Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
It wasn't long before we invented the 'cold feet dance'. This involved getting off
the bike at regular intervals and jogging on the spot until life and warmth flowed
back down into our feet. The road cut straight into the forest; we were back to
passing tiny wooden villages.
In the evening we pulled into camp only to discover that the tent pegs couldn't
be hammered into the frozen earth; a few ended up bent at right-angles. At dinner
we raced to finish our stodgy macaroni and sardines before the bottom layer froze
to the base of the pot. It took hours for my toes to warm up in the sleeping bag and
I felt as if I wore slippers of cold around my feet. At minus 20 degrees Celsius it
was by far the coldest night of the journey.
The following morning, riding became almost unbearable after the first two
minutes. I wanted to cry from the pain as my feet froze and frost collected on my
eyelashes. Eventually the lashes fused together and I struggled to pry them apart.
My nose wasn't coping much better. With every breath the nostril hairs turned stiff
with ice. Before too long there were mini icicles growing around my mouth and un-
der my nose. I wore full Gore-tex gloves, a balaclava and a down jacket. My foot-
wear, however, was just a standard pair of leather hiking boots. Amazingly, Chris
wore a cheap pair of Romanian-made runners and seemed to hardly feel the cold.
For several days we powered on in freezing conditions. We started the day in
darkness and ended similarly. Chris rode ahead for most of the time, increasingly
dissatisfied with the distance we were covering, which amounted to between fifty
and sixty kilometres a day. I felt miserable and exhausted, unable to really connect
with the land or with Chris.
At about three o'clock in the afternoon of our fifth day out of Vologda, I caught
up with Chris and stopped for another dance on frozen toes. A dark wall of clouds
was marching in from the east. The sunlight was fading quickly as Chris mounted
his bike and rode out of sight. I too climbed back onto the bike, taking solace in the
fact that it had been the last dance for the day.
When I looked at the sky, the clouds had already hit and a white curtain was
sweeping over the forest. Soon I found myself beneath snowflakes that fell as large
as butterflies. In minutes the road was layered in a murky white, the forest barely
distinguishable from the sky.
I cycled on for what seemed an eternity, looking for signs of Chris's camp or
tyre tracks. The light disintegrated into a dark blurry grey, making it difficult to
stay on the road. Beyond a five-metre radius there was just a sea of white. Had
Chris gone further on?
