Dominator

So, after a long and fruitful (self)inquiring, I finally decide I should get a bike for at least a week to go and do a little country tour, starting at my work place and making my way south to the jazz festival I wanted to see since forever.

The night before leaving I go and see my future steel horse and its full-fledged master, and make a complete fool of my having-over-ten-years-a-driver’s-license self while trying to make a U turn with the 650 Honda Dominator. I succeed in inching my way round a light pole in a supermarket parking lot, saying “Oh, yeah, it’s fine, just that it’s turning around its own axis in a surprisingly small circle – yeah, I know how that happens…” Ahem…

The next morning I put my luggage on the bike at the price of perspiring to the point of total dehydration and proudly leave town: I am a biker and, moreover, I am a girl biker and finally, I am a girl enduro biker, with the right kind of helmet and all (well, actually with no boots, just sandals, no jacket, just a hoodie… Still!).

100 km later I get to work and try to look dignified while getting off the damn thing which tried to roast my right calf with its exposed engine! After the “wows” and “ohs” I give up my poker face and silently admit that my inner self is bursting into a very distressed state with the occasional spots of horror at the only now realized fact that I’m travelling with a vehicle from which I can barely touch the ground and which, if fallen down, will take the strength of two grown men to be reestablished in a properly working position. In a word, I’m screwed. Totally. Screwed.

Still, I admit I did this to myself and I cannot be so close to Geamăna lake (actually the mine dumps, reachable by Dacia and/or bike) and not try to get there. So one evening, after finishing early, I decide to ride there and take a look around.

Not a bad start: I smoothly ride uphill waving at the locals and nodding at passing cars, being safely hidden by the helmet’s bulging lower jaw and huge visor. After some doubtful bends, wanting to get lower, closer to the water, I ride downhill on the dusty, rocky road, congratulating myself for being wrong when I first deemed the cross-like tires unworthy of my quest, but end up balancing the bike with my own shifting-where-needed weight; not one of my better moments, but definitely an efficient one.

After slaloming between picturesque cows, I finally get that the place has little visitors (especially motorcycled ones) by observing the native dogs, which can be easily grouped into two categories: Titanic and Braveheart. As their name suggests, the Titanics sink to the bottom of their own little oceans, while doing what the orchestra on the Titanic did (keep in mind, the reference solely concerns the movie script): they continue on doing whatever it was they did before, which grossly amounts to doing nothing (mind you, not even glancing in the bike’s direction). The Bravehearts are no less the exponents of their respective category: while not quite shouting “freedom!”, they do give their all and dive headfirst for their cause, regardless of the perils; in other words, they throw themselves full speed at the front the wheel, the back wheel, the engine or the general direction of the bike and run beside it ‘till the bitter end (which, as opposed to Braveheart, is not death, but fatigue).

People are quick to give me directions but totally lack in existence when I get to the crossroads which can either take me home, or to some remote village on even on worse country roads. It is not even mentionable, but I take the wrong road and only realize it while driving uphill on an impossibly narrow side of the road. And by “impossible”, I mean definitely not possible for me because of my state of chickenshit. So I decide to back up in spite of my not really touching the ground. Backing up by literally millimeters, I lose my balance and, in the hustle of the moment, I grab the rotting wooden fence on my side, which, incidentally, gives in and only produces some cuts and bruises on my palm while I am still falling to the ground on my left with 180 kg of bike on top of me. I awkwardly shamble from under the bike and freeze when I see the little spring of gasoline happily squirting in the alarmingly growing puddle on the road. When I finally succeed to stop the gasoline from flowing all the way to the Danube, I start panicking, thinking that I will have been left without gas completely. Still, the bike must stand on its wheels again so, in the rush of the moment, I clutch one side of it and jerk hard.

Nothing. Well, maybe just some centimeters off of the ground. But not enough. No more strength. A growing tingling feeling in my lower back. Adrenaline level: abruptly, totally freefalling. Judgment slowly creeping back. A thought finally taking shape: must find help. Strong help, of course, because otherwise I’ve got nowhere. Surely, country folk are strong from all their country activities and will be undertaking their country activities out here – in the country. And, most likely, they will be eager to help me, a poor, mad girl, lost on these back roads. I only have to locate them for this:

15 minutes later I hurry back to the bike alone, being convinced that all the country folk have been undertaking their country activities in hiding (needless to say that just a few minutes earlier there were lots of country folk in their own country!). Also, I started having this obsession that some professional motorcycle thieves will come the moment I turn my back and will steal the bike.

So, after I dragged the bike a few meters down in a sort of ditch left by the wheels of some cars or tractors, I put all my strength, determination and insanity into getting the bike back on its wheels; and behold: I inexplicably succeed!

The last couple of meters backing up only took about 20 minutes. Each.