A Bit On The Side.
Dateline Leopold, Victoria.
7th November, 2025
Three Wheelin’ Series 1, Episode 1.
Olga, set free at last.
I have a confession to make. Please don’t let Sally find out but I have been unfaithful! There I’ve said it. I am not proud of myself as I have succumbed to one of man’s most basic desires. That constant, nagging itch to flirt with the unknown, seek out new and forbidden pleasures, to test the boundaries of what a relationship might endure. Yes, I have taken a mistress. Her name is Olga, a charming yet somewhat dark and mysterious presence from the other side of the world. As is the way of the world today we met online via the well-known biker’s dating website, bikesales.com. It was apparent from the outset that we were destined to be together. She had originally been sponsored to our country by a Sydney real estate agent, who despite being undoubtedly a good and decent fellow, had sadly neglected Olga’s needs, taking her no further than a few miles from their home and using her primarily as a promotional aid for his business, dressing her in gaudy advertising like some cheap tart and placing her on show outside open houses and auctions. This is not what she was promised, not what her wandering spirit so desperately needs in order to be fulfilled. Three years of this was almost too much for her to bare and she eventually convinced James that she needed to be set free to explore this wide brown land she has come accept as her new home. No sooner had she and James reached this mutual understanding than two things happened simultaneously. One, I appeared on the scene offering adventure and excitement to Olga. Two, James moved on to a new relationship, a Hummer.
Olga with, from right to left, James, his colleague David and me.
OK, so the above is a bit of silliness about how I came to own a Russian made Ural sidecar and while the basis of the story is essentially accurate the truth of the matter is slightly less dramatic. To give some back ground and context, I have been a sidecar enthusiast since 1982 when I bought my first “chair”, fitted it up to my old Suzuki 750 and set off half way around Australia including Cairns, Alice Springs, Birdsville, Adelaide and many other destinations in between. But as so often happens, life got in the way with things like career, family, a mortgage and all those other tedious interruptions that put the hand brake on our adventures. Of course I don’t regret a moment of my life, especially the family stuff, I have simply put the adventures on hold till those things reached a point of self sustainability. In recent years the wheel has turned full circle and as I am sure some of you are aware Sally and I have revived the adventurous lifestyle of our youth before we get old. Olga is destined to be a part of that.
So who or what is Olga? Olga is unique, that’s what Olga is, for a number of reasons.
One, she is Russian, the last example of a Russian motorcycle ever produced and these days, since the outbreak of war with Ukraine and subsequent trade sanctions on Russia, her kind are now manufactured over the border in Kazakhstan. Olga is possibly the last of her lineage ever to escape Russia.
Two, she and her kind, once produced in their tens of thousands and used for military purposes, have not been changed since 1942. The design was “borrowed” from a 1937 BMW and apart from occasional updates has remained faithful to the original design ever since.
Three, she is two-wheel drive. Yes, at the throw of a rather agricultural looking lever down by my right boot, a driveshaft to the sidecar wheel is engaged, effectively working like a diff lock on your four-wheel drive. It is amazing just where she will go if asked. Remember she was originally built to conquer the wilds of Siberia and the vast Russian steppe whilst carrying two soldiers, a machine gun, many grenades and a week’s worth of rations, so Australia should pose few challenges. Uniquely also for a bike she has reverse gear.
And how did I come to own her? Well, it’s like this. I have been casually perusing the listings of sidecars for sale in Australia for several years, but they always seem far too expensive for what you get, and a new one is entirely out of the question. Then on that fateful day I find an ad for a Ural outfit in Sydney, three years old with only 650km on the clock! Price? A little over half of new. Sounds too good to be true so I proceed with caution. After determining that the story does check out, the guy has used her as a promotional vehicle, he has already written her off his depreciation schedule and therefore anything he gets for her is taxable income, I take the plunge and send through a holding deposit. Two days later Sally and I are in Sydney and indeed she does meet or exceed expectations, so I pay the balance and head off into the vague mists of my younger years while Sally heads back to the Bellarine Peninsular to await my eventual return.
From Sydney we proceed north towards the Hunter Valley, gently easing into an understanding of each other. Olga’s needs are indeed very different to anything I have become accustomed to in the last 40 something years. For starters she likes to take things slowly. Her maximum speed on a good day might be 120kph. A realistic cruising speed is more like 90. Her suspension is also quite rudimentary as might be expected of an octogenarian design. By comparison to our Triumph Tiger with its state-of-the-art semi active suspension which soaks up even the largest of bumps, Olga transmits even small road irregularities directly to my spine. The steering is also heavy and requires the application of long forgotten techniques. It soon all comes back to me of course and the further we go the more familiar it becomes.
A challenge? Hardly!
After a couple of days visiting my brother in the small Hunter Valley town of Greta, drinking beer and telling tall stories of how good we once were (in fact the older we get the better we used to be) Olga and I head further north into the Great Dividing Range passing such tiny specks on the map as Gundy, Moonan Flat and Ellerston. We find our way blocked by road closures as we venture further into the mountains. We are tempted to ignore the warning signs and test the limits of Olga’s abilities but decide discretion may indeed be the better part of valor. We still manage to find some challenges and my respect for Olga continues to grow. Nightfall descends so we pitch our camp beside a small creek and spend the night with only a few kangaroos, some birds and a mob of overly curious cattle for company. Perfection!
The perfect campsite.
Long after sunrise we break camp and make for Nundle, an old gold mining town, now a tourist favourite in the hills south of Tamworth. We have now covered some 200km of dirt trails and Olga is really coming into her element. It is almost a disappointment when we again hit the black top. In Tamworth we catch up with several old friends along with my older and only slightly more sensible brother and his wife. More beer is drunk; more lies are told and all too soon we are heading out again the next morning under greying skies. Of course we are only a few minutes into a seven hour ride when the heavens open. Within the hour my old Dri Rider suit proves to be a wet rider suit and I am soaked to the bone. Not only that but despite it being mid spring in northwest NSW the air temp at midday in Coolah is ten degrees. By the time we reach Wellington I am concerned that I am suffering the early signs of hypothermia. I check into a hotel and immediately use up all the hot water in the shower to try to revive myself then spread all my soaked riding kit out in front of the AC. Meanwhile Olga sits outside quietly chuckling to herself about the weak, soft and spineless westerner. “This is nothing” she says. “Wait till I get you to Yakutsk or Moscva or even my home town of Irbit. Then you will know suffering!”
The next day my gear has dried, I have stopped shivering and the sun is almost shining. Even Olga’s stance seems to have somehow softened so we make our way to Woodstock, (no not the 1969 free love and rock and roll festival) where I manage to spring a surprise on perhaps my oldest and dearest friend. She stands in her doorway with her mouth open for what seems an eternity. Her mouth moves up and down but no words come out. We haven’t seen each other now for over a year and she has no idea I am even in the district. We spend the rest of the day idling around her farm, ostensibly to check the stock but really, we probably hardly notice them. There is too much to talk about and too little time.
By the end of the following day Olga and I have arrived in Leopold on the Bellarine Peninsular. Her odometer which just a few short days ago had read 650km, now shows 2500. Her engine, her beating heart, has now begun to reveal its potential and though she will always be the woman in plain black pants and sensible shoes, maybe, just maybe she is wearing the faintest hint of rouge on her cheeks, as though she knows her future might just hold adventure after all. Let’s see where this relationship takes us.
