TET Tales: Mud, Misery, and Motorbike Musings – A Slippery Saga from the Polish Trails
Dates covered: 11.06.25 to 13.06.25
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Right, buckle up, folks—this one’s a bit of a rollercoaster. Not the screaming-through-loops kind, but more like the emotional rollercoaster of a soggy sock in a rainstorm. Welcome to 3 more days of my Polish TET adventure: where the rain doesn’t quit, the mud sticks like a bad Tinder date, and my Royal Enfield Himalayan continues to be a loyal beast with the heart of a goat.
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11.06.25: The Drenched Despair Diaries
After one decent day of sunshine that had me thinking the Polish weather gods had finally taken pity on me, it was straight back to their usual programming: Rain: The Sequel. Honestly, I’m starting to believe Poland has only two seasons—“Wet” and “Wetter.”
Morning started with that fine drizzle that seems innocent enough but turns everything into a snot-slick mess. The track? Wet. The mud? Greasier than a truck stop fry-up. The riding? Let’s just say it got interesting real fast.
About two hours in, the heavens opened for real. And let me tell you—solo off-road riding in the rain, surrounded by a whole lot of nothing, starts to feel like a bad life choice.
It wasn’t just physically rough, it was a mental grind too. Your brain starts whispering things like: “What if you crash here?” and “How long until the wolves show up?” and “What’s the Polish word for tow truck?”
So, I made the executive decision: Safety first. Tarmac, please. Found my way out of the slop and hunted for shelter like a soggy, tired raccoon in search of a warm bin.
Success! Landed at a simple hotel—bit pricey for what it was, but had a restaurant and cold beer at decent prices. That’s a big win in my book.
Got checked in, threw the wet gear into a sad heap, and just as I finished unpacking—BOOM—biblical-level rain again. Solid timing, if I say so myself. Treated myself to a late lunch, two cold ones, and then collapsed into bed like a man who’s fought both nature and his own existential dread. I was knackered. Mentally and physically. So, decision made: I’m staying here for two nights.
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12.06.25: Rest, Rants & Royal Enfield Love Letters
Today was all about pressing pause. My brain needed a break. My body needed a break. Even my boots needed a break. So I did the smart thing—no riding, no drama, no near-death experiences. Just a day off.
Let’s be real: riding off-road isn’t just a physical workout, it’s a full-body-and-brain boot camp. Every muscle is fighting for balance, your eyes are glued to the GPS like it owes you money, and every missed turn has you doing weird U-turn yoga with 200 kilos of motorcycle. It’s not just “riding”—it’s an endurance sport.
So yeah, after 5,000 km (give or take a few dodgy detours), most of it bouncing over gravel, mud, grass, sand, and the occasional cow track, I hit a wall. Off-roading wasn’t fun anymore. That’s the honest truth.
But here’s the silver lining: I spent the day catching up on blog writing, photo editing, and giving the Himalayan some overdue TLC. And here’s a shocker—even after 5,000+ km, she didn’t need a single drop of oil. Not bad for a bike that’s air-cooled and has been living a hard-knock life on the trails.
Now, I’ve also got a BMW R1150RT back home (a.k.a. The Couch on Wheels), and that thing slurps oil like it’s on a Mediterranean diet—half a litre every 2,000 km. So, credit where it’s due: the Himalayan might not be a speed demon, but she’s a damn reliable mule.
Side note: Royal Enfield’s gone and replaced the trusty 411 with the new Himalayan 450. More power, more modern tech, more “look at me” energy… but less soul, if you ask me. The 411 is a clunky sweetheart. The 450? Probably faster, probably better—but it’s like trading your scruffy rescue dog for a purebred poodle. Just ain’t the same.
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13.06.25: Back in the Saddle (and Slightly Moist)
After a solid day of rest and roughly 12 hours horizontal, I felt… marginally more alive.
So back to the grind, 06:45 wake-up, quick family video call (to remind them I still exist and haven’t been swallowed by a bog), brekkie, pack-up, and off we go.
Weather? Cloudy, because of course it is. But at least it wasn’t raining, which felt like a small miracle and possibly a sign the moto gods were finally cutting me some slack.
Tracks were still muddy—no surprise there—but much more manageable than the slip-n-slide of two days ago. Had a decent pace going, enjoying the ride again, when I met the day’s booby trap: a deceptively deep water crossing.
Now, I love a good splash as much as the next adventure rider, but this one went from “bit of fun” to “who filled my right boot with pond water?” real quick. End result: one wet foot, soaked trousers, and a reminder that waterproof boots are more of a theory than a guarantee.
Temperature? A whopping 14°C. Which, when you’re doing 60+ km/h with soggy socks, feels like someone’s strapped an ice pack to your shin. Solution? BP station hot chocolate. Two of them. Drank them like medicine. It worked.
And then… SUNSHINE. Actual blue sky and golden light. I nearly wept. The rest of the day was a joy: 160 km of varied terrain—sand, gravel, some horrendously broken tarmac that gave me flashbacks, and just a touch of squishy mud to keep it spicy.
Landed in a town called Hucisko, found a guesthouse with a pizza restaurant, and—get this—booked a room with a double bed. That’s living. I’ve been stuck with more single beds than a nun in a monastery, and I’m sick of starfish sleeping with one leg falling off the side.
Boots drying? Check. Socks warm? Check. Stomach full of cheesy carbs? Check. Life, at least for today, is good.
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Wrap-Up: The Mental Miles Matter Too
So there you have it—three days that show both sides of off-road travel. The 11th nearly broke me, the 12th helped patch me up, and the13th reminded me why I started this muddy madness in the first place.
Adventure riding isn’t all epic views and badass helmet selfies. Sometimes it’s just you, your overloaded bike, and the constant inner monologue asking, “Why am I doing this again?”
But then the trail smooths out. The sun comes back. The bike roars through a stretch of gravel that makes you feel like a two-wheeled gladiator. And suddenly, it’s all worth it again.
The Himalayan keeps proving she’s up for the job. Not perfect, not fast, but faithful as hell. Like a scruffy best mate who might not win any races, but will never leave you stranded. Unless the new 450 comes along and steals your keys…
Tomorrow? Who knows. Might be rain, might be shine, might be another waterlogged boot. But I’ll be out there, dodging puddles and chasing that elusive feeling of “damn, this is awesome.”
Rubber side down, folks.
#dustysocks
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Got your own story of boot swamp, dodgy ferries, or mental motorcycle meltdowns? Drop it in the comments—I’ll bring the beers if you bring the bruises.
