So I failed. What next?

I’ll be the first to admit that I can be a stubborn bastard. In case my previous post did not make it clear, it bears mentioning that I had severely overextended myself before giving up on a beautiful plan. I often do, even after years and years of practice.

But stars, what an adventure it was!

This wasn’t an uncomplicated journey, and in the end the unexpected hurdles along the way added up. I fought through rain and winds and storms, with blood and sweat and tears. I conquered roads and hills barely fit for tractors, tinkered with bike repairs until I had basically reassembled the whole bike over the course of the journey, and stuck parts on with duct tape when all else failed. Heck, I even survived a plausible if incompetent assassination attempt, which wasn’t exactly on my bingo card for this journey.

But I also got to see untold beauty in the Swedish countryside, which has always represented safety and comfort for me. I got to rediscover the joy of camping, to revel in the beauty of every sunset, and to wake up to bird song, rustling leaves and morning dew. I got to feel the delicious pain of pushing your muscles just a little bit further until you decide to call it a day, and the wonderful feeling that comes with getting back on your bike the next morning for another day of adventure. I met kind, interesting people with their own stories to tell. I got to spend hours and hours in quiet contemplation with my own thoughts. I saw sights and cultural heritage sites tracing back hundreds and thousands of years. I got to experience Sweden, rather than merely living there.

It was, in short, the best summer of my life. I realised that even as I was in the middle of it all. It wasn’t always pleasant, and it involved a gruelling amount of work; yet even at its worst, it was an incredible adventure that I would never have wanted to miss out on. It was something precious that I still carry with me, and which I think has enriched my life just that little bit.

And then it got better.

You see, this journey was always going to end in my owner’s arms. And so, after the magnitude of my own folly had been revealed to me in a blinding flash and I at last accepted that it was time and past time that I abort this mission, came the contingency planning.

It was 13:00 on the final day, I had a functioning bike again after picking it up from the bike repair shop, I had my phone again after charging it at a local pizza shop, and my stuff was still 15 km south of me at the camp I had set up the night before.

I shall not bore you with the details of the planning that followed, but suffice it to say that my owner and I checked and cross-referenced train timetables, baggage requirements, bus routes and logistics to find the most efficient way of getting me back to her as quickly as possible. In the end, we found a train leaving that same town not two and a half hours later, with a transfer two towns over to the Stockholm-Oslo express. The downside being, of course, that my stuff was still at camp, and I had no way of bringing my bike on the train.

Travelling with bikes on public transit can generally be a bit of a hassle. Local trains around here usually allow you to bring it outside rush hour; long distance trains and busses typically require it to be disassembled and packed down. And so after biking back to camp, which was the first time I had biked without the bike trailer all week and thus a cakewalk, I packed down the tent and got everything onto the bike trailer in record time. My owner had said to show her the meaning of speed. When I pointed out that the line she was quoting calls for “haste”, not “speed”, she pointed out that I am not Shadowfax, and it’s hard to argue with that kind of logic.

So. With everything packed, I had an hour to lug it all back into town, and find a sports store before they all closed for the day so I could get a transport bag for my bike. In the end, I summoned up every iota of energy I had left, and made it into town with 20 minutes to spare, where I rushed to three different sports stores, and found that nobody knew where you could buy those except online.

But hey, no worries. I had the tarp I had been using to keep my luggage dry, I had string, and I had 60 minutes still to get to the train station and get ready.

45 minutes before departure, I got to the train station.

10 minutes before departure, I had my bike disassembled and packed down in an improvised transport bag, but still needed to consolidate my remaining luggage into two units.

2 minutes before departure, everything was ready, and I carried my luggage to the train platform, meaning to go back and get the bike in a second round so I can have it ready on the platform.

Then the train arrived.

The good news is that I got all my bags onto the train just fine. The bad news is that in my panic, I dared not run back and get the bike, and I was too exhausted to think straight.

Soooo that is how my bike got left unlocked and disassembled by the bike garage at a train station in the middle of nowhere. My owner called the hotel right next to it (she’s so resourceful and inventive and stars I love that one), who agreed to take it in for safekeeping the next morning until I returned at the end of the month; but alas, by the time they got there in the morning, it had been stolen.

At the time, I was too exhausted to care. I got to ride comfortably back to my owner’s loving hands with no further complications, and spent the next several days with mandatory bedrest, walking with a limp any time I had to get up, because my blisters had blisters.

It wasn’t an expensive bike, though it is of course sad to be without it. I had imported it in parts and assembled it myself, to fit my very specific tastes in a bike. I had a lot of emotions invested in that bike. Doubly so after everything it got me through on this journey. Though in a way, my bike being stolen is a fittingly poetic end to my bike adventure; it offers a finality not easily surpassed, and fits the theme of things quite consistently going wrong.

And yet, for all the adversity and complications, I cannot say that I am mad or that I regret it. This was a wonderful journey, and the week of rest, cuddles, and pride marches that followed has been absolutely divine. I have gained an experience for life, walked cracks in the soles of my favourite marching boots, learned a lot about myself, and done something that feels truly real. The value of that cannot be measured in costs or stolen bikes; that is life, pure and simple, and I am richer for having pursued it.

Perhaps I will try this whole challenge again, sometime when I have better weather on my side. If I do, I will be sure to bring less stuff, sacrificing some of the camping experience to greatly improve the biking experience.

For now, though, this was exactly the adventure I needed this year. It was messy and challenging and oh so rewarding. It’s been a magical journey, and I for one am proud of what I achieved in the end. Heck, I biked across half a country! And I thank you all for coming along with me on that in some small capacity. Knowing that my friends were reading this made me feel all warm and fuzzy even during the worst rainstorms, and knowing that you have my back even when I set myself lofty goals and struggle through unexpected challenges, means more than I could possibly say.

So I failed. And that’s okay, because it means I tried. Because that’s how you learn. Because even a journey incomplete can be a magnificent adventure. And because I have you all with me, and know in my heart of hearts that I have amazing and supportive people in my life through thick and thin.

I failed. And sometimes that’s exactly what you need.

— Lexi