There is a specific kind of tired you only get from riding 140 km on a day that started with a wet tent. It's not sleepy. It's more like your body has filed a formal complaint and is waiting for a reply.
Rostock's harbour at five is empty except for a man hosing down a fish counter and me, sitting on a bollard eating a banana in the exact way a raccoon would. The ferry to Gedser was at seven. I had two hours and one banana.
Here is the thing about bikepacking that nobody puts on the brochures: the best moments are the boring ones. The bollard. The banana. The hose. Watching the light come up over cranes.
Denmark, when it arrived, arrived with a headwind. But that's a different story, and I'm still a bit angry about it.
