80 | september | october 2017There was little time for mastering
the art of sidecar motorcycling. We
needed to keep moving if we were going
to get back before nightfall. Talib and
Ahmed rode the bike as far as the next
checkpoint, though we had to pass
through it on our own. We thanked them
for their help, and they said their good-
byes before hitching a ride back to the
devastation waiting for them Mosul.
Nish and I decided we’d take turns
steering with the other riding in the
sidecar. Sangar would drive behind us
in case the bike broke down during the
remaining 35-mile stretch to Erbil.
Long lines of cars and trucks jockeying
for position at the checkpoint belched
smoke and fumes. I was in the saddle
for the first leg of the trip as Nish rode
shotgun taking photos and video.
Almost immediately, the unwieldy
bike got away from me and I bumped
into the car in front of us. The driver got
out to inspect for potential damage and
gave me the stink eye.
A soldier came over presumably to
inquire about my ineptitude. It was then
that we were instructed to pull over to
the side of the road for a lengthy chat
with the major in charge of the check-
point threatening to ground our long-
planned mission even before it could be
properly launched.So much for remaining under the radar.
Just when I’m almost resigned to our
failure and the real possibility of the bike
being seized from us, Sangar pulls off a
miracle of tact, persuasion, and reaching
out to the right important people for help.
He tells us we can proceed as planned
and we mount up before the soldiers
change their minds.
This time, Nish wisely assumes the
throttle while I prepare for my first-ever
ride in a sidecar. As we pull out of the dusty
lot and pass the crawling traffic, Nish
opens the Ural up to near top speed, which,
in its current condition, is about 45 mph.
It’s a rush nonetheless. The sidecar
rests on creaking shocks giving it the feel
of an aged, wooden roller coaster. I take
pictures of Nish against the backdrop of
a glowing Iraqi sky and note the lunatic
grin on his face.
I must be wearing one too.
Our zeal is tempered by the sight
of the burned wreckage of military
and civilian vehicles we pass, build-
ings reduced to heaps of rubble and
the sprawling roadside refugee camp
that houses hundreds of thousands of
Mosul residents.
By the time we pull over to switch
places, the sun has set and the road
ahead is dark except for the roving head-
lights of other vehicles passing us at highspeeds. The Ural’s own headlight is dim
and flickering, and its taillights are out
of commission.
Sangar wisely drives behind us using
his hazard lights to warn drivers that
there is a slow-moving bike carrying
a couple of crazy foreigners hell bent
on finding a new way to explain what’s
happening here.
Piloting the Ural is exhausting. My
forearms ache with tension and from the
effort it takes to keep the bike tracking
straight on the uneven and darkened
surface. Erbil isn’t far off, and we can’t
arrive there soon enough.
“Slow down,” Nish yells above the
engine’s roar. I ease off the throttle, though
not enough that the shimmying resumes.
It’s a delicate balancing act that keeps my
heart in my throat until we reach the lights
and well-paved roads of Erbil.
We pull onto a side street and arrive
at the home of Sangar’s friend, who
has agreed to let us keep the bike at his
house until we can obtain the proper
paperwork for it.
“I don’t know about you, but that last
leg of the ride was probably one of the
most dangerous things I’ve ever done in
Iraq,” I tell Nish, who nods in agreement
and with what I’m guessing is extreme
relief that I didn’t get him killed while
pursuing our dream.MCY1017_MOSUL.indd 80 7/25/17 2:06 PM