Author: Craig Davis, PhD

Day 27: Bodo, Norway (Loding and back): 22 miles, 610 total miles)

3 July 2024: Wednesday

Happy Birthday, Cassie!

The road, sidewalk, and grass are all slick with rain when I open my blinds at 6 am. Although no rain has been forecast, it pisses down rain all morning. It is overcast and 52 degrees outside and is not due to rise to about 55 all day. 

Around 9 am a good shower begins, but a maintenance man pushes a lawnmower across the street as if he doesn’t notice. Later, he comes to our side of the road and cuts the lawn inside the compound ignoring the cold mist. 

Around 11 am, the rain stops. Nothing more is forecast for the rest of the day, so I push Heidi onto the sidewalk and depart. Almost immediately, I make a mistake and have to backtrack half a block and get on the cycling path heading east toward Loding. 

Vehicle traffic is busy on two-lane highway 80, as I find myself jockeying for a meter of space. Soon, however, I get back on the bike path and continue at a good pace. I am probably riding between 15 mph and 20 mph much of the way. 

But the traffic is loud, so I explore an alternate route along the shore of Skjerstad Fjord. I stop at a mud path and try another route. That doesn’t work either, so I got back to the bike path along 80. 

There is more evidence along the route that people have been cutting grass in the rain. An abandoned, industrial riding-mower sits on the side of the road ahead of road construction. I see a few personal bikes lying in the grass or weeds. I pass small pins of horses and cows. 

At one tiny cove, I stop to take photos of moored row boats resting on the tranquil water. Stopped at the center of the Loding bridge to take photos.

I am enjoying the day. The solitude. Embracing my introversion. 

My mom used to criticize my bashfulness. Growing up, we always used the term bashful. Never shy or timid. Bashful. 

“You’re just like your dad,” she would say. “You wouldn’t say, ‘Shit,’ if you had a mouthful.” My family was nothing, if not a compendium of colorful Jackson Country phraseology. 

First of all, I am not sure that is true. Given a mouthful of feces, I am quite sure that I would have spoken up, even as a teenager. 

Second of all, I learned to come out of my inherent protective shell of silence and interact effectively in social settings. 

When I was 17, I worked for a plumber in Cincinnati one summer. My boss would send me to a plumbing supply store to buy certain items for a job. I would arrive smiling and shy, friendly, attempting to please these older men. All of the men I met there standing in line or milling about or making the sales were older and more experienced. Some brash and overbearing, arrogant, eager to take advantage of, or brush aside, a young kid. Maybe it was nothing more than just looking down on me for my inexperience. Or maybe they would try to advance in line. Intentionally try to embarrass me, poke fun. Ignore my voice or opinion. I was constantly disrespected. 

One day, I decided I would assume a different persona. That of an older, less friendly, more defiant young man. I stopped smiling. I peered back at anyone who stared at me. It was a conscious self-defense mechanism. 

The response was astounding. Without exception, these older men immediately began lending me the respect a tougher individual deserved. In some peculiar way, I was a different person. It was a mask, of course, but we all wear them. This was the first conscious mask I ever donned. 

Throughout adulthood, I have donned others. Selling cars to doctors, lawyers, policemen, construction workers… Teaching adults English to Afghan refugees. Given academic presentations before 200 scholars and university students in Jordan. Teaching undergraduates at Indiana University. Speaking to classrooms of high school parents in Spanish in Costa Rica. Interviewing for jobs. And on and on. We all do it. 

Around 12:15 pm, exactly one hour after I had departed the apartment, I arrived at Løding. Even with all of stops and abandoned detours, I averaged 11 mph. 

A young bike-packing couple passed me heading toward Bodo. I stopped to get my bearings for a few minutes and to decide if I want to ride deeper into Loding or head back. Although no rain was forecast, the clouds were telling the Hoosier farmer in me, that rain was on its way. 

I headed back over the bridge and almost caught up with the young couple, but then it started to rain. I had to stop and cover my front bag and my phone bag and put my camera away. After a few minutes the rain came harder. I had forgotten my backpack, so I stopped and covered it.  

After 20 minutes, the showers tapered off to a constant drizzle. I stopped at a Kiwi supermarket just 4.5 miles away to buy a few supplies. The tradeoff was to carry the extra weight vs walking in the mist a mile or so when I got back to the apartment. I wanted nothing more than to get back to the apartment and stream something.

So, I bought a few items, stuffed them into my back, and headed west toward Bodo. I was making great time. My legs had incredible strength now that I had rested several days and since half of my weight was still at the apartment. I passed the couple in their 30s who I had met at Loding. Perhaps they had stopped and gotten out of the rain for a while. 

I passed a man in his 40s, who was carrying considerable weight in his bike packs. I was beaming with a sense of pride. Today, I was the leader of the pack. I was the one passing. Within a short distance, none of them were even in sight. 

Then, as I reached my section of town, a red headed woman in her 20s passed me as considerable speed. I was taken down a couple notches. 

To make matters worse, within a block of the apartment, I saw a Kiwi supermarket. I didn’t have to buy the food 4.5 miles away and carry it all this distance. In fact, as soon as I saw it, I remembered seeing it as I headed out two hours earlier.

But I was happy to get to the apartment. After completing a ride, it was a pleasant and comforting feeling to arrive at an apartment already set up and stocked with a few groceries and my possessions was nice. I wouldn’t have to leave again. I didn’t need to ask for an early check-in time. Leave immediately for the supermarket. Or start searching for tomorrow’s accommodations. 

The first thing I did was remove my drenched clothes and toss them into the washing machine and started it. 

After I showered, I methodically smelled all of my clean clothes. About half of them still carried some degree of stench. I tossed the stinky ones into the washer for tomorrow’s final wash. I sat down and ate a bowl of granola with a sliced banana and peach yogurt while I streamed a TV program.

I started thinking that I really liked this new riding formula. I should do more of it. In the future, I could ride 40 or 50 miles, rent an apartment for three days to use as a base, ride out in different directions to explore and back every day. In fact, I could easily cover 25 miles per day in 2 or 3 hours. 

I did this once in Vietnam in the Mekong Delta, but that was it. 

About 9 pm, I dozed off. My alarm was set for 12:05 am to get a midnight ride in.

Midnight Ride above the Arctic Circle! 

Bodo Norway (3 miles, 613 total miles)

4 July 2024: Thursday

The Midnight Ride has been the highlight of my trip!

When I stepped on that train in Oslo, the farthest north I had ever travelled had been Oslo at latitude of 59.9 degrees north. By comparison, Minneapolis sits at 44.9 degrees, Chicago 41.8, and Indianapolis 39.7. 

Before Oslo, the farthest north was my recent visit to Stockholm 59.3 degrees. Many years ago, my wife and I visited Toronto, Canada (43.6 degrees north) and around the areas of Bangor, Maine (44.8 degrees).

Bodo is a port city with a population of 55,000. In 2024, the European Union designated Bodo as the European Capital of Culture of the year. The first time for a city above the Arctic Circle. 

The quaint little city rests just off the Norwegian Sea at a latitude of 67.2 degrees north, some 55 miles above the Arctic Circle. Bodo is completely north of Iceland; north of both Juno amd Fairbanks, Alaska; well north of St Petersburg, Russia; farther north than the vast majority of Siberia, and north of capital of Greenland, Nuuk. 

But Norway is blessed with a warmer climate than Alaska, Greenland, and Siberia thanks to the Gulf Stream waters that flow into the Norwegian Sea.

Even before my alarm went off at 12:05 am, I was awake. I dressed, ensured I had my key to get back in, and peddled out into the 52 degree air of the Midnight Sun. 

Since watching Al Pachino’s Insomnia, I have been fascinated with the Midnight Sun, the phenomenon by which the earth’s tilt in orbit toward the sun creates a twilight appearance during the darkest hours of summer night. 

The downside is that the Northern Lights are not visible, but given my abhorrence of the cold, I doubt I will ever witness those. 

As soon as I stepped into the cool air, I was awake. In fact, the overcast sky and 52-degree temperature is almost identical to the conditions I rode in yesterday, save the hour of rain and mist. Under the Midnight Sun, I am dry.

As I leave my temporary residential neighborhood, two taxis pass me going different directions. Several teens stand around two cars—one with its hood open—at a coin-operated, self carwash. A third car revs its engine as it leaves the pack. 

I turn west under the bridge and peddle toward town, the opposite direction of yesterday’s trip to Loding. Although the wind is only 2 degrees, the breeze I cause while riding chills my fingers, my face, and even my chest. I chose not to wear my coat because it is still drying. I washed it when I got back from the ride for the first time on the trip. It stank of a month’s sum of dried perspiration. 

Quickly, I reached downtown near the train station I arrived at on Tuesday. A few tourists exit a hotel, clearly sharing my general idea. At the port, there are already several cars awaiting the ferry. A man opens his car door to let his dog out for a walk. 

The mild sensation of euphoria has spread as a consequence of the adrenaline. The natural high lifts me as I watch a small ship purr across the tiny harbor. I close my eyes and smell the sea, odor of salt water, fish, and seaweed. 

As I ride through town, a surprising number of cars and pedestrians are moving about. Some just returning from the bars, which are still open, of course. But many are tourists, walking mostly in pairs, two young women, young couples. A small woman in her 40s tilts her head back and presses her lips forward playfully, as if awaiting a kiss from her much taller partner. He does not oblige. 

I peddle further, following the same route through the commercial center that I did two days ago, recognizing the contrast to the bustling streets late Tuesday afternoon. As an introvert, I prefer the tranquility of downtown Bodo. Time seems to slow for me. I can enjoy. Breathe in the experience. Let the Arctic Circle ambiance permeate my being. 

For a short period of time, the Midnight Sun, Heidi, the cool air, smell of the Norwegian Sea, closed shops, and I are one. I cross over to marina and peddle gently along the wharf soaking in the uniqueness of the sailboats proudly resting on the surface of the glimmering water. 

I pass a single cyclist, stopped, reading his phone. I greet a tourist couple wrapped in coats going in the opposite direction on foot. I curve around and follow a dock out into the bay until it reaches a small skerry protruding from the tranquil bay. I park Heidi and walk around. I take a few photos. Then I climb on her and ride back toward the city.

I stop about halfway to examine these large stones mounted on the sea wall every 50 feet or so. Some artisan has drilled a series of holes large enough to insert my fist through them from two different directions. Through the makeshift stone spyglass, I can see a patch of water on the other side.

At the end of the wharf, I greet a tourist couple ambling toward the sea. I curve around and head back north toward town but on a different street. I pass an open bar as a man sits outside looking at his phone. Further along, I pass a policeman sitting in his van checking his phone. I turn east and climb a healthy hill and come to rest at the top to catch my breath and study the Bodo Cathedral. A statue of a saint stands open armed in his niche just below the roof. 

A few blocks ahead I find two boys in their early teens parking their rented scooters. I have picked up the route I took on the first day. The rest of the trip back to the apartment is peaceful. Flat. Enjoyable.

Back in the room, I park Heidi, change my clothes, and send a few photos to loved ones. I wish my cousin, Happy Birthday!

At first, I think I may not be able to go back to sleep, but the adrenaline crash helps me sink into a deep sleep. 

What a ride!

Day 28: (18 miles, 631 total miles)

4 July 2024: Bodo, Norway

It is Kevin’s Birthday!

My second ride of the day, north along Norwegian Sea, was breathtaking. 

Throughout the city many parents were riding this cycling path with their young children leading on their own bikes. The healthy outdoor activity for parents and kids paves the way for adult legs and lungs that can climb hills with little effort and pass old American men struggling to keep up in years to come.  

After pushing Heidi up an extremely steep hill just outside of Bodo, the powerful Norwegian Sea came into view. From the top of the hill there was a park with hiking trails, picnic tables, a playground, and fields along the sea. As I peddled down into the park to get a better vantage point, a tall mother arrived from one hiking trail with two young children in tow. It was 58 degrees and all were dressed warmly, but the sun was out promising an increase in temperature. Mom sat down at a giant chessboard with knee high pieces while the kids explored the board. Over to the north, two kids in their 20s were tossing a frisbee. While the young man went to collect it from high weeds, the young woman began filming the coastline. 

As I ride down the hill hugging the coast, dozens of cars pass me going both directions every minute. The bluest water the planet has to offer casts a surrealistic visual between the bright sky, over skerries, and between mountainous rocks and vestiges of human habitat. A curved line of identical red boathouses serve as a convex bastion against the wharf, protecting boats moored in a network of docks against the Norse sea god, Njord. Dozens of matching two-story white homes form a semicircle of the shore to complete a circle of safety for the tiny Arctic seashore community.

Every few minutes, I must stop, but this time not to rest; rather, I want to photograph the beauty. Lock away a memory to share with others. 

The bike trail ends in a rocky path right along the shore. Adults are walking their dogs. A greeting earns me a stern look from a single man in his 50s.

Highway 834 leads me off the coast, past villages, through farmland, fields and fields of white plastic covered round bales of hay, horses in fields of tall weeds eating their fill, a tractor cutting hay, and miles and miles of lush rock formations and cliffs on the east. 

On the way back, I video chat with my cousin for his birthday. I show him the Norwegian Sea and its surroundings. I call my wife and share the vistas with her. I want to show Cassie, as a belated birthday gift, but she is still sleeping. 

Back at the apartment, I wash all remaining dirty clothes and hang them on the rack to dry. My gloves reek, so I wash them by hand. I set my alarm for an hour earlier. I need to get started about 5 am, and check out at 10:30 am. While the ride to the train station is only 15 minutes, I want to arrive plenty early for my 12:27 pm departure. 

At some point, I need to break Heidi down and fit her into the bike bag, but I decide to wait till Oslo, and do it on the platform. I have about six hours to kill there. And I need her operational tomorrow for the mile ride to the station. 

Day 25: train to Bodo, Norway (.5 miles, 586.5 total miles)

1 July 2024: Monday 

Around 5 am, I am awake in the cramped sliver of hotel living space. Since my train doesn’t leave until almost 11 pm, and the late checkout is at 2 pm, I have nine hours to kill. 

But the additional hours are oddly relaxing. Typically, my anxious nature would increase my stress until I find my seat on the train, but I have learned to tame my anxiety a little better. It’s a good exercise for character growth. 

I make coffee in the room, heating water in my new electric kettle and pouring hot water through a makeshift coffee filter fashioned from the top of a soda bottle. It works surprisingly well. 

Breakfast is included today, so read while I eat tiny croissants that I stuff with bacon and drink orange juice. The rest of the offerings are not worth mentioning. Even my room coffee is better than theirs. 

I read until 9:30 am when I walk over to Bike Brothers and purchase the bike bag that I will need for the train to Sweden from Karel. Although they don’t open until 10 am, he lets me in, makes the sale, and gives me some suggestions about using the bag. Essentially, try not to dismantle too much of the bike. 

My hands are now a wreck. Although I apply cream about ten times a day, they haven’t recovered from the shower two days ago when I washed my clothes and wrung them out and dangled them all over the tiny shower pod and across the room. The itch and burn, spore-like hives have formed on the pads of my palms, between my fingers, and on the tips amid the blisters and scabs. A constant process of hives appearing, bubbling with blisters, bursting to reveal vulnerable flesh, forming scabs, drying and cracking, to permit a fresh wave of hives and blisters that have become a daily routine. Although I haven’t used riding gloves since Friday, the showers, hand laundromats, and handwashing ensure the perpetuity of the disorder.

I have become the master hand washer of clothing, almost perfectly masking the stench of body odor and cycling sweat with cheap laundry pods. One whiff of the air dried laundry and I am certain that all but the closest of passersby will be unaware of just how strong and unpleasant I smell. 

A little before 2pm, I pack Heidi, check out, and roll her into the storage room. As I walk outside, I notice two good bikes with helmets propped in the entryway out of sight of receptionist, vulnerable to theft. How can owners do this to their children?

I walk down to the port and order a Moose Sausage from The Sausage Factory, one of the five food trucks permanently affixed in a semicircle on the place where the streetcars pass every few minutes and throngs of tourists stroll. A woman kneels so that her toddler can take a bite of one end of her foot-long sausage while she bites into the other end. I eat my sausage at the standing table, which I can never get used to. 

Just around the corner of the ornate town hall, I find a coffee cup for my wife at a souvenir shop. The owners are a couple. A tall Norwegian man with a British accent and his Asian wife. He tells me he’s been to Las Vegas. “The only city I ever visited where the pilot wished us good luck after we landed.” He’s probably been using that line on American customers for the last two decades.

One good thing about the hotel is that it has lots of comfortable lobby space. I select a chair in the corner and read, drink coffee, charge my phone, exchange text messages on WhatsApp and Messenger with family and friends, check the news, and read more until I finally finish the second book in the trilogy. But I have had my fill of the Winter World for now. While the narratives are fascinating, they lack a depth of character description and detail, as if the author is rushing through the story to get to the end (although they are 450 pages each).

I find a few more potential reading options and download the samples. I walked up to the 7-Eleven a few blocks away and buy a sausage. For one third the price, it is better than the one at The Sausage Factory. Across the street, I order two chocolate cookies. The man lifts the first one off the display with tongs, but he doesn’t like it for some reason. It is bent and hard. So, he sets it to the side and gives me the two best looking ones.

I leave the shop and head back to the hotel reading something on my phone, but a couple blocks later, I see Bike Brothers. I have made a wrong turn. Since I have time to kill, I don’t stress. I just turn around and head back in the right direction.

When the clock ticks down to about 2 hours before departure, I ride and push Heidi the seven blocks to the Oslo Central Station. Every five minutes, a recorded mechanical female voice on the loud speaker explains first in Norwegian and then in English that some train routes have been cancelled through August due to scheduled construction. Transfer buses have been established to carry passengers to key destinations. Indeed the main Solari board has an entire section dedicated to cancellations and another section for transfer buses. 

My first train was scheduled to leave at 10:56 pm to Trondheim, where I am supposed to wait an hour and then board a train to Bodo (pronounced boda, rhyming with soda). Since I am so early, my trip is not even registering on the Solari board. I need help.

Under an information umbrella stands a half dozen train station employees, available to direct, guide, and advise uncertain passengers like me. A young lady tells me my train to Trondheim is on time. At 10:56 pm, it will arrive at Platform 4. 

Heidi and I stroll over to the Platform 4 entrance. The overhead platform sign reads: 10:50 pm train to Trondheim has been cancelled.

Odd. My train indeed goes to Trondheim and is scheduled to leave from Platform 4, but the planned departure time 10:56 pm, not 10:50 pm. 

So I go back to the young woman, and she tells me the same. A train official who is about her age but wearing civilian clothes—probably on his way home—tells me that I should wait until 20 minutes before planned arrive and then find one of the train officials on the platform and ask them. This makes sense.

A veiled, Muslim woman about 25 years old adds, “Yesterday, the same thing happened. They marked it cancelled because of a time change. When it changes by a few minutes, they cancel it and reschedule it for another time.” That also makes sense particularly because the platform sign said the 10:50 train had been cancelled. My train is supposed to be 10:56 both according to the first young woman and according to my paper ticket.

So, I thank them and go look for my comfort food. A sausage. But there is no place to lock Heidi up where I can watch her. The station is thick with passengers milling about. Some of them would love to bike-nap Heidi, I am sure. So I push Heidi up into a 7-Eleven with no doors inside of the station and ask the young Pakistani woman if I can come inside with the bike.

She gives an empathetic nod, and I order a sausage and a Pepsi Max. After I pay, Heidi and I go down the ramp to Platform 4. Heide and I are alone on the platform, with good reason. It is windy and cold down there. But Heidi doesn’t seem to mind. After I finish my third sausage of the day, it is approaching 9:30 pm. I begin thinking that if I am transferred by bus to somewhere around the construction work but not all the way to Trondheim, I have to leave early. Buses usually are slower because they have to deal with stoplights and traffic. 

So we roll back into the main station. This time, all of the information people have gone. Shift change?

I park Heidi by column beside a Somali man speaking on the his phone so I can monitor the Solari board. When the Somali sees me arrive, he continues talking but bends down and picks up his plastic bag of valuables or purchases and walks away without ever missing a beat in his conversation. The way I look and smell, who could blame him.

Indeed the bus transfer section has a statement that I missed before: Buses leave before the schedules train time. 

For the next half an hour, I watch Heidi closely to prevent bike-napping and study the overhead board. While I am not really stressing, I am not looking forward to a confusing bus ride. What a hassle!

Finally, my train to Trondheim appears on the board as departing at 10:56 pm from Platform 4.

So, I head back. This time, however, the platform is about half full. I push Heidi down to Section E, where Car 4 will stop. Car 4 is where Heidi will spend the trip. A young 35-year-old German man pushes his bike near me and checks his phone, like me.

When the train comes, a very nice train official in charge of the cafe car, asks me to wait while she boards and unlocks the door. Two minutes later, she helps me load Heidi. And the German man helps me lift Heidi in the air so that her front tire rests on a thick, steel hook. Then I help him with his. 

I go find my window seat in Car 5, close enough I can check on Heidi from time to time. 

A young Arab man in his 30s takes the aisle seat beside me. He speaks on the phone softly for about 20 minutes. His talking doesn’t bother me, he takes the center armrest. 

Although I am really tired, I can’t sleep. Just like an airplane, my legs and arms and head just can’t find simultaneous comfort. The seat reclines enough, but nerves and blood vessels in my arms and legs seemed to become pinched in just about every position. I cross my arms, I uncross them and lay my hands on my lap, I try one arm on the deep window sill, I peel off my hoodie and bundle it as a pillow, I recross my arms. Nothing works. 

Just before midnight, outside the window, however, I witness magic. The sunset casts a surrealistic light show against the dark mountains, over the long stretches of cold, gloomy water. The light gray sky contrasts the dark purple clouds, dangling from the heavens, as if Nature is painting on the canvas of the universe.

This is Norway!

Day 26: Arrive in Bodo, Norway (1.5 miles, 588 total miles)

2 July 2024: (Tuesday)

In cafe car, a blond woman in her 20s wearing a black tracksuit talks on her phone and writes notes in a notepad. Perhaps she is a university athlete studying for a class, or a physical education instructor preparing her class plan. 

I have given up on sleep in the early hours of the morning. The sun has not arisen so it is well before 3 am. So, I drink coffee and read. I have landed on Recon, by Tarah Benner, a post-apocalyptic novel. It is OK, but not great. 

A heavy man in his 40s and his girlfriend about the same age sit between the woman in the tracksuit and me. The couple drink coffee, joke, and occasionally laugh with the young woman. The man constructs a paper plane and announces he will send it in flight in my direction. His partner hops to her feet and steps into the narrow aisle to receive it, but once in the air, the aircraft strays off target and nearly hits me. They couple laughs with embarrassment, excuse their error, and move closer to the center of the car for the next flight. 

Meanwhile, a man in his thirties sits in a booth diagonal from me and huddles over his coffee with a foot of dark brown hair dangling over his face while he stares out the window. I wonder if he always keeps combing his hair to cover his eyes or if he is particularly disheveled this morning.

The four of us are the dregs of Midnight Train from Oslo to Trondheim while the rest of the world sleeps.

Back at my seat, I notice that the people in the front rows have gone. These are premium seats that face each other. The Arab knows that. He has already taken up the accommodation on the left of the aisle stretching his legs out on the seat across from him. 

With a little more space to myself, I experiment with my feet, arms, and head, trying endless combinations of positions while hoping one will allow me a little sleep. But it is no use. I copy the Arab’s actions and squat in the remaining set of premium face-to-face seats, prop my feet on the seat across, and nod off.

Maybe 15 minutes later, I am awaken by the blond woman in the track suit who has sat down opposite me just one seat over. She has a large, heavy duffle bag, backpack, and three notebooks. As I move my feet to give her more room, she insists I keep my feet resting in the seat. She is mumbling in Norwegian and I incoherently grunt some sounds in English, but we communicate.

In this position, I am able to glean another 45 minutes of light sleep over the next couple of hours. The woman is still meticulously combing through an academic article or chapter from a textbook on her phone while jotting the occasional note. I try some different combinations, but by 5 am, I know I am defeated: Sleep is not in the cards for now, so I go to the cafe car to grab a cup of coffee.

“Is it a refill?” A different woman asks. The first woman must have gotten off the train somewhere. 

“Yes,” I say. She waves me off.

As I sip my coffee, I stare outside. Drizzle sprinkles the train window. The sun is up properly now. The train slices through miles of picturesque landscape. Each vista more enchanting than the last.

A sole pony stands on a green hillside at the edge of a farm. Rivers wandering through Forests of Scots pine and Norway Spruce and thin strips of birch. Clouds of fog drift over a tranquil valley here. A tiny network of roads woven through dozens of hillside farms and homes there. 

At Trondheim, I meander back to Car 4 to rejoin with Heidi. The German is already there. A Norwegian woman in her 70s has joined us. I help the German lower his bike to the platform. The Norwegian woman wants no help from young whippersnappers like the German or me. She hops down first to leave her saddle bags, then comes back to the car as the train attendant helps her lower the bike to the platform. The German helps me lower my bike. 

We get in line at the elevator, go down to the tunnel at Level 1, cross the tunnel, and ride the elevator back to Level 1. The tiny station is filled with passengers. I lean Heidi against a ticket machine portraying a printer paper with a sign reading “I Ustand” (Out of Order is written in English below). 

The German is trying to call his family to video chat with them. He watches Heidi while I go to the toalett and then buy a coffee and a pastry.  

When I get back, the Norwegian lady has arrived. Both the lady and the German go for coffee. In the back of the station, a new young cyclist arrives. I want to wave him over to our group where we can watch his bike but he doesn’t see me. 

The German will ride his bike up to the northern most tip in Norway, he says. He has been averaging about 85 or 90 miles per day over 5 or 6 hours, until now. With the hills, he says he knows it will be slower going. That is double what I ride. 

Like me, he only started riding in 2020. 

The Norwegian lady and I head back to Platform 4, where our train is due to arrive soon. She will also go to Bodo, where she will ride her electric bike five days north. The other young man is Italian. His English is poor and my Italian is worse, so we don’t communicate much. I learn that he is 29 and will turn 30 tomorrow. 

The train surprises us with a last minute change to Platform 3, but that is right behind us, so we roll over there in about 30 seconds. Once we have secured our bikes, I go off to my seat, this time in Car 3.

I settle down for a 10-hour ride, hoping I can sleep better on this leg.

A Spanish couple and their two teenage kids sit in the premium seats, this time two rows in front of me. 

I do doze a little, wrestling a 15-minute span here, and 10 minutes there. After a while, I give up and head to the Cafe car. 

From the window, I witness fjord after fjord, moss-roofed cabins, hills blanketed with pine and spruce forests, verdant valleys covered with carpets of trees, fern, moss, and grass. As we approach the Arctic Circle, the population density decreases. I see fewer homes and barns and roads. Gorges of black rock facilitate the flow of rivers and streams. Lakes become more abundant. Tree ridges rise above tree ridges, escaping into the afternoon fog, reminiscent of Colorado. 

Hills streaked with tiny glaciers or wide swaths of snow have endured the nonstop summer daylight. Norway is home to more than 1600 glaciers. 

The occasional field is dotted with white round bails of hay. The occasional blacktop road sports the occasional car. 

The natural treasures give way to commerce, small buildings, homes, and streets as we enter small cities. 

I finish the book, but that is the last of Tarah Benner I will read. The book has its moments, but is it all about romance, emotional gut punches, predictable fear and violence for the sake of violence. The characters are one dimensional. I need to find something more sophisticated for the way back. My trip will be twice as long.

Bodo can’t come soon enough. I am fed up with the train by the time we get there. The Spanish family seems to talk incessantly. Vale, vale, vale… The blond haired lady beside me in her 50s is escorting her parents who are at least in their 70s, who sit directly in front of us. They are not problematic in any way. I just feel crowded. I stink and my clothes stink. The food is pretty bad on this train. And I can’t find a good book.

Marvin Gray’s novels are much better!

In Car 4, four more bikes have joined since we boarded. All have blocked me in. So, I help the Italian get his bike down first. The Norwegian lady lets me help her this time. I help the others. At least one is an American in his late 40s. 

I am the last to get my bike off the hook. The Italian has waited for me. He helps me get Heidi to the platform. We can’t communicate much, but he seems like a really good kid. 

Because I get turned around, I end up riding almost 2 miles to the apartment, when it should have just been over 1 mile. It is cold and windy, and my jacket is at the bottom of my under-the-seat bag. So I ride on awkwardly straddling my bulky bike bag, constantly balancing and shifting it back onto the center bar. I mounted it here for the train ride, not to cycle with. 

Amanda meets me at the dormitory-like apartment building five stories high that is constructed from concrete. 

“Are you going to take the bike inside?” she asks. “They will just take it.”

I love for Heidi to stay in the same room with me, so this is music to my ears. At the door, Amanda unlocks the studio apartment door and hands me the key and bids her farewell.  Not a nosy landlord. I like it.

I also like the apartment. No oven and no coffee maker or hot water kettle, but I still have mine. It has already paid for itself. 

Immediately, I head off for the nearby mall. They have these really interesting malls here that start in one block, cross over the street, move down a different block. They are not always rectangular or perpendicular either. So, I wander past one supermarket up the moving walkway to the second floor, cross down some hallways, down another moving walkway, around some corners and find a second supermarket. I buy several things I need, including laundry pods and sausage and head back to the apartment. It is already past 7pm.

Hundreds of people are flowing into the Nordslandshallen (Nordslands Hall, or the provincial convention center.) I ask a couple why and they say Bryan Adams is performing. That news cuts me like a knife.

I put almost all of my clothes in the washing machine and turn it on. I have the long sweat pants, but no shirt left. But I am not going out and no one is coming over, so I shower. 

Amanda writes me a message. “Hey. Forgot to put sheets for the couch, can my husband bring that?”

I first think about a shirt. I really would like to have a shirt on when he comes. But the only thing I can think of is my coat. But that would be even more awkward than being topless when he arrives.

No sooner do I answer, Yes, than a knock on the door erupts. 

Her husband hands me the sheet and pillow case for the sofa-trundle bed, and I ask him to help me with the WiFi code. He is a nice man, also in his 20s. He connects me. 

As soon as he is out the door, I put sausages in the skillet and remove my clothes from the washing machine. There is no dryer, but there is a clothes rack. It takes up most of the bathroom when fully extended, but it works. 

When everything is laid out, I noticed I am missing a black shirt. Then I remember: I put it in the bag where I carry my battery. Sure enough, there it is. Typical Craig.

I stream The Boys while I eat my sausages with Scandinavian potatoes salad. Not bad. Better than anything I got on the train. 

By 9:30 pm, I can no longer keep my eyes open. I haven’t slept more than three hours in the past 40. 

AirBnB Studio Apartment: Hålogalandsgata 128, Bodø, Nordland 8008, Norway ($95/night)

Day 23: Oslo, Norway (1 mile, 586 total miles)

29 June 2024 (Saturday)

According to one customer review, Bike Brothers is the best bicycle repair shop in Oslo. At 9:35 am, I am sitting on their steps, nearly half an hour before they open. The way I figure it, even if they are swamped today, they will take a look at Heidi since I am there waiting for them to open. 

A tall man in his 40s walked past me while I waited. I greeted him and he returned the greeting with a smile. 

Karel is the next person to arrive. In his late 30s or early 40s, he is one of the shop owners. About six foot tall. Black, messy hair and short black beard. He is a people person.

“Back tire?” he asked me, apparently confusing me with a customer who has called in.

“No, I didn’t call.”

“Oh ok,” he said as he unlocked the door, then holds it open as I push Heidi through. 

“I hear you are the best bike repair shop in Oslo,” I said. 

He smiles. “Where did you hear that?”

“A review I read.”

I explain that I have ridden about 800 or 900 kilometers and would like them to check her chain, replace it if necessary, and check her gears. They don’t seem to be changing the same as before.

“It should be ready by about 12 o’clock,” he said.

About a half a block away, I see the same man in his 40s that I saw earlier. He is resting on a stack of long IKEA boxes, sticking out of the hatch of his car. I walk past. Stop. And go back. 

“Do you need help?” I asked him.

He looks up at me from his resting position. It is clear he is catching his breath. 

After a short pause, he said, “I would love some help.”

When he stands, I realized he is about 6’3”. 

The big man’s name is Fred Archer, an economist and engineer working for Norway’s largest oil company: Equinor.

These boxes weigh around 100 pounds and are about 8 foot long, 18 inches wide. 

“Book shelves?” I asked while carrying the first from the car to the lobby of his apartment building. We stack it beside the one he has carried by himself.

“No, for hanging clothes.” They are wardrobes. 

After we’ve finished carrying the next four, he asked me. “Do you think you could help me carry the others to the apartment? We can use the elevator.”

“Of course,” I responded, albeit without much enthusiasm. 

The first box barely fits into the tiny elevator, but we make it into his apartment that smells and looks of remodeling: Fresh paint and drop cloths. We laid the box on the floor in one of the bedrooms beside two other boxes that he managed to get up by himself. 

While we carry the rest, Fred explained that he moves into the apartment in the next two weeks, so he has a lot of work to do. He also talks about the Norwegian economy based on a healthy relationship between the working population, government, and private sector. 

“So even if you work at McDonalds, you can save money to take a vacation to the United States.” His implication is one I have heard again and again. The middle class is large, the gap between the wealthy and impoverished is smaller than the US because taxes and government spending is intentional and harmonized, a workers out of pocket costs for health care, transportation, food, and other necessities is much less than other countries. Bernie Sanders has been pushing for these types of reforms in the US for a long time. But it is not going to happen in my lifetime.

These datapoints nourish other observations I have about quality of life, happiness index, universal health care, more conscious social protection programs, balanced budget, annual surplus, no national deficit, strong private sector, public security, culture of exercise, focus on renewable energy, and many other factors and measurements.

Regarding longevity, out of 237 countries, Sweden is 16th place and Norway 18th with a lifespan of nearly 84 years. Finland ranked 33 with nearly 83 years, Denmark 41 at just over 82 years, United States at 62nd place with just under 80 years of age. 

Without assigning any judgement, I ask myself, if four years more of longevity, increased happiness, and greater security are worth a reformed society. A society where the house we worked all our lives for cannot be taken away from us when we retire and get sick just to pay health care costs? A government that allows inheritance to flow freely to our children without taxation? At the very least, are there important lessons that the US can learn from these countries? 

Fred asked about my trip, and I explained that I hope to buy a ticket for Bodo above the Arctic Circle. 

Fred said, “I used to live in Bodo… It is the northern most city with an airfield… Not to provoke the Russians,” the Norwegian government decided not to construct an airbase any further north. Half of the city, he said, “was military base… and the other” he struggles for the word “civilian.” 

During WWII, Fred explained, “The Germans bombed all of the homes but saved the church and the brewery… the things most important to them.”

He also encouraged me to visit “Kjerringoy… it is a beautiful… This one place on the rocks where the sea comes in and there is this—I don’t know the word in English—maelstrom,” the powerful churning whirlpool in the sea.

This is Fred’s second language, and yet he knows the word maelstrom. This is my native language, and I only know maelstrom in the context of violent turmoil. 

After I bid Fred farewell, I head down to the train station, which is more than a mile away. 

A couple blocks away, I noticed a man in his 60s walking two schnauzers. One barked at me.

“She’s protective,” I tell him.

“No, she’s autistic,” Yan said. “She has a hard time communicating. So this is the only way she knows.”

“I didn’t realize that dogs could be autistic,” I said.

“Me either. Not until she was diagnosed… In the UK. I lived 20 years in the UK.” He went on to explain that autism in dogs is rarely diagnosed. Dogs are often abandoned because their owners give up up on them. They think that their behavior is bad. 

“In Norway, the doctors tell me to” he opens his fist as if discarding a piece of rubbish “to leave her… The British doctors give me” medicine to calm her.

“She is the sweetest dog,” he said.

A large woman walks past us nursing an infant on the go. 

Yan smiled. “That is a first… Norwegian freedom (for you.)”

 By now, I was at least a half a mile off course. It is hard to concentrate on Google Maps while walking and talking to a man about his autistic dog. So I excuse myself and get back on the right track.

Closer to the train station, I walked through a park, where a handful of demonstrators have staged a demonstration. Their protest signs remain and one man is playing Norwegian protest music, I suppose, but there is a lull in the demonstration on this Saturday morning.

At the train station, I stand in line for about 15 minutes before a customer service representative can help me. I buy tickets for Heidi and me from Oslo to Bodo and back. Sunday is booked, so I buy for Monday night. They tell me that they cannot sell me tickets to Stockholm with Heidi. I have to buy them online directly from the SJ.SE. I have the app, so I figure that I will figure it out later. 

I walk back to Bike Brothers, pay Karel $100 for the new chain and service, and ride Heidi back to the hotel. In the lobby, I decided pay for another night, since I know my train doesn’t leave until Monday night. I am bracing for the $175/night but by booking directly with them, the cost is only $85/night including breakfast. This is the first evidence that I have found that Booking.com and Orbitz are taking advantage of travelers. I need to be more thorough when booking in the future. Precisely what Tim told me in Denmark. 

With Heidi parked safely in the room, I go back outside and walk about a mile round trip to the supermarket. I get turkey, salami, cheddar cheese, bread, potato salad, bean salad, and yogurt for lunch and supper. I get a few other things, like napkins, coffee, and Coke Zero. Even at that, the total is $38. 

By the time I get back to the room, it is nearly 1pm and I have walked four miles. Blisters are forming on my feet. 

My two fingers on the right hand are still partially number. The rash on both hands are worse. I eat, start the new book, and nap. I wake up at 3 pm. I continue reading.

I am genuinely grateful for the break. While I love my riding trips, as difficult as they are, I also enjoy my down time. Finally, I have found a series of books that I am interested in. I haven’t streamed TV for, what, four nights? 

My body needs the rest. My legs are always sore, which I don’t mind much. The fingers on the right hand are a bit of a nuisance, though. And I am exhausted. After I eat again, I lay back down and read. 

By 6:30 pm, I cannot keep my eyes open. I succumb to a heavy, warm cloud of sleep. 

Day 24: Oslo, Norway (rest day)

30 June 2024 (Sunday) 

After nearly 10 hours of sleep, I awake to a swollen right hand. The rash is back in full swing, similar to the condition in Vietnam 18 months ago. However, the partial numbness in the two fingers of the right hand and the swelling are additional complications. 

To make matters worse, I have to wash a few clothes by hand, and when I am done my hands are washed of all natural oils. The detergent has also irritated them. Blisters form on the padded flesh below the last three fingers. And the blisters rupture. 

Throughout the day, I apply cream constantly to both hands, and I incessantly open and close the right hand in an effort to regain feeling in those fingers. Both measures help some. 

For some unknown reason, I have been thinking about John. When I worked in construction right out of high school, John was my supervisor. He was in his late 30s or early 40s. Born in Paducah, Kentucky, he carried a pronounced accent. He was thin and wiry, a bit shorter than me, but had an internal source of energy and optimism that was contagious. 

John called me and the rest of his close counterparts, Babe. “Thanks, Babe… Can you hand me that wrench, Babe?” 

I had a previous supervisor, whom I trusted and respected, who hated John. He told me, “He will get you killed” because his is so reckless and irresponsible on the job.

In construction, particularly working on heights, no one can afford to be irresponsible. 

So, before I even met John, I also disliked him. 

But soon after I was assigned to John’s supervision, I began to appreciate certain qualities. Most of all, he taught me, there is a solution to every problem.

“If there’s a will, there’s a way, Babe,” he once told me while installing fire protection sprinklers in a factory in Tennessee. 

I was also attracted to his optimism. He was highly intelligent although not particularly well-educated. So, the can-do attitude matched with the optimism, allowed him to find solutions that others might miss.

Once, I drove to his house on Saturday, where he helped me construct a waterbed frame, saving me several hundred dollars. I grew to like John a lot. Trust him.

However, he did have a bent toward carelessness. He had a multi-million dollar lawsuit against a tool manufacturer (ladders, I think) because he had fallen and broken both ankles many years earlier. 

In Tennessee, he allowed another co-worker to climb on top of a moveable overhead lifting beam the width of a warehouse. The other man pulled the controls up with him and rode the beam up and down the building installing steel pipe. 

In Atlantic City, we worked on the Golden Nugget Casino as it was being constructed in single digit weather. There were no walls on the construction at that time, and we were working on the third floor. So the ocean wind whipped non-stop across steel and concrete frame of the building to chill us to the bone. We would work for 45 minutes, then come back to the tiny construction trailer and warm up for 15 minutes. 

The work involved leaning two 20-foot extention ladders against steel columns and carrying a 200-pound pipe on our shoulders—he at one end and I on the other—step by step until we reached the top of the ladder. From there, we would balance ourselves and the pipe while attaching hangers, or harnesses, to I-beams. It was cold, dangerous work. I insisted that we rent one or two arial platform lifts to lift the pipe. We could stand in the buckets and safely lift the pipes to the required height, and then attach them to the beams. 

But John was in too much of a hurry for that. And he didn’t want to appeal to home office in Indianapolis for the additional equipment and costs. Plus, it had been my idea, and his ego wouldn’t allow him to succumb to the idea.

My 20-year old ego wouldn’t allow me to succumb to the idea that we were already working in horribly cold conditions and to add the additional danger of climbing those ladders and risk a fall. 

So, I nagged and pouted. And he became indignant and bossy. Finally, until one day, we had a bad argument. He called the office to report that he could no longer work with me, so I was recalled to Indianapolis. 

I was frustrated with the situation and embarrassed at my immaturity. But equally defiant, refusing to admit my mistake.

About six months later, I received a call from a friend. He explained that John was working in Indianapolis on a job where he was using a bucket lift to install pipes. He threw a bundle of hangers over his should, climbed 15 foot to the bucket, but he had forgotten to insert safety pins in the bucket, so when he grabbed the top rail, the bucket bounced. John lost his footing and fell backward. The back of his head struck a two-inch piece of rebar sticking out of the concrete. He died immediately.

I was extremely saddened by the tragedy. I also realized for the first time that I loved John. He was a real friend. Our fight was like that of good friends. Another realization struck me: Had I not stood up for my own safety in New Jersey, I could have been with him on this job in Indianapolis. Perhaps I would have been the one who died. Or, maybe I could have saved him somehow. Convinced him to be more careful. But none of that mattered now. It was all too late.

But at 20 years old, what did I know? I was just a dumb, know-it-all kid. True, I was a very talented, hardworking and intelligent youth, but I was equally immature, stubborn, and defiant. I thought I had the world figured out, had unlocked its essential codes for advancement in a world just begging to be tamed. I had little patience for the opinions of others. At least until tragedy or horror struck, something jolting enough to reconnect me with sobering reality. 

In other words, I learned most lessons the hard way. 

In Oslo, it is Sunday. Around 11:30 am, I left the room. I walked past along the University of Oslo campus, National Theatre, and Norwegian Parliament. Although it was only about 60 degrees, hundreds of local and international tourists milled about, tugging suitcases on wheels, toting backpacks, pushing strollers, snapping photos, or laughing and smiling. An old man sat on a street corner in the shade and played an accordion. A thin, fit mother playfully shoved her teenage son—who was at least six inches taller—knocking him off balance as they walked and joked. I recognized Spanish, English, French, Arabic, and a host of Scandinavian languages. 

I ate at McDonalds and purchased an extra sandwich for supper. I walked to the Joker, a convenience store, that had bad ratings because of poor customer service because many outlets were closed today. I bought a few things for the room. The teller was friendly enough. 

Since arriving in Norway, I’ve noticed that about 1/3 of all pedestrians are carrying on conversations on their phones as they walk. I would guess that in the US that number drops to about 10 percent, but for some reason, it appears that as soon as locals walk outside, they take advantage of that trek to engage someone in a conversation: Spouse, child, lover, aunt, parent. 

I read and read and read. I worked in an hour nap as a special treat to myself. By 8:50 pm or so, I had almost finished the second book in the Winter World series. I am quite pleased with the downtime. 

Starting tomorrow, I will be on a train for nearly 20 hours on the way to Bodo, above the Arctic Circle, where the sun never sets at this time of the year. I rented an apartment there for three days, planning to do some riding from that point. Try to get one midnight ride in.

Then, I ride back to Oslo and on to Stockholm, although I have some obstacles to overcome. One, is I have to break my bike down and store it in a bike bag in order to take it onto the train in Sweden. That means I have to buy a bike bag on Monday.

On the SJ.SE application, I found that indeed I can’t take Heidi in one piece, but if I dismantle her, pack her in a bike bag, then I can take her as luggage. I bought the ticket from Oslo to Stockholm on the app, allowing me about a 5 hour layover in Oslo. 

All in all, if everything goes smoothly, my trip will look like this:

• Friday (July 5): depart Bodo at 12:27 pm
•                           arrive Trondheim at 22:13 
•                         depart Trondheim at 23:17
• Saturday (July 6): arrive Oslo at 06:50 am
•                                     depart Oslo at 11:58 am
•                             arrive Goteborg at 15:45
•                           depart Goteborg at 16:24 
•                           arrive Stockholm at 19:30 pm

This is a lot of switching and changing, and very little sleep. And it will be stressful. But also fun. Hopefully, I can relax a little and read.

Day 21: Drammen, Norway (39 miles, 556 total miles, 1000 ft incline)

27 June 2024: Thursday

My ring finger and pinky on my right hand are going numb! Nerve damage from riding, gripping the handle bars. Both hands hurt the entire trip, fingers go numb. But the feeling comes back a few minutes after I hop down from the bike. Today, for the first time, my feeling doesn’t return. 

After the motorbike accident in Thailand, the flesh on my right shoulder was numb for more than a decade. But it has almost completely returned. 

In that tiny bunk, I had a hard time getting comfortable. The bunk is not much wider than my shoulders, nor much longer than me. To make matters worse, it is lodged in a corner and has a wooden lip all the way around it. So I can’t stretch out. 

The internet was not too good. Spotty at best. In the morning, it got so bad that I decided to leave early. Sitting at a McDonalds or coffee shop for an hour drinking coffee and guarding Heidi would be better than this.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was out, 65 degrees at the outset, no wind. I looked forward to the 1,000 foot incline over the next 39 miles. 

Cyclists old and young passed me all day long, as I creeped along, up hills, stopping to catch my breath, and pacing myself. There was no advantage to hurrying to arrive early only to sit at a coffee shop. 

Most of the route was along little-traveled, country roads that ran parallel to Europe 18 most of the way. After many days of struggling against the cold, the rain, the wind, and gloomy skies, I really welcomed the bright day. 

You know, I am beginning to think that this floppy hat-helmet thing I have going on may be really catch on. Beginning on my last ferry trip, I put on the helmet over the floppy hat. It protects my face from the sun better, warms my head when it is cool, and it saves space in my bags. 

I see myself as the next fashion designer for cyclist sports wear. Like they say, Necessity is the Father of Design. 

After having travelled 13 miles, I stopped at a busy gas station off E18 for a real break. Before I could lock Heidi to a picnic table, a thin, fit man about my age accosted me. He was eating an ice cream bar.

“Where do you come from?” he asked biting off a chunk of chocolate covered ice cream. 

“The United States,” I responded.

“But you didn’t come from there last night?” He was very friendly.

I explained my route. How far I had come in the past 21 days.

“How many kilometers?” He was genuinely curious. 

“About 750 or 800 so far,” I told him.

He explained that he lived just a few miles from here. And last year at the age of 66, he rode a bicycle from northern Norway to southern Norway in 17 days. 

“3,000 kilometers,” he said. About 2,000 miles.

A chunk of ice cream fell onto the sidewalk. 

“200 kilometers some days,” he said. That would be 135 miles. 

“Wow!” I said. “That’s a lot.”

He shrugged and pointed to my bike. 

“I had thin tires.” Road tires are faster on black top. “And I had a bag like this,” he said pointing to the under-the-seat bag, “but I didn’t have all this fancy gear.” He meant the Insta 360 camera, front bag, and other bags.

“Today is good… but tomorrow it is going to rain. Take it easy tomorrow,” he said and departed. 

I locked Heidi to one of the three picnic tables. All three were in the sun. There was an old man sitting in the last one eating an ice cream bar. There was a motorbike parked in front of it. I assume it was his. A couple walked past, each eating an ice cream bar. In fact, almost everyone was eating an ice cream bar at 11 am in the morning. 

I guess given the long, dark winters, come bright sunny days in the 70s, people must take every advantage of the warmth to enjoy an ice cream bar. A nation after my own heart!

I ordered a sausage inside and added a bottle of Pepsi Max (my go-to drink in Scandinavia). In fact, I noticed more people here drink Pepsi Max than Pepsi. Even kids automatically choose it. Maybe parents prefer the zero sugar. 

I sat inside the AC where I could watch Heidi and ate my sausage. Then I took my time drinking my PM. I was in no hurry to get back outside. 

So after about 20 minutes, I unlocked Heidi, reinstalled my camera and iPhone in the plastic cover where I could see the route on the GPS, and I peddled away. 

But Karen Jacobson, the voice behind Google Maps, immediately took me down a gravel road, up a big incline to a lane that ended at someone’s house. I doubled back to the main road and plowed on. Karen provides really good directions most of the time, indispensable, but you must temper that guidance with a keen common sense analysis of the route. 

Before long, I popped up over a hill to capture the stunning view of the village of Holmestrand and its fjord. Strand in Norwegian means beach. And fjord is this long, narrow finger of water pressed into a valley by a long forgotten hand of glacier. It was breathtaking.  

The next 30 minutes, I peddled through the village and along the shore through a hodgepodge of old homes and city structures matched with modern apartments and shoppers, dog walkers, and exercise enthusiasts.  Outside the town, the road began to climb, but I didn’t mind much, as I breathed in the fresh air, the beauty, and the experience.

When I had covered 27 miles, I was exhausted. It was not a lot of fun. The 75 degree heat and the incline had indeed taken more out of me than I remembered. On my side of the road, there was no shade. No respite from the sun. I know that this temperature is not extreme. Nothing like the US is experiencing now, but it is a factor. 

Once I got going to my maximum speed, probably 20 mph or less, when suddenly a large bug smashed into my temple, pinned between my flesh and my floppy hat-helmet. It stung me. And it hurt. I wobbled, went into the grass, felt myself losing control, and weaved back onto the shoulder and slowed myself to a stop. I removed the floppy hat-helmet, but the insect was long gone. 

At the next gas station, I locked up Heidi at a tall recycling bin and went inside to buy an ice cream bar. How in the world can you enjoy the Norwegian culture without tasting the Nordic experience.

I found a nice spot on a wooden pallet of some type of engine fluid, and bit into the marvel. 

Yuck! I almost spit it out. Licorice ice cream. Who in their right mind would make licorice ice cream. I hate licorice. I jettisoned it straight into the trash receptacle along with discarded oil rags and disposable infant diapers. 

Back inside, I couldn’t take the chance with ice cream bars once again, so I ordered a soft serve cone with a hard chocolate cover. It was huge. I should have sat inside, but there were only two tables, and one man was eating a fast food meal, and I stank so I stepped outside in the shade. 

Immediately, my cone began to melt.

A Norwegian cyclist in this 50s immediately accosted me. Same friendly questions as before. Same answers.

He had just ridden 40 miles for exercise and had about 6 more to go. 

I wouldn’t have minded the conversation but I had a vanilla soft serve ice cream dripping all over my hand and onto the sidewalk. 

Finally, realizing my struggle to beat the heat, he said, “I will let you eat your ice cream” and he pushed his bike to the other side of the door.

I began tackling my cone, but it was a losing battle. I had ice cream all over my mustache, goatee, both hands. Drips were running down my legs. I got down to the waffle cone and tossed the rest in the garbage. I washed myself up best I could with water from my used water bottle that I have been carrying since Sweden, and went back inside to use the restroom and clean myself more thoroughly. 

The only unisex bathroom was occupied, so I left.

The next hills were hard, but my legs post-soft serve seemed to have a little more energy than pre-soft serve. The warmest time of the day. It would eventually reach 77 degrees, but not before I reached Drammen. At the city limits, I reached a stretch of slight decline for miles. It was fun. I began enjoying myself again. 

When I reached the Drammenselva River, a man in his 50s fell off of his electric scooter onto the pavement. Even at a speed of 8-10 mph, he managed to hang onto this mobile phone. 

I stopped to help. 

“Are you OK?”

He laughed with embarrassment. “Yes, I am fine.”

I checked again, but he smiled and gave me the same answer. Then sped away. 

After just over five hours on the road, I arrived at the Forenom serviced apartments. They have no staff on site. Everything is done electronically, key codes into the building, elevator (floors 2-4), and room. Communication is all done by chat, or in extreme cases, phone. But I was over nearly 90 minutes early, so I rode around the central plaza, lined with outdoor cafes, shops, and park benches. Milling about were an array of tourists and scrubby-looking locals, who appear to survive on the hustle. 

I found a bar on a side street, locked up Heidi, and ordered a Coke Zero. I sat outside and checked my messages. A new one came in that gave me the code for the room. I finished up my drink, unlocked Heidi and then drove to the apartment building. 

The entrance confused me. It was through the gate of a German-style restaurant and pub. I pushed Heidi up the first half dozen steps to the main floor hoping an elevator was next. Instead, I found a bar.

So, I carried Heidi up to the second floor, where there was an elevator to service floors 2-4. But the elevator wouldn’t accept my code. Did that mean that I couldn’t get into the room till 4 pm? It was only a little after 3 pm. 

Alas, I had to carry Heidi up to the 3rd floor, grateful that I was not assigned a room on the 4th. And much to my surprise, my code worked. 

It is hard to express my happiness with the ability to enter my room and store Heidi safely nearly an hour before check-in at no additional charge. 

I showered and washed my clothes by hand and hung them up to dry in the bathroom. Then I walked to the supermarket and bought a frozen lasagna dish and some other supplies. 

Back at the room, I heated up the “meal” in the microwave (the apartment has no oven) and ate what was one of the worst lasagna meals I have ever had. I was still hungry, so I made popcorn, ate the rest of my peanuts, and granola, grapes, and blueberry yogurt. 

And I read about 100 pages in Winter World. I am glad it is the first in the trilogy. The 450 pages in this book won’t be enough. 

I stayed awake till almost 9 pm, but then crashed. 

10 Tollbugata, Drammen, 3044 ($92 including tax)

Day 22: Oslo (29 miles, 585 total miles, 1390 feet)

28 June 2024: Friday

Norway is a rich country. Norway’s government does not have a national deficit. In 2023, the country reported a surplus of over 16 percent of its Gross Domestic Product. In other words, the government spends considerably less than the revenue it generates.  

The Nordic country is wealthy with petroleum. When Russia invaded Ukraine, Norway suddenly became the top oil producer to Europe and the fourth leading producer of natural gas in the world.  

This translates into a rich economy, high wages for Norwegians. The subsequently high prices go unnoticed by locals but sting tourists like me. 

When I tried to book a hotel in Oslo, the capital of Norway, I was stunned by crazy costs. I finally landed on the smallest hotel room on the trip with no amenities for $175/night. Nearly double what I paid in Copenhagen or Stockholm. 

It has rained all night and was pouring down while I drank my coffee. The rain stopped about 9 am, and by 10:25 am, I was back on the road. I realized that this could be my most physically taxing day, with an incline of nearly 1400 feet over 29 miles. But as long as it was dry and I remained safe, I could make it. 

Yesterday, when I rode through the downtown plaza, my camera was dead. So this morning before heading off to Oslo, I pedaled around the plaza once just to capture the mosaic of restaurants, shops, tourists, locals, park, and statues. Each of these Norwegian cities has an its own unique plaza. 

Leaving town was a convoluted route that led me into traffic over the Drammenselva River onto the tiny industrial Island of Holmen and over the river again. The pedaling was hectic. I had to keep my wits about me. But most drivers were courteous. 

Towards the outskirts of town, I stopped to catch my breath. I noticed the big hill that sat between Drammen and Oslo. I would have to go over it, I suspected. 

Some authorities consider hills over 2000 feet to be mountains. This hill is about half that. For the next 90 minutes, I climbed. I rode as long as I could, and then I pushed. When the incline was really gradual, I peddled again. I stopped, sat down, and rested at bus stops along the way. Each time that I thought I had reached the top, I found more incline just around the corner. 

At one point, I got on the side of the road with no bike lane or shoulder by mistake while traveling up hill in heavy traffic. So I decided to stop, dismount Heidi, and wait in a lull in traffic to cross over to the bike path on the other side of the road. The problem was that I had just turned a corner, so I couldn’t see the traffic coming in my lane until it was almost upon me.

When I finallly found what I thought was a pause, I started across only to find more cars. One Norwegian woman driver lifted her hand and made a face as if to ask, “What is this idiot doing?”

Can’t blame her. 

But after she passed, I got across safely and peddled on.

While I was going up, I noticed many thrill-seeking adventurists racing down the hill on bicycles or roller-skis. The roller skiers use two poles to propel themselves forward while skating on two thin roller-skis that resemble thin scooters. Naturally, there are cyclists and enthusiasts who travel down the hill like I do with caution. But you can identify those athletes who are out for the rush. The cyclists lean their faces down toward the handlebars to minimize wind resistance and maximize speeds.

When I finally reached the top of the hill, the GPS told me that I had risen about 850 feet over a distance of about 3 miles. A normal comfortable day would be covering that same incline over 40 miles.

It was nearly lunchtime, so I felt that I had earned myself a bacon-wrapped sausage. I purchased one from a nice young man in a gas station and went outside to find a place to sit. There was none, so I ate the sausage standing up, not my favorite way to dine, but beggars…

Back on the road, I didn’t find the decline that had hoped. The road dropped more gradually, with short hills that I had to climb. At times there was no bike lane or even a shoulder. I had to battle for my space like all the rest of the vehicles.

From that point forward, however, I was largely traveling down hill. There were inclines, naturally, but the hard part of the ride was over. And I was grateful that I still could make such a journey. My body could do it. My mind could do it. 

The sausage reward is an amazing motivator! You should try it some time. 

As I approached Oslo, I saw a lady walking on the opposite side of the road, dressed in a black, wide-brimmed sun hat, veil, and long dress. At first, I thought she was in a witch’s costume. Intentionally or otherwise, she covered her face with her white gloves, as if adjusting her hat as I passed her. Perhaps she was in mourning. Who knows!

I flowed into Oslo about four hours into my journey at roughly 7 mph. Not too bad at all. I rode through a series of breathtaking plazas, buzzing with activity, vendors, tourists snapping photos, locals commuting to or from work, and people of all ages flashing through the crowds on electric scooters and bicycles.

I got to the hotel maybe 20 minutes before check-in at 3pm. But they gave me no argument. Gave me my wooden room keycard, and told me that if I wanted breakfast, I should order it now at the low price of $19.50; otherwise it would cost $25 tomorrow.

The room was the tiniest I have stayed in on this trip. But worst of all, it has no electric kettle, coffee maker, or microwave to make my own morning coffee. And coffee here is at least $5 per cup. I knew I would drink at least four cups tomorrow morning and four the following morning. So, I walked nearly two miles round trip to buy a cheap electric kettle to heat water in the morning. It was $15. I will try to pack it and take it with me as long as I can. And when I can’t anymore, I will leave it. I still have saved $25.

I bought some groceries and headed back figuring I would come across a sandwich shop and buy something to take back to the room. But city construction had blocked off several main thoroughfares of commerce and tourism. And I didn’t want to backtrack, so I took what I thought would be a shorter route. But it turned out being much longer. And there were no sandwich shops. Instead, I ate yogurt and granola, a small bag of spicy peanuts, and a few dried mango slices for supper. I was too tired to go back out. 

I forced myself to stay awake till 9 pm and finish Winter World. I downloaded the second book in the series, The Solar War. I look forward to starting that tomorrow when I get back from the train station.  

St. Olavs gate 26, Oslo, 0166 ($174/night including tax)

Day 19: Larvik, Norway

25 June 2024: Tuesday (3 miles, 492 total miles, 105 miles by ferry)

We should all be more grateful for what we have. At home, I have kept a gratitude diary for the past two or three years. It has helped me keep perspective. Every morning (or almost every morning) I spend 10 or 15 minutes writing what I am grateful for. 

Today, sitting here at this kitchen table in this rented apartment in Hirtshals, I am grateful for the opportunity to ride across Scandinavia. To experience the nature, wildlife, culture, people, architecture. To have this good cup of coffee by my side. The cognitive ability to process and understand what I encounter. To have a relatively good memory. Relatively good health. Loved ones that give life meaning. 

Today was fun!

Larvik, Norway is 105 miles directly north from here. The ferry ride is 3.5 hours. 

Without WIFI, my transfer of photos and videos to Instagram and update of the blog was hamstrung. I did as much as I could, and then washed all of the dishes, except a skillet, lid, and a glass. I wiped off the counter and table, and cleaned the stove. I figured I had gone above and beyond, since I was paying a $21 cleaning fee. 

I parked Heidi out the back door, packed her, and left the apartment to explore the marina a little. 

I passed through the ticket booth at the Color Line entrance and followed the yellow painted line on the blacktop to Lane A, where I snuggled next to motorcycles in Lanes A and B. I noticed an American accent from a man on a white trike motorcycle. 

He was originally from California but now lived in Germany with his German wife. The couple in front of me and the man to my right were all from France. An Asian man settled in behind me on a motorcycle and two women and another man all on bikes. 

I settled on the pavement and started reading to pass the next two hours. To be honest, I was quite content to ensure that I was in the right place and well in advance. Even the book I started was good: Winter World by AG Riddle.

Around 12:20 pm, we started boarding. We rode right into the belly of the ferry. I strapped Heidi in and went upstairs. As soon as we set sail, the cafeterias opened up. I bought a sausage, Pepsi Max, and a chocolate muffin before settling down at a table with an electrical outlet. Internet was going to cost $7 or so, so I went the rest of the trip without any access to the internet. The sausage was superb. 

During the 3.5 hour trip, I bought a cup of coffee (not very good) and sat down by a window and watched the sea as we crossed her; I walked out on deck and sat in the sun for a while reading and enjoying the nice weather; I went inside and bought a Pepsi Max and ice cream bar; and sat in one of the lounges and read. 

When the announcement that we had arrived in Larvik was broadcast over the loudspeakers, I was one of the first down to the vehicle platforms. I unbound Heidi, put her camera back on her, and got in the saddle behind several motorcycles. 

About 4:45 pm, I rode out of the belly of the ferry and into Larvik, Norway, a city of 48,000. An old man sitting in a mobility scooter waved tiny Norwegian and British flags to greet us. (I filmed it, but deleted it by accident.) 

The first day in a new country can be a little disconcerting. For those of us attached to our GPSs, we have a hard time getting our bearings until we get a new SIM card. I know there are eSIMs, but I haven’t figured that one out yet. Without the GPS, I couldn’t find my apartment for the night. So, I peddled from store to store until I found a Circle K that sold a pre-paid SIM card. The young woman and man who operated the shop didn’t know how to use the card, so I connected to their internet and sat down and figured it out. I topped up the card to give me 50 GB, hopefully enough to last me until I leave Norway in about 10 days. 

According to the GPS, I could now see that the apartment was about seven blocks away. But there were no food store or restaurants nearby. I bought a couple of items at the Circle K, thanked the youth workers, and peddled on. 

I came to a monster hill about three blocks before the apartment and had to push Heidi all the way up. When I arrived at the house, the garage door was open full of storage items, and a woman and man were carrying furniture from a van to the back side of the house. Besides the open garage door, there were three more doors. One that entered the first floor of the house, one that entered the basement, and one that entered the basement apartment. 

I got into the apartment with no problem, rested Heidi against the desk, and ate my third sausage of the day. It was really good. These Scandinavians really know how to make a sausage. I gotta hand it to them.

Then, I read Maria’s review of the apartment in Hirtshals. She wrote, “He left the kitchen a little messy.” That miffed me. If leaving a skillet, lid, and water glass in the sink was a little messy, then what was I paying the $21 cleaning fee for? Was I to clean the entire apartment and pay the cleaning fee? 

As I was trying to book the accommodations for tomorrow in Tonsberg, I found one apartment that was $55/night with a $75 cleaning fee. I wondered if I cleaned it when I left, would the owner pay me $20 to say there. 

I was so happy with this apartment. It had WiFi. So updated my blog, transferred photos, uploaded my edited videos, and communicated with my family in the US. 

Before I knew it, 8 pm was upon me. I climbed into bed and read until 9pm, when I fell asleep. It had been a fun day!

Håkons gate 92, Larvik, Vestfold 3258, Norway ($85/day)

Day 20: Tonsberg, Norway (25 miles, 517 total miles, 800 foot incline)

26 June 2024: Wednesday

They say that men never grow up; they just get more expensive toys. I think there is a lot of truth to that. In my case, it’s an expensive habit. I try to keep costs down where I can. I paid about $500 for a used bike, which I will sell when I leave. But I bought new tires, saddle bags, and accessories. I buy groceries at discount stores, but in Scandinavia, all food is expensive. I eat at fast food restaurants. Today, I paid $18 for a sandwich and soft drink. But it was a darned good Philly Steak Cheese.

Hotels in Norway have proven really expensive here. I have not really come across any cheap ones like I have found in Sweden and Denmark. But the AirBnBs are cheaper here, it seems than the other countries. So far, at least. You just have to be careful with the “cleaning fees.” 

My room for tonight, for example, is $42 with no cleaning fees. But I have 35 miles to cover before I can get there.

Taking advantage of the good internet at this really nice apartment, I caught up on my blogs and transferred all of my photos. I texted Anja at the $42 room in Tonsberg, and asked if I could check in early. So, I left a little early: 9:31 am. 

No sooner had I pushed Heidi onto the pavement than the GPS instructed me to continue on in the direction I had started yesterday. So, the first three blocks of hill that I pushed yesterday were only part of a larger hill. 

I didn’t even try to ride it. I pushed for another block then climbed on Heidi. Immediately, I began enjoying the slow morning traffic and warm temperature. It was already 65 degrees despite the overcast gloom. 

Before long, I hit another large hill. I rode up it, but had to stop a couple times to catch my breath. Out side of town, I encountered another large hill. I overcame that one the same way. 

From that point forward, it was smooth riding with one exception. With 13 miles to go, a 30-something man breezed past me and a couple minutes later a younger kid breezed past me. I picked up my speed, not wanting to be seen as this old codger who couldn’t keep up. When the last kid turned left and went up a small hill instead of going straight into town, I did too. But the hill turned a corner and led to more hill, and before long the 30-something and the younger kid were nowhere in sight. Worse yet, I realized that I should have gone straight instead of following the young whipper snappers left and up the hill. 

I now had 14 miles to go. I whipped back down a perpendicular road, coasting at a pretty good speed, curved around a roundabout, and got back on track, literally. Still had 14 miles to go. 

This was all rural riding with a narrow, but adequate, bike lane. I peddled at a pretty good speed most of the way. The hills I encountered were either small or gradual. I only stopped at road construction, twice, and to take a restroom break. Otherwise, I was doing well.

With about two miles to go to my destination, the sun finally came out. A little late, but I would accept it. Today would end up reaching 70 degrees, which was my warmest day yet. 

I reached Anja’s house around noon. She met me at the street with a patient, motherly smile (although younger than I) and led me to the back yard. I parked Heidi beside other bikes under a shed, locked the back wheel to the frame with the bike chain.

“We’re close to the city center… That’s why” someone might try to steal it. 

Bjorn, Anja’s husband, sat on the steps at the back. His black beard draped at least a foot below his chin. His 300 pound frame was wrapped in a loose, black garment, and he wore a head covering over his hair and ears. He seemed 20 years younger than Anja. At first I thought he was Muslim, but it reminded me more of an Eastern Orthodox monk clothing.

Anja explained that the man smoking a few feet away was a repairman “working with my husband.” 

Anja walked me back around front, where we entered the house, unhooked a movie theater rope labeled  AIRBNB from the top of narrow spirals stairs, and we descended into what felt like the belly of a submarine. 

Inside and out the home was a mismatch of collectables—like Turkish rugs, sailor’s bunks (that I slept on), wooden trunk, books in Norwegian, German, French, and English—and items they couldnt’ bring themselves to give away—rusting scooters, bricks, cardboard and masking tape model of a barn, exercise machine, and two rooms of “storage” next to the AirBnB room I was renting. 

A wraparound shower curtain scantily covers bottom of the circular stairs to lend a hint of privacy. Yet one can hear each footstep, each cough, each word spoken on the first floor in this region of the house. 

But I don’t mind for one night. For $42, what can you expect. I am happy for the private bathroom. 

I charge my dying phone enough in the hopes of lasting a visit to the New Taj Mahal restaurant, Apotec pharmacy, and Meny supermarket and back. 

At a few minutes to 1pm, I reached the Indian restaurant. It doesn’t open till 2pm, contradicting the GPS’s information. So, I walk the charming cobblestone streets.  

An overweight man in his 70s with no right arm climbs a steep street carrying a bag of groceries with his left. He has to stop to catch his breath twice by the time I pass him. 

I finally land at Nach’s sandwich joint. The owner is busy unloading box after box of supplies from a rack on wheels. When he is done, he leaves the cart to block the entrance. I peek through the window and see the tiny place is empty.

“Are you open?” I asked. 

“Yep,” he responded with his back to me. 

I am about ready to leave almost a minute later when he comes and moves the cart. He doesn’t look me in the eye or smile. But walked directly behind the cash register.

I order a Philly Steak sandwich and a soft drink. I pay. And he disappears behind the grill. I sit and pick up in the novel where I left off last night. 

After five minutes he sits a basket with the sandwich and one napkin. There are no napkins on the table (only one big table in the shop) or on the counter. 

A delivery man struggles with two more large wheeled racks of supplies as gravity pulls them down the hill outside the shop. He is losing the battle. I start to run and help him when the owner rushes out and grabs onto a rack. 

This could be the best PSS, I have ever eaten. It is delicious. I don’t know if you have ever had a PSS or not, but I can tell you: One napkin is not enough. 

I want to ask him for a couple more napkins, but the owner is engrossed in his deliveries. And he has yet to look me in the eye or smile. 

When I leave, I amble around the downtown. I buy some hand cream in a pharmacy because the rash on my hands is worse than before. Not as bad as it was in Vietnam, but still bad. I didn’t use gloves today, hoping that would help. 

Then, I go Meny’s supermarket and buy a few items for the night. There is no kitchen, so I buy a small bowl discounted hot pasta for an evening meal, which will be cold by the time I am hungry again. Only $4. What a bargain. 

At the room, I shower and then spend two hours trying to book a train ticket to Bodo above the Arctic Circle, but it won’t accept either one of my credit cards. I call both banks in the US, but they say the charges have not been rejected. So, I give up.

In the meantime, two AirBNB hosts do not respond to my requests. So I book an apartment on Booking.com for $92 including tax. But when I ask if I can check in earlier than the 4pm standard check in time, they respond that 2pm is the earliest, but I have to pay a $20 fee. Then, they send me a notification that I have to verify my ID (for my own protection) by going online, showing my passport, and letting them take a photo of me, and all kinds of other requirements. 

By now, it is after 6pm, and I am frustrated. This is no fun. These are the hassles that frustrate me in the US. And elsewhere. 

So, I calm myself by eating my cold pasta, drinking my tepid Pepsi Max, and reading. The book just keeps getting better, but by 7:30pm, I can’t keep my eyes open. I know that going to sleep early will lead to waking up early, and there is no advantage to that. I can’t check in early at the next place…

I am asleep a few minutes after 8pm. 

Huitfeldts gate 1, Tønsberg, Vestfold og Telemark 3116 ($42/night)