Guest Blog: Bike-Packing Across Scandinavia (Days 15 and 16)

Day 15:  Hobro, Denmark (44 miles, 410 total miles, 1200 foot incline)

21 June 2024: Friday

Denmark is slightly less than twice the size of Massachusetts and has nearly 6 million people. The cost of living averages about 2.5% more than the US, but rent is 35% less. 

For me, traveling on a bike, Denmark is the most expensive country I have visited. The food and supplies sometimes cost me almost as much as the room. The accommodations, on the other hand, have been reasonable. I have yet to pay $100/night without tax. 

Today was a hard biking day. I left early (7:30 am) knowing that 41 miles and 1050 feet incline was going to be tough.

The sun was out, so I didn’t mind it. At Ofum, I stopped at OK Plus to get coffee. It was the first rest stop in many days. I bought a Danish Danish out of obligation to the happiness research project. It was flaky. Light. Fresh. And earned an 8.5. 

After I peddled on, I came across a swarm of maybe 300 crows, sitting, landing, taking off, and swirling around a patch of road, bike path, and field. Like a scene out of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds, I rode through them. They didn’t attack, but they lifted off maybe 25 feet ahead of me, swarmed overhead and on both sides, before settling back in their spots. 

Down a long gradual hill, I hit a road closed because of construction. It was fenced in with no viable way around. The gates were locked with chains and padlocks. On one side was a fenced power station and on the other a steep incline and fields. 

Only one other car arrived, and it turned around and backtracked. I had not seen any sign leading out to the closure, but I guess I had missed it; otherwise, there would have been many other cars. 

I too backtracked about a mile before peddling on an alternate, narrow, country road which added a total of three miles and a 150 foot incline. But it was sunny and there was no wind, so I just accepted it. 

There was absolutely no advantage to brooding or allowing my frustration to rise. I was dry. The day was beautiful. The rural panoramas stunning. 

Before long a semi passed me, seemingly fraught by the same annoying road closure. Several curves ahead, I saw the semi backing up. Then the driver parked in the middle of the road near a barn. He had just passed a “Y” in the road and was checking his GPS. I waved as I rode around him, parked, and checked my own GPS. I plowed along because it was closest to a main road, which hopefully would be faster.

The semi passed me again, having come to the same conclusion, no doubt.

The next set of hills leading to the city of Randers was taxing. There was absolutely no bike lane or shoulder, and traffic was pretty heavy, so it was like riding in many parts of the US. I don’t like those types of roads, but there haven’t been many in Denmark. I made it with lots of standing breaks, where I straddled Heidi while catching my breath.

Outside of town, I kept climbing. To be honest, 1,200 feet of inclines over 44 miles is very doable. I think I had several days of 1,500-foot inclines over 40 or 45 miles in Tennessee and Alabama a couple years ago while traveling from Indiana to Florida. So, I knew I could do it. But it was exhausting all the same.

Finally, I turned onto a road less travelled, and immediately felt better. Safer. A motorbike gang of maybe 35 or 40 riders passed me. Their vehicles were probably 50ccs. Many wore leather jackets boasting the name of their gang. One vehicle played loud music. They were in no way threatening. I use the term “gang” loosely. 

Finally, I reached Danhostel Hobro. I was not totally exhausted. In fact, with a couple of rest breaks, I could have ridden another 10 or 20 miles. But I am glad I didn’t have to go one mile further. In fact, 6 hours was too much of an investment in my day. I like to ride 3-4 hours. 

Elsa had left me the code to the front door. These Danhostels frequently do not have staff available after lunch. One way they keep the price down. I like it. In fact, this was the nicest of the three Danhostels that I had stayed in.

I parked Heidi in the room, showered, checked out the kitchen, and then put a large load of laundry into the washer. 

The Danhostels are safe, clean, relatively inexpensive, and host a shared kitchen, laundry sometimes, and lots of open lounges to work, read, or watch TV. They are quiet. This one even had a sophisticate coffee machine with free coffee, complementary fruit, and soft drinks and snacks that you purchase on the honor system and pay the following day. 

But they are always remote. At the last one, I had to walk 2.4 miles round trip to the supermarket. This one, I had to walk 1.4 miles round trip. If you drive a car, like most guests, then it is no problem. For me, I walk. I could, naturally, ride my bike to and from shopping areas. But once I park Heidi, I feel she is safe. I prefer to leave her and walk if possible.

By the time I returned from shopping with my bag full of groceries, my laundry was almost washed. I waited only about two minutes. I switched it into the dryer and went to the kitchen.

Inside the kitchen, I found two sink fulls of dishes. I immediately thought that this was not the proper etiquette. These hostels keep the price down by minimizing staff time on the premises. You even make your own bed with linen provided in a plastic bag when you arrive, and you remove the bedding and put it and the towel(s) linen basket when you depart. 

As I was heating up the fish in the microwave, a young Danish woman walked inside from the adjoining patio, where she had been using the phone apparently. 

“Sprechen sie deutsch?” She ask me. 

“No, English. I am American.”

“I will clean up in a little while if the dishes aren’t hindering you.” 

“It’s fine. I am just heating this up.” This was two pieces of precooked, breaded fish. 

She worked in safety for the rail system. She was here temporarily. Her home was 3 hours away. She was staying in a room adjacent from mine with an older woman, older man, and a dog. I assumed they were her parents, but I wasn’t sure. Would they be holidaying here with her? 

She ate outside on the picnic table. I sat inside and read. 

While I was eating my broccoli salad and fish, she came in with her bowl.

“Happy Mid-Summer,” I told her. Christian had told me it was the summer solstice holiday in Sweden, the longest day of the year, which is celebrated by all Nordic countries enthusiastically. It has its roots in pagan tradition, predating Christianity, not unlike Halloween and Christmas. Several gods, including the Persian god Mithra and Greek god Dionysus were born of virgins on December 25. (Dionysus, was also put on trial, killed, and resurrected.) The Christmas tree originated in Norse mythology. 

The Danish woman thanked me and wished me a Happy Mid-Summer. 

“Isn’t it today?” I asked.

“No,” she checked her phone. “It’s Sunday,” she confirmed. “Here we call it, Sankt Hans Aften.” 

 She told me that many families make a bonfire, build a witch, and burn her atop the bonfire. 

She busily washed all her (and her family’s) dishes, pots, and pans; dried everything; and put them all away. 

I followed her example by washing my one dish, one fork, and one glass. Then I went to my room to charge all of my electronics: iPad, battery, camera, backup camera battery, and phone. I streamed something. Got a hankering for a Pepsi Max, walked down to the cafeteria and got one out of the display cooler, and went back to the room.

More and more on this trip, I am coming to accept the fact that I am winding down. Winding down my career, my family life, my life. 

I remember at my great grandparents house at the bottom of the hill, I would sometimes go in there for lunch or something. Ralph, a former husband of my aunt Ruby, used to sit at the kitchen window overlooking the barnyard after a meal. He lived in a tiny airstream trailer in the barnyard, and after a meal, he would smoke cigarettes and stare out the window and stare at the occasional mule, the barn, the harness shed, parked vehicles, passing cars, his trailer, or the cornfield beyond. I always wondered what he was thinking. But I never asked.

In fact, once I rode with Ralph all the way from Brownstown, Indiana to Atlanta, Georgia and back. But we never talked. I still remember my thoughts on the way there and back. I remember the 70s music that played on the AM radio. Looking Glass’s Brandy (you’re a fine girl) and Sugarloaf’s Green-Eyed Lady immediately come to mind.

After my great grandmother, Emma died, my grandparents bought the house, and from that point on, my grandfather would sit in that same kitchen table, chair facing the window, window cracked to ventilate the cigarette smoke, and Guy would stare out at the barnyard. What was he thinking? 

So, now it’s me. I am 64, have prostate cancer, have lived a full life, and I think more and more about winding down. I am coming to terms with the end. Whether it comes tomorrow, or in 30 years, it will be too soon. Don’t get me wrong! But also, I am letting the ambiance of the approaching end begin to permeate me even as my own existence is bleeding into it. Not death so much, as the end.

Not morbidly or sadly contemplating the end, just permitting barriers of resistance to the inevitable dissolve on their own. I am making peace with work colleagues, with nature, with what I have learned and failed to learn, what I have achieved and failed to achieve, my mistakes as a parent and grandparent and the few times I got it right. I am not being humble. I am making peace with it. The failures as a husband and the successes of a best friend. 

When Darren passed away suddenly two months ago, I felt immediate gratitude for the 61 years that I knew him. What a blessing! Had we been separated at the time of his birth, I would not be the person that I am. I would be less. I would have enjoyed life much, much less. And now I have his family to enjoy while I am still here.

I added to the agenda of this trip a grieving period for Darren. But that agenda item evolved on its own into this period of equilibrium of the universe. From the dust we come and to the dust we return. The universe produces us and absorbs us. 

I have no particular regrets. If Darren were here, I would hug him, tell him I love him, send him a text or photo or link to a silly video the grandkids and I made. That is what I did while he was alive. For as long as I can remember, at least, I hugged him, told him I love him, joked with him, sent him texts, photos, and videos. What a cool guy!

Danhostel Hobro ($86 incl tax)

Amerikavej 24, Hobro, 9500

Day 16: Aalborg, Denmark (35 miles, 445 total miles, 700 foot incline)

22 June 2024: Saturday

When I awoke, the parking lot was wet. Drizzle continued to saturate the landscape. It was in the low 50s. I knew it was going to rain all morning, so I was in no hurry to get outside. The rain was supposed to stop around 9 or 10 am, but the temperature was not supposed to get to 60 until around noon.

I settled in to work on my transferring my photos from the camera to my iPad (which automatically uploads to Photos). That clears up my Insta 360 memory so I can take more photos. The process usually takes me two hours for one day. 

I ate grapes and my pastries. Drank a lot of complementary coffee. I packed up everything and paid Elsa for my one Pepsi Max. The distance was not getting any shorter, so I peddled off into the chilly morning. 

Around 10:10 am, it was 54 degrees, and teenage boys were already playing a soccer match in the field across the street from the hostel. I rode on, but immediately came to a series of hills that seemed to haunt me the whole day. 

The gray clouds loomed overhead, blocking the sun and ensuring my trip would be cold. 

To make matters worse, the GPS flipped back from the route I had chosen to less direct route. Google Maps has been doing that recently. Unfortunately, for me, this meant an unnecessary jaunt (as my grandmother used to say) through a forest over wet, loose gravel. Loose gravel is my enemy. The Arizona accident was the result of loose gravel and sand, mixed with my impatience. After pushing up and down steep hill after hill on a motorcycle trail for about 90 minutes, I wanted to go faster, so I climbed on top of Lucy and coasted down a hill, only to have her slide out from under me, break a rib, bend Lucy’s tire, and scratch my brand new camera. I spent the next 2-3 hours pushing Lucy out of that horror anyway, so my impatience only bought me misery. 

So today, in this forest, I kept my speed to 10 mph or less. I suspect I was closer to 5 mph for the first 8 miles. It was a pretty forest, no doubt. But it was cold and gloomy and a mile of it would have been plenty.

At one point, I saw an old man and old woman, maybe a decade older than me, walking hand in hand along the forest. A couple of cyclists too. 

Once, I stopped to catch my breath and out of the dense woods appeared a cyclist: A man in his 50s. He was riding a mountain bike on a narrow cross path.

I greeted him. He returned my greetings. He kept looking at me, and I kept looking at him. It was one of those awkward, social instances, when one old cyclist meets an older cyclist at a crossroads in the woods. What does one say? Is there a script for this? So, I broke the silence. 

“I am just resting,” I told him to break the ice. That’s just the way I roll.

“Me too…” he said. “And I am waiting for my wife.”

“I’m Craig.”

“Ian,” he pronounced it like “Yen.”

A couple minutes later, Kirstin indeed appeared. The couple told me that the previous day they had been riding all around the area. Today, they were back at it. 

“Am I close to blacktop?” I asked. I was sick of the loose gravel and low speeds and requisite danger. 

Although his English was excellent, Ian didn’t understand the term “blacktop.” 

“Hard road. Good road…” I explained.

“Yes,” he said. I would reach one “eventually.”

Armed with that motivating slug of information, I bid a Happy Mid-Summer and they bid me a Happy Mid-Summer, and I peddled on. 

Soon, I came to a shelter with picnic tables by a lake. There were a couple dozen people or so, there, celebrating Mid-Summer, I suspect. It was a Saturday, after all. And there was a big black and white dog resting beside one table that was the size of an adult lion. 

After what seemed like a long, cold purgatory, I emerged onto a blacktop road. But not two miles further along, I was deposited onto another gravel road. I could either backtrack—which I hate—or I could plod on. I chose the plodding. Almost immediately, I regretted it because the two-tire gravel road morphed into a one-tire sand path, which turned into a slick, metal grate pathway. My tires kept sliding on it. That steel grid sheets led to a wooden bridge. Then I was back on the steel grates and eventually to the narrow sand. Even at that, I peddled along side cow pastures. 

In the distance, I saw one bird walking with an extremely long tail. Maybe 10 inches long. I think it was a Ring-necked Pheasant. But it had walked into a field by the time I reached it. 

I was tired and lacked energy, so I stopped at a gas station and ordered a spice sausage. I had seen them at gas stations, but never ordered one. A Danish woman ordered a normal sausage and one with bacon wrapped around it. 

“You’re getting the Danish experience,” said the young Danish man as he squirted mustard, catsup, and relish into a whole bun with a hole in the center (not cut) after which he slipped the sausage through the hole. I went outside and wiped the water off a bench and sat down. It was so delicious that I thought about going back and purchasing the last spicy one. 

I reached the Cabinn Hotel a little after 2 pm, making the trip of 35 miles in about four hours, and averaging about 8.5 mph given the road conditions. I couldn’t complain. 

This time, there was no wait, which I liked. Heidi and I went straight to the room. I showered and rented my AirBnb home near the Skagerrak Straight on the coast of Hirtshals for the next two nights. It was the cheapest option, $85/night. And I needed to rest, make sure I got the booking to the ferry right, and needed to get my head straight. I had not rested in 10 days, so this was a good time.

I went out shopping. Finally, I found my mustache scissors at Normal, a discount store that has reasonably-priced hair-care products, skin care items, make up, and many other such products. I went to the supermarket for a few items. At Aalborg Street Food court, I ordered pasta to take to the room. All of this was within one block of the Cabinn Hotel. This was my third one, and they are always centrally located, or at least close to commerce. 

To be quite honest, today was not much fun. I was drenched in sweat when I arrived. And all day, it had been threatening to rain, with the sun hiding behind dark gray clouds. Gloomy. Cold. It reminds me of Marvin Gray’s novel Dark Gray Demons. Gray wrote:

“When his own niece Trish goes missing, Gray returns to his home town and his dysfunctional family for the first time in years. The new  investigation leads him to child trafficking rings in the underworld of  San Antonio, Texas and forces Gray to confront his darkest demons.”

Cabinn Hotel ($59)

Fjordbade 20, Aalborg