Category: Finland

Day 35: Turku, Finland (34 miles, 751 total miles, 761 foot incline)

11 July 2024: Thursday 

Good news! My iPad software has been successfully updated! Things are going my way.

Race against the rain! 

On my last riding day, I am once again racing against the clock. Here in Salo, it is supposed to start raining around 8am or so. Where I am headed, the chances of rain are even better and only increase throughout the day. 

So, I set my alarm for 4:30am and hope to be out the door at 6am. The more miles I can cover before the rain starts, the drier and less miserable I will be. 

I booked a cabin room in the MS Bore, a passenger ship build in 1960, that remains intact. It was about half price of everything else down near the harbor, where I hope to catch the ferry Friday morning. 

I eased Heidi out of the room, down the dark hall, through the door to the stairwell, dropped my key in the black key box, and accompanied her down a flight of stairs and eventually out of the bottom floor bar and into the street. 

It was a pretty day, although slightly overcast. At 6:05 am, I started peddling west.

I love this time of the day, while most of the city was sleeping, I could enjoy the solitude of the streets. A woman rushed in her car past me and turned into the parking lot of the city mall, perhaps a few minutes late to work. A bakery or coffee shop or maintenance. 

Knowing I had good sized hills ahead and the threat of rain, I pushed hard. I always push hard, but today there was no let up. My heart rate raced and my lungs pumped at capacity. Even then, when I stopped for breathers, they were short. A minute or less. Even though I had three cups of Nescafé 3-1 in the room before leaving, each time I passed a convenience store, and I considered a dark roast elixir. But I knew that if I stopped for 10 minutes, that delay could result in 10 additional minutes of dreadful peddling in miserable conditions. 

So, I peddled on. Not really furiously, but intentional. Tiny stops, pressing hard when I wanted to stop. Pumping my legs more steadily at a more rapid pace. On big hills, I either made it to the top exhausted and pressed on, or I stopped midway up for 30 seconds and then peddled on. Sometimes I stopped a second time to repeat. Often at the top, instead of the usual rest, I peddled on.

After the first hour, I stopped straddling Heidi to check my distance. I had covered 13 miles. A fantastic pace for me. With 15 pounds on my back and 15 in the saddle bags, I had done well. But my energy was already diminishing. Like a wind up toy, my speed was gradually decreasing the longer I peddled. 

The sky was hinting at rain. So I peddled on. At times the wind was to my back. Today’s ride was not a leisure trip, laid out to enjoy lakes and landmarks, but a journey to cover 34 miles as quickly as my old legs could, to perform at a higher pace in order to avoid the miserable conditions of riding in the rain. 

A 9:05 am, just two hours into the journey, I had covered 24 miles, achieving 12 mph. To put this in perspective, Google Maps estimates time on a route at an average speed on a bicycle at 12 mph. So, Google calculates that the average person should be able to ride long distances, averaging 12 mph, regardless of terrain—gravel road, dirt path, blacktop, no matter. Regardless of incline. Karen does not differentiate between the hills of Tennessee and the flat desert of Arizona. Road and weather conditions are also ignored. Rain, hard headwinds, road construction, cities with stoplights. None of that matters to the GPS application. The average cyclist should be able to do 12 mph across the board. This information is probably calculated using hundreds of thousands of data points, cyclists who punch in their start and end points, and complete their journeys accordingly. 

But I have never achieved more than 10 mph on any trip, I don’t think. For every one of us old codgers who average 8 mph across long distances carrying 30 pounds of weight, there is a younger cyclist who averages 16 mph with no baggage. And I have met a few men my age who average 12 mph across long distances with baggage. 

That last ten miles was pretty flat. Traffic had picked up, and as I entered town there were more pedestrians, cyclists, and stoplights. But I pressed hard still. I caught most stoplights green. And when I did stop, I crossed as soon as the traffic permitted. 

Suddenly, I was downtown. Sprinkles began tapping my hands and spotting the blacktop, but it never worked up to a shower. I crossed Aura River on a wide pedestrian bridge and headed west along the shore, enjoying the last couple miles of the journey. Like the other Finnish cities, downtown along the river was beautiful. 

At 8:50 am, I had achieved my best travel time for any trip: 12 mph. Average for the global population of cyclists requiring Google Maps to plot a long distance course, but a superb velocity for me. 

To make matters better, when I pushed Heidi up the gang plank and into the lobby of the ship, the young receptionist told me that my room was ready. At 9am? No additional charge? 

I eased Heidi down to the lower deck and locked her up in a huge conference room used for storing bicycles and other items. 

Cabin 261 was tiny. Perhaps the tiniest yet, or at least in the running. I showered, put the sheet on the tiny bed and the duvet cover on the twin duvet. I wanted nothing more than to lay down and nap. But the chances of rain were only increasing. 

So, I tramped off in search of a coffee mug for my wife. My legs were sore, my back was sore, and blisters were beginning to form on my feet. 

About 20 minutes into the trip, a bare-chested drunken man in his 40s stumbled—quite literally—across my path. His shirt hung at his waist, still tucked into his pants. He swayed from one side of the sidewalk when I first saw him to the other side and was headed back when I passed. He said something in Finnish, but naturally I couldn’t make out what it was. 

Some 1.6 miles away northeast of the MS Bore, I found a tiny souvenir stall in Turku Market Hall, a divine red brick food mall constructed in 1896. While I was there, I treated myself to Bun Rieu, a Vietnamese soup with shrimp and chicken balls. 

So that I wouldn’t have to carry my supplies far, I decided on a Sale supermarket that was one block on the other side of the MS Bore. In other words, 1.7 miles away. But it was a pretty walk, most of it along the shore, where I could see all the moored sail boats, ships, riverside outdoor restaurants, pedestrians and cyclists. Naturally, there were plenty of electric scooterists as well, swooping in and around foot traffic. An old woman accompanying an older woman with a walker. Parents pushing their kids in strollers. Older couple holding hands. The squawks of seagulls overhead. A pair of bored shore patrol men sitting on a bench, keeping peace. 

Given my recent record-breaking pace, I decided to reward myself with an ice cream. I asked the young blond-haired woman who made my medium blizzard like concoction why the Finnish people were the happiest in the world.

She suddenly became shy. Was that a shade of red in her cheeks I noticed?

“I don’t agree with that… I have been to other places (countries) where people are more talkative, more friendly. I think they are happier,” she said. Then with some additional thought, she added, “But maybe it’s because of the Finnish attitude.” She went on to explain that no matter how bad things get, Finns know they can resolve it. 

So, I surmised, nothing is ever really that bad. 

She may be on to something. But keeping an optimistic attitude, no matter what problem arises, we can still smile because we know it is all relative. 

Internet gets shut off from non-payment, crap! But I’ll get it turned back on when I get my next pay check. Some jerk scraped my new car with his door at the supermarket, well, OK. It is not the end of the world. Failed Chemistry? Well I gotta work harder. 

We all know that the fear of some calamity is almost always worse than the calamity itself. 

Yes, attitude can overcome a lot of adversity. 

My legs were sore and my back was hurting, so I sat and ate the blizzard while watching a tiny orange ferry pick up pedestrians and cyclists on one side of the Aura and carry them to the other. The closes bridge was perhaps eight blocks away, so it made sense why this ferry functioned. I was not sure whether it was free or there was a modest fee. 

After purchasing a few items at Sale, I trudged back to the MS Bore, up the steel grate gang plank, and up one deck to the cafe. They had small pre-made pizzas to heat up so I would not have to leave the ship till morning. 

Down three decks, I entered the room, only slightly anxious until I found all of my belongings were in the exact state of disarray I had left them. I was grateful that I had made my bed before departing because I closed the curtain over the port hole and crashed.

The nap didn’t last longer than 30 minutes. 

I read Wool, the first of the Silo trilogy that became a TV series on Apple. Around 3pm, I went upstairs and ordered a small Feta Cheese personal pizza. It was exactly like it looked: Lack luster. I stomached a cup of stale coffee and a piece of Rocky Road, that was a thick chocolate bar with peanuts and marshmallows added before it cooled. It was not terribly good either. 

It felt so good to dissolve in my cabin into a bunk potato and read. At about 154 pages, I was nodding off. So I relented. 

It had been a good day, accomplishing all that I had set out to do when I awoke at 4:30 am, beat the rain, made 12 mph over 34 miles of hilly terrain, purchased the Finland cup that I feared I would forget, and lest we forget, I ate a crappy premade Feta Cheese personal pizza and drank an overcooked pot of coffee. 

MS Bore (Laivahostel) ($85/night, I think)

Linnankatu 72, Turku, 20100 Finland 

Day 36: Ferry to Stockholm (1 mile, 752 total miles)

12 July 2024: Friday

Finnish Line!

Mild anxiety woke me before my alarm went off. After three cups of instant coffee in the room, I packed up everything and headed to the restaurant which had just opened for breakfast. The coffee wasn’t much good, but I had a cup. The selection for breakfast wasn’t much good, but I had some ham, cheese, and a hard bun before cleaning my plate into the trash and storing my dirty dishes at the appropriate station. 

I gathered my bags, connected them to Heidi, and pushed her outdoors. The GPS took me .6 miles, but I couldn’t find the car entrance to Viking Lines ferries. I stopped and asked a group of young Africans from Nigeria. One tall young man of maybe 25 years of age offered to walk me 30 meters to a clearing in the parking lot where he could indicate the route to go. 

I shook his hand and peddled away. 

“Maybe I will see you on the ship,” he said, apparently a ferry worker.

Just ahead I encountered a woman in her early 30s and her 12 year old son. They were headed to the same ferry, so for the next block or so, they rode behind me hoping I had a clue where I was going.

Finally, the pathway led to a road that crossed a train track and into the vehicle entrance. 

After showing my ticket, I followed the mother and son to a small suspended steel roof where cyclists waited. This was the first one I had encountered on my four ferry rides. A really good idea to protect from the sun and rain. But today, it was dry. 

Several other cyclists arrived. One couple my age. A few young men. And several parents with their children. 

The Finnish boy from earlier was excited. He had never travelled on a ferry before, much less by bicycle. To expend his energy, his mother had him run a series of sprints across a distance of 15 feet and back. This reminded my of my grandson. So, I challenged the boy to a race. 

Naturally, I cheated and started early and cut the distance to the Finnish Line (pun intended), and the boy objected in Finnish. But I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t hardly catch my breath. The other cyclists were laughing as well. I raced him one more time, and he beat me. But I was still laughing. 

The mother told me they had stayed with family last night, but she and her son were from Helsinki. I told her I had come from Salo the afternoon before. She asked me where I spent the night. 

On the MS Bore, I told her. 

She said, “Yes, we saw that ship and he said, ‘I don’t ever want to stay there.’”

When asked why she thought Finnish people were the happiest in the world, she said, “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because we keep to ourselves.” Finns don’t get too involved in each other’s lives and problems. “Then again, we have a lot of suicides.”

Indeed in the 1990s, Finland had one of the highest suicide rates in the world, about 30 deaths per 100,000 citizens. Today, as a result of a concerted effort, Finland has been able to cut that rate to 13 per 100,000 people. The highest alcohol dependency per capita is awarded to Russia with 16.29 % of men and 2.58% of women. Norway is 13th with 9.05% of men and 2.55% of women. UK comes in at 33rd with 6.42% of men and 1.52% of women, followed by Finland 34th (6.39% men and 1.17% women) and Sweden 35th (6.32% men and 2.27% women). The US is 46th at 5.48 % men and 1.92% women.

After boarding, I locked Heidi up and headed to the cabin, but they were blocked off, only opened after we set sail. So I went up stairs and secured a table by the window and left all my bags in a chair, where I could almost see them from the cashier.

I bought a croissant with sweet pistachio butter in the center, the color of, but a lighter texture than, peanut butter. It was divine. 

I went to the room, read, and then napped for 20 minute.

Around 11 am, I went up to an upper deck and ordered a cheeseburger and fries. I ate while I read, enjoying the beautiful weather and view of the Finnish Archipelago. 

Some Southeast Asians came and cleared three tables around me. A Buddhist monk with glasses about my age sat at one table by himself. He wore deep orange robe wrapped with a scarf of a slighter orange color. He was watching something on his iPad. Later an Asian woman brought his basket of food, kneeled down in front of him, and offered the basket over her bowed head to the monk.

When I got up to leave, I saw two more monks sitting at the other tables by themselves. One was wearing a robe and the other orange western clothes (wash day?).

I really enjoyed the 10-hour journey. I read much deeper in Wool, savoring each page. So infrequently do I feel I have the luxury to dedicate to reading.  

At the end of the trip, I went down to the vehicle deck and prepared Heidi. Christian had texted me. He was outside in the parking lot. 

Giu, a Brazilian cyclist in his 20s who lived in Finland struck up a conversation. He was loaded with saddle bags on the front forks, back forks, and throughout the frame. He easily had three times as much weight as me although he explained that he couldn’t carry a backpack. In fact, when I told him that I probably averaged 30 or 35 miles per day, he said he couldn’t do that much because of a bad knee.

Giu started a tiny NGO to prevent violence, had worked in Africa, but without a college degree, he didn’t qualify for funding. His Finnish was not good enough to study in Finland, so he was headed to the Netherlands where he would study Psychology in English. 

I was so happy to see Christian. It seemed like months since I had left him in Granna, Sweden although it was only a matter of a few weeks. We drove to the Comfort Hotel Express, where I had left Heidi’s bike bag. I went in and retrieved it from the luggage room exactly where I left it. Then we drove the 2.5 hours to Odeshog, stopping to eat a Max cheeseburger about halfway.

If you are ever in Sweden, you have to try one.

Arriving at Christian’s house around 11:30 pm, I was happy to see all three kids were awake. Perhaps they were waiting for me. I am not sure. 

But we played a game of Ludo. Esther won. It was approaching 1 am when I finally fell asleep. 

Viking Line Ferry 

Ensimmäinen Linja, 20100 Turku ($65 including a cabin)

Day 33: Lohja, Finland (27 miles, 678 total miles, 919 foot incline)

9 July 2024: Tuesday

One morning in 5th or 6th grade—probably 1972 or so—I was delivering papers on bike before school in Brownstown, Indiana. Snoopy, my white dog, was accompanying me like he sometimes did, wandering ahead or trailing behind to sniff out a squirrel or find the perfect spot to urinate. As we reached busy highway 50 at the hill near what eventually would become the Candlelight tavern, he ambled off into the middle of the highway, standing on the center line looking back in my direction. As if unfolding in slow motion, I watch a semi coming up the hill sound his air horn in an attempt to warn Snoopy off the road. Unfortunately, it scared my dog to take three or four steps backward right into the path of an oncoming car. With no time to react, the vehicle passed over Snoopy, knocking his head to the ground and spinning him over and over trapped under the bottom of the car as if in the bowels of some sinister machine designed to torture small animals. 

When Snoopy came out the other side, I ran to him, and picked him up. He bit me out of pain, but I ignored it and carried him to the side of the road and laid him gently in the grass. He looked up at me in horror, pleading for me to help him. 

But we were poor. None of our pets had ever seen a veterinarian, I don’t think. Somehow he managed to get to his feet and make it home. Fortunately, he lived many more years, faithfully protecting me and my family. A loyal companion that never judged me for my many shortcomings. 

When we moved to Vallonia, he moved with us. When we moved back to the house on N. High Street, across from the funeral home, he came along. Around 8th grade, we moved to Hillview Trailer Park. Naturally, we brought him, but one day he wondered back across that very same Highway 50, likely at that very same spot where he was injured three years earlier, and returned to the vacant house on N High Street. He made his way inside the house and into my mother’s bedroom. He was always an outdoor dog, so we never brought him inside. But perhaps he was just following scents. 

Some weeks later, he was found in her bedroom with the door closed. Someone, perhaps some kid was in there smoking or exploring, and they felt threatened or were just being mean. In any case, he died of starvation and dehydration. 

I was sad for a long time over the loss of Snoopy, like we all are as teens, losing a family pet. 

I am reminded of this story because my granddaughter just messaged me from Indiana, telling me that one of her kittens was run over by a car. So, I told her about Snoopy. 

When I left Aseem’s apartment around 9:30 am, I met Bashir from Morocco. He wore a long, red beard, shaved over and under his mouth to the chin. He was friendly and we chatted for just a minute. He was on his way to work, I suppose, and I needed to get on the road to my next destination: Lohja. 

The day was beautiful, sunny, and warm at 62 degrees. This was actually perfect riding weather. Most of today’s route was along rural country highways. The first 18 miles or so were hilly, mostly along Highway 110. At times, Tennessee rolling hills, each one steeper than the one before. 

I peddled through many construction sites, past birch forests, and over hill after hill. 

At Nummenkyla, a repair shop shares a building complex with a defunct gas station and convenience store. Here is also where I depart Highway 110 and turn southwest on Highway 25.

Immediately, I spotted the Myllarin Grilli, a tiny food truck permanently perched on Iso Myllylampi (Big Mill Pond), which is really a lake. I parked Heidi between two picnic tables and ordered a hotdog with catsup and mustard and a tiny Coke Zero in a plastic bottle. 

When you twist off the cap of plastic bottle in Scandinavia, the cap remains tethered to the rim. It was annoying for the first several weeks, and I usually ripped them off, upset that the damn European manufacturers didn’t know how to manufacture a bottle cap. Two days ago, I read that the tethered bottle caps are intentional manufacturing design, responding to an EU regulation. In 2016, a clean up campaign along a North Dutch Shore found 128 caps per kilometer. As a result, an EU law went into effect in 2024, mandating tethered bottle caps. 

The young lady looked out the window to notify me that my hotdog with catsup and mustard was ready. But when I went over to pick it up, I realized the hotdog was wrapped in paper, but had no bun. Typically, the cashiers ask you if you want a bun or not before ringing up your order. I reckon sole hotdogs with catsup and mustard squeezed into a paper are quite popular here.

“I want a bun,” I told her. 

“It will be more,” she responded.

“That’s OK,” I told her. “Give me two of them.” I could tell that Heidi wanted one. Her frame has gotten as skinny as a rail.

She asked if I wanted relish, and I said, Yes. 

In the lake, I saw a large woman in her 60s swimming off a dock. In the distance I saw what appeared to be a huge inflatable Viking raft, but it could have been a unicorn raft or a My Little Pony raft. 

After going to all that trouble, Heidi refused to eat her hotdog, so I had to eat it. 

This next section of the road was smooth peddling. Almost no breeze, mostly flat, and on a good blacktop bike path. I really enjoyed it.

As I reached Lohja proper, it started to sprinkle. Naturally, a forecast of zero percent rain did not preclude mist, sprinkles, or even showers. The farther along I got, the evidence of a harder shower grew more and more clear. 

After getting turned around in downtown Lohja, I peddled up to a crosswalk button on a sidewalk. Part of the time, cyclists ride on sidewalks, part of the time on bike paths or trails, part of the time on designated bike lanes on streets and roads, and the remainder of the time on blacktop roads with no space at all. 

As I maneuvered to push the button, I noticed a lady in her 70s walking in my direction with the help of walker suddenly, but slowly, deviate from my direction. Although she was 20 feet from me, she feared I was going to run her over. When she realized that I had come to a stop and pressed the button, she smiled and joined me at the edge of the curb.

She proceeded to tease me in Finnish about our unusual encounter. When I told her, “English?” she shook her head. 

Suddenly, a tall man in his forties rode past on a particularly loud moped. She mocked him by imitating the noise of his scooter, “Putt, putt, putt…” 

A man her age arrived with is his own walker. They became so engaged in a conversation that they didn’t notice when the Walk light turned green. 

“Here we go,” I said to get their attention.

“Bye-bye,” I yelled as I peddled off.

“Bye-bye,” she yelled.

A few miles ahead, I found the apartment. Minna, the landlord, was actually on the street, leaving for doctor’s appointment she’d told me about.

She turned around and led me to the apartment. Showed me where to store my bike, waited while I locked Heidi up and removed the saddleback, and led me upstairs to the apartment. 

“My son just woke up,” Minna said. “He is taking a shower… He was waiting on you… He is 16… He is a good person.” 

She called through the bathroom door, “Mishka…” which I learned was short for Mikhail. 

Minna departed, and I began sorting my gear. I was really too sweaty too sit down in any of the chairs inside, so I sat on the balcony. 

Mishka greeted me and I returned to the hallway between his room and mine. 

Not really knowing what to say, I asked, “So you are 16?”

“Yes.”

“I have a granddaughter 16,” I added.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized that I had just rocked this teen’s world. I was sure he was thinking:

What are the odds? I’m 16. This guy standing in my hallway has a 16-year-old granddaughter. I’d have a better chance of winning the Finnish lottery or of getting drafted by the Indiana Fever or of meeting Justin Bieber eating a hot dog without a bun at the local food wagon than meeting an American with a 16-year-old granddaughter.

He told me that he would like to visit the United States, but it was very expensive.

To that, I added, “It is really nice.”

Again, I could read Mishka’s mind.

Now this guy can make conversation. Throw this old man into any awkward social situation with any 16-year-old English speaker in the world, and watch this guy perform his magic. 

After rocking Mishka’s world, I noticed my camel pack was leaking water all over the bedroom. That’s when my training kicked in.

“Mikhail,” I yelled. When he appeared, I told him I needed a towel or a mop or something. Meanwhile, I removed the throw rug and positioned it on the balcony where the wet edge could dry out. I took the towel that Mishka gave me, and without hesitation, I tossed it on the on the floor and dried up the excess water. I put the backpack in the sink. 

All the while, Mishka must have been thinking: 

Wait! What! This guy must be a Navy Seal or something. He just flew into action without any thought to his own safety, or any planning, he knew what do to. A true act of heroism. I hope when I reach 64 years old, my instincts are even half as good as his… Shoot, who am I kidding. That’s never gonna happen.

At the supermarket 600 meters away, I loaded up on the necessities, like Pepsi Max with a tethered cap, sausages, buns, and relish. I walked across the bridge over Lohjianjarvi Lake back to the apartment and passed Birch, Maple, and what looked like Russian Olive Trees. I washed clothes again and made four sausages. Ate two. Napped. Woke up and ate the other two. I ate some fruit, some yogurt. Then around 9pm, I was out for the count.

It had been a good day! I had motivated a young Finn—I like to think of him as Huck—to go out in the world and explore the world, ride down the Mississippi River, Huck, if you ever make it to the US, and be the very best version of yourself that you can be.

Salmenmäentie 1 B 10, Lohja, 08350, $79/tax) Finland

Day 34: Salo, Finland (39 miles, 717 total miles, 1060 foot incline)

10 July 2024: Wednesday

My trip today is 39 miles and up an incline of about 1060 feet. Just to change things up, I booked a cheap room at Rock Hotel in downtown Salo. More than anything, I wanted to see how the Salo Finns rock. 

I set my alarm an hour earlier, made coffee, ate yogurt, granola, and grapes for breakfast, washed dishes, cleaned up the mess, folded my air dried clothes, and packed everything up. 

I was so proud of myself for getting packed and out the door at 8:30 am, a half an hour earlier than planned. But I had not ridden a block till I realized that I left my helmet locked up in the apartment. I called Minna but she didn’t answer.

 

Shit!

Faced with waiting an hour or so till she woke up, I thought about riding ahead until I found a bike shop, where I could purchase a new helmet. In fact, I had started looking up bike shops on my route when Minna wrote me a message. Forty-five minutes later, she arrived. 

I am still a little divided on tomorrow. Turku, my final destination for the Finland leg is supposed to see rain all day. If I could reach there Thursday afternoon, I could catch the 8:45 am ferry to Stockholm on Friday morning, arrive at 6:30 pm on Friday evening. 

I would like to go ahead and book a cabin on the ferry for the 11 hour journey. But the threat of rain is giving me pause. Mist, I can ride in. Downpours are dangerous and painful. Spending an extra day in Salo may make sense, but right now they are predicting rain until about noon on Saturday. 

No sooner had I left the apartment, than I almost fell off the bike at a stop. I hopped, hopped, hopped on one leg while holding Heidi up. Then the first of many hills began. There were lakes on the left, lakes on the right, and hills everywhere in between. 

Then, I hit a gravel road. I didn’t like it at all. It brought back memories of my crash in Arizona six months ago. 

When I spotted an old woman, slightly order than me, perhaps, pushing her bike up a steep gravel hill. I asked her how long the gravel lasted. She told me 4 or 5 kilometers. I thanked her and then proceeded down that hill with extreme caution. 

The hills were steep and gravel loose, making each decline a stiff and arduous adventure in itself, balancing left-front brake and right-back brake to keep my velocity low, maybe 4 or 5 mph. But climbing them typically involved my dismounting and pushing Heidi up, sometimes stopping once or twice to catch my breath. It is times like these that I really feel my 64 years. Do I really have any business out here? 

When I found a mossy boulder with no weeds around it, I laid Heidi down and rested for four or five minutes. My first rest stop.

Then back on the gravel until I hit blacktop. 

The blacktop was equally hilly, but the hills were more gradual, more manageable by peddling in low gears. Finally, I found a restaurant at a tiny lake. I stopped and went inside trying to find a sausage. But they only had full meals. It was close to noon, but I didn’t want a full meal. So, I drank a Coke Zero and got back on Heidi and peddlede away.

My legs began to burn almost immediately. I slowed my pace a little, trying to progress always down the hill and up the next. They didn’t stop. About halfway, out in the middle of open fields, I found another Grilli in a red and white wooden shack. 

Inside, I ordered a makkara (sausage). The old lady, maybe 75 or 80 years old, who owned and ran the kitchen suffered from a stooped back from decades spent bent over the grill, taking and filling orders. When I asked her how long she had been running the grilli, she smiled like a teen, timidly and modestly admitting her accomplishments. 

“Thirty-nine years,” she said. She seemed genuinely happy.

I sat outside and ate a very, very good sausage. 

A gray-haired woman got out of a parked car, leaving her husband in AC. She approached me, asking for directions in Finnish as she walked. 

“I only speak English,” I said.

She waved me off. “Well, you wouldn’t know.”

The man opposite me was Finnish, and he gave her directions.

I was completely worn out by the time I reached the tiny city of Salo. The ride along the Uskelanjoki River was beautiful, in and of itself worth the journey. I crossed the bridge and found the Rock Hotel immediately. This hard, hilly, and sweaty ride of 39 miles had taken me six hours, just under 7 mph. 

I pushed Heidi up the steps into the Rock Hotel bar, got my key, and pushed her up one more flight to my room. I was too tired to shower, but too stinky to go outside as I was. 

I showered and put on some clean clothes and did something I don’t think I had done since Sweden: I walked to a restaurant and ordered a meal. I welcomed the wait at the Rikata, the riverside restaurant, enjoying the warm weather and the atmosphere. 

I loved the burger and fries. The waitress delivered a huge glass bottle of ice water. 

After the meal, I walked to a grocery store, bought a few things, and went back to the room.

Rain or no rain, I made my decision. I couldn’t delay another day in this room, hoping it wouldn’t rain. I would mitigate the risk by waking up early and departing the hotel by 6am. That gave me the best chances of minimizing the misery of riding during a downpour, according to the forecasts for Salo and my final destination, Turku. 

I booked a room at the MS Bore, a passenger ship built in 1960, that used to ferry people to and from Stockholm for the 10 or 12 hour journey back then. 

By 9pm, I was asleep. 

Rock Hotel Salo ($75 incl tax)

5 Asemakatu Rock Hotel, Salo, 24100

Day 31: Depart Stockholm on Viking Ferry to Helsinki (2 miles, 635 total miles)

7 July 2024: Sunday

In the middle of the night, a cramp gripped my left foot. I sat up and massaged it. The Charley Horse intensified and moved through the foot, like an alien invader struggling to escape the flesh. The spasm worked its way from the arch, across the instep, and onto the ball while mangling the bridge and spreading out into toes. The spasm was at once all over the foot, like a boa constrictor, squeezing relentlessly, before taking up residence in the bridge. I stood up and tried to stretch it, then to walk on it, then I sat on the bed and massaged it, bending it one way, and then another. All these techniques had worked in the past. But not this time.

White Sox baseball players in the 1880s named these intense muscle spasms after a grounds keeper’s horse named Charley. 

Boa Constrictor more aptly describes last night’s monster foot cramp. I have never had a single cramp to last more than 30 seconds, nor a series of cramps longer than a couple minutes. But this one lasted seven or eight minutes and did not relent; it just moved around, torturing me. Nothing I could do—massaging, stretching, walking—reduced its strength. I caught my reflection in the mirror, one of agony.

Even after laying back down, the foot felt stiff and inflexible. But I fell asleep easily. An hour or so later, a Boa wrapped itself around my right foot. But after massaging it, the spasm stopped, not lasting more than a minute.

I am thinking that a combination of not stretching before a bike ride or after a ride, nor during a 34-hour train trip, has contributed to this boa. I must do better at stretching. 

After checking out around noon and the staff storing my bike in their offices, I walked down to the supermarket inside the train station. I bought a few things and then stopped at some hamburger joint decorated with 1950s and 60s highway paraphernalia. The meal was really bad, or really blah. I walked back to the hotel and read. 

It was only a little after 1pm and the last arrival time at the ferry was 3pm. The ride was only 15 minutes according to Karen. I booked an apartment 15 miles west of Helsinki for tomorrow night. Already it was time to wash clothes again. Soon I got so sleepy because I still hadn’t caught up from the train trip.

Finally, I asked for my bike and about 1:45 pm, I headed through town on Heidi. The city was beautiful on this warm, lazy Sunday afternoon. The temperature had reached about 62 degrees by this time. The restaurants were full. Locals were strolling about. Tourists were taking photos. Cyclists were riding. Joggers were exercising. I saw one woman running while wearing a weight vest. She was probably training for a triathlon, marathon, Toyota-thon, or some other-athon. 

The fingers of Saltsjon Bay reach well into the city. I rode along one of those fingers, tracing it over a bridge, through a park, along a canal, down the middle of considerable construction, until I reached the Viking Line Ferry. 

Across the bay was an amusement park with four towering lift rides, three roller coasters, and other rides. 

I parked behind a group of Finnish motorcyclists. All were retirees or near. One looked like he was bringing his granddaughter. Most were smoking. 

Heidi and I were standing right along the Gabriella, our ship that will cover 270 miles over the next 16 hours. 

Over in the last line were a group of antique cars: Chryslers, Plymouths, an El Dorado, a Corvette, a Buick, and others. I went over and took several photos and sent them to my father and asked him if he could name the make and model. He told me that he probably could, and even could get close on the years, but he was busy right now, eating breakfast before going off to church. 

I am so blessed to still have my father in my life. 

The bicycles and motorcycles were nearly the last to board. There is only a certain place they let us park, toward the very front of the vessel. And they had to fill up the hold before we could enter because they loaded from the bow, in other words, we entered the front of the ship at Stockholm and were going to depart through the stern, or back. On my other two ferry rides on this Scandinavian adventure, we were always the first on and first off. 

My little cabin 6603 on the 6th level was perfect. No windows, because I was too tight to pay the additional costs. I was just going to read and sleep and shower, I figured. So why pay double? (I never checked the additional cost).

I streamed something, but got very sleepy again. I knew I should eat something and I needed drinkable water, so I walked up to the 7th, 8th, and 9th decks to look around. The place was loud with kids running in all directions, each with a cellphone in their hands. They were loud and excited, cutting in front of people, laughing and shouting. Just being kids.

When I walked to the starboard side to get the view, the electric doors slid open automatically. A boy of about 9 years old ran inside. At first, I thought that he had inadvertently been left behind by his buddies or his parents. Figured, I was doing my good deed of the day just by stepping outside and allowing him to enter.

Immediately, I saw his father, who turned around and realized his son had run off. He turned to the teen daughter and asked her in Swedish where the her brother went. 

I explained that he had run just inside. The father tasked the girl with running after him, but she couldn’t get the electric doors to open. I couldn’t see how to operate it either. Then I saw the button, pushed it, and the doors opened. 

Off starboard rested a beautiful, verdant island. We were working our way through the archipelago. The father came up to me. He was thin, about 40 years old or so. He had a friendly demeanor about him. 

“Have you taken this ferry before?” he asked.

“No,” I told him.

“I trained there.” He pointed to an abandoned military base. It looked more like modern buildings and older, sturdy apartments. 

“I love watching this every time I take the trip.”

“Nice,” I said.

“I lived there for a year… They closed it about ten years ago,” he said.

“Wow,” I said, keeping up my side of the conversation. 

Then he pointed to the straight of water behind us. 

“When Sweden fought the war with Russia, Sweden put ships all across there to prevent Russia from crossing. That’s why they built this base.”

“Nice,” I said again. He was getting the very best of my conversational skills at 5:30pm as my energy was depleting. Like a battery-operated flashlight, dimly casting the last of its light on a bright day.

The former Swedish soldier left without a word to go find his kids who hadn’t returned. 

I bought a salad and a bottle of water at a coffee shop and went back to the room. I read, ate, and by about 6:10 pm, I fell asleep in the top bunk, too tired to shower.

Viking Line Ferry to Helsinki ($220 for cabin and 16-hour ferry ride)

Stadsgården Tegelvikshamn, 11630 Stockholm

Day 32: Espoo, Finland (16 miles, 651 total miles)

8 July 2024: Monday

Twice in the middle of the night, I woke up and could hear the stampede of little feet racing down the hall. I could feel the gentle rocking of the ship, but the kids didn’t seem to mind. I wish I could have brought all of my grandkids on this ferry trip. They would have loved it.

And as I near the end of my trip, I miss the kids and grandkids more than ever. I am enjoying this adventure, new experiences every day, but I will be happy to return home, return to the family, raising the kids with all of the headaches and blessings that go along with it. Back to work. Likely my last full year abroad. I am winding down. But doing so on top of my game. I am mentoring and coaching and team building better than I have throughout my entire career. I love my job, love my life, love my family, friends, and colleagues (well, most of them). Love where I am at this stage in my life. 

After the attacks in Iraq, I returned to work on a civil society project, first as a Human Rights and Anti-Corruption advisor, then later as DCOP (deputy director). It was at a time that counter-insurgents had stepped up their attacks on just about everyone, but Al-Qaeda loved to attack American and allied-vehicles with IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devises). We rode in armored vehicles that would largely protect us from small arms fire and indirect damage caused by an IED. But nothing protected you from a car bomb: A vehicle laden with 1000 pounds of explosives and steel designed to rip through an armored vehicle like shredding rice paper. The terrorists had gotten really good at timing the detonations as target vehicles passed. I had read about the driver of a dump truck loaded with explosives being handcuffed to the steering wheel so that he couldn’t change his mind while another terrorist followed behind at a safe distance in a second vehicle with his finger on a Nokia cell phone linked to the explosive device on the truck. The truck pulled up beside a convoy and detonated. The driver was blown outside of the front windshield and landed on the hood still handcuffed to the steering wheel. The closest convoy vehicle was ripped to shreds. Another strategy was for car bombs to ram into the side of a vehicle. But we were most vulnerable pulling into a checkpoint, waiting to enter the Green Zone. The car in front or behind us could merely detonate. We waited in a state of heightened anxiety and dread for ten to 15 minutes at times while the American soldiers cleared us. So many Iraqi and American service members had lost their lives to car bombs while checking vehicles at the gates to the Green Zone, that a new policy was in place for Americans to check our credentials (a pass stuck in the front window) with binoculars from a safe distance behind blast walls. 

Our South African security advisor told me about a new conically-shaped charge that was planted on or near the ground, designed by terrorists to shoot up into the underside of an armored vehicle. He told me that one had recently killed a driver and ripped the leg off of a passenger. This was my greatest fear: Suffering life-altering injury—loss of a leg, both legs, testicles—and surviving. 

I have to be honest. I was risking my life every time I travelled, which was a few times per week, to the airport, to the Green Zone and back for meetings, or wherever, but I was not willing to give my life for this cause. I believed in it. I was committed to the cause. Some of my colleagues did not survive Iraq. But I was not willing to die here. I was not willing to lose a limb or suffer a serious injury. I MUST return to my family in one piece. Non-negotiable.

The odds were high too. One day, there were 21 car bombs detonated in Baghdad. Two of them right outside our compound. A staff member brought in a piece of hot steel blown into the compound. It was still hot when he handed it to me.

So each time we left the compound, and I hopped in the armored vehicle, I was rolling the dice. Would it be today? Much against my will, my very fertile mind envisioned all of the ways that the terrorists could kill or maim me. I grabbed the plastic handhold above the door and squeezed, unconsciously breathing with a constricted chest, a python of anxiety wrapping my entire pulmonary system. For the entire 20 minute ride through the city to the Green Zone, I brace myself for the attack. Once inside, I would relax. Attend the meeting. Then again wind myself up, again squeeze the handhold, and again allow that python of anxiety to constrict my chest. 

On the Gabriella, in my cabin, I woke up at 4:30am. I could have slept more, but figured I would mosey up to the coffee shop and splurge for a good cup of coffee. The coffee shop was closed though. The blackboard sitting on the floor outside had two separate sets of open hours: One for Helsinki and one for Stockholm. I couldn’t figure out why, but knew I was hours away from getting a coffee shop coffee, so I went back to the room, ever so glad that I had the electric kettle.

When I fired up my iPad, I noticed a time discrepancy between my iPad and my iPhone. My phone was ahead by one hour. So, Finland is an hour ahead.  I transferred yesterday’s photos to the iPad. The internet had stopped working sometime well into the night. 

After three cups of instant coffee in the cabin, it was approaching 7am. I headed up to the coffee shop in hopes that they were open early. Sure enough, a man was purchasing a cup of coffee and a pastry. I bought a cup of coffee for $3.50 and a refill for $1.50. 

I sat down by the window alternately watching the open waters of the Baltic Sea, sipping my average coffee, and typing on my iPad.

It’s taken me many years to recover from that Iraq experience. From the subsequent Pakistan experience. From the Yemen experience and the Somali experience. Took me years to find the elusive ray of happiness from among the incessant storms of despair and anguish. I am so grateful to be alive and healthy. Despite the cancer, I am healthy enough to peddle a bicycle across Scandinavia and experience Nordic nature and culture. I am genuinely enjoying this seven-week adventure, enjoying my solitude, once in a life experience. What better way to spend my kids’ meager inheritance. 

My wife reminds me that I should take the same advice that I gave my grandmother: “Spend your savings on yourself… You have earned it… You don’t have to leave your kids anything…”

So, while I fight the guilt of spending our savings on trips like this, I reconcile it with my wife’s advice. 

Back at the room, I forwent the shower experience yet again, knowing full well that I reeked. I dried the kettle, stored my items into my three packs, and a little before 9am, I carried everything down to the vehicle platform. 

This overnight cruise had been a wonderful experience. Although I slept through most of it.

I peddled off the ferry with the Gulf of Finland on my right and into the streets of Helsinki, Finland.

Wow! 

Soon, I became lost in the maze of streets, bike paths, summer construction road blocks leading through 18th and 19th century imperial architecture, Nordic minimalist buildings, street cars, electric buses, and all types of pedestrians shuffling about on this Monday morning. 

I eased through Senate Square, an enormous plaza at the foot of the steps to the Helsinki Cathedral (under construction, naturally), bordered by the long Government Palace, University  of Helsinki main building, and Sederholm House. 

At least a half a dozen times, I backtracked, circled around to find myself where I had started ten or 15 minutes earlier. I didn’t mind because it was early and I only had about 16 miles to cover. And my only time constraint was Aseem, the landlord for tonight’s apartment, had commitments from 11:30 am to 2 pm. If I didn’t get the key before 11:30 am, I would be stuck outside with my bike. I needed to wash clothes again—needing as much time as possible to dry—so I needed to arrive at his apartment in time. 

Through all of my meandering over the next two hours, I did not see a single convenience store to purchase a SIM card, which I needed to contact Aseem. Even if I arrived at the apartment building on time, I had no way of informing him I had arrived. I needed the SIM card. 

So, around 11:00 am, I found a gas station, and bought a SIM card, Karelian pastry, and cup of dark roast, and sat outside at a picnic table to swap cards and activate the new plan. 

The Karelian pastry, or pirog, is a traditional Finnish pie made with a rye crust and boiled rice and corn filling. At first bite, I spit it out. I tossed the pirog and what was left of the stale coffee into the rubbish bin.

I found several messages from Aseem. He was eager to give me the key. He told me to wait there, and he would deliver the key to me on his way to his commitment. 

Who does that? While most AirBnB hosts are courteous and responsive, none in any country had ever gone out of their way to serve me like this. 

While I waited, I saw a classic vehicle, like those from the ferry. I spoke to the Finnish owners, who said they too had been on that ferry coming home from two events 400 miles of Stockholm that boasted 1000s of old cars. 

It was close to 11:30 when Aseem arrived in a bit of a rush.

“Do you have a piece of paper?” he asked.

No, I thought. I misplaced all of my three-ring binders, folders, notepads, pens, mechanical pencils, ink erasers, white out, engineering compass, and abacus. The last place I remember storing it was in my right sock. Hope it didn’t fall out.

Aseem went on to explain in detail which door I would enter for the elevator and which door I would use to store my bike. 

“Lock it up,” he said. Then he was gone.

After twisting and turning for the next 45 minutes, I came to a carpet washing station in an apartment complex. Eight or ten tenants stood outside at large basins scrubbing their throw rugs and Oriental carpets to hang on rows and rows of carpet drying racks. 

I quickly changed from my sweaty riding outfit into a pair of shorts that had only been worn once since the last wash. I walked about 1.5 miles round trip to the supermarket, bought some rotisserie chicken and potato salad and other supplies and came back.

Just a few blocks later, I came to Building 5, where I followed instructions to store Heidi and enter the apartment. 

First things first, I washed a load of clothes. I checked the WiFi, but found no instructions. I texted Aseem.

He explained the WiFi was broken, but he would deliver a temporary router as soon as he finished his assignment, but would be no sooner than 4 pm. 

I told him no problem, but was even happier that he delivered me the key. I couldn’t imagine sitting outside till 4 pm waiting to enter the apartment. 

I ate. The food was hopelessly bland. The potatoes were diced into BB-sized cubes that eluded chewing, resembling potato paste. 

I washed all my dishes and set them in the strainer in the cabinet over the sink. (Pretty cool contraption.)

About 5 pm, the clothes finished their last cycle (2 hr 58 minute wash for sports clothing), and I strung them out across the bathroom. The largest items I hung on the heated towel rack (another cool contraption.)

At 6:15 pm, Aseem texted to say he had just finished. I was so happy that he brought me the key to the gas station at 11:30 am. He showed up at the apartment around 7pm, and we spoke about world politics, India—his native country, his memory of September 11 as a high school student, and a number of other topics. He is a mature, well-read, self-effacing Finn, with one toe in South Asia and a finger on the pulse of globalization. 

Finally, around 10pm, I fell asleep. I have a big day ahead. 

Kaivomestarinkatu 5 B 20, Espoo, Uusimaa 02770, Finland ($74/night)