On a journey this long—where unpredictability is the only constant—you inevitably find yourself reflecting. And one of the most valuable lessons it offers (though I’m not sure I’ve fully learned it) is just how easily we get lost in expectations: always planning, forecasting, trying to stay one step ahead—while the present moment quietly slips away. Learning to live in the “here and now” can make everything feel more vivid, more real.
During the NotrhCape4000 ride, whenever I saw clouds gathering, I’d think, “Oh no… looks like rain. I’ll have to stop, or gear up. I’ll be late, I won’t see any landscapes…” blah blah blah.
And that’s not how it went. Most of the time, it didn’t rain—or just a few drops—and the journey continued. Sometimes, the weather even cooled off and I pedaled better. Other times, after the threat of rain passed, I’d think, “Great, the sky’s clearing, I can carry on with no problems. I’ll arrive soon at my stage.”
And that’s not how it went. A while later—the wind slowed me down.
We try (I know I do) to predict things we can’t control, and that means we risk missing what’s happening right now: the views, the sensations, that beautiful lake we didn’t stop at just because rain might come.
We (I met my teammate, Stefano, at 2PM on the first day and we did the entire adventure together. Read his article in this journal) were very lucky in the first 6–7 days. Just a light drizzle one afternoon. But my brain started calculating: “You can’t cross eight countries in 17 days without getting wet. The rain will surely come in Sweden. Or maybe Finland. Or right at the end—just when it gets cold and windy.”
And that’s not how it went. We did catch a few hours of light rain—but nothing serious. We reached Finland, then Norway, and finally the North Cape with clear skies, over 22 degrees, and blazing sun.
So then you realize: what was the point of worrying about what might happen while cycling through beautiful, sunny Denmark? Why ruin a perfect moment by obsessing over the unknown, instead of just listening to my legs—still strong after 1,500 km—or stopping to take in the scenery?
Because yes: sooner or later, everything ends. The sun, the rain, the wind, the cozy dinner in Jönköping, the cabin by the lake…
Even the easy days can get complicated. After ten days of riding over 250 km daily, we had two “short” stages ahead: 195 and 192 km. The night before we thought, “Tomorrow will be easier—we’ll finish early, grab dinner out, have a beer, maybe two, and chat a bit.”
And that’s not how it went. A headwind, some fatigue, a tougher section… We still rolled in after 8 p.m.
Then, near the end of the Swedish section, we decided to slow down a bit. We splitted two long days—275 and 264 km—into three. That meant one very short day (109 km) into Rovaniemi, a pausing and relaxing afternoon in the city.
And that’s not how it went. On that short stage, Stefano’s gear cable broke. We had to figure out what happened, try to fix it, and slow down. Instead of arriving before lunch, sightseeing, and doing laundry—we got there late.
And again my brain thought “It’s Saturday, bike shops will close at 3PM. We’ll never make it.”
“Who knows where the shop is—it might even be very far from the route and the place we had booked”, “Tomorrow is Sunday, nothing’s open”.And that’s not how it went. The shop was open, stayed open for us actually, and it was right on the route. And—get this—the shop we found was 200 meters from our apartment. All those worries? Pointless.
Next day: we entered the Arctic Circle. I’d booked a night in one of those Aurora Cabins—glass roof, view of the stars. I’d arranged late dinner and early breakfast weeks in advance as part of my reservation.
At 6 p.m., the receptionist called: “When will you arrive?”
“About 9:30 PM.”
“Oh, our restaurant closes at 8. And the reception too.”
I said I’d been told otherwise, even had it in writing. But of course, I was out of data connection, in the middle of nowhere, headwind in my face, Stefano already ahead. I was stressed. No food? No reception? No plan B?
And that’s not how it went. They left us soup and breakfast in the cabin. We even got there early, and found a steakhouse with a reindeer in the parking lot (!), and arrived at the cabin with a blazing Arctic sunset and dinner waiting—hot soup, sandwiches, and breakfast for the morning.
One last story and lesson.
When we rescheduled the two Swedish stages, we had to shift our last five bookings by one day. Four hosts were fine. One didn’t reply—for days. Emails, calls—nothing. Out in the middle of nowhere, no backup options nearby. I contacted Booking.com support—also a challenge during a 250 km day ride—and they tried too. No response.
I began to think the place didn’t exist (it has happened to a friend of mine). Booking.com advised cancelling, suggested other places—40 or 45 km off-route: impossible.
We looked on Airbnb, stressed out. What if we couldn’t find anything? Ride through the night? Go off-track, probably with steep climbs? Sleep outside with no suitable gear?
And that’s not how it went. We found an amazing place, just 800 meters off-route. Right on a river. Two bedrooms, a wood stove, fireplace, sauna, even a washing machine.
And then, the next day—my phone rang. It was the reception from the ghost-hotel. Furious. Accusing us of not showing up. Demanding payment. Threatening “international litigation” (whatever that means).
And of course, I was just about to enter the underwater tunnel to Magerøya: 6 km long, 200 meters deep—no signal. I tried to explain we’d cancelled, contacted Booking, left messages…the phone connection died. Whatever—we’ll pay.
And that’s not how it went. The next day, I got confirmation of cancellation, full refund—and a €37 voucher from Booking.com as an apology.Almost everything has a beginning and an end. Big things and small ones. Smooth stretches and rough patches. Rain, cold, fatigue—they pass. The sun, the views, the perfect days—they pass too.
And even a journey like this one—so full, so wild, so unforgettable—yes, even this, sooner or later… ends.
We have to enjoy the moment, live in the “here and now”, don’t overthink, take memories.
And the reindeer?
I had watched all the videos on the NorthCape4000 YouTube channel more than once, and beyond the wonder of the journey—which at first seemed reserved only for ultracyclists and madmen—what struck me most, for reasons I can’t quite explain, were the reindeer.
Those slightly clumsy little creatures that stand by the roadside, watching cars and cyclists go by.
In 2023, I had already attempted the ride, but a series of family issues forced me to turn back in Denmark, well before reaching Sweden—where the reindeer are. I had imagined Sweden full of them.
And so, speaking of expectations, as I pedaled through Sweden’s endless roads… nothing. Not a single reindeer. My mind started to accept the idea that I wouldn’t see any reindeer — such a pity… They were what I had hoped for the most, even more than reaching Nordkapp.
And that’s not how it went!
Just as I had given up hope—when my expectations were basically zero—Stefano shouted from behind me:
“Reindeeeer! Look! Your dreeeam!”
I was momentarily distracted, checking the GPS, and nearly crashed into them (they were in the middle of the road)! That would’ve been the ultimate irony: from dream to disaster.
The emotion I felt was overwhelming. I thought I’d been incredibly lucky to see three. I was already satisfied, happy, sure I wouldn’t spot another one. You won’t believe it, but I cried.I had fulfilled a small dream—almost childish, maybe silly, certainly secondary compared to the bigger journey.
But the very next day, and in the days that followed in Lapland… dozens, no—hundreds of reindeer.
All shapes and colors (yes, there are white reindeer too), everywhere—even standing outside the pub where we had dinner. In this case, my expectations were more than exceeded!!!
I realized that all that waiting in Sweden had been for nothing… The reindeer live farther north. Less expectation, less anticipation, less control…let it be.
Roberto Brunetti
@bikestales
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