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.
The first snow fell in mid-October. Through the cold window pane of my hotel in Krakow, Poland, I watched hoary snow flurries pour from the gray sky with a sense of dread.
In six months, we have cycled 7,100 miles on one of the world’s longest and most northerly bicycle trips. In 10 weeks, we hope to arrive in Portugal and complete our trip from the Pacific to Atlantic Ocean. Watching the snow fall, a subtle feeling of trepidation overtakes me.
Three days ago, we arrived at the border between Ukraine and Poland. After briefly waiting in line at the first checkpoint, a Ukrainian military officer approached us with upsetting news.
“You cannot cross this border on bicycles,” he said. “Only motor vehicles are permitted over this border post,” he explained. “You must cross in a car.”
Fifty miles south lay another border crossing that allowed all types of transit. To spare ourselves from riding there, we searched for a truck driver to smuggle us across. But the infrequent passage of small hatchbacks and sedans driving into Poland proved disappointing.
Frustrated by our misfortune, I began chatting with a young Ukrainian man who sells copies of DVD’s to passing motorists. After explaining our problem, he offered to speak with the officer guarding the entrance into the passport control zone.
“OK,” he said returning with a beaming smile. “The guard will ask drivers in small trucks to take you across. When someone agrees, remember to give them a bit of money,” he added. “No more than $10. You know, it is little tradition in our country,” he said in reference to Russian and Ukrainian officials commonly known to request bribes.
Soon a small truck with a wide bed in the back arrived at the checkpoint. The guard spoke briefly with the driver before motioning for us to wheel over the bikes. We shake hands with the driver, a short dark haired Ukrainian man, who makes a living transporting goods from Poland to Ukraine.
Crossing the border takes several hours. We wait in a line of cars slowly edging through checkpoints. Officials on both the Ukrainian and Polish sides inspect the car for contraband. They stamp our passports and laugh when they see our bicycles and we tell them our story.
This is an important border. Poland marks the point where we will enter the European Union, the group of 27 European member states united by a common set of laws, policies, and open borders.
At last we get our entrance stamps into Poland and I unsuccessfully try to pay our driver.
“Ukrainian money is useless to me here,” he says.
We agree to drive with him to a nearby town to find an ATM. The experience of riding in a car, after months of bicycle travel, is always peculiar. Outside it is chilly and overcast, but the truck’s heater fills the cab with rich warm air. I now associate movement with making constant adjustments to the weather, putting on thermal tights for cold mornings or changing into rain gear when a storm overtakes us. When it starts raining, the Ukrainian merely turns on the windshield wipers and we continue. Riding in a car is comfortable. I have forgotten that travel doesn’t have to be wet or cold.
The road we drive on into Poland nearly makes my jaw drop. Seemingly infinite signs marking speed limits, warnings, and route numbers line the roadside. We have spent so much time in Russia and Ukraine, where important signs that help drivers are almost non-existent, that the sense of order and development here overwhelms me.
The houses by the road are striking too. They each look newly constructed or refurbished. Unlike the homes of rural villagers in Siberia, houses here have decorative gardens and backyards surrounding them instead of simple vegetable gardens grown for subsistence use. The backyards of each Polish home, filled with flowers and shrubs, seem like lavish gardens to my eyes. The new world over the border may resemble my home in Maine more than the places I’ve been, but I have been gone so long it now looks foreign.
Soon we arrive in a small town with an ATM and pay the driver. Our new friend leads us to an affordable hotel where we thank him and say goodbye.
That night a trip to a small supermarket is a wonderful surprise. For months, I have shopped in small stores in Russia filled mainly with sausages and canned goods; the variety of foods I find on my first visit to a small Polish market astounds me. A diverse and mouthwatering expanse of fruits, vegetables, cheeses, and pastries meets my eyes.
I cycle an average of 70 miles each day and my appetite is gigantic. The amount of good affordable food here is a dream come true. I grab groceries from the aisles like a mad man to make an incredible feast in the hotel. Before falling asleep, I think that smooth roads and good food in the EU will make this physically intensive bike trip easier.
A massive storm system slides over Europe that night. For two days, we ride through pouring rain wearing waterproof pants, jackets, and booties to keep our feet dry. Riding in cold rain seems more tolerable if you break infrequently. Once you stop, remaining motivated to continue is hard, so we ride continuously just stopping for lunch.
After two wet and stormy days we arrive in Krakow, one of Poland’s oldest cities. During our first day there, the temperature drops to near freezing and it begins snowing. We take an extra day off, hoping conditions will improve.
On an unseasonably cold morning, we strike out again. The rolling hills outside of Krakow lay under a blanket of white snow. I inhale freezing air in my lungs and exhale steaming breaths while dodging patches of ice on the road’s shoulder. We stop in gas stations to warm up our feet. That afternoon we quit early and enjoy the luxury of warm bed in a roadside hotel.
With great frequency on this trip, one problem arises after another. As we prepare to leave the following morning, I discover that my crank, the circular component of a bicycle which the chain and pedals attach to, has become so loose it is nearly detached from the bike’s axle. My bicycle cannot be ridden.
“I’ve called bike shops in all the major Polish cities and nobody has the parts to fix your bicycle,” the owner of a nearby bike shop tells us. “We could order the parts from abroad, but it is Saturday and I can’t do that until Monday. It could take four days or more to fix your bike.”
Although one problem is often met with another on this trip, creative solutions, kind people, and a lot of luck often help us continue.
“The problem with your bike is the axle,” the bike mechanic says after inspecting it again. “I can try making a small plastic piece to fit inside your bike frame which should keep the crank on.”
In a half hour the job is done. I take my bike on a test ride. It seems good as new.
“This is just a quick fix,” the bike mechanic cautions before we leave. “It might last 2,000 kilometers, maybe just two.”
We continue down the road with a renewed sense of feeling fortunate just to continue. But the temperature is still freezing and today we discover that coal is still burnt as a heat source in many Polish homes. The thick smoke fills the air making us cough when we ride through towns.
By day’s end, I discover that the crank on my bicycle has come loose again. If I continue riding, I could damage the inside of my bike frame so badly that I will have to buy a new one, something which I don’t have money for. We have battled wind, rain, snow, countless bike problems and logistical challenges on this trip, but it seems that a small metal part in my bike is the biggest obstacle we have encountered yet.
With no better option, we ride back to the Polish city of Katowice and take a train 200 miles to Prague, the capital of the nearby Czech Republic, where I can have my bike fixed quickly. We set out six months ago to complete a lengthy trip only on bicycles. Getting on a train feels like being defeated.
There is no support vehicle on this trip to help when problems arise and no major sponsor that can replace my bicycle. Everything we do on this trip is up to us. Although I want to continue riding, I can’t take the chance that it will ruin my bicycle.
One learns many lessons on such a tough journey. Remaining patient in difficult situations and developing a new appreciation of having a home are just some of the things I have acquired. But as I load my bike on the train to Prague, I think that perhaps one of the hardest things I must learn to do is accept my limitations. To realize there are some things that you just cannot do no matter how hard you try.
“I’m not going to let this bum me out,’ I think as the train leaves the station, ‘I would rather sit back and enjoy the ride.”