Guest Blog: Bike-packing Across Scandinavia at 64 (Days 3 and 4)

Day 3: Lagan, Sweden (38 miles, 106 total)

9 June 2024: Sunday

I woke up about 4 am and checked the weather. It was supposed to rain about 2 pm, so I booked a room at Lagan. Yesterday, I averaged over 7 mph, and today I hoped I could do at least 6 mph for 38 miles. There was only one hill and it was about halfway. But again, I was racing to beat the rain. 

So, I left a 7:10 am, hoping to get there by 1 pm or so before it started raining. 

I peddled and listened to music. My legs were a little stronger than the first two days. I was able to keep up a good speed and rest less frequently. 

During the summer of 1983, my brother Darren and I were driving a semi-truck across the country. His wife was pregnant with their first child, and he was trying to make some money before the baby came. I had just failed at a my first business venture, Darren had convinced me to buy a used truck try my luck at truck-driving. 

Just as we came within listening distance of a Denver radio station, “Harden my Heart” by Quarterflash began playing. The announcer said, “This is the number one song in Denver for eight weeks straight.”

Darren was driving, and I was awake in the passenger seat. We were both tired, and I was struggling to learn a new business and make ends meet. I was young, and foolish, and had committed myself to greater debt and responsibilities that I was ultimately willing to bear. But during that magical moment, I was enjoying the comfort of having Darren in the truck with me. Three years young, he was my teacher. He had the experience that I lacked. I always enjoyed spending time with him. And on this morning, I was brimming with hopeful anxiety. 

And since then, every time I hear that song, music memory brings me back to that moment. Sitting in the cab with him, enjoying the song.

So, as I peddled away this morning, Quarterflash came on the iPhone. “Harden My Heart.” I began to think about that special moment with him.

Then it began to rain. Quite hard, in fact. Over to the west, the clouds looked dark. I could either peddle faster and try to get beyond the downpour or I could find shelter. I had spotted a gas station a few blocks back. But since I was racing against the clock, I decided to peddle on, careful not to make any mistakes. On wet pavement, a mistake could be a disaster. 

But after 20 minutes, the rain stopped. My coat is not waterproof. So my arms got very wet. But the rest of me was relatively dry. I plugged on, but the 15 mph winds and 32 mph gusts kept pushing me back. At times, it was daunting. Once, while coasting down a tiny hill, I noticed the gust slowed me to an unnatural crawl.

At one point a doe crossed the road, and then a squirrel. I saw dozens of Eurasian magpies, these gorgeous black birds with white bellies and white streaks down their back.  

My first rest stop was in the town of Varnamo, about half way. Heidi was tired after climbing the biggest hill of the day, but I could have ridden on. I was making close to 10 mph. And my legs felt good. I checked the weather, but after maybe three or four minutes, I got back on Heidi and we bounced.

Just outside Varnamo, sits Lake Vidostern. I rode just west of it, first on the highway, but the wind was too strong; then on the bike and walking path, but the packed sand and gale were too challenging; so I finally steered onto a curvy lakeside road lined with trees that curbed the wind. 

I stopped and asked a woman who was walking if the road went straight through. The last thing I needed was a dead end that would cause me to backtrack. (I’ve done it before). 

“Yes, it goes on to Hanger,” she said. After I thanked her, she said, “Good luck with this wind.”

Even walking, she was dealing with it. 

But after a couple miles, I got back on the bike path. I am relatively certain that the path used to be a railroad track. In places the path is almost a levee built ten or twelve feet above the fields. And occasionally, I rode past an abandoned train stop or station, like at Hanger.

I stopped at the old train station and was going to sit on the bench when I noticed a small container-like store a block away. I rode over, and went inside. But no one was there. It was a self-serve store. I bought something and sat outside. But I started getting cold. It was 54 degrees, but I was wet and sweaty, after ten minutes, I decided to peddle on.

Just 12 miles to go! Should be easy, right? 

But this was the most difficult stretch of the day. I immediately came to an open field on either side of me. Gusts pounded me. I stopped halfway through the field to rest. Then kept going. 

Once into the tree-lined pathway, the squall subsided to nothing more than a 10-15 mph breeze. But my legs were shot. The strength and resilience that I enjoyed earlier in the day were gone. I had to peddle and coast. Peddle and coast. Stop astraddle the bike and then peddle on. Peddle hard when the wind let up, but then coast again. 

The sun came out and the temperatures rose to about 56 degrees or so. It felt good when the sun connected with my skin, my coat, my thin sweat pants. 

Because I was riding parallel to the lake, there were often bodies of water on both sides, ponds, inlets, and bogs. A huge, gray crane popped up and flew elegantly just a few feet over the path. His five-foot wingspan carried him on the heavy gusts with little effort. He stopped 100 yards ahead of me and slowly crept off the path and into the woods. 

When I arrived at the spot where he entered the woods, I found him meandering some 30 yards off the path. I watched him for about a minute and then rode on. 

Finally, I reached Lagan, averaging about 7 mph for the day. (Only 4 mph on the first day).

The Lagadalens Vardshus Hotel ($72/night) is really an inn. Outside were two bicycles and two motorcycles, one with a side car. I locked Heidi and walk through a deck with chairs and tables, where two men in their mid-60s were eating. I assumed that the motorcycles belonged to them. Crossing through the enclosed porch, I found a man reading. Down some stairs was the pub. A young man and young woman sat in the corner. Owners of the bicycles.

Anastasis, the inn keeper—a man in his 30s—was eating when I got there. It was around lunch time. I told him to go ahead and eat; I would wait.

“It’s OK. I am used to it.”

He told me I could pay after lunch. He was very friendly. He gave me a key and walked me outside and pointed to the two-story apartment building. “You can leave your bike in the lobby.” 

The rooms were very small and plain. There was a shared fridge, microwave, and hot water kettle. 

I stashed my gear in the room, and went back to the pub for a late lunch. Then to the ICA supermarket. I bought some snacks and headed back to the room. I napped and later got up and streamed something. But by 8 pm or so, I dozed off again. 

Day 4: Traryd (31 miles, total 137 miles)

10 June 2024: Monday

I’ve come to the conclusion that I hate riding in the rain, cold, and headwind. It sucks! Today, although the forecast predicted dry weather until 1 pm, a light shower kicked off my morning for the first hour. Then it dried up but I never got warm the rest of the day. 

A few days ago, I told Christian that I try not to think about Ukraine, Palestine, or Afghanistan. I have many Palestinian friends. Many more strangers treated Mirna, the kids, and me with kindness and hospitality. The suffering that the Palestinians, Afghans, and Ukrainians is beyond anything I can even imagine. To maintain my mental health, I disassociate myself from the suffering. For so many years in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Yemen, and Somalia, I worked in these countries with some of the kindest, most intelligent people I have ever met. I suffered when their family members were killed, kidnapped, or traumatized. 

In Iraq around 2004, Al-Mahdi’s army, a Shiite militant group, came around the Ministry of Labor and Social Affairs asking about a colleague of mine. He was newly married, a Sunni, and had moved into a new house. They also came and asked his neighbors about him. The American advisors sent him and his wife to Erbil for his safety for 30 days. On the last day, he called me. 

“We are coming home,” he told me.

“No, I want you to stay two more weeks,” I told him. “We are in no hurry. We have to make sure it is safe for you to come home.”

“We are coming today,” he said. The fact that Arabs were not always welcome in Kurdistan, I suspect, played a factor in his decision.

A couple hours after we hung up, I got another call. Two men in a car outside his parents’ home shot and killed his mother and brother, and wounded a second brother in their car, as they were on their way to school. The mother was a teacher. 

There was no way to know for sure if this family paid the price for my colleague’s loyalty to the Americans or whether murders originated for some entirely different reason. But I cried for the first time in Iraq. It was a tragedy that I couldn’t shake. Nothing I was doing was making a difference. I was helping to provide workforce development training to unemployed Iraqis, we were helping thousands find jobs, we were providing some psychological counseling to former soldiers, but every time I turned around, things got worse. I was failing. People were suffering. Dying. 

I brought a lot of that trauma home with me to Maryland. Dwelt on it. Suffered it. Revisited it. All to no one’s benefit. 

Now, I have to turn it off. Isolate myself from it. And focus what is in front of me. Try to enjoy my time with my children and grandchildren.

At 3:30 am, I woke up. I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t. 

Yesterday, Anastasis, the innkeeper, told me I could get coffee at the gas station. The only one I found was the Q-Star, a block away. But it is an attendant-less gas station and didn’t have a store inside it. For the first time on my trip, I was glad that I brought this little plastic cup. I boiled water in the common hot water kettle and poured the water over these little, round coffee containers. They are for some type of machine, but I punched holes in it and left it in the hot water, like a tea bag, for several minutes. Not great, but satisfying.

Again, they were not calling for rain before 2 pm, but strong winds were supposed to begin in earnest at 10 am. So, packed up, loaded Heidi, and left the Inn.

Two or three times, I tried to find a coffee shop or a convenience store to get some hot coffee, but no luck. Along my route, where going through towns or villages, the convenience stores are few and far between. I wonder where Swedes get their junk food. The gas stations tend to be these tiny, attendant-less operations, two pumps and an awning. 

The rain soaked my upper body for the first hour. I couldn’t get warm the rest of the day. The wind was 14 mph with gusts of 30 mph. But there were breaks today. Stretched of bike path and road that broke the wind some. 

About two hours into the ride, the bike path turned into a loose sand and gravel. Both are my enemies. I took a blacktop road that wound up into the hills. It added significant inclines to my journey was well as three miles. But I rode the whole way. I didn’t have to push, which meant that my legs are slightly stronger. 

There are these hunting stands about eight or ten feet tall, erected in fields and forests. Much like tree stands for hunting deer, Swedish hunters sit up there and await opportunities to shoot moose. 

For the next hour, I saw maybe two or three cars. Some horses and cows. A few farmers outside. Two huge jackrabbits. Until finally, I came to this old, wooden bus stop shelter. I rested for 15 minutes. I tried to get warm, but it was not going to happen with my entire upper body soaked through.

No sooner did I get back on the desolate road, then it started to rain again. This time, my legs got wet. After 20 minutes, it stopped. But the wind made sure my fingers and toes went number. I stopped plenty, but kept a good pace.

I pulled into the Traryd AirBNB 4 hours and 5 minutes after my departure from Lagan. A steady rate of just under 8 mph. 

I am Johan’s second guest. The house is next door to his house. Perhap’s a parent’s that recently passed away, or maybe a neighbor who moved and he bought it. Johan is in his 40, bearded, and friendly, but give the impression that he would rather be out hunting moose than cleaning a house. Part of the deal for letting me in the house five hours before checkout time, was that I make my own bed. The house has a man’s touch, as if I would decorate it. Plenty of free instant coffee and snacks. And the price is reasonable ($74/night).

I found an AirBnb 30 miles from here for tomorrow for only $55, but when I went to book it, they wanted $120. They were charging a $50 cleaning fee. I contacted him and asked to waive it since I was alone (it hosted up to 6 people). He said, “Well I will still have to wash the bed linen.” He offered to split the cleaning fee with me if I would promise to clean the rest of the house. So, instead I booked a room at the Nature Shelter Hotel in Asljunga for $55, which as a huge pushing hill right upon reaching the spot.