Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
At the first turn of the crank a hot rush of pain shot through my right knee. I rode
for five metres before the wheels slipped and I was sent skidding on my backside;
the muddy surface of the road was covered in ice.
As the day progressed, the pain in my knee, which had begun as a niggling prob-
lem a day earlier, continued to worsen. With every turn of the crank, it felt like a
nail was being hammered into the side of my kneecap. By afternoon I was using
only my left leg to pedal. Chris, although concerned, seemed agitated by the slow
pace. The low clouds continued to precipitate a cold rain, adding to our woes. Snow
or sleet would have been more pleasant.
Upon arrival in the village of Skokovo, we decided to call it a day. I hoped that a
Russian
banya
might treat my knee. It would also be a chance to wash for the first
time since leaving Petrozavodsk.
A couple of derelict wooden houses came into sight. The lifeless grey structures
leaned into the long wet grass, the front doors hidden from view. Even though it
was cold, no smoke appeared from the chimneys. It reminded me of a peasant vil-
lage out of an old film that I had seen about the Black Death in Europe. I expected
to see a half-naked, bearded group of God-fearing men walk over the rise, whip-
ping themselves on the back to free their lives from sin and avoid the plague.
One hundred metres on, we passed out of the village. We doubled back and I
approached one of the log houses. It stood in a muddy yard and had but two un-
broken windows. Half the logs were rotten, the ends frayed into splintered pieces.
Through a window I eyed some movement. 'Excuse me!' I cried.
A balding old man with a bushy beard appeared at the door. He looked bemused,
but not unfriendly.
'I was just wondering if we could have a
banya
at your place. We have been
riding for days and I've hurt my knee,' I fumbled in Russian.
He scratched at his thinning hair, revealing more bare scalp. 'Sure,' he said.
We followed him into the house and sat down for a cup of tea. The table was
smeared with brown muck that was obviously the leftovers from years of tea-drink-
ing and greasy food. In the light that drifted through a window I caught glimpses
of the man's clothing, which consisted of layer upon layer of jackets and jumpers
without elbows, and broken zips that had been replaced with safety pins and make-
do buttons.
As we drank our tea, I noticed that whenever we weren't looking at him his eyes
darted up and down, studying us.
