On April 15th 2009, my friend Ellery and I dipped the rear tires of our bicycles into the Sea of Japan and began riding towards Portugal.
For years, this moment had existed strictly within my imagination. Indulging the fantasy, I envisioned a long beach of grey pebbles, cool air filling my lungs, and the Pacific lapping against my bike’s rear tire. But when this moment finally confronted me, reality rudely pushed the fantasy aside.
Two weeks before our departure, deep within the brick walls and tight security of the American Consulate in Vladivostok, Russia, we were having tea with Tom, the Consul General.
“I would love to ride my bicycle the first 30k with you out of the city,” he offered. “But I won’t dip the tires in the ocean, the water here is so polluted I’m afraid it might destroy the rubber,” he said jokingly.
Tom’s sentiments were not unique; years of unregulated dumping of factory waste and sewage into Vladivostok’s bay prompts the city’s residents to caution foreigners about even getting close to the water.
Departing From Vladivostok With Tom Armbruster, The American Consul General
During our final days in Vladivostok, my cell phone rang incessantly with calls from newspapers and magazines asking for interviews about our trip.
“I want to make a good story,” barked the producer of a Russian television station over the phone on my last day in the city. “I need shots of you on the bikes, in the Russian language classes you have been taking at the university here—everything!”
“You’re too late,” I said that afternoon as the camera crew barged into the Russian dormitory where we had lived during the past five weeks, “our teachers have left for the day.”
“We need this story,” the producer interjected, “just find me somebody!”
Enjoying the absurdity of the moment, we scrounged up a Russian language professor we had never met before. With grand acting skill, we proceeded to stage a news segment where the mock professor pretended to teach us the Russian nouns necessary to describe the most rudimentary bicycle mechanics.
“Tormoza, Speetsy, Pedaly,” or, “Brakes, Spokes, Pedals,” I said smiling for the camera.
After weeks of the sunny t-shirt weather which marks the onset of spring, I awoke the following morning to find the temperature near freezing and gale force winds whipping white caps across the sea.
There was no turning back now. Ellery and I shivered wheeling our bikes out of the dormitory and began pedaling towards the beach in the center of town. Running late, I had neglected to securely close the rubber pouch of water within my Camelbak backpack. Maneuvering through traffic, I cursed as water suddenly leaked throughout the backpack soaking my lower body.
I arrived at the beach cold, cross, and wanting to change, but a barrage of camera men from local and national Russian television stations encircled us like predatory cats upon arrival.
"How long will your journey last?” “Why did you choose to travel in Russia?” “What is the purpose of your trip?” They yelled thrusting microphones in our faces as we mustered replies with chattering teeth.
Smile for the Camera: Shivering for the Press
Through the milieu, we eased our bikes to the sea’s edge. The wind whipped against my frozen body. The media snapped photos. Ellery and I looked each other daringly in the eye, then raised our fists into the air and screamed as we dipped our rear tires into the Pacific.
As we left, I looked back at the sea momentarily. Despite the intrusion, I thought, this important moment in my life was still mine to enjoy.
Almost.
“Can you put that tire in the water one more time?” a photographer yelled choking the symbolism from the event, “I want another shot.”
Then suddenly, like all future events we anticipate greatly, it floated to a rest forever in the past. We hopped on our bikes and rode with the Consul General out of Vladivostok behind a small motorcade. The experience was surreal, a journey I had only imagined for so long, was now wildly merging with reality before my eyes.
The motorcade turned around at the city limits. We were alone. In front of us lay a journey of roughly 10,000 miles, across eleven time zones, and two continents. At the end, we would plunge our front tires into the Atlantic.
We started riding.
So You Think You're Hard Core: Ellery Stares 10,000 Miles in the Face
