Nice Saab and Other Tales of Transport

In high school, my brother and I would half-mock, half-covet Saab 900 convertibles. Seeing one on the road (or the few in the PDS parking lots) would elicit an immediate, sarcastic and envious (we were creepin’ in an ’89 Taurus) statement: “Nice Saab.” This became such a part of our fraternal vernacular that I still say it to myself, years after its fallen out of common usage.

I mention this because I’ve had the good fortune of cruising around Latvia in a Saab. Now imagine that until 1991, anybody in Latvia could only own a car from a state-owned manufacturer. A car that might have looked like this Lada.

In the era of independence, cars have become a symbol of liberation and the market has flooded with imports form all over the world ( most popular: BMW, Toyota, Lexus). Of course, all of these imports came after 1991, making any car that’s an 18 year old import, a very unique sight to see. So when we drove around in this car:

You can start to imagine, the looks of approval we would receive. Cool cats giving the nod of agreement, a young woman giving a thumbs up from the back seat of a motorbike and schoolchildren (literally) freaking out when they saw us cruise by.

Often times they would shout something to us. I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but I figure it translated into something like, “Nice Saab”.

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Following the lead of many of my friends back home, I’ve watched “The Long Way Round” twice. It’s a seven-part travel series that document’s the trip of Ewan McGregor and his buddy Charlie Boorman on their motorcycle journey from the UK to New York, you guessed it, the long way round. I’d recommend it and apparently they just shot a new one about their trek to Africa (caThe Long Way Down”). Wow, without promoting too much, Jeff and I watched it voraciously upon our return to the US after our southeast Asian expedition. I lapped it up.

Anyway, this of course has generated my interest in riding a motorcycle and Latvians are keen for them. Nice connection. Ulla and her flat-mate, Imanc, both ride and, one night he offered (okay, after some pleading) to give me a quick tutorial. Everything looked good. They live off of a nice trail that goes through a forest, perfect for feeling out the bike while keeping out of the danger of tarmac and traffic.

Imanc runs over the details. I stall several times out of the blocks (my constant dilemma on manual shift vehicles), but I eventually get going and quickly sail into the forest. Minding the 1st gear, I navigate the storybook woods. Rich loam covering the floor as identical pines in all directions sprout up to about 50 feet. When added together, the base of each tree, bare until about 8 feet, give the canopy a mystical feel. Beautiful sight. I’m taking it in, enjoying the bumps in the road and, while not comfortable, definitely feeling that I might become so… eventually.

I reach the end of the woods. Ah, the moment of truth. Take the road or turn back to the woods? Hmmm…woods, definitely woods. Turning the bike, I begin my 180, amazed at how well it all seems to be going. Just about complete, I lose speed and control (eerily reminiscent of the time I dropped into the river in College Park, Maryland off of Jeff’s bike). I fail to get her into neutral, stall again and down we go.

I’m amazed at the weight of the bike as I’m taken for the last moment of my ride, flailing sideways. Barely, I prance out on one foot before crashing to the floor. The bike too. It starts leaking petrol from under the seat and I begin to freak out, thinking some sort of summertime blockbuster explosion is imminent. Slightly wounded, I dive back for the bike, wrench out the keys and fall to my back, breathing hurriedly on the forest floor.

Imanc, in his endearing way, had a premonition about where my ride was heading. From the moment I took off, he never stopped walking behind me. He showed up within a minute and helped me pull it together, saying,

“Chreess. There are two kinds of bikers in the world: Those who have fallen off the bike and those who are going to fall of a bike. So now you know who you are.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m the one who is getting a ride back to the house. And you’re driving!”

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Jurmala, the town I’ve been staying, fronts mile after mile of Riga Bay. In between the space of the sand and the residencies, there are some great trails for mountain biking. Here are a few pics from my day out on the Jurmala trails. Wishing my friends Jeff and BJ were there to show me a thing or two.









Guys, maybe after Utah, its off to the Latvian Coast. Choice terrain.