A bit about promises
When the light shyly began to fall through the opening garage door, it illuminated not only the motorcycle but also the memories that had been hidden in the shadows for almost a year. That was the last moment the machine stood in the place from which it has now been awakened. The layers of tape on the fairings and the uncleaned dirt emphasized the scars I brought back from the Balkan trip in 2023. What happened back then, I have already described on this blog. But the whole story has found its continuation — and not just any continuation.
Not everything that pays off is worth it, and not everything that is worth it pays off. In this case, the second part of that statement became the motivation to write another chapter of this travel story.
The last day of the Balkan trip was built around a promise made to myself and to my machine: “If you get me home in one piece, I’ll rebuild you as if you just came out of the showroom.” The context of that promise — after crashing the motorcycle in southern Montenegro and facing the possibility of returning home without it — kept me stuck for several days in complete uncertainty about what to do next. Picking up pieces of plastic from the street, lying in a puddle of coolant, reduced my confidence to zero. As a result of sudden braking, I ran into the car in front of me, damaging the motorcycle and bringing myself trouble in a completely foreign country. Thanks to a combination of favorable circumstances and asking for help, I managed to restore my mechanical companion enough to risk the journey home, which was nearly 1,700 kilometers away. After about 23 hours of continuous riding, the first part of the promise was fulfilled, as I safely made it home for a well-deserved rest after three weeks of adventure. The machine got its time off, and I could begin planning how to fulfill my promise — to rebuild it and prepare it for the next journey.
As I put the key into the ignition, after a second I heard the sound I had missed — 180 horsepower of pure power ready for further adventures. But for that to even be possible, I first had to get to work. Over the next year, I spent hundreds of hours in the garage taking things apart, dismantling, checking, and installing new parts. A new paint job on the fairings, a major mechanical service, verification of previously identified faults — methodical and slow work that gradually brought me closer to the goal I had set earlier. Countless afternoons surrounded by the smell of gasoline, grease, and all kinds of oils, as the motorcycle was kept in a workshop where rally cars are built. I had the perfect technical environment to work in. Finally, in the summer of 2025, I declared success and once again looked at a motorcycle that truly looked as if it had just come out of the showroom. In the August sun, the shine of the fresh paint only reassured me that we were returning to the road of motorcycle adventures. I was happy like a child — I like that feeling, especially as I get older, I appreciate those moments of unrestrained joy more and more. The next two weeks were spent on road tests so that I could be as confident as possible that I was ready for the journey. I covered around two thousand kilometers across Poland and fully appreciated the scale of my work, as the machine performed and looked great. The plan in my head was simple: to ride from Warsaw to Lisbon and back. Why Lisbon? Because after the last trip through the Balkans, I knew I needed to head west across Europe and have a great time there.
I was more than prepared — I had the right mindset and a machine that was just waiting for another international adventure under my control. And that’s exactly what happened: on the last day of August 2025, I began my Euro Trip, as always open to the unknown.
My first stop was in Berlin, where I visited an old friend. A few hundred kilometers on the highway tuned me perfectly for the journey ahead, because once I left Germany, I planned not to use highways at all, choosing instead local, more scenic roads. That’s exactly what I did, and after crossing into France, I gave myself to the charm of the land of baguettes and cheese. Beautiful little villages, small cafés, and my beloved symbiosis put me into a state I had been longing for — the feeling of freedom and the freedom of choice. Every road, every turn, every moment created new possibilities, writing the travel plan in real time. I only knew that I was heading to Lisbon — the route itself was defined by the choices of each day. Of course, I couldn’t miss my favourite wild camping, but this time I was better prepared and bought a new, much more comfortable hammock along with a tarp to protect me from unexpected rain. As it turned out, it saved my sleeping comfort on this trip.
As always, I searched for a place to sleep at night, and once I found a suitable spot with trees, I quickly got to setting up camp. I was incredibly lucky, because right after hanging the hammock and setting up the tarp, a very intense rain poured down on me. All my things were dry and well protected, and in that moment I realized what I was missing. The summer wasn’t particularly warm, and at night I was simply cold, which significantly lowered the quality of my sleep. Now I know that I need a better sleeping bag and an underquilt for the hammock. As in life, this kind of knowledge comes with the experience of the journeys you go through. Interestingly, I must have been incredibly lucky on previous trips, because before that I had neither a tarp nor a warm sleeping bag, and I was never even caught in the rain — and it was definitely warmer. I was reminded of that when I woke up in the middle of the night from the cold, forced to put on extra layers of clothing just to make it through until morning. Well — that’s the nature of wild camping and solo journeys.
The morning sun kindly allowed me to dry the slightly damp things from the night and, after doing the daily maintenance on the motorcycle, I set off again. It’s an interesting phenomenon for me, even after years and many wild nights — how discomfort and the unknown affect the human mind. The first allows you to appreciate everyday life, where we clearly have more than we even need. The unknown, on the other hand, constantly shows me how deeply rooted the fear of uncertainty is within us. When I set up my hammock at a roadside spot at night, I truly have no idea what surrounds me, yet I consciously choose to go to sleep in those conditions to feel something I don’t have access to in my daily life. It’s not about the fact that I can’t get a hotel, but that I need to place myself in a completely different context of reality than the one I live in for most of the year.
Packed and ready, I start the machine and ride on. And you know what? I don’t know where I’ll end up, I don’t know where I’ll have lunch, I don’t know where I’ll spend the next night. I only know that I want to draw unrestricted pleasure from being in my own company. I used to think this was about healthy egoism, but now I see it as a deep respect for myself — to give space to my own thoughts and emotions and to see what is alive within me right now, what has happened over the past months, and what lies ahead. Just a form of self-therapy.
Sipping my morning espresso, I check the map, look at the motorcycle, and feel happy. I had been waiting for this moment for two years — it cost me a huge amount of work, money, and commitment. But most importantly, I kept the promise I made to myself: that I would rebuild this machine and return to the road — something that, after the last trip, was not obvious to me at all. For the next two days, I crossed France from north to south, heading toward the Principality of Andorra, from where I planned to enter Spain. The nights were not particularly warm, but I already knew how to prepare to maintain at least a minimum level of comfort and recovery for the next day of riding. I had never been to Andorra before, and the beauty of the Pyrenees amazed me. Incredible roads, perfect sunny weather, and the steady, unchanging sound of the engine effectively calmed me from within and filled me with peace and the joy of discovery. The Principality of Andorra is small, so after a relatively short time, I saw the Spanish border ahead, and without having to deal with traffic, I smoothly entered another country on my route. The afternoon sun encouraged me to ride, and the quality of the roads only added to my momentum.
A night under a sky full of stars — a hammock stretched between two concrete pillars of some unfinished structure, the motorcycle on a well-deserved rest, and me in my sleeping bag, ready for sleep. And I have to admit — I like nights like this. I like the feeling shaped by my own choices. The sense that what I’m doing and where I am is, in a way, my own whim, passion, and courage combined. It’s hard to describe the indescribable, but falling asleep somewhere where no one even knows about you makes a person feel as if they have become the center of their own universe — as if you are aware of everything around you, yet at the same time none of it really matters in that moment. The next morning — the usual routine: full sun, packing up camp, riding to the nearest town for breakfast and coffee. While finishing an espresso with a toast from a local bar, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to head west across Spain, to the pilgrims’ mecca — the sanctuary in Santiago de Compostela. I’m not a religious person, but I felt that I needed such a destination — that I wanted to give thanks for the life I was given, for the choices I can make, for the health that allows me to pursue my passions. In the rush of everyday life, it’s easy to forget the practice of gratitude — not as a trendy phrase from the internet, but as a real, internal experience of appreciating what you have.
As I entered the road leading to Santiago, I passed many people who were on their pilgrimage. Some were walking, some were cycling, some in groups, others alone. But every single one of them was going there for something. Each had their own goal, intention, a desire to give thanks — each was on their own spiritual journey. Of course, my pilgrimage was much faster, which I actually liked a lot, but I also had my own spiritual purpose in it. Along the way, I found a beautiful lake set in a mountainous landscape, and I managed to ride down to its shore to take my first bath in several days. If the nights are wild, then the bathing is too. In the full sun, it was a great pleasure — to refresh myself and swim a bit. After packing my modest gear, I moved on.
In the afternoon, I arrived at the famous sanctuary in Santiago de Compostela. Thousands of people all around, everyone in a state of euphoria — everyone had just reached something important to them, and you could feel the joy in the air. I was also proud of myself — that I made it there, that I arrived, that I too had traveled my own path to give thanks. I spent some time there, said a prayer, and prepared for the next part of the journey, because — looking at it realistically — I still had quite a distance to cover before reaching my destination: Lisbon. I got ready to ride and set off again. Late in the afternoon, I entered Portugal from the north and slowly began looking for a place to sleep. Once again, my tarp over the hammock proved its worth, allowing me to get through the night, because shortly after settling into my sleeping bag, heavy rain began to fall — and I, dry and content, could rest after another day on the road.
In the morning — the usual routine, then back on the road. I reached Porto for breakfast and coffee, enjoying the nearby view of the ocean. Before heading to Lisbon, where a two-day rest in a hostel and a proper bed were waiting for me, I decided to ride one of the most beautiful roads in Portugal — the famous N222, which in 2015 was named the most beautiful road in the world — and for good reason. As a lover of riding a sport motorcycle, I felt incredible there — endless corners, long straights, and scenic landscapes stretching as far as the eye can see. The road runs through the Douro Valley, surrounded by slopes covered with vineyards. As a motorcycle enthusiast, I immersed myself in the sensations of riding — the grip of heated tires meeting the asphalt, the awareness of risk entering every corner, pushing the machine to the limits of its traction — it felt endless. Total focus: throttle, brake, downshift, and go again. The sun was slowly completing its daily cycle, and as I left the mountainous terrain behind, I set my course toward Lisbon, where I arrived late in the evening. It was the halfway point of the entire journey, and my odometer was already showing over 4,800 kilometers. An indescribable sense of fulfillment — and a well-earned rest.
For two days, I surrendered to the narrow streets, immersing myself in the city’s atmosphere and its charm. I love Lisbon — one of the few cities that always absorbs me completely. Old, historic, beautiful in its authenticity. September sun, delicious food, and a constant smile on my face. This time allowed me to fully recover and prepare for the next part of the journey — which, honestly, I was already looking forward to.
In the morning, full of energy, I sat by the ocean, and then spent the entire day devouring more kilometers. In the end, the place didn’t matter — being in motion, the speed, the changing landscapes were my components of unrestricted freedom and satisfaction. And there was a lot to be excited about, because ahead of me was the Spanish coastline, France, and the Italian Alps, where I was going to visit my friend who was on vacation there. The setting sun illuminated the Sierra Nevada mountains in southern Spain, where I had arrived a few hours earlier. Fatigue and a rapid drop in temperature were catching up with me, so it was time, as usual, for a hammock rest. The clear sky and the full moon that night were beautiful, but not enough to keep the temperature up, so I struggled a bit with the cold during sleep. I felt how each day was working in my favor, guiding me safely back home so that, after some time, I could write all of this down and leave it as proof of once again accomplishing a plan I had set for myself — a plan whose uniqueness lies in the absence of rigid structure, or rather in the opposite of it. It doesn’t matter whether the trip extends or shortens by a few days — when I set off, I give myself time to immerse in the unknown, in discomfort, and in the uncertainty of what, in everyday life, is usually predetermined. I need that contrast to maintain inner balance — and that’s exactly how I use it.
Sometimes, that balance and the good streak are put to the test.
Holding the throttle steady created an endless harmony of engine sound and the whistle of air that I was cutting through like a knife. Within this symphony of sounds, a strange technical detail began to catch my attention, because at times, at high revs, the motorcycle seemed to briefly lose power. The issue appeared occasionally, so being thousands of kilometers away from home, I simply continued riding, but paid attention to when it would happen again. The road, along with the weather, was treating me well — the beautiful Spanish sun was guiding me closer and closer to the French border, which I wanted to reach that same evening. Unfortunately, the problem started to intensify, and the motorcycle began to struggle above 140 km/h, which made smooth riding quite difficult. I kept checking what was going on and running a dialogue in my head about what I could do on the road with this unexpected issue. After speaking with my mechanic, the diagnosis pointed to the fuel pump filter — something that was quite a challenge to check while on the road. As always, I had a basic set of tools with me, so after finding a suitable spot near a gas station, I got to work. After 30 minutes, the fuel tank — still full — was removed and flipped over, and to my disappointment, taking out the fuel pump revealed a filter that was practically clean, showing no signs of being the cause of the issue. Despite that, I quickly put everything back together and, with limited engine power, continued on — I was glad that even if slower, I could still keep moving.
By evening, I was already in France, and as I lay down to sleep between the trees of a roadside grove, I kept wondering if there was anything else I could do to avoid riding with only half the power. The next morning, while sipping coffee in a small town in the south of the country, I came up with the idea to check the map and see if there was a nearby workshop where I could get some advice or find help.
I couldn’t have made a better decision.
Let’s call it luck, but after checking Google Maps, I found a workshop just 10 minutes away from where I was having coffee. As I rode through the gate, I knew I couldn’t have found a better place. There were several sport motorcycles in the yard, and inside — it was something else entirely. An old-school workshop, filled with medals, trophies, racing machines, and all kinds of evidence of the motorsport history of that place.
— Hello! My name is Adam, and I’m traveling across Europe on a sport Kawasaki. I’m having some issues with the fuel pump — would you be able to help me in any way?
A slight stir among the people working there, because as is widely known, the French are not particularly eager to speak English. Despite that, as it turned out, the owner’s son spoke the language well and welcomed me with great kindness. I greeted everyone, told them a bit about myself, and felt a strong sense of support from the motorcycle brotherhood. It was something beautiful — strangers who, just 10 minutes earlier, had no idea I existed, suddenly organizing themselves to help me get back on the road. I also learned that it was a workshop of one of the rally motorcycle teams — one of the best in France. I got back to work, removing the fuel tank again, and soon we had the pump ready for inspection. Indeed, the output pressure was too low, which explained the lack of power at high revs. I was treated like a member of the family — they invited me to sit down and share a meal. And just like that, I found myself eating oysters, paired with local cheese, with French mechanics, sharing a common passion regardless of nationality. Life can give you a gift whose beauty lies in the subtlety of the moment you’re living right now.
We managed to find another fuel pump, but after starting the engine, it turned out its parameters didn’t match and the engine was running poorly. Looking for another solution, we temporarily cleaned the one removed from my bike and reassembled everything. A test ride showed a clear improvement, which was enough reason to continue the journey. The guys wished me luck on my way back home, and after one last handshake, I got back on the road. The whole situation didn’t fix my motorcycle the way we wanted — due to a lack of time and the right spare parts — but once again, it restored my faith in humanity and selfless help.
The afternoon was cloudy as I headed toward Italy, entering the first Alpine ranges. It started to rain, and the temperature dropped significantly, which only confirmed that there was no chance for wild camping that night. After about three hours of riding in the rain through mountain roads, I was exhausted — the motorcycle wasn’t performing at full capacity, but it was still moving forward. After dark, I finally reached a larger town, found a hotel, and allowed myself to rest in the luxury of a hot shower and a proper bed. In the morning, my eyes were soothed by the surrounding mountain landscapes and sunny weather. The plan for the day was simple: reach the area around Lake Garda, where my close friend was on vacation with his girlfriend. I was going to visit them and spend some time together before the final stretch home. But to make that happen, I had a full day of riding ahead and around 700 kilometers to cover. The day was filled with Alpine scenery, roadside cafés, and the charm of local roads winding through the beauty of the countryside. I said goodbye to France with great gratitude for everything that had happened to me there, promising myself I would return to explore it more deeply. But now it was time for Italian espresso and the lively sound of this beautiful language all around me.
Methodically, hour by hour, the journey was going great — the issue I had been dealing with had eased a bit, which improved my riding comfort. As a result, late in the evening I reached a beautiful town in the Italian Dolomites, where Bartek and Kasia were on vacation. It felt incredible to meet my people again after such a long journey. We had dinner and relaxed, talking and sipping wine. Another unique day in an already unique journey. This is wealth and happiness — having people with whom you can share your experiences. The next day was filled with walks, great food, conversations about life, and pure joy of being together. It allowed me to rest both mentally and physically before — you could say — the final stretch home. It wasn’t a short stretch, as I still had around 1,100 kilometers to Warsaw, but along with the distance, another surprise was waiting for me. Well — life is unpredictable.
After saying goodbye to my friends over breakfast, I set off again, considering the possibility that I might ride the entire distance in one go and arrive in Warsaw early in the morning. Unfortunately, the issue I already knew too well was limiting the smoothness of my ride. In the mountains, it wasn’t as noticeable, but once I left Italy and entered the Austrian highway, it really started to bother me. Riding at half capacity, I pushed forward hour by hour — I just wanted to get home, because after nearly three weeks of almost constant riding, I felt that I had taken everything I needed from this journey. The feeling of total focus that comes with this kind of riding is impossible to describe — I felt completely connected with my surroundings and protected by some higher force. Even if that’s an illusion in our human perception, the feeling itself is absolutely real. The numbers on the odometer kept climbing, adding more distance, and even if not as fast as I would have liked, I was still moving forward. I entered Slovakia and set my course toward the final border separating me from Poland. I could feel the motorcycle weakening, losing power with every kilometer — the issue that had been following me for the past few days was clearly getting worse. Praying silently in my head, I asked for just a few more hours of riding before I would be forced to stop completely.
It helped for a short while, but about 30 kilometers from the Polish border, after stopping at a traffic light, the engine died and wouldn’t start again. I was exhausted, with over 600 kilometers already behind me that day — it was cold, and I was standing in the middle of some Slovak town with no one around. I pushed the bike to the side, and that was the only thing I could do in that situation. To make matters worse, it turned out that the travel insurance I had purchased for this trip had expired the day before. Damn it. Once again, I was left alone on the roadside, trying to find a solution. The machine had clearly had enough of the past weeks of travel and called it quits.
It was already well past 10 PM, and the signal in my phone was the sound of hope. The insurance company hotline — and a very helpful man on the night shift. A moment later, I had contact details for roadside assistance from the area near Bielsko-Biała, the closest to my location. The price for the service at night and outside Poland hit hard, but I had no choice. I felt a mix of emotions — a boyish disappointment, a deep sense of helplessness — and yet I was safe, with three weeks of incredible experiences behind me. The flood of emotions kept my energy and body going until the roadside assistance arrived. The flashing warning lights signaled relief, and moments later the motorcycle was on the tow truck, and I was in the warm cabin of a vehicle heading toward Poland.
We drove through Slovak forest roads, and the driver suddenly told me it was a very dangerous stretch, full of wildlife — just two weeks earlier he had to tow a car after it hit a deer there. And indeed, focusing my eyes into the darkness, I could see a disturbing number of wild boars, deers, and other animals moving along both sides of the road. In such a situation, I wouldn’t have stood a chance on a motorcycle. Maybe that’s why I was passing through this section safely, inside the car.
Everything began to release — the fatigue, the muscle tension, and the clash with my expectation of returning home on my own wheels. Late at night, I arrived at a close friend’s house in the south, because towing all the way to Warsaw would have cost a fortune. As soon as I took off my riding gear, all the tension I had been holding finally let go. The fight was over. I fell apart into a million pieces and started to cry. Not out of sadness, but releasing everything that had built up inside me — and the bitter edge of boyish disappointment.
I was relieved it was all over — that I had finished, that I was safe, and that I could finally go to sleep. During the night, I developed a fever and ended up being sick for two days. Sometimes we don’t realize how much our own decisions cost us — and for me, three weeks of constant riding, wild camping, and improvised conditions brought not only a wealth of experiences, but also pushed my body and nervous system to their limits. I recovered in peace, still hearing the fading echo of the engine in my head.
Once again, I set a new record. I crossed Europe alone from east to west and back, and in the process, I also conquered myself — covering 8,700 kilometers over three weeks. There is no universal moral here — only my internal lesson. I fulfilled a promise I had made two years earlier and consciously accepted the price I had to pay. It’s not about pride, but about a unique flavor of fulfillment — one that isn’t always sweet. With every journey, I create circumstances in which I can experience life from different perspectives — and that is a value that shapes the years ahead on the path I love to follow.
A few days later, I brought the motorcycle back to Warsaw on a trailer using my own car, and I’m already mapping out the next trip — of course, as soon as I deal with the issue that occurred. Things won’t always go according to plan, and learning how to handle unexpected situations isn’t useful only in travel — it builds a deeper internal capacity for the dynamics of the world around us and how we choose to move through it. To break the patterns of everyday life, it’s worth letting go and seeing what kind of adventure is waiting to be discovered — one that allows us to truly understand what we are made of.
