Everyone has been truly obsessed with a dream at some point in their life. It can enslave them, consume their consciousness entirely. When an obsessive image literally haunts its possessed victim, it turns into a fixation, and everything else, once so important, fades into the background.
This is exactly what happened to Anatoly: as he approached his thirties, he was struck by a burning desire. He wanted to buy a motorcycle and become a biker.
For the next half of the workday, Anatoly roamed the Internet in search of the right documentation. The most productive search query turned out to be “buy certificate for the traffic police.” There were many offers, but he wanted to find something closer to home.
- Hello, do you issue certificates for the traffic police?
- Yes, we do. Come with your passport, military ID, and certificates from the psychiatric and narcological dispensaries.
- Is there any way to do it without those certificates? I have a military ID and a driver’s license, although it’s for a different category…
- No, we issue the new standard document. It’s mandatory now.
The secretary at the next number was more accommodating.
- No certificates from dispensaries are required.
- Excuse me, are you sure you issue what’s needed for the traffic police? I was just told that new regulations require visits to the dispensaries…
- They probably don’t have the license to work on behalf of psychiatrists and narcologists. We do, so come on over!
Anatoly wrote down the address. That evening, he found himself at the “medical center” with the telling name Medical Center “Your Health” and a list of services on the wall: Certificates for the Traffic Police, for Weapons, Medical Records.
The polite secretary took his documents, two pre-prepared photographs, and money for the services. She gave him a receipt and directed him to the doctor’s office.
The medical center ended in the second basement office, where a middle-aged man in a white coat sat at a desk, seeing visitors.
- Any health complaints? Have you been registered anywhere?
- No complaints, not registered anywhere.
- Is your vision normal?
- Yes, it is.
The doctor pulled out a drawer, took out several stamps, and started filling out the document, stamping it and signing on behalf of a whole clinic of specialists.
“Yes, medicine is getting simpler,” Anatoly thought involuntarily. “Last time, when I got my car license, the doctor asked me to roll up my sleeves to check for track marks and also asked if I’d had any seizures…”
Within minutes, Anatoly was leaving the center, a mentally healthy teetotaler with the necessary documents in hand, making way for the next candidates—future drivers, snipers, or food service workers.
- What a great business. Treating people is long and costly. And finding clients is tough. But here, the state brings them right to you.
- And there’s hardly anything to do; the money just flows in,- Anatoly overheard from behind him in the queue of similar “patients” of the state system.
Dealing with the State
Russians have always loved abbreviations. In modern times, new names like AMTS MOGTORER have replaced old ones like Glavryba. Few can fully decode this name, but this was precisely where Anatoly was headed the next morning because this is where exams are taken and driver’s licenses are issued.
His hope to figure everything out and return to work by morning dissipated like the oily exhaust from a coughing and stalling engine. By 8 AM, Anatoly reached the traffic police building on the outskirts of the city. A queue as long as Lenin’s mausoleum line was already waiting for him at the closed gates.
Graduates of driving schools were gathered in groups around their instructors. They didn’t rush to be the first at the door but hoped their prepaid fees would open a separate entrance for them.
- Is anyone else taking the motorcycle test? – Anatoly asked the crowd.
- I am, but you can’t take the test today, you can only make an appointment, as far as I know. They don’t test every day, only on Thursdays.
Simple calculations showed that standing in line was still necessary. Let’s say you come on Thursday, wait your turn, and… get a receipt to go to Sberbank. Stand in line there, return, and make an appointment for the next week.
- Can’t I book an appointment through the state services website?
- You can book, but you’ll still have to stand in the general queue.
The fact that exams weren’t being taken from walk-ins that day worked to his advantage: people approached the coveted windows, asked questions, and left. The queue moved. About an hour later, Anatoly received a receipt and a verbal recommendation: come next Thursday with your payment early, register right away, and take the theory test.
- Do I need to take the theory test if I already have a category “B” license? The exam is the same, right?
- Yes, you still need to take it.
By lunchtime, Anatoly returned to his workplace. He had already arranged with an instructor for additional double sessions, hoping to pass both the theory and the driving test next Thursday.
Preparation
Traffic rules are not written by those who actually follow them. More accurately, those who make these rules move around the city by their own rules, often with flashing lights, a driver, or even a police escort.
Despite having driven for about five years, when Anatoly opened the exam questions and answers on traffic rules, he learned many new things. For instance, he learned about which lanes trucks should actually use and under what circumstances one must call a tow truck instead of continuing to drive, such as to repair a speedometer cable.
Some rules were harmless, while others were potentially deadly. For example, in the past five years, Anatoly had never seen cars at an equal T-intersection yield to those approaching from the right rather than those moving straight.
“If you rely on the rules for others to yield, you’ll end up getting hit right where you’re sitting,” Anatoly thought.
Preparing for the exam wasn’t difficult. There are many websites where one can practice. The questions are known in advance, and the requirements aren’t that strict. Two wrong answers out of twenty are allowed, like having three lives in a computer game with the possibility of restarting without dying on the road.
At first, Anatoly’s results weren’t impressive. Like any experienced driver, he consistently got around 50% of the answers right. But days of practice, mainly during work hours, paid off. Within a few days, his score improved to 16, then 19 correct answers out of 20.
The Exam
On the day of the exams, Anatoly woke up early and decided to complete a few more online practice tests. He felt fully prepared and ready to go.
The outskirts of the city. A building of the traffic police surrounded by lush greenery. A line of cars parked along the road. The inevitable queue at the entrance. The solemn opening and mass migration inside—to the coveted window.
Gradually, a group formed out of boredom. Among the motley crowd, from regular drivers changing their licenses for various reasons to glamorous, half-dressed girls in high heels that seemed specially designed for taking driving exams, a small group of future motorcyclists gathered.
Strangely enough, there was no typical rivalry between different types of vehicles here. Lovers of sports cars chatted equally with those who hadn’t yet bought motorcycles but had started growing beards for their choppers. Even the eternal enmity with scooter lovers was absent.
– I’ve been riding a motorcycle since childhood. My dad has a chopper with over a liter engine, but it’s too heavy for me. I’ll probably start with a sports bike with 400 cc.
– I have a motorcycle. But I just don’t like riding it; it’s not my thing. But my boss at work is a biker. He told everyone to get a license.
– ?..
– Oh well, I’ll pretend. I probably won’t pass, but the main thing is to try. The important thing is the attempt itself…
– What do you want to buy?
– What else? A mega-scooter, of course! It’s more convenient to ride! Automatic transmission, comfortable seating, speed. What else could you choose?
Strangely, almost all the test-takers already had driving experience, though they were getting motorcycle licenses for the first time. Some rode around their yards, while others drove through the city.
Every now and then, someone would shout the name of a driving school, taking groups out to the test area. The crowd thinned.
– It’s great to take the exam right after the course! – noted someone from the new group. “I remember when I took the test for category ‘B,’ we pooled money for the traffic police. We bought so much vodka that we had leftovers. Well, we celebrated our licenses ourselves. I barely made it home. I’ve never felt so ‘happy’ before or since… I wonder if it’s the same now?”
– Of course! Usually, in groups, it’s agreed: this money is for the theory, this for the driving, and this for the traffic police… Notice, no one here takes bribes from outsiders. Because they have established connections—with their own people. Only idiots shown on TV get caught taking bribes. Only fools among officials and cops take from outsiders. It’s different with their own companies. The money flows, and you can never prove anything!
There was nothing to reply to that. The unmoving queue and the exam already underway right under the window spoke volumes. On the nearby test area, beginner drivers were tackling the ramp, desperately trying not to stall.
– We took the exam for category ‘C’ for trucks like this. It was in a vocational school. No one was planning to pay, and there was no point in not taking the exam, creating a queue, and a deficit. So the traffic cop came to us, asked, “Ready?” We answered, “Ready!” So he put us all in the back, one next to him at the wheel. That’s how we all passed—at once.
After about an hour and a half, they accepted the documents at the window and told him to wait by the computer testing room. Another couple of hours later, close to lunchtime, Anatoly was called in for the exam.
It was simple. The extra buttons were hidden under a cover, like the ones used to cover keyboards when sold—only the button for choosing the answer could be pressed. Familiar questions. The slight nervousness of testing passed almost immediately. In a matter of minutes, the test was done. Anatoly approached the inspector and learned that he had passed.
At another window, he tried to find out if he could also attempt the driving test. But it was over—the candidates had already gone to the remote motorcycle test area. No more would be sent there—no slots, try again next week.
Practice
“Don’t worry, Anatoly. Just practice for a couple more hours, and you’ll pass without any problems,” the instructor reassured him.
“That’s true… It’s just a shame about the time. As usual, it’s either work or dealing with government agencies…”
The next week, Anatoly took a couple more driving lessons. This time, everything was going smoothly. He was ready.
The third visit to the exam division didn’t have the allure of novelty. The same line. Even some familiar faces.
“Anatoly, are you without a car? Let’s go to the test site together afterward — we’ll find it together,” suggested one of his colleagues with whom he had chatted the week before.
“Thanks, deal!”
After another hour and a half of waiting, the documents were submitted. Another half-hour drive, and there it was, the site, paved with asphalt and marked with white paint. The course was pre-outlined with cones. The police representative was still not there.
A little to the side, some volunteers were either repairing or resuscitating the local star of the event — a Soviet-made “Sova” motorcycle, which was roaring horribly and belching black smoke, stalling from time to time.
This marvel of Soviet engineering was for those who wanted to take the test for free, only paying the official fees. Nearby stood three 125cc Yamahas, which everyone was actually learning to ride.
Without hiding, a group of young people almost officially rented them out for the duration of the exams. Those who paid could test themselves and the bikes right there on the site, even before the exam started.
The business representatives had a queue because the only way to pass the exam was by renting a motorcycle.
“Here it is, public-private partnership,” thought Anatoly as he paid for the bike. “That guy was right last week when he said they don’t need to take bribes. Let anyone who can, without making arrangements with the police, bring their own motorcycle here and rent it out for a thousand rubles for five minutes — let them be the first to throw a stone at me!”
To their credit, the Yamaha was in excellent condition. Aside from a few minor scratches — after all, people were taking exams on it, so they were still learning — everything worked perfectly. Even the engine speed was set just right: a bit higher than usual so that the engine wouldn’t stall from clumsy starts.
The inspector arrived and parked the car with the flashing lights directly opposite the site. He asked those gathered to step away from the hood: everything happening was to be recorded on video so that there would be no extra questions.
One by one, the candidates he called sat in his car, processed their documents, and when a group was assembled, each got on a motorcycle and performed the exercises.
The exam went smoothly. They only dismissed those who failed the task on the second attempt. This seemed fair: despite the simplicity, to knock over cones or stall midway, you had to not know how to handle a motorcycle at all.
Only one of all those gathered tried to take the exam on the state-owned “Sova” motorcycle. He was a balding man of above-average age. It seemed he was doing it on principle.
When the hero of the day rolled out to the middle of the site with a terrible roar and smoke and, naturally, stalled, the only thing that came to Anatoly’s mind was: “So, are we supposed to fight the American threat, which the media keeps hinting at more and more often, with this kind of equipment?”
“That man deserves his license just for his bravery!” someone in the waiting crowd couldn’t help but remark. The others just smirked — no one really wanted to laugh at someone who took on the impossible and failed.
And perhaps everyone wanted to do the right thing, not supporting the system. But on the other hand, everyone wanted to get their driver’s license today. And honesty and a good result — these are incompatible in our society.
Finally, it was Anatoly’s turn to take the exam. He got on the pre-selected and tested motorcycle and rode up to the starting line.
“Go ahead!”
Carefully, a little gas, and smoothly — the clutch. Here we go. Raise the right hand, lower it, slow turn, gas, acceleration, clutch, second gear, clutch, soft brake, neutral, hands to the sides. Done, accomplished!
“Next!”
Entering the figure-eight, carefully and slo-o-o-wly the first circle, entering the second, done! Exit, stop before the line, neutral, hands to the sides. Check!
“Next!”
The slalom between widely spaced cones. During practice, the distance between them was smaller. Passed, now the turn, there it is — a bold thick line on the asphalt representing the track board. Cones only at the end — two at the edges about half a meter apart. The main thing is to get between them. Ac-celeration — Anatoly knew it was easier to drive straight at speed — got it! A bit more, acceleration, brake, stop.
The exam was passed. Done. Now he could go out on the road, zoom between cars on the highway, in general, feel like a full-fledged trained driver with a license in his pocket.
“Excuse me, but when can I get my license? Today?”
“No, too many people are taking the test today. Come tomorrow; I won’t have time to process it.”
“But I work tomorrow…”
“Then come on Saturday!…”
Arguing was pointless. Moreover, going there on the weekend was useless — if the weekday line was an hour and a half minimum, just imagine what it would be like on Saturday.
At work, where they knew Anatoly was taking the exam today, they were already waiting for him with the usual question:
“Well, did you pass?”
“Of course I did, it was easy,” Anatoly replied with pride.
“And will you show us your license?”
“Where have you seen anything from the government given out right away?! They told me to come tomorrow…”
### Choosing a Friend
For a month now, collecting documents, visiting the instructor, and taking exams, Anatoly had been step by step choosing his dream motorcycle. Or at least the very first one. One he could afford.
Soviet technology fell off on its own. He had to abandon the idea after a friend’s words, a knowledgeable person:
“Don’t be a fool; you won’t make it home from the store without repairs on it.”
It came down to one of two choices: a Chinese bike or a used Japanese one. The former were less powerful but new. Although even their reliability was head and shoulders above Soviet bikes.
The latter were old but reliable. Anatoly was surprised to learn that almost the entire country, except those who keep motorcycles for prestige in garages, used ten-year-old or older machines.
On the other hand, people in Russia don’t ride motorcycles in winter. This means that with good garage storage, they are practically eternal. At least, they don’t rust from the chemicals on the roads…
Almost all motorcycles come into our country from so-called auctions. Anatoly was genuinely surprised at how little the Japanese get for their beloved machines. In fact, the lion’s share of the revenue from today’s price of a two-wheeled friend is eaten up by transportation costs and government fees.
As a result, the price of a motorcycle in the domestic market is almost double that of the rest of the world. Moreover, if you order a motorcycle from abroad, you need to do it in the fall. And if you start in early summer, you’ll miss the season.
Ultimately, Anatoly decided to buy what he needed locally. And let it be used. At least it was here and now, immediately!
The next day, Anatoly made his fourth trip to the DMV and, after standing in line for good measure, finally got his driver’s license with the new category. That same day he arranged to inspect a couple of motorcycles in the evening. And the following Saturday — two more.
The owners were willing to make some price concessions — it was clear that the season was in full swing, and no one wanted to wait another year to sell the bike. One of the motorcycles, as Anatoly immediately felt — was the one. His!
“Alright, I’m ready to buy it. The only thing is the final word will be up to the mechanic; I’m not a specialist myself. So we’ll make a deal, come over, he’ll look it over, say everything’s fine, and we’ll finalize it right away.”
“Yes, that’s fine with me.”
“Monday, I believe the DMV isn’t working. Then Tuesday — can you make it?”
“I can, sure.”
“How will we handle the paperwork?”
“I work in this system myself… If you give a COUPLE OF RUBLES, we’ll get it all done right away.”
“?! Agreed.”
And they went their separate ways. The seller — to continue serving his country. And Anatoly — to gather the necessary money.
Unlike buying cars, few banks provide loans for motorcycles. The reason for this isn’t the riskiness of the equipment or the limited demand for the service. It’s just that people and financial institutions live in different dimensions.
When lending money for car purchases, the financial sector does everything to squeeze the maximum out of the client: securing the collateral, imposing insurance that hardly pays out, and so on. It’s not even worth mentioning that a car loses a third of its value the moment it leaves the dealer’s lot.
Anatoly had planned his purchase in advance, so most of the money was set aside. But, as always happens, he wanted a better motorcycle than he could afford. In general, Anatoly could have taken out a consumer loan for the missing amount. But he didn’t do that and instead borrowed from acquaintances the old-fashioned way. After all, he was short of just over a month’s salary.
He also went and bought a cheap helmet to have something to wear while riding the motorcycle home.
Naturally, there was no money left for other protective gear. But that’s something he could acquire later, he thought.
In the evening, Anatoly called his instructor Dmitry:
“Hi! I passed! Thank you so much; everything went smoothly. No problems at all. You prepared me excellently.”
“Congratulations! Welcome to our ranks!”
“Listen, you mentioned you had a mechanic friend who could check a motorcycle before I buy it…”
“No problem, I do. Just a sec… Write down this number…”
Buying the Iron Horse
Early in the morning, the mechanic was already waiting for Anatoly at the designated place in his car. They drove together to the motorcycle owner. The mechanic thoroughly checked the bike and gave his verdict: everything was fine. The only thing that needed to be done soon was to replace the chain and sprockets. These were consumables, so it was a go.
Anatoly thanked him and let him go. The seller went upstairs and returned with his wife, on whom the motorcycle was officially registered, and with a pre-prepared contract — even with stamps.
After completing the purchase and payment, the seller gave a brief instruction:
“Now we’ll go register it at the DMV, with you on the back. Do you know how? Sit straight, don’t put your feet down under any circumstances, keep them on the footrests. Hold on like this. Ready? Let’s go.”
Anatoly, who had logged 10 hours on the training course, had never ridden as a passenger on a motorcycle. He was impressed: it was like living in our country, watching TV, some political programs… and realizing that while we sit like this, in reality — nothing depends on us…
Registration
Before submitting the documents, one needs to buy insurance. Motorcyclists typically do this for six months since the other half of the year is off-season, and the bikes stay in garages.
“Do you have a technical inspection?”
“Of course not. Come on, just get it done; it’s no big deal,” the seller said to the agent who had set up shop by the police building, like an old acquaintance.
The internal struggle in the insurer’s mind lasted only a few seconds. On one hand, he knew he should follow the rules, but on the other, he didn’t want to lose a customer. Money, as usual, won out.
After collecting the documents, the seller disappeared for about ten minutes to hand over a couple of rubles. He returned and suggested they split up again:
“Here’s the receipt, go pay it, and come back here. They’ll call you and give you the documents. I’ll go and get the inspection done now.”
“Agreed.”
The state fee for registration could be paid right nearby in the next shop. There was a payment terminal with a peculiarity. The required amount was accepted exclusively by the shopkeeper, with his commission, which was about forty percent.
For those who were unhappy with this, there was an option to find a Sberbank and stand in line there. Apparently, there was no third option: few people wanted to prove that a receipt from another credit institution was the same thing. No one wanted to check.
In less than half an hour, the seller brought back the set of documents for the motorcycle and handed them over to one of the offices.
“Alright, good luck. They’ll call you soon and give you everything you need.”
“Thanks, good luck to you too! By the way, what other motorcycle did you get for yourself?”
“Oh no, I inherited a Harley from my relatives…”
About twenty minutes later, Anatoly received the documents.
On the Road
It happened! Anatoly walked out of the police building, approached the motorcycle, and sat on it. Here it was, the fulfillment of his wishes! He folded the kickstand and pushed the bike backward onto the road. Key in the ignition, starter — ready, running!
Before heading onto the highway, Anatoly did a couple of laps on the road near the police station to get a feel for the bike. All set, ready to start his first independent journey, slowly and steadily.
Turn signal, acceleration, second gear — the motorcycle took the course towards home. The wind blew endlessly against his face under the raised visor of his helmet. Gradually, he got a feel for the machine, and Anatoly rode more and more confidently.
Red light. Brake, clutch. Carefully maneuvering between the lanes to the front — it’s not a motorcyclist’s job to stand in traffic jams. Green light, gas, clutch — first gear, clutch — second, clutch — third gear — let’s go, really go!
Only a month had passed since Anatoly made his decision. During that time, he learned to ride a motorcycle. He also met new people. But who were they?
Only one instructor, Dmitry, did something useful during this time — gave him new knowledge and skills. The rest were pointless participants in the process, profiting from our desires to achieve something. This includes “medics” specializing in selling certificates, police officers creating artificial obstacles in obtaining licenses while being in cahoots with entrepreneurs feeding off them, agents pushing insurances that are a nightmare to claim, and police officers processing vehicle registrations for “a couple of rubles”. Then there are the deputies who made these laws and the president who signed it all.
Fellow motorcyclists greeted Anatoly with friendly signals. This was a community of real people. And Anatoly had become part of it!
“As soon as I get really good at riding, I’ll definitely join or start my own motorcycle club,” Anatoly thought, “it will be a club for the free, those who don’t align with this system. Those who won’t parade around with the current authorities. Because this entire state apparatus gives nothing to normal people, only erects additional barriers!”
Anatoly was no longer just riding. He was flying between cars. And for some reason, he believed that from this moment on, everything would be different for him. Because he had taken responsibility for himself and his life. He was no longer afraid of anything. Only the wind of freedom blew against his face.
Aleksei Sukhoverkhov (c)
