Trip: Post Mortem Pro Memoriam

Welli well well. Well. Well, well, well. Ha. I think back to times in my life when I’ve felt smug. There have been a few. But I don’t think a single one of them comes close to this days smugness. It’s smugness on a new level, a degree of self-complanency, of high-horsedness and holier-than-thouism than is really very unattractive.

But I don’t care, because I fit into my old jeans, can talk knowledgably about the stretch of road between East and West Ed, and do an uphill in my sleep. It all feels sooo good. Soon I shall go out to lunch in a very civilized brasserie with a gossip-truffled friend, and then this evening, I will be eating sushi and maybe even going to the movies. Just because they are there.

But before I leave the Uphill behind forever, I want to jot down a few brief impressions, such as may steer other travellers away from the same pitfalls I have fallen into on my journey. I give you: Five Important Lessons on Solo Bicycling Between Ystad and Stockholm, Or Any Other Godforsaken Place and The Civilized World.

1. On dressing the part

Forget your smart linnen pants, your low cut blouse and you strappy sandals. You will not be needing them. You will live in your padded pants all day, and when you get to the hostel at night you will be to knackered to even consider exploring the nightime delights of Gunnebo, Sölvesborg or Timmernabben.

I normally argue that there is no right time for functional materials – you know the type that is part plastic part tinfoil and promises to cool you with a breeze and keep your feet toasty at the same time – because they are so very, very unattractive. I will now go back on this statement and say: there is a right time for such materials: rainy long days on the road. And trust me, it will rain.

Lastly, a word on padded pants. Do not buy them cheap. Do not buy just one pair. They are all that stand between you and a world of rectal hurt, and as such, they should be treated with respect, love and slight awe. Bring an extra slightly tighter fit for the last days – because when it comes to the correct placing of a bag full of bubble-wrap between your legs, size does matter.

2. On asking for directions

Should you be so lucky as to see a real live local on the road: please do your self a favour and ask them for directions (seeing as your map is probably more of an inspiration board than any true guidance). But beware, there are other types out there, ready to pounce on the unwitting cyclist and send her on a varitey of wild bird hunts:

a. The Jogger. They will be friendly looking, sweating profusely, and take into no consideration whatsover that a bicycle cannot traverse all than two feet can.

b. The Madman. Will also be friendly, but also swatting at imaginary flies and follow up his instructions by getting his old bike out and following you at a slow threatening pace at the best part of an hour.

c. The Senile. Again, friendly, and very helpful, only according to their seventies world-view when the new motorway hadn’t been built yet. Never very good at distingushing right from left, but will give you very good stories about her husbands football-socks.

3. On eating and drinking

Do whenever opportunity presents itself. But it won’t.

4. On reading

You do not need to bring more than say, a sparkling new issue of some Condé Nast publication. Comprehending anything beyond the chrystal prose on new looks for fall will be beyond you. On the other hand; looking at all them nice pics will keep you happy, with plenty of incentive to keep pedalling, and with lots of food for thought planning your wardrobe.

Alas, this is not, and I say this from experience, the opportunty to finally saw your way through The Man Without Qualities, both volumes, in hardback.

5. On Being a Citizen of the Road

There will be Caravans out there, and cars, and the occasional piece of motor driven farming equipment. There is only one way to tame these beast of burden: wear very bright colours, stay well out in the middle of the road and flick them the finger if they start honking. Yes, you will be travelling with a very long tail of angry motorists, but that beats being flat. Literally.

 

And so I leave this trip behind. The next serious one will probably be the Transibirian, or another tour of India, over X-mas… But for now: all is blue silk shifts and Ceasar salads for me. You know, comfy, even without the padding.

Trip Day 8: Damn Straight

It is done. Am showered, changed and waiting for brother to come pick me up and usher me in general direction of food, drink, and unsuitable men. Am too tired to read any more signs, make another decision, even a bad one, and all I need is, just like Dire Straights, another tired act, to “keep the beat and the bad company”.

Will recap trip tomorrow, and till then, leave you with the viewing pleasure (this one is for you, apiece) of the one picture I have taken on this trip. It is of a close friend of mine, one I shall miss like I miss being shot in the foot.

Trip Day 7: Shooting Blanks

My on-again-off-again relationship with the rain is no more. We are now a confirmed couple, I am ready to change my status on facebook, and declare to the world that yes: the wet from the sky and I are one. I have dissolved into it, relaxed in its embrace, and it has filled me and consumed me and now we are expecting little tiny drops. We are very happy together.

But you know, when a relationship goes on for that lenght of time, you start to wonder. Take stock of your life. As you hear the monotonous sound of your life partners pitter patter, the drooning noice of it, and you feel, yet again, its cold cold fingers fondling your neck at really rather the wrong moment, you start to wonder. Is this really what I want? Is this all there is in life? Could there be someone out there for me, not as wet, surely, but perhaps slightly warmer?

Today has been the type of day the most conductive to a measured, critical analysis of weather this bloody fucking trip was a good idea to begin with or no. My thoughts have focused on two main issues, both rather high on the Maslovic Pyramid.

1. No Food Is Worse Food than Bad Food, When You Are Hungry

Jereome K. has already explained to us the faith of a packed lunch in rain. I will not borrow, nor steal, from him, and only say that I wish he could have been around today, to bring his comic genious to bear on the concept of an orange-filling danish, and three slices of smoked salmon, travelling together down a bumpy road in a paper bag in a tropical downpour. Leaving you to imagine the rest: I will instead go discuss the more general aspects of food on this trip.

Far be it from me to kick someone who is down (barring that Caravan-owning member of the Furtherancers I met in a back alley last night). Which explains why I have written so scantily about the joys of eating – there has been nothing to eat – and by default, precious little to be praised. 

As I write this, I have journeyed some 800 odd k of Swedish road. And I have been able to procure exactly two cups of coffee. In towns, luckily, you do find some “shops”. Their vegetable departments have ranged from banana – in singular – to potatoes – uncooked, not ideal for a sensitive stomach such as mine. This has left me subsisting on stale bread, packs of unidentifiable conserved meats and the occasional ice-cream – frosted of course, being a left-over from summers past. Now, I know that a slow death of scurvy is not the fate of travellers in all lands.

Walking in France? I can give you the adress of a great farm, at the back of nowhere, where a man lives with his pigs and his goats and his live in Russian he-lover: they serve a divine meal, complete with little toxic rocks he calls, affectionately, cheese. Wandering the wilds of Spain? Well, stay away from the chilled red, but please have your fill of the Pulpo and the extra dry cider; to be had at your convenience, climbing every mountain.

Of course I know that these delicacies have probably been flown in from Quaint Local Produce Ltd outside Austin, Texas. Of course you can’t expect Swedish yokels, who see one passing tourist ever ten months, to be standing at the ready with the skillet or the spit. But a cracker, perhaps?

2. No Company is Better Company than Bad Company, But Still Kinda Sad on Day Seven

Yes, I’ll admit it. There is something about standing in the middle of nowhere, drenched to the bone, with six hours of heavy uphellish road before you, that sort of makes me wish I had someone to share my impressions with. (This goes also for the breathtaking scenic views, the quaint villages, the cute houses and the Downhills). Explaining it to others later will never quite capture the gashtlyness/grandness of the occasion.

This lack of company became extra evident today when I looked through my camera. I had promised my sister to document my adventure (she thinks I have secretly taken the train and am booked into some SPA or other). But so far I had taken one picture. Of a road going uphill.

(Being a not very good photographer is only made bearable if you have people, some human interest, in your pictures. The nearest I have come to human interaction in the past few days was saying a guarded hello to a one-legged Finnish lady who was sharing my bathroom this morning.  And I couldn’t really snap a shot of that, I mean, her.)

Suffice to say, bar the snippets I can give posterity (and the Radio Surveillance unit of the Swedish Military) on this page; no one will ever really know what I have been through. And that means, I am afraid, no medal, no oohs or aahs and no later doubling over laughing Together With Someone thinking about that time we (that is, the rain and I) missed the ferry crossing the sound.

Once I got to thinking about this, I felt sort of down. I mean, the rain was pouring, my stomach was rumbling, and that was it for human sounds. So I did what any girl does when she is in need: I called my brother. Having ensured that I will arrive tomorrow to a large cooked dinner, a large glass of wine and then a large party full of debauched artists I feel better.

And I guess I can face on more day of downing in love.

Trip Day 6: Wet wet wet

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.

Trip Day 5: Howlin’ Fury

The PAT once told me he thought I was not very good with children. An opinion which is countered, if I may defend myself, by being the chosen godmother of no less than one and one-cooking child. I view this essentially as a gift certificate at some terrible store in the mall: something you try to forget about, since valid only under horrific circumstances, but on the plus side it would, if circumstances brought you that way, guarantee some truly unique pieces. (Knock on wood).

All that aside: the PATs statement was essentially based on me not liking all children, indescriminately, unconditionally, and forever. But then no more would I like all slightly larger people indescriminately, unconditionally and forever, unless they did their damndest to deserve it. 

And can’t we all admit: children of a certain age are not fun. When tiny, they are cute. When adult, they may be interesting. But mid-size, they are a pain and a nuicanse, only slightly tempered if sugared. Children of midsize are for example, the worst thing in the world to bring on an outing. They will scream or sulk, blow hot and cold, and they will, most of all be ever present (or else lost, which is also annoying, because then you have to search for them).

In this they have very much in common with the second worst thing to be faced with on an outing: wind. While cute if balmy and breezy, and interesting at gale force – it is an absolute horror when neither nor and set against you. Today, I was tormented by this natures nine years old. When he joined forces with his evil twin brother, the uphill, it was something of a trial.

Basically, it has been like this: I have been pedalling up a fair-to-middling-uphill. The wind has been in my face. It has pushed me around, done its best to tease and torment me. At the point where I have become hot, sweaty and agitated, it has stopped, and sat around, quite as though always angelic – leaving me the hot and sweaty and agitated one but with no one to point a credible finger at, and with nothing even to cool me.

Then, should I have encountered such a thing (a sweet, scarese, sacred blessing) as a downhill (dare I mention thy name) it immeditely starts up again, with the prodding and the taking of things out of ones sails and stuffing them somewhere else, well hidden, but only as a joke like. Leaving me speedless, and once more hot, sweaty and agitated.

This behaviour was repeted on several, not to say continous, occasions all through today. I had a brief break in lee of a nuclear power station: a gesture, if you will, to my sentiments regarding that other most blatantly inexhaustible source of power. Then I set of again, climbing slightly, grinding my teeth, behaving in every way as a frustrated adult faced with a brat. It was only when the wind took my empty water bottle and threw it into some brambles by the side of the road, but only as a joke like, that I realised: though frightningly childlike, this was no actual child. This was something much better – something one could swear at.

Now, I have been told, on occasion, that telling a child what you truly think of it is a deed worse than, say, letting it grow up to be a complete terror. But as I tramped tramped tramped along the pine scented roads, there were nary a young rosebud ear within shouting distance. And so I let go of all reserve, telling the wind where to get of. (Since there are no kids around, guess I can tell it straight, I told it to fucking well go fucking fuck itself.)

It was sweet relief, pedalling like a fury and shouting like one too – getting every smithereen of anger, annoyance and harm out of my system. At the end, it was mostly and incoherent AAAAAAARRRRRRGGGGH. But a very good AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH, if you know what I mean. And what do you know: after a while the wind quited down, softening to a slight breeze, just enough to stroke my flushed cheeks (both pairs, yes) and bring me the scent of roadside flowers.

So guess my recomendation to parents, those of you that have to mind, feed and wash those little rosebuds I collect for a hug and then gently depostit back in you careworn arms at cryingtime, is this: get yourself a bike. Find any road leading north. And wait for therapy.

Trip Day 4: Breakthrough Science

Being a chatty person, you’d think I’d feel a bit lonely and quiet out on the road like this, lonesome even. I don’t, largely due to being helped along by sms’s of great charm, warmth and spirit (the well known better-you-than-me spirit) of friends, loved ones, and occasional random interesting types. And of course, when the going gets really though, there is always B.B and Cash – great men for giving it an extra push and grinding.

However, as I recline today, on my bed in Oskarshamn, there is one group of people with whom I would like a word. These are the people of the Cykelfrämjandet – the Bicycle Furtherancers. They claim to look after the interest of the biker, but I think they are secretly in the employ of the actual bikes: and they are working very hard to achive the final, matrimonal, union of machine and tuchus. In fact, they claim on their webpage, to be working to make Sweden “truly, a nation of bikes”(!).

Their greatest allie in this quest is a little something I presume of their own invention: a new way of measuring distance. We have the metric system in Sweden. But I’d happily accept furlongs, yards or whatever other quaint little unit you can come up with: as long as it is not the “appx”. The “appx” is used in all of the furtherancers writing and on all their maps, and it means, basically, that they are just guessing – and their guessing isn’t very accurate. So for example, a 5 appx to the next village should be taken to mean anything from 2 (very rarely) to 9. Also an appx never takes into account such things as uphillyness, a trait common to the Swedish backroads.

Today, alas, I have pedalled appx 120, and it has taken me many a long hour of swearing and…not sweating actually, which brings us to my second scientific finding of this evening. When you drink a lot and the sun is shining the drunk drink seems to take care of itself. When you drink a lot and the sun isn’t shining at all, or in fact, it is raining slightly, you need to urinate. These are the facts of life, yes, but are the facts of life always accomodated by nature? I say no.

My parents have taught me much. On nature, their teachings are few and succinct. Tall grass is home to ticks. Heaps of stones are home to snakes. And forrests are home to The Madman.

I stick to these teachings rigorously, very much like uneducated people lean on those “laws of nature” for lack of better support. I stick to them, and I do not bare my bottom in the homes of ticks, snakes or The Madman. Which, in the Swedish wilds, leaves precious little options… Today I found a field of wheat.

I know it now, from experience no less, to be the home of many bugs and one dead mouse. But then – it might have been a member of the Furtherancers, (they have an incredible insurance policy for members, if you want to join) and I wouldn’t mind pissing on their graves, all 6 appx deep.

Trip Day 3: Slow Down

Just a quick note today: since I am paying for earlier sins (the bit of rough yesterday) and am dead tired. Am afraid it won’t even be funny.

This morning, I got an early and ambitious start, planing to do about 160 k. I did not think this unfeasible in any way, since I did it yesterday, and what can be done in the wrong direction must surely also be doable heading straight.

I did figure that some food would be of help: so packed a proper breakfast, sandwich and a pear, and a midmorning snack, a banana, and then a repeat of the sandwich for lunch. The key was to NOT be stranded hungry and dependant on icky fast-food.

Leaving the hostel was downhill for about halv an hour, after which I decided to pause and eat some of all this bounty. I sat in a stubbly field, bravely ignoring the heavily trafficed road just behind my back and doing all in my might to pretend was in pastoral surroundings, not the outskirts of a town. The illusion was greatly helped by the sun shining brighty, the mosquitos being frisky, and the  view being pretty in the extreme, which surely must have been nice for the suburban homes overlooking it, and my picknick spot.

Feeling refreshed and ready for a day on the roads, I got back on the bike, and onto a bit of a shocker. It was not that my bottom hurt (it has now nicely congealed with the bikeseat, forming one invincible unit – the shape of my derriere having been moulded, I am sure, to accomodate the machine). It was not that the bike failed – it is still ticking very happily. But my legs! They were tired. Lame, almost. Pedalling in first gear was a chore, second a trial, third an unthinkable decent into hell. Thinking back to previous trips, hiking and such, I remembered, suddenly that today is The Third Day.

The Third Day, dreadful, tiresome, awful. The Third Day, slow, heavy, dull. The Third Day, panting, achy, morbid. The Third Day: the Day of Comeuppance. When your poor exhausted limbs make a Custers Last Stand againt oncoming fitness, screaming for a couch and a TV instead of further excursions…

As soon as I realised that this was no mere early morning languor but full-blown Third Dayitis, I immediatly set about rescheduling. Booking a new B&B, only about 90 k off, adding an extra day to my trip, and then: proceeded to have the most glorious day.

Taking my time, slowly, smelling the flowers, eating all that food, listening to rousing tunes, discovering beautiful backroads and talking to locals. A bit of rain didn’t matter, a big steak at the end of the day helped, and now I am relaxing, feet up, feeling loads better… and longing for day four.

Trip Day 2: Off course, of course

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.

Trip Day 1: Ba Ba Ba

It did not start well. This morning I woke up, not from birds chirping or my alarm – set for first time in weeks – but from a spider falling dead onto my face. A big one.

I sat up sharply. There may have been a yelp. Outside the window, all I could see was fog. Deep, milky, forbidding.

Fixing breakfast, I cut myself lightly with a knife. Outside sat three big black birds, rooks or crows. They inclined their heads and looked at me.

But all these shitty omens could not deter me. Today was to be the first leg of my trip. After a bit of a palaver with the shaman who passes for a village grocer – over eggs – and some monkeying about with my very cumbersom bags, I was off.

Now, the bike was very unlike its former self, thanks to the man at the bike shop, who seems to be a great saver of damsels in Spandex. He had shown no great previous interest in my welfare, and great previous interest in my wallet. Only when I dropped by to pix it up, wearing my new and shiny padded pants, did he decide to give me a brief lesson in mechanics, slice the bill in half and refuse to sell me any gizmos I would never use. Instead, he gave me the promise that the bike should work beautifully “all the way up and back” and if it didn’t I should just call him and he would come pick me up.

So on this gleaming piece of machinery I left the village, towing my mother, who had decided on the spur of the moment to join me for the first 120 k. In principle, our departure was grand. In reality, it was shrouded in rain and soon met with uphill climbs, stiff breezes and men driving great big vans and underestimating (!) their size.

What with one thing and another, soon before lunch, we decided to take a shortcut. I ignored the black cat, the bird of prey circling and the sign that said “no bike path ahead” and trampled on, only to be engulfed in a vast sanddune. And yes, this is when the sun decided to come out. Soon it was hot as all hell, and we felt increasingly like those brave chaps hunting down Rommel en desert, Rommel being in this instance a nice spot for lunch, preferably out of the blasted pit and in the shade.

When we did arrive at the end of the shifting sands and the beginning of a heath, we were overjoyed. So overjoyed, and so in need of the hard-got-by eggs of the South Swedish Princess of the Moon and Purveyor of Inferior Loafs, that we decided not to be intimidated by a big flock of sheep that blocked the way. Instead, I thought back to my Viking ancestors, and like a very flourescently clad Light Brigade, charged at the enimy, bells clanging and voice hallooing.

They got the message, and scambled. Quickly. For a minute I was overjoyed by this military coup. We had taken the hill! But then I saw, that among all the black wool, there was one little white lamb that had clearly been injured in the frey, and now it was limping off into the brush.

Briefly noting that my name in latin meens, verbatim, white lamb of God, and that this was perhaps the worst sign to date, I flagged down a man in a van and he promised to take care of it (said with evil look in eye and sucking teeth). Deciding that I had done what I could, and that one womans advance is another mans dinner, we cycled on.

And as if by a miracle, the view cleared. The mist lifted, and the sun cooled to a pleasant warmth instead of its former incindiery traits. We sat down on a beautiful grassy hilltop, overlooking all of the sea, and the very nice-looking gently downwards-sloping car free road that lay ahead. From lunch onwards, then, we rode in perfect peace, no featherd demons in the sky, and the bike holding true to the shopkeepers word.

The explanation is quite simple, really. At the start of any journey, you should of course, give an offering to the Gods. The lamb was simply my attonement for recent dating of Catholics, and a little something for the road for my old pagan patrons. A wooly piece of meet, perfect for a barbeque AND a comfy shawls, was the ticket for what now promises to be an exceptionally lovely trip.

Should only remeber, maybe, to send thank-you note to farmer whos liveliehood I so fortunately offered up.