A flat tire, a blown rectifier, a forgotten ID

It’s difficult, as always—even more so now because work has piled up, leaving several journeys unposted. Slowly but surely, I’ll make sure they find their way onto the blog.

It’s difficult, as always—even more so now because work has piled up, leaving several journeys unposted. The backlog can be daunting, yet it also reminds me of the multiple lives I’ve lived through my travels. Slowly but surely, I’ll make sure they find their way onto the blog, and hopefully inspire others to embark on their own adventures.

To be honest, I’ve been away from writing for so long that I wondered if it would be better to just post the photos with a few captions. However, there’s a real challenge in sitting down to structure my thoughts and 'build' this particular story. But, with a glass of wine for company and a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray, I’m going to try. I’ve realized that sharing these narratives is crucial; they help preserve the memories and lessons learned during my travels. I hope I can do justice to this little adventure I shared with my friend Apostolis.

This isn't some 'super-duper' ride. It’s not a crossing of dozens of countries, vast wildernesses, or remote borderlands. For many, the mere mention of the destination might even cause a shrug. However, what truly matters is the experience—the camaraderie forged on the road, the moments that challenge and change us in subtle but profound ways.

We’re talking about a trip to neighboring Albania, which may sound mundane to some, but it holds its own unique charm. Essentially, less than 48 hours on the roads of Greece, North Macedonia, and Albania, with our wheels 'clocking' about 1,500 kilometers. In that short span of time, so much can happen, with each twist and turn leading to unexpected encounters and breathtaking landscapes.

Bags packed—two pairs of underwear, two pairs of socks, rain gear, some homemade 'hortopita' (wild green pie), water, full tanks, IDs, Green Cards... and we were off. As we traversed the winding roads, the anticipation of the journey ahead stirred excitement within us. It’s in these moments that freedom truly reveals itself, the open road beckoning us to explore the unknown.

The route was familiar, with a few mandatory stops along the way until we reached Florina for our morning coffee. Next up was the border (Niki), and a quick stop at the Duty-Free for our essential supplies at half the price.

"Balkan Breakdown"

The route was unremarkable, except for the stone tunnels that seemed to echo the passage of time and memory, until we reached the vibrant town of Bitola, which stood in stark contrast to the dull grey of the road.

After leaving the city behind and heading toward the serene beauty of Ohrid, I suddenly felt the unexpected and jarring sensation of the Africa’s tail 'fishing' (swerving). The road surface was surprisingly smooth, and didn’t have any major ruts or irregularities to justify that kind of erratic behavior. With my signal on, I cautiously pulled over into a small opening on the shoulder, hoping for the best. Just as I had suspected: the rear tire was indeed pancaked, completely flat and useless for further travel.

A few minutes later, Apostolis, who had been riding ahead with a carefree spirit, pulled up alongside me. — 'Hey man, what happened?' he asked with a tone of concern and curiosity.

— 'Rear tire.' I replied, trying to keep my frustration in check.

— 'Oh, don’t worry, I brought a pump with me...'

— 'Are you serious, you crazy man? We’ve ridden thousands of kilometers together and you’ve never carried even the most basic supplies—not even a repair spray—and now you decide to lug an entire pump around? You total jinx!' I exclaimed, half-amused and half-annoyed at the absurdity of the situation.

In a few minutes, the tire was inflated, but it was leaking from the valve. Our only option was to double back to Bitola and hunt for a tire shop.

After a while—and asking several locals for directions—we found ourselves in front of a... shop? It was barely 3x4 meters, with a few tools scattered here and there, a master mechanic, and his apprentice. We tried English—nothing. We tried Greek—nothing. Apostolis threw out four or five Italian words (mostly food-related, just to throw them off balance)—still nothing.

So, we turned to sign language. That’s when we finally started making progress. They stripped the rear tire, and three shredded pieces of inner tube fell out. It was completely disintegrated; I’m still baffled how the tire held air in the middle of the road, acting like a tubeless long enough to get me back to Bitola.

Apostolis set off to find a new tube, returning an hour later empty-handed. 'Let’s go,' the apprentice signaled to me. We hopped into his car, hit two or three bicycle shops, and concluded that nobody in town had a motorcycle tube. Finally, at one shop, someone found a forgotten 18-incher. We headed back, I bought it for 20 euros, and we returned to the garage. It was the wrong size, but at that point, you take what you can get.

A little while later, my 'baby' was back on her feet. 'What do I owe you?' I signaled. The guy motions '50 euros.' As I’m reaching for a 20, Apostolis steps in and hands him 5 euros. We thanked him, he thanked us, and we set off for Ohrid.

"City Lights"

Dusk had fallen as we entered Elbasan. It’s a quite beautiful city, and because of our arrival time, the massive central pedestrian boulevard was buzzing with life.

We pulled over and grabbed a coffee at a café that, believe me, had nothing to envy from those back in Greece. The local men and women were elegantly dressed—nothing like the image you might have formed about these people. After paying for our coffees and some sandwiches (which cost no more than 4 euros in total), we set off for Tirana.

"Capital & Coastline"

By now, night had fully set in, making the ride quite difficult. As we approached Tirana, the traffic grew heavier, speeds dropped, and our alertness was at 'code red.' If I recall correctly, there’s a new stretch of road being built just before Tirana—only a few kilometers long—which has been opened to traffic despite being unfinished. It’s a dangerous section, as the total lack of signage creates a lot of confusion.

We arrived in the Albanian capital late at night. It’s a modern, bustling city where you can find everything—often just by speaking Greek. From a certain point on, we spoke only Greek with everyone we met, whether we were asking for directions or help. We spent about an hour on the side of a main road chatting with a taxi driver who had lived in Greece for 15 years.

To open a brief parenthesis here: I want to mention the Albanian people. Everywhere we faced a difficulty or asked for help, people were friendly, polite, and eager to assist. As soon as we approached, they realized we were Greek and spoke to us in our own language. Everyone had a kind word to say about Greece. I’ll never forget what one man told us: 'You in Greece eat olive oil, while we eat seed oil.' Parenthesis closed...

We headed out of Tirana very late, bound for Durrës. The road was packed with traffic and lined with countless gas stations. The relationship between price and quality for fuel in Albania is something we can only dream of in Greece. I filled up in Greece at €1.60/liter and hit reserve at 300km. I filled up in Albania at €1.14/liter and didn't hit reserve until 400km. Back home, we're paying for 'water' and calling it gasoline...

We arrived in Durrës and began the hunt for a hotel. There are plenty of options in this well-structured city (especially compared to others like Elbasan). We found a room for €50 at a place called something like 'The Palace.' It was 5-star, clean, well-maintained, included breakfast, and—most importantly—had our bikes tucked away in an underground garage.

One last cigarette to end a long, exhausting day. Apostolis was already in bed, trying to sleep through a very 'noisy' night (hehehe).

"Japanese Savior"

An early start, as we had many miles ahead of us; we wanted to ride down the Ionian coast before crossing back into Greece. The hotel breakfast was decent, nothing special. A quick, wordless check-out from the chubby receptionist, and then—key in the ignition.

I don't remember much from that morning's route; it was fairly unremarkable. The real beauty, after all, is hidden further down near Fier, Vlorë, and Sarandë.

Having started early and possessing that 'bad habit' of wanting to explore as much as possible, we decided to head toward Divjakë.

We stopped for a cigarette at a closed gas station, and shortly after, it was time to go. I turned my key, and as expected, the Africa Twin roared to life. Apostolis turned his key (where do you think you're going, buddy?) and his Caponord gave him nothing but 'the silence of the lambs.' Great... Final diagnosis: Rectifier.

People were passing by, stopping, everyone wanting to help. One kid found a screwdriver in record time and stuck to us like a leech, eager to offer his 'expertise.' As I said before, Albanians are friendly and polite to a fault.

The only way to get out of Divjakë was to swap batteries between the two bikes—a procedure we had to repeat three or four times before reaching the border. Naturally, every single time, I didn't forget to remind Apostolis about his Japanese savior, hahahaha!

The rest of the route was stunning, especially from Fier onwards. Beautiful coastal roads and one or two incredible mountain passes that took us high up, with the vast blue of the Ionian Sea stretching out to our right.

We made our main stop of the day in Sarandë. It’s a beautiful seaside town built amphitheatrically—quiet, clean, and very welcoming. For a pizza, a coffee, and a soda, we paid just 5 euros.

The Long Night: 500 Kilometers for an ID

With the border in sight, we hoped to be home early. By 7:00 PM, we were at the Albanian checkpoint, a quiet yet imposing structure, just a stone's throw away from home. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the dramatic landscape. I pulled over to prep our papers—IDs, Green Cards, and all the necessary documents for crossing the border. The anxiety of the journey began to creep back in, tightening my chest.

Apostolis’s face suddenly went pale as we rummaged through our belongings. "I can’t find my ID," he muttered, panic evident in his voice. "What are you talking about, man? Look again," I replied, trying to keep my composure. The flurry of feelings swirled about—frustration, concern, and a desire to get home. Long story short: it was gone. In a flash of memory, he recalled the chubby receptionist in Durrës putting his receipt and ID in an envelope. He tore it open; only the receipt was inside. The ID was still at the front desk... 285 kilometers away. It was 8:00 PM, and night had already spread its veil over the road, blanketing everything in darkness. The uncertainty of the night loomed over us as we called the hotel. They confirmed it: the ID was there.

We weighed our options heavily, each potential solution bringing its own set of challenges and consequences. Crossing without it was impossible. A faxed copy? Rejected. A taxi delivery? Risky and expensive, financially and in terms of time. Waiting for dawn? Logical, yet the night had a grip on us, and logic doesn’t always ride with us. "I’ll go get it," I told him, determination settling into my bones. He refused, but there was no other way, and after a few moments of silence, he finally nodded, realizing the gravity of our situation. His bike was crippled by the rectifier, and our funds were tight. I grabbed every essential piece of luggage off the Africa Twin, trying to streamline my burden, and at precisely 9:00 PM, I set off alone into the Albanian night—500 kilometers of unknown roads round-trip awaited me, each a mystery filled with possibility and danger.

We both faced our demons that night. Apostolis was left alone at a dark border with a broken bike and a pile of gear, the weight of solitude pressing down upon him. I was charging into the dark, my heart pounding with each twist of the throttle. I filled the tank, put my favorite music in my ears to drown out the night’s menace, and twisted the throttle, feeling the familiar roar of the engine beneath me.

The road to Gjirokastër was new and fast, despite the lack of signs that could hint at my route. I hit a police checkpoint; the officers were baffled to see a lone biker at night, their faces cloaked in shadows. Once I explained the story in Greek, their confusion gave way to understanding, and they let me through. Near Tepelen, things got tense. I stumbled upon a roadside fight—8 to 10 guys shouting, cursing, and shoving one another. My heart hammered against my ribs, fear coursing through my veins. Luckily, one onlooker signaled for me to keep moving. I didn’t need a second invitation; I pinned the throttle to the max and disappeared into the night.

I reached Durrës at 12:30 AM, the city lights blinking like stars in the urban landscape. I quickly grabbed the ID and a bottle of water, stuffing them into my backpack before I immediately turned back, urgency compelling me onward. On the return leg, I lost my way in Fier. I missed the new highway that would’ve taken me back quickly and instead ended up on a nightmare of a backroad—potholes, no lighting, and eventually, the asphalt simply vanished into a dirt track. I used my offline Google Maps desperately, just to see my "dot" moving toward Tepelen, frustration simmering beneath my calm demeanor.

I passed a fuel refinery, the heavy scent of diesel mixing with the cool night air, and eventually found a local who pointed me back to the main road, his kind gesture illuminating my path. I even crossed paths with a couple in a caravan carrying a wedding cake! What a surreal sight in the dark. Finally, the "Japanese Savior," my reliable bike, brought me back to the border. It was nearly 5:00 AM, the dawn creeping over the horizon, the shadows of night slowly retreating.

Apostolis was there, a mix of anxiety and pure relief etched on his face. We handed over our papers, passed through the border, and rode the final, exhausting stretch to Trikala, an uneventful but crucial journey. We stopped only briefly in Ioannina for a bite to eat, the promise of food grounding us momentarily after the whirlwind of the night.

Epilogue This trip is etched into my memory. I felt emotions I didn’t know I had, some surfacing in raw, ugly ways that challenged my perceptions. I don’t know if everyone experiences fear like that, but I know what I’ll do—and what I’ll never do again—to avoid that feeling in the future. Each shutter of the heart remains a lesson, a reminder of our tenacity.

Apostolis, thanks for the company. But if you ever bring a pump on another trip, I’m leaving you behind... (Thanks for everything, my friend.) With a newfound respect for the journey, I'm more eager than ever for the next adventure, wherever the roads may take us.

Safe travels to all, Vangelis Garagounis