The Worst Morning

I wake at about 4 am, kill a mosquito, then peer out the tent fly. The sun peeks through a low miasma of fog that hangs through the trees and over the lake. I turnover to sleep some more thinking the day might be promising. But I oversleep the alarm and by the time I get up, pack the wagon, roll up the tent, the sky is a dismal gray.

Thirty minutes into the ride to Kuhmo, some 52 miles to the north, the rain begins to fall. This time there are no dramatics; neither thunder, nor lightning, just a few drops, then a few more. Not a problem, I think. I pedal through forests and strain over hills. The trees are thick here. In little vales lay dark pools of stagnant water or slugglishly moving streams covered with lilly pads. The rain increases in intensity. And then from behind, as if a wraith had caught up to me, the sky darkens, a vicious tail wind hits. Torrents of rain, like machine gun bullets, rip out of the sky. The wind propels me at a high speeds, my wheels cutting a wake through the pooling water on the asphalt. Water drips in through my helmet, down my neck into my clothes. My shoes are soaked. The water finds every nook and cranny in my meager rain suit defenses. Motorists, what few there are, crawl along at slow speeds because they cannot not see the road well. This is not a safe place to ride. I have to find shelter. But there is nothing, but trees. For an hour I skid along in the monsoon. At times the bike seems to hydroplane, if that is even possible. Wet and now blasted by wind, I begin to shiver. The only way I can keep warm is to keep cycling even though I am very tired. I am getting colder, the signs of hypothermia are obvious. I have to find shelter. I consider stopping in the forest and erecting a tarp to hundle under. Finally, I spot a little log hut with open sides sheltering a single wood picnic table. I swing the bike into it, yank open the rear wagon and paw through stuff sacks to find dry clothes. Shivering, I pull on thermal underwear, a wind hat and a sweatshirt. I set up the stove and boil water for coffee. It is the best cup of coffee I have ever tasted. The shivering stops. I stay in my little log hut for two hours, determined not to budge until the diluge stops. A car pulls over and a thin, drawn man, and a heavyset woman get out and walk over to the shelter. The man sits opposite me and smokes. We greet each other with the "eh" hello, in Finnish. I motion to the downpour and say "vetta" which means rain. We sit in silence, then the couples gets up and leaves.

In the afternoon the rain stops and I continue my journey. On my map, settlements such as Muijarvi and Lauvaskylä are listed, but Muijärvi is nothing more than a cell phone tower, a dog, and a house. Lauvaskylä is even less substantial. Along the roadside giant toadstools have erupted from the soil. The sky begins to break and I know the rain has finished for today. It almost got me, but I lived to bike another day.

Near Kuhmo, I see an old artillery piece parked by the road. Nearby is a monument to the 1939 Winter War, when Russian invaded Finland. It was near here the Stalin tried to quickly win the war by sending his armies across Finland at its narrowest point. He hoped to sever Finland in two at "its narrow waist." He failed, the outnumbered Finns fought the Russians to a standstill during one of the coldest winters in memory. I wander among overgrown tank traps and old battle trenches, a reminder of the grim conflict that raged here more than 60 years ago.

As I enter Kuhmo the sun comes out. It seems a miracle given what happened earlier in the day. The roadside at the city limit is bright with the red, yellow and pink lupine blossoms, stalks lazily swaying hello in the faint breeze.