Sunday 11th & Monday 12th September
After
a brief night’s sleep in a hostel in Irkutsk, we woke up for an early start
back on the road. The objective was simple, send it as far across Russia as
possible and see what happens. A new challenge had emerged, rather than meander
our way through winding roads, beautiful scenery and picnic spots we were
gunning it for Moscow at breakneck speed. There were several reasons for this,
the first and perhaps most pressing being that Will and Isaac’s Russian visas
ran out in only 6 days time, so if they wanted to see their families again we
had to get a move on. We also didn’t fancy hanging around in a country where drink
driving is considered a pastime and male life expectancy is lower than both
North Korea and Iraq. However, eager to embrace Russia with open arms and to
not let the preconceptions of the west cloud our judgement, we wound the
windows down, stuck our necks out and absorbed the surroundings.
Our sights were set firmly on the city of Krasnoyarsk, the third largest city in Siberia, 1000km away. Like Mongolia before it, the landscape in this part of Russia was peaceful, harsh and sparsely populated yet no less beautiful. The smooth tarmac road of the east-to-west M53 highway pierced the dense forestland and crop fields either side of us. It was just us, the car and endless luscious scenery, the perfect conditions to sit back and eat up the miles.
By
lunch-time we pulled up to a trucker’s café and immediately ran into three
boisterous locals. Up until this point we hadn’t encountered any of the Russian
stereotypes one might expect. There were no blood doping pole-vaulters, no
naked ice skaters and even no genetically modified election hacking bears. One
cliché that most certainly is accurate however is the Russian’s obsession with
the bottle. In fairness it’s no surprise, the word vodka derives from the word
“voda” which literally translates to “water”. Honestly, look it up.
The
three frivolous gentlemen were no different as they necked shot after shot of
vodka with their lunch. By the looks of things they hadn’t stopped drinking
since the night before. Despite numerous attempts to beckon us over we gestured
that we had to drive, to which they simply laughed and poured out double. But
after at least 83 high fives and 35 handshakes each, we tore ourselves away and
returned to the road.
By
7:15pm we had reached the city of Krasnoyarsk but by this point we were barely
getting started. In a move that even Sir Stirling Moss would have been proud
of, we decided to strike whilst the engine oil was hot and complete our very
own Le Mans 24 hours of driving. Whilst Mr Moss had a 3.4L twin-cam, 6 cylinder
Jaguar C-Type at his disposal, by comparison we had a tissue box on wheels
powered by the engine of a milk float. Nevertheless, if there’s one thing that
epitomises Team Rub-a-dub-dub it’s that our optimism never waivers. The next
target was the city of Novosibirsk, another 794km west of Krasnoyarsk. By this
point we had been driving all day and darkness had descended upon us. This conveniently
brings me to explaining the state of safe driving (more absence off) in Russia
as a whole.
Firstly,
streetlights, they are pants. My Thomas the Tank Engine night light illuminates
more of its surroundings that these pathetic lanky candles. Nonetheless our car
headlights sufficed, but the same can’t be said for one of the Russian families
we shared the road with. Right up ahead of us was a saloon car without any
headlights whatsoever that was only being floodlit by a truck tailgating behind
it. I was half expecting to see the driver’s white cane poking out of the
window feeling the road before him. Whilst this driver obviously took the term
blind bend too literally, we were having a torrid time coping with the roads.
Hidden dips, gigantic potholes and a vast distance to cross were trying their
best to de-rail our progress.
At one point, Alf drove so fast over a pothole that Marigold bottomed out showering the road in sparks. Like any good team player we decided to pull over and wait for the Kenari to unsuspectingly hurtle towards the same pit of oblivion so we could have a good chuckle at their expense. However, co-driver Will ‘Admiral Ackbar’ Jennings caught wind of what lay in wait, exclaiming “it’s a trap”, allowing Isaac time to swerve around it.
At one point, Alf drove so fast over a pothole that Marigold bottomed out showering the road in sparks. Like any good team player we decided to pull over and wait for the Kenari to unsuspectingly hurtle towards the same pit of oblivion so we could have a good chuckle at their expense. However, co-driver Will ‘Admiral Ackbar’ Jennings caught wind of what lay in wait, exclaiming “it’s a trap”, allowing Isaac time to swerve around it.
Meanwhile,
we were making good progress. By now we had developed a regimented routine of
each driving in four hour shifts whilst the other two slept. Life suddenly had
become very simple indeed. It was a case of drive, sleep, piss, repeat. Occasionally
fuel and food would also feature, but by and large this was the idealised model
for operation send. In reality it felt more like steer with your knees and try
not to dose off, concuss yourself to sleep against the window, evacuate the car
when someone lets out a stinker, repeat.
After
a quick stop at Burger King at 1:30am, Alf elected to do a monstrous graveyard
shift all the way to 8.30am, thus completing our 24 hours non-stop on the road.
Hero. I would tell you more about this period but a) it would be the least
interesting read in this entire blog, and b) I was in a comatose state of
tiredness. We drove, it was dark, end of.
Not
content with ending the marathon here, we powered on for the city of Omsk,
another 654km away. With every mile gained closer to home the roads became
better, the cities more civilised and the food more westernised. We started to
miss the modest, simplistic lives of the lesser-developed world. Buying benzene
off the black market, sourcing water from the village well and stargazing with
the nomadic people on the Mongolian steppe now seemed a world away. Even the
buzz of excitement around our cars had tapered off somewhat. It was sad to
leave those memories behind but they serve as a constant reminder of how
different the lives of ordinary people are on this planet. A diversity that
should be embraced and allowed to flourish, it’s the one thing that separates
one man from the next, identity.
By
the morning the Kenari was experiencing difficulties. A quick diagnosis
revealed that both front suspension shocks had completely sheered and had
potentially been that way since Irkutsk (only 1200 miles ago). But since the
other half of Team Thunderbirds, Hockey, had bottled it and flown home, we came
to the mutual agreement it was his fault. After much deliberation, Will and
Isaac decided to stay true to the spirit of the rally and made the executive
decision to plough on regardless. If you ignore a problem for long enough,
eventually it’ll sort itself out. This cavalier attitude didn’t last long
however as they checked into a garage at the next town. The mechanic took one
look at the front suspension, turned to us and said “problem”. Whilst we waited
for the mechanic to work his magic it gave Team Rub-a-dub-dub a chance to cook
some breakfast.
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| The Kenari having problems |
By
this point we had established our own unspoken roles within the team. Caleb,
the domestic goddess amongst the group, was known as “breakfast biz” for being
the perpetual early riser who couldn’t wait to boil up some tasteless porridge.
Whilst he set about working miracles on a car park floor, Rich or “king slot”
decided to pack and re-pack the boot and bathtub in search of that elusive
perfect slot. Suffering from tetris OCD he still hadn’t found the optimal
combination of object positioning and orientation that manifested ideal
comfort, convenience and aerodynamics. So bugged by his quest for perfection,
his self-published thesis titled “The Art of Slot” proposed Horton’s Rank, a
method by which the “tessellation of stuff” could be addressed. Each object was
carefully characterised by the following equation: length plus width to the
power of the Young’s Modulus all over upside-down-ability multiplied by
frequency of use. To the untrained eye it may look as if everything was slung
into the car, but oh no no no it is an art many mere mortals will never
comprehend.
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| Breakfast Biz doing what he does best |
Once
the Kenari had been patched up we filed out for another long stint on the road.
Eventually we rolled into the city of Omsk at 2am local time finally bringing
an end to this mammoth trek of continuous driving. Since we last stopped in
Irkutsk 39 hours and 2,351 km ago, this was the first time we were to see a
proper bed. Exhausted and slightly delirious from being cooped up in Marigold
for so long we set about looking for a hostel to stay the night. Thanks to the ever-reliable
maps.me app we found Okay Hostel, and the name didn’t lie. In the same way that
Comic Sans in an “okay” font, it’s bearable, it has its uses, but it’s no high-flying
Arial or Calibri. Thinking we could do better we continued the search and
settled upon another hostel for some well earned sleep at last.
Objective complete, we had achieved undiluted send.
Objective complete, we had achieved undiluted send.
Posted by: Rich