Is that the limit of what is possible?

Drizzle, two degrees, dense fog is the analysis of my first glance out of the window and at the thermometer. Today the road takes us mainly eastwards again. So the obligatory headwind is part of the extended challenge. What’s more, it’s bitingly cold again today. After an hour, we take a short breather. Tanja has to put one of her overshoes back on properly. In the cold, the material has become stiff and unruly. I also slip off my gloves to help her. It doesn’t take long and our fingers are numb from the cold. By the time we get our hands back into our wet, sweaty gloves, they are no longer warm. To get back up to temperature, we let the cranks spin rapidly. It takes 30 minutes for our bodies to warm up and our fingers to feel warm. Unbelievable. What must it feel like at minus 20° C? Is cycling still possible in such extreme temperatures? Perhaps, but the risk of freezing the tip of your nose, hands or toes is very high. In preparation for our trip, I read in a book that a cyclist who started his tour at the end of the Russian winter froze his toes. After the experiences of the last few days, I’m no longer surprised.

The cold easterly wind is now blowing a mixture of drizzle and freezing rain in our faces and is almost unbearable. Your feet are no longer warm and your fingers are tingling. During a short breather, we think about whether it is still sensible to continue or whether the time has come to abandon the tour at the next best opportunity? “There’s no point in freezing your fingers off at the end,” says Tanja. But how are we supposed to get to Samara? Maybe there is a possibility to load all our equipment and bikes onto a truck at a rest stop? We cycle on. Throw ourselves with all our strength against the ice wind. He has reached a category that I actually classify as dangerous. Nothing unforeseen should happen at such a time. Everything has to go according to plan. No accidents, no tripping or slipping quickly. The boundary strip is smeared with dirt and smooth as glass. We try to avoid it. When we eat a piece of chocolate, we first have to let it melt in our mouths. It is not easy to simply bite into it because it breaks like ice in the mouth. After 40 kilometers we come to a rest stop. Frozen, we park our bikes in front of it and take refuge inside. We eat soup, tea and chocolate. Then we slip back into our wet clothes and continue to work our way against the wind and the icy drizzle, kilometer after kilometer. My knee is starting to give out again. It sends unmistakable signals that it wants to rest. The thought of having to set up an emergency camp here in the open terrain and sleep in a tent mobilizes my energy reserves. Nevertheless, I am the one who is slowing down today. “Come on, let’s swap trailers. I’m fine. I can do it,” Tanja offers. “No thanks. I’ll be fine,” I say, gritting my teeth. “Don’t be so stubborn. Stop!”, Tanja urges me about 17 kilometers before the village of Pugatschöw. “Okay,” I give in and brake my bike. We swap trailers and off we go. Now uphill for now. The pain disappears immediately due to the lighter load. “I’m fine again!” I shout, feeling confident. We cycle through the dreary countryside like identical twins. Tanja ahead with my heavy trailer. Me in her slipstream. Then we reach the outskirts of the city. We are used to puzzled faces by now. Here, however, our arrival soon leaves a trail of astonishment through the people we meet. “Always straight ahead. That’s where the station gastiniza is,” we are told.

It’s dusk again when, after seven hours and 82 kilometers against the icy wind, we place our bikes on the banister of the completely broken house at 4:30 pm. A drunken employee of the station hotel grumpily opens the second part of the entrance door with a hammer and pliers. Now we can roll our bikes into the vestibule. It has already been nailed shut because of the approaching winter. Then a young, very well-dressed woman takes me up to the second floor to show me the room. After almost a year in Eastern European countries, I’m used to a lot, but this room really knocks it out of the park. It is simply unbelievable what people still rent out here as guest rooms for money. “Normalna”, (normal) says the pretty woman in her provocative clothes as I check the mattresses. I look at her and wonder if it’s normal that the mattress under the comforter cover is soaked with countless old bloodstains. Did they kill someone here? It goes through my head. Then I take a look under the other sheet. This mattress is also covered in old dried blood stains. So it’s a double murder, I think again. “Normalna, we’ll take the room,” I reply because we have no other option.

When we have dragged all our belongings into the establishment, I settle down in the armchair, which is perhaps 50 years old. We are both so tired that our mood has adapted to the room. Exhausted, I stare at the yellowed wallpaper, also 50 years old, which one of the last guests partially tore off the wall in his frenzy. It now hangs sadly in tatters over Tanja’s bed. At 17 degrees, the room is not overheated for once, as the heating only works to a limited extent. We are freezing and don’t know if our cycling clothes will dry by tomorrow. Showering is impossible. Firstly, there is none and if there was, there would be no hot water. “Just be careful when you plug the cable of your laptop into the socket,” Tanja warns me. “Why?” “Well, I’m sure it’s easy to get hit with that can.” “That’s right,” I reply cheerlessly and without any fun in my voice.

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