Some journeys become so extensive that merely reaching the starting point is an adventure in itself.
On an early morning gazing from the window of the dormitory for foreign students at the Far Eastern National University in Vladivostok, Russia at the cold Pacific Ocean covered in a solid layer of ice and snow, I can think of little else.
"It took a lot to get here," I say under my breath.
Indeed, it took eight months to get here. First an entire summer and fall slaving away working 50+ hour weeks painting houses in Maine, entire days of possible freedom evaporating away into servitude, muscles strained, paint and dust and mildew embedded within my hair, coating my skin, sneaking under my eyelids, corroding into my bones with all the stench and tyranny of serfdom.
When a large amount of the money was earned, the real work began. Our proposed trip seemed so cutting edge, that surely receiving gear donations or all out sponsorship was not merely a possibility, but a guarantee. Blindly optimism, we sent out hundreds of emails and letters: to bicycle shops, bicycle manufacturers, bicycle enthusiasts. Camping stores, camping equipment manufacturers, outdoor enthusiasts. Organizations, directors, companies, and a host of would-be-in-theory-enthusiastic-recipients. Their responses, or lack thereof, (normally there was simply no response), were more or less the same: the current economic situation does not allow us to sponsor new individuals at this time, we only offer economic support to serious athletes, etc., etc.
They all neatly climaxed with a cheerful: "Your trip sounds exciting! Good luck!"
Unfortunately, much like the Republican Vice Presidential candidate of the then current U.S. presidential election, Sarah Palin, we suffered from two painfully inhibiting factors: inexperience and the nosediving U.S. economy.
By December, we did succeed in finding a bike shop and camp store in Maine who offered us generous discounts on gear. Later, a few major companies followed in tow. We were excited merely to save a few dollars. Every little bit helped.
As the coldness and depth of a long winter set in, and the proximity of our departure in spring drew nearer, we went back to the drawing board. Looking for a way to update our website in the remoteness of Siberia, we researched how to attach lightweight solar panels on the rear racks of our bikes which would allow us to work on the documentary side of the trip with a camera, camcorder, and computer at night in our tents while we charged the electronics by day on the road.
The ease and accessibility of solar power prompted the catalyst of a another idea. Utilizing the power of the sun while on the road would enable us to facilitate our documentary work while also illuminating the need for and accessibility of alternative energies, like solar power, both abroad and at home in the U.S.
Thus, the concept of 'Riding Green', an off the grid bicycle trip, was born.
Armed with a resurgence of motivation, new ideas, and stubborn perseverance, we took our idea to the streets. Designing and printing t-shirts with our trip logo on them, we went from icy doorstep to numbingly cold entryway for over a month, like girl scouts, around the northeastern U.S. shamelessly self promoting our idea, fundrasing by selling the t-shirts, and handing out business cards. Flower shops, hair salons, hardware stores, police stations, diners, college campuses--almost anyone was fair game.
The responses were, more or less, completely different and utterly multitudinous.
"Sounds like an awesome idea guys, I've love to buy a shirt!" to, "What, so you guys want me to pay for your vacation!?! Get out!" to, "Wow! It seems like you have really thought this out." to, "Now, you two know that you need passports if you want to leave the country, right?"
With several thousand cards with our website address safely dispersed into the wallets and poster boards of countless secretaries, and bosses, and businesses behind us, we slowly descended from the clouds in a plane to Moscow in late February.
On the ground, in a bus bound for the center of the Russian capital, the daunting image of bulbous lines of nuclear power plants dwarfed by looming Soviet era buildings lay large upon the horizon shrouded by fluttering snow flakes. The very outskirts of Moscow were intimidating; everything seemed larger than life.
And rightly so, we'd just entered the biggest country on earth.
Nuclear Power Facilities, Moscow, Russia
After a several day layover in Moscow, trudging along the frozen streets and admiring the the Kremlin, where small bands of choir singers gathered beneath the eaves of golden onion-domed churches the harmonics of their voices filling the hall so fully it seemed the earth might give way, we embarked again for Sheremetyevo airport.
Reclaiming our bikes, and boxes, and backpacks from luggage storage we proceeded through security to board a one-way flight to Vladivostok, that distant Russian outpost along the Pacific coast skirting the Chinese-North Korean borders.
Expecting to pay an overweight baggage fee, I nearly shivered with glee as the woman took my passport, adorned my luggage with the appropriate baggage security tags, and I watched it disappear down the conveyor belt. But little did I know that the kind folks at Sheremetyevo were about to introduce us to a classic Russian tradition. No, not a free shot of vodka, or perhaps a discount on one of those big furry hats, or any other such cordiality, but rather our first Russian bribe.
Soon as the bags disappeared, an official from the Russian air carrier Aeroflot appeared behind us with our tickets and a calculator in hand. Quickly adding a succession of numbers originally loosely based in the weight of our excess baggage and proceeding to do a number of sleight of hand calculations so fast the naked eye could not follow the logic, he came up with the sum of over $23,000 rubles we would have to pay to board the plane.
"But I give you discount,'" the official said with a sly smirk, before making a quick calculation and holding up the calculator again, "15,000 rubles. You get the money, put it in your passport, hand me the passport, then I give you your tickets." And with those clear instructions, he sauntered away with our boarding passes in hand.
Desperate to get on our plane, we rushed to an ATM, and withdrew enough money to pay the bribe, about $450 USD. The smell of deceit still fresh in the air, we handed the man a stack of rubles hidden within our passports, as per his instructions, received our tickets, and rushed onto our flight.
Excitement soon erased this mishap from memory as the plane sped through the air and we touched down upon the tarmac the following day, halfway around the world, in Vladivostok. From there, we hired a van, and sped off to the dormitory of the university where we would study Russian for six weeks before leaving on the bikes. My eyes widened as we initially entered the outskirts of Vladivostok, a run-down derelict industrial city perched over the frozen Pacific lined with the smoke stacks of decadent factories billowing black clouds of soot into the late winter sky against the auburn stare of a setting Asiatic sun.
The perfect jumping off point for a green bike trip.
Sun Sets Behind Smokestacks, Vladivostok, Russia
Arriving at the dormitory for the first time, Ellery stopped me to examine the frozen ice along the walkway leading to the doorstep.
"This is it," he said. "We'll be starting the ride from right here."
Several days later, I caught myself as I walked out of the dorm, almost slipping and falling backwards onto the frozen earth and cracking my skull.
Now was the time to lay low, study Russian, intensively research more about the country's history, gather your energy, and, at least for the moment, be careful.
"It took a lot to get here," I said to myself again.
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