Lessons in geography – column

It has now been about 25+ years since I bought my first 'Russian'. Then I don't count the two M72 projects that I previously adopted for small change. I loved the one. I gave the other away. At that time, M72, Ural or Dnepr driving/tinkering was still an action that was mainly confessed by diligent people who thought that a ride was only really successful if it had been tinkered.

That tinkering could just be replacing a broken cylinder on the roadside. Not that as a Russian driver you always had extra cylinders with you, but still. What you usually had with you were a set of points, a capacitor plus a few floats. And some other little stuff. And a first aid kit. To score another cylinder, some walking and telephone calls had to be made. After half a box of cigars, a comrade brought a cylinder, piston and some small stuff. The drive to Cadzand-Bad, which was barely 300 km, took almost 10 hours with that approach and a few terraces and fuel stops. A lager from the tap has never tasted more deserved. In the parking lot, the brave tricycle marked its place. That was the rear crankshaft seal, but the Russians had devised a drainage gutter behind it so that the clutch itself remained fairly dry.

It was unclear where a later K750 came from

From every crevice and hollow came a very fine, red sand. And a fully loaded 9 mm pistol remained in the tank compartment during inspection. From contacts I had in the meantime it appeared that many ex-Soviet people celebrated their freedom in any case with exuberant possession of weapons. Olaf – who traded in former Soviet state secrets – drove his children to school with a gun in his waistband. When necessary, he drew his weapon and fired into the air. The drunk aspiring muggers stumbled away. When he told his story at home, his Love became angry and had to hand in his gun. With his fat Russian accent he told me: “But she not know I have an onther gun”. I didn't aspire to a weapon collection. And you don't want to know how the local police officer reacts if you report to the desk with: “Look, can I hand this in here?” It was close to having to go to jail myself.

A hammer and sickle was painted on the nose of that combination – probably about sixty years old. The blond 40+ curly head who saw that completely freaked out. So that had something to do with MH17. She apparently blamed the motorcycle, but me even more. I was scolded for everything ugly and bad. “Fascist, murderer, Nazi…” You name it. My K750 looked timid.

What else I thought of it is not really important

But when it comes to bad behavior in the past, then of course we can't drive Japanese, German or Korean vehicles. No Dafje either. So I kept lounging around on my side-valve with the hammer and sickle, the symbol of fallen communism. And that was not seen as a disgrace or treason. And then Putin thought that he wanted to extend his national borders beyond the IJssel and I thought that, no matter how innocent my tricycle was, I thought that was a bridge too far.

So a Ukrainian flag was placed over the hammer and sickle. That was also appropriate because a large part of my bastard consists of Dnepr parts. And the Dnepr factory, which was located in Kiev, in Ukraine. By the way: the Uralfabriek has since moved to Kazakhstan. Dneprs are no longer being made. But you can simply buy a new Ural without any scruples. And then you also have a two-year warranty. But insight into the geographical difference in location between Kiyf, Irbit and a place in Kazakhstan is not given to everyone.

In the meantime, I've been riding my act of resistance for far too long

But the impact remains. On a classic ex-Soviet tractor you have always had above average attention and appeal from members of all genders and ages. But since I've been driving around under the Ukrainian flag, that has become much more. And those were and are, with only one exception, all positive reactions. The one grumbler wasn't talking about countries, wars, or flags. But the man was bothered by the environmental aspect of my cheerful black workhorse.

People who raise their thumbs when you pass by on your rocking horse. Success has never been so cheap. Because the paint came from the Action. In order to give that story some hands and feet, I help in the margins in terms of supplying the front troops. There are some people here who collect non-perishable food and it is then taken to the Polish-Ukrainian border to travel from there to the front lines. That is not political, but humanitarian aid.

Between those front lines and Poland, the price of classic Urals and Dneprs has come under heavy pressure. The local meeting point for the edibles and the shuttle bus is the DIY garage Rubocar, where Vladimir coordinates things. That is, if he is not busy with his usual work or digital tuning of cars, or on his way to bring relief supplies to the Polish-Ukrainian border. These are interesting times. But we are happy that we are making a totally apolitical magazine and that we also refrain from taking positions online. And we always try to keep a positive view of the world. Because most people are good.