Published in: Rides
It was almost 1:00 a.m., dark, dusty, cold, and quiet, when Anton and I made the final transition from dirt to pavement. Eyes blurry and teeth chattering, we exchanged tired glances of acknowledgment that we had officially conquered the 1,217 miles that is the Road of Bones. As the dust settled, the gravity of what we’d accomplished began to set in, but that’s not where this story began. To fully understand and appreciate accomplishment, we had to reflect on the previous seven days.
In the early hours of 4:30 a.m., the sun was already well into the sky in this northern region of Russia; the sky only darkens for a couple of hours during the summer months. We loaded our motorcycles to catch the 6:00 a.m. ferry out of Yakutsk. There are no roads to this near-Arctic city; a ferry ride across the Lena River is the only real option. The hour-long boat ride would take us to the town of Nizhnii Bestyakh and the starting point of the Road of Bones. And after a quick fuel top-off, we headed into the unknown.
Neither of us had done extensive research, so there were many unanswered questions we’d soon find the answers to. The only thing we investigated extensively was distances between fuel stops; the average of which was about 150 miles, with 250 miles as the longest stretch. Outside of these assumptions, we had nothing but the warnings of others to guess about what the road had in store for us. We’d been told repeatedly that the likelihood of making it to Magadan, the final destination, was slim to none.
I also heard warnings about the lack of suspension, ground clearance issues, and how open belts were a terrible idea, blah, blah, blah. But I’ve learned over the years to ignore most of what the nay-sayers have to offer and carry on regardless. Anton received similar warnings about the inherent unreliability of his 32-year-old Russian-built two-stroke Izh Jupiter 5—but the critics didn’t consider his uncanny ability to fix almost anything with a toothpick and duct tape. Anton was essentially a Crimean MacGyver.
That said, none of this answered the question “Why?” Why were we going to such great lengths to ride one of the most formidable roads on the planet on motorcycles absolutely not intended for this type of adventure? For me, the answer is easy. My chopper is the only bike I own. After nine months and 31,000 miles of travel, finishing my around-the-world journey on one of Earth’s most challenging roads seemed like an obvious choice. What better way to test your mental and physical stamina? I also admit that I wanted to find out if it was even possible on a motorcycle like mine. I knew I might be forced back at some point but suspected that was unlikely. I also enjoyed the idea of being the first person, I believe, to ride a chopper to Magadan. I can’t verify this claim, but I’m fairly certain it’s accurate.
Anton was tackling this road for an equally absurd reason—a group of his friends had bet that his little Izh would never make it from his home in Crimea to Magadan… and back. He proved them wrong, and to make things even more difficult (and ridiculous), he towed a homemade trailer built from a sidecar behind the two-stroke motorcycle. This is one of the main reasons why when I met Anton in Krasnoyarsk, I immediately recognized him as a perfect travel companion for the Road of Bones. We would both be slow on equally inappropriate motorcycles, battling time-consuming breakdowns along the way.
So how was the actual ride? In a word, brutal. The level of difficulty was everything I expected, oftentimes much worse. The most challenging aspect was the ever-changing conditions. The moment we began to feel comfortable with one element, it would change, and we’d suddenly have to adjust our riding styles. The road would shift from hard-pack dirt to deep sand in the blink of an eye, then deep loose rocks, then mud, then washboard, then back to hard-pack, and so on and so on. The easy hard-pack sections were short-lived, almost a tease. I learned not to enjoy them too much since extreme difficulty would inevitably be just around the next corner.
The brief sections of reprieve would come at a high cost, and the better the reprieve, the higher the cost. For example, a 10-mile section of good road would be followed by 50 or more miles of the worst road you’ve ever seen. The reason the road was so bad would vary, but I found the loose rock sections were the most challenging, with mud being a close second. And fist-sized rocks often blanketed the route, proving to be a near unmanageable wrestling match between man and machine.
Ruts worn into the loose stone track added an extra layer of difficulty. If I took my eyes off the road for even a moment and caught an edge, I’d quickly slide sideways down the road, fighting to keep the bike upright before getting back onto the track of choice. Choosing the track to the far right was typically the best option. It allowed room for the occasional passing truck, carrying a plume of dust in its wake so thick we’d often be forced to come to a complete stop until visibility returned. These clouds were so thick that visibility dropped to 10 feet. And if you think those conditions sound bad, the mud was even worse.
We were warned on numerous occasions that rain would be our worst enemy, and such warnings proved accurate. On our second day, we found ourselves staring headlong into a sizable storm. Dark clouds veiled the sky, strong winds battered the surrounding trees, and bolts of lightning struck the soil not far from where we stood. With no choice but to carry on, we braced for the worst. As expected, the falling skies turned what would have otherwise been a relatively easy section into a slicker-than-snot muddy bog. The sticky top layer stuck to everything, making it nearly impossible to keep the bikes upright. We continuously dropped our motorcycles in an effort to maintain forward progress and had to constantly stop to clear muck from between the tires and fenders. Progress was slow, dirty, and exhausting, but progress was made, nevertheless.
Secretly, we’d both come here for moments like this—the challenges of rocks, mud, sand, river crossings, and exposure to the elements. The higher the difficulty and risk, the higher the reward and sense of accomplishment. No one embarks on an adventure such as this because it’s easy. Had we found optimal conditions, we’d have been disappointed. And with the trip finished, I can say with confidence that we got what we wanted out of this ride. The 1,217 miles over the course of seven days, ranging from 15–18 hours of gut-punching challenges a day, was a monumental challenge accepted and accomplished.
With all we experienced, reaching Magadan was a little bittersweet. It marked what was essentially the end of a nine-month, 32,000-mile journey around the globe. I was sad but filled with an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. I spent a few days in this Far East port town preparing my motorcycle for shipment to Manzanillo, Mexico, where I would fly to retrieve it in a few weeks. From Manzanillo, the plan was to meander back north and eventually pull into my driveway in Longmont, Colorado, where this adventure began. And then, as this ride officially comes to an end, the planning for the next adventure will begin immediately.
Charlie Weisel is a traveler, adventurer, and limit pusher. He has covered over 265,000 miles on his chopper across 29 countries, 48 states, and three continents, and he has no intention of stopping anytime soon. You can follow these adventures on Instagram @travelingchopper and @roadsareforjourneys. You can also read more on RoadsAreForJourneys.com.
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