For a while I am tempted to cycle to Murmansk, have a look at the nuclear subs and to forget about the lake, but then again I would have run out of time and would have to catch some means of motorised transportation at some stage. This, as a matter of fact, I try to avoid whenever possible.
It is easy pedalling on this highway. Most of it is in reasonably good condition, there is hardly any traffic and a constant tailwind makes life very enjoyable.
It stays cold all day long but the rain stops soon. The landscape visible from the highway is everything but exciting: forests, forests, forests, sometimes little agriculture and rarely a village to break the monotony. The terrain is basically flat. I do not like to say it, but this ride is kind of boring. Although a main highway there are as good as no cars and certainly not many international visitors, therefore the number of Shashlik eateries is very low. Nevertheless I find one for lunchtime. It is not bad, but the portion is very small, especially after a morning of cycling. The price on the other hand has no reasonable relation to what you get. This is capitalism: no competition, no low prices.
Late in the afternoon I stop again for a snack at one of these new places, but everything they have is a coffee. Very nice coffee indeed, only not exactly what I wanted.
What really strikes me at this highway is the way they did all the turnouts and junctions. These could handle the traffic of the Boulevard Peripherique in Paris but see only a handful of cars a day, if any. Some of the exits lead to the woods a few hundred meters apart and that is about it.
It is nearly eight o'clock in the evening when I leave the Murmansk highway and turn right to follow my way around the lake. Here is one of the rare occasions when they have put some signs on the cross-roads and the signs are accurate. Wow!
The next village, Medeshegorsk, marks the furthermost north point of this trip. I buy some food for the night and the next day. It seems to be true: the Karelian people are even friendlier than the Russians I have met more in the south. Whenever I stop somebody has a few words with me, and most of these people realise that I have difficulties with the Russian language and speak slowly or even dig out some old knowledge of German, French or English.
About 20 km later I find a good spot to pitch up my tent. Fallen trees here serve as perfect picnic tables. Unfortunate only that the wind has died and the mosquitoes don't miss their chance to attack.
It is raining a little the next morning. This slightly disappoints me since some people had promised me the other day good weather for the days to come. I keep thinking positive, it could be much worse, mainly snow, and set out early.
In the course of the day it is getting wetter and wetter and by lunchtime I am soaked through to the bones. I profit from the shelter a bus stop has to offer and wonder if it will continue like this: the world all grey, no villages, only forests, no views. At least the road is good. There is not much worse for a cyclist than a wet unpaved road, so I am still not too bad off.
Actually, in the course of the afternoon the rain is picking up more and more and I am more than happy when I once more discover true Russian hospitality. A small bus with a company of five stops next to me and the driver offers me a lift. Immediately I agree. From what I can understand the group is working as a road maintenance team and is on the way back home. They take me 50 km (!) to the next (!) village. When we arrive I have no wish to leave the warm and dry bus, but what can I do? One of the five accompanies me to the local food store and helps me to buy some food, then I get one more short ride out of the village. I am very grateful especially for this last short hop since the most difficult thing is always to find the right way out of a city or small town.
Once more it is time to look for a place for the night, but I decide to carry on until the rain would stop or until it is late enough to go to the tent. I am lucky. In almost no time the rain stops, the sun is out and it is warm. The road dries quickly and camping becomes easy.
The other morning is bright, but not for long, and the day soon turns into the worst cycling day I ever had. The first bit is easy. With a tailwind I am cruising along on a beautiful brand new road, the sun is shining, it is slightly hilly terrain, a mixture of forests and agriculture and every few kilometres a friendly village. The people in the streets sometimes even risk to give me a wave, some cars blow a friendly horn.
On a good little downhill through one of these little villages I do not want to stop only because a waiting crowd makes strange signs to me. A road sign urges all traffic to make a U-turn now, right now, but who would ever care about such a sign on a bike?
Very soon I wish I had followed the sign. I hit the end of the pavement. There is somebody working who warns me that the next 25 km would be of very poor quality. Now I know what it means if Russians call a road 'very bad', but on this morning I am full of enthusiasm and energy and ignore all warnings. All too soon I regret about it.
Only a few meters later I can only walk my bike, sometimes not even that. Road construction has turned the road into a swamp that no vehicle could cross, tanks and dirt bikes included. Usually I sink in only to my heels, but sometimes to the knees, and, of course, then the bike is stuck in the mood as deep as up to the axles. To make things worse it starts to rain again. This wet clay is like glue. Very often the wheels do not turn anymore and then I desperately try to clean them with the little tools I have. There are a few stretches where I have no choice but to divide my load into three and to carry everything by going three times. Once I lose equilibrium when trying to balance the bike on a tree trunk over a creek and the bike and all the gear is floating - luckily not diving. The Ortlieb panniers stay perfectly dry inside and tight. Chapeau!
However, apart from this kind of slow going I am still in a good mood. This is the kind of feeling I never had. Good experience, at least looking back. I do not meet one soul on this 25 km. Who else would be crazy enough to use this road? Certainly nobody knowing its condition! No bird is singing, it is perfectly silent except for my occasional curses and the rain on the puddles. Strangely enough every couple of kilometres a marker still exists and this helps a lot to keep me going: this means I am at least still on the former road. I do hope that the information that the road would be nice again after 25 km is correct! Again, a missing bridge. The river luckily is small enough to wade through. I do no longer bother about putting off the shoes. They are soaked in mud anyway, the water can only clean them. Then, all of a sudden, the sound of a truck engine. Hard to believe but true: the nightmare is over, the road is a road again and rideable, after exactly 25 km and 8 hours of hard work.
The road is gravel and rideable, yes, but the bike is not. Everything is covered in mud, wheels and chain hardly move any more, switching gears is impossible and the wet sand of the road acts like sandpaper on the little that is still in working order.
Not far away I spot a turnout to the left, a downhill and something like a lake. Perfect, just what I need! This lake even has a kind of landing giving easy access to the water. I wash everything: the bike, cloths, shoes, myself. It is great. A school bus is passing by, the children looking at me with wide open eyes. In my present shape I were presumably an attraction even in countries used to biking tourists. But here? Will some of the little ones associate bike and tourist for the rest of their lives? This bus, no, it is more a 4WD army truck with high clearance and a container to transport people, and the sound of its brakes around the next corner make me curious again. Perhaps a village? I hardly believe it. There is a little village. In fact, it is not s o small. They have a grocery store where I can get some food for dinner. I am not really desperate for food, but I prefer to have some reserves, just in case (like for the next push road, then 50 km ...?).
The rain has stopped. The sun is out and I feel more like sleeping than like carrying on. A logging truck offers me a lift, but I refuse. Since I am back on something like a road, very wet and very sandy, it is a question of my honour to ride and not to get a ride. Little later, a grove of birch trees in the middle of sun beaming meadows invites me to camp, and I do not refuse. Though rather late in the evening it is almost hot now. My shoes start to dry like the rest of my equipment. Not getting wet is one thing, wearing quickly drying fibres is another important feature if you happen to fail on the first point.
Ironically enough I am short on water this evening. I have to boil my spaghetti in apple juice; in combination with sausages and red pepper an exotic meal that is especially enjoyable after a difficult day on Russian rural roads.
The next morning my tent is frozen, but there is not a cloud in the sky and, anticipating a wonderful day's ride, I can have an early start. The sandy road is not really dry yet, but it is fairly easy to cycle. There is hardly any forest now. The free view on farm land is relaxing for the eyes (unfortunately they have to concentrate most of the time on the road to watch out for potholes). The little villages are pretty, unspoiled by modern architecture, people chatting outside enjoying the beautiful morning. Everybody seems to be smiling like the brightly shining sun. I have a second breakfast after 80 km in the town of Vitegra. It is market day and western - or is it middle eastern? - ways of trading have left no trace of soviet economics.
It feels like temperatures would approach the 30 °C again. This, together with a fresh wind, quickly dries everything. In fact, no trace of the last day's wetness can be found on my boots. It makes me think of the trip in Alaska: three weeks of constantly wet shoes. How nice to think of it if you are dreaming along comfortably under the blue sky.
A few hills now make the ride only more interesting, I even manage to catch sometimes a glimpse of the lake; once again the road is of excellent quality.
No road sign but a friendly person make me turn right towards Vosnenje. The road is much smaller and unpaved now. Fir forests grow instead of the farmland before. Again it is easy riding and I appreciate it very much.
There is no bridge over a bay of the lake, but a frequent free ferry not only maintains transportation but also gives a few jobs. Later the day I try to buy some cheese. My pronunciation must be very bad: the vendor looks at me in surprise, disappears for a while and returns with a sickle. We both laugh of the misunderstanding. The cheese I have to get somewhere else, this shop has run out of it.
There are only 110 kilometres left to come back to Petrosavodsk and I am looking forward for an easy day to come.
Sometimes the lack of private property has also its advantages. In the United States you risk getting shot if you decide to ignore a fence defining somebody's property and pitch your tent there like I do this night. The odometer shows 95 miles for the day. No doubt: so far best cycling day in Russia!
The next morning my tent is white with ice but the sun thaws it up quickly. It is an easy day, this bit to Petrosavodsk. The only potential difficulty arises from the dogs in the villages, but even these are lazy this morning. The trick is not to attract the first dog's attention. If he stays quiet the others will not bother you either. But if he does start to bark you will be surrounded by scores of dogs in no time. They are rarely aggressive and as first means of self defence a few squeezes from the water bottle or one or two well aimed hits with a heavy lock or the pump are very effective.
I arrive in the Karelian capital for lunch which I take in the brand new 'Café Express'. |
