Motorcycles on Santa's Lane

I am in Kuusamo for less than an hour. The hotels are booked. I move on. The clouds meance. Three miles north of town I turn into a campground/spa complex on a road that translated into "Santa's Lane." I think I'm going to see a lot of this. I pay my seven euros and pitch camp on a dirt knoll within sight of the giant spa hotel. I wander to the hotel. It most certainly is a spa in the European fashion. Everyone roams around in big white fluffy bathrobes looking postively serene. Except me. I am not wearing a big fluffy white bathrobe. I wear my last pair of decent pants (only a few stains) and a grease-streaked shirt. On the second floor, I find the object of my search: The buffet. Whenever I find a buffet, I attack. The buffet owners lose money on me, because they unwittingly have set up what amounts to a carb and protein paradise. This buffet is very good, with all kinds of salads, meat and fish dishes. I've had salmon prepared in more ways than I can recall on this trip. From the buffet I look down upon a poolside wonderland full of rocky grottos, canals and happy children swimming about.

After the wonders of the buffet and the spa with the froclicking children in the water grotto, it is rather difficult to muster up enthusiasm to return to my tent. My tent consists of about 3 square feet of space and barely enough space to squat. Putting on pants requires me to elongate my body the length of the tent in a lying position. Then I have to wiggle into the pants.

I linger a bit in the lobby browsing a brochure describing a ski resort 15 miles north alled Ruka. This is an advertisement for fully equipped "clubbi" apartments for 50 Euros a night. There is a picture of a slick Scandic-designed interior apartment with a kitchen and living room. I look at the picture. I think of my tent. I rip out the ad. This is the place for me. I will set course for Ruka and the clubbi apartment. I must. I have cycled now for five straight days, covering about 60 miles a day. My pace is phenomenal, considering I have battled through storms while lugging 50 pounds of gear. But I know I can't possibly keep this up. I got to rest before my body has some sort of meltdown.

In the evening I can't sleep. It happens that the campground is used as a motorcycle race track by restless kids who are sequestered with their parents in the caravan park next door. The roar of the cycles on Santa's Lane lasts far into the midsummer's night. This is not to linger. I have to move on.