Day 9: Luleå to Byske | 112km
I took my time getting ready in the morning, enjoying several rounds of the breakfast buffet before checking out. My bike needed some attention, and the hotel receptionist was kind enough to let me keep my muddy bicycle in the lobby while I adjusted the saddle to flatten it out in an attempt to take some pressure off my wrists during those long hours in the saddle each day. I also reorganized my bags, tossing out anything I knew I wouldn’t need for the rest of the trip. (I now understand the obsession with lightweight packing and the endless forum threads about shedding unnecessary weight.)
Since I’d lost a few items during the adventurous detour in the Norwegian mountains, I needed to replace a few things. One of those was my headphones, which had fallen out of a bag and into a muddy swamp. While I’d love to say this trip had given me the mental clarity to go without them, the silence and loneliness on the road can be overwhelming. Listening to music, a podcast, or an audiobook for a few hours a day has been a welcome companion during those long riding days. Luckily, a small electronics store in town was open, and they had a fresh pair of AirPods to replace the ones I’d lost.
I rolled out of Luleå around 1pm, so I didn’t expect to cover much distance since it was already late. However, the ride was surprisingly smooth, and the hearty breakfast had given me the energy to keep pedaling hard all afternoon. The small farms and open landscapes outside Luleå eventually gave way to dense forests as I headed inland, away from the coast.
The German woman I’d met while crossing from Norway to Finland had told me about an app called Vildnis, which helps you locate storm shelters across Europe. These apps are incredibly useful, but I can’t help but wonder what they take away from the experience of not knowing. I still get some of that uncertainty as it can be hard to tell whether a camp spot or shelter will be suitable, and they’re often tucked away in the most random places.
When I arrived at the storm shelter near Byske, in the middle of nowhere, it was already occupied by a Swedish guy in his late 50s out for a few weeks on the bike to see the country. He had a free-spirited energy about him, and it was clear this wasn’t his first adventure. He hadn’t even pitched his tent but had simply unfolded his sleeping pad on the shelter’s bench and tucked himself deep into his sleeping bag.
My encounters with other long-distance cyclists have been brief so far, but I’m always curious about their motivations. Some are in it for the story, others for the challenge, and some just seem to relish riding half-aimlessly, soaking up the open air.
The shelter sat right by the beach of a small lake, its surface so still it looked like a mirror, perfectly reflecting the pink and turquoise sky above. I was disappointed that someone else had already claimed the shelter, but I didn’t want to look for another spot as it was late, and this was such a beautiful place. I followed the beach a little further down, making sure I was far enough from the shelter to avoid any awkwardness with the other man.
Camping on a beach may sound idyllic, but sand gets everywhere. Since I’d had previous experience with this, I looked for a spot with as large a patch of flat grass as possible, but with little success. To keep the sand out of my tent, I rolled out my extra groundsheet, which I usually reserve for rainy days. It provided a small but important barrier between the tent and the sandy beach.
After setting everything up, I decided to take a quick dip to clean up. The lake looked far more beautiful from the shore than it did from the water. The bottom was muddy and littered with twigs, so it wasn’t the most refreshing swim, but at least I got the sweat off me and cleaned up a little before crawling into my warm, dry, and almost sand-free tent.
