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In Which I Am Once More Saved By A Stranger

November 4, 2006 by Mike

Saulkrasti, Latvia

Route: Pärnu - Ikla - Ainazi - Salacgriva - Saulkrasti

Yesterday I was touched by Rein and Jaak in Tallinn. Today I have to thank Jaanus in Pärnu.

Having reached this city and lodged at the Strand, I then read that there was a guesthouse specialising in bikes and bikers: the Aleksandri. D'oh! So I took myself off there this morning to say Hello. I also had a phone number for a bike shop in town run by someone called Jaanus and guessed the folks at the Alexsandri would know where he might be.

The guesthouse was locked up, the pub was closed (well, it was 10 in the morning) but I noticed an "MC klubhouse" next door. About to go in was a powerfully-built man in his 30s, wrapped up against the snow.

"Hello. You speak English? Great! Thanks. I arrived in Pärnu yesterday on my bike."

"Yes, I know," he replied.

Of course it was Jaanus. Why would anybody else but the one person whose telephone number I had, the one person who I'd heard of, the one person who might be able to help me, for 100 miles in any direction, why would anybody else but Jaanus be the person standing in the street next to me who I walked up to and said 'Hello'?

Jaanus was far to cool to show any surprise. He took me in to the club house -- a couple of bodies appeared to be sleeping off hangovers -- then drove me back to my hotel, waited for me to change into riding gear, then guided me to his workshop. The roads were slushy: not fun. And the road into his workshop was compacted snow: also not fun. I've never done anything like it before - but he knew what I was doing and I was able to trust his judgement. Verdict? Ride slow: no brakes and next to no throttle.

Jaanus, like Rein and Jaak yesterday, set to work on this stranger's bike with a passion. He did have a rear tyre for me -- it's a Dunlop wet racing tyre, not exactly what Triumph had in mind for the slow, tootlin' Bonneville, but this gives me far better traction and hold on slippery surfaces.

We spoke as he worked. He was in the Soviet Army (he doesn't look old enough) before serving as an officer in the new Estonian forces. He has a presence about him, strength and control, that is so powerful as to be almost visible. He worked with British soldiers in Croatia and in Denmark. He looks at Russia with inside experience and smiled "They need a strong leader there. Not democracy."

He rides enduro bikes in the main, and had just come back from a week riding on the coast of Latvia and Lithuania - the real coast, that is, beaches and dunes and wetlands, not the closest main road like me. I couldn't do what he does, either on the bike or to the bike.

All of a sudden he looked up from where he was lying on the cold, cement floor under the rear wheel of my bike:

"All done!"

So now I had another decision. Stay in Pärnu, hope to win the heart of the beautiful woman who didn't realise the effect she'd had on me (by stealing her away from her family).. and/ or accept Jaanus' invitation to drink a lot of whiskey in the Klan clubhouse and "meet some Estonian girls.. that's what Englishmen do, isn't it?"

Or take more advantage of more unforecast sunshine to make more miles on the road south.

Gentle reader, I packed my bags and rode off towards the sun.

--

Past the Estonian-Latvian border: long queues.

Past more snow than has fallen in England in the last century.

Past at least two Latvian towns that might have had accommodation but were down roads impassable by motorbike.

Past the freezing barrier: my fingers by now heavy lumps of ice.

Until I reached a seaside town called Saulkrasti, which judging from the map was big enough to house me. Whereupon I rode past one closed hotel after another, panic rising, until I asked and was directed to the Hotel Marve.

I parked in the shed at the back (next to the owner's pristine Yamaha DragStar, a bike that has clearly never seen rain, let alone snow), walked in to town for a meal of garlic, garlic, garlic, cheese and garlic (and a very nice glass or two of beer) though, despite my efforts, no conversations with any of the locals as nobody could speak English and my Latvian is a little rusty; pausing only to rescue a paralitically drunk middle-aged man who had collapsed in the snow and was making no effort to save himself, ("he was probably a Russian," said the hotel receptionist, when I got back) before reaching the end of this overly-long sentence by reaching my room and falling into a deep and restful sleep.

Comments

By Laura | November 17, 2006 7:29 PM

If you ever make it to San Francisco I will have to take you to the San Francisco Motorcycle Club. It's the second oldest, continously operating MC club in America. You won't meet any Estonian woman but you would still find it a generous place.

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