There is a particular kind of morning that only exists on a long motorcycle trip: the one where you swing a leg over the bike already knowing, somehow, that today is going to be a good one. Waking up in the beautifully renovated apartment that had been so generously offered to me the night before, I packed my panniers with a lightness I hadn’t felt in days. Outside, the sky looked almost hopeful. After a week of chasing dry roads across half of Central Europe, Day 8 was about to deliver something I’d nearly stopped expecting: sunshine, and one of the most famous roads in the world.
A Motorcyclist’s Escort Out of Szeklerburg
Timea’s father, my extraordinarily generous host for the night, turned out to be a motorcyclist himself, and there is a particular kind of understanding that passes between two riders without needing many words. Over breakfast the plan was settled without much discussion: he would ride out with me for the first stretch, showing me the way onto the roads that would carry me south and east toward Bucharest. There’s something quietly wonderful about being guided out of a town by someone who genuinely wants to see you off properly, rather than just pointing at a map and wishing you luck.
We rode together for roughly forty kilometers, weaving through the last of the Székely villages before the landscape opened up into the wider Romanian countryside. He knew the roads the way only a local rider can, picking smooth lines through corners I would have taken far more cautiously alone, and it gave the whole morning a sense of momentum before the real distance of the day had even begun. When he finally peeled off with a wave and a nod, I felt the now-familiar pang of gratitude that has followed me through nearly every stop on this trip. Another name, another face, another small kindness I’ll be carrying with me long after this roadtrip ends.
Finally, a Dry Day
If Day 7 taught me that hoping the rain was over meant nothing, Day 8 quietly proved the opposite could also be true. The clouds that had shadowed me since Cluj thinned out as the morning went on, and by the time I’d put some real distance behind me, I realized I hadn’t reached for my rain gear even once. After a week of scattered showers and last-minute roadside costume changes, riding in dry gear all morning felt almost suspicious, like the trip was setting me up for something. I decided not to question it and just enjoy the novelty of a Scrambler that stayed properly dry for once.
The plan for the day was ambitious in the best possible way: reach Bucharest by evening, where another colleague, Tudor, was expecting me, but not before tackling the Transfăgărășan, arguably the most famous mountain road in Romania and one I’d been looking forward to since planning this whole trip months ago.
A Close Call with a Romanian Truck
Before the mountains, though, came a moment that reminded me exactly why solo touring demands constant attention, even on the calmest of days. On the approach roads toward the Transfăgărășan, I was riding a comfortable distance behind a truck when I glanced over my shoulder to check my blind spot before a lane change. It was only a second or two, but when I looked forward again, the truck ahead had slammed on its brakes without warning, apparently having missed its intended turn-off and deciding to correct course on the spot.
I had just enough time to react and swerve past, my heart suddenly hammering far harder than the situation should have allowed for a rider with as many kilometers behind him as I have. Nothing happened in the end – no contact, no drama beyond my own adrenaline spike – but it was the kind of moment that recalibrates your sense of risk for the rest of the day. Romanian truck drivers, I’d already been warned, can be more spontaneous with their braking than what I’m used to at home, and this was the lesson landing in the most direct way possible.
The takeaway was simple and immediate: double your following distance, every time, no exceptions. This trip has never been about how fast I can cover ground – it’s about actually making it to the next town, the next colleague’s doorstep, the next place I’ve promised to be. A few extra bike-lengths of space cost nothing. A moment of inattention behind an unpredictable truck could cost everything.
Climbing the Transfăgărășan from the North
With my nerves settled and my following distance appropriately doubled, I reached the northern approach to the Transfăgărășan itself – the side most riders and photographers rave about, snaking up through forested switchbacks before breaking above the treeline into open alpine terrain. The road had clearly seen its share of rain over the preceding days; the tarmac was damp in places, and a thin mist was already gathering along the upper sections as I began the climb.
Traffic was noticeably lighter than I’d expected for one of Romania’s most iconic drives, likely thanks to the lingering fog and the generally overcast conditions further up. That suited me perfectly – fewer distractions, more room to actually enjoy the road surface beneath the wheels, which despite the damp patches remained smooth and well-maintained the entire way up.
Fog, Switchbacks, and a Quiet Summit
The higher I climbed, the thicker the fog became, until visibility dropped to little more than the next switchback ahead. This is the Transfăgărășan everyone warns you about but rarely manages to fully describe: a road that disappears into cloud, guardrails emerging out of the white only a few meters before you reach them, the temperature dropping noticeably with every hairpin turn. I slowed down accordingly, less out of necessity and more out of respect for a mountain that clearly wasn’t interested in showing off its usual dramatic views today.
Near the summit, the fog settled into something close to a solid wall. I’ll admit the view I had been promised by every travel blog and Instagram post about this pass simply wasn’t there – just grey cloud in every direction, the road cutting through it like a tunnel with no ceiling. I stopped briefly for a few photos anyway, more as proof of having made it than for any particular scenic reward, and pressed on toward the southern descent, hoping the weather gods who’d been kind to me all morning hadn’t entirely abandoned me at 2,000 meters.
Bears Along the Roadside
What the fog couldn’t obscure, however, were the bears. Well before the summit, cars had already begun pulling over onto the shoulder wherever a brown shape was spotted moving through the roadside vegetation, exactly as I’d been told to expect. Watching tourists hop out of their vehicles to get closer to a wild brown bear for a better photo, despite the numerous signs explicitly forbidding it, was equal parts fascinating and mildly terrifying – Romania clearly has a bear-feeding problem that no amount of official signage has managed to solve.
I rode past the first cluster of smaller bears without stopping, partly out of respect for the animals and partly because a motorcycle is a spectacularly exposed place to be sitting when there’s an unpredictable wild animal a few meters away. The novelty never quite wore off, though – passing yet another bear casually foraging along a European mountain pass is not something that becomes routine no matter how many times it happens in a single day.
Descending into Clear Skies
Then, almost as suddenly as the fog had rolled in, it lifted. Cresting past the summit and beginning the southern descent, the cloud cover broke apart to reveal exactly the kind of view the Transfăgărășan is famous for: layered ridgelines fading into the distance, the switchback road visible for kilometers below, carved dramatically into the mountainside. It felt like riding out of one season and into another within the space of a few hundred meters of elevation, the temperature climbing back to something reasonable and the visibility opening up into genuine alpine grandeur.
More bears appeared along this side too, several of them larger and bolder than the ones I’d passed near the summit, ambling along the road’s edge with a confidence that suggested they’d been fed far too many snacks by well-meaning but rule-ignoring tourists. I kept my stops brief here as well, snapping a few photos and some video footage from a sensible distance before continuing down. There’s a particular thrill in sharing a road with genuinely wild animals, even from the relative safety of a moving motorcycle, and it’s an experience the Transfăgărășan delivers unlike almost anywhere else I’ve ridden.
The Motorway Sprint to Bucharest
Once I’d cleared the pass and rejoined proper roads on the southern side, a light rain returned briefly – just enough to justify swapping back into the rain gear I’d been so pleased to leave packed away all morning. It didn’t last, and I was soon dry again, riding through increasingly flat countryside as the mountains gave way to the wide agricultural plains that dominate the approach to Bucharest.
With the distance to the capital still considerable and the day already well advanced, I made the practical call to join the motorway for the final stretch rather than stringing together country roads that would have added hours to an already long day. This trip has taught me to pick my battles – some days call for the scenic backroads, and some days call for simply getting where you need to be, especially when a colleague is waiting and a proper bed is on offer at the other end. The motorway kilometers ticked by efficiently, the Scrambler settling into a steady cruising rhythm as the outskirts of Bucharest gradually assembled themselves on the horizon.
A Stop at a Ghost of a Gas Station
Somewhere along the flat stretch of road feeding into the capital, I pulled off at an abandoned filling station to stretch my legs and let the bike cool down for a few minutes. The place had clearly been closed for decades – rusted pumps with faded dials frozen mid-reading, a “Magazin” sign peeling off the shopfront, weeds pushing up through cracks in the concrete forecourt. There’s a strange, quiet beauty to these kinds of abandoned roadside relics, the Scrambler parked under the sagging canopy looking almost like it belonged there, one machine from another era resting beside the ruins of another. I took a few photos, more out of instinct than planning, and got back on the road toward Bucharest with the light beginning to soften into early evening.
Reunited with Tudor
Rolling into Bucharest in the early evening, the skyline announced itself long before the streets did. Even from a distance, the enormous Palace of the Parliament dominated the horizon above the surrounding apartment blocks, its pale stone catching the last of the day’s hazy light alongside the domed towers of a nearby cathedral. After a full day of forests, fog, and mountain passes, riding toward a skyline that dramatic felt like arriving in an entirely different country than the one I’d woken up in that morning. I was met by my colleague Tudor, who had been tracking my progress throughout the day and was waiting exactly where we’d arranged. Tudor had gone well out of his way to organize accommodation for me in the same residential building where he keeps an office, making the handover of keys and logistics refreshingly simple after a long day in the saddle. By this point in the trip, the pattern of colleagues turning into hosts turning into friends has become so consistent that it almost feels like the trip’s real structure, more than the route itself.
After a short pause to unpack, shower off the day’s road grime, and let the adrenaline of the morning’s near-miss finally settle for good, Tudor picked me up again for the evening. There’s something particularly appreciated about a host who understands that a tired rider needs exactly one thing after a day like this: a proper meal and good company, without any pressure to be anything other than pleasantly exhausted.
An Evening in Bucharest’s Old Town
We spent the evening wandering through Bucharest’s old town, an area that manages to feel both grand and lived-in at once, its ornate facades and narrow streets filled with the kind of easy evening energy that makes a city feel instantly welcoming. Over dinner and a couple of drinks afterward, Tudor and I mapped out what the next day or two in Bucharest would actually look like. Unlike most of the stops on this trip, Bucharest wasn’t just going to be a place to sleep and move on from – it was set to become the roadtrip’s first proper mechanical checkpoint.
With several thousand kilometers already on the clock since leaving Switzerland, both the tires and the general condition of the Scrambler were due for attention, and Tudor had already looked into the details on my behalf. The plan: a full service and a tire change at Triumph Bucharest, giving the bike a proper once-over before whatever the roads further south and east had in store. There’s a certain relief in knowing the mechanical side of this journey is about to get looked after by professionals, rather than relying purely on my own roadside diagnostics and hopeful optimism.
Reflections on a Day of Contrasts
Lying in bed that night, still slightly buzzing from the day’s mix of relief, adrenaline, fog, and sunshine, it struck me how much variety a single riding day can pack in when the itinerary lines up right. A close call with a truck, forty kilometers of companionable riding with a fellow motorcyclist, one of the world’s most celebrated mountain passes swallowed by fog and then triumphantly revealed, wild bears wandering along the roadside, and an evening spent with a colleague turned instant friend in a city I’d never visited before. Few single days on this trip have covered so much emotional and physical ground at once, and Bucharest, with its promise of proper motorcycle maintenance and at least one more evening of good company, already felt like exactly the right place to pause and take stock.
Tomorrow, the Scrambler gets its turn to rest and be cared for. Tonight, dry, fed, and grateful for a day that delivered rather more than I’d bargained for, there was nothing left to do but let the city hum quietly outside the window and sleep well before whatever Bucharest had planned next.