The inside of my tent is stained with little spots of blood indicating the intensity of the fight last night. This is not exactly what I like to wake up to. I crawl out of the tent and immediately notice that something is wrong. My left eye can only open halfway! It is like the lid is glued shut. I walk to the wash room and throw water over my face, then pry my eye open. The eye looks fine, but the lid isn't working, like a garage door that only opens halfway. A mosquito (the bastards!) bit me last night on the eyelid, just in the right spot. I look deranged. With one and two-thirds eyes still operational, the Expedition decides to press on. Kati had warned me that another storm would move in tomorrow. Lingering is not an option. I got to get to Jyväskyla today. Instead of twisting around on the backroads, the Expedition Team (again, this consists of the bike, the wagon, some maps and me) does not want to spend another day slowly creeping through the countryside on dirt paths. We will take the E9, the major highway that shoots like an arrow straight to Jyväskyla, more than 110 kms away.
About 2 miles east of Orvesi while coasting down a hill careful to keep to the 1 meter wide shoulder, I hear a sickening grating from behind, followed by a jolt. I fight to keep the bike from jerking into the rushing traffic. I finally grind to a stop, and turn to see that the left tire of the wagon is gone! The grinding was the metal stub of the axle being filed away on the asphalt. I lean the bike against a guardrail and take a closer look. The cotter pin holding the wheel to the axle has sheared off. Given the tremendous stress I've subjected this equipment to this is not a total surprise. The wheel has disappeared. I have extra cotter pins, but not another wheel. I walk up the highway as trucks, buses and cars zip by at 100 km per hour. No wheel. I hop over the railing and search the steep embankment. No wheel. This is serious, very serious. Though I have managed to not get killed, which is a good thing, I need the wheel to keep the expedition moving. I search on, wandering further down the weed and grass-covered embankment. Finally, I spot a wheel-like thing partially hidden in a clump of grass. It's my wheel and it is intact. When I return to the bike, I realize I have another problem. Half of the axle stubb where the tire attaches has been ground away. Will the tire even fit back on? I carefully work the wheel. It fits, but there is absolutely no margin for error. One more accident and I'm cooked. With the wheel back on, I gingerly walk the bike and wagon about 100 yards up the road to a pull-out where I can begin repairs in relative safety. I carry a full set of tools and quickly make repairs, feeling myself very lucky that I found the wheel and that enough of the axle remains to be operational. What if it had flew off on a bridge crossing a river?
I am under way again. The main road is well graded. I have a tailwind. The kilometers fly by even though there is a constant series of hills that need to be crossed. Whomever said Finland was flat has never biked here. By late afternoon I have logged in 60 miles and am taking a break at a Neste gas station when I look to the sky. Towering dark clouds are heading my direction. No time to lose. I put on my jacket and jump on the bike, hoping to out-run the storm cell.
About 2 miles east of Orvesi while coasting down a hill careful to keep to the 1 meter wide shoulder, I hear a sickening grating from behind, followed by a jolt. I fight to keep the bike from jerking into the rushing traffic. I finally grind to a stop, and turn to see that the left tire of the wagon is gone! The grinding was the metal stub of the axle being filed away on the asphalt. I lean the bike against a guardrail and take a closer look. The cotter pin holding the wheel to the axle has sheared off. Given the tremendous stress I've subjected this equipment to this is not a total surprise. The wheel has disappeared. I have extra cotter pins, but not another wheel. I walk up the highway as trucks, buses and cars zip by at 100 km per hour. No wheel. I hop over the railing and search the steep embankment. No wheel. This is serious, very serious. Though I have managed to not get killed, which is a good thing, I need the wheel to keep the expedition moving. I search on, wandering further down the weed and grass-covered embankment. Finally, I spot a wheel-like thing partially hidden in a clump of grass. It's my wheel and it is intact. When I return to the bike, I realize I have another problem. Half of the axle stubb where the tire attaches has been ground away. Will the tire even fit back on? I carefully work the wheel. It fits, but there is absolutely no margin for error. One more accident and I'm cooked. With the wheel back on, I gingerly walk the bike and wagon about 100 yards up the road to a pull-out where I can begin repairs in relative safety. I carry a full set of tools and quickly make repairs, feeling myself very lucky that I found the wheel and that enough of the axle remains to be operational. What if it had flew off on a bridge crossing a river?
I am under way again. The main road is well graded. I have a tailwind. The kilometers fly by even though there is a constant series of hills that need to be crossed. Whomever said Finland was flat has never biked here. By late afternoon I have logged in 60 miles and am taking a break at a Neste gas station when I look to the sky. Towering dark clouds are heading my direction. No time to lose. I put on my jacket and jump on the bike, hoping to out-run the storm cell.
About a mile later, the sky turns dark gray, as if night is descending. The traffic mysteriously lightens. It becomes very quite, as if a great tension grips the land. A horse, pastured nearby rears violently and whinnies as if calling out a last warning to me.
A second later there is a bright flash, then a monstrous crackle, another flash followed by a cannon-like concussion a few seconds later. Rain belts out of the sky in super-sized drops. In seconds I am soaked. I am ascending a forested hill dominated by a large cell phone tower. The lightning flashes again, more thunder. There is no place to take shelter. I push on over the hill, hoping that the rubber wheels of my bike will protect me from being zapped by a million volts. Beyond the hill I can see more towering cumulus clouds, but beyond this advance is blue sky. The storm rages on around me. Giant logging trucks now hurdle down the road, hauling freshly cut spruce. In their angry wake I am covered in muck and mist. I dodge pieces of flying bark. The only thing I can think of besides the conduction properties of electricity is that I must be the unluckiest bicycle rider ever, and that the Gods truly hate me. It seems as if Zeus himself is now hurling lighning bolts at me, trying to stop my entry to Jyväskyla, now only 12 miles ahead.
A second later there is a bright flash, then a monstrous crackle, another flash followed by a cannon-like concussion a few seconds later. Rain belts out of the sky in super-sized drops. In seconds I am soaked. I am ascending a forested hill dominated by a large cell phone tower. The lightning flashes again, more thunder. There is no place to take shelter. I push on over the hill, hoping that the rubber wheels of my bike will protect me from being zapped by a million volts. Beyond the hill I can see more towering cumulus clouds, but beyond this advance is blue sky. The storm rages on around me. Giant logging trucks now hurdle down the road, hauling freshly cut spruce. In their angry wake I am covered in muck and mist. I dodge pieces of flying bark. The only thing I can think of besides the conduction properties of electricity is that I must be the unluckiest bicycle rider ever, and that the Gods truly hate me. It seems as if Zeus himself is now hurling lighning bolts at me, trying to stop my entry to Jyväskyla, now only 12 miles ahead.
At last, I find what I am searching for, a tiny side road leading to a church. From an earlier review of the map, I know this connects to the bike route on a quiet section of road that will lead me via an alternate route into the city. As I turn away from the mayhem of the highway, the sun breaks out and darkness lifts from the land. Wisps of steam rise from the drenched road. I slowly make my way forward over hills and by a big lake.
But Zeus isn't done. I dodge squalls all the way to Jyväskyla, ducking into tunnels, huddling with commuters in bus shelters. I am as determined to get to the city, as the storm is determined to stop me. At last I round a bend and see the clock tower of the city and a graceful suspension bridge across the lake.
By 8 pm I have checked into the Amis Summer Hotel, a converted college dormitory. The reception worker tells me that the only available room is on the third floor. There is no lift. "It's good exercise to climb the stairs," she tells. "Yeah, I can really use a little excerise," I reply, as water drips off my clothes onto the counter.
By 8 pm I have checked into the Amis Summer Hotel, a converted college dormitory. The reception worker tells me that the only available room is on the third floor. There is no lift. "It's good exercise to climb the stairs," she tells. "Yeah, I can really use a little excerise," I reply, as water drips off my clothes onto the counter.
From my window, I stare out the window as yet another cloudburst erupts. I am in Central Finland and I wonder what other obstacles I will have to overcome to reach North Karelia, now about a week away. I know I cannot continue to ride 80 miles a day hauling 50 pounds of gear with a faulty axle under these conditions.
At least Finnish students live well. The room has a kitchen and a shower, with towel-warming racks. After unpacking I drag myself down the three floors, get on the bike, find a market, buy groceries and beer, drag myself back to the hotel, up three flights of stairs, make dinner, drink beer, then collapse into bed.
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