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The Hard Way Valhalla on Wheels (cont.) HARALD AND I pedaled north along the North Sea Cycle Route for three more days, spinning light and effortless through undulating farmland and along the rocky coastline. It rained most of the time, but it didn't matter, because we weren't camping. Each morning we awoke beneath clean sheets, rode no more than 50 miles, and then dined on something exquisite—salmon, minke whale, giant prawns. It was decadent. Harald loved every minute of it; problem was, I was starting to secretly enjoy it myself. This could gravely endanger my reputation, not to mention my equanimity on my next spartan, 100-miles-a-day tour. From Bergen, the North Sea Cycle Route leaps westward via ferry to the Shetland Islands, but Harald and
The rain was hammering us again when we lifted our bikes off the train in Finse. There were at least 30 other cyclists already there, all in full-body rain suits, their mountain bikes equipped with fenders and mudflaps, bike lights, and giant saddlebags. A tall brunette appraised our mounts and said, "Your tires look a bit thin for this ride." The Rallervegen is a narrow, 100-year-old gravel supply road that parallels the Bergen–Oslo railway line. We flatted more than once over the next two days, but the cruise through the austere alpine landscape was so overwhelming we hardly noticed: tarns reflecting a gray-blue sky, glacier-polished granite walls—just like in the postcards. That afternoon we took a spur trail, caroming down two dozen or so gravel switchbacks on our way to the too-quaint tourist hamlet of Flåm, at the head of the Aurlandsfjord. In the morning we had to ride right back up the road to all those switchbacks. I reveled in the pain. We are what we are, and pushing myself is a part of my nature. Harald dismounted, plugged in his iPod, cued up a playlist he'd ripped specifically for this trip ("The Wheel," by Jerry Garcia; "America Is Not the World," by Morrissey; and a dozen others), and walked up every last switchback, humming. At the town of Geilo, we joined the 174-mile Numedalsruta, a three-day downhill run all the way to Oslo. Feeling fit and fast, we spun ourselves eastward out of the mountains into pastoral Norway—verdant meadows with round milk cows and log farmhouses so tightly built they're still standing after more than 500 years, coniferous forests where selective cutting has maintained the resource for centuries. Riding side by side, Harald and I, like all American rubes who visit Norway, couldn't help but discuss the country's astounding progressiveness. Norway is ranked first in the world by the UN Human Development Index—a matrix that measures poverty, life expectancy, literacy, and education—making it the most livable place on the planet. You honestly feel as if you're viewing the next century. Here was a nation with well-paid bicycle-path designers and citizens who take cycling vacations in the mountains, in the freezing rain, and love it.
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