Do you know how to ask for help? part 1.
Turning off the motorcycle engine, I knew I wouldn't hear its steady, harmonic sound anytime soon. The cessation of the metallic symphony of horsepower meant only one thing. Another journey had come to an end — another route, more countries, more people, and challenges. Every kilometer filled with focus and passion had just turned into an echo of the last three weeks. It was time for the vivid and colorful image of everything that had happened to let me internally reach the moment where I felt the fulfillment of another dream and the achievement of my intended goal. It was time to integrate all the experiences and understand what I had encountered on the road across thousands of kilometers of Balkan land.
A year has passed since my return, and I have come to the conclusion that this is the best time to put into words what, for the past several months, had been a blend of beautiful memories and painful lessons — something I had asked for from the very beginning of this journey. As I took the motorcycle out of the garage after this break, I had the impression that I had parked it there just yesterday. The fairings, patched with tape and hiding the scars of those kilometers, saw the light for the first time in a year, bearing witness to fulfilled duty and readiness to reveal their story. The beauty of the Balkans turned out to be hidden not only in the nature I experienced alone on the motorcycle, but also in the hearts of the people who extended a helping hand when I was in trouble. I never knew how to ask for help and always wanted to do everything on my own, until life tested one of my inherent weaknesses
I love mornings like this. I got up early to check everything one last time before hitting the road — a quick summary of the preparations made and the minimally packed belongings. After a few minutes, a green light flickers in my mind, and my last duty, marking the start of the journey to the Balkans, is to take the motorcycle out of the garage and start the engine. The realization that for the next three weeks my primary goal is to ride unknown roads and enjoy the freedom of motorcycle travel brings me a childlike euphoria. Hours and kilometers passed, and I increasingly entered the cherished riding mode, full of focus and relaxation at the same time. Of course, riding a sports bike is demanding, but it also brings a unique joy from taking each turn in the previously chosen style. At that moment, I had no idea what events would unfold on my path, destined to forever change the old, rigid structures of perception hidden in my mind. Asking for help had always seemed to me a sign of weakness or an inability to handle a situation. Now I know that everything I thought was just an illusion, waiting to embrace me.
After two days of riding, I had already bid farewell to Hungary and Slovakia. I had tested a new hammock the previous night and was generally well-adjusted to the familiar solitude of motorcycle travel. Entering Belgrade, the capital of Serbia, I didn’t plan to stay longer than a day, but I soon realized that this journey had its own plans, quite different from my expectations. I arrived in the city in the evening, so I started looking for a spot to set up camp and hang my hammock, which is not always easy or obvious in a city you don’t know. After two hours of searching, I gave up and settled for two trees on the outskirts of a bus depot at the city’s edge.
The next morning happened to be my birthday, and I was wondering how to make this day memorable. The answer came on its own. While riding through the suburbs of Belgrade, I tried to take in the contrasts of the city: the post-communist atmosphere, which was cautiously welcoming the spirit of Western capitalism. After one short stop to take a few photos, suddenly, I couldn’t start the motorcycle. After several attempts, it finally started, but my vigilance was heightened. I decided to pull into a gas station to safely and calmly check the potential cause of the issue, which turned out to be bigger than I initially thought. After turning off the engine, I couldn’t start it again — it cranked weakly but wouldn’t ignite. I was stuck without any idea what to do next.
I didn’t have internet, as I hadn’t planned to stay in Serbia for more than two days and didn’t buy a local SIM card, and there was no Wi-Fi at the station. The August heat was taking its toll, and it slowly dawned on me that I wouldn’t be leaving here anytime soon. I pushed the motorcycle into the shade and let it cool down a bit, as after the morning struggle with city traffic, the entire bike was as hot as an oven.
After a few minutes, I tried to start the bike again, but to no avail. It started to dawn on me that I wouldn’t be able to handle this on my own, and I’d need help, which left me feeling a bit uneasy. As a lone motorcycle wolf, I had to tuck my tail between my legs and try to navigate an unfamiliar city among strangers. Once I swallowed the mild taste of mid-morning defeat due to being stranded at the station, I asked one of the employees to jump-start the motorcycle with cables. My battery was too weak after many failed attempts to start the engine. The attempt was successful, but it only confirmed that the problem was bigger than I had anticipated. After a few minutes of running, the engine started overheating and losing power throughout the entire electrical system, making it clear that a visit to a mechanic was unavoidable.
At my request, a second station employee shared their internet with me, and after browsing the map, I found a scooter repair shop right next to where I was stuck. To my delight, after a short walk, I spotted the sign of the shop run by an incredibly kind Serbian man whom I nicknamed “Geppetto.” I gave him this nickname because he looked exactly like someone who, in his free time, might carve a wooden Pinocchio between servicing Italian scooters. After a brief conversation, I explained my situation to him, and, fortunately for me, he agreed to help.
I returned to the station, and “Geppetto” arrived on one of his scooters, equipped with an electric meter and some tools. We managed to figure out that the battery charge was too low, which was why the battery kept draining while the engine was running. This was a step forward, but not quite toward continuing my journey. My newly acquainted scooter master, while able to diagnose the source of the problem, couldn’t fix it, as he didn’t specialize in this type of motorcycle.
As it turned out, Geppetto had some connections, and within the next hour, I was riding in a van, with a driver who didn’t speak English, through the Serbian capital, my motorcycle in the back, having no idea where I would end up this time. One thing was certain — I would remember this birthday for a long time. So far, asking for help was going surprisingly well.
Observing the contrasts of this city, I had the impression that despite the echo of communism felt at every turn, I felt quite comfortable here. My mood was upbeat, and at the same time, I was curious about what else the day had in store for me. After about an hour of navigating through this large metropolis, we arrived at the destination. We unloaded the motorcycle from the van, I paid the driver for the ride, and our encounter came to an end. I found myself in front of the gate of a motorcycle workshop, which was closed. I looked inside through the glass and, based on the machines inside, realized that I couldn't have found a better place.
After making a phone call, I found out that the owner was already aware of my situation from Geppetto and would be there shortly. It was getting late in the afternoon, and I had no idea what else could happen that day or where I would spend the next night. After a few dozen minutes, Jovan appeared — the workshop owner and, as it turned out, a mechanic with 25 years of experience. Luckily for me, he spoke fluent English, and after a brief conversation and describing the issue, he agreed to help me. I must say, this wasn’t something I took for granted, especially during the height of motorcycle season, with his workshop filled with bikes waiting for service.
Jovan was the kind of man for whom no breakdown was too complicated, and we quickly got to work. Since I was an additional client, I followed his instructions, preparing everything on the bike to make it easier for him to diagnose the problem.
After a few measurements of the electrical system, it turned out that the voltage regulator was responsible for proper battery charging. Luckily for me, Jovan had such a part, which he hadn't installed in another client's sport motorcycle a few years ago. Evening had fallen by this time, and in the meantime, I shared my travel story with my master mechanic — where I came from and where I was headed — while tightening the last screws before the test ride and getting closer to being able to continue my journey. Everything looked really good, and after a few minutes, I was riding through the city, testing how my bike performed. After returning, we concluded that we had success, and to everyone's delight, I was ready to continue my trip.
I was already tired from the day's experiences and knew I needed to get some sleep. Jovan's friends, who had come to visit him, kindly helped me arrange accommodation in a hostel on the water, not far from the city center. After final handshakes and thanks, I set off. A few minutes later, I arrived at the place but didn't have cash to pay, so the owner or manager of the barge-hostel got in his car and drove me to an ATM. Upon our return, he even gave me a birthday beer. I had never experienced such kindness in such a short time as I did on this birthday.
I returned to my bike for a moment to check if it would start, and unfortunately, the problem repeated itself. Another call to Jovan, and once again, he agreed to see me first thing in the morning. The whole day had been quite exhausting and stressful, so I fell asleep like a baby, thus ending the celebration of this very special birthday.
In the morning, I managed to start the bike, but out of caution, I returned to my mechanic master to discuss further actions. After analyzing the situation, we concluded that, for a safe continuation of the journey, it would be wise to also service the starter and replace the battery. The starter regeneration would take two days, as Jovan had to delegate it to someone else. I left the bike and, feeling somewhat emotionally down, took a several-hour walk back to my barge to book accommodation for another two nights. Now, I just had to wait patiently. And patience wasn’t my strong suit in this situation.
The whole situation stressed me out a lot, and I began to doubt the further course of the journey. There was nothing more I could do. The next day, I visited Geppetto to buy a new battery, as he had one in his shop. After exchanging pleasantries, we said goodbye. Now I was just waiting for news from Jovan that the starter was ready and we could reassemble the bike. I had to wait for that call until the next day.
When I arrived back at the shop, we quickly got to work, and after an hour, the engine was running, and everything seemed to be in order. Again, there was a test ride through the city, repeatedly turning the engine off and on, riding in traffic and on the road to ensure the repair was successful. After returning, I had no doubts — I was ready to move on. I packed my things, hugged Jovan, and thanked him for his help and selfless kindness. I was excited about the possibility of continuing my ride.
However, this adventure cost me an additional two days, which I had planned to spend on a leisurely ride to Greece, where my beloved was to join me for a week so we could spend time together. I had about 1000 kilometers to Lefkada, an island in the cradle of ancient mythology. I set off in the evening, and to my surprise, the kilometers seemed to pass almost unnoticed. Under the cover of night, I crossed Serbia, Kosovo, and Macedonia, and entered Greece. I covered more than half of the journey, and the bike showed no signs of resistance — it performed excellently. The nocturnal solitude under the full moon captured the peculiar nature of this ride. I was alone, but I felt that everything around me was supportive and guiding me on the right path.
The road was not easy, but after a total of 14 hours of riding, I reached my destination. My only task now was to enjoy the ubiquitous azure of the water and the presence of my beloved. This time was needed. After the hardships of the past few days, I needed a respite and tranquility. After a week of exploring the island's charms together, I returned to the solitary path, with more than a week of travel and adventures still ahead, waiting to be discovered.
Bidding farewell to the lands of mythical gods, I entered Albania. The route along the coast of this new country for me was absolutely perfect – good asphalt, beautiful views, and complete freedom to choose where to go next. Riding along the coast, I spotted the ruins of a castle atop a mountain overlooking a small town. The castle was accessible via a winding, narrow road where I could barely fit my motorcycle. After negotiating a few sharp turns, trying to climb as high as possible, I realized that I was on a footpath, as evidenced by the remains of benches where I stopped. Beyond that were only stairs leading to the castle. Exploring the ruins and the view from the mountaintop of the surrounding landscape and sea were so soothing that I decided to take a dip in a waterfall I had found nearby on the map. There would have been nothing extraordinary about this if it weren’t for the fact that it was accessed via a mountain gravel road.
There was no sense of reason in this decision, and I would even venture to say that a touch of recklessness carried me away. For the next hour, I drove 10 kilometers into the Albanian mountains in search of the waterfall along a road where no one would likely have ventured with a sport motorcycle.
The surrounding nature rewarded me for the effort of the challenging technical riding, and the absence of any buildings was very pleasing. At the same time, I must note that I had left no margin for error here. If anything had happened, I wouldn’t have had anyone to ask for help, unless the grazing cows were willing to share a bit of milk. I managed again. The waterfall turned out to be much lower than the road I was on, and I wasn’t too keen on descending there in my motorcycle gear in the summer heat. A little earlier, I had passed a small stream that was perfect for a bath. The cold mountain water was my exclusive SPA for the afternoon, refreshing me and blending with the approaching sunset. Against this backdrop, the motorcycle looked like the materialization of all my dreams in that one moment, which I had chosen, created, and reached for despite the risk. It was worth it.
The next few days were the quintessence of everything I needed while traveling alone through various countries. Beautiful views, delicious food, wild accommodations, and a symbiosis with the motorcycle. All while touching the boundaries of discomfort, with the drop in temperature at night where I shivered with cold in the hammock, only to jump naked into a lake in the morning and wash away the trials of a sleep interrupted by the cold. Each day was a new challenge filled with the unknown approaching around each bend. Beauty in its simplicity at the expense of comfort but according to my own design, with full responsibility for everything happening within and around me. This beautiful state of inner focus guided me onward. But to prevent it from being too perfect, another situation awaited me where I would need to test the familiar “I need help” once again.
Offline maps have a tendency not to always show the type of road you want to take, especially when it comes to borders between countries running through mountains. I chose a route that was supposed to allow me to exit Macedonia and enter Kosovo. I checked the map and saw that I could take a road passing through a national park, which was generally accessible. I made only one mistake: I didn't fill up the tank and set off into the unknown with just half a tank of fuel. After about an hour, I was in the middle of nowhere; the road ran alongside a stream in a valley between mountains. My amazement knew no bounds, and the gravel road was of quite good quality. Unfortunately, after a while, I was down to the last bar of fuel and had no idea when I would reach any kind of settlement.
It was too late to turn back, and the occasional cars going in the opposite direction made me feel a bit more at ease. Another hour passed as I exited the mountain valley, and the last bar of fuel began to flash, pleading for attention. Eventually, I found myself in a clearing where, besides an old stone hut, there were two SUVs and three border guards. I quickly guessed that I was at the border with Kosovo. The guards stopped me, asked what I was doing there, and requested my documents. They quickly explained that this was a border crossing only for citizens of Kosovo and Macedonia, not for tourists. I explained my situation and showed them that I was almost out of fuel. After a brief conversation, they allowed me to continue but told me not to stop or take pictures as I was not supposed to be there according to the law.
And there was plenty to photograph, as this was probably the most beautiful border I had ever crossed on a motorcycle. I was in the mountains, surrounded by vast spaces and endless fields to the horizon. Wild horses grazing in the distance, and cows walking freely on the road. The border guards decided to keep an eye on me as they followed me in their SUV for a good 20 minutes until I reached the road leading to a town situated at the foot of a large hill. Of course, all this beauty did not fuel my motorcycle like it did my eyes, and I knew I was running on very low reserve. As I drove through this mountain town, I was quite a spectacle for the local people, and children ran after me with great interest.
Narrow streets and lack of navigation led me to take the wrong road several times, without improving the fuel level in my tank. I found out from someone that the nearest gas station was about 15 kilometers towards the next larger town. I was sure I wouldn’t make it there on my own. With nothing to lose, I set off, but now I was turning off the engine as I descended every hill, saving the meager remnants of fuel. It was a strange sight for anyone who saw me riding the motorcycle quietly like a bicycle down the mountain road.
I don’t know how I managed it, but I arrived at the gas station under my own power. And here was the surprise – they didn’t accept card payments, and I was completely out of cash. The station attendant told me that the nearest ATM was 10 kilometers away! Laughing heartily, I explained that my tank was practically empty. I asked him to let me fill up at least 5 liters of fuel so I could go to the ATM, return with cash, and fill up the tank completely. After a moment of hesitation, the guy agreed. The whole operation went quite smoothly, and within less than an hour, I was back and fully refueled.
Sipping coffee at the station, I watched my mud-covered bike, which I must admit had bravely endured everything I threw at it. All the surprises of the day meant that by the time I finished my coffee and cleaned the motorcycle, evening had arrived. The cold was quite noticeable at this time of day in the mountainous terrain, which discouraged me from looking for a spot for my hammock in the dark. I spent the night in a hotel in the town where I found the ATM. Along the way, I made local kids happy by letting them sit on the motorcycle for photos. Once again, human kindness and asking for help allowed me to continue safely.
