“But is it as bad as Denmark?”

One day. Lots of rain (and crying)

Northcape 4000 is an unsupported bikepacking race that starts in Italy and finishes in Nordkapp, the northernmost point in Europe. This year, participants covered over 4,100km and passed through eight different countries: including Italy, Austria, Germany, Czechia, Denmark, Sweden, Finland, and Norway. This is my account of a single day in what would become a three week adventure-of-a-lifetime.

It was only when I opened my eyes that I knew I’d made a grave mistake. It was 4am and the world was silent, save the odd rustle from a distracted rodent in the reeds nearby. I was due to catch the 6am ferry from Germany over to Denmark – my fifth country in seven days – and had chosen to bivy just inside Rostock the night before. At the time it felt like a flawless plan; ride as close to the port as possible, nab a few hours of sleep, and then roll comfortably onto the ferry and use the two hour travel window to catch up on admin: eat, wash, charge, and study the route for the day ahead. At the time I was also 1,300km into a 4,000km bikepacking race, having covered in excess of 200km every day for the last six days, and in hindsight may not have been in an appropriate frame of mind to make good decisions.

Rostock is a city that straddles the Warnow River on the north coast of Germany and is home to the fourth-largest port in the country. Whilst most of Rostock’s inhabitants live on the western side of the city, that evening I found myself in the east, an area dominated by industrial estates, ring roads, and other desolate port-related infrastructure. In other words: not somewhere you’d choose to bivy. And yet, the night before, in my delirious and sleep-deprived state, I’d pulled off the road into a patch of green, taken a few steps into what can only be described as a mosquito-infested bog, and thought to myself: “perfect”.

Whilst tentatively unzipping the glorified body bag it quickly became clear to my now-sentient brain why this was a terrible idea. The morning light, although dim, succeeded in highlighting a series of dark shapes spread across the flimsy surface of the bivy, some only centimetres away from my face. In a panic, I punched the inside of the canvas, catapulting the shapes into the air, and listened to the rain of soft thuds around me. My breath was ragged against the silence as my eyes scanned for any shadows I might have missed, especially those threatening to breach the zipline. It was now or never. In one fell swoop, I unzipped the bivy and pulled the opening down to expose my head. An icy burst of air washed over my face as I promptly scanned the boggy plot to confirm what I already knew was lying in wait: gross, fat, disgusting slugs.

—-

My run in with the local wildlife had cost me dearly, and I was now furiously turning the pedals to cover the final few kilometres to the port. I’d packed my bivy in a rush and knew the silvery trails of the slugs would be there to greet me the next time I rolled it out - a grim reminder of a night I’d rather forget. I forced the thought to the back of my head; there was no time for distractions. A couple of riders passed me, their legs pumping even harder than mine, and I knew the race was on. It was no surprise that I wasn’t the only one targeting the 6am departure time; a two hour crossing would deposit us in Denmark at 8am, leaving just enough hours in the day to cover the 200km needed to stay on schedule. Missing the ferry would result in a three hour wait, moderate despair, and a personal tongue-lashing 

It was only 7 kilometres to the port from my bivy spot, but the combination of poor sleep, cold muscles, and not-yet-repressed slug trauma meant that I was travelling much slower than I’d have liked. No matter what I did, I just couldn’t will my legs to work any harder; they were content in their current rhythm and no amount of coaxing would convince them otherwise. It’s often easy to get frustrated during these kinds of events - frustrated at your body, frustrated at your bike, frustrated at the world and things completely outside of your control - and whilst it feels good in the moment to unleash your anger onto something tangible, in the long run it only poisons your relationship with yourself. Having learned this lesson the hard way I took a deep breath and leaned into acceptance; this was the current speed my body could offer and I was eternally grateful.

After an excruciatingly slow encounter with a traffic light, signs for the port started to materialise and I stole a quick glance at my watch: 5.32am. I relaxed; plenty of time. The other riders had faded into the horizon long before, but I had optimistically assumed that we would reunite in the ferry terminal, slapping backs and laughing jovially at the outrageous time we’d set our alarms. We would wheel our bikes onto the ramp in unison - a walking peloton - and proclaim our desperation for coffee in languages others didn’t speak. Everyone would understand, and we would bond over our mutual sleep deprivation and collective fatigue whilst standing in line for our obligatory caffeine fix. “Ultras” we’d say, with a playful eye-roll and an impish shrug - what a completely absurd thing that we were all doing, but at least we weren’t alone in our absurdity.

This was the scene that played through my head as I first spotted the other riders in the distance. They were assembled outside the terminal just as I’d expected. Except as I drew closer it became apparent that there was no jovial laughter or back slaps, no playful eyerolls, and no chorus of caffeine demands. In fact, everyone looked rather solemn. I allowed my wheel to spin as I slowed in front of the group and raised my eyebrows - the universal expression for “can someone tell me what the fuck is going on” . One of the riders stopped fiddling with her drink bottle and met my eye - “too late”. I was confused. The ferry didn’t leave for another twenty minutes, and I declared as so. As it turns out, when the website stated that passengers should arrive thirty minutes before departure this wasn’t just making a helpful suggestion. I remembered that we were in Germany. 

6am rolled by and we watched pitifully as the ferry started its journey towards Denmark without us. There were three hours until the next one, and the sky was threatening to rain. At this point I could have so easily succumbed to the frustration, directing my anger towards the iron-fisted terminal staff, the ambiguous website, or the sluggish traffic-light: these are the reasons I missed the ferry. However in my heart I knew that I was the true culprit and I had to take accountability. At the same time, frustration towards myself would get me nowhere, so instead I chose kindness and blind optimism. Three hours meant that I could air my bivy and repack my bike bags. Three hours meant that I could enjoy a leisurely breakfast from the port canteen. And three hours meant that I could plan my accommodation in advance instead of hysterically booking the last available room two hours before check-in closed. Three hours was the perfect amount of time, and I was secretly thankful for the slugs.

—-

The ferry journey passed without incident, and we soon docked in Denmark. It was 11am and I had booked an Airbnb for that evening on the far side of Copenhagen, 170km away. Usually, 170km wouldn’t have been too daunting a distance. Usually, I don’t start my day at 11am. I was already on the back foot and knew that I wouldn’t arrive at my destination until after dark - something I’d been trying to avoid since leaving Italy six days prior. After taking my first few steps on Danish soil, I immediately propped my bike against a metal sign in order to initiate ‘faff mode’. This is a well known - but highly loathsome - activity common to all cyclists, but particularly those of the long-distance variety. It essentially involves wasting time on any and all unnecessary tasks one can think of in order to avoid getting back on the bike. This time I was conducting the ‘essential’ exercise of loading my snack pouch. In order to do this, I first needed to unload the items it was already housing: my waterproof phone cover and cafe lock. I removed the cafe lock first, clipped it to my pannier, and then returned for the phone cover. Upon trying to lift it, I felt it catch; a small tug that caused my brow to furrow - the other universal expression for “can someone tell me what the fuck is going on”. Confused, I leaned my face closer to the pouch. It didn’t take long to identify the culprit, but I had already stumbled backwards, mouth contorted in disgust and throat retching. I had unknowingly kidnapped a German slug and forced it to start a new life in Denmark.

—

Slug evacuated, I was finally on the move. The first 10 kilometres were nothing short of delightful; rolling cycle lanes through the picturesque Danish countryside, accompanied by the odd wink of sunshine. And I wasn’t the only one enjoying it. Wherever I looked there was another cyclist mounted atop a fully-loaded bike, calm and carefree, as they embarked on their own life-affirming journey. I remember a wave of admiration washing over me; there were so many incredible people in the world doing so many incredible things. And what’s more, these people didn’t need the permission of a race in order to do them. I’d often dreamed about packing up my things and setting off on an uncharted adventure, pedalling myself and my bike to parts unknown. I would have no plan and no schedule. Every day, upon waking, I would turn my wheel in whichever direction took my fancy, and apply the brakes wherever I wanted to stop. I would be free, and I would be happy. Instead I found myself bound to the clock, my wheel fixed only forward, and feeling anything but free. 

It wasn’t long before the scenic country lanes became significantly less scenic and much more like a main road. Reluctantly, I joined the slew of heavy traffic: impatient engines screaming into every orifice as they passed. This was the part I hated. As a cyclist, I'm used to feeling vulnerable. I’m used to cars hurtling past inches from my handlebars, or drivers hurling abuse through an open window. I get it; I’m slow and I’m inconvenient. But what I don’t think is understood from the other side is that I don’t want to be there. I don’t want to be on this shitty road. I don’t want to be invisible. I don’t want to feel responsible for predicting everyone else’s next move because I don’t trust them not to mow me over. I don’t want any of that, but I also don’t have a choice because there isn’t an alternative.

One thing that became abundantly clear as I moved across countries was the distinction between good cycling infrastructure and no cycling infrastructure. Anything that didn’t fall neatly into the former category was assigned by default to the latter; half-assing a cycle lane is almost as bad as not creating one at all. The current road in question was adorned with a distinct dotted line approximately one bike-width away from the verge. The white outline of a bicycle painted sporadically along the asphalt signalled its intended purpose. One could be fooled into commending this sacred space given to cyclists, but in reality the sheer existence of the line led drivers to overtake at much tighter distances than they would have done should no line exist. 

And so it was for the next 90 kilometres. My bloodless knuckles clenched the handlebars, terrified of veering out of my illustrated prison and under the wheel of an inattentive truck. I couldn’t relax; the constant threat of approaching engines meant that I daren’t look anywhere apart from the tarmac directly ahead. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be on this shitty road. And then it started to rain. Not just rain; but furious, thrashing, maniacal rain - the kind that’s intent on saturating every pore of your being and flooding any hope of solace. 

I continued along the same length of tarmac for the next four hours. The rain hadn’t eased at all. Every passing car, truck, or motorbike launched a wall of water into the air and deposited it onto my already-sodden body. I knew I was hungry, but the last thing I wanted to do was stop to eat. My only desire in that moment was to reach my Airbnb, strip myself of every sopping item of clothing, and sit on the floor of the shower, letting the water envelop my brittle body and seep life back into my bones. Unfortunately, that reality was another 50 kilometres away: the only way to stop being cold and wet was to continue being cold and wet. 

—-

I wish I could say that conditions improved as I neared Copenhagen, and I wish I could say that I was able to experience the charm of the city that so many people had endorsed. Except neither of these things are true. I was 20 kilometres from the checkpoint, and 26 kilometres from my Airbnb. I don’t think that time has ever passed as slowly as it did that day. When my eyes weren’t glued to the road, they were glued to my Garmin, watching the metres count down to the exact moment I could exhale: when I didn’t need to be strong anymore and I could liberate the fraudulent courage that was holding me together.

It had been fourteen hours since I’d left my bivy. I was exhausted and I wanted it all to stop. The final stretch into Copenhagen’s centre was the last straw; the monotonous drag of suburbia anaesthetised my mind. I was both completely overwhelmed and wildly unstimulated all at once. I snapped. An all too familiar warmth radiated across my face as tears prickled behind my eyes. I just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Using the saturated tip of my glove, I fumbled with my phone. Two rings later, my partner answered. I fought to get the words out in between sobs: “I’m really struggling”.

Something inside of me always believed that asking for help was a sign of weakness. My rational brain understood that nothing could be further from the truth. Somewhere in between was a girl conflicted; constantly battling her need to be strong with her desire to be loved. It’s only been a recent epiphone that she can, in fact, be both.

Although having a comforting voice at the end of the phone did little in terms of pacifying the rain, it succeeded on all fronts in making me feel less alone. Suddenly the world that had felt so grey and hostile was a little less unkind. And the girl who, seconds earlier, was about to hit rock bottom, was now imbued with the tiniest fragment of hope that the warm shower she was so desperately longing for wasn’t quite as far away as she feared. I’m not ashamed to admit that I cried solidly for the next forty-five minutes as I navigated the many traffic-crossings and cycle lanes of Copenhagen. By the time I reached the checkpoint it was closed - not that I cared. I was on the home stretch and nothing was going to stand in the way of me and a dry bath towel. Nothing, that is, except the harrowing realisation that I needed food. A quick scan of Google maps confirmed that I was now back on the outskirts of the city and resupply options were dwindling with every rotation of the pedal. I started to panic. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than reaching my accommodation, being in literal touching distance of warmth, and then having to get back on the bike in search of dinner. This horrified me to the point of making an abrupt right turn and slamming on the brakes outside a local 7/11. 

A bell sounded as I pushed open the door and I was immediately hit by a rush of cold air. Air conditioning, of course. The shop was small, but that didn’t make it any less overwhelming. There were four aisles, only three of which contained food, and I still couldn’t goad my brain into making a decision. I wanted to cry - again. But more than that, I wanted somebody to tell me what to eat. I wanted somebody to physically place the items into my hands so that I could preserve every last crumb of energy to get back on the bike, and pedal myself to safety. No one came, so I tried to focus my eyes on the shelves, scanning for packaging that looked familiar. Every second of indecision was a second further away from being dry. 

Eventually I grabbed a handful of chocolate bars, a protein milkshake, and a feeble-looking tub of pasta. It wasn’t enough, but my brain simply couldn’t fathom the idea of making another decision and so I lay my selection onto the counter. The cashier tried to make small talk in a language I didn’t understand. I smiled weakly and avoided eye-contact. She tried again, this time in English. “Would you like a pastry?” I make eye-contact. “They are free of charge because it’s the end of the day”. I mumble something that sounds like a yes. “Which one would you like?” I scan the row of pastries, quickly becoming overwhelmed. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t switch on the part of my brain that knew how to make a choice. I remained still for an uncomfortable period of time, a small puddle starting to form at my feet. I made eye-contact again. “All of them”.

—-

It was gone 8pm when I collapsed through the door of my Airbnb. I’d been awake since 4am and had spent over seven hours cycling in the rain. I was cold, I was wet, and I was numb. It was as though every emotion had been stripped from me, leaving only the husk of the girl who had left Rostock fifteen hours prior. A (very long) hot shower and a bag of free pastries went a long way in restoring me to some level of functioning human, but it took a lot more to admit how far I’d allowed myself to sink that day. 

As always tends to be the case in these events, the next morning brought with it a distinctive calm. Everything was still, and until I opened my eyes the world didn’t exist. At that moment I could have been anywhere. It was only when the dull throb of fatigue returned to my legs that I remembered where I was: seven days into what would be a three week adventure-of-a-lifetime. The sun was shining and for a fleeting moment I questioned whether the hardship of the day before had happened at all. The dawn had brought with it a renewed faith in not only the world, but also my capacity to survive it. I was okay, and I still loved riding my bike. I turned my wheel north and started pedalling.