At Roadskin, we’re passionate about hearing how our gear holds up in the real world, so when Sam (@samvbikes) shared his incredible story of accidentally riding all the way to Romania in his Roadskin jeans, we couldn’t wait to share it. What began as a casual ride turned into an unexpected cross-country adventure, complete with winding mountain roads, unpredictable weather, and plenty of pit stops. Through it all, Sam’s trusty Roadskin jeans kept him comfortable, protected, and looking sharp, proving once again why they’re built for the long haul, no matter where the road leads. Now, over to Sam:
The Email That Started It All
Picture this. You are sat in your home office, half paying attention to a horrifically dull work call about "the implementation of AI" when your phone pings.
1 Unread Email: 2025 KTM Adventure Rally Romania – SPACES AVAILABLE
Hmm. That is odd. I thought they were sold out and I had missed out, as I have every year.
"Good news! A few spots have opened up. Secure your place now!"
This was obviously followed by a manic rush to reply, and I was the most awake I'd been all call. A few back-and-forths with the team at KTM, asking how it all works, and whacking out the credit card for yet another "sod it, you only live once" purchase.
"Congratulations, you have secured a spot."
But when is it? I did not even ask.
In three weeks' time?! Errm. S***.
The Small Problem of a Broken Engine
Here is the big catch. Two or three months earlier, the chain had snapped on my KTM 1290 Super Adventure S, my only viable KTM for this rally. That flailing chain had left a hole in the side of the engine casing and ripped the clutch slave off with it. Not something easy to repair, especially for a half-wit who has never picked up a welder.
A perfect storm to try and calm before a 1,500-mile ride to a country I had never been to, some of the hardest off-road riding I had ever attempted, on the heaviest bike I own, and then having to ride the thing home again.
Of course, everyone else would be doing the event on proper off-road capable machines: 890 Adventure Rs, the new 390 Adventure R, 690 Enduros. Let us do it on a 250kg road-biased adventure bike. What is the worst that can happen?
The next few days became a complete logistical nightmare:
- Where do I even get a replacement engine? No chance I am paying for a new one.
- How do I fit this thing if I find one?
- Where is my enduro gear and what am I missing?
- What kind of favours am I going to have to pull to get my boss to approve this holiday?
- "Hey ChatGPT, how do I get less fat in two weeks?"
I managed to source a replacement engine with 1,000 miles on it from an eBay breaker. Apparently it ran, which was at least mildly confidence-inspiring. I slowly worked through my list, putting a crippling amount on my credit card for hotels, new armour, Eurotunnel, and everything else, and got there.
Sixteen Days to Go: Calling in a Favour
I opened WhatsApp and clicked on Joe.
"Mate, you know you love me? Fancy helping me swap the Super Adventure engine?"
"Erm, yeah, why not."
That is what mates are for. Unpaid labour fuelled by Monster Energy, McDonald's and Domino's.
Friday night arrived, Joe came over for a few pub pep-talk beers and the question of "Are we actually going to do this?" hung in the air. I had spent the previous evenings after work stripping the bike down: panels, airbox, fuel tank, all piled on the floor of my rented shipping container, which was supposed to be storing furniture while the house was being rewired.
Engine Swap Day: Twelve Days to Go
Up bright and early for a day of two clueless idiots attempting to swap an engine in a bike with far too many electronics, inside a shipping container, less than two weeks before leaving for Romania. Ideal.
What followed was a long day of "what was that connector for?" and procrastinating over actually undoing those final engine bolts.
Long story short: it worked.
I missed one little clip on the first attempt, but once I clicked it in properly, it fired to life and ran like a dream. No idea how, but it did. Even with Joe spending the day unplugging things without naming them, just to wind me up.
A beer, a sigh of mild relief, and a few hours of sleep that night.
"Right. The bike works. The next few days I will do some short evening rides to make sure it does not blow up or overheat, and that is that."
Packing: What on Earth Do I Take?
The last thing I wanted in 35-degree heat was to sit on top of a 1,301cc V-twin in full textile motorcycle gear. But what if it rained? I had my shiny new enduro gear and 33 years of insulation if I needed it for the rally itself. But what about the 3,000-plus miles there and back?
No. You cannot ride 3,000 miles in your "how cool do I look at Caffeine and Machine" gear. Take your textiles, you idiot.
FINE.
The Evening Before Leaving
Everything had been checked fifty times: packing list, passport, booking confirmations, the kit to keep me on the right side of the German police. I even put the baffle back in my exhaust. Obviously I would never take it out.
Departure Day
One agreement with my boss was that I would work a half day to wrap things up before leaving. Thursday's plan was to be vaguely present until around 2pm, then leave with time to spare for my Eurotunnel crossing at 6 pm. It's a 3.5-hour ride to get there, so I'm cutting it relatively fine, but it's manageable.
I really could do with one last test ride to settle my nerves. Surely I could sneak out over lunch, come back and finish up, then go.
Fifty miles of checking for odd smells, strange noises, overheating and navigation. As before, the bike was faultless: started and ran like brand new, with fresh fork seals, a new battery and a new engine.
Back home, I had barely got the bike onto the drive when my boss rang for a quick handover call. There I was in my office, clock-watching, still in my Roadskin Taranis jeans and adventure boots, doing a passable impression of someone who had definitely not just been out on the bike.
That call went on for far too long.
Eventually it ended. I shut the laptop, grabbed my jacket and left in a mild panic that I was going to miss the train. Three hours to do a 3.5-hour journey, in rush-hour traffic, with the dreaded M25 in between.
I made the tunnel in record time. No idea how, given my incredibly legal riding and infinite patience with other road users. I sat on the Eurotunnel floor with another weight lifted, still in mild disbelief at what I was actually doing, half listening to the blokes next to me gloating about their "proper trip" to the Ardennes.
I looked vaguely down at my feet.
"Ah, for goodness sake. I am still in my jeans."
I had run out the door completely focused on making the tunnel and hadn't given a second thought to what I was wearing. I have done plenty of trips in my Roadskin jeans before, the Taranis Elite, the Paranoid-X and more recently the Spencers, but Romania had not exactly been in the plan.
1,500 Miles Later: Romania
Three days and 1,500 miles later, I arrived in Sibiu.
The following four or five days were one of the most incredible experiences I have ever had: spectacular views, brilliant company and a bike that genuinely held its own as the odd one out of the pack.
Then it came to a crashing halt on day four.
A chain slider bolt had either not been done up properly or had been rattled loose by four days of off-road punishment. The slider came off, wrapped itself around the front sprocket in the middle of the Carpathian Mountains, and ripped the clutch slave cylinder clean off, taking the mounts with it. Almost identical damage to what had started this whole saga.
I am far from an emotional man, but that got me very close to being the emotionally available partner my girlfriend always wanted.
1,500 Miles Home with No Clutch
Missing the final day due to the above carnage, I now had a 1,500-mile journey home with no clutch. After several generous offers of help from people I had met at the rally, including KTM themselves, I decided to attempt it alone. Worst case, I had breakdown cover.
Three days of push-starting 250kg of motorcycle, with what would not surprise me if it was another 50kg of luggage on top. It was "fun".
The process was simple enough in theory: push the bike in first or second gear until rolling at around 10mph, get my left leg onto the footpeg, swing my right leg over the mountain of luggage and top box, drop the clutch and hope it fired into life before I lost balance.
Then do it again at every traffic light, junction, fuel stop, slow-moving queue and Eurotunnel checkpoint.
I got home. Somewhat of a broken man. Exhausted from the mental and physical strain of the previous four weeks, having pushed myself through things I had never had to do before.
The Jeans That Came Along for the Ride
My ever-supportive girlfriend sat next to me and reminded me of what I had actually achieved. Then I muttered the words:
"I still cannot believe I forgot to change out of my jeans."
Emma simply said: "I can. You would live in those things if it were not weird."
She was not wrong. Three thousand miles. Thirty-degree heat. A ridiculous amount of stress, a bike seemingly determined to test my willpower, and jeans I never once had to think about.
They definitely needed a wash, though. The colour of the water after 3,000 miles in 30-plus-degree heat wasn't something I was particularly proud of.
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