of the murky waters of a grim daily routine. They decided that once the dust had settled, they would have to turn the page and begin again.

A new chapter in life — that was our style. We had swallowed the cliché whole. The road was calling, loud and insistent. And let’s be honest: nothing draws a free man toward the horizon quite like travel restrictions. Each of the guys had his own two-wheeled history.

Maxim was born on Sakhalin. His grandfather had gone out there after the war and worked as a television cameraman, one of the pioneers of broadcasting in the Far East. He made documentaries all over Sakhalin, the Kurils, and Kamchatka. And he loved motorcycles. Once, he took part in a marathon ride from Vladivostok to Königsberg on Ural sidecar motorcycles and made a film about the journey called “From the Pacific to the Baltic.”

The Ural is a legendary Soviet sidecar bike, one that made it through the whole war, chewing through mud and rough country with ease. Back then, roads from the Far East to the Urals barely existed. There were only the old post roads laid down under emperors and empresses — Catherine the Great and Nicholas I. No asphalt to speak of. Just a proper mud crawl. As we later discovered, some stretches of those roads haven’t changed at all since those days...

In seventh grade, Maxim decided to build his first real bike. Wheels scavenged from Japanese machines, a frame welded together from whatever was at hand. In short, a serious contraption. The test run was set for spring. Max shot off for about two hundred meters, forgot to roll off the throttle, and plowed straight into a fence. He got away with bruises, but the machine was finished. The urge to ride disappeared for years. He moved to Moscow, studied, worked, defended his dissertation, got married, had three children, and became a top executive at a major construction firm. Only in 2005, in America, did a friend named Alexei get him hooked on bikes again. Back from the States, Max bought the heaviest beast in the Harley-Davidson lineup — an Electra Glide. At the time, he thought bigger meant better. Like a black SUV. Later he realized that a heavyweight like that wasn’t exactly a practical everyday toy, so he picked up another bike, something for the city. But as he rode and wandered, Max kept turning the dream of a round-the-world trip over in his head; it simply would not leave him alone.

Roshchin, on the other hand, had been steeped in romance from the cradle. He went on archaeological expeditions and devoured travel stories. At thirteen, in a shed at the dacha, he assembled his first IZh — a lightweight Soviet motorcycle. Its defining trait was an unrivaled talent for breaking down. But that was how he earned his experience. By eighteen, he had already ridden across America, following in the footsteps of the cult film *Easy Rider* — though obviously on very different iron. Later, after university, he traveled everywhere: Russia, India, Europe, Latin America. He respected biker clubs and their code. In Moscow, he landed a prestigious job. His head was bursting with schemes and creative plans. But the dream of riding around the world outweighed everything.

That idea brought them together. And we became part of that union.

Max and Roshchin met in the spring of 2010 at a cigar party in one of Moscow’s restaurants. Music and cigars—two more obsessions they shared. From the first tentative exchange, they clicked. They had too much in common. Both were working hard; both were under investigation. It was a forced pause, but it made them look out the window with new eyes. Both loved motorcycles and cigars. And more than anything, both dreamed of the long road. Of tens of thousands of kilometers around the globe. Of leaving Moscow heading west and returning from the east. Of seeing how people really live. Of testing themselves and their luck. Each of them already had his own round-the-world route mapped out in his head. Their friendship began right there, over those routes.

Of course, it wasn’t easy for either of them to tear himself away for nearly a year from the usual mill of business and events. There were plenty of people to answer to: why, for heaven’s sake, were they pulling up stakes and heading into the unknown? Couldn’t it wait? Until next year, the year after, maybe the next life? That is how most people end up putting their dearest dreams on the shelf for good. But this meeting proved to be a signpost on the highway. It gave them the bearing they needed. Within a few hours, Maxim had become absolutely essential to Volodya’s great journey, and Volodya to Maxim’s.

Max immediately took to Roshchin’s easy, creative nature. Volodya would catch an idea, pick it up, turn it a hundred different ways, reinvent it and improvise on it like a bluesman. Sometimes it seemed he was making music out of his own life. Come what may, he was never boring to be around. An unconditional yes—that was practically his only answer to any risky proposal. Of course he had his brakes, and his character came with its own complications, but his brilliance and artistry made up for everything. After all, a certain absent-minded unreliability is only the reverse side of any creative soul.

For Volodya, meanwhile, Maxim turned out to be a rock-solid comrade, whose very presence radiated confidence that the decision was the right one. What’s more—and Roshchin grasped this at once—Privezentsev was the perfect traveling companion, at least if you looked at the road through a mother’s eyes. Not that her opinion decided anything for Roshchin, but being a good son, Volodya had no wish to upset her or make her worry needlessly. She had already made her peace with the fact that every single day of the riding season he was out somewhere on two wheels with a crowd of bearded men. And now here was a grown, well-established man—married, three children—clearly a guarantee of common sense rather than some suicidal escapade. In short, a reassuring presence for Mom. With Maxim, everything was done like an adult: no headlong dash, but calmly, deliberately, and well thought through.

That was more or less how they saw each other at the start, and they were not mistaken. Their very differences—in experience and temperament—completed each other and gave them new strength. With these men, we—first-rate iron—could be easy about tomorrow, and more importantly, about the fact that the journey would actually happen. The four of us—two motorcycles and two men—made one formidable beast with two heads and four wheels, and it was utterly impossible to stop.

But there were still repairs ahead—serious, first-rate preparation for the long haul. Volodya Roshchin’s mechanic—also Volodya—gave us his blessing. He said you can always, or almost always, make what you need from what you have. And he wasn’t wrong. We were completely overhauled and heavily upgraded. Every threaded joint was sealed with threadlocker; some were even welded solid, so months of bone-rattling vibration wouldn’t shake us apart. We got an oil cooler, forks and triple trees from a Harley-Davidson XR1200, a second disc brake, an LED headlight, big XR1200 brake rotors, handmade fenders, a fat 19-liter Sportster tank, skid plates, headlight guards, a new windshield, fresh rear shocks, and all the small essentials besides—custom saddlebags sewn up, extra metal luggage racks bolted on. The works. Bottom line: we looked absolutely killer. At least that stock Harley vanity had been buried under a thick coat of matte black paint.

Now it was time to think bigger: when do we roll? But launch day was still some way off. A proper motorcycle odyssey takes careful planning. Of course, there are reckless souls who drop everything and charge blindly into the wind, but experience shows that impulse burns out fast, and the road ends just when you least expect it. Maxim and Volodya had no taste for that fate. They knew it was better to savor the adventures and encounters along the way than to spend the trip digging themselves out of one self-inflicted mess after another. Visas, passports, flights—all of it had to be settled in advance. Maps and navigation sorted. Gear lists drawn up, from spare parts to condoms, covering everything we could carry on our backs. Most important of all, they had to arrange our passage across the oceans, since we don’t exactly know how to swim yet. Winter riding is pure hell unless you’re astride a Ural with a sidecar, so this route could only be tackled in summer or the shoulder seasons.

The first start date was set for April 15, 2011. The plan was to head east and come back from the west. But the guys couldn’t get everything in order by spring. Court cases dragged on, lawyers and prosecutors kept stalling, and our riders had to stay put in Moscow.

Only by early summer did those legal sagas finally come to an end. The boys remained free men, and the expedition was pushed back to the fall of 2011. Zero hour was now October 15. This time, though, the route was reversed: west first, home from the east. The launch point was Saint Basil’s Cathedral, the very heart of Moscow. We’d spent enough time in Russia to know how downright badass it would be to leave our first tire tracks on the cobblestones of Red Square. The only drawback? Rolling out in the most miserable season of the year. Motorcycles hate slush as much as anyone—especially motorcycles this clean, freshly painted, shod in brand-new rubber, and loaded with GPS maps for every continent except Antarctica.

Still, every cloud has a silver lining. While the guys were getting ready for their round-the-world run, they put on a blues-and-bikes festival in Suzdal, flew to the States for a two-up ride across America, tested each other’s mettle on the road, hit Sturgis, and jammed with Charlie Bratchel, an American blues legend who had played alongside John Lee Hooker and B.B. King. In short, they lived it up and proved beyond doubt that they made damn good company on the open road.

Later, Maxim, riding solo this time, took his round-the-world steed out for a test run and tore down to a rally in Klaipeda. Right there, one of us took the title of Best Sportster at the Custom Bike Show. But the road also showed up a few weak points in our new setup. We had to adjust the handlebar angle for a more comfortable riding position, upgrade the stock lighting, fit fork guards against rocks and mud, and come up with bulletproof insulation for the wiring.

But that’s all nuts and bolts. The real story is that, somewhere along the way, an entire universe of biker cigars was born — and with it, a massive movement under the slogan “Life’s short, do it hard.” It wasn’t just business. It was another adventure: gripping, wild, and one hell of a lot of fun. We were into it. Harleys love adventures.

*This slogan should be understood as “Life’s short — go full throttle while observing all safety measures and laws.”

It felt damn good that the cigar idea was tied to the journey too. There’s a certain logic to that unity. You might call it integrity of purpose, an absence of double-mindedness, a man’s way of looking at life. Riders and motorcycles both appreciate that kind of masculine clarity. No gray zones, no dancing around the point.

It all began simply enough. Imagining all the interesting encounters a round-the-world trip would bring, Roshchin and Maxim started thinking about how to make them richer — specifically, how to turn the ritual of breaking the ice into something better. The usual “have a drink and talk” routine felt tired and overplayed. So they decided to make their own cigar, a personal one. In the tobacco business, there’s a thing called a private label — cigars rolled for friends and partners, strictly non-commercial. After all, along with alcohol, cigars and music are the strongest tools for breaking down walls between people. They create a space for real conversation. Our friends weren’t musicians, though both were devoted fans of driving rhythms and the blues, and couldn’t stand pop in any form. But launching straight into a debate about guitarists can feel a bit forced. A cigar is closer to the body. Less argument, more pure pleasure. Picture it: bikers meet on the side of the road, in the desert or up in the mountains — men who’ve seen a thing or two and still kept their hearts alive. Some from Russia, others from Argentina. They light up on the shoulder, with Johnny Cash’s gravelly voice in the background. Sounds funny, maybe, but it’s beautiful. In fact, that’s more or less how the World Trip cigar was born: a big, flavorful smoke. That’s where the clock starts ticking.

Gradually, what had begun as a travel accessory turned into a Project with a capital P. That was when the new brand’s motto appeared: Life’s short, do it hard. That philosophy hit us right where we lived. It’s sickening when people save the best things for later. Tomorrow never comes. The thought landed especially hard because the very next day these guys could be sent away for five or seven years to places where you definitely wouldn’t want to spend time. You have to live now. Twist the throttle, no compromises. Besides, cigars and motorcycles really do have a lot in common. Roshchin even wrote a special piece about it once. We Harleys learned it by heart, because it spoke to our souls too.

"...Both motorcycles and cigars," he wrote, "are, first and foremost, male pursuits. These days, when everyone is forever going on about emancipation, gender issues, and equality, there are not many solid, even faintly brutal, masculine subjects left. A woman with a cigar is already a provocation. A woman with a cigar on a motorcycle is a provocation twice over. Besides, she is always a suggestion of the man who ought to be somewhere nearby. So the exceptions here only prove the rule."

Both cigars and motorcycles carry their freight of prejudice and stereotype. Both passions skirt the boundaries of conventional morality. They defy the ordinary rules of safety and that timid, better-safe-than-sorry cast of mind. People have had it hammered into them: "Motorcyclists have a death wish." On every cigar box we read: "Smoking kills." And so both the motorcycle and the cigar become badges of protest against the "flat current of life," against a world with no room for obsession, fatal passion, risk, dangerous adventure, or feats of valor — all those things that, to be frank, make a man a man*.

*The authors wish to inform their esteemed readers that they are fully aware of the health risks associated with cigar smoking, as well as with a vagrant way of life that rules out regular medical check-ups, and that they do not urge readers to follow their example.

A romantic halo has always hung around cigars and motorcycles. This is especially clear when you look at the histories of old motorcycle manufacturers and cigar brands. Usually, at the beginning, there is someone’s extraordinary fate. Sometimes it is a love story. Sometimes a melancholy saga of exile from one’s homeland. But always there is an impulse: a victory over stagnant circumstance, a whimsical fancy, sheer caprice, even poetic imagination. Over time, the facts are overgrown with beautiful myths and legends, and both aficionados (cigar devotees) and bikers (road devourers) weave their own little stories into them; the myth changes, grows more handsome, and becomes more captivating with every passing year.

And then, of course, there are the clubs — so varied and so alluring. Some coexist in love and harmony. Others fight for dominance and go on the attack against one another. But one way or another, membership in a biker or cigar club is a sign of immersion in an entire world, one that shapes your fate.

Moreover, both aficionados and bikers, even if they meet quite by chance and have never set eyes on each other before, will always find something to talk about. They are ready to discuss their motorcycles and the contents of their cigar boxes almost without end — exchanging stories of tastes, preferences, and pet dislikes, of collections and road adventures. In fact, it was in anticipation of just such encounters that the "total flame" was born.

Bikers and cigar lovers are always glad to recognize one another. Still, for all that openness, the right company matters in both worlds. Every motorcyclist knows that if the person riding next to you has a style that sets your teeth on edge, a pleasant ride can turn into hell. Something similar happens with a cigar. It is best smoked among your own people, when you know no one will jar a fleeting mood or a stray thought, and every gesture will be read and understood as it should be. In any case, both a ride shared with friends and a cigar smoked in good company are deeply atmospheric things. So much depends on your state of mind and on the mood of the group. And perhaps most importantly, both riding a motorcycle and smoking a cigar have a special meditative power. When you want to think something through or concentrate on something, there is nothing better than getting behind the handlebars and taking off down the road — wherever the wind carries you. But you can do much the same by sinking into an armchair and lighting a cigar, shutting yourself off completely for an hour or two from the frantic churn of everyday life...

...The more our riders and owners turned the idea of their own cigars over in their heads, the more convinced they became that it was a damn good idea, and one with real legs. In other words, biker cigars would strike a chord with plenty of people. This was not shaping up to be just another ordinary business, but a full-immersion game — with its own inside jokes, friendly digs, signs, and rituals. Whenever they met a solid guy or came across something intriguing, the boys now had a litmus test: is it badass or not? And they, and their friends, knew exactly what that meant.

But talk is cheap; action is what counts. Making the leap from thought to deed — that is the whole trick. All over the world, people dream up original projects. More often than not, though, those stories end exactly where they began: in the imagination.

The plan for making the cigars was conceived and worked through to the smallest detail*. All that remained was to choose between two legendary factories: Guillermo León’s La Aurora in the Dominican Republic and Nestor Plasencia’s factory in Estelí, Nicaragua. Volodya flew to Managua, while Maxim headed to Santiago in the Dominican Republic to make the call. It was exactly the right move. When you are determined to build something worthwhile, you have to get your own hands dirty. In the end, both cigars turned out so distinctive and so compelling that abandoning either one was impossible. And so, as fate would have it, the brand began with two lines at once, each made by the finest masters in the trade.

*[The account of creating a cigar brand is not intended to promote smoking or the smoker’s lifestyle. The authors remind readers that smoking causes lung cancer and numerous other serious diseases.]

...Since we had the good fortune to roll off the line as the bikes of the creators of biker cigars, let’s talk a little about cigars in general. For us, it has become a favorite subject.

The world of cigars is every bit as rich and varied as the world of wine. Dip a toe in, and it swallows a man whole — nothing left showing but his ears. It is a realm with its own myths and legends, its own heroes and scoundrels, winners and losers. Yet across the ages, cigars have granted them all the same gifts: peace of mind, uncomplicated pleasure, and that deep, settled feeling that you are in the right place at the right time, doing exactly what needs to be done — having a smoke.

More often than not, the finest cigars were rolled by European adventurers who had washed up on Caribbean shores for reasons that had nothing to do with tobacco. Usually this happened in Cuba, and a century or so ago, any decent smoke was bluntly called a “Havana.”

But don’t go thinking that all the world’s best tobacco grows right under the windows of the Castro brothers, Fidel and Raúl, or that the finest cigars are rolled only in Havana and Cienfuegos. When the Cuban barbudos pulled off their coup and began force-feeding socialism to the population, many of the island’s most renowned torcedores — heirs to old tobacco dynasties — fled faster than a bullet. Some went to Miami, others to the Dominican Republic, still others to Nicaragua. And over the past fifty years, they have grown leaf and rolled cigars there that, if not better than their Cuban cousins, are damn sure no worse. A little different, yes — but the more variety, the richer the ride.

Tobacco plantations, much like vineyards, are creatures entirely unto themselves. Tobacco varies not only by strain and vintage, but by which leaf is taken — lower, middle, or upper — and how it was grown: under shade or beneath the open sun. In short, blending a cigar, choosing the wrapper (and the quality of that wrapper accounts for half the smoke, if not more), selecting the filler and binder — this is not merely some complicated process. It is an art and a craft, and it demands instinct and raw talent. The people who conjure the greatest cigars on earth carry names as legendary as the badges on the most iconic bikes. Nestor Plasencia and Guillermo León, the very masters Maxim and Volodya went knocking on — they are the cream of a very small crop.

Our owners won over the legendary masters with sheer audacity. The first blend offered to them at the factories was respectable enough in its own right, but far too standard. So the guys asked for a chance to create something unmistakably their own. And the cigarmakers were impressed. They were used to crowds turning up and ordering private labels simply so they would be no worse than everyone else, and that was the end of it. But here stood stubborn devotees with a biker’s vision, men who knew exactly what they wanted from the deal. And so Guillermo and Nestor each said, in his own way: “Go for it, and we’ll back you up.”

Max and Volodya worked their way through countless tobaccos before they finally found what they were looking for. Plasencia and León gave their seal of approval. And so two styles were born: Dark Line and Bright Line. Dark Line was rolled in the Dominican Republic, at La Aurora, under León’s eye. Bright Line came out of Nicaragua, from the Plasencia Cigars factory. For connoisseurs, the way the lines were assigned to the two countries held another twist, one that turned the whole picture on its head. As a rule, Nicaraguan cigars are considered strong, Dominican cigars mild. Here, it was exactly the opposite. More than that, Dark Line and Bright Line embodied two different ways of taking the road—and the smoke. One was brutal, masculine, hard-hitting. The other was meditative, attuned to inner calm and conversation. After all, there’s more than one way to ride. Take it from us bikers—we know that better than anyone.

Each line includes cigars in five sizes, or vitolas, as the pros call them. The flagship, World Trip, is powerful and full of promise, like an open invitation to get on the road. Custom is named for those flashy, badass bikes with long forks. The Churchill vitola reflects the riding style of machines like that: classic and image-conscious at the same time. Old School calls to mind a bike built the old-fashioned way, on a rigid frame, with an open front fender and a small gas tank. The torpedo that bears the name is restrained and balanced from start to finish. It really is old school. Bobber suggests a fat, low-slung motorcycle with a chopped rear frame, big bags, big handlebars, and a big tank—compact, imposing, muscular. The image suits the robusto vitola perfectly. And the lineup closes with one of the most intriguing and original smokes of all: the 8 Ball. A petite figurado packed with complex tobaccos, remarkably nuanced and, in the Dark Line, surprisingly potent. Smoking it is like listening to a fine blues track. Even the name carries a touch of provocation. The official version is that 8 Ball comes from pool-hall culture and means the decisive shot: all or nothing. Just one more metaphor for our style. Life’s short, do it hard...

There’s a curious story behind the 8 Ball in the Bright Line. The mold—cigar-maker shorthand for the press form—for this rare vitola existed only at La Aurora. But the concept called for matching pairs, so the guys persuaded Guillermo León to share it with Plasencia. They say that sort of thing simply doesn’t happen in the cigar business. Apparently it does, though, when it isn’t just business—it’s biker business, our kind, homegrown...

...The first batches were ready by early 2011. But by the time we set off on the round-the-world trip, sales had not yet begun in either Russia or America. Max and Roshchin brought home only a few hundred sticks—to treat friends and stuff into their saddlebags. We launched from Red Square, and the cigar saga was only just beginning.

On the eve of departure, Maxim and Volodya decided to make a quick trip to Suzdal, one of Maxim’s favorite towns, where he had spent half his life. Father Andrey, rector of the Church of Boris and Gleb in Kideksha, answered the guys’ request to bless us before the long road ahead. As luck would have it, we were running late and reached the village well into the night. Classic Russian autumn foul weather was in full swing, and the priest met us on the threshold with his flock of children. It was a piercing service: a children’s choir sang while Father Andrey prayed for those at sea and those on the road, for peace throughout the world, fair skies, and goodwill among men. He gave us a small icon that was to travel the whole way with us and, on our return, take its place in the church.

...And just before the final departure, Pasha Angel gave Maxim and Volodya a tattoo: Life’s short, do it hard. That one has its own backstory. The guys had made a pact: once they secured worldwide rights to their logo and slogan, they would have it tattooed on their backs. And so they did. Roshchin asked Angel then:

“Does a tattoo change your life?”

“You’ll tell me that yourself after the trip,” Pasha shot back.

A long journey always feels like cinema. Space unwinds before your eyes like film. And naturally, any traveler wants to preserve that movie—not only in memory.

At first, Maxim and Volodya thought they would shoot the road movie themselves. They made a short clip about Moscow bikers and even spent some time taking cinematography classes. But before long they realized that the sheer amount of gear, and the time it would take to get a decent picture, could turn their round-the-world ride into a years-long ethnographic expedition. So they made an arrangement with a professional crew from the My Planet channel, which is always hungry for real travel. But Maxim and Volodya had one non-negotiable condition: under no circumstances would they ride with a film crew in tow. A clever—though expensive—solution was found. The camera team would fly in to wherever the guys planned to stop for a few days, assuming, of course, that it was possible to fly there at all. Riding without any extra technical support was something Privezentsev and Roshchin had agreed on from day one.

KILOMETERS: MOSCOW — ORSHA, BELARUS — RUSSIA — KYIV, UKRAINE — ODESA — ISTANBUL, TURKEY... Hardly anyone believed we would really roll out at eleven in the morning on October 15. The night before, the Rolling Stone club was humming with an end-of-season party and a send-off for the coming round-the-world ride. Pytya Podgoretsky was howling the blues; boys and girls were giving it everything they had. They drank, breathed in “total flame,” and danced as if there were no tomorrow. Roshchin moved through the room—greeting people, talking, smiling, embracing the musicians. Maxim, meanwhile, drifted around the club with his sons, his gaze half elsewhere; the road was already unwinding behind his eyelids. People came up with that special mixture of curiosity and concern and asked, “So you’re really leaving tomorrow morning?” Then came the encouraging smile, the knowing shake of the head, and their very best wishes.

Deep down, they all thought it was a game—that somehow the boys’ determination to abandon warm, comfortable apartments at some unholy Moscow hour would simply dissolve, and by eleven the next morning, hungover, they would only just be prying their eyes open. After all, Moscow life was carrying on around them in full swing—pleasant enough in its way, but above all safe and familiar. Music thudded, the air smelled of sex, tobacco, and alcohol, and it seemed altogether impossible that in a few hours these two would start up their Harleys and set off around the world. In autumn, no less, in damp, bone-chilling weather, barely a month short of real winter. Yes, summer was waiting in the Southern Hemisphere, but first they had to swallow a few thousand kilometers to get there.

...Max was more or less packed: the gear stowed neatly, everything sorted and strapped down. All that remained was to get a little sleep. He had left the party early, wanting a bit of extra time at home to put his thoughts and feelings in order, so that in the morning he could leave with a clear head.

Over a family dinner, he realized he felt no nostalgia, no nerves—only pure drive and adrenaline at the thought of the great ride ahead. Besides, meetings with relatives were already planned; how sweet it would be to meet up in Paris, for instance. Or somewhere in Australia. With those pleasant thoughts, he fell asleep, hoping to wake sharp and fully tuned for the journey.

Volodya, on the other hand, partied at Rolling Stone until dawn, squeezing the last drops of Moscow juice out of the night, down to the final guitar riff. On top of that, he had been caught in a long quarrel with his then girlfriend, who could not have chosen a worse moment than the final night to stage a jealous scene. She had fixed on the idea that Roshchin thought it would be nice to invite old female friends to the party. She screamed that she was on her own and he was on his own, and wished him nothing but a lonely old age.

In the end, when his girlfriend slammed the door at around nine, Roshchin felt an astonishing sense of relief. Now he was entirely his own man: no obligations at all. Back in the day, explaining it all to his mother—why he was leaving, and where for—had been much harder. When Volodya told her six months earlier that he was setting off on a round-the-world motorcycle trip on October 15, she took it surprisingly calmly. She even joked about it from time to time, then more or less forgot, tucking the idea away in some far corner of her mind. In early October, Roshchin reminded her about the trip. That was when Mom said, “Well, I suppose there’s no talking you out of it now.” And yet, almost every day, in one way or another, she tried. Naturally, without the slightest success. In the end, being an intelligent woman, Mom understood that her son was no longer a child; if he had finally decided to follow the dream of his whole life, nothing on earth would make him turn back. That understanding proved stronger than maternal anxiety—which, after all, is practically inevitable whenever sons and motorcycles appear in the same sentence...

...All these thoughts churned through the prodigal son’s brain, scorched by alcohol and lack of sleep—thoughts of his mother, of home, and of how damn good it feels to set off when every loose end has been tied and no one is waiting for you. He paced back and forth across the room, barely managing to pack. He shoved his gear into the bags any which way, cramming things wherever they would fit, and by the time he threw a leg over the saddle, the world was already drifting in a haze. The result: he turned up twenty minutes late...

October 15, 2011. A humming crowd gathered to see us off by Saint Basil’s Cathedral—riders on two wheels and pedestrians on two legs alike. Max’s wife, Masha, was there with their boys, Styopa and Senya; they had even brought little Vasilisa, the youngest daughter, along with them. Naturally, Roshchin’s mother came too, as did plenty of familiar faces from the biker world and close friends. A few were missing—they had got so thoroughly smashed at the farewell party the night before that they couldn’t lift their heads from the pillow. But what can you do—we understood...

Friends and family were caught in all kinds of emotions, though mostly it came down to awe mixed with disbelief. Somewhere deep down, the people left at home still held on to a faint hope that the guys would lose their nerve at the last moment and stay. Or at least put the departure off by a week. A day. Even a few hours. Even close friends didn’t believe the boys could hit the timing exactly—not after a solid night of partying. They were counting on the usual post-binge stupor and a general to-hell-with-it mood. But when you’ve spent a year preparing for a ride around the world, and you need to finish it in time for next year’s festival, that calls for precision and discipline. Our riders had agreed from the start: keep to the schedule and leave on time, whatever it cost.

People looked over our iron bodies with a fair amount of skepticism. Many had never seen us before; they came up, gave us a careful once-over, and shook their heads. The very idea of covering such distances on Sportsters struck them as a risky undertaking. Some even smirked: “You really think that bike’ll make it as far as the Black Sea?!” But we knew better. We would make it. And go farther. And, if everything went well, we would make it back home too. In short: we were every bit as determined as the men sitting in our saddles.

Now came the real question: which route to take. At the last minute, we found out that the ferries from Sochi and Odesa to Turkey had been canceled. The first—and certainly not the last—curveball in our supposedly foolproof itinerary... We settled on Odesa: if the worst came to the worst, we could still make it to Istanbul overland, following the coast through Romania and Bulgaria. The only problem was that the weather had no intention of cooperating.

Dima Khitrov, an experienced traveler, advised taking the Orsha turnoff—first along the Minsk highway, then onto the Saint Petersburg–Odesa road. The guys agreed at once. Especially since the first snow had begun to fall, mixed with rain; a biting wind was blowing, and they were itching to change the scenery as quickly as possible.

Four biker friends escorted us as far as the first gas station on the highway, about ten kilometers beyond the MKAD. One last brief brotherly farewell—and then Roshchin and Maxim were alone on the road. An extraordinary feeling, as if an entire world had been left behind. Moscow thoughts were still rattling around in their heads, but the fatigue had receded. The excitement and anticipation of a real round-the-world trip had won out.

Just past the border, we were stopped by our first traffic cops—Belarusian ones. It was supposed to be an autobahn with a 120 km/h speed limit; the navigator said the same. But the boys told us, “Nonsense. It’s 90 here, no arguing. Whoever’s frozen worse gets into the car.” So the two of them went over together. The officers glanced at the letters of introduction—paperwork never hurts—and, once they heard about the round-the-world trip, began firing off the questions that would later become a kind of refrain: “What’s your route? How long will it take? Just the two of you? And how are you paying for it?”

No fine, of course. They wished us a safe journey and even let us take a photo with them...

We stopped in Orsha for our first night. We could have pushed on another hundred or two hundred kilometers toward Gomel, but Roshchin had done 800 klicks on Red Bull and was starting to wobble by the end. Taking chances would have been absurd—the road ahead was far too long.

The first overnight stop on a big journey always tastes especially sweet. Max and Volodya had dinner at the Lesnoye café, unhurriedly split 300 grams of local herbal tincture, devoured some boiled tongue prepared homestyle by a Belarusian cook, and began to drift off. Exactly what they needed after the nervous exhaustion of those final Moscow days.

October 16, 2011... We woke at eight in the morning to frost on the speedometers. Barely two degrees above zero. Fortunately, the guys had slept well. Refreshed, they were ready to hit the road again. But not so fast. That first morning’s packing took more than two hours. Lesson number one for the entire trip: take only what you can carry in your own two hands. Omnia mea mecum porto. Everything else is dead weight. Later, from Paris, each of them would send a suitcase home. But sorting through the gear right away wasn’t easy. In those first days, neither Max nor Volodya could quite get the weather right. Too hot, then too cold. The electric heating they had pinned such hopes on could warm only one item of clothing at a time: jacket, trousers, or gloves. So they rotated them. At zero degrees, doing 100 klicks an hour, your backside is roasting while your fingers are turning to ice. Absolutely surreal.

...Anyway, we didn’t roll out until half past ten in the morning. Odessa was still 1,000 kilometers away. Covering that distance in this weather—let alone before dark, before the black ice came in—was out of the question.

It was a strange feeling: the farther south we rode, the colder it got. The whole road looked like one enormous puddle, sealed under a skin of ice. In conditions like that, a rider has to keep both hands clamped to the bars and stay alert every second. God forbid the bike starts to slide—you have to keep the front end straight...

...The Ukrainian border, to our surprise, was easy. The guys went through with their helmets on. Said if they took them off, that would be the end of them. The border guards just laughed. After that, it all went like clockwork: the round-the-world papers, two or three friendly questions from customs—and we were in Ukraine. Twenty minutes for the whole business.

...We rolled into Kyiv at sunset. Pulled over on the ring road to warm up, then decided to press on. Another 300 kilometers through the black night. The boys’ ears were freezing inside their helmets. Fog hung heavy. They felt like proper hardcore riders.

We stopped for the night 200 kilometers short of Odesa. A good hot meal, a scalding shower, and, naturally, some horilka. We agreed to be up no later than seven, hoping to make Odesa in the morning and settle everything about the ferry. The thought of riding all the way around the Black Sea didn’t exactly thrill anyone—not in weather like this...

October 17. We entered Odesa and at once took in the feel of a big southern port city. Everyone breaks the rules as they please; cars appear out of nowhere at intersections; even the dogs throw themselves under your wheels, barking furiously. People shout across the streets, swear, joke, horse around, hustle for whatever small advantage they can get—and through it all runs that inevitable smirk, the local trademark: “What did you expect?” Most of the Jews have left Odesa, but Mama Odesa hasn’t lost her flavor. That sort of thing hangs in the air, lives in the architecture, in the way the local women walk, in the habits of the local crooks, in Moldavanka and Deribasivska, in the songs and the long walks through parks and along the beaches. Hell, it’s hard to say what carries it, or how...

We parked by the Sea Terminal, right at the foot of the Potemkin Stairs. Max went off to hunt for a ferry, while Roshchin stayed behind to watch the bikes—this is Odesa, after all; you have to respect local customs.

...Roshchin stood watch over the motorcycles, looked out at the sea, exchanged a few words with passersby, and before he knew it was deep in conversation with an old Odesan. The old man spun funny city tales about cardsharp friends and local floozies, lamented that the city wasn’t what it used to be and never would be again, and for some reason Roshchin found himself terribly moved. This elderly stranger reminded him of his own grandfather, Simon Natanovich, also an Odesa native, who had served as chief engineer on the Vilyuy, Bratsk, and Ust-Ilimsk hydroelectric stations. Roshchin had never met him, but this was exactly how he had always imagined him: cheerful, cultured, tragic, and deeply touching in his hard, cynical understanding of life. Grandfather had returned from Siberia to Odesa and split up with Grandmother when Roshchin’s mother was only eight. In the family, he had become something of a legend. Once, as a child, Volodya had even dreamed of him. In the dream, his grandfather was telling him something, trying to explain. Later it turned out the old man had died that very night...

...While Roshchin wandered through nostalgic memories, Max managed to find out that there were no ferries and there weren’t going to be any. But Odesa wouldn’t be Odesa if a quick chat with the guards hadn’t produced someone who might be able to help. He was the director of a travel agency and was, at that very moment, having lunch upstairs in the station restaurant.

The waiters pointed out the tour director, Konstantin, without hesitation. A perfectly decent fellow—and a motorcyclist besides. When he heard about the round-the-world trip, he came alive and immediately set to work on the problem. Everything worked out beautifully, though not without a few complications. That very day, a ferry was leaving from the cargo port of Illichivsk, forty kilometers from the Potemkin Stairs. The vessel’s owner was Finnish; the ship had been built in 1974. But for some damned reason, they weren’t taking motorcycles aboard.

It took a good half hour of persuasion to bring the Finn around. When he finally named his price, Kostya nearly choked on his borscht. Only Maxim’s calm “okay” brought him back to the table. And so, for the princely sum of four hundred dollars—a hundred a head—we got two cabins and the prospect of rolling into Istanbul in twenty-four hours. “But there are only two of us,” Maxim tried to object. “And the motorcycles?” the Finn replied, immovable. “They pay full fare, same as people.” And just like that, we were granted living souls. Right there on the ferry out of Odesa, much as Father Adam had once named all the beasts of the earth, Roshchin and Maxim christened us Mighty and Ivanych. Roshchin chose Mighty in memory of Che Guevara’s Latin American run on a Norton 500, which he had called The Mighty One. Maxim chose Ivanych simply because he was Ivanych, and that was that. The border guards and customs officers didn’t bat an eye. They truly couldn’t have cared less. A couple of standard questions, and we—together with our riders—left the sovereign territory of independent Ukraine behind.

October 18. The storm raged all night, keeping the Sea Partner ferry tied up in port. We cast off only in the morning, but delays no longer bothered us. The important thing was to find the rhythm. By the fourth day on the road, you settle into it and stop feverishly counting the hours, the days, and the kilometers swallowed by the asphalt.

Even though we’d waited out the storm, the sea was still throwing us around—force three or four. Maxim listened to Clapton, sipped Jack Daniel’s, and read Dovlatov. Roshchin had meant to bang out a few texts and shoot some funny scenes on board, but he crashed almost at once. The Moscow sleep debt had finally caught up with him, I guess.

We had the most motley crew imaginable. Since this was a cargo ferry, no passenger cars were allowed. The only wheels bound for Istanbul belonged to big rigs, and to their drivers: Russians—plus Ukrainians and Belarusians, naturally—and Turks. The Russians, clean-shaven and bright-red-nosed, gathered in one lounge, while the Turks—dark-haired, mustachioed, wide-eyed to a man—took over the other. But once an action movie came on, everyone mixed together and settled in to watch.

That was where Maxim met Lekha, a huge trucker. Lekha had put away a kilo of vodka and announced that this was his limit. Any more was out of the question. He said that once he’d drunk two kilos, decided to overtake someone, and sent his rig flying onto the shoulder, nearly rolling it into a ditch at full speed. A true act of God, that one. So now Lekha knew his limit stone-cold: never more than a liter if he had to drive the next day. Life was worth more.

Maxim took in Lekha’s hard truth deeply, harsh as the Ukrainian steppe on a cold autumn night, even imagining himself behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler after two liters of the stuff. But that was clearly not his calling, and the thought alone lifted a weight from his soul. After all, a bike, a skateboard, or even some other kind of board was obviously way cooler. And when it came to testing your mettle, far more reliable...

The truckers received the round-the-world trip with immediate respect. They gave both the route and the whole idea a massive thumbs-up. They turned green with envy, plain and simple. As the booze flowed, so did the jealousy, and the usual questions—“Where to?”, “What for?”, “How’d you dare?”, “What about your wife?”, “And your job?”—started coming out completely sideways. They flipped through the photos, oohing and aahing like children. They were especially taken with our motorcycles. So light, so sporty. Could we really make it? We answered them loud and clear: “Hell yeah, we’re not big rigs, we’re lighter. Don’t you worry, we’ll push through wherever we have to...” Not that they could hear us by then. Far too many drinks...

But everything ends. There comes that blessed moment when even the last Ukrainian trucker, burping contentedly, stumbles off to bed.

Later that night, Maxim wrote two poems:

A butterfly caught in a storm. A fragile angel held captive by the elements. Your joy and your psalm fly off with the wind, forgetting where home lies.

Storm and butterfly. Picture the plot, and you understand there is no chance of going on. Yet she flies, having cracked the secret: not how long, but how!—and she brings us light.

And one more thing:

Storm raging; ferry locked in port. The cabin, a haven of homeland and comfort. Shalom to the Odessan—seventy years won’t erase him. The deck is a racetrack packed with a hundred rigs and two lone bikes.

Turks and Ukrainians in separate lounges. The Ukrainians are getting hammered; the Turks are playing backgammon. Twenty-four hours from Odessa to Istanbul. Ragged thoughts tossed about in a Black Sea gale.

October 19. We pulled into Istanbul at eight in the morning and understood at once: this is a city of traffic jams and waiting. First, the border guards took Max and Roshchin off somewhere downtown to get their stamps, and left them stewing in traffic for about four hours. Then customs swallowed another three. What can you do? The East. Everyone is kind, polite, unhurried, and not a word of English. And why would they need it? In a cargo port, Turkish and international profanity are quite enough. Though this time it never came to profanity. By four in the afternoon our travelers had been released into the city on entirely legal grounds. It cost them nothing. Just ordinary bureaucratic red tape, which, as we would later discover, had not even been tied with any particular care. Typical Asian sloppiness. One wonders: was all this happening on the Asian side, or the European? Then again, around the Golden Horn, where almost all of world history once took place, Asia and Europe have mixed so thoroughly that the devil himself couldn’t tell them apart.

The guys were in excellent spirits, and the weather in the city rose to the occasion. Sun, warmth — nothing like the October rain whipped across the Ukrainian steppe by the wind. Maxim said Moscow had finally let him go. Roshchin lied and said it hadn’t been holding him back anyway. At the hotel, the greatest luxury turned out to be a hot bath. A few days on the road, and you begin to value life’s simplest pleasures with almost ferocious intensity...

By evening it was time to stroll down to the Bosphorus. People are people: they prize cultural and historical landmarks, places of revelation and battle. Who hasn’t passed through this strait? Byzantines and Venetians, Greeks and Romans, ruthless Ottomans, even the Russian prince Oleg, who nailed his shield somewhere around here. The gates of Tsargrad — I wonder exactly where they stood? True, the Greek chronicles do not say a word about these Slavic exploits. But everyone has his own memory; we have known that for a long time.

So Max and Roshchin set off to photograph the beauties and monuments of the Bosphorus. There was only one problem: it took them three hours to cover five kilometers. They could have walked it much faster. Only later did the locals explain that the only transport in the city guaranteed to get you anywhere on time is a boat. Istanbul is a gateway to the sea. It spreads along both its Asian and European shores for such distances that going by water is both shorter and faster. You only have to know how. Max and Roshchin did not, so they abandoned the sightseeing and happily headed to a restaurant to eat meat. The meat was good. Turks, like all Muslims, know how to cook it. They lit cigars and immediately fell into conversation with the owner. As an icebreaker, the cigar proved a sure thing. The owner told them everything he knew and could put into his limited English: about Istanbul, Turkey, Europe, women, men, and life on earth. The guys went to bed equipped with the most eclectic collection of facts imaginable.

October 20. The next morning, according to the plan made in advance, was set aside for filming. Our friends heroically dragged themselves out of bed at six in the morning, which helped—though not for long. By eleven the city had come to a standstill. Around the Grand Bazaar, you couldn’t squeeze through even on foot. The only thing that saved us was our talent for riding up staircases and along sidewalks. We got off lightly: a few scratches on Ivanych’s front fender and a master class in profanity for the local drivers. But there was no question about it: we had to get out of this town.

In the middle of all that crush and chaos, another amusing incident occurred. A Turk was selling a handmade rug—the finest rug in the world, by any measure; you wouldn’t find another like it anywhere. Not even a rug, really, but an ornament fit for a pasha’s palace. And the price for such a masterpiece? Sixty dollars. Roshchin entered into a verbal dance with the Turk and traded him a World Trip cigar for the rug. After all, that was a unique cigar too, one of a kind, rolled entirely by hand from extra-super tobaccos that don’t even exist on earth. You’d only find them up in Allah’s paradise, where the houris serve hookahs. So sixty dollars wasn’t a price at all—more of a symbolic gesture, a token. It turned out the Turk was a longtime admirer of our cigars; he had heard tales of Roshchin’s and Privezentsev’s grandfathers and grandmothers, of what legendary cigar connoisseurs they had been and what groundbreaking discoveries they had made in the art of smoking. He was absolutely delighted. Max nearly collapsed with laughter.

“Look at that,” he said, stroking the Turkish rug. “We thought we’d launch sales in Russia, and here we are launching them in Istanbul.”

Needless to say, the Turk was extremely pleased with his acquisition as well. He was already dreaming of how he would walk into the coffeehouse that evening, order his coffee, light up the beauty, and tell the boys how he had swapped a mere rug for such a magnificent cigar. In this case, the golden rule of the Eastern bazaar was in full force: buyer and seller part ways, both exceptionally pleased with the deal, each convinced he has cleverly swindled the other.

October 21. Who knows who was more exhausted by the traffic jams—us or our riders. But all these sights—the Hagia Sophia; the Golden Horn, where Byzantine emperors once built their palaces; the old streets lined with wooden houses seething with life, where women quarreled and men drew gravely on their cigarettes; the very air of a civilizational frontier, a place where the West becomes the East and the East becomes the West; the stunning bridges, masterpieces and monuments in their own right, even if of the twentieth century; and finally the ultramodern skyscrapers and boulevards of the Asian side, this whole 2,500-year-old city spread wide between two worlds—were clearly worth the time and gasoline. “If Odesa is the mother of cities, then Constantinople is the father,” Max tossed out as the endless outskirts, stretching nearly a hundred miles behind us, finally melted away. “You’re right, of course, but I’d rather stay away from megacities for a while,” Roshchin shouted back.

It was a glorious morning as we rolled along the Sea of Marmara coast, bound for Greece. The scenery was dazzling, and the road had changed from gravel to crushed stone—slippery as a hockey rink before Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals. But for us and our riders, it was nothing. We knew the roads ahead would be different, and many of them far worse than this…

Two hundred and fifty kilometers later, we reached the border. It was already getting on for ten at night, but the guys still hoped to push another 350 kilometers to Thessaloniki in the cool of the evening. That was when the first border ordeal began. In fairness, no one could have seen it coming. The Turkish customs officers, swollen with self-importance and a sacred sense of duty, announced that Maxim and Roshchin’s passports were missing some stamp proving they had entered the country on motorcycles. And to get that stamp, they would have to go back to Istanbul.

What a delight. Two hundred and fifty klicks there and two-fifty back through a dark, cold Ottoman night. Roshchin tried to spin them a bleak tale about how they had spent seven straight hours clearing customs in Constantinople, arguing that if somebody had failed to stamp the passport, that was the fault of easygoing Turks, not Russian bikers. No use. Maxim produced his round-the-world documents and pleaded for some sort of compromise. The Turks would not budge. Georgian truckers standing nearby, watching the whole scene unfold, explained that this particular stamp mattered more than visas, passports, or any journey in the world. Then they instantly lost interest in Maxim and Roshchin, writing them off as lost causes. To make matters worse, we were not even in the entry computer. It was as if the guys had crossed the border on foot.

At last, the boys announced that they would pitch a tent right there and wait for the consul, the president, and the UN Secretary-General. It was Friday; tomorrow was Saturday. The cheerful truckers informed them that in that case, we would be stuck there for at least a week. With nothing else to be done, they made the decision: if the situation did not resolve itself within an hour, they would have to turn back to Istanbul.

On the neutral strip, as Vysotsky sang, flowers of extraordinary beauty bloom. But there were no flowers at the Turkish-Greek border, and the air was growing cold, so to pass the time Maxim and Volodya lit cigars. Somehow, the cigar smoke sharpened the Turkish post chief’s wits. He shouted, “Wait ten minutes!” and disappeared. Who knows what he discussed, or with whom, but thirty minutes later a completely different man was standing before us. “All okay, all okay,” he kept muttering. One more glass of local tea for each of us, two cigars as a gift—and the barrier went up. The Greeks, who have a particular affection for Turks, already knew everything, had heard the whole story, understood it all, and did not even bother to check us. We rolled through without inspections or questions, welcomed by a respectful: “Welcome to Greece!”

GERMANY PARIS BADEN-BADEN FRANCE SWITZERLAND ITALY BIARRITZ MILAN ALBANIA ISTANBUL PORTUGAL DURRES SPAIN BARI THESSALONIKI LISBON METEORA TURKEY SEVILLE GREECE

October 21. There is nothing better than an autobahn taking you into the night. Lights stream past, the wind whistles by, and it seems no force on earth can stop you as you fly toward your destination. Alas, there is one. Running out of gas.

As luck would have it, there wasn’t a single gas station on the highway after the border. We had to slip off into a small town along the way. The cold was savage. In these parts in autumn, the days are still warm enough, but at night the chill goes straight to the bone. The thermometer showed four degrees above zero, but it felt like a hard frost.

Maxim and Volodya began their favorite game of dress-up. Heated jacket or heated pants? Pants or jacket? The attendants at the station, watching this cinematic spectacle, were simply beside themselves with delight.

“Guys, did you get the season wrong? Or is this some kind of special trip?”

All our explanations about the round-the-world run and Africa waiting to shelter us somehow sailed right past them. As we pulled away, they went on animatedly discussing us for a long time, chuckling:

“Man, those guys are completely nuts.”

The highway ran on toward Thessaloniki—or Salonika, as the Greeks themselves call it. The city was founded by the Macedonian king Cassander in the early fourth century, and in the Byzantine era it became the empire’s great crossroads on the routes from Constantinople to Rome and from Athens to the northern coast of the Black Sea. Back then it was all one world, one country, and the roads we were racing along, cutting through the dark, were certainly more than two thousand years old.

We reached Thessaloniki at about one in the morning. The guys checked into the hotel, took a quick shower, and immediately went back out—to shake off the road and change the scenery.

Max and Roshchin didn’t have to wander far, wondering where to drop in. Right opposite the hotel, in the very center, stood a building with a sign: Biker Cafe. The moment the doors swung open, the guys understood they had landed exactly where they needed to be. Practically home—in the biker sense of the word. Rough red-brick walls, a few motorcycles tucked into the corners, a band onstage playing ZZ Top covers. They ordered Jack Daniel’s, and then the owner came over and offered to treat them to raki. And that was that. One drink, and brotherhood began.

The Greek—who, as it turned out, was called Kostas—was a bald, bearded man in his fifties, with a sly squint. He fed them and poured for them on the house, refusing to take a single drachma or ruble. He asked about the round-the-world trip, told stories about the local bikers, and quizzed them about Russia and Russian girls. In between, everyone danced to frantic rock ’n’ roll and swayed to the blues.

All in all, the night was a roaring success. At least that was what Max thought when he woke up in his room just before dawn, still fully dressed. Roshchin, meanwhile, had made a firm decision: as long as he could stand, he was not leaving this place. Two waitresses—true Greek fig trees, with classic Hellenic profiles, splendid breasts, inviting backsides, and deep black eyes that drew you under—were happy to keep him company. For a long time he pondered: “Together, or one at a time?” But he never quite arrived at a verdict. Let it be as it would.

...At five in the morning, as everyone was drifting away, Kostas gave Max and Volodya silver Harley-Davidson rings marking the brand’s centenary. Then, quite unexpectedly, he unclipped a knife from his belt—one he hadn’t been without for years—and pressed it into Volodya’s hand. “Here, take it, man!” If Roshchin hadn’t been so drunk, he would probably have burst into tears.

October 22. We were in no hurry to tear ourselves away from such wonderful people. So in the morning, having rubbed the sleep from their eyes and worked the stiffness out of their legs, Maxim and Volodya set off to have a look around. Heather was in bloom everywhere, and the unthinkably beautiful autumn intoxicated them more powerfully than last night’s rakia. They felt an urgent need to restore their health, somewhat depleted by the night’s festivities. The local bikers suggested they try ouzo—an ancient Greek drink, practically medicinal, distilled not from grapes but from honey. It meant taking a ride, but it was worth every mile. According to legend, the secret of this brew has almost been lost and is now kept by only twelve families in these parts, in a small mountain town in Chalkidiki—near Mount Olympus and, appropriately enough, the Cave of Dionysus.

The road was so good that no one even noticed the distance. Two hours in the saddle, and we were there. The only trouble was that Maxim’s helmet visor had fallen off the day before, and he had repaired it with duct tape. Now it had only two positions: open or shut. Max decided to tear along with the visor up and regretted it at once. Two bees hit him square in the forehead at full speed. Wooden beehive boxes stood all along the roadside. He should have remembered the local mead.

In the town itself, genial old men with cloudy but kindly eyes sat in tiny, well-kept bars. They basked in the autumn sun and sipped a white, almost transparent liquid. Time had stopped in the central square. Everyone had known everyone else for years; no one had anything left to prove to anyone. Three generations of men simply sat there, drinking, and were probably happy in their own way. The local history museum, devoted almost entirely to the story of ouzo—that national moonshine—displayed photographs of nearly every resident from the early twentieth century, from the days before the First World War. It seemed nothing had changed. The same smiling faces, the same slightly puffy look from the beloved drink.

The evening’s program was perfectly clear: Biker Cafe, no compromises. Kostas met the guys almost at the door and immediately invited them to the birthday party of a friendly motorcycle club, held at the club’s headquarters. We rode over and were there within minutes. Bonfires blazed in barrels, and a sweet atmosphere of rowdy merriment ruled the place. Stories of the round-the-world trip had beaten the travelers to it, and the questions came thick and fast. We got our share of admiration too, by the way. What? On city Harleys, through African dirt roads? Man, you guys are badass! Complete madness!

Drinks came at our riders from every side. The locals traded stories about who had ridden where, on what, and how; they offered advice and told tall tales. Growing sentimental, Maxim and Roshchin invited everyone to their own bike festival, which Total Flame holds every summer in Suzdal. The Greeks had no idea where Suzdal was, but in principle, nothing was stopping them from riding to Russia. It wasn’t Greenland, after all. Not so far overland, either. And Greeks are real riding people.

By nightfall, getting back to the Biker Cafe felt like coming home. Inside, Full Houze were tearing the place up again, hard enough that Max was hopping on one leg in front of the stage, playing air guitar in full AC/DC mode, while Roshchin promptly disappeared into the arms of Greek beauties. In the end, the guys from Full Houze were invited to Suzdal too. If anyone can set a jam session on fire, it’s them...

October 23... The essence of rock and roll is that wild abandon and frenzy have to be mixed with reflection and delicate feeling, just as the bacchanal of the drums is woven through with guitar meditations. We said goodbye to hospitable Thessaloniki and set off for Meteora, one of the most astonishing places on the map of Hellas. Here, in the heart of the Thessalian plain, two kilometers north of Kalambaka, six-hundred-meter cliffs shoot into the sky, crowned with Orthodox monasteries. Legend has it that in the Middle Ages, when these temples were built, there was only one way to reach the top. The monks hauled up building materials—and one another—in special baskets. Pilgrims went up the same way. Only those the monks wished to see ever made it to the monastery. Not a single stranger, not one uninvited guest.

Stairways were carved into the cliffs only at the beginning of the last century. We rode right up to the foot of them, and Maxim and Volodya began their ascent toward heaven. The view from the rocks down over the surrounding towns and villages made the heart tighten. Below, life hummed along with all its petty anxieties, quarrels, resentments, small victories, and defeats. Up here, under the clouds, time had slowed, almost stopped; it seemed that one more step would carry you into the distant past, and another would have you waking in the future. Max fell into conversation with a smiling, good-natured priest resting on a marble bench beside the church. The father asked about our round-the-world journey and gave us his blessing, first making sure he knew our route in detail. He even recalled the ancient Nazirite vow, which requires ceaseless wandering, never remaining more than a day in any one place. “Travelers are, in a sense, akin to hermits,” he observed. Roshchin and Privezentsev only exchanged glances. The perfect idyll was slightly spoiled by a candle seller who looked for all the world like a homosexual. Then again, perhaps that was only a first impression. Maybe the fellow was bisexual, or perhaps he had a thing for little girls. Such thoughts, of course, could be put down to outrageous biker homophobia. It is holy ground, after all, but ingrained cynicism will have its way. Diogenes, the first Cynic, who spent his days in a barrel somewhere around here, would surely have approved...

...But we had to hurry. A ferry to Italy was waiting, and we still had a fair distance to cover. The road, though, was no ally of speed. Hairpin bends with blind corners, slick pavement scattered with the same granite grit, and at an altitude of about fifteen hundred meters—or so the navigator claimed—we plunged straight into a cloud. Visibility fell to fifty meters at best; we tried to stay close together, catching sight of one another only by the brief flash of hazard lights. Pure surrealism. Not a café, not a gas station along the way, none of that tourist polish—just Tarantino’s soundtrack blasting in Roshchin’s player and Led Zeppelin in Max’s ears: absolute bliss for a true Harley. No motorcycle on earth felt as glorious in that moment as we did!

We reached the crossing in time—only to find it closed. The ferry crews were on strike. By morning, though, we were already heading for Albania, hoping to catch another boat. Albania is a desperately poor country. People there count every penny and have no idea what the word “strike” means.

October 24. We set off at ten in the morning. The plan was to make the five o’clock ferry from Durrës to Ancona. Four hundred kilometers lay ahead: half through Greece, half through Albania. If that ferry—and the next—fell through, we’d have to stretch this Balkan tour even farther: Montenegro, then Croatia, then Trieste, Venice. Tempting, of course, but an infernally long way round. So we decided to press on. The weather was perfect: not a cloud in the sky, and warm enough to ride. The Greek highway practically begged us to open the throttle: the first two hundred klicks were behind us in exactly two hours. At the border, everything was sheer delight. A customs officer named Vasily turned out to be a biker himself; he even gave us his mobile number, in case things got tricky on the Albanian side. But the Albanians gave us no trouble at all—the whole border ritual took fifteen minutes, no more.

As we were leaving Greece, Maxim observed:

“Funny thing. Everybody keeps talking about a Greek default, but look at this: smooth roads, bars and restaurants packed with cheerful people, not one bum and not one sour face in the street. Can you imagine such a terrifying crisis? I wish we had one like that.”

“No,” Roshchin said. “It wouldn’t work for us. Too much gold and foreign currency in the reserves.”

...The Albanian border was once the edge of the world. After all, this was the most socialist country of all the socialist countries. When Khrushchev quarreled with Mao back in the day, Albania’s leader, Enver Hoxha, sided with the Chinese. As a result, Europe more or less forgot for decades that Albania existed at all. The Albanians themselves, meanwhile, were preparing for total war. Only the Romanian dictator Ceaușescu met fiery Enver’s standards of communist purity—and even he only partly...

The result was that the country looked as if it had lived through years of heavy fighting. Though no actual war had taken place here—this wasn’t Yugoslavia, after all. Even so, abandoned concrete pillboxes, barracks, watchtowers, and other fortifications were scattered everywhere. For the first fifty klicks the road was decent enough—no worse than the Greek stretch—but then it simply ended. The boys stopped for lunch, had excellent lamb, along with chunks of wild boar and venison, and perhaps that was a mistake. As if by magic, the asphalt dissolved into dirt. A dirt-road switchback is exactly what you need if your aim is to keep the enemy from making a quick dash into the heart of your tiny country. We crawled along at thirty klicks an hour and dreamed of nothing faster. One could only imagine what it would have been like if gallant Albanian infantrymen had been firing at us from the roadside bunkers. Dealing with them would have been no easy matter.

But there was no war—only peace and friendship—and, to be honest, no one felt any particular urge to visit Tirana, capital of this proud republic. At one point, beautiful asphalt suddenly appeared again, but ten klicks later the road workers set us straight: yes, there would be a motorway here—just give it another three or four years. Come back then.

Still, Max and Roshchin—like any men who had just put away a mountain of good meat—were in excellent spirits, and the state of the pavement did nothing to spoil their mood. Countless Mercedes tore past, most of them relics of the last century; there are more of them here than in Germany, though the fleet could clearly use a serious overhaul. There wasn’t much time to admire the scenery anyway: the graves along the highway kept pulling our eyes to them. It felt as if we were driving through a cemetery. Clearly, life in Albania is so sweet that the locals don’t value it in the slightest. Reckless drivers—they won’t get far at that pace.

Joking aside, Albania is a strikingly picturesque country, and it too endured socialism. Our condolences.

We made the ferry.

October 25. Morning greeted us with Ancona. Milan was still 450 kilometers away. We covered the distance without a single stop, straight through torrential rain. The guys were exhausted and chilled to the bone, but one of Europe’s most stylish cities seemed a prize worth earning.

October 26. Milan lived up to its reputation. By the following evening, Roshchin had pulled up beside a brightly painted MINI Cooper to ask about the city’s most interesting restaurants. Guidebooks and travel guides felt too obvious; it was far more fun to find something fresh for themselves. Two Italian girls spilled out of the Cooper, each more alluring than the other, talking over one another as they suggested exotic options. In the end, they decided to escort the guys to dinner themselves—this mission was simply too important to entrust to anyone else. Somewhere along the way, someone called up a few local friends from the ’81 crowd and asked them to bring the finest wine in town, the kind no one else has and never could. The red-and-white crew arrived promptly, hauling a case of the legendary Exclusive Rothschild, bottled strictly for insiders.

Max, meanwhile, simply enjoyed a proper dinner and was already drifting off when a poem came to him:

Fellow travelers come in different temperaments.

Some listen to “The White Guard,” others to “The Untouchables.”

Some savor Burgundy with a poet’s toast. Some slam a Baltika, marking the corner with a piss.

Some fly first class to America. Some head to the next courtyard, masters of returning empty bottles.

Some stroll unhurriedly to a boutique with yet another dame. Some walk at thirty with a torn condom for a heart—already old men.

Some book yet another restaurant. Some blow a month’s pay in a day and charge headlong into the crowd.

Some speed toward Rublevka, blinding everyone with blue flashing lights. Some bury a loved one, unable to scrape together money for the healers.

Some turned callous long ago, caked in glamorous makeup. Some remained bright, having survived the extremes of the police state.

Some measure life by how badass their aiguillettes look. Some long ago stopped caring about the value of cheap flash.

Strange how idiots preach about how to live. Listening to “The White Guard,” all you want is to be untouchable.

October 27. ...From Milan, the plan was to head north to Baden-Baden. Thanks to Kharms, the very name sounds like a punchline: “Turgenev got scared and ran off to Baden-Baden.” And why not? After thirteen grinding days of cold roads and heavy drinking, a day at the baths seemed not only timely but entirely proper. Besides, it was a chance to see what contemporary humanity looks like in so aggressively literary a place, a place whose image is stitched together, top to bottom, from nineteenth-century associations. Max had always felt at home in Baden-Baden, perfectly at ease there, while Roshchin was curious: the old European cultural canon after Milanese rock ’n’ roll.

The road ran through the Alps. Outrageous, postcard scenery; Swiss towns and villages like dollhouses—a neat, prosperous idyll. The air tickled the nose, almost crystalline in its purity, and naturally it was not exactly warm. But everyone had got used to the cold by then, accepted it as one more unavoidable condition of the road. We took our time, stopped for lunch in Switzerland, shot more material for the film, and covered the last hundred-odd kilometers after dark. That was when the boys really froze solid, so badly that the shower water in the hotel felt scalding, like water straight from a boiling kettle. Our only salvation on the way was the tunnels. You fly ten kilometers or so through a black hole under the mountains, and it’s warm. Volodya even sang an ode to European engineering. The mere thought of crawling up those mountain switchbacks was enough to make your spine shudder.

October 28. Baden-Baden, especially in clear, sunny weather, calms the nerves and draws the mind away from troubles. That, after all, is its earthly calling.

The local thermal baths were founded by the Romans themselves. The tradition of not dividing men and women into separate quarters also goes back to pagan times. Quite right, too—what’s the point? We are all human, after all. Women come in all kinds: beautiful, plain, and simply creatures of the opposite sex. At a spa resort, it is usually the last category that predominates. Still, Maxim and Volodya thanked fate that they had arrived here straight from Milan, and not after a month of nonstop riding. That would have been something to see.

Even so, it proved entertaining enough. Some Berlin lady, evidently inspired by her older girlfriends’ stories about the merry summer of ’45, insisted on giving Roshchin her phone number and urged him to visit whenever he happened to be touring the Reichstag. Roshchin replied that storming Berlin was not exactly on his agenda at the moment, but should the occasion arise, he would certainly look her up.

All day long Maxim and Volodya washed and steamed, steamed and washed, in the city’s most famous bathhouse, occasionally recalling Suvorov’s old saying: “After the bathhouse, sell your shirt, but drink your hundred grams.” A hundred grams, of course, was hardly enough, but over at the Rodina restaurant they had a proper heart-to-heart about life itself. And life, as it turned out, could hardly have looked more attractive.

October 29. The very next day brought our first real test. Roughly 2,400 kilometers to Seville—and we decided to do it in one straight shot, mixing business with pleasure. The boys had printed out their Iron Butt application forms and were deadly serious about joining the Iron Butt Association, whose requirement is 1,600 kilometers in twenty-four hours. To us, that seemed a touch too athletic in the middle of a round-the-world ride—but then again, what motorcycle is going to argue with its rider? Besides, a Harley thrives on a challenge. So off we went!

Truth be told, there was no particular need to charge off toward Seville. Then the cigar question surfaced again. After all, it was in Seville that Europe’s first cigar factory was founded—and the building is still there. We wanted to see what the cradle of European cigars looked like at the dawn of the twenty-first century. Besides, Maxim had long had an idea in his head: to cross Europe from sea to sea. He had already done the Baltic stretch back in the summer. True, Roshchin hadn’t been with him then, but the lads chose not to dwell on that detail.

And the strongest argument of all—voiced right there in Baden-Baden, in the Rodina restaurant, where this leg of the journey was being planned—was the heat waiting for us in Seville. Twenty-seven degrees Celsius in the open air, after damp highways, sleet mixed with rain, and all the other delights of late autumn in northern Europe—who was going to argue with that?

We rolled out at about nine; it was foggy and cold. The GPS promised Seville by seven the next morning. Germany passed without incident—the weather let us keep up a good pace. But the moment we entered France, a little adventure presented itself. Alas, on a long haul like this, such things are hard to avoid.

For the first few kilometers on the local autobahn, we were gliding along nicely in the left lane. We had just overtaken a girl in a little Peugeot, the sort who looked like a high school biology teacher, when suddenly—though, to be fair, anything that bursts out of the bushes onto an autobahn is always sudden—a dog shot across the road. Maxim, truth be told, had only one thought: “Well, that’s it.” The girl was bound to jerk the wheel left on pure instinct—pity for the poor mutt, of course—and take him out first, then Volodya, and then the whole line of us in that lane. So we hit the brakes, while Maxim, in his head, worked out a flight path that might not send us straight over the median into oncoming traffic. Just to give ourselves some sort of chance. But miracle of miracles! Whether she was putting on lipstick, pondering some newly discovered species, or daydreaming about her last lover, the girl did not so much as twitch the wheel. Like a tank, she drove straight over the foolish, curious pooch, spraying blood over every vehicle nearby. Of course you feel sorry for the dog, and in ordinary circumstances that would be the whole story—the creature was doomed anyway. But we came through intact, though splattered with gore, which, all things considered, was not half bad. That Halloween-style thunderclap jolted Maxim and Volodya awake better than any Red Bull ever could. They crossed themselves and pressed on, filled with renewed zeal.

Before setting off on their record attempt, the guys had agreed to run each bike almost to the last drop. Maxim had worked out that one of them — Ivanych — would have enough fuel for 300 kilometers, maybe even 320. The other, Mighty One, ought to make at least 300. But at kilometer 270, Mighty One coughed and died. What had gone wrong was anyone’s guess. True, Volodya is bigger and heavier than Maxim, which means more wind resistance and a heavier load. But could that really account for such a difference? One way or another, Mighty One turned out to be burning ten percent more fuel than Ivanych. What followed looked like something out of an oil painting: two magnificent Harleys, one towing the other along the shoulder at thirty kilometers an hour. And that wasn’t even the whole picture.

Evening came down. France was behind us; Spain lay ahead. At the very first gas station, they filled both tanks to the brim. The guys knocked back another Red Bull and tore into yet another Snickers. Then what the hell happened? Mighty One began sneezing and belching thick clouds of gray smoke. Maxim immediately assumed the worst and started grilling Volodya about which nozzle he’d used at the pump. In short, it was hilarious. Everyone who saw it nearly died laughing. Though fatigue may yet have plenty of surprises in store for us before this trip is over. Bottom line: poor old Mighty One had been filled to the cap with diesel. Maxim even joked that Roshchin, annoyed by the high fuel consumption, had decided to save money — diesel is more economical, isn’t it? The man must have read too many motorcycle magazines...

It took them about an hour to drain the diesel. Eventually they flushed the engine and poured in fresh gasoline. The Harley gave one last cough, and the motor settled into a steady tick, like a Swiss watch. Makes you wonder what they would have done if they’d been riding BMWs or Hondas. No doubt they’d have spent five days, maybe a full week, stuck in some service bay waiting for comprehensive diagnostics and an engine rebuild. There is something about a Harley that speaks to the Russian soul: when it comes down to it, it just keeps going. Like a Kalashnikov — it won’t let you down, whatever the odds...

...By three in the morning, we had covered 1,450 kilometers. The guys were utterly wiped out and decided to grab a few hours’ sleep, knowing they still had time in reserve. The resort season was over; hotels were shuttered, motels packed solid. So Maxim and Roshchin unrolled their sleeping bags right there in a truck-stop parking lot. Another perfect Easy Rider moment: autumn, a warm Spanish night, and that intoxicating taste of freedom.

October 30. After snatching a couple of hours’ sleep, Maxim and Volodya Roshchin opened the throttle again and managed to rack up 1,600 kilometers within the allotted 24 hours. Target met! And in high spirits, with a serious case of steel ass, they rolled into Seville, having logged 2,400 kilometers in 32 hours.

October 31. For some two hundred years, the site of Europe’s first cigar factory in Seville has been humming with university life. The only reminder of tobacco here was the students, puffing away in unison on fragrant roll-ups on the steps of the grand staircase. Maxim and Roshchin had coffee and croissants in the university cafeteria, exchanged a few words about how time flows and the world changes, and decided to press west toward the Atlantic coast, to the glorious city of Lisbon.

The highway into Portugal was excellent, though full of twists, and let us ride without thinking too much about the road. We got there easily and with confidence.

The hotel lobby was celebrating Halloween. This dubious American holiday had made it even here, to this citadel of European Catholicism. October was ending; Europe was ending. A bespectacled DJ in his fifties spun moth-eaten Britpop hits from the 1980s. The guys cheerfully smoked a World Trip cigarette each and, in high spirits, went up to their rooms for some sleep.

November 1. Morning found us on the ocean shore. It was warm but overcast. Gulls, their wings barely grazing the water, rose with desperate cries before diving back into the crests of the waves. Elderly Portuguese fed pigeons on the pier. Some stared into the distance; others watched the line of surf. Maxim and Roshchin sat for nearly an hour in complete silence. Each was lost in his own thoughts, listening to the roar of the waves. Or perhaps they were not thinking at all, simply dissolving into this music of space, the crash of the surf, the cries of the gulls. Beside the ocean, everything seems small and fleeting: houses, cities, people, their joys and sorrows. You want to rise, if only a little, to meet that grandeur—to love, to accomplish feats, to grasp the laws of the universe. The ocean has no patience for fuss, deceit, or hypocrisy; it speaks to you in earnest, and it speaks only plainly...

Once, ships sailed from here to seek unknown lands, to conquer Africa, America, Asia. Here the pride and majesty of Europeans grew and hardened: conquerors of space, masters of the world, men who boldly challenged uncharted straits, mysterious bays, ominous legends, and barbarous countries. They felt themselves victors in advance, convinced that, apart from death and luck, no force on earth could drive them off course.

We too, two bikes—the Mighty One and Ivanych—were heirs to that great will, that great impulse. Fidelity to the spirit of freedom, Harley-Davidson blood in our veins, drove us onward and onward—from this shore to the shores of other continents.

But our road to the equator ran through Paris. There we were to be loaded onto a plane bound for Nairobi. And our tires could already sense the dust of African roads...

November 2. The return north was colored by the shades of parting with Europe. Our travelers had grown a little tired of endless highways and were glad they would soon reach a city they had long loved, to pause there briefly. To rest from the saddle, wander the boulevards and embankments, and take in that festive atmosphere which, as Papa Hem would have said, is always with you...

On the first day, we covered roughly 1,000 kilometers from Lisbon to Biarritz. To the Russian ear, Biarritz carries weight. It is home to one of the most renowned Orthodox churches in the West—the Cathedral of the Intercession. It commemorates the same miraculous salvation of Constantinople from the barbarians—Slavs, mind you—as Saint Basil’s Cathedral, the very place where our journey began. And so the circle closed.

Nearly a century ago, this resort—now a European surfing mecca—offered refuge to Russian émigrés. Stravinsky lived here with his lover, Coco Chanel; so did Chaliapin and a handful of Romanovs. Hard to believe that even earlier, Victor Hugo, visiting these shores with his mistress Juliette Drouet, wrote in his diary: “I hope Biarritz never becomes fashionable.” A little sad, a little funny. Such is the fate of nearly all Europe: settled, populated, famous, cut up into film stills and quotations...

Maxim Privezentsev and Volodya Roshchin spent the morning as they had before: sitting on the shore, smoking, watching the horizon. With Paris less than 800 kilometers away—and with far greater distances already behind us in a single week of this journey—the guys decided there was no hurry. They would simply enjoy this charming town. They wandered along the promenade, ate well, and took to the road only when the day had begun to fade toward evening.

We rolled into Paris through the Porte d’Orléans in the dead of night. Once we had crossed the Périphérique, it became perfectly clear: the first stage of the circumnavigation was complete.

And that felt right.

Back in Biarritz, Maxim had written a poem called “Roar of the Storm”:

Waves strike the shore With a storm-driven pulse. You walk on without looking back, Following an unknown course.

Moscow is behind us, And familiar faces too; Ahead lies an ocean of new encounters. Inspired over a cigar on the Biarritz promenade.

Perhaps it is from such moments— From watching the storm and the wave-riders on their tiny boards— That life assembles itself like a puzzle From the lacework of inner growth.

I walk unhurriedly along the Biarritz promenade; All these years I have been running somewhere, never able to stop.

Dropping everything, breaking the cycle of foregone conclusions, You glance back for a moment and remember the past with a smile. For the first time, nearing forty, I briefly felt— In unison with the ocean—the slow blues of a free heart.

The first reckoning of our round-the-world wanderings Came on the Biarritz promenade. The very thing I had been chasing, abandoning all else, rushing forward. After forty years of tsunamis, calm finally settled inside me. Let’s see what life writes on this blank page!!!

November 3. The cobblestones of Paris, worn now by millions of tourists, have seen everything humanity can possibly offer the universe. Nothing surprises them anymore. Through the seams and cracks in Baron Haussmann’s polished veneer, another Paris still shows through—one that never tried to hide its scars or secrets. A Paris of revolutions and riots, public executions and dizzying romances, royal receptions and imperial ambitions. Not only Napoleon, but Danton; not only Thiers, but the Marquis de Sade—all of them trod these stones, dreamily tracing the main lines of their lives across them. We Harley riders have vivid imaginations. And Paris sets that imagination loose as few cities on earth can.

We were heading to the service shop. Time for a preventive checkup—a physical, you might say, for the machines. After all, we had already clocked nearly 10,000 kilometers, and the dirt roads of Africa lay ahead. The guys entered the shop’s address into the GPS and cruised along at an easy pace, taking in the surroundings. In Paris, there is no real need to chase the usual landmarks. Every meter of scenery is a feast for the eyes.

Well, there we were. Maxim nearly slid off his seat in amazement. Roshchin laughed for a long time too. Right in front of us stood a sign: “Peugeot Scooter Repair.”

The little Frenchman, who had probably been fixing those scooters for years, tried to explain something to the guys in French, but alas, they understood almost nothing of the language of Diderot and La Fontaine. At last he began waving his arms and pointing across the street. Only then did Volodya think to turn his head. And there it was, directly opposite—the sign we had been praying for. “Harley,” as they say, “motherfucking Davidson.” “The spirit, inevitably, of freedom.” Shop, service center, parts warehouse—all under one roof.

The French mechanic couldn’t stop praising us. He liked everything: the build quality, the extra modifications. Ten thousand kilometers under our belts, and not a single part had shaken loose from vibration. That was seriously badass.

When he spotted the round-the-world stickers, he grilled the guys for ages: how, where, and when were they setting off from Paris; what was it like to ride a motorcycle in Russia; and just how beautiful life becomes when you hit the road for the long haul. Naturally, that familiar glassy look appeared in his eyes—the one every man gets when someone starts talking about faraway journeys while he himself is stuck going home to eat dinner, watch the box, go to bed, hug his wife, and sleep.

While we were being pampered at the French service center, Max and Volodya gave the local Marie Line shop a proper once-over, each picking up a new Ruby open-face helmet before Africa, and even managed to take a walk around the city.

That evening, we headed to the clubhouse for a meeting with the local 81s. Luckily, all the contacts had been arranged in Moscow beforehand.

Every full-patch member, their friends, and the old ladies turned up to have a look at us. Max and Volodya immediately felt at home, and the total language barrier—the hosts didn’t speak a word of English—didn’t stop them from holding an animated conversation for more than two hours. When night finally fell, everyone moved on to the Angels’ tattoo parlor, soaking up the local subculture through every pore.

November 4. The next morning brought our first parting from our riders. We headed off to the airport for loading. Volodya’s new helmet was pinching—he even tore it off in irritation. His skull was splitting. He shouldn’t have chosen such a tight fit; now he’d have to exchange it. Max, on the other hand, was delighted with his lid. Humming some tune, he cut through the Paris air.

An hour and a half of paperwork later, we were languishing in a warehouse, ready to be loaded onto the plane. Meanwhile, a charming girl behind the counter, representing our shipping company, handed the guys an umbrella and two bottles of French wine. A truly Gallic gesture. An Umbrella for a Biker in the Rainy Season. Now that would be a blockbuster. Some trashy exploitation flick with a violent scene roughly every ten minutes.

November 5–9. So the guys stayed behind in Paris, and only later, in Africa, did we hear about their adventures without us poor bastards, left to gather dust while waiting for a flight. But that only makes it more interesting. It’s like lovers meeting again, and that first question always carries a subtext: “So, how did you spend your time without me?” Translation: “Come on, out with it—who did you meet, when, and under what circumstances?”

Roshchin had plenty of meetings, and he handled them well, since his whole Paris stint unfolded under the Hells Angels banner. And with those guys, you don’t slack off. As for Max, his wife and children flew in, and his Paris days passed like a sweet dream before dawn. Walks, mulled wine, autumn embankments and boulevards. Pure Impressionism, Camille Pissarro forever. No extremes at all.