BLOG LANGUAGE TRANSLATION

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

Fading into grey





The hardest thing is the decision to act, the rest is merely tenacity. The hardest thing after reaching your destination, 66.33N Arctic Circle, is to carry on to complete the aim of riding 1000 miles, riding through the night from Trondheim to Kristiansund and back, riding through the night, the best way it seemed, to use the otherwise lost time of the night.




Rest at the house, shower, clothes change, bike check, full lunch, slow walk along the river, slow walk around the town, easing the legs back into recovery, a short interval before resuming the final long section of road, heading west for a change. You muster all of your enthusiasm again, to start the first few miles of what would become the end of the road to the Arctic challenge, as it proved, the end of the road swallowed by the sea.




Ride out of Trondheim just after 8pm, fuelled by takeaway food, following the route out of town that had been followed days before, climbing back over the ridge that surrounds the town, gradients that go beyond a warm up, finally cresting the upper levels to see the open valleys and flat planes that head for a short distance west, before dropping down onto the E39 heading out to Orkanger. Less than twenty miles in and the colour of the day already fades to grey, the first colourless grey sky since leaving Oslo, turning to an unfamiliar darkness not seen over the past six days and then the rain comes, unannounced, driving hard onto the road, the first underpass along the road being taken for shelter from the torrent. Standing there alone, no traffic, no movement, nothing other than the sound of the driving rain, thoughts drift to the prospect of riding over two hundred miles away from this already bleak, uninviting departure, caught between thoughts of heading back to the house by the Cathedral or pressing on towards Kirstiansund. Overcoming the low points are the moments you look back on, not the short-lived glory of reaching a destination, but the darker moments when you face into the choices that sit before you, to overcome what the road throws at you, eventually riding on, torrent subsided, but not completely, to ride on under the blanket of a bleak grey sky that smothers the last of the disappearing moon light, this is really bleak, a far cry from the colour and transparency of previous days, decision taken, ride on.


Avoiding the E39, taking the old road, quiet and free of vehicles, free of life, clinging to the coast, near Viggia a group of young people on the beach, a late night gathering that in the rain seems odd, the group seem to shout kind greetings, riding past without any idea of what sits behind the celebrations, a hollow acknowledgement in return, a grim and unapologetic sky clouds any real enthusiasm.


The road follows the edge of town, passing what seems like a ferry port, the only visible activity against the darkening horizon, the road swings right past a late night service station, neon lights, the last in town before riding into the darkness, every trace of the horizon now lost to the night. A high-vis jacket and a failing back light, limited in battery charge, switched on only at the sound of an approaching vehicle, preparation is everything!! The road disappears into darkness, the first darkness in six days on the road, the loss of light adds to the feeling of remoteness and the unsettling sense of being truly alone, the sense of vulnerability and exposure quite real, and quite different to the remoteness of approaching the Arctic Circle the day before. Look for a point in the road ahead, any point that appears through the darkness, fix on the point and ride towards it, a focus almost by default for the mind.


Maybe one or two cars pass in twenty or thirty miles, the sense of surprise in equal measures, another car passes, the instantly recognisable luminescent livery of 'Politi', maybe the moment when the road comes to an end, night ride over, but the police car passes disappearing into the darkness ahead. Ten miles later, same police car, parked on the opposite side of the road headlights beaming forward through the dark haze, the moment of passing without any acknowledgement in either direction, riding on into the darkness. Twenty minutes pass, the same police car approaches again, by now convinced of this to be an act of kindness, a safeguard rather than an inspection of being on such a remote road in the middle of the night, it's the last time the police car appears.


Miles tick slowly by, time ticks more slowly, the road passes through forested mountains, no sign of movement, no sign of life, mile after mile alone. The road reaches a junction, a left turn to continue west, a moment that again provides that same small uplifting feeling, turning a corner, a change in direction, always a change in speed and renewed effort, progress in the smallest of ways. The road continues to head through the darkness heading towards a lighter sky, a different sort of landmark to aim for.


Early hours, around 2am, riding through the small town of Vineora, a group of young people around an open fire pit, seemingly the end of celebrations, maybe this is the end of a school year, an acknowledgement more through surprise offered in both directions. The road descends to sea level, following the most inland stretch of the Friefjorden, the sight of the sea, flat roads, the growing light of morning gives a welcome, uplifting sense of destination.


Normal preparation for long spells on the bike dictates general regimes for nutrition and hydration, nearing one hundred miles through the night seems to ignore of all of these rules, pulling steadily through normal limits of fatigue, a steady constant effort throughout. The road begins to roll again, constantly, tapping into those faltering reserves, to ride even more slowly, more cautiously.


Two junctions, two slight changes in direction, two small uplifting moments, the road drops down to Halsa and the ferry crossing over the Halsfjorden, a two mile stretch of water that swallows the road. 4am, the town is deserted, not even a town, but a small deserted campsite and small cluster of houses. Two boats sit open mouthed at the end of the road, not one single sign of life. The illuminated sign confirms the time of the next crossing, 7am. Three hours to wait, to cross two miles of open water, no other way round, to ride another ten miles to then wait what seemed like another two hours to return, the decision was made, the end of the road as it disappeared into the sea, 4am, sitting alone outside in the deserted café, one last look round for reassurance before retracing every mile east, daybreak being the only real motivation to ride. The timetable of the ferry cuts short the route, fifteen to twenty  of those final few planned miles lost to the ferries that remain open mouthed at the end of the deserted road, there seems an element of humour in the moment, defeated in one small way by time, provoked by the gaping laugh of the lifeless boats, the only means to the road ahead.


The road east is slow, riding on limited resources, the unfolding hours seem not to change the day other than breaking into light, the roads remain deserted of life or support, teased by a number of closed cafes, the road east is a very long slow ride, the added hypnotic monotony of counting the miles on the Garmin.


Riding into Orkanger, edge of town, the sight of the service station from the night before, noticeably open from a distance, a welcome glow in the distance, bike against the window, back-pack on a stool inside, the young assistant brings strong coffees, cheese, ham, bread & chocolate followed by more coffee, only to happy to help, this is heaven in the form of a service station on the edge of town, Sunday morning, still early, not long after day break.


Leaving the service station to re-join the protected road for the last long section back to Trondheim, parallel with the E39, away from the traffic. Hours pass by, the road becomes populated by a steady stream of cyclists, a time trial, a club run, a group ride, its a pleasure to see so many riders on the road, passing through small villages dotted along the coast, the day finally seems have breathed into life, blue sky, sun in your face, the night finally seems to have been left along the road behind.


Dropping down the steep descent into Trondheim, a re-run of the last few miles from days before, the more familiar road now bringing forward more quickly the arrival at the square of the Cathedral, coffee, pastry, sitting in the warmth of the late morning sun, soaking back the warmth that had been lost to the night.  The slow walk back to the house behind the Cathedral is hollow, the beginning of the end, back to the room, warm shower, clothes change, strong coffee, food and then sleep, with one last look out of the window towards the river before falling instantly into sleep, one last diminishing thought to count your good fortune.
 








Night #7 224 miles 'through the night' 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


 



Thursday, August 3, 2017

Crossing the line

Friday 9th June,


Wake early to another clear blue sky, of all the days, hoping for the weather to be on your side, this was the day, it was always there, in the back of the mind, what if the weather turned, to bring out of otherwise clear view of the road & horizons ahead, all that goes with that special moment of arriving, in reaching your destination.   


The road around the edge of Mo i Rana was, as with most mornings, quiet and free of traffic, still that short time of peace before the world kicked in. Café stop, strong coffee's, bread, cheese, ham and apples, re-fuelled and already reinvigorated by the deep blue sky, sun on your face.




On the other side of town the road starts to rise, steadily at first, but to a more demanding gradient that lasted the entire day, what proved to be as gruelling as day #2 crossing the 'roof of Norway'. I had been warned about the road works, the mid section of the E6 and 40 miles of climbing coming with the added challenge of a road quite literally under topographical re-construction, removing bends and undulations on a great scale, the deafening sound of the old road being dynamited giving an incongruous chorus to such a peaceful & silent place. You press ahead, you just keep moving forward, through the sections of temporary gravel road and through the clouds of dust bellowing from the machinery.




As with every day before, there seems to be a kindness given over by the drivers of every vehicle on the road, making allowances for the one single, solitary bicycle, at no time is there any real feeling of risk or danger, leaving the mind to be drawn again to counting through the miles and growing fatigue, on and on the relentlessness of the gradient takes its toll, you press ahead.




The gradient eventually starts to ease, the landscape begins to change, gone are the trees and colour, replaced with a silver white landscape in every direction, the scale and vastness of this new surrounding taking your thoughts in equally widened directions, unable to quite comprehend or take in such a vast clinical landscape, punctuated only by the clean slice of grey, the road ahead exposed in all of its dull functional glory. The road flattens, the effort becomes less, a chance to regain some control and composure, from nowhere questions appear in your mind, riding the Arctic Circle, it's difficult to remember the original reason why, why not somewhere warmer, why not somewhere less remote. The smile grows, turning a little to uncontrolled private laughter, riding over the Arctic Circle, blue sky, one layer of clothing, isolated, remote, very remote, feel completely exposed & vulnerable but at the same time feeling safe, it's difficult to reconcile the feelings, it seems bizarre.




The sign at the roadside and small 'lunar' building roll forward into view, two German camper vans and a construction vehicle, this most isolated of building's seems to have very few visitors, why expect anything different. Side of the building, carry the bike walking through the deep snow to the monument that marks the invisible line, the line that crosses the Circle, photographs the only mark of the arrival, no one else around to share the occasion. Spend ten minutes soaking up the special landscape, a special place, air so pure you seem to be able to drink it, you float mentally through the widen open surroundings, this place is pure & magical.




The building offers a café, last piece of cake and two bitter coffee's from a thermos flask, the sort you find in cheap hotels or business meetings on a budget, you see the humour, no frills, no sparkling celebration, no grandeur, the landscape & territory is what matters and all that goes with it.


Back on the bike, look back, that one last look back, remembering the café for all of its beautiful lacklustre welcome and recognition, but a landscape that offers the opposite in return and in every special way. You count your good fortune for having this moment of solitude in such a beautiful, natural glory, and then ride away. Four weeks before, the road had been partially closed, freezing temperatures at night and snow storms during the day, you count your good fortune, and then ride away.  


'66.33 degree's North - Arctic Circle'



Distance diminishes small passions and serves to increase great ones, just as the wind can extinguish a small flame yet can also fan a great fire.








Arctic Circle: Highest Point


Arctic Circle: destination accomplished







Arctic Circle - 66.33N




66.33N



Arctic Circle: the road ahead!




Arctic Circle: the road ahead.











66.33N Arctic Circle: one building for shelter!




66.33N: Arctic Circle

You take your last look back and then face south, over forty miles of descent, effortless descent, catching the wind, returning to colour, leaving the bleached white landscape to the disappearing road behind, you face into the wind and role effortlessly into the descent, it ignores your fatigue and beckons your return.


Cross the bridge, the river crashing underneath, stop at a house and point to the map, enquiring of the Silversmith's house, the man points to the road ahead, 5km on the other side of the road, the white house and workshop by the river.


Oyvind Stjernen came to the door of the white house, the white house along from the workshop, next to the river at the foot of the mountains, it seems idyllic, more so with Oyvind's family providing the warmest of all welcome's, Ronnaug Stjernen had called ahead, I had been made to keep the promise of finding her brother's house, you count your good fortune. Shower in a back room of the house, the window opening to land rolling down to the river and away to the mountains, truly idyllic, clothes change, no bike check, no clothes check, just supper with new found friends.


The workshop is an emporium of tools, pictures and machines, the roof space above opening through glass sections to a clear blue sky above, that will remain clear blue the whole night, eventually sleeping surrounded by Oyvind's artisan workmanship, handmade silverware in abundance, seemingly years of ideas and patience displayed around the loft, the trust is clearly evident.


Wake to the sound of wood being cut outside, the sound of the river and the quiet sound of voices already breaking into the day. Shower and breakfast with the family, bread, cheese, eggs and strong coffee, the window at the end of the table opening to land rolling down to the river and away to the mountains, truly idyllic again.


One last look back, after passing on a deep felt appreciation and a promise to return, a promise to keep in touch, warm embraces and one final last look back, sad to be leaving this place and Oyvind's family, the kindness of strangers is magical, it lights the road ahead and leaves a deep mark of friendship and gratitude.
 
Bike stop, overnight stay: Silversmith's workshop
Silversmith's workshop: overnight stay!

 

 

 



Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Last town North..

8th June - 5.30am, wake to a clear sky, clear blue, you count your good fortune from the first second of the day, it's not about wishing for the comfort of fair-weather cycling, not about not venturing out when it rains, or snows but in that extra magic that comes from riding such beautiful roads and abstract landscapes in crystal clear clarity, being able to see in the fullest glory those far-off distant horizons, seeing it through every mile that draws you nearer to you destination, mindful that beyond every beautiful horizon there lies another to be discovered.




Shower, clothes change, bike check, phone check and then food from the local supermarket, bread, cheese, apples, nuts two strong black coffee's, hit the road north, always north. The road shadows the Vefsna river which seems to cling to every contour and deviation of the road, a constant companion for most of the day, around fifty miles to the town of Mosjoen, the panoramic views remaining just as incredible as days before, bathed again in sunlight, cloaked again in the deepest blue sky, the road works its magic once again. Miles trip by, not so much effortlessly but without the debilitating fatigue of the headwind and mountain passes. Stop at a service station just north of the town, strong coffees, apples, nuts, bread and cheese, the staple diet of the road.




North of Mosjoen, the 'Korgfjell-tunnelen' approaches, no question about it, non-permissible tunnel for cyclists, no decision to make, 20kms of complete darkness with the exchange off of a mountain climb, expectation set, one last rest at the foot of the climb, ascending immediately and sharply from the E6, a short moment of having that sun on your back, the first ramp heading momentarily south, a strange uplifting moment.

Preparation for the Arctic cycling challenge took in frequent visits to the brutally tough yet beautiful roads of the Lake District, Cumbria UK, roads of similar, relatively short but vertically steep gradients, crossing through a stunningly beautiful landscape on road passes that test courage let along , the Korgfjell pass would be at home there, sitting comfortably amongst Hardknott and Wrynose passes. Thoughts back to the road ahead, the roadside and distant landscape now whiter with every passing & rising mile, sun now on your face, you count your good fortune again, two weeks before the night temperatures below freezing, roads freshly covered with snow, you count your good fortune to be here in such conditions. 



The road edges nearer to the summit, passing frozen lakes that grab the side of the road, just feet away from your passing, still deeply frozen with melt holes forming to reveal hidden depths, the mind plays tricks to imagine yourself riding off the road to be swallowed into the deep water  through one of these gaping apertures, with no one else around. The road changes direction as if to force you to take in ever distant horizon, Gronfjellet peaks rolling into view, out staged by the backdrop of the Rana ice cap in the distance, this 'is the 'monument' promised by the map, views of a 'monument' scale and proportion.






Cresting the summit to reveal the distant 180 degree view of the ice cap, rolling into the wooden cafe, deep burnt red in colour, incongruous with its surroundings, across the gravel drive to a post sign indication the direction & distance to the Tour de France and a large banner pinned to a wood shelter to confirm the forthcoming passing of the Arctic Tour of Norway, the race heading over the Pass in a southern direction, taking the much longer ascent from the north and the steeper shorter descent just climbed. Into the long 20km sweeping descent to Korgen, vehicle free for the entire run, straight into the edge of town, quick rest by the grass verge before heading back onto the main E6 for the short run into Bjorka. Head through town, tcertain this is the road, check the hand-written instruction on the map, doubly certain this is the right road and then the yellow house, the colour of sunflowers.




Ronnaug, her son Alf, her friend from the café welcome me with warmth and hospitality as through a re-union from the distant past, we share family information and photographs, and talk about Norway, Europe and briefly about Britain. It seems that Norwegian people are happy to feel slightly detached, geographically, from so many things happening in Europe and across the world. Throughout the cycling challenge, this limited experience is of a beautiful country, landscape and terrain aside, of people comfortable with themselves and with others, with an overriding strong sense of social responsibility  which was to be envied, there seems to be an empathy and warmth wherever you go whoever you meet or come into contact with. Lunch over, we bid our farewell's with a promise to keep in close contact and to see each other again, riding back along the road one last look back, a lasting impression, a house the colour of sunflowers, you count your good fortune as it comes your way in so many ways, Ronnaug checked that I had her brothers address, I promised to find his house.




The miles roll by, complicated by the by-passes to avoid the more frequent tunnels, north east into the southern edge of Mo i Rana, the last main town before tomorrow's final push to the Arctic Circle, late evening and the temptation of a hotel room overcome for the economy of a campsite and most basic of huts, swelteringly warm from the day-long sun, food from the supermarket on the opposite side of the road, bread, salami, nuts, broccoli and no coffee, shower, bike check, phone check to pick up more nice text from home Bev, Meg & Sarah, my three closest allies that give permission from home to head out north, mum from further north in Yorkshire and Keith &Fleur parents to the brave, and always smiling, Aiden Mitchell, they all seem in good form. Asleep by eleven o'clock, still day light outside, to remain daylight throughout the night, still no real distinction between night and day, still no real sun-fall or sun-rise




These sort of days don't come often, you count your good fortune in being able to pack so many good things into such a few short hours, so many uniquely positive outcomes, you set out with nothing booked, nothing pre-arranged, for good things to unfold to leave lasting impressions, where the magic happened.







Day 5 - 125 miles 
a