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Second World Problems

A convoluted route using 4 different vehicles

There has been a much bigger fall here, over half a metre, my truck looks like a mogul, there is no definition other than the two wing mirrors sticking out. It’s just a large lump, a buffer at the end of the drive.

I see the gypsy king and say hi and thank him. I hope he knows I mean for recovering my woodpile with plastic, because I can’t actually say ‘for recovering my woodpile with plastic’, and even if I could I don’t mean retrieving, coaxing it back with a synthetic sheet to shelter under. If English can so easily be misinterpreted then that leaves me no hope for a Bulgarian translation. It’s so hard, but not hard like stone, hard like difficult.

The time has come, I finally get to lay my eyes on the Triumph I bought on blind faith. My first impression is, it’s immaculate; my first thought is, it’s never going to look like that again … and it’s so white too.

My KLR has its characteristic binding back brake and it takes a few of us to push it to the stage. Bugger me though, I’ve pushed it in many places, Mongolia mud quagmire, Azerbaijan gridlock capital, and now onto the stage of the London Bike Show.

Anyway, Sam and I go for breakfast and join the table occupied by the host of the adventure stage and Austin Vince, a man of distinct style. Five days older than me, I have his wife’s abandoned bike in my Bulgarian garage.

The bike may have been put in the van purely for safe storage and shelter, and this perhaps is a truck driver thing, but if I’m removing anything from a vehicle, I’m ‘unloading it’. This causes much confusion.
‘I’m ready to unload my bike now.’
‘But you are leeving no?’
‘Yep.’
‘Zen vy unload it?’
‘Err … so I can leave.’
‘Wair vill you put it?’
‘Put what?’
‘Vot you unload?’
‘The bike?’
‘Nine, zee luggage.’
‘It’s here, I’ll put it on the bike once it’s unloaded.’
‘Zo first you vill unload zee bike, zen load it?’
‘Exactly, first I will unload it from your van, then load the luggage. Simple, eh?’
‘Arrgghh, you English.’
Phew, I’m glad we cleared that up.

I post the photo of the bike haemorrhaging oil on the hard shoulder and write a single-word description: Bollocks. And with that, I hit the streets. I need a drink.

The bore has more scores than a coffin lid when buried alive, the piston with less than a thousand miles has melted, MELTED! It has glacier gouges down the skirt and the rings are welded to it but not completely, parts of them are still stuck on the cylinder wall. This operation has now unquestionably turned into an autopsy.

Strangely, I’m not concerned about my bike getting wet in the back of the pickup, it became used to the shelter of vans, now in death it is not buried but exposed as if in an open coffin, no lid to gouge, no life left in it.

We swing by the scrapyard on the way back, not to look for a KLR, but I find a revolving stand, probably designed for postcards but perfect to display books in the Motocamp shop this coming season. How much? Two leva a kilo. OK, I’ll take 12.5 kilograms please.

The east side of the terrace is made private by a terracotta airbrick wall. I’m no bricklayer but this is really quite appalling. As a handyman, there were three things I wouldn’t attempt: bricklaying and wallpapering as my standards were too low, and unblocking toilets as my standards weren’t that low.

This is a real-life example of what snow, ice and wind can do to a man-made object in such a hostile terrain. It shows what a feat of engineering this is and, equally, how nothing is as powerful as nature, which will reclaim everything given enough time.

This Dutch barn, bee shed, call it what you will, was, on the first day I viewed this property, visualised as and destined to be a bike shed, and that’s exactly what it will become, there isn’t a doubt in my mind.

There it is. I can now measure 90cm by 70cm and see exactly where the window will be, right here, right now. Seems perfect. I think I’ll drill the other three corners. Not once does the drill bit hit an angled oak beam, this aperture could well be unobstructed. Now with a level I connect the dots. And then with the angle grinder I just make a break in the concrete render. I honestly didn’t anticipate going any further – shit, I didn’t really intend to go this far.

With horror I realise the whole back stone wall is falling into the trench, the shed is about to collapse. I can’t even get the shovel out of the channel, it’s jammed in by the force of the falling wall. FUCK! The pine supports that always looked inferior are cracking under the weight of the tilted tiled roof.

The black and white firstborn, her slightly more tabby sister and finally the distinctly handsome but somewhat more needy brother. I sense a change of priorities, suddenly nothing seems more important than being here.

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Graham Field

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Graham Field is the author of motorcycle adventure travel books: In Search of Greener Grass, Ureka & Different Natures.

Travel on his mind, bikes in his blood and little in his wallet, Graham’s low budget journeys of humour and honesty have inspired many to hit the road in search of their dreams.

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