(Any Norwegians reading this get points for remembering which one that is. Anyone else gets points for knowing what the heck a fjellvettregel is in the first place)

When you’re planning a trip like this, you don’t count on everything going according to plan. Not even remotely. When you’re covering this much distance with this much weight in tow, at least some individually unlikely events are bound to happen. Since Day 2 I’ve had to disassemble, reassemble, and tinker away on bike and trolley alike to deal with the aftermaths of those roads — up to and including one of the wheels on the trolley coming loose repeatedly. And I’ve had the tools for it all, prepared for all those eventualities.

That being said, yesterday actually started really well! I got some writing in, I got to rest and have a nice breakfast, and I got to enjoy some cozy cycling on atmospheric roads.

Then my phone starts running low. No problem; I have a power bank for that… Oh. The power bank is empty. No problem; I have a second one as a… Oh.

Well, that’s not ideal, but hey — I have a solar usb charger just for this that worked great when I tried it at home in the sunny weather we’ve enjoyed for weeks. At this point, I’m not too worried. I even start thinking Day 2 may have been a blessing in disguise, preparing me for anything.

Then it starts raining even more than on Day 2, completely blotting out the sun.

Then my back tire explodes, on a lonely road between nowheres.

Now, I am no stranger to changing tires. It’s so common it’s not even one of those unlikely events; it’s just a guarantee all on its own. I’ve changed and fixed more than my fair share in my years, to the point where it is second nature. But between patching this up in apocalyptic rain, having to do so without removing the wheel, and trying in vain to let rubber cement dry in weather that would make Noah call for a timeout, it took me an hour and a half; only to find that there was a massive tear in the tire itself as well, and all my work had been for naught.

So there I stood, in the middle of nowhere, with a full bike trailer that had to be detached from the flat back wheel of a bike I couldn’t use, without a phone charge, at 8pm. I wanted to scream. And that’s when the rain stopped, with perfect if cruel comedic timing.

I’ll be honest: more than anything else in that moment, I wanted to give up. I didn’t even know what giving up would look like right there and then, but I wanted to. But with what little solar charge I had gotten, I managed to confirm that there were bike repair shops in the city 10km north of me (by the shortest path; this will become relevant later) — too detailed for my maps to cover, but invaluable information. So while everything still felt pretty hopeless, I made a decision. I’d haul everything a few hundred meters in a couple of rounds to set up camp for the night, since the middle of nowhere is actually quite a good place for that, and hope that today’s me would feel more hopeful. Because a plan was beginning to form in my head.

This morning, after breakfast, I took a moment to reassess the situation. The instinct screaming at me to give up was still there, but… But which part specifically had caused that? It hadn’t been there yesterday morning, so what had really changed between now and then? So in the introspection that followed, I arrived at three key points:

1) Short-term memory of setbacks was colouring my view
2) Outrageous adversity (and horrible weather) was beginning to feel like the norm, not the exception
3) The prospect of solving this latest adversity was still daunting, and would cost time. Even more time, for a journey that was already proving longer and slower than expected.

1 is temporary.

2 was still there; I wasn’t sure how many setbacks this big I could take.

3… Well, 3 I could do. So I packed my valuables and some necessities for a day trip in one of my backpacks, left everything else behind in the tent, and started on a long and gruelling 20km walk with my bike to that town — along massive roads, through rain, and after running out of water. I knocked on a few doors to ask for directions, met some lovely people (who informed me that it was still very early — it’s not as if I had looked at a clock since last night), asked for a glass of water at one point, and just kept walking — long after my legs started to scream.

Though let me be clear: I enjoyed it. A lot.

There’s something peculiar about adventure. Namely that it’s not really an adventure at all until something goes wrong. So having to divide and conquer, leaving all my stuff behind at camp as I walked on foot, knocking on doors, and taking in a truly extensive side quest? Yeah. That was Adventure. That was the Adventure of storybooks and dreams.

Having walked my bike almost a half marathon’s worth of distance, though — for I didn’t dare walk the shortest path due to heavy traffic — I finally made it to the bike repair shop. I had to stop by a car dealership asking for the final directions, and they gave a friendly laugh when I entered because I must have looked half drowned, exhausted and spectacularly unlikely to be shopping for a car; but I made it. Only to find a sign saying it was closed for summer break.

I almost did scream, then.

There’s a limit to how many hurdles you can jump, and how many extra things you have to make work to get to where you need to. I had managed to turn a long series of setbacks and rain into an adventure, but this… Well, this was trying my patience.

But after I bought some candy just to help boost my dwindling neurotransmitters, I crossed my fingers that the other bike repair shop was open, and headed further into town. The very first person I asked for directions tells me exactly where to find it; or at least, where there used to be one, since she hasn’t been there in a while. But sure enough; there it was, with a flag saying “Open”.

Though of course, nothing about this trip has been that simple. The bike mechanic hesitated to accept the job, since he was working on another one and it was a bit late to accept same-day jobs (I later found out it was 11, an hour after he opened); but at this point, my aforementioned and I dare say otherwordly patience is wearing thin enough to press him a bit, so he says he’ll have it done by lunch.

That’s when I sit down to think. I find a nearby eatery, ask if I can charge my phone, and slowly return to digital civilization as I eat.

I think you can probably see where this was going better than I could at the time. Because it wasn’t untill my owner quoted Fjellvettregel No. 8 at me that I realised what a complete, irresponsible fool I was being.

For context: Fjellvettreglene (“The mountain code”) are a series of 9 simple rules that have been a staple of Norwegian hiking culture (and culture in general) since the 60s. I dare say they are familiar to any Norwegian, and drilled into the mind of any frequent hiker or scout from a young age — myself included.

Rule 8 is arguably one of the most important and broadly applicable ones, and it simply says “Vend i tide — det er ingen skam å snu” (“Fall back before it’s too late; there is no shame in going back.”)

The reason the second half of this rule is so important as to be idiomatic in Norwegian, is that is so universally applicable yet incredibly hard to internalise. Of course you want to reach the summit. Of course you’re too proud to admit defeat. But if you don’t fall back on Plan B long before it becomes urgent, that mountain may well be the last thing you ever see.

And so when my owner said there’s no shame in turning around, I felt a shiver down my spine. I may not be in the mountains, but damn if it wasn’t pride keeping me from falling back on one of the many, many contingency plans I had lined up when planning this route. “Cancelled due to bad weather” doesn’t begin to cover it, though that alone should have been enough. Even the bike repair shop remarked on how tough the weather must be making this. And even so, I had actively been pushing to get to the halfway point, just to make the mental barrier of completing in spite of everything easier than literally turning back; never mind what that implies for my aversion to figuratively turning back. That should have thrown up immediate red flags in my mind. And for what?

What was I trying to prove?

That I could do this? I know that. I know in my bones that I could do this, even with all these complications. And after getting over a third of the way with so many complications fighting against me, I don’t think many who read this would disagree.

That I love my owner enough to go through hell to get to her as a romantic gesture? Well, I think she’d really very much rather that I… not do that to myself?

Yeah, no. I’ve had the right amount of adventure for now, and we quickly moved on to figuring out the best public transit to one of the exit points I had built in. I ended up biking back to get my stuff, then biking it back to get on a train, and it was the busiest and most intense part of the whole adventure because I had about 15 things left to do 12 kilometres apart before catching a train leaving in two hours, but… I did it! It feels surreal, and I’m completely spent, but after a quick train connection that went perfectly smoothly, I’ll actually get to be in my owner’s hands by midnight!

So yeah. There is no shame in turning around. Never, ever forget that. This doesn’t just apply to me; we all have our mountains, and our times when it is sensible to fall back — just in case. Yeah, it sucks. And it’s going to keep sucking every time, though less and less so as you slowly learn the art of admitting defeat. The first time I learned that lesson, cost me a heck of a lot more than this one; and next time I’ll be better equipped to notice it still. Because in the mountains, shame kills. And I, for one, am proud as heck for what I achieved this summer.

I’ll be back tomorrow for some final thoughts, if the mandatory rest no doubt awaiting me allows it. But for now, thank you all for being with me on this journey — for all its challenges, it has been absolutely magical.

— Lexi