‘I’m hungry,’ I said.
‘Me too,’ said David, leaning over the reflections on his phone screen to get a better look at the map.
A fat drop of water fell from my helmet onto my nose as I manoeuvred my bike closer to my travelling companion. ‘Any shelter nearby?’ I asked hopefully.
The rain had started about an hour after leaving the campsite that morning. We had watched the dark, swollen clouds on our left push north as we cycled south and hoped they would pass us by, but our luck soon started dripping. We donned our armour of waterproof jackets, trousers and over-shoes and went into battle.
There was no shelter. Not even trees: only short, stubbly undergrowth that clung close to the earth as wind and rain swept across. The road surged through this bleak landscape, and we were forced to fight.
We fought. With talking impossible and scenery unchanging, we focussed all our energy on driving the pedals round, spinning the wheels, clicking through the gears as the gradient changed. My legs burned – and I was glad for it, as it distracted me from the discomfort of the weather.
David cycled up beside me. ‘You don’t have to race,’ he said. ‘It’s still early. Save your energy.’
But I wanted this pace. I wanted to avoid prolonging our sojourn under these soggy rain clouds. The faster we cycled, the sooner we could push through.
And after all, this was one of the few days when I was actually ahead of David.
Now we had crossed the border from Norway into Finland – a wet and uneventful experience – and had cycled a further 40 kilometres as the trees became taller and our energy reserves smaller. Finally, we reached the next village. The downpour had become more of a spatter and we were looking for somewhere for lunch.
A roof takes on another meaning when you’re travelling by bike, permanently exposed to the weather. Especially in Northern Europe, where the earth is blessed with high levels of precipitation. It could be a firewood store, a bandstand, or a bird-watching tower: all are marvellous places to enjoy a short reprieve from the deluge.
David navigated us off the main road towards a possible refuge. At the end of the track was a lake; beside the lake, a campsite – and a bench. We looked around furtively. Were we allowed to sit here and have lunch without staying overnight?
Or perhaps we should stay overnight? As we ate, I watched someone dive from the jetty into the water, partially silhouetted against the pale surface of the lake. It was idyllic. But it was also only 2pm and the sky had brightened.
‘Let’s cycle on.’
So we did. On to the next town, where we replenished supplies in the supermarket, filled up our water bottles from the tap in the churchyard and availed ourselves of the other necessary public conveniences. And then further – to another gentle lake in Lapland’s eternal forest. We set up camp for the night and watched as the sun promenaded along the horizon. It was light when we closed our eyes, and still light when we were woken a few hours later to the sound of reindeer investigating our tent. Perhaps they are hungry too, I thought sleepily as I rolled over and started dreaming of breakfast.
