“I’m going to walk into the center of town for coffee and a smoke with my friends, then my girlfriend is going to have sex with a Superhuman.” I can’t help but laugh, Nazar laughs, and in this special moment I’m lifted by his incredible happiness. He is going home a hero, and for the first time since a Russian artillery shell took his leg and after undergoing 17 surgeries, he will be without his wheelchair.
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The way the early morning sun lights the village clinging to the side of the mountain behind us brings the name of the story to me in a second, and the moment is instantly consigned to my mental notebook. The warm, golden sunshine ignites my soul as it sets the Spanish countryside ablaze with color. It is the moment I thought would never come. Struggling through heavy rain for three days, fighting inner demons as we picked our way along treacherous roads, and riding with our hearts in our mouths, knuckles white on the bars, had been tough. These difficulties were important though, and at that moment totally necessary, as the scene of intense beauty filling my visor could not have been so incredible without the struggle. Anyone can come to Spain, when under the cloudless blue sky the late afternoon sun is turning the small white pueblos gold against the pastel Spanish landscape. But to see it after the rain intensifies the moment, the way the act of traveling tears through the fabric of time. In the saddle of the Tuono I am singing in my helmet, as the throttle gets twisted hard in search of the day’s new horizons.
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What am I doing here? Out in the wide-open farmland between Dnipro City and Kharkiv, as I realize I haven’t seen a house, a car or a person for what feels like too long, the voices are winning. The voices that, on the surface at least, are gnawing at my psyche as they repeatedly question my purpose in Ukraine. The more rational part of my brain argues it is just stress and fear finding a way out, as my ego won’t admit to being afraid. That the constant air alerts, blown up buildings, and at times explosions on the horizon are not bothering me. I had come face to face with my fear the previous year I thought so surely, I was beyond that now?
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Warm sun, even warmer people, strong coffee and a slow, deliberate dinner of multiple mouth watering courses calls to us like the Sirens of Anthemoessa as Jason and his Argonauts sailed by. But as soon as my Moto Guzzi Griso jumps to life the following morning, with the rocking cadence so familiar to long time aficionados of this historic brand, the call of the road, like Orpheus’ song, takes over. Diving into the sea of madness that doubles for city driving in Sicily, a quick check in my mirror shows Dennis on his Breva 1100 and Sam on a 750 Nevada in tight formation, so I gun the big twin for Taormina…
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Back in the saddle of a motorcycle on Scottish roads for the first time in 25 years, my good friend Dennis Gage and his son Sam were joining me for the ride. Car buffs will know the flat-cap wearing, mustachioed Dennis from his hit television show, “My Classic Car.” As motorcyclists we enjoy a similar natural rhythm on the road, so riding together is always a pleasure. And, with two brand new Triumph Sprint STs, four days and a map of Scotland in front of us, it was with great spirits that we headed away from base camp, my sister’s house just outside Glasgow, to go exploring that summer.
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It all started in a seaside resort in Italy. Well, to be a bit more accurate it started at the Misano Circuit Sic 58 in the summer of 2002. June 14th to be precise. It was the first World Ducati Week and the festivities ran through to the weekend that the circuit hosted its round of the World Superbikes series. At that time American Ben Bostrom was flying high and Troy Baylis was the reigning world champion, both on Ducati 998s, while Colin Edwards was attempting to break the Ducati dominance on his Honda. Heady times. Well not as heady as ending up with a bedroom next to Ben Bostrom’s heartthrob girlfriend. But I digress.
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Seeing television’s most famous car guy sitting on a BMW R60 in period gear must seem a little confusing to some of our readers. But after years of bringing the best of the classic four-wheeled world to the small screen, it is time to let the secret out: Dennis Gage is a motorcycle nut with a small collection of interesting European motorcycles: A collection that has just seen the addition of a Moto Guzzi Breva that he purchased on eBay from my hometown of Charlotte, NC.
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The air feels heavy from the recent rain, as if there is nowhere left for all the moisture to go. The saturated path is soft and spongy underfoot, and tree limbs hang heavy from the weight of the water drops. Overhead, black threatening clouds hang oppressively low, matching the darkness in my soul. It’s cool, not cold, but I shiver as I climb up into the dark, silent woods, alone with my thoughts. Just two weeks out of riding through the war in Ukraine for the last five weeks, yet I haven’t made it back yet.
Suddenly, a young dog comes racing around the corner, the first sign of life I’ve seen as even the birds seem to have stayed home today. Clearly inquisitive, but wary, he circles me as his owner comes into view. The quintessential Scottish dog walker- wax cotton rain jacket and rubber boots, the practical choice for these conditions. He has a shock of dark hair, a thick goatee beard covering his face and after calling his dog, we exchange pleasantries. Actually, we enter into a bizarre conversation that just seems to get stranger. At first, I think we must have met the year before, the way he greets me, so I ask how his dog has been doing. He tells me he only just got him, hence his untrained behavior. These disconnected exchanges continue as I conclude that we haven’t met before. Then he asks me a question that leaves me as stunned as I am bewildered.
“How’s the Mirage doing?”
“Of course when the Russians kidnapped me, they held me at gun point for 36 hours, but I’ve got to go…” As the phone line went silent my mind drifted back to the day I crossed the Carpathian Mountains on my old Kawasaki KLR650 motorbike and down into the city of Bucharest in search of my old friend, Simon.
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