KATE'N'RIDE
About me
Let's get to know each other
Beginning
Born in 1985 in Minsk, from an early age I adored travel. The rhythmic click of train wheels, the whisper of tires on wet asphalt, pit stops and roadside hotels, and, of course, everything new—roads, flavors, landscapes, cities, and people.
Typical "girly" things never interested me. Dolls given as gifts gathered dust behind glass, but a metal construction set with bolts and screwdrivers, and Soviet-style "Lego," captivated me for hours. I ran around with boys exploring garages, spinning on swings, catching newts with yellow bellies, and scraping my knees in bike races.
My grandfather was a military aviation pilot, dedicating 43 years to the skies. We often visited Borovaya to watch pilots train. When he became a dispatcher, I loved clicking switches on the huge map in his new office—blue, red, and green lights and switches marking aircraft movements. I remember the sound and the satisfying click of the switches, feeling like I was doing something crucial, impacting people's lives.
My first encounter with motorbikes was in Austria at the age of 14. Belarusian teens, born around the time of the Chernobyl disaster and affected by its aftermath, spent part of our summer holidays in Europe through the "Chernobyl Children" program. I was fortunate to stay with an "older sister" and a wide circle of friends. Stylish Austrian guys decided to impress the foreigner by taking me on an "enduro" motorcycle ride through fields. The motorcycle was bright lime-green. I remember the tall grass whipping my face and hands, unable to see much, but standing up on another bump to catch a glimpse of the horizon with the orange disc of the setting sun, the thrill of the moment overshadowing any fear. This trip back to Minsk became the most vivid memory of a journey for a teenage girl.
Typical "girly" things never interested me. Dolls given as gifts gathered dust behind glass, but a metal construction set with bolts and screwdrivers, and Soviet-style "Lego," captivated me for hours. I ran around with boys exploring garages, spinning on swings, catching newts with yellow bellies, and scraping my knees in bike races.
My grandfather was a military aviation pilot, dedicating 43 years to the skies. We often visited Borovaya to watch pilots train. When he became a dispatcher, I loved clicking switches on the huge map in his new office—blue, red, and green lights and switches marking aircraft movements. I remember the sound and the satisfying click of the switches, feeling like I was doing something crucial, impacting people's lives.
My first encounter with motorbikes was in Austria at the age of 14. Belarusian teens, born around the time of the Chernobyl disaster and affected by its aftermath, spent part of our summer holidays in Europe through the "Chernobyl Children" program. I was fortunate to stay with an "older sister" and a wide circle of friends. Stylish Austrian guys decided to impress the foreigner by taking me on an "enduro" motorcycle ride through fields. The motorcycle was bright lime-green. I remember the tall grass whipping my face and hands, unable to see much, but standing up on another bump to catch a glimpse of the horizon with the orange disc of the setting sun, the thrill of the moment overshadowing any fear. This trip back to Minsk became the most vivid memory of a journey for a teenage girl.
First job and Minsk motorcycles
In my hometown, I got acquainted with local motorcycle enthusiasts and spent a long time attending festivals as a passenger. I missed riding in the winter and read books about motorcycle culture, but for some reason, I never dared to get behind the wheel myself.
At 17, I had just enrolled in the Belarusian State Economic University, majoring in marketing and advertising. My first internship was an introductory one. There were 33 students in the group, and we all went to the Kamvolny textile plant. We listened to the somewhat melancholic director and were surprised by the dark shades of all the fabrics, even though the quality was excellent. For two weeks, we visited the plant, handed in our internship booklets for the completion mark, and got them back with the news that the internship supervisor had either quit or moved to distant lands. It didn't matter much to us—we just needed the mark. And what did my astonished eyes see? 32 students had the mark "Internship completed at Kamvol," while mine said "Internship completed at Motovelo." Probably a mistake. At that time, I knew very little about "Minsk" motorcycles, only hearing from friends, "My dad/grandpa had a Minsk in the village; I learned to ride on it before I got my Yamaha/Honda/Kawasaki." I had never even been to the Motovelo plant area—there was no need.
In my third year, it was time for a production internship, and we drew papers with the names of enterprises to ensure fairness. Again, I got Motovelo! It felt like some kind of mysticism. It was time to get to know the place for real. Nervous but intriguingly enticing.
First impressions are always the strongest. Ornate metal gates with motorcycle figures, the turnstile at the entrance, the smell of motor oil, workers in dark blue overalls, hundreds of motorcycles wherever you looked, a lecture on motorcycle construction, tough men pouring molten metal into molds, a tousled guy with aluminum flecks in his hair in the casting shop, the beautiful blue eyes of a girl painting tanks in the painting shop, secretly glancing at you from under her mask. For a 20-year-old girl, this was a day that marked the beginning of a seven-year relationship with the industrial giant in the center of Minsk. The weeks flew by like days, and in my fifth year, I chose to write my thesis here, making a conscious decision. After graduation, I was assigned to my beloved Motovelo.
For seven years, I headed the marketing department for M1NSK motorcycles. I learned to revive and build the brand, arguing with anyone who dared insult MY MINSK! A brand with a real history. Exhibitions, tests, rush jobs, customs, business trips—no problem was unsolvable, just needed more resources. I still love M1NSK and our "Minsk-Moto" team.
My First Motorcycle
In the summer of 2010, I decided to seriously approach learning to ride. Taking advantage of my position and the facilities of our testing lab, I asked our test rider, Sergey, to give me a few lessons on the simplest two-stroke Minsk motorcycle.
The lessons were fantastic! We rode on an improvised board, practiced figure eights around metal barrels, and simply enjoyed riding around the vast factory grounds. Of course, there were also the classic beginner falls: on the rails and on sand while braking with the front brake. It was painful and unpleasant, with a badly scraped elbow, but the motorcycle was fine—just a flooded spark plug and a broken brake lever ball. At that time, my only gear was a helmet and thin gloves.
Then, work, family, and other delays got in the way, and there was no progress.
In the spring of 2011, I revisited the idea and decided to take driving lessons to pass the driving test at the traffic police. At that time, there were very few opportunities in Minsk to learn to ride and acquire the basic skills needed for the category test. Following friends' advice, I found a wonderful instructor, Mikhail Kovalenko, who taught me to confidently pass all the elements in just four lessons.
I went to take the exam in terrible weather; it was pouring rain outside. I didn't have an umbrella but had a burning desire to get that coveted piece of plastic. I wore velvet camouflage pants several sizes too big—I always liked boys' clothes and had to put up with the lack of my size. They got soaked and kept slipping down, but I held them at my hips and ran to the inspector. The inspector initially refused to conduct the exam in such weather, and my heart sank, my enthusiasm slowly fading. But, miraculously, perhaps moved by my sad eyes or the collective indignation of the other candidates, it was decided to proceed.
My hands were trembling, whether from the cold or fear, but I approached the old Minsk motorcycle and, voilà, I passed the figure eight, rode the board, stopped by the instructor, saw his smile, and smiled back—I passed.
For a long time, I was convinced I was a fan of choppers and cafe racers, so choosing my first motorcycle seemed obvious. My style ideal at the time was the English Triumph Bonneville. But as a novice, I needed a simple bike that would forgive all my mistakes, be easy to handle, fuel-efficient, and fit my budget.
In 2009, our world-renowned customizer Yuri Yakovlevich Shif, inspired by the 80s style, the Bonneville, and classic Minsk motorcycles, created the Minsk M4 200 model. This beauty became my first own motorcycle, purchased on installment in 2011.
For the first few weeks, I rode quietly around the courtyard areas. Then came my first mini long-distance ride to Ivyanets for the candy festival. It was an incredibly sweet journey through empty roads and forests, feeling the scent of pine, the warm wind, the steady purr of the engine, and tasting the delights at the destination. It was then that I realized motorcycles would be a serious and long-term part of my life.
The lessons were fantastic! We rode on an improvised board, practiced figure eights around metal barrels, and simply enjoyed riding around the vast factory grounds. Of course, there were also the classic beginner falls: on the rails and on sand while braking with the front brake. It was painful and unpleasant, with a badly scraped elbow, but the motorcycle was fine—just a flooded spark plug and a broken brake lever ball. At that time, my only gear was a helmet and thin gloves.
Then, work, family, and other delays got in the way, and there was no progress.
In the spring of 2011, I revisited the idea and decided to take driving lessons to pass the driving test at the traffic police. At that time, there were very few opportunities in Minsk to learn to ride and acquire the basic skills needed for the category test. Following friends' advice, I found a wonderful instructor, Mikhail Kovalenko, who taught me to confidently pass all the elements in just four lessons.
I went to take the exam in terrible weather; it was pouring rain outside. I didn't have an umbrella but had a burning desire to get that coveted piece of plastic. I wore velvet camouflage pants several sizes too big—I always liked boys' clothes and had to put up with the lack of my size. They got soaked and kept slipping down, but I held them at my hips and ran to the inspector. The inspector initially refused to conduct the exam in such weather, and my heart sank, my enthusiasm slowly fading. But, miraculously, perhaps moved by my sad eyes or the collective indignation of the other candidates, it was decided to proceed.
My hands were trembling, whether from the cold or fear, but I approached the old Minsk motorcycle and, voilà, I passed the figure eight, rode the board, stopped by the instructor, saw his smile, and smiled back—I passed.
For a long time, I was convinced I was a fan of choppers and cafe racers, so choosing my first motorcycle seemed obvious. My style ideal at the time was the English Triumph Bonneville. But as a novice, I needed a simple bike that would forgive all my mistakes, be easy to handle, fuel-efficient, and fit my budget.
In 2009, our world-renowned customizer Yuri Yakovlevich Shif, inspired by the 80s style, the Bonneville, and classic Minsk motorcycles, created the Minsk M4 200 model. This beauty became my first own motorcycle, purchased on installment in 2011.
For the first few weeks, I rode quietly around the courtyard areas. Then came my first mini long-distance ride to Ivyanets for the candy festival. It was an incredibly sweet journey through empty roads and forests, feeling the scent of pine, the warm wind, the steady purr of the engine, and tasting the delights at the destination. It was then that I realized motorcycles would be a serious and long-term part of my life.
PINKY
Pinky's in Braunschweig
Winter passed in impatient anticipation of the new season, and by March, I was back on the road. My Minsk started up effortlessly, we practiced on the overpass, rode around the city, and then back to the garage. But then something unexpected happened. Love enters our lives suddenly and without asking for permission.
Season opening, early April. I was heading to the garage to get my motorcycle, but oops, no keys to the garage, and the season opening is tomorrow, and my grandfather is at the dacha. Evening, frantic searches for the duplicate keys, and a strange suggestion from my colleagues—"We have a testing lab, you can ride any motorcycle as a test rider, we have the plates." I don't know how I decided, but it happened. I went to the season opening on a test M1NSK C4 250, and later freed my own bike from the dark garage.
I had never ridden the C4 before, though I had tried other models. I was a bit afraid of it—160 kg of weight and it looked like a "grown-up" motorcycle. I got on, started it, and rode the first few meters, then kilometers. The feeling of pleasure increased with every traffic light left behind, every speed bump where I learned to stand up on the footrests, every turn I easily and smoothly entered, and every press on the responsive brakes that I just had to use because I was no longer afraid to speed up, feeling comfortable and confident. This must be motorcycle love.
Returning to the garage to my M4 200, I realized it was time to move on. Each on our own path.
The C4 250 and I decided to stay together. In 2012, it got the name "Pinky"—partly because of the color and partly because of the cartoon about resourceful mice, Pinky & Brain. It later got airbrushing, a permanent plush cheerful flower on the mirror, and became my loyal companion in my first real motorcycle journeys.
My first long-distance ride was to the Curonian Spit, two days. In the evening, without unpacking, I plotted a new route for the morning—to Riga and the town of Pinki. Smiling inside my helmet, singing songs, talking to myself. Breakdowns, rain, cold—how fascinating and unusual it all was! Vacation in October—forget Egypt, I saw "the happiest house in Rizzi" (pink! I had to go). Minsk-Braunschweig-Alps-Venice-Slovenia-Slovakia-Poland-Minsk. 5,150 km on a pink "Minsk." A total of 20,000 km for the season.
Season opening, early April. I was heading to the garage to get my motorcycle, but oops, no keys to the garage, and the season opening is tomorrow, and my grandfather is at the dacha. Evening, frantic searches for the duplicate keys, and a strange suggestion from my colleagues—"We have a testing lab, you can ride any motorcycle as a test rider, we have the plates." I don't know how I decided, but it happened. I went to the season opening on a test M1NSK C4 250, and later freed my own bike from the dark garage.
I had never ridden the C4 before, though I had tried other models. I was a bit afraid of it—160 kg of weight and it looked like a "grown-up" motorcycle. I got on, started it, and rode the first few meters, then kilometers. The feeling of pleasure increased with every traffic light left behind, every speed bump where I learned to stand up on the footrests, every turn I easily and smoothly entered, and every press on the responsive brakes that I just had to use because I was no longer afraid to speed up, feeling comfortable and confident. This must be motorcycle love.
Returning to the garage to my M4 200, I realized it was time to move on. Each on our own path.
The C4 250 and I decided to stay together. In 2012, it got the name "Pinky"—partly because of the color and partly because of the cartoon about resourceful mice, Pinky & Brain. It later got airbrushing, a permanent plush cheerful flower on the mirror, and became my loyal companion in my first real motorcycle journeys.
My first long-distance ride was to the Curonian Spit, two days. In the evening, without unpacking, I plotted a new route for the morning—to Riga and the town of Pinki. Smiling inside my helmet, singing songs, talking to myself. Breakdowns, rain, cold—how fascinating and unusual it all was! Vacation in October—forget Egypt, I saw "the happiest house in Rizzi" (pink! I had to go). Minsk-Braunschweig-Alps-Venice-Slovenia-Slovakia-Poland-Minsk. 5,150 km on a pink "Minsk." A total of 20,000 km for the season.
REBOOT
2014 was a turning point in my life. Though, if you think about it, I seem to have had quite a few of those moments for one lifetime. Maybe it's just a new level in this exciting game.
I got divorced from my husband, quit my beloved job at Motovelo, and moved to Kaliningrad to live and work. Starting life from scratch: finding a new apartment, new colleagues, a new city, and a new motorcycle. Considering that I dedicated seven years to the Minsk brand, and not counting my student side jobs, this was my first real job. Leaving for a new company was very, very scary. I was to head the marketing department at Baltmotors. The previous wonderful and beloved Julia was going on maternity leave, and I was to replace her. A department of 12 people, including product managers, some of whom were older than me. I was the young upstart from Belarus, not taken seriously by everyone, and my diplomacy and calmness were often mistaken for weakness. The first six months were a tough test of endurance. I had to prove to everyone, and to myself, that I was there for a reason. It's not for me to judge, but we managed to work well together, and I still remember my time at the company, my colleagues, and our charismatic boss with warmth and affection. That year, our factory team of Sergey Karyakin and Ilya Molchanov won the Can-Am Trophy, and in 2017 Sergey won the Dakar.
It takes about six months to learn to trust people in a new place, and for them to trust you, moving from mere acquaintances to friends.
Kaliningrad became my second home. A charming city full of wonderful, kind, and responsive people. I miss you all!
And the chebureks in Talpaki)))
But then, I got sick. I gradually noticed that it was getting harder for me to ride and work. Following my mother's advice, I got my thyroid hormones tested and received the diagnosis—Hashimoto's autoimmune thyroiditis. The climate was unsuitable, the therapy course ineffective. It was time to go home.
I got divorced from my husband, quit my beloved job at Motovelo, and moved to Kaliningrad to live and work. Starting life from scratch: finding a new apartment, new colleagues, a new city, and a new motorcycle. Considering that I dedicated seven years to the Minsk brand, and not counting my student side jobs, this was my first real job. Leaving for a new company was very, very scary. I was to head the marketing department at Baltmotors. The previous wonderful and beloved Julia was going on maternity leave, and I was to replace her. A department of 12 people, including product managers, some of whom were older than me. I was the young upstart from Belarus, not taken seriously by everyone, and my diplomacy and calmness were often mistaken for weakness. The first six months were a tough test of endurance. I had to prove to everyone, and to myself, that I was there for a reason. It's not for me to judge, but we managed to work well together, and I still remember my time at the company, my colleagues, and our charismatic boss with warmth and affection. That year, our factory team of Sergey Karyakin and Ilya Molchanov won the Can-Am Trophy, and in 2017 Sergey won the Dakar.
It takes about six months to learn to trust people in a new place, and for them to trust you, moving from mere acquaintances to friends.
Kaliningrad became my second home. A charming city full of wonderful, kind, and responsive people. I miss you all!
And the chebureks in Talpaki)))
But then, I got sick. I gradually noticed that it was getting harder for me to ride and work. Following my mother's advice, I got my thyroid hormones tested and received the diagnosis—Hashimoto's autoimmune thyroiditis. The climate was unsuitable, the therapy course ineffective. It was time to go home.
THE ONE
First month together
In life, you can try many things, search, be surprised, and study, but there comes a moment when you realize that this is IT. The one. For the long haul and seriously.
In 2015, I returned to Minsk. Exhausted by illness, with constant fainting spells and chronic fatigue. I thought I’d rest at home for a few months and not look for a job yet. Out of boredom, one evening, I opened Avito and started browsing the ads. When I saw it, my heart skipped a beat, fearfully sank, and then returned, pounding wildly with the idea, "Let's go check it out; it's a beauty, and if I borrow some money, it could be mine." I borrowed the money, went, fell in love, and brought it home. Sitting at home and resting was no longer an option; I had to pay off the debt and work. A new job. This time with large agricultural machinery at Belagro Group. "What can you do?" – "Everything. If I don't know how, I'll learn." The team became my second family, real and my own.
Upon closer inspection, Henry turned out to be a bit of a Frankenstein—a combination of two different motorcycles—BMW F650 GS 2003 by frame, plus the engine and plastics of the same model, but from 2006. Due to the clumsy hands of the assemblers, a huge number of small issues popped up in the first year, but everything was fixed, and today Henry's total mileage is 230,000 km (assuming the 30,000 it had at purchase were real), but surely more. However, 200,000 of those kilometers are ours together.
Why Henry? My interpretation of the abbreviation GS (Gelände/Straße, German for off-road/road) – Genry Snow-white.
As you can see from my previous motorcycles, the factory look never satisfied me. My bike has to reflect my inner state at the moment, so even looking at it brings a lot of joy and aesthetic satisfaction.
In 2015, I returned to Minsk. Exhausted by illness, with constant fainting spells and chronic fatigue. I thought I’d rest at home for a few months and not look for a job yet. Out of boredom, one evening, I opened Avito and started browsing the ads. When I saw it, my heart skipped a beat, fearfully sank, and then returned, pounding wildly with the idea, "Let's go check it out; it's a beauty, and if I borrow some money, it could be mine." I borrowed the money, went, fell in love, and brought it home. Sitting at home and resting was no longer an option; I had to pay off the debt and work. A new job. This time with large agricultural machinery at Belagro Group. "What can you do?" – "Everything. If I don't know how, I'll learn." The team became my second family, real and my own.
Upon closer inspection, Henry turned out to be a bit of a Frankenstein—a combination of two different motorcycles—BMW F650 GS 2003 by frame, plus the engine and plastics of the same model, but from 2006. Due to the clumsy hands of the assemblers, a huge number of small issues popped up in the first year, but everything was fixed, and today Henry's total mileage is 230,000 km (assuming the 30,000 it had at purchase were real), but surely more. However, 200,000 of those kilometers are ours together.
Why Henry? My interpretation of the abbreviation GS (Gelände/Straße, German for off-road/road) – Genry Snow-white.
As you can see from my previous motorcycles, the factory look never satisfied me. My bike has to reflect my inner state at the moment, so even looking at it brings a lot of joy and aesthetic satisfaction.
OFF-ROAD HIGHSIDE
All motorcyclists fall, some sooner, some later... © My turn came as well.
August 28, 2015.
The story is vivid but short. Festivals never went well for me, especially the one in Lida. My throttle cable snapped on the way there, Pinky got dropped, and I faced insults. It was a nightmare. But due to some feminine foolishness and inexplicable stubbornness, I was persuaded to go there again. I hadn’t planned on it, and my green card was still valid—I hadn’t finished riding through Europe, yet I ended up in the Belarusian hinterland. And I paid the price.
We left on Friday after work. There were three of us—Alexey on a Diversion, Sergey on a VFR, and me on Henry. The road was good, music playing in my helmet, warm wind, and the setting sun created an extraordinary feeling during the ride. At such moments, I ride with a smile in my helmet and a deep sense of happiness understood by fellow travelers.
Nothing foretold trouble. The navigator confidently led us to a left turn, showing less than 10 km to the festival site. We turned, and the asphalt ended. It was a gravel road, a solid good gravel road. Never mind, I was on an enduro. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something dark darting into the bushes (later, Alexey would tell me it was the infamous black cat).
We were going slowly on an unfamiliar road. Alexey was in the lead, followed by me, and Sergey bringing up the rear. It wasn’t completely dark yet, just twilight, and the road was still visible. I stood on the footpegs and picked up speed—Henry was running smoothly, scattering small stones from under the wheels. I overtook Alexey, traveling at about 80 km/h.
Pshh! Everything that happened next took about three seconds in my mind, although the actual events took a bit longer.
The solid gravel road suddenly turned into deep sand. Henry’s front wheel twisted, I flew up, fell on my left shoulder, rolled over once more, and Henry landed on my left leg. In my helmet, the song "Bessmertie" by 7B was playing, dust was swirling around, and Henry's wheels were spinning in the air. I saw Alexey and Sergey stopping. They just stood there for some reason (later, Alexey would tell me how seeing me lying motionless caused panic). They ran towards me. I started giving commands—"Turn off the motorcycle. Lift the motorcycle." I had read hundreds of times how to behave in such situations, knowing not to panic. One by one, I tried moving my limbs: right leg—okay, left leg—not quite, it hurt; right arm—fingers moved, then the elbow joint, shoulder—fine; left arm—fingers were okay, up to the elbow—fine, above the elbow—excruciating, nagging pain. I asked them to remove my helmet, turned off the music, and tried to sit up—it worked. A quick inspection of Henry—he got off lightly, the lucky guy, just a mirror, turn signal, and a piece of the windshield broken. I asked to be helped up—but that was too much, my head was spinning, and I felt nauseous. I sat, leaning on Henry.
Then, hours passed like minutes. A car came from the camp, loading up, the ambulance, injections, X-rays, a cast, transporting me and Henry to Minsk. Two surgeries, 1.5 years of rehabilitation, a titanium plate with 10 screws, and a lifelong lesson: overconfidence is dangerous.
August 28, 2015.
The story is vivid but short. Festivals never went well for me, especially the one in Lida. My throttle cable snapped on the way there, Pinky got dropped, and I faced insults. It was a nightmare. But due to some feminine foolishness and inexplicable stubbornness, I was persuaded to go there again. I hadn’t planned on it, and my green card was still valid—I hadn’t finished riding through Europe, yet I ended up in the Belarusian hinterland. And I paid the price.
We left on Friday after work. There were three of us—Alexey on a Diversion, Sergey on a VFR, and me on Henry. The road was good, music playing in my helmet, warm wind, and the setting sun created an extraordinary feeling during the ride. At such moments, I ride with a smile in my helmet and a deep sense of happiness understood by fellow travelers.
Nothing foretold trouble. The navigator confidently led us to a left turn, showing less than 10 km to the festival site. We turned, and the asphalt ended. It was a gravel road, a solid good gravel road. Never mind, I was on an enduro. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something dark darting into the bushes (later, Alexey would tell me it was the infamous black cat).
We were going slowly on an unfamiliar road. Alexey was in the lead, followed by me, and Sergey bringing up the rear. It wasn’t completely dark yet, just twilight, and the road was still visible. I stood on the footpegs and picked up speed—Henry was running smoothly, scattering small stones from under the wheels. I overtook Alexey, traveling at about 80 km/h.
Pshh! Everything that happened next took about three seconds in my mind, although the actual events took a bit longer.
The solid gravel road suddenly turned into deep sand. Henry’s front wheel twisted, I flew up, fell on my left shoulder, rolled over once more, and Henry landed on my left leg. In my helmet, the song "Bessmertie" by 7B was playing, dust was swirling around, and Henry's wheels were spinning in the air. I saw Alexey and Sergey stopping. They just stood there for some reason (later, Alexey would tell me how seeing me lying motionless caused panic). They ran towards me. I started giving commands—"Turn off the motorcycle. Lift the motorcycle." I had read hundreds of times how to behave in such situations, knowing not to panic. One by one, I tried moving my limbs: right leg—okay, left leg—not quite, it hurt; right arm—fingers moved, then the elbow joint, shoulder—fine; left arm—fingers were okay, up to the elbow—fine, above the elbow—excruciating, nagging pain. I asked them to remove my helmet, turned off the music, and tried to sit up—it worked. A quick inspection of Henry—he got off lightly, the lucky guy, just a mirror, turn signal, and a piece of the windshield broken. I asked to be helped up—but that was too much, my head was spinning, and I felt nauseous. I sat, leaning on Henry.
Then, hours passed like minutes. A car came from the camp, loading up, the ambulance, injections, X-rays, a cast, transporting me and Henry to Minsk. Two surgeries, 1.5 years of rehabilitation, a titanium plate with 10 screws, and a lifelong lesson: overconfidence is dangerous.
Island Adventures and the RTW trip
2016 - Iceland and Estonian Islands
2017 - Åland Islands, Sakhalin, Kuril Islands, Shikotan Island
2018-2020 - Around the World Trip
- Belarus
- Russia
- Kazakhstan
- Uzbekistan
- Tajikistan
- Kyrgyzstan
- Kazakhstan
- Japan
- Australia
- USA
- Mexico
- Cuba
- Guatemala
- Honduras
- Nicaragua
- Costa Rica
- Panama
- Colombia
- Ecuador
- Peru
- Chile
- Argentina
- Turkey
- Ukraine
- Belarus
2021 - Mexico, Brazil
2022 - Macedonia, Albania, Montenegro, Serbia
More Details - Coming Soon in the BLOG (currently under development)
2017 - Åland Islands, Sakhalin, Kuril Islands, Shikotan Island
2018-2020 - Around the World Trip
- Belarus
- Russia
- Kazakhstan
- Uzbekistan
- Tajikistan
- Kyrgyzstan
- Kazakhstan
- Japan
- Australia
- USA
- Mexico
- Cuba
- Guatemala
- Honduras
- Nicaragua
- Costa Rica
- Panama
- Colombia
- Ecuador
- Peru
- Chile
- Argentina
- Turkey
- Ukraine
- Belarus
2021 - Mexico, Brazil
2022 - Macedonia, Albania, Montenegro, Serbia
More Details - Coming Soon in the BLOG (currently under development)
© Kate'n'Ride, 2024. All rights reserved (my Dad is a lawyer)
