Phase 0 – Where It Begins
Before the car, before the road — I needed to face it:
No plan works without knowing where I actually stand.
Mechanical & technical skills?
Let’s be honest. I can open the hood and pretend I understand what I see.
I know the difference between a wheel and a brake disc. Probably.
Let’s call it 2/10 and pray nothing rattles.
Off-road experience?
None. Unless you count parking on wet grass once.
I’ve seen a lot of YouTube though, and that should count for something.
Physical condition?
Not bad. I ran a half-marathon.
I do 100 push-ups in 10 minutes — on a good day.
I can suffer without complaining (too much). That’s a skill.
Mental readiness?
Highly motivated, slightly anxious, totally committed.
I’ve done dumber things — this one at least has a goal.
Outdoor skills?
Basic. I can pitch a tarp, light a fire, survive on coffee and canned beans.
I’m not Bear Grylls, but I also don’t cry when it rains.
Languages?
English – good enough to get spare parts and possibly lost in translation.
Russian – survival level: yes, no, thanks, and sorry.
Czech – fluent, including sarcasm.
Budget?
Lean but focused.
Funds for a car, basic gear, and a dream fueled by diesel.
Sponsors: none yet.
Phase 1 – The Hunt
Every journey needs a vehicle.
I knew it had to be tough — a car with a frame, built for full-blooded off-road.
My first desire? The Defender. Iconic. Rugged. Timeless.
So I dove into the world of used 4x4s.
I scrolled, searched, zoomed in on rust, and learned more about axles and engines than I ever wanted.
Tabs multiplied. Doubts too.
But one thing became clear — this choice matters.
The full story comes next.
Phase 2 – First Fixes
Once the right car is in the driveway, it’s time to turn it into a real expedition rig.
That means off-road upgrades — suspension, tires, underbody protection, maybe even a snorkel.
Not just for looks. For survival.
I won’t be doing it myself. I’ll leave that to the professionals who know what they’re doing — and have the right tools.
I’ll be the guy asking questions and checking the budget.
It won’t be cheap.
But if I want to cross mountains, deserts, or muddy rivers — the car needs to be ready. No shortcuts.
Phase 3 – Going Public
Time to share the story.
The idea is out of the garage — and onto the screen.
Instagram, website, blog. A few reels. A few words. A few dusty photos.
No pressure. Just sharing what it’s like to prepare for something this big, with no real roadmap.
Some people will follow. Some might even support it — a liter of diesel at a time.
And yes, their names might end up on the car.
Because this trip may be solo.
But I’m not doing it alone.
Phase 4 – Test Ride
Before heading into the wild, it’s smart to break things closer to home.
Including myself.
A short trip — not too far, not too long.
Maybe a weekend off-road course. Maybe a guided mini-expedition.
Just enough to shake the gear, test the nerves, and see what falls apart.
Will the setup hold?
Will I sleep?
Will anything leak, rattle, fall off, or catch fire?
Hmm, maybe: yes.
But that’s why we do a test ride.
Phase 5 – Final Prep
After the test ride, it’s time to fix what broke — and rethink what didn’t.
Last upgrades. Last documents. Last doubts.
Gear gets packed and re-packed.
Lists are checked, double-checked, then ignored.
Visas, insurance, vaccinations.
Maps, SIM cards, fuel filters.
Snacks. Definitely snacks.
This is the strange in-between — where everything’s ready, but nothing feels ready.
And the only thing left to do…
is go.
Phase 6 – The Road
No fixed route. No detailed itinerary.
Just one direction: east.
I don’t know how far I’ll get.
I don’t know what I’ll find.
But I’ll keep moving — one kilometer, one country, one cup of roadside tea at a time.
It’s not about speed.
It’s not about comfort.
It’s about going.
This is where planning ends – And the road begins.