Eternal wet bodies

In the morning, the outer skin of our sleeping bag is wet. Our breathing air also condensed on the inner tent. Small wet pearls drip onto our heads. I wipe the sky of the inner tent dry with a cloth. “I don’t feel like going outside,” says Tanja. “Me neither, but it’s not much better in here,” I reply. We quickly slip into our cycling clothes. My fleece jacket is still damp despite drying my body. Because the thermometer only shows zero degrees at this early hour of the morning, and everything is cold and clammy, we forgo breakfast and set off on an empty stomach. Back on the road, we have to crumble the clods of earth from the Magura brake. Then we continue through the country where it is not only very hot in summer and very cold in winter, but also very humid in the fall. The thermometer has now stabilized at a temperature of three degrees. Not much more can be expected today. The route ahead leads us up and down incessantly over 300-meter-high mountains covered in dense forest. A light rain shower regularly falls on us. It doesn’t take long and my high-tech clothing is absolutely drenched in sweat from the exertion. Although the material was designed to release the moisture caused by sweating to the outside and not let moisture from the outside in, it has difficulty coping with these extreme conditions. As soon as I sit on my Intercontinental, I’m soaking wet after 30 minutes at the latest. That’s my biggest challenge at the moment, because my body is constantly freezing. Tanja feels a little better. Your sweat flow is not as strong as mine. Although her clothes are also damp, her body still has a chance of getting them dry on its own.

After 45 kilometers, a truck stop appears unexpectedly on the crest of a hill. Happy to be able to warm up our wet bodies, we push our roadtrains up to the window of the roadside pub, lean them against a discarded truck tire and enter the warm room. The air is impregnated with the smell of old grease. Thanks to our improving knowledge of Russian, we are able to explain to the cook that our food should not be heated in the microwave, but on the stove. “Bes Problem”, (No problem) she says with a smile and disappears into her steamy kitchen to bring us a bortsch, mashed potatoes, fried eggs and hot tea.

The simple rest stop restaurant is well frequented. Each of the seven tables is manned by drivers. Some of them ask us where from and where to. “What? Can’t be. All the way to Burma? And what are you doing in winter? It’s going to snow soon. We had a very cold summer. I’m sure Siberia will also be hit by a cold winter this year,” one of the drivers, who still has to steer his big machine to Moscow, over 4,000 kilometers away, feeds my brain with negative thoughts.

Our trip odometer shows the number 70 when we spot the sign “Kafe” on a hut under construction or renovation. “Let’s take the opportunity to warm up before the upcoming wet night camp,” I suggest. “A good idea,” replies Tanja. As usual, I check out the store first while Tanja looks after our bikes.

“Just come in. We have very good, hot food, hot water for washing your hands, a toilet and a heated dining room,” the friendly manager welcomes me. “We can make good use of all that. All we need now is the opportunity to spend the night with them,” I reply expectantly. “No, unfortunately that’s not possible. The guest rooms are currently under construction. But you can stay with us next year.” “Next year?” “Yes.” “Hm, hopefully we’ll be in Mongolia next year,” I reply with a laugh. “Mongolia?” “Yes.” “With the bikes?” “Yes,” I reply and tell the man and a few employees who have gathered around us where we’re from and where we’re going. “And what about the bikes?” they repeat incredulously. “Yes, unfortunately the weather has turned so terribly bad. We’re completely soaked and will have to pitch our soaking wet tent in the woods tonight. Are you sure you don’t have a room where we can stay overnight? We are modest and have our own mattresses and sleeping bags. The floor would suffice for us,” I explain and notice a brief gleam in the manager’s eyes. “Are they going on tomorrow?” he asks. “Yes, we have to hurry and reach Krasnoyarsk as quickly as possible,” I explain. “You’re welcome to spend the night with us if you like. I’ll have the sofa put in my office. You can stay there. It’s heated. We’ll lock your bikes in our garage. Unfortunately, I can’t make you a better offer,” I hear and have to ask twice to make sure I’ve understood the Russian language correctly. “That’s much more than we expected. Thank you very much,” I say happily. “How much does the overnight stay cost?” “Nothing. It’s a present,” he says, whereupon I thank him again and hurry outside to tell Tanja the fantastic news.

Just a quarter of an hour later, we are sitting with our backs against a hot radiator, enjoying the warmth slowly seeping into our limbs. “Here you go,” says the friendly waitress and places a bowl of borscht, a beer and Tanja a plate with five blinis on the table. Hungry, we devour the delicious, freshly prepared meal. “How do your blinis taste?” “Absolutely great.” “I think I need a plate of them now too. The soup was for the hollow tooth.” “Well, I’ll have half a portion then,” says Tanja and I wonder where she wants to eat the other two pancakes. Only 10 minutes later, despite my borscht, the five blinis, the three cups of tea and the beer that have made themselves comfortable in my stomach, I still have an appetite. “I’ll order another portion of blinis,” I say as matter-of-factly as possible. “You’re crazy. You’ll just feel bad again afterwards. Why don’t you wait a few minutes until the food has settled,” Tanja suggests. “Okay,” I say meekly because I know she’s right. Just a quarter of an hour passes before I can’t stand it any longer and order another portion of blinis. When the cook puts the plate down for me, I think I recognize a puzzled expression on her face. “Cyclists are incredibly hungry,” I apologize for my ravenous appetite and gorge myself on the five blinis, which I wash down with another two cups of tea.

Although the blinis are quite thin, a little later I have the unpleasant feeling of bursting. “I don’t understand that. It wasn’t that much,” I say, rubbing my stomach. “Tanja laughs. “You’re an incorrigible glutton,” she says. “You could take a little pity on me.” “Oh, you poor thing,” she replies, rolling with laughter. When I can move again to some extent, we put our equipment in the manager’s office and make ourselves comfortable. As we don’t want to sleep on the disused divan, we spread our Artiach sleeping mats on the floor and lay our damp sleeping bags on top to give them a chance to dry. We hang our clothes and the dripping wet tent over the room’s four radiators, which radiate an enormous amount of heat. “So either you freeze to death in that country or you get barbecued to death or, if that’s not enough, you get sucked dry by ticks and mosquitoes and end up drowning in the constant rain,” I say. “Just don’t complain,” Tanja admonishes me. “How could I? It was just an observation. I’d rather suffocate than freeze to death. Ha! Ha! Ha!” I laugh, sitting down at the manager’s desk to feed the day’s data into the laptop in an unexpectedly convenient way.

At 20:00, the house is suddenly empty. The waitresses, the cooks, the mechanics in the workshop next door and the manager have all disappeared. “Did they go home?” wonders Tanja. “I think so.” “Now we’re suddenly alone in the big house. It’s almost scary.” “It’s not. We’re safe here. Nobody breaks in here. Everyone in the neighborhood knows that there’s not much to get here. I’ll go around anyway and see if all the doors are locked,” I say. The door in the boiler room, where our riese und müller also rest, is actually open. It cannot be closed because the latch keeps falling down. My gaze falls on the pile of wood next to me. I find a small piece of wood smeared with resin, which I stick under the loose latch and lo and behold, this door is now also closed. Satisfied, I head back to the office to make myself comfortable on my dry and warm bed for the night.

Routine, supposed security?

Tanja

This stage has already taken on a different quality since the change in the weather. From the beginning of the trip, it was important to be confident that there would always be somewhere to stay. That the longed-for bushes appear at the right time to pitch our tent, when we have cycled far enough and evening is approaching. It was also important to always find the right accommodation in the various towns. As long as the sun is shining, it’s not so bad if it takes a little longer. As we all know, the days are longer in summer, which gives us a huge advantage over the fall. But now it’s fall. The fields have been and are being mown and the chimneys of the houses are smoking. Its interior promises cozy warmth. Fewer and fewer drivers stop to chat with us. Too wet and too cool. I give up worrying about the night ahead. No use. My learning task right now is to take everything as it comes. To let go. The hope that a door will open and we can do without a wet tent and visits from snails is a distant prospect. Not that I have given up being confident and thinking positively. No, this is more of a new strategy to keep me going and not be disappointed when we have to set up a soggy camp. On the contrary. I’m already looking forward to unpacking our stove and making a steaming hot cup of tea.

We are all the more fortunate on this early evening when the friendly coffee shop owner allows us to sleep in his office. This is exactly what makes a trip so interesting. One minute and we are in a completely new situation. That is precisely why some people would never want to swap places with us. Other people, on the other hand, love to escape from everyday life and experience unplanned events. The routine, the supposed security that we humans value so much and at the same time make us so immobile. The less I have a fixed, rigid idea in my head of what the day should look like, the easier it is for me to let myself fall into a new, unplanned event.

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