More storms to Hossa

Under dark threatening skies I leave Suomussalmi. The rain hits about 20 minutes after I leave. the map is imprecise and I take a wrong turn. I must double-back a few miles. The wind kicks up. The trees sway and howl in the wind. The road climbs steep hills. I am confused because there are no signs and I'm not sure I'm on the right road. There is nothing but forest and a thin line of wet pavement. After an hour of being not sure of my path and after carefully consulting the map I decide I am on the right road. The place names on the map are spelled differently than on the road signs. The hills get steeper. I have to walk, lugging my bike and wagon up 10 percent grades, rain smashing into my face. My rain suit holds, but the constant downpours are beginning to drive my crazy. I think about what my next stop, the little town of Hossa, is going to be like. I day-dream of sidewalk cafes, a sun-splashed market square, an open air concert. When I can't sustain a thought I sing. My repertoire is limited to Singing in the Rain, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, Rain Drops are Falling on My Head. I can't remember the verses so I just make up the words. When I tire of singing. I curse the hills, usually as a steep one approaches. When I see the dark veil of yet another squall heading my way I curse the rain. And when the big drops slam down I laugh and yell at the sky "is that the best you can do. Is that your best shot. You call this rain?" I talk to the few reindeer that venture out in this horrible weather. "Nice rack!" What else can I say to a reindeer? I try to focus my mind on all sorts of other things, but today it is difficult. The miles drag on so slowly as if time is standing still. Toward mid-day my saddle sores are causing excruciating pain. I stuff a towel between my shorts and riding pants, hoping to cushion the sore spots. Perhaps I can patent this device: The Bicycle Diaper. I shift endlessly on the saddle trying new positions to ease the pain. The rain, the sameness of the forest, the gray green are constant, ceaseless. Everything I have known seems to have washed away. My world is my bike and the wet endless forest. I can't even stop for a proper lunch. I grab food in snatches from my handlebar bag between downpours. I stand and gobble down hard-boiled eggs, a slice of cheese or salami. The ink on my map runs, the paper is a pulpy mess. I curse the hills again. I curse my bad luck. But I keep moving. I must keep moving even if I have to crawl to Hossa. There are few cars. Most that pass have Russian license plates. I'm only a few miles from the Siberian border. I understand why people go insane in these conditions.

There are no sidewalk cafes in Hossa. The first campground has no cabins. They are all rented. The campground itself is a sea of mud. The clerk tells me there is a hotel by the road. They may have a room. They do, and I am saved for at least another night. As I unpack my soggy stuff and try to dry it using every available hook and knob in the room, a shaft of bright light beams in through the window. The sun has come out. "Where have you been!" I yell.