Solo riders each have a story

51st Traverse team member Misha takes in the view. Photo / Rob Gray

Five guys with five bikes draw attention wherever we go. The cheers of roadworkers, cracked smiles on otherwise surly village faces and blaring horns from passing truck drivers all make us feel like we are the first foreigners to ever tread this path, complete strangers in uncharted territory.

We aren't. There are other travellers on the road, each with their own story:

Ian

Ian looked up with a mischievous grin. "I only speak Russian!" he said in a Yorkshire accent.

With the eagerness and enthusiasm of a twelve year old boy, Ian was to become a good friend of Tom and myself over the next few days. Aged 67, Ian was sleeping on the floor at the Iron Tigers headquarters in Vladivostok, waiting for his Africa Twin motorcycle to arrive from America.

Couped up in the Iron Tigers headquarters, we had plenty of time to listen to Ian's yarns, and he was more than happy to tell them.

Someone once asked Ian if he could share a few stories, and inquired how long he could talk for. Without missing a beat, he replied "two days" (and I'm positive he wasn't exaggerating). He ended up talking far past the 9pm restriction they gave him, until around 2am, still surrounded by a crowd of attentive listeners.

Ian has been on the road for 11 years. During this time, he has seen his wife six times. He didn't plan things this way, originally setting out to do a four month 4x4 trip from Cape Town to Liverpool. He got stopped at the Ethiopian border because there was a war on.

"Bugger this", he thought. Ringing his wife, Ian arranged for a motorbike to be shipped to Africa, and, after picking it up, he rode right through the war in Ethiopia, not entering or exiting the country at proper border crossings. As far as the authorities know, he's still there.

He must have enjoyed riding the bike, because he didn't stop there. Ian spent several years travelling through Africa, and even found himself another war to ride through, this time in Somalia. Next up was America, where he spent six years riding from the bottom of Chile to the top of Alaska.

The authorities are confused in Venezuela and Ecuador as well. Having some issues leaving Venezuela, he decided to take a decent run-up and ride right through the border post, not looking back. Ecuador was a little more complicated. He exited the country while on a bus trip with his wife, who had joined him for a few weeks. Not being allowed back into the country, he persuaded the bus driver to empty a case under the bus normally used to carry tools. He re-entered Ecuador squeezed into a tiny cocoon under the bus, his wife oblivious to the dramas below, puzzled at why he had not come back from the toilet.

Ian does not have a GPS and cannot navigate his way around the internet. His map reading skills are fairly basic too: "I'm here to find some tigers. Then I'm going to head up there," he says, jabbing his finger at Khabarovsk, "and then turn left".

He reckons he would like to be back home before he is 70 - so he has three years to cover a similar route to ours. Despite having bald tyres and rims so worn the spokes are threatening to poke through, Ian rarely sticks to roads, travelling to places most adventure motorcyclists would fear to tread.

Danger and accidents don't seem to bother Ian too much. He meticulously walks every river crossing before taking his bike into the water. In Africa and Australia, this meant taking a staff to fend off crocodiles (once, while herding cattle through a swamp in Argentina, Ian witnessed the cow in front of his mule get taken in one quick blow by a massive reptile).

The longest Ian has been trapped under his bike is three hours, stuck in Cape York at the top of Australia while petrol from his damaged tank leaked out and soaked his clothes. A recent fall in Mexico saw him ride for several days to the United States with a broken wrist. He is a tough character - his tent is a flimsy affair, and if it rains, he gets wet. He lives on a simple diet, and his food of choice seems to be a banana wedged between two slices of bread.

Ian (or "Yan" as the Russians called him) is loved by all who meet him. Despite his earlier cheeky remark, Ian can only speak two words of Russian: "priviet" (hello) and "spasiba" (thank you), but he says these two words so loudly, slowly and clumsily to everyone he meets that they cannot help but smile.

It is difficult not to wonder what his wife thinks of him (especially now that she is having to sell parts of the family farm to fund his travels) but we enjoyed every minute we spent with Ian, and look forward to bumping into him in some obscure location again.

Dan

I had to do a double-take when we passed Dan. We were cruising toward Khabarovsk at around 90kms, when we approached a fellow biker on what looked like a rusty old bike of the type locals ride.

I would not have given him a second glance except for the tent and spare tyres strapped on the back, two ammunition cases attached to the sides as luggage racks.

The face we passed was menacing - an ancient leather helmet, eyes shrouded by old-fashioned goggles, and thick beard absorbing most of the snot running from a freezing cold nose.

We saw Dan again about fifty kilometres up the road, where we had stopped to refuel. Constantly blinking eyes that were wet and gritty from the wind, he pulled up, jumped off, and went straight to the back of his bike to warm up his numb fingers on the exhaust.

His gloves were about as old as his bike, which turned out to be a Chinese imitation of a Russian Ural. It had been sold as scrap in South Korea, and Dan had spent a few months restoring it (complete with fake documentation) in order to ride from South Korea to Manchester.

After a year's secondment from a large UK engineering firm to oversee a South Korean project, Dan had negotiated two months' leave to take the long way home.

Dan was skinny, pale and softly spoken, but had a residual toughness that commanded respect. His unkempt beard and scruffy gear could not disguise the fact that Dan was a clever, well-educated and likeable guy. I had the feeling that no matter what the situation, Dan would stay calm and figure something out.

Due to his dodgy registration (Dan had also made a number-plate for the bike himself, but two of the letters had since fallen off in the rain), Dan was taking a simple route home, from one side of Russia to the other, and then into Eastern Europe.

The other reason for this route was his ancient suspension and road tyres, which made off-road travel rather challenging (we had to help Dan pick up his bike once after negotiating a potholed stretch of road after dark).

Despite this, and the fact that he had a top speed of 70km per hour, Dan consistently seemed to be ahead of us. Slow and steady really does win the race.

We would tear off at 90km, then stop when someone's iPod needing changing, or someone needed to wipe their visor and use the toilet, and half an hour later we would see a little dot on the horizon that would gradually grow until we realised that, somehow, Dan had overtaken us again.

After a couple of days relaxing in Khabarovsk, we farewelled Dan on the side of the road. We had a quick errand to do, and were confident we would soon overtake him again.

We haven't seem Dan since, and by now he'll be halfway home, ready to start work again.

Hans

The other boys befriended Hans in Irkutsk while Piza was undergoing some minor repairs. Possibly due to the fact he had spent the last night sleeping out in the open next to the road, huddled beside his bike in the cold, Hans jumped at the invitation to stay at our guesthouse.

That night we met up with some friends we had made and they showed us around town. Hans came along, waddling twenty metres behind us because he was still wearing motorcross boots (and possibly because of the three massive beers he had consumed over dinner). He was a jolly fellow, and with his wide girth and greying beard reminded me a little of a drunken Father Christmas.

Hans seemed self-reliant and unfazed by any situation, as the solo motorcyclist has to be.

He was happy to be in a foreign city in the company of several young guys a quarter of his age, unperturbed that he could not speak English or communicate properly with any of us, and was content to trust our judgment on how best to spend the evening.

Hans had covered 12,000 kilometres in three weeks. Riding a huge BMW more closely related to a house-bus than our Suzukis, he had travelled from Belgium to Irkutsk. The next day we found out that Lake Baikal, near Irkutsk, was his final destination.

Hans got up early and, despite greying weather and a persistent drizzle that later turned to snow, rode the 60 kilometres remaining to Lake Baikal. He spent the morning there, before returning to Irkutsk and then heading back in the direction of Belgium that same day.

He might have covered a lot of ground in a short amount of time, but it's hard not to wonder what he missed in the process.

I have huge respect for each of these individuals, each following their dream in their own unique way.

Whether you choose a life on the road, or want to traverse half the globe on your annual holiday, anything is possible.

Russian Ural or BMW GS, technical riding equipment or ancient leather gloves, all you need to ride around the world is a bike and a fair bit of determination.

* To help Rob and his mates reach their fundraising target for the Living Hope charitable organisation in Vladivostok and for more information on their journey, click here.