Friends: Out of the Arctic after two-and-a-half weeks and with all digitals in tact. I crossed The Circle last night at eight p.m. Here in Norway, in contrast to Finland, it truly looked like the Arctic up on a high desolate plateau with scattered patches of snow. I'd been on this plateau for a while. It was colder than the coast and desolate, making me more vulnerable to the wind. The camping was less than inviting. Though it was past my usual quitting time, I continued on for a half hour or so until the road began to descend into a canyon with a tree-lined river. I found a spot that caught the sun so I was able to dry the tent, still damp from the rain the night before.
I began the day with a morning rain. Once it stopped, a low lying cloud cover prevented the road from fully drying until the early in the afternoon. Turning inland took me out of tunnel country. The terrain remained relatively flat following a river. For the first time in days I could leave the bike in a higher gear and pedal merrily along. At about five while taking a break at a rest area and taking on some fuel for the day's final push a 27-year old cyclist from Connecticut rolled in, heading the opposite direction unfortunately. He'd been on the road for two weeks, starting his travels in Oslo. He had until the middle of August to explore Scandinavia. He had biked coast-to-coast across the U.S. a couple years ago with two friends. By trip's end they were no longer friends.
This was his second trip and first solo. He said its quite a bit different doing it alone. He's stayed at campgrounds every night, but hasn't had much interaction with anyone. In fact after fifteen minutes or so he said this was the longest conversation he'd had since he left the U.S. Although I only stayed in a campground while I was at the film festival, I too have rarely been approached by others on this trip, in contrast to everywhere I've been except New Zealand, where the touring cyclist is so commonplace no one pays them any attention.
He had a book provided by the tourist office that detailed the dozens and dozens of tunnels of Norway. It gave their length and whether bicycles are allowed in them and, if not, an alternate route. He has a phobia of tunnels and has so far managed to avoid them. It won't be possible the further north he gets with the scarcity of roads. He also wasn't too daring when it came to the food. He'd been subsisting on peanut butter sandwiches and candy bars for his lunches and pasta for his dinners. I offered him a sample of my fish paste. He hesitantly took a bite and wasn't sure if he liked it or not. He was afraid to experiment with the food, lest he not like it. I don't have much variety to my diet either, but I'm always looking for some moderately priced item to vary it a bit. I tried some bargain-priced sausage yesterday that I won't be buying again. I had to force it down, the first food that hasn't been totally agreeable. I was sorry I didn't have any left to try to pass off on this guy.
Earlier in the day I had my first offering of food from a fellow traveler at a rest area. A German frau gave me a cup of cold apple juice. My taste buds greatly appreciated something they hadn't been treated to in quite a while. Now I'll be looking for more the next time I'm in a grocery store. Its not unusual to receive such offerings, even in third world countries. In fact it occurs more frequently in poorer countries as the locals take pity on the touring cyclist, figuring he is so poor that he can't afford a bus ticket. I'm approaching a month on the road and 2,000 miles. Scandinavia is well below the average in food-giving.
The friendliest, most generous people I've encountered by far in all my travels around the world have been the Colombians. Nearly every day, and not simply once, but often twice or more, someone gave me food as I biked through Colombia at the start of my ride down the length of South America twelve years ago. Sometimes it was restaurant owners giving me an extra dish or refusing payment for a meal. Sometimes someone else in the restaurant paid my bill. People in the market would give me food and people along the road would share something they had. Colombians love the bicycle. Bicycle racing ranks with soccer as their favorite sport. I was celebrated the whole time I was there. I was invited on radio and television shows. Good thing I didn't pay any attention to The Lonely Planet guide book's warning not to accept food or drink from anyone because it could be drugged.
I began my first full day out of the Arctic with a delightful 45-mile gradual descent following a river down to the sizable city of Mo I Rana. It required my poncho for the last ten miles, as the misty rain that had been wetting my wool sweater got to be a bit much. I didn't mind at all being out in the elements rolling along, giving all the RVs a smile, letting them know there was no reason to feel sorry for me. And once again it looks like its going to be a clear afternoon and I can romp for another 50 miles or so. I am within 300 miles of Trondheim, where I will head east to northern Sweden, passing through its prime skiing country. I'm all stocked up on food for the next two days, knowing it's not likely to find any groceries tomorrow on Sunday. Less than two weeks to Stockholm and back to Chicago. It'll be an adjustment returning to an urban area. Even these towns of a few thousand make me eager to get back out in to the pristine wilderness.
Later, George
Saturday, June 30, 2001
Friday, June 29, 2001
Fauske, Norway
iFriends: At last, after 630 miles in seven days down from the North Cape I have some rain to contend with. I'm still in the Arctic but its not too cold and its just drizzly so it shouldn't be too bad of a day. The drizzle started last night as I slept. It kept me in my tent until 8:30. When it slightly relented, I quickly broke camp and hit the road. It felt good to get the legs moving and the blood flowing. I was twelve miles from this town of a couple of thousand, my first opportunity for a library or visitor center in a couple of days. So here I am at ten a.m. at the visitor center's free computer until they kick me off.
I thought I would have been able to file a report two days ago in Navrik, a city with multi-story buildings and a population of 20,000, the most of any I've passed through since I crossed in to the Arctic. The library had two computers, but they were all booked up. I had my first ferry ride later that day, 25 minutes, to a fairly unsettled inland stretch of Norway. I spent a lot of time on my small chain ring yesterday with many steep climbs. There were 14 tunnels in one 30-mile stretch, ranging in length from two-and-a-half miles to a couple hundred meters. The first one was the longest and had a sign barring bicycles. I didn't even stop to take a picture of what I was about to defy. It was a mystery why bikes were banned. It had the widest shoulder, at least 18 inches, of any tunnel I had been in. It was all uphill and fairly steep, so that might have been the reason, though it wasn't as steep at the one under the ocean to Nordkapp. Then I began to think perhaps there were gases in this tunnel that made it perilous for cyclists and pedestrians. And then I started feeling faint-headed. But then a motorcycle came along. He had to be breathing the same fumes I was, though not for as long. I survived and then had a nice descent.
I had been warned that there was a series of tunnels ahead, so I had to dread a "No bicycles" sign as I approached each one, but thankfully that was the only one. Tunnels offer a different world and sensory experience. Time passes very slow in tunnels. I in a heightened sense of alert and concentration. My thought does not go astray. The light is dim and occasionally there is a darker stretch where a light bulb has burned out, making it hard to survey the road for debris or potholes. A flat tire in a tunnel wouldn't be a happy occasion. It was a bright, sunny day, so I almost welcomed the occasional respite from its intense rays. I didn't so much enjoy the drastic change in temperature. The tunnels are markedly colder than outside. When I'd exit the longer tunnels, I was almost afraid to touch the naked metal of my brake levers. They can grow so cold that I fear my hands might stick to them and rip off the bare flesh.
In all my tunnel miles I've only had one bozo trucker blast his horn at me as he came alongside. It was extra deafening in the tunnel's echo chamber. It took me back to India where motorists are actually encouraged to honk their at every moving object along the road--pedestrians, bicyclists and animals. That was a true nightmare that I've barely recovered from. Hardly a minute passed in 2,000 miles from Bombay to Calcutta without a lorry truck driver blasting his horn at me, and not a friendly toot, but of rock concert decibels. It was as if they were trying to knock me off my bike. It was the only time in all my travels that as I took down my tent in the morning I discovered I wasn't eager to be back on the road, but was only looking forward to that moment at the end of the day when I could crawl back into the sanctuary of my tent.
It's been two days since I've seen any bicyclists. The worker supervising the loading of the ferry said he'd seen only one all that day and going my direction. I've seen loads of motorcyclists, and a surprising number with sidecars, mostly Germans. The thousand miles up the spine of Norway is a popular route for European motorcyclists who want a long ride without much traffic through spectacular scenery. It is the European version of California's Route One. I will be able to enjoy another 400 miles of this route before I turn off to Sweden. I could turn inland at any time if I wanted milder temperatures and perhaps less rain. If the coastline remains socked in I could well be tempted to do it sooner rather than later. I'm presently at the half way point between Nordkapp and Oslo. There continue to be many turnoffs along the road--rest areas with picnic tables and scenic views for those inclined to picture-taking. When its overcast or too windy, its usually too cold to linger. I have to stuff my face with grub quick and get back to the pedaling before I cool down too much.
But there are times when I actually overheat sitting in the bright sun. The temperature in the shade might not be even 50 degrees, but in the sun it can feel like 80. Sometimes there are mosquitoes. Occasionally someone in an RV will come over for a bit of a chat. I carry a spare tire stuffed between the spokes of my front wheel. It's an odd-shaped loop that often prompts a, "What is that?" It's odd enough that if someone had seen this trick before they would acknowledge it, as I would. But that has never happened. Nor have I ever seen another cyclist using this method other than in the book I first saw it. An older Dutch guy, who goes off on his bike for one-week rides here and there, was particularly fascinated by it. He gave me a good interrogation wondering what else he might learn from me. After several minutes he asked, "What is your work?"
"I'm a bicycle messenger."
"A bicycle messenger!" he exclaimed.
"You must really like to ride your bike."
"I do. I do, I do, I do."
Later, George
I thought I would have been able to file a report two days ago in Navrik, a city with multi-story buildings and a population of 20,000, the most of any I've passed through since I crossed in to the Arctic. The library had two computers, but they were all booked up. I had my first ferry ride later that day, 25 minutes, to a fairly unsettled inland stretch of Norway. I spent a lot of time on my small chain ring yesterday with many steep climbs. There were 14 tunnels in one 30-mile stretch, ranging in length from two-and-a-half miles to a couple hundred meters. The first one was the longest and had a sign barring bicycles. I didn't even stop to take a picture of what I was about to defy. It was a mystery why bikes were banned. It had the widest shoulder, at least 18 inches, of any tunnel I had been in. It was all uphill and fairly steep, so that might have been the reason, though it wasn't as steep at the one under the ocean to Nordkapp. Then I began to think perhaps there were gases in this tunnel that made it perilous for cyclists and pedestrians. And then I started feeling faint-headed. But then a motorcycle came along. He had to be breathing the same fumes I was, though not for as long. I survived and then had a nice descent.
I had been warned that there was a series of tunnels ahead, so I had to dread a "No bicycles" sign as I approached each one, but thankfully that was the only one. Tunnels offer a different world and sensory experience. Time passes very slow in tunnels. I in a heightened sense of alert and concentration. My thought does not go astray. The light is dim and occasionally there is a darker stretch where a light bulb has burned out, making it hard to survey the road for debris or potholes. A flat tire in a tunnel wouldn't be a happy occasion. It was a bright, sunny day, so I almost welcomed the occasional respite from its intense rays. I didn't so much enjoy the drastic change in temperature. The tunnels are markedly colder than outside. When I'd exit the longer tunnels, I was almost afraid to touch the naked metal of my brake levers. They can grow so cold that I fear my hands might stick to them and rip off the bare flesh.
In all my tunnel miles I've only had one bozo trucker blast his horn at me as he came alongside. It was extra deafening in the tunnel's echo chamber. It took me back to India where motorists are actually encouraged to honk their at every moving object along the road--pedestrians, bicyclists and animals. That was a true nightmare that I've barely recovered from. Hardly a minute passed in 2,000 miles from Bombay to Calcutta without a lorry truck driver blasting his horn at me, and not a friendly toot, but of rock concert decibels. It was as if they were trying to knock me off my bike. It was the only time in all my travels that as I took down my tent in the morning I discovered I wasn't eager to be back on the road, but was only looking forward to that moment at the end of the day when I could crawl back into the sanctuary of my tent.
It's been two days since I've seen any bicyclists. The worker supervising the loading of the ferry said he'd seen only one all that day and going my direction. I've seen loads of motorcyclists, and a surprising number with sidecars, mostly Germans. The thousand miles up the spine of Norway is a popular route for European motorcyclists who want a long ride without much traffic through spectacular scenery. It is the European version of California's Route One. I will be able to enjoy another 400 miles of this route before I turn off to Sweden. I could turn inland at any time if I wanted milder temperatures and perhaps less rain. If the coastline remains socked in I could well be tempted to do it sooner rather than later. I'm presently at the half way point between Nordkapp and Oslo. There continue to be many turnoffs along the road--rest areas with picnic tables and scenic views for those inclined to picture-taking. When its overcast or too windy, its usually too cold to linger. I have to stuff my face with grub quick and get back to the pedaling before I cool down too much.
But there are times when I actually overheat sitting in the bright sun. The temperature in the shade might not be even 50 degrees, but in the sun it can feel like 80. Sometimes there are mosquitoes. Occasionally someone in an RV will come over for a bit of a chat. I carry a spare tire stuffed between the spokes of my front wheel. It's an odd-shaped loop that often prompts a, "What is that?" It's odd enough that if someone had seen this trick before they would acknowledge it, as I would. But that has never happened. Nor have I ever seen another cyclist using this method other than in the book I first saw it. An older Dutch guy, who goes off on his bike for one-week rides here and there, was particularly fascinated by it. He gave me a good interrogation wondering what else he might learn from me. After several minutes he asked, "What is your work?"
"I'm a bicycle messenger."
"A bicycle messenger!" he exclaimed.
"You must really like to ride your bike."
"I do. I do, I do, I do."
Later, George
Tuesday, June 26, 2001
Heia, Norway
Friends: A friendly tourist office is momentarily letting me use their computer in case the library twenty miles away isn't open. Just a partly cloudy day today with no threat of rain and none in the forecast tomorrow. I hope the week of sultry weather I endured in Finland is my reward for this and I'm not incurring some debt to be repaid down the road. And the winds remain favorable too. I earned tail winds for the rest of my life back in 1989 while biking the length of South America, as I had to battle unrelenting headwinds for 3,000 miles along the Pan American Highway from the Ecuador-Peru border to just before Santiago in Chile.
The towns are a little more frequent now and there are significant towns off in the fjords, so prices have been relenting. I actually saw my first jar of peanut butter in a super market today, and for just two dollars. So Norway may not bankrupt me after all.
I saw a few pages of porn along the road today. Truck drivers and traveling salesman all over the world are notorious for jettisoning the incriminating evidence before they return home. The roads of Finland offered up a couple of postcards with semi-naked women. The best I ever found was a Spanish version of Penthouse in Spain. I warily smuggled it into Islamic Morocco. It got me out o a jam when some tout, who had led me out of a Kasbah that I was lost in, demanded a gift from me for his efforts. He didn't want money. When I pulled out the Penthouse, he went running in horror.
I've been enjoying fish paste out of a tube on traditional Scandinavian crackers. I grimaced the first time I gave it a try, fearful it might take an acquired taste to enjoy it, like Vegemite, but the version I've been indulging in is sweet and tasty. It has become one of the staples of my diet. I go through a tube a night in my tent.
Not only is the cloud cover saving my sun block, but also my film. In Finland I had to force myself to take a picture every now and then. Here I have to force myself not to take a picture at every turn in the town. With clouds often trapped in the tops of the mountains, they aren't quite so photogenic. Waterfalls abound. There are times when I can see six or more cascading down hundreds of feet.
Headlights at all times is the law in Norway, as in Finland, may be so motorists can keep in practice for the winter months when it is dark all the time. It makes it easy to spot distant traffic approaching from behind in my mirror. Its not all that necessary, as rarely do two vehicles pass me simultaneously from both directions, but when the road is a bit rough its nice to be able to look back and swing out. Only one car in 1500 miles so far has zipped by me close and at high speed. It had a RUS national emblem, the only one I have seen.
My subconscious thought often surprises me with memories and associations. The mirror occasionally transports me to Australia when I was bicycling the Nullarbor Plain on the world's longest, straightest, flattest road. There were no towns for 750 miles, just sporadic road houses and water tanks. When I was bicycling at night I could see tiny headlights in my mirror miles away that took five minutes or more to catch up to me. The mirror also reminds me of Route Two in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the road that prompted me to acquire a mirror. I was continually blown off the road by 18-wheelers on the two-lane highway with a gravel shoulder. They would be upon me before I could take precautions. These memories can go on and on, but I'm being asked to give up the computer.
Later, George
The towns are a little more frequent now and there are significant towns off in the fjords, so prices have been relenting. I actually saw my first jar of peanut butter in a super market today, and for just two dollars. So Norway may not bankrupt me after all.
I saw a few pages of porn along the road today. Truck drivers and traveling salesman all over the world are notorious for jettisoning the incriminating evidence before they return home. The roads of Finland offered up a couple of postcards with semi-naked women. The best I ever found was a Spanish version of Penthouse in Spain. I warily smuggled it into Islamic Morocco. It got me out o a jam when some tout, who had led me out of a Kasbah that I was lost in, demanded a gift from me for his efforts. He didn't want money. When I pulled out the Penthouse, he went running in horror.
I've been enjoying fish paste out of a tube on traditional Scandinavian crackers. I grimaced the first time I gave it a try, fearful it might take an acquired taste to enjoy it, like Vegemite, but the version I've been indulging in is sweet and tasty. It has become one of the staples of my diet. I go through a tube a night in my tent.
Not only is the cloud cover saving my sun block, but also my film. In Finland I had to force myself to take a picture every now and then. Here I have to force myself not to take a picture at every turn in the town. With clouds often trapped in the tops of the mountains, they aren't quite so photogenic. Waterfalls abound. There are times when I can see six or more cascading down hundreds of feet.
Headlights at all times is the law in Norway, as in Finland, may be so motorists can keep in practice for the winter months when it is dark all the time. It makes it easy to spot distant traffic approaching from behind in my mirror. Its not all that necessary, as rarely do two vehicles pass me simultaneously from both directions, but when the road is a bit rough its nice to be able to look back and swing out. Only one car in 1500 miles so far has zipped by me close and at high speed. It had a RUS national emblem, the only one I have seen.
My subconscious thought often surprises me with memories and associations. The mirror occasionally transports me to Australia when I was bicycling the Nullarbor Plain on the world's longest, straightest, flattest road. There were no towns for 750 miles, just sporadic road houses and water tanks. When I was bicycling at night I could see tiny headlights in my mirror miles away that took five minutes or more to catch up to me. The mirror also reminds me of Route Two in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the road that prompted me to acquire a mirror. I was continually blown off the road by 18-wheelers on the two-lane highway with a gravel shoulder. They would be upon me before I could take precautions. These memories can go on and on, but I'm being asked to give up the computer.
Later, George
Monday, June 25, 2001
Skibotn, Norway
Friends: Another Monday and the first time I've had to wear gloves and socks since last Monday. It is also the first day in a week that I haven't seen the sun. A wind from the north is contributing to the chill, but at least its a tail wind. Yesterday, it didn't much matter which way the wind was from, as the coastal route wound every which way, as much north as south and east and a little bit west.
Yesterday being Sunday, I was very fortunate to find any provisions. In 90 miles there was only one place open. I came upon the gas station/diner/mini-market in the early afternoon, shortly after it had opened for the day. I was so happy to find some food I almost didn't mind spending $13 on a hamburger and fries. It was a big one, 250-grams worth (a half-pounder). Half-way through I didn't think I would finish it, but bite after bite went down without forcing. And it was immediately digested, as I could pedal off with vigor. It was high octane fuel, keeping me going for three hours without a pause, including a five-and-a-half mile, one-hour, climb. Unfortunately, the mini-mart was out of yogurt, so I mixed a tin of crushed pineapple with muesli for breakfast. Muesli is one of the few bargains here, two pounds for two dollars.
This is day six in Norway and I haven't stopped going "wow." There are continual rugged summits to ponder, picturesque fishing villages to capture the imagination, the endless sea to lose myself in and islands to let my eyes play upon. Not once in Finland did the scenery stir such a reaction. The forests were nice and the occasional ride along a lake a diversion, but it was all the same. Norway is quite expensive though. Oslo is said to be the most expensive city in the world. One bargain is showers at the campgrounds. Most are quipped with a slot machine that gives five minutes of hot water for a dollar. Alta, where I wrote from last, had a fascinating museum at the site of 10,000 year old rock carvings. It had a two-mile path past etchings of reindeer and elk and human figures and various boats on giant slabs of rock. Alta is also the premier research spot for the Northern Lights. The first photograph of them was taken there in the late 1800s.
I spoke with a Dutch cyclist a couple mornings ago heading north. He said he wasn't enjoying Norway very much, but we hopped to another subject before he could complain about the winds or the rain or the high expense. For me it has been spectacular, though I keep dreading a nasty turn in the weather. I'm still north of the Arctic Circle. It is cold when there is no sun. If there were wetness to contend with along with that, the days would be very very long. I am overdue for a rest day. I have ridden hard for eight days straight, capitalizing on the pleasant weather. I could spend a day in my tent if the weather demanded it, though I hope it doesn't come to that.
Later, George
Yesterday being Sunday, I was very fortunate to find any provisions. In 90 miles there was only one place open. I came upon the gas station/diner/mini-market in the early afternoon, shortly after it had opened for the day. I was so happy to find some food I almost didn't mind spending $13 on a hamburger and fries. It was a big one, 250-grams worth (a half-pounder). Half-way through I didn't think I would finish it, but bite after bite went down without forcing. And it was immediately digested, as I could pedal off with vigor. It was high octane fuel, keeping me going for three hours without a pause, including a five-and-a-half mile, one-hour, climb. Unfortunately, the mini-mart was out of yogurt, so I mixed a tin of crushed pineapple with muesli for breakfast. Muesli is one of the few bargains here, two pounds for two dollars.
This is day six in Norway and I haven't stopped going "wow." There are continual rugged summits to ponder, picturesque fishing villages to capture the imagination, the endless sea to lose myself in and islands to let my eyes play upon. Not once in Finland did the scenery stir such a reaction. The forests were nice and the occasional ride along a lake a diversion, but it was all the same. Norway is quite expensive though. Oslo is said to be the most expensive city in the world. One bargain is showers at the campgrounds. Most are quipped with a slot machine that gives five minutes of hot water for a dollar. Alta, where I wrote from last, had a fascinating museum at the site of 10,000 year old rock carvings. It had a two-mile path past etchings of reindeer and elk and human figures and various boats on giant slabs of rock. Alta is also the premier research spot for the Northern Lights. The first photograph of them was taken there in the late 1800s.
I spoke with a Dutch cyclist a couple mornings ago heading north. He said he wasn't enjoying Norway very much, but we hopped to another subject before he could complain about the winds or the rain or the high expense. For me it has been spectacular, though I keep dreading a nasty turn in the weather. I'm still north of the Arctic Circle. It is cold when there is no sun. If there were wetness to contend with along with that, the days would be very very long. I am overdue for a rest day. I have ridden hard for eight days straight, capitalizing on the pleasant weather. I could spend a day in my tent if the weather demanded it, though I hope it doesn't come to that.
Later, George
Thursday, June 21, 2001
Honningsvag, Norway
Friends: And again I'm lucky to find a small town library with a free Internet station for a few minutes. I'm twenty miles from road's end. I have come 58 miles so far today. At least ten of those miles have been through tunnels, one of four-and-a-half miles and two of two-and-a-half miles. The longest was under the ocean, and the only one with a toll--$15 for cars, but free for bicyclists. It plunged down a nine per cent grade for a mile-and-a-half, leveled off for the same distance, and then climbed out at the same steep grade. It was a bit of a strain, especially contending with the lingering fumes. My head felt as oxygen-deprived as I have at 15,000 feet in the Andes.
The air was frigid. My breath was gushing out in billowing clouds. I feared hitting a patch of ice. My concerns were relieved, however, when I met a French cyclist coming from the opposite direction. He assured me the road was ice free. The first long tunnel I encountered I wasn't prepared for how cold it would be. I declined to stop and put on my jacket, plunging straight in with bare arms. When I emerged from the tunnel, my arms were numb. After that experience I stop and put on a jacket. The sun is still shining bright for the third straight day. The air is cold, but when in the direct sun it doesn't seem so cold. I am riding in shorts as well as a short-sleeved shirt, but also with a vest. There are patches of snow along the road. If the breeze blows off the cold water of the ocean, there is a distinct strong chill from the polar air.
I am not sorry in the least that I must double back eighty miles on this road, as it has been spectacularly beautiful. The road climbs and winds in and out and up and over one inlet after another, some as long as a mile. There is so little traffic, the road at times narrows to one lane. The road is in great shape except for one five-mile stretch of construction.
Despite the trek of tourists up this route, there were no cafes or tourist amenities for sixty miles. Since I camped a few miles beyond the last town last night, I was running low on water. I was drinking out of my reserve third water bottle for the first time. It had been five days since I'd replaced the water in it, so it wasn't the most pleasant tasting. But miraculously, after the long tunnel under the ocean, for the first time since I started bicycling in Helsinki over 1,000 miles ago, I came upon a rest area with running water. It was cold and clear and fresh, the best tasting water I've ever drunk.
No word on if there will be any festivities at Nordkapp tonight commemorating the Solstice. It is the biggest holiday of the year in Scandinavia with bonfires and dancing and drinking and much hoopla. If there is noise and commotion, I may be able to stay awake until midnight and see the sun out over the ocean.
Looking closer at the map plotting my return to Stockholm for my flight home, I noticed one upcoming stretch of 292 kilometers that takes up the same amount of space on the map as another stretch of 74 kilometers thanks to the severe twists and climbs in the road along the coast. I am much further from Stockholm than I realized. I will be spending a little more time on my bike than I anticipated. That's almost something to be excited about.
Later, George
The air was frigid. My breath was gushing out in billowing clouds. I feared hitting a patch of ice. My concerns were relieved, however, when I met a French cyclist coming from the opposite direction. He assured me the road was ice free. The first long tunnel I encountered I wasn't prepared for how cold it would be. I declined to stop and put on my jacket, plunging straight in with bare arms. When I emerged from the tunnel, my arms were numb. After that experience I stop and put on a jacket. The sun is still shining bright for the third straight day. The air is cold, but when in the direct sun it doesn't seem so cold. I am riding in shorts as well as a short-sleeved shirt, but also with a vest. There are patches of snow along the road. If the breeze blows off the cold water of the ocean, there is a distinct strong chill from the polar air.
I am not sorry in the least that I must double back eighty miles on this road, as it has been spectacularly beautiful. The road climbs and winds in and out and up and over one inlet after another, some as long as a mile. There is so little traffic, the road at times narrows to one lane. The road is in great shape except for one five-mile stretch of construction.
Despite the trek of tourists up this route, there were no cafes or tourist amenities for sixty miles. Since I camped a few miles beyond the last town last night, I was running low on water. I was drinking out of my reserve third water bottle for the first time. It had been five days since I'd replaced the water in it, so it wasn't the most pleasant tasting. But miraculously, after the long tunnel under the ocean, for the first time since I started bicycling in Helsinki over 1,000 miles ago, I came upon a rest area with running water. It was cold and clear and fresh, the best tasting water I've ever drunk.
No word on if there will be any festivities at Nordkapp tonight commemorating the Solstice. It is the biggest holiday of the year in Scandinavia with bonfires and dancing and drinking and much hoopla. If there is noise and commotion, I may be able to stay awake until midnight and see the sun out over the ocean.
Looking closer at the map plotting my return to Stockholm for my flight home, I noticed one upcoming stretch of 292 kilometers that takes up the same amount of space on the map as another stretch of 74 kilometers thanks to the severe twists and climbs in the road along the coast. I am much further from Stockholm than I realized. I will be spending a little more time on my bike than I anticipated. That's almost something to be excited about.
Later, George
Wednesday, June 20, 2001
Laksely, Norway
Friends: Greetings from Lekesly, Norway on a bay off the Arctic Sea some sixty miles beyond the Finnish border. I've been flying. Yesterday around noon the Arctic turned balmy. There was nothing but blue sky and I could shed two layers. There was still a hint of a cold wind from the north, but today the wind is blowing from the south. With the sun shining bright it feels close to seventy degrees, though it's probably twenty degrees colder in the shade. Yesterday was easily the nicest day of the trip and today even better. It was such a rare nice day I was tempted to keep riding late into the night to take advantage of the rain free cycling. But I decided to take my chances and quit at 8:30, hoping there had been a break in the weather pattern that would keep the skies clear.
So far that theory is holding. I should rack up 120 miles or more today. I have 75 at 2:30 right now. I am about 125 miles from the Nordkapp. If tomorrow turns ugly I'll be close enough to my destination that I should be able to persevere to the end. If the rain resumes I'll at least have five miles of dry cycling through a five-mile tunnel. My timing has been great today. I reached the border with Norway at 8:30 this morning. Rather than immediately crossing I waited for the local grocery store to open at nine, so I could spend the last of my Finnish coins, something banks don't always wish to change. While I was waiting, I replaced a broken spoke on my rear wheel that I discovered as I was wiping the debris from my tires this morning after pushing my bike through the brush from my campsite. Fortunately it was on the side opposite the freewheel. It would have been wise and responsible to replace it on the spot, but I was eager to start biking. With 48 spokes back there, instead of the usual 36, the stress on the remaining spokes was considerably lessened. I opted to bike an hour before performing the operation, then taking that spell as an opportunity to rest my legs, while playing mechanic in a little more hospitable location than along the side the road. Twelve miles with a broken spoke to the border wasn't too much of a risk.
The first town in Norway was twelve miles further. I went straight to the bank for the dirty business of changing money. I had gained an hour, so I had three minutes to wait before the bank opened at nine. I still had fifty of the two hundred dollars of Finnish money I changed sixteen days ago. There was a long climb out of the town, but after less than ten miles, as I was cresting one final climb, I could see snow-streaked mountains inching their way up into my field of vision. And now forty miles later, I am amongst them. It makes the wheels spin even easier with such sites to gaze upon.
I rode for ten miles yesterday with a German cyclist. We met at a road-side cafe that served reindeer stew. It may have been my best meal of the trip. The German had bicycled up from Helsinki as I had. Unfortunately, he was turning back after ten miles. He was a seasoned touring cyclist who had much to share and rode at a pace similar to mine. He hadn't toured outside of Europe though and was most interested in all the places I had biked. It's always interesting to see the reaction I receive when I meet other touring cyclists and start dropping mentions of my tours in Patagonia and the Himalayas and the Outback and Morocco and up the Alaskan Highway and down Baja and so forth.
I'm always careful to wait awhile and ease them in after respectfully and genuinely expressing interest in their travels. Most often they respond with respect and are excited to meet someone who has biked many places they would like to. But sometimes they are visibly deflated, upset at being upstaged. Alfred had done enough touring that he had enough self-respect and confidence, not to feel any the lesser for not having biked as much as I have. I expressed as much interest in his travels as he did in mine. We were both sorry that we hadn't met earlier so we could have enjoyed a couple days of each other's company. Alfred found Finland most enjoyable. He said Finland was the only country in Europe that Germany hadn't invaded in WWII. He felt less antagonism here than elsewhere. He said Denmark is the worst. It is illegal for Germans to even display their flag on their backpacks or their car windows.
I'm on a stretch now with lots of tour buses, all bound for the Nordkapp. Arts and crafts shops have begun to appear along the road. They all have carved bears out front. The bears had me a little concerned about camping, especially since I had stocked up on a lot of extra food. I was prepared to pull into a campground, but I came upon a long stretch of road with high fences on either side to keep the reindeer in. I doubted if bears would be meandering around such a corridor, so I pulled off the road at a point where there was a crest and a gully to shield me from what little traffic there was. One more day north and then I can start heading south and hope the wind doesn't always blow from the south.
Later, George
So far that theory is holding. I should rack up 120 miles or more today. I have 75 at 2:30 right now. I am about 125 miles from the Nordkapp. If tomorrow turns ugly I'll be close enough to my destination that I should be able to persevere to the end. If the rain resumes I'll at least have five miles of dry cycling through a five-mile tunnel. My timing has been great today. I reached the border with Norway at 8:30 this morning. Rather than immediately crossing I waited for the local grocery store to open at nine, so I could spend the last of my Finnish coins, something banks don't always wish to change. While I was waiting, I replaced a broken spoke on my rear wheel that I discovered as I was wiping the debris from my tires this morning after pushing my bike through the brush from my campsite. Fortunately it was on the side opposite the freewheel. It would have been wise and responsible to replace it on the spot, but I was eager to start biking. With 48 spokes back there, instead of the usual 36, the stress on the remaining spokes was considerably lessened. I opted to bike an hour before performing the operation, then taking that spell as an opportunity to rest my legs, while playing mechanic in a little more hospitable location than along the side the road. Twelve miles with a broken spoke to the border wasn't too much of a risk.
The first town in Norway was twelve miles further. I went straight to the bank for the dirty business of changing money. I had gained an hour, so I had three minutes to wait before the bank opened at nine. I still had fifty of the two hundred dollars of Finnish money I changed sixteen days ago. There was a long climb out of the town, but after less than ten miles, as I was cresting one final climb, I could see snow-streaked mountains inching their way up into my field of vision. And now forty miles later, I am amongst them. It makes the wheels spin even easier with such sites to gaze upon.
I rode for ten miles yesterday with a German cyclist. We met at a road-side cafe that served reindeer stew. It may have been my best meal of the trip. The German had bicycled up from Helsinki as I had. Unfortunately, he was turning back after ten miles. He was a seasoned touring cyclist who had much to share and rode at a pace similar to mine. He hadn't toured outside of Europe though and was most interested in all the places I had biked. It's always interesting to see the reaction I receive when I meet other touring cyclists and start dropping mentions of my tours in Patagonia and the Himalayas and the Outback and Morocco and up the Alaskan Highway and down Baja and so forth.
I'm always careful to wait awhile and ease them in after respectfully and genuinely expressing interest in their travels. Most often they respond with respect and are excited to meet someone who has biked many places they would like to. But sometimes they are visibly deflated, upset at being upstaged. Alfred had done enough touring that he had enough self-respect and confidence, not to feel any the lesser for not having biked as much as I have. I expressed as much interest in his travels as he did in mine. We were both sorry that we hadn't met earlier so we could have enjoyed a couple days of each other's company. Alfred found Finland most enjoyable. He said Finland was the only country in Europe that Germany hadn't invaded in WWII. He felt less antagonism here than elsewhere. He said Denmark is the worst. It is illegal for Germans to even display their flag on their backpacks or their car windows.
I'm on a stretch now with lots of tour buses, all bound for the Nordkapp. Arts and crafts shops have begun to appear along the road. They all have carved bears out front. The bears had me a little concerned about camping, especially since I had stocked up on a lot of extra food. I was prepared to pull into a campground, but I came upon a long stretch of road with high fences on either side to keep the reindeer in. I doubted if bears would be meandering around such a corridor, so I pulled off the road at a point where there was a crest and a gully to shield me from what little traffic there was. One more day north and then I can start heading south and hope the wind doesn't always blow from the south.
Later, George
Tuesday, June 19, 2001
Ivalo, Finland
Friends: Back on the road 100 miles further north at Ivalo on the great lake of Inarijarvi, the largest of Finland's 88,000 lakes. I have 280 miles to Nordkapp, Europe's northernmost point in Norway. The forests have not given way yet, though there have been a few bald patches in the now rolling terrain. I needed gloves and toe clip covers all day yesterday to keep my fingers and toes warm. When there's no sun, it is cold. The low cloud cover added a cold dampness to the conditions, though it never actually rained. I could see my breath early in the day. A long-sleeve t-shirt, sweater and vest is just enough to keep me warm along with tights on my legs. I have several layers in reserve if need be.
As long as I don't endure a soaking rain or the temperatures turn the rain to snow, I should be able to make it all the way to Nordkapp. The last eighty miles are out a peninsula that I will have to double back on. Maybe I'll go for it and maybe I won't. I could reach Land's End on the longest of these long days, June 21, the solstice, a most appropriate time to be there.
Despite the gloomy day, including a slight head wind, I was able to bask in the glorious memories of the festival. Robert Service, the poet laureate of the Yukon and the Far North, pronounced in his most famous poem, "The Cremation of Sam McGee," that, "There are strange things done in the midnight sun." This festival certainly testified to that. On numerous occasions I caught myself shaking my head at the incongruity of my circumstances. One of the most extreme occurred at two a.m. as I sat under the old circus tent on a bench at two in the morning with a couple of hundred Finns wearing 3D glasses going gaga over bats flying out of the screen and the innards of corpses bursting out of their bodies at us in "Flesh for Frankenstein."
And then an hour later I was even more boggled as I sat in the high school gymnasium staring at a screen flanked by the baskets from the basketball court watching a brilliant Norwegian documentary, "Cool and Crazy," about a thirty-man glee club from a small Arctic fishing village in Norway. The film alternated between getting to know the men in their homes and seeing them in performance. They were shown belting out their songs in small town churches and large concert halls, but most of their songs were staged in some dramatic outdoor setting by the director--besides a sledding hill at night, in front of a barrier with crashing waves, in a fish processing plant, and, most dramatic of all, in a blizzard as icicles formed on the men's beards and tears dripped off their faces. Their songs celebrated the harshness and glory of their land. The movie was voted audience favorite for the festival. If everyone had seen it, the vote would have been unanimous.
But my strongest memories of the festival were those involving the ring master Peter Van Bagh and his impish, glowing personality and his interaction with his tributees. Even though the majority of the audience at his conversations with the tributees spoke English, he would translate their answers into Finnish. He would have preferred not to have to translate so he could have more time asking questions, but when he asked one audience if everyone spoke English, three or four in the audience protested they did not. Von Bagh didn't mind altogether, as it allowed him to put his own spin on their responses. He had Jerry Schatzberg totally befuddled when his translations would get laughs even though his initial responses did not. Then when his translations wouldn't get a laugh, Jerry would complain that he wasn't making him sound funny.
As much as Van Bagh reveled in his ringmaster role, he was willing to defer to one of his colleagues to handle the interview with Agnes Jauri, the French actress/director whose film was up for best foreign Oscar this year, so it could be conducted in French and Finnish. I grimaced at this bad news, but still didn't mind being in her presence. After two or three questions, she protested to Van Bagh, sitting in the first row, that she didn't feel as if she was connecting to the audience and preferred to conduct the interview in English rather than French, though she would have to grope for a word or two. That was startlingly good news. But imagine if reports of this got back to France, it could ruin her career. Headlines would scream, "French Actress Chooses English Over French at Midnight Sun Film Festival." She was pleasantly unpretentious saying she didn't consider herself an intellectual and after talking with some of the attendees at the festival, not much of a cinephile either. She concluded her interview thanking the"simple and kind people of Finland. I liked it very much."
Schatzberg was a genuine revelation. Not only did he present a couple of masterpieces ("Scarecrow" and "Reunion"), he was refreshingly frank. Maybe he thought he could say whatever he wanted up here in Lappland and the word wouldn't get out. He mentioned that De Niro hasn't spoken two words to him since he chose Pacino over him for "Panic in Needle Park" back in 1971 when they were both unknown struggling actors. He told of firing a French actor two days before shooting was to begin, even though he was to be the star of the movie, as he was being totally uncooperative, refusing to cut his hair or do this or that. He told of not wanting his his film "Reunion" to be in Competition at Cannes in 1989 because France Ford Coppola was the president of the jury and he knew Coppola wouldn't let his picture win. Schatzberg had won the Palm d'Or once before with "Scarecrow" in 1973. Coppola had won it twice and wanted to remain the only American to have done so.
Later, George
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