From Brussels to Shanghai by Solar Bike: 3,600 km Across Russia, Claude’s Chronicle

Claude Brouir is a Belgian traveler from Brussels who took on an out-of-the-ordinary challenge: to link Brussels and Shanghai on an electric-solar bike. Between May 2 and June 2, 2025, he crossed Russia over 3,600 km, from the Latvian border to the Kazakh border, passing through Moscow, Nizhny Novgorod, Kazan, Ufa and Omsk. He entered on a regular tourist visa, right in the middle of the sanctions era, and experienced from the inside what few Western travelers have seen in recent years: Russia’s national highways, roadside motels, gas stations where people hand you chocolate, and a hospitality that never lets up.

His chronicle complements those of other readers who have crossed Russia by road, like Miki’s account of driving in the dead of winter or Nicolas’s journey to Moscow. You can follow his whole adventure on his blog bike2shanghai.be.

What follows is Claude’s account, in his own words and with his own photos. I’ve shaped the text of his documentary so it reads like a chronicle, but everything he tells is his. Thank you, Claude, for sharing it — and thank you for your kind words about this blog, which helped him prepare his crossing.

At a glance, here’s the essence of his crossing of Russia before we get into the detail:

Claude’s route across Russia

Approximate route of Claude’s crossing of Russia: 3,600 km between the Latvian border and the Kazakh border (May–June 2025).

Preparing to cross Russia despite the sanctions

May 2 is when the second course of my menu begins: entering Russia. Choosing to go through Russia wasn’t a decision I took lightly, but one made after a long period of checking. First with the Frenchman Stéphane Maillard, who did this trip a few years ago and helped me map out the route. Then thanks to Irena Domingo’s blog, which helped me understand how to handle, despite the international sanctions, the visa, Internet, money and hotels.

And finally, I was reassured thanks to Anton Sazonov, head of Velorussia, whom I contacted through Internations, the social network for expats: he promised me support and encouraged me to visit his country. But I had to factor in one extra difficulty: with the Cyrillic alphabet, from the border onward I would no longer really be able to read anything.

Entering Russia at the Latvian border: five hours of waiting

After my troubles at the Latvian border, it’s with a certain apprehension that I approach the Russian border. At the entry booth I pull out what will become my pass from now on: the report Russian television devoted to me. That gets me through —on a bike it doesn’t seem to be a problem— as far as passport control.

There, after an exchange in English with the officer, just when I think I’m free, I’m told my file has to undergo a special review. I’m asked to wait inside the building. It will last five hours, before I’m called into an office and questioned, mainly about whether or not I know any Ukrainians. After twenty minutes, during which my questioner stays very cold, the interview ends with a resounding “Wonderful!” and a request for a selfie. So I can enter Russia. Luckily, I only have a few kilometers to ride through the pitch-black night to reach my motel.

Russian roads: highways, motels and a khaki atmosphere

I quickly get confirmation that I’ll have to stick to the “M” roads, the national highways, because the secondary network is practically nonexistent. These are mostly two-lane roads, with no hard shoulder, very often in poor condition, and people drive fast on them: I’ll have to be very careful. I also get confirmation that my stops will be at bus shelters and gas stations, and that lodging will consist of motels, spaced 30 to 35 km apart along the highways.

I’m immediately struck by the country’s military atmosphere. First with reference to the past, with countless memorials to the 1941-1945 war: every village has its own, and some are gigantic. Then with reference to the present, with billboards praising the courage of the Russian army, glorifying young soldiers or calling on people to enlist. I pass military convoys, and khaki is everywhere: on the uniforms of the soldiers I see here and there, heading to or coming back from the front, but also because a lot of work clothing is khaki. Television broadcasts patriotic programs about the conflict in Ukraine nonstop. For me it’s a completely unfamiliar setting and atmosphere.

The three miracles of May 5

May 5 will be the day of the three miracles. Suddenly I hear a sharp noise behind me and see in my mirrors that the trailer has come off the bike and is lying in the middle of the road. The first miracle is that it caused no accident. The second is that, after inspection, it can still roll. And the third is that, after hitchhiking in the hope of being taken somewhere to fix it, some very kind Russians stopped, pulled the necessary tools and materials out of their van, and half an hour after the breakdown my bike was repaired. The next day I’d still have to visit a welder —the second of the trip— to reinforce the tow bar.

Moscow during the May 9 celebrations

On May 7 I’m in Moscow. The arrival happens in a tense context, because of the celebrations for the 80th anniversary of the end of the Great Patriotic War and the military parade on May 9. A young cyclist student, Yaroslav Nazarov, is waiting for me at the hostel: Anton Sazonov had let him know I was coming. Together with another young woman, Svetlana Belyankova, he’ll be at my disposal for three days. Thanks to them I visit the city by metro, by boat and even by cable car, for a magnificent view over the city from above.

Moscow is quiet: it’s a four-day break, Muscovites have left for their dacha in the countryside, while others have come to watch the parade. Without an invitation to go to Red Square, I’ll watch the parade largely on TV, before heading to one of the city’s ring roads where the armored vehicles pass. The mobile phone networks and GPS have been jammed, putting Moscow under a bell jar. From the next day on, I’ll be able to get my navigation tools back.

The Russians’ welcome: selfies, gifts and a military ration

Everywhere I go, the Russians’ welcome is warm. Many take photos or film and, to do so, sometimes stop along the road. Some ask me to pull over next to them for photos, selfies, sometimes for gifts. I get them very often at gas stations, where my stop usually draws a small crowd and a lot of enthusiasm. They’re often drinks or chocolate. The most unusual will be receiving a complete military ration, given to me by a truck driver and former soldier during one of my breaks.

Nizhny Novgorod and the Volga: rain, Rotary and a night with a family

The stage toward Nizhny Novgorod, on May 14, will be nightmarish given how heavy the rain is. It’s actually the first real day of very bad weather since I set off. Several times I have to put the bike under cover and, at the end of a long stage that ends with a terrible climb, I reach the motel with dead batteries. In the evening I’m cheered up thanks to an invitation from the local Rotary Club, which treats me to dinner and, the next day, shows me around this city of a million people, the setting for the adventures of Michael Strogoff, Jules Verne’s hero.

From there I’ll follow the Volga along one bank or the other, crossing it by ferry. Missing the last ferry of the day lets me spend my only night with a family in Russia, in a very simple house, apparently with no bathroom, the toilet at the bottom of the garden, a packed-earth floor and archaic wiring. What I’ll remember most is the hospitality of my host Olha and the hearty meals she made me.

Kazan with Ildus: charity cycling and mental fatigue

I’m expected in Kazan by Ildus Yanishev, a cyclist who has ridden around the world —25,000 km—, a Warmshowers host and member of the local Rotary Club. He wants me to arrive a day early, so he comes to pick me up 160 km from the city, to show me an institution his Rotary supports: a shelter for the homeless where I’ll spend a night, and from which a bike ride sets off for around thirty young cyclists. They’ll cover 40 km when most have never done more than 10, on rental bikes. Cycling culture isn’t very established in Russia.

After a Rotary meeting, during which pennants are exchanged between the local club and the Rotary Club of Hastière, in Belgium, I stay a little longer in Kazan, to avoid a full day of rain and to recover from the mental fatigue caused by how hard it is to ride on Russia’s national highways: one eye ahead on the bad road, one eye behind in the mirror to spot cars and trucks appearing. To spare myself, I shorten my route, initially planned via Ulyanovsk —where the local Rotary was actually expecting me— and Tolyatti, to take a more direct line toward Ufa, the next city where I’m expected.

The Russian paradox: so rich and so poor

It’s in this region that I become aware of Russia’s paradox, so rich and so poor. So rich because I cross oil and gas extraction zones where you can measure the importance of the country’s natural resources. So poor when I see the state of domestic underinvestment: besides the state of the roads, there’s the decrepitude of the rail network, the age of the car fleet and a general lack of maintenance. The houses, the roadsides and even sometimes the clothes are neglected. “Neglected”: that’s the word that seems most fitting for today’s Russia.

It’s also in this area that I spend the trip’s only night camping, near a gas station, having found neither an open motel nor a place to stay with a family. And at times I face a very problematic road surface: most often because people dragged their feet before acting, but also because of stretches of endless roadworks, announced by yellow signs I see from afar with a certain unease.

Ufa: a week of hospitality and 30,000 cyclists

I’m in Ufa as early as May 26. Since Anton Sazonov wants me to stay until May 31 and June 1 for two major city events, the municipality offers me a four-star hotel on full board for the whole week. This lets me do a bike tour, another on foot with a French-speaking guide from the local university, and numerous press contacts, print and television, with Ufa’s local TV and Bashkortostan’s regional TV. The bike mechanic Anton sends me to for a tune-up, very worried about my safety on Russian roads, offers to fit an extra light at the back, which improves things noticeably.

On May 31, after a breakfast at the invitation of the mayor of Ufa, I take part, with an interpreter at my side, in the Velorussia symposium on cycling infrastructure in cities, with representatives from every corner of the country. I discover with surprise, reading the program, that I’m listed among the speakers: so I have ten minutes to prepare a speech and address the participants. June 1 is an important day for Ufa’s cyclists: as every year for thirteen years, part of the city is closed to cars for a few hours, and 30,000 cyclists gather for a huge, joyful procession. I’m invited to give the starting signal alongside the vice-president of the Republic of Bashkortostan.

Stopping by the restaurant of an acquaintance of Anton’s, along with local specialties —including a Belgian chocolate dessert— I’m treated to a concert of quray, the traditional Bashkir flute, a kind of hollow bamboo pierced with five holes, which I’m given at the end of the concert. The festive day ends with a presentation of my trip before an audience of passionate cyclists.

Toward Asia: the Urals, Kazakhstan and Omsk

This long stay in Ufa ends with a van transfer, along the single, dismal road that crosses the country all the way to Vladivostok, to make up for lost days: as far as Kurgan, crossing the Ural Mountains and passing the geographic marker that officially separates Europe from Asia. Asia, the continent I therefore enter on June 2.

The transition toward Omsk includes a detour into Kazakhstan, which begins with the ten worst kilometers of the whole trip and then, in Petropavl, with a first taste of Kazakh hospitality: I receive, besides tea, a meal and even a concert of dombra, a two-stringed Kazakh instrument. The customs crossings go smoothly administratively, but in a downpour for the first one, leaving Russia.

In Omsk I’m awaited by Aleksei Stepanenko and his wife. I discover the daily life of a mixed Russian-Ukrainian couple: they have a little three-year-old boy who has never met his maternal grandparents. In Omsk too there’s a gathering of 5,000 cyclists that I take part in, before staying one more day, at the request of Eldar, another bike mechanic, to discover among other things a traditional sauna from the Soviet era. Then, after a stop at the trip’s third welder, he gives me a transfer to Cherlak, the last stage before the border.

Forty days in Russia: my assessment

So I’ve spent forty days in this Russia marked by the conflict in Ukraine. A country poorly suited to cycling. A country with an extraordinarily kind population, but a khaki country, even a gray one, neglected when it comes to its domestic investment, where you can feel that development has stalled and that what exists isn’t being maintained. A country nostalgic for past glory. A country whose inhabitants, the ones I met, aren’t really proud of the conflict but who, now that it’s here, also don’t want the shame of losing it on top of everything.

Have you traveled to Russia recently and want to share your experience? Tell me about your trip here and I’ll publish it in this section, with your name or anonymously, whichever you prefer. Stories like Claude’s are the ones that really help those preparing their own trip.