Motorcycle.

A few weeks ago I bought the Dnepr. An 1991 MT-11.

She is beautiful, and fun — and definitely fosters a feeling of adventure in a far-away land. As I mentioned in my previous post, I had ridden a couple of bikes when we began our motorcycle search. Though I was tempted to purchase one of those, because I really wanted to get a bike — I just couldn’t muster the needed desire to actually go through with it. Plus, the guy with the blue bike never got back to me after he was supposed to get some work done on it!

But then, I saw BB.

BB — for Black Beauty.

When I first saw her and and was offered free reign to grab a wrench and tinker away in order to get her started, I was hooked. Everything is fairly basic/straightforward. Not much “flash” or unneeded extras — just essential components, basic styling, and characteristic Russian qualities. Being that I’ve been working on cars, motorcycles, and the like for ever since I can remember — just that brief gaze into the Russian engineering allowed for a very comfortable introduction to the Dnepr.

After some serious head-scratching, mostly because a well-concealed loose wire that was preventing the battery from delivering any power, the lights finally lit up on the dashboard. After numerous kicks and fiddling with the carburetors, I heard a “pop”. I knew the fundamentals were in place. After kicking until I began sweating, she finally kicked over. Old spark plugs, loose wires, moisture-saturated stagnant petrol, and a winter hibernation couldn’t stop her from returning to life and filling the tiny garage full of fresh smoke, which we all inhaled as if it were part of the normal culture — to start vehicles in enclosed spaces.

We told the dude we were interested, and asked if he would please hold onto her while we visit Czech and France. Indeed, he did, and we returned for a second visit. With a bit less fidgeting, she fired up again, and I took her for a ride around the parking complex with the owner sitting behind me. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical when I first rode her. Quite “clunky” and rough around the edges. But I figured that since she hadn’t been ridden in almost a year, and was apparently regularly maintained (from the looks of her), I figured she just burning off the cobwebs in her still youthful cylinders.

I took her out of the garage where she was stored. (Incidentally, though she may appear somewhat masculine – being all black – I have decided that she has to be a “she,” because I ain’t wrapping my legs around anything male.) Anyhow, I rolled her out of the garage, started her up again, and began riding. Being all black she also reminded me of my BMW back home, before I crashed her in England (after which, and since when, she has dawned a bright red tank —> which I’ve come to love). Anyhow, bear in mind that I’ve never ridden a bike with a sidecar, except for the two that I test rode before finding this one (see link above).

So I take off to the left, and make an immediate right onto the “ring road” that wraps around this garage complex. As I made my right hand turn I remember that I have a huge hunk of a motorcycle sticking out of the right side of the bike. It was already too late to stop… I had to hope that I wasn’t going to hit the pole. I didn’t have time to react and hit the brakes, which, moreover, I didn’t instinctively know where they were (handle/footpedal), nor how (qualitatively) to apply them. Anyhow, the owner screamed at me in Russian… something like ASTAROSHNA!!! (Watch out!!!). Too late… we were going towards it. I turned the wheel to the left in the split second that I realized there’s a SIDECAR ATTACHED, and we missed the cement pole by not more than 10 cm.

Holy cow… that was close. I sensed that the owner was all of a sudden quite skeptical about me being in the rider’s seat, and him ever letting me (or anyone for that matter) ride her around. Nevertheless, I played it cool, and kept going. Thankfully, the immaculate paint job remains completely in tact.

To keep the story moving… we told the guy that we were 95% wanting it. The only real reason why we were reluctant is that the original title was missing — which means that we would have to deal with the flabbergastingly multi-layered corrupt bureaucracy in order to get her to be legally ours.

We returned the following week to have another look. Wouldn’t you know it… it was raining. Which makes it kinda tough to take it out for a ride. Nevertheless, Helen and I put air in the tires and started her up again. This time I noticed a significant oil leak from the oil pan. Yefgheni (the owner) said he would have someone look at it if were were indeed serious about buying it. We told him “yes,” even though we felt no guilt about pulling out of the agreement — as this needed to be done regardless of who buys the motorcycle, or when.

The following week, following some phone-calling investigation, we determine what needs to be done to buy and register the bike in our names. Basically we would need to go to two different DMV’s and pay a few hundred bucks. He agreed to split the DMV costs with us, as it was his fault that we even needed to go. Otherwise, this would have been as easy as a signature, cash, and driving away!!!

So, we show up to the garage around 1pm after a 40 minute marshrutka ride all the way across the City, and we all head to the first DMV on BB. Yefgheni said that he had a mechanic come out and tune the motorcycle in the last week to make it run better. I guess he had it done, because it did seem to start easier. So we head out and stop by Yefgheni’s mother’s house. Helen and I on the motorcycle, Yefgheni in the sidecar.

Lest I diverge a bit; I guess I should explain how this bike came to be for sale. Y’s father (~75 y.o) died about a year ago, and it was his motorcycle. Obviously, it was his “baby.” He took quite good care of her, and she had NEVER (except perhaps once) spent a night outside of that garage — in 17 years. Quite astounding, but I believe it based on her condition. Anyhow, he said that his father had drowned, and that he had no interest in the bike, so they were selling it. I don’t know what they were going to do with the garage it was housed it, but it had clearly morphed into a home/workshop created solely for this motorcycle over the past 17 years. There were parts, oils, lubricants, cans, keys, covers, tires, cables, tools, pieces, bits, bolts, spares, extras, pads, gears, wheels, inner tubes, buckets, tubs, straps, etc… all over this miniature garage. It really looked more like a little cave than a garage. I felt like I was at home in a way. I could relate to how much this man obviously loved his motorcycle.

I knew it was well cared for and truly well-loved, and I knew it was a special machine.

That being said, I knew I was supposed to be riding it — for whatever reason, the planets aligned for me to be here at the right time in space. So, we stop at Yefgheni’s mother’s house and pick up her passport and whatever paperwork she had for BB, the 1991 Dnepr MT-11 for sale. We proceeded to the first DMV: Helen and Yefgheni go in and stand in a queue for half an hour. Conclusion: we didn’t need to go here at all (no real surprise if you know anything about the “Russian Runaround” — but for what it’s worth, if we were going to buy and register the bike, we would need insurance. Coincidentally, there is an “insurance trailer” located outside the building. After moving the bike to a shady place, and waiting for the parking disaster to clear so that we could exit, Helen purchased the insurance — which only took another 30 minutes or so.Essentially, this committed us to buying the bike! It was ~$100 bucksov (dollars) for the motorcycle insurance, and it was non-refundable. We then rode over to the other DMV (the MAIN DMV). I sat on the bike, again in the shade, while chaos whirled around me; Helen and Yefgheni went walking around searching for answers.

Sitting there, I began looking at the bike some more. Just appreciating it’s color, styling, and ‘penache’. I got lots of looks; I don’t think people are used to seeing Dneprs riding around Kiev — and especially not Dneprs that look so nice.

After getting some basic information, Helen called our “contact” at the DMV. This is some guy that our brother knows. Basically he is a broker for DMV paperwork. He “gets things done,” and it costs a little extra, if you know what I mean. We pay him, he pays the DMV people, we get our paperwork. Well… at least that’s what he’d like you to think.

He (let’s just say his name is “X”) was a bit pissed that we didn’t give him a head’s up that we were coming… but nevertheless, he was (as I’m sure he always is) willing to make some money. It’s not really extra money, because this is what he does for a living — even though there’s nothing legal about it. After about an hour, Helen called and told me to ride around the corner and get into a queue, where the DMV officer will inspect the motorcycle. I do, and he did. Well, actually he didn’t inspect anything. The only thing he and his comrade partner (in legalized crime) did was spend 15 minutes figuring out what the serial number was. Apparently the number was different (by 1 digit) to what was written on the documents. Go figure. Anyway, after that shameful excuse for a safety check, we agreed with X that we would return in the morning, with the rest of the cash in hand. Incidentally, he went back inside and re-typed the form so that the number was correct.

We had to arrive by 8:30am, for some stupid reason. We did so, and then ran some errands in the city, because we really didn’t want to take another trip home, across the river, again. So, we were told to call back around 3pm, and the paperwork should be completed. We called, and were told to call back in another hour. We called, and were told to just come by in another 2 hours. We did (this is typical Russian BS), and we walk over to one of the several administrative complexes to meet X. After about another 30 minutes, he finally emerges from a room where I’m sure there was some shaaaaaady business going on. He gave us the documents (amazingly!), and we were quite happy. Oh, but wait….

There’s one small problem. The DMV ran out of forms. No, really. They ran out of forms to print out the safety check information — which of course is required [to present] when getting stopped by the police… and getting stopped is ONLY a matter of time. I just hope my wife is with me, or that my Russian gets much better before this meeting. Anyway, the DMV thing all seemed very sketchy to me — and I reallllllly did not want to leave without all my paperwork, especially after giving this guy on the order of $300 cash. What a fricking scam, I thought. Luckily, my wife knows how messed up this system is, and said not to worry. So we left.

The idea was to return in another day or two to pick up the motorcycle for good, and do the final transaction: give Yefgheni the cash ($900), and we take the bike. The only other thing that we had to coordinate was the transfer of power — and this required a return trip to the Mother’s house (she was the official owner).

We returned a couple days later, this time bearing full gear (helmet, gloves, leather jacket, and boots), and went through all the stuff. We had negotiated with Yefgheni to pay less because the DMV costs were more than expected (surprised? Ha!). But as soon as we started packing all of the extras into the bike, I felt so guilty that I couldn’t not give him the $40 less that we previously agreed upon. We went through the small garage and bagged up all of the extras (as mentioned above). Most notably, an extra wheel, spare tires, a carburetor, rubber bits for all over the bike, spare handles, mirrors, a helmet, an extra seat, an extra leather sidecar cover, an air pump, and tons of TOOLS and gizmos used to fix the bike, etc, etc… I was sooooo stoked!!! That took a good 45 minutes, and I happily handed him the $900 cash (USD). Well… sorta happily — that is a lot of money nowadays.

We proceeded to the Mother’s house, and Helen and her went to her usual notary around the corner. I took the time to look at the motorcycle. Holy crap. The lights aren’t working. The left signal doesn’t work at all… the headlight isn’t going on, and the dashboard panel is loose. What did I just BUY???? I look at the fusebox, after reading the manual that I got from guy that let me ride the first Dnepr, and I noticed that a fuse was blown.

A neighbor, peering down upon me, noticed I was struggling. A very nice guy in his mid-30′s, some sort of engineer, offered some help. I said no, but thanks very much (in Russian). About 15 minutes later, he again questioned what I was doing, and I held up a broken fuse that I discovered. I should have figured that there were fuses somewhere, but I truly had no idea where they were. So this nice человек (man) came downstairs and helped to make me a new fuse. We walked over to his garage, where he had his car parked, and while his wife continued to look down over the motorcycle, he busted out the soldering gun and a small strip of copper wire — and fabricated a new fuse for me. I thanked him a lot, and returned to the motorcycle.

As you might guess, I put in the fuse, tried the lights, and *BLAM* — the fuse shorted again. I didn’t have the heart to tell him (after he just spent about 10 minutes making it) that I just shorted it out again.

Anyhow, Helen returned shortly thereafter, and chatted with the guy (in Russian) for a few minutes. She left the documents and passports at the notary, and we needed to come back a few hours later to pick it all up. We ran a few errands, bought some new fuses, and returned a few hours later. Actually, the owner picked up the documents, read them, and brought them with her to her work, where we picked them up.

We proceeded down the same road, which turned into the main highway that leads out to na dacha (our summer house).

BB was now ours, electrical problems and all

Here are some pics:

Seeing your mother-in-law in the sidecar: PRICELESS!!!