From a Whisper to the Wind: My NorthCape4000

A Journey Within. From Rovereto to the Arctic: A Story of Doubt, Grit, Silence and Friendship.

Apart from my wife and children, I didn’t tell anyone what I was about to attempt—because I wouldn’t have been able to handle the inevitable question: “Why are you doing this?“.

I didn’t even know the answer myself. Sometimes there’s this voice inside that just says “Do it,” and you’ve got to obey—no questions, no hesitation—because you know that voice is coming from the deepest part of who you are. And when it speaks, you listen. That’s just how I’m made. And like the famous Italian singer Vasco says: “I want to find meaning, even if there’s no meaning. You know what I think? If it has no meaning, meaning will come tomorrow.”

I couldn’t have put it better.

At the beginning of this mirror-like conversation with myself, I used the word “attempt” because what I was facing felt so vast that saying “I’m going” instead of “I’ll try to go” would’ve sounded almost like blasphemy. My approach to challenges—whether it’s the mountains, the sea, or the roads I ride—always starts with deep respect for the environment that welcomes me. I also didn’t want to upset the “guardian spirits” who might or might not allow me to succeed. Jokes aside, let’s be clear: attempting doesn’t mean “I’ll give it a go and we’ll see what happens.” It means squeezing every last drop of energy to reach the goal. And in this case, the goal was called North Cape 4000. Even though we now have tools to preview every inch of the route, every climb, every detail, I preferred to picture it as an undefined place—somewhere on a rugged land that has given birth to myths and legends, where not so long ago, daily survival was no small feat. So while I chose to leave many aspects of the journey undefined, I also realized that I’d need to prepare meticulously—or I wouldn’t make it.

The math was simple: to finish within the time limit, I’d need to ride 180/200 km a day. I’m used to long distances, yes—but usually for one day, then rest. This would mean 200 km every day, for twenty straight days. What I had going for me was my background in sports—rugby in the past, ski mountaineering and cycling now, along with time spent at sea—all of which taught me how to hang tough, to not see fatigue as a limit, to handle harsh environments and unpredictable weather. A string of more or less serious injuries along the way also taught me how to get back up every time. These days, they call that resilience.

But those same injuries, and my not-so-young age, made me seriously doubt whether I could pull this off. After the biomechanical fit, repeated bike checks, fiddling endlessly with the setup, deciding what to pack and what to leave (a decision I revised a thousand times), and putting in hours and hours of training on the rollers—because my job only lets me ride outdoors on weekends—something happened. Something that wasn’t supposed to happen. Twenty days before departure, during a multi-day trek in the mountains, my knee started acting up… and the pain didn’t go away. So what now? Do I go or not?

In that tense window before departure, I stopped training completely—the pain was unbearable. I even gave up on finalizing my prep. The thought of not being able to take part was too much. In the end, with my physiotherapist, we decided to try anyway. Worst case, I’d stop. And because life always adds a twist, the day before leaving for Rovereto I overtightened a carbon tube on the VAP CYCLING handlebar support and snapped it.

What now?

I called Renzo, the man behind VAP, not expecting much. But—legend that he is—he said, “No problem.” And just like that, they pulled off a miracle: within an hour, they shipped me the replacement part. I received it the next morning as I was heading to Rovereto. And just to note—because some things deserve to be said—they didn’t charge me a single cent. That’s the true meaning of what we cyclists call the “big family.” Not everyone lives by it, sadly, but most of us—whether we’re fast or slow—face wind, rain, mud, and cold. And sooner or later, we’ll all need help. It’s a shared cycle of giving and receiving. At the pre-departure briefing, I didn’t recognize anyone. But the atmosphere was electric—just right. Because of my knee, and not knowing how far I’d be able to ride each day, I hadn’t booked any accommodations. I had a sleeping bag, a mat, and I told myself I’d find a spot to sleep somehow.

The day of departure arrived. I looked around and felt reassured: yes, there were some superheroes I’d lose sight of after the first kilometer—but also plenty of normal people, like me. I thought: either we’ve all been infected by an impossible dream—or maybe, just maybe, this dream can come true. I hugged my wife goodbye—probably more emotional than I was. I could feel that kind of nervous energy that tells you you’re alive. After all these years, I know myself well enough to welcome it. It’s part of the engine that drives me. But I kept quiet about that—never hurts to be a bit superstitious. The first few kilometers were all about listening—to my body. My knee seemed to be doing its job. No pain. So I started to relax and enjoy the surroundings. We were still in a big group, and I latched onto a pace line that felt just right—not too fast, not too slow.

Of all the advice I received, one bit stuck in my head: limit your stops. Do everything you need during breaks, quickly and efficiently. You’d be surprised how much time those little pauses eat up by day’s end. So the kilometers started ticking by: Trento, Bolzano, Vipiteno… 50, 100, 150… and on the climb to the Brenner Pass, something magical happened.

Another rider pulled up alongside me. We started chatting and rode together to Innsbruck.

It was late afternoon, and my new companion—his name was Roberto—asked, “Where are you staying tonight?” I replied, slightly sheepishly, “I honestly haven’t thought about it yet.” Without missing a beat, he said: “If you want, we can share the room I’ve booked.”

And just like that, the real journey began. We shared countless kilometers, wind in the face—plenty of that—heat and rain—thankfully not much—and long conversations, along with equally meaningful silences. Shared emotions that didn’t need to be spoken aloud because you knew the other was feeling them too. Sunrises, sunsets, exhaustion… and when you were at your limit, your partner would say: “Ten more kilometers and we’re done for today.”

There’s no need to recount every detail. Each of us carries our own memories, and the magic is in knowing that even if what you’re doing is small, your spirit is breathing deeply—and you’re savoring every single second. Here and now, as if tomorrow didn’t exist.

Then, once in Finland, the second crisis hit.

Some saddle sores had turned into something worse—cyst-like lumps—and the pain kept building. One morning, I got up and said: That’s it. I can’t go on. When I told Roberto, his response stunned me: “If you quit, I’m quitting too.” And he hugged me. Caught off guard, I had no choice but to clench my teeth and keep going. I suspected he was bluffing—but it didn’t matter. He got what he wanted. A few kilometers before Rovaniemi—last real town before the long, lonely road to the Cape—disaster struck again: my derailleur cable snapped.

It pains me to criticize a historic brand like Campagnolo, but their Ekar groupset is far from their finest work. I quickly realized this wasn’t a roadside fix. Luckily, I managed to limp into Rovaniemi. It was Saturday. The shops closed at 3 p.m. and wouldn’t reopen until Monday. I made it at 2:50 p.m. and dashed into the first bike shop I saw (I think it was Beebike). Somehow I convinced them—or maybe they just took pity on me—and even after closing time, they got to work. By 6 p.m., they still hadn’t managed to fix it. They told me, “Sorry, we just can’t do it.” But sometimes a facial expression says more than words. And I guess mine did—because they kept trying. And… miracle. They got it working. Not perfectly, but well enough for the final 700 km.

Like Lucio Battisti sang: “You might not fly again, but yes—you can travel.”

And so, we reached Honningsvåg—just 30 km from the North Cape. It was evening, and we looked at each other and said: Why arrive now? This isn’t a race. This is our journey. Let’s stretch out the joy of the finish a little longer.

Some might laugh, but we decided to spend the night there. That’s what felt right. The next morning, conditions couldn’t have been better: clear blue skies, no wind, and when we arrived at the Cape—early morning—it was still completely empty. The tourist crowds would come later. Almost a year has passed since that day. And I still can’t answer the question: Why did you do it? Honestly, I’m not interested in the answer. When people ask me why, I tell them: “Maybe you need to find your own journey—physical or mental. And maybe then you’ll understand why the question doesn’t really matter.”

The second question I often get is: “What did you feel when you arrived at the North Cape?” That one—I can answer.

By the time I reached the Cape, I almost didn’t care. What mattered was the journey. The days spent riding. The emotions we shared. Living every moment intensely. Feeling like part of the world around us, with no separation. The little gestures—like a stranger offering you water. A wave from someone you pass. A few words with another NorthCaper you meet once and never again. I still don’t know why I decided to do it. But that was my North Cape 4000. Did I come back a better man? I don’t know. But I do know that now, I’m less afraid to express my emotions—especially when they help communicate the beauty of this world and the humanity we share.

Kindness opens more doors than any key ever could. Roberto and I haven’t met again since. We check in now and then. But those days on the road built a bond I know won’t break. At least for me. But I believe—and hope—it’s mutual. What else is there to say? Always give your dreams a chance. It’s better to fail ninety-nine times and succeed on the hundredth than spend your life watching from the sidelines.

Stefano Veronesi

Rovereto – July 20, 2024 – North Cape – August 7, 2024