Trip Day 2: Off course, of course

13Jul08

So here I am, in my sepia coloured dream of a Kristianstad shoebox. I feel grateful for its leaky faucet and its rough sheets. I rejoice at its view of the motorway and its funky smells. I absolutely adore its deep dusty shagpile and each individual bug and mite and left behind sign of bodily fluids is as dear to me, as…well, really, nothing beats it but the thought of a mixed-grill, right now.

I have been staying off the beaten track, today, to the tune of an extra 60 kilometers. Up a mountain. I definitely feel it was worth it, since it gave me the chance to visit places such as Jämshög (roughly “Angstpile”) and Kräkeboda (litterally “Little House of Puke”). It has also given me the chance to view, up close, the antics of farmer in Ronnebys “Crayzee Farmers Bonanza”, a famous salmonfishing river and most importantly, it has given me an excellent reminder NEVER to trust a jogging man: he is likely to run off and leave you in a bit of a pickle.

The morning started out swimmingly, I loaded the bags and left the B&B early: early enough, in fact, to miss out on the second B. But since I had only 30 k or so till the next big town, where a friend was meeting up for a cheering brunch, I thought I’d be fine with my bag of dried cranberries, my bottle of water and worst case scenario – one of them power-bars I bought at peril for my own life a couple of days ago.

Setting out slowly, a bit uncertain of my direction, I was happily surprised to spot a jogger. He was aimiable enough to point me the exactly wrong way, but a brilliantly beautiful wrong way, complete with dappled shade, chirping and other Mother Natures shenannigans. After fifteen minutes or so, when I still hadn’t set eyes on the sign for the track, I stopped, attempting to turn back and regroup. Only to be befuddled by yet another jogger, pausing to ask weather I needed assistance. He then performed a splendid act of knowing what he was about, pointing me up a mild slope in the forest, and saying things like “first on your right, then you’re there”.

Three hours later I was back on track, having traversed a landscape very much like a starlet – hilly, mountaineus even, but void of intelligent life. There had been dusty hilly roads, rocky, hilly roads, hilly mudtracks and even – a famous occasion – no track what so ever, but still plenty of hill. But nary a signpost, much less a map.

When I did make it back out onto a tarmaced road, I blantantly refused the assistance of the first three people I met, seeing as the were—you guessed it, wearing trainers and soppy smiles.  Eventually I found a small village with a big man with an even larger belly, the sort, I figured, who could be trusted not to choose extra strenous excersise if there was an option. Correctly enough, for though he pointed me in the general direction of back where I came from, he did it with an apologetic shrug. We found a perfect communication of souls when I answered his tentative question about wanting to take the scenic route with an empatic shiver.

Pedalling furiously on I was glad I had thought to text my friend and tell her I was running late, because by the time I made it into close proximity of the town where we were supposed to meet at 10, it was past one thirty. Oh, and yes, the powerbars? Mum called to say they are on the kitchen counter. I took the call mid-morning, and would have thought to swear only was to busy swatting flies with phone.

As it were, 5 k before our designated meetingplace, my backlight fell off, and, taking this as a sign that perhaps I needed something before dropping off also, I refused to budge until I had got the better part of a bad hamburger inside me.

After lunch, the day went on very much as it had begun: beautiful scenry, uphill, and not the right uphill. I finally made a last wrong turn about 2 k from the B&B, cause for an extra little tour of suburban Karlskrona.

Falling into bed, devouring the less than del powder soup I had brought with me, and cursing all thing running I am, actually, already looking foward to tomorrows stretch, if for no other reason than to scare the living daylights out of every damn jogger on my way with my mutton-slaying horn.

Oh, and also, maybe should get a better map. The one I have gives the ambiance of the road and the general direction – North- very well, but has been proven less reliable on things like not listing imaginary villages, not masking railroad tracks as bike paths and not making your place on earth suddenly disappear in a small squiggly line.

Filed under: Solo Bicycling Ystad-Stockholm Summer 2008, The Great Outdoors: Hiking, Bathing, Scenery, Travel: Adventures, Mishaps, Foregin Lands   |  Leave a Comment
Tags: humour, outdoors, sports, travel