Trip Day 6: Wet wet wet

17Jul08

If you have never been to “Småland”, let me give you directions. Just go the other side of Barking Mad and you’re there. For the past few days I have been making my way through this pine infested, mosquito riddled, lunch-less desert. I am finally out of it.

Yes, tonight I sleep in Östergötland. True, in a basment cell type of room, very à la The Tower (or that may not have been underground?). True, my phone is still being decidedly standoffish, and the internet connection leaves a certain something to be wished for, namely, dependable excistance.

But still, I am full of joi de vivre. The only thing needed to complete me would be a beaker full of eau de vie, but since that is not to be had at Drab Concrete Walls Central, I will have to go for the next best thing, and drown my last smidgen of ennui in a torrent of words, instead of my liver, in a glass of red. Bottoms up!

Today many interesting things were brought to my attention by the pouring rain. The loose fit of my padded pants, riding wetly like rude men where angels would fear to thread, the smells of said padded pants and the fields, the newly bathed flowers and the newly bathes cows and and the newly bathed cow pats. All these things were as one big harmonious scented embrace, giving if not shape, then at least a nasal quality to summer, freedom on the road and off deodorant. In short: I felt wildly alive, slightly molested by my garments, and ready to take on any hill.

But. The rain had also brought out another distinct feature of Swedish Summer. Less sublime, less subtle, less pleasant than the straining sweat-drenched qualities of padded Spandex. Caravans.

Caravans are popular here. There is even a song, entitled “One Ough To Own or at Least Lease a Caravan”. The Caravan generally comes with a large man attached. To him in turn is attached a gaggle of family, a heap of earthly possessions, and a can of tepid beer. The Caravan is used to lug this entire menagerie around all summer, from one picturesque spot to the next, all made parking-lots by The Caravans very existence. I would think that cramming all your daily struggles and malfunctioning electronics into one very small and brown space for the duration of your holidays would be less than pleasant. But then again, I spend 8 hours a day in padded pants, so who am I to talk.

Anyhoodle, a motorized Olsen sized Hold-All of this type must of course be put in motion every now and then. And what better time to up its roots and set forth for new pine-infested joys than when it is pouring. I can picture it all very clearly:

The Caravaner wakes up and there is definite moisture in the air. His moosehead t-shirt is sopping. His bermuda shorts are wet. There is nature in his beer. He immidiately packs all the bits and pieces of his family into the giant tin box, and speeds down the road, Caravan trailing behind like the squat tail of a squat dog, rumbling with empty crisp packets, rancid socks and whatever else may pass for cuisine in Caravan land.

He is stressed, he is anxious. He has left all he knows behind, and a Caravan neighbour may steal the next prized slot next to the KIOSK of the identical camping that is his destination. His wife may see the sun breaking through the clouds and start complaining. Oh yes, I see it all, and I feel his pain.

The Caravan man, though, shows no such feat of empathy. (After all, we are talking about a man who can see no alternative to spending the holiday guzzling gas at the same rate his thirteen years old daughter guzzles Watermelon Baccardi Breezers before taking her top off.) When he is on the road, and he sees a cyclist, he does not see a fellow human being, lugging its own load.

No, what he sees, through a thin red mist of blow-up toys, missing board-game pieces, entrance tickets to mini-golf courses and sweating packs of hot dogs, is an insult. A renegade. A person who travels unfettered by family or two-odd tons of steel and male ineptitude. A person who has left behind the turmoils of the fold-up bbq and the orange bermuda shorts and the wonky recliner. And he wants to run this person off the road.

I have spent the better part of the day dodging and braking, throwing myself at the mercy of peoples back yards, of anthills and the random and unexpected swamp, all seeking refuge from frustrated men and their large totes. But I bear no grudge. I only wish I could flag them down and show them the content of my fifty litre saddlebags: nailclippers, some extra undies, and some rather heavy tomes of 19th century morality tales.

They would see then, that we each have our cross to bear. True: some of us do not have to fight for our right to some bloody silence, or worry about the freezer in the back. But then again, some of us get indecent proposals from our clothing, some of us never get anywhere in time, and some of us have to lug each itsy bit of packing up every damn hill sans petrol.

Perhaps, if they knew that, they would… leave the keys in the ignition, say goodbye to the wailings of wifes and pregnant silences of teenage daughters, and join me – free as birds. And maybe help me push this damn machine up the next hill.

Filed under: Solo Bicycling Ystad-Stockholm Summer 2008, The Great Outdoors: Hiking, Bathing, Scenery, Travel: Adventures, Mishaps, Foregin Lands   |  2 Comments
Tags: adventure, outdoors, sports, weather