Editor’s note: Sedgwick native Levi Bridges and friend Ellery Althaus of North Truro, Mass., have embarked on a 10,000-mile cycling trip across Asia and Europe. Bridges is filing weekly updates for the BDN.
My alarm rings at dawn. After riding more than 3,500 miles, another day begins.
I drowsily peer through my tent window. Outside, the dark image of my bicycle appears like a charcoal drawing etched on a rosy horizon. Heavy dews are rare in the middle of summer, making for ideal camping conditions. Instead of futilely waving our rain flies in the air to dry them, this morning Ellery and I simply eat breakfast, pack our bags and hit the road.
Our day begins by cruising up and down rolling hills that undulate into foggy valleys. Descending from the hills, I can barely see while speeding through thick fog. Beads of moisture collect on my thin wool pullover and glimmer like gemstones when I rise up the next small hill back into the sunlight.
By 8 a.m. the sun rises above the treetops and the fog evaporates. The suffocating feeling of rising humidity replaces the cool air of early morning. Droplets of sweat soon pour from my brow, roll down my cheeks and neck, and soak my shirt. By midday, the hot sun makes central Siberia feel like a tropical island.
The swooshing sound of my legs turning the pedals becomes barely audible amidst the shrill buzz of cicadas. The sound of insects chirping is a natural soundtrack to a sweltering summer day. It is high summer in Russia, and it’s unmercifully hot.
Most people associate Russia with wintry visions of St. Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow with people traipsing beneath its colorful spires wearing large fur hats to protect them from bitter cold. Before leaving for this trip last winter, Ellery and I discovered how much these images permeate many Americans’ conceptions of Russia.
“We are going to ride bicycles across the entirety of Russia and then into Europe,” I told people.
“You can’t do that!” many commonly responded, “Won’t it be winter there?”
The misinterpretation that Russia rests under a spell of eternal winter is not entirely unfounded. The average winter temperature in Siberia is below zero degrees Fahrenheit and can often dip to minus 30 or more. In late June, we frequently cycled past rivers with ice still melting along the shoreline. Long winters cause the identities of the four seasons to blur together here.
These statistics once made it hard for me to believe that hot summer days existed in Siberia, too. I recall curiously reading classic Russian novels in which the authors describe humid summer scenes that contradict the frozen world one distantly associates with Russia. A simple passage in Leo Tolstoy’s famous novel Anna Karenina, which describes the character Levin happily mowing his fields on a sultry summer day, particularly stands out to me now. “In this hottest time,” Tolstoy wrote, “the mowing did not seem hard to him. The sweat that drenched him cooled him off, and the sun, burning on his back … gave him firmness and perseverance in his work … the scythe cut by itself.”
Although Tolstoy wrote in the 19th century, I find — as so often happens in the rural country I pass through — that the country of today greatly resembles that of yore. During summer months, Russian men remain almost permanently shirtless because of the scorching heat. Many are so tan it appears they have remained half-naked since the first warm day of spring. I cycle by them working in their gardens or cutting hay fields with long scythes collecting it in large piles. They wave as I pass then return to labor under the hot sun.
The vision of men using scythes sticks in mind. I’m continually amazed by how little rural life in Russia has changed over time.
Russians, naturally, relish the heat. Many build small saunas near their houses to enjoy during winter months. In cities, I’m often appalled riding on stiflingly hot buses where windows remain shut even in summer. I sweat profusely next to women wearing thick sweaters. Russia is a land of extremes; its residents possess an equal tolerance for intense heat and cold.
I cannot boast the same stoicism. We have long since readjusted our riding schedules in accordance with the muggy weather, rising at dawn to cover ground early, and resting during sweltering afternoons.
The summer solstice may be long behind us, but in the Northern Hemisphere light still remains in the sky now until 10:30 p.m. The intense amount of daylight causes high temperatures. By 3 p.m., riding a bicycle along burning asphalt feels like standing in a frying pan. Some days, even by 6 p.m., it is so hot we must stop every 10 miles to cool off.
I often feel like we are the only ones seeking shade. Even on remote sections of road, we spot people everywhere. Many drive miles from their villages to gather berries in distant fields and clearings. They pick strawberries, raspberries and blueberries, which grow abundantly in the wild, and sell them on the roadside. Each time I ride over a bridge above a river or stream, I see hordes of people picnicking, swimming in the water and fishing. It seems the whole country is outdoors in the blistering weather.
When the heat becomes too intense, we sometimes rest in fields out in the middle of nowhere. Soon a smiling stranger with a basket of berries, or an old shepherd walking with a herd of cows, whipping them with a switch made of grass, inevitably passes by.
A Russian summer is different than in America. Here, there is an excess of land that seems to belong to nobody. People here are free to graze their animals where they like, and pick berries wherever they grow. The movement of people is not limited by property boundaries and “No Trespassing” signs.
In Russia, life abounds during summer. We cycle past entire fields filled with wildflowers that are all the same color. In the distance, these expanses of flowers appear like purple or yellow lakes. They brilliantly emblazon the horizon, forcing me to appreciate the wonders these scorching days create.
“The proliferation of plant growth here seems magical,” I think to myself.
It is not long before the spell begins to break. During the final days of July, the reverberations of Earth spinning on its axis become palpable in the return of colder nights. In the mornings, I now find my tent covered in heavy dew, the first sign that summer is concluding.
In the first week of August, we notice that some leaves are already changing color. The days are no longer as hot, and we can now ride anytime, undisturbed by the heat. Men begin wearing shirts again. Folks now sell mushrooms they gather in the forest by the roadsides instead of berries.
The almost supernatural summer months in Russia are fading, slowly falling victim to cooler fall weather. Only two months ago, I saw ice floating down a river. Now the peak of summer in Russia already seems intangible. A magical time which exists only in rumors and storybooks.