Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie

by Andrew P. Sykes

  It all sounded quite cute. An elk and 'their babies'.

  'But I've never seen one so close to Oslo,' she went on.

  It was, perhaps, a sign of things to come. Wildlife had yet to become a major feature of this trip. It had, however, been one of my main concerns about cycling through Norway and thus, prior to setting off, I had done a little digging as to what I might find.

  Reindeer, of course. Elk, clearly. My main preoccupation, however, had been bears. The Norwegian Environment Agency noted five species of 'large carnivore': the brown bear, the lynx, the wolf, the wolverine and the golden eagle. It was reassuring to know that the elk wasn't likely to try to eat me, although with a weight of upwards of 300 kg, your average elk could most certainly knock me off my bike and trample me to death.

  I had met a pack of wolves whilst cycling in southern Italy a few years previously. They had been more interested in the food waste left by tourists than in sinking their gnashers into my succulent thighs. I cycled straight past them, albeit carefully. In Scandinavia there were around 430 'registered' wolves but the vast majority of these had chosen to live in Sweden. Perhaps over there the registration form was simpler for them to fill in. The risk of bumping into one in Norway seemed slight.

  I had only ever associated the word 'wolverine' with a Hollywood film so to discover that it existed in the real world was somewhat of a revelation. However, with only 340 animals in Norway, it again seemed unlikely I would encounter any. That said, their distribution along the long border with Sweden meant that they were never too far away. Lynxes – of which there were 310 in 2015 – were probably more afraid of me than I was of them. They were similarly distributed along the spine of Scandinavia.

  With their penchant for small animals such as grouse, ducks and hares rather than large cyclists, it appeared that I wasn't at risk of being carried away by a golden eagle. The Environment Agency estimated the number of breeding pairs to be between 700 and 1,100. Bearing in mind the eagle's ability to fly some distance from the nest, I was hopeful that I would spot some of them high in the sky as I cycled north.

  Which brings us to the bears…

  Around 150 years ago, there were 4,000–5,000 brown bears in Scandinavia, roughly 3,000 of them in Norway. Bears were ruthlessly hunted in both Norway and Sweden in the early twentieth century, and almost exterminated. Today, the stronghold of bears in Norway is along the border with Sweden, Finland and Russia.

  So said the Environment Agency. They went on to admit that it wasn't easy to count bears, as they spent much of the winter in hibernation. However, the Altposten newspaper reported that walkers were being encouraged to collect bear scat (yes, that's bear shit to you and me, presumably found in the woods) for DNA analysis. The important thing was not to contaminate it and to freeze it as soon as possible, before sending it off to the authorities for checking. This research had revealed there to be at least 128 bears in Norway in 2015, of which 53 were females and 75 males.

  So, my chances of coming face to face with a brown bear were also slim. But the burning question – was the brown bear dangerous? – had yet to be answered. It was thus useful to discover a publication written by a certain Jan-Erik Olson for the Scandinavian Brown Bear Research Project, handily entitled Is The Brown Bear Dangerous?

  The good news was that the last reported death by bear in Norway was way back in 1906 when a 13-year-old boy surprised a bear that was in the process of munching away at a carcass. The boy didn't quite provide dessert but he was seriously injured and succumbed to meningitis a month later in hospital. The most recent death in Scandinavia had been in Finland, in 1998, when a jogger again surprised a bear. It was suggested that the surprise might have been due to the jogger's almost silent approach into a headwind. It could be argued that a cyclist's approach in similar conditions might also provoke alarm in a bear. This I could understand. Whilst commuting to work in the open countryside of South Oxfordshire, I would often surprise the local deer population and as a result get a little too up close and personal with the fleeing animals.

  Although the report by Mr Olson said that the Scandinavian brown bear was not dangerous, he did go on to state that many people had been 'hurt, scratched and bitten by bears'. I suppose it depends upon your definition of danger. In fairness, I could see where he was coming from. I have fallen off my bike on many occasions over the years and hurt myself but I don't consider cycling to be a dangerous activity.

  The publication rounded off with some useful advice about encounters with bears: signal your peaceful intentions, no uncontrolled movements, don't run and retire cautiously. I'm sure I was given similar advice at teacher training college about dealing with 15-year-old boys. If the bear stood on its hind legs, it was doing so not to scare the living daylights out of you but in order to see or smell better. If the bear roared, snorted or uttered 'sounds reminding of murmurs or whistles', it was trying to scare the living daylights out of you so run like hell. No, sorry, forgot… Don't run. And you shouldn't shoot: 'A wounded bear is a dangerous bear!'

  If you were attacked, the choice was between climbing a tree (best option) and playing dead (worst option). Although this latter strategy has been proven to be successful, bears have learnt to associate human scent with food either left as refuse or as bait placed by hunters and photographers. They smell you and think food…

  Mr Olson concluded his pamphlet thus: 'If you treat him with respect and do not threaten or hurt him, he returns his respect by withdrawing.'

  Wise advice indeed and just as applicable to teaching teenagers as confronting bears in a Norwegian forest.

  That evening, not yet close to the mountainous border between Norway and Sweden further north, I slept on what I assumed to be a bear-free campsite at the southern tip of Lake Mjøsa, near the small town of Langset, although it wasn't quite as idyllic as it sounded. The noise of the traffic at the campsite near Oslo had been replaced by the noise of trains trundling across the nearby bridge and planes on their final approach to Oslo airport.

  In the morning, I chose to cycle along the western shore of Lake Mjøsa. For much of the day the road hugged the edge of the lake with only a narrow forested strip of land between me and the water, and where gaps in the trees existed, beautiful views across the wide lake and towards the low, green hills in the east were revealed.

  In the early afternoon, the road climbed temporarily away from the lake, only to return close to it at the town of Gjovik, where I paused to stock up on provisions before continuing the few kilometres to Sveastranda Camping. The welcome was friendly and the free camping area idyllically positioned next to the water. The site was busy but such was its spaciousness that I had plenty of ground to call my own; any conversation with a neighbour would have required us both to shout. A number of tall trees beside the lake provided shade from a sun that was now not setting until very late indeed.

  That evening I made good use of my camping chair and my increasingly proficient ability to sit and, with a contented smile on my face, stare across a placid lake to the mountains beyond. This was the Norway I had been dreaming about for so long and, to cap it all off, there wasn't a bear in sight.

  * * *

  * 'I know I look like Fridtjof Nansen but I'm just a cyclist from England.' (BACK)

  THE TWENTY-SIXTH DEGREE

  61°–62° NORTH

  1–2 July

  The first couple of hours of cycling day 71 were a physical struggle but I was unsure why. Between the campsite and Lillehammer – a journey of around 30 km – there was little climbing to be done and yet my legs were aching. Cycling day 70 hadn't been particularly taxing, with only one small climb of around 100 metres. Accumulated fatigue? Perhaps. That said, I'd had seven rest days in June, as opposed to only six in April and May combined. It seemed more likely that my body was having a tantrum to match the one taking place in my brain.

  So why was my brain disgruntled? That I could figure out and it was all down to a road. Up until this point, I had managed to
avoid much of the busy E6 either by following cycle routes 1 and 7 or by choosing alternative quieter roads. However, 5 km north of Sveastranda Camping, the E6 joined me on the western side of Lake Mjøsa. Unfortunately, it was being upgraded and, for long stretches, the traffic had been shunted onto my minor road. It made for unpleasant cycling.

  Lillehammer was on the eastern side of the lake and, thankfully, the E6 skirted around the town rather than ploughing straight through the centre. As with most people who were alive at the time to watch it on TV in 1994, I associated the town with the Winter Olympics. Nowadays, some might immediately think of The Sopranos spin-off television drama Lilyhammer, which was filmed there. A small, unassuming place, it hung onto its Olympic heritage: a sign to the Olympiaparken here, a colourful Olympic-themed manhole cover there.

  The arrival of the Olympics must have been a shock for a town with a population of only 25,000. In several ways, however, 1994 was a turning point for the Winter Games. They were the first not to be held in the same year as the Summer Games and, perhaps as a result of the noble yet ultimately flawed efforts of Eddie 'The Eagle' Edwards two years earlier, they were the first Winter Olympics where competitors needed to (brace yourself) prove that they were half decent before turning up with their skis. In 1992, when the Games had taken place in Albertville, France, the British team had consisted of 49 athletes. In 1994 the number dropped to 32. So much for Pierre de Coubertin's words of comfort to all those who fail miserably: 'It's not the winning but the taking part.' Time would tell whether I would be one of them. I still had over 2,000 km to cycle.

  My journey continued along the snaking valley north of Lillehammer, in the direction of some rather large, snow-capped mountains. But enthusiasm was lacking and after barely one more hour in the saddle, I had found a campsite near the town of Granrudmoen, where I sat on the steps of the wash block feeling rather sorry for myself.

  I couldn't blame the E6 for my malaise this time, as I had been able to follow a secondary road since Lillehammer. Feeling disgruntled with life on the road was one thing but feeling disgruntled for no good reason was quite another. That only made me feel more disgruntled. Where was that Eddie 'The Eagle' spirit in me that could propel me forward against the adversity of feeling a bit grumpy? I was sure Eddie must have had his off days, when he spent far too much time wondering, 'Why bother?'

  It was only 2 p.m. The small reception office was closed and the rest of the one-field site was all but abandoned. The wash block was open and there were signs that at some point in the afternoon someone might arrive: clothes hanging up to dry, and a table and chairs set up next to one of the few campervans. I closed my eyes and ignored my aching limbs. For perhaps 15 minutes I didn't move; I listened to the distant sounds of rural Norway – the river, the wind, the traffic on the E6 – and tried to relax.

  This was crazy. I jumped to my feet, got back on the bike and cycled up the short, rough track in the direction of the road. It was going to be a case of mind over matter. My map showed a good number of other campsites strung along the valley; one of those would be my home for the night.

  Within a few minutes of pulling myself together, I was standing on a bridge spanning the wide river, admiring the view of blue sky, pristine farmland hugging the valley bottom and increasingly tall mountains in the distance… Fantastic. The morning's gripes were a distant memory – no! They were gone, not even a memory. My mood was high and my legs… Where had the aches gone? Ha! 'It's not the winning but the taking part.' Piffle! I wasn't there just to take part, just to observe as life passed me by. I was there to succeed, to vanquish, to win!

  Too much Olympic spirit?

  I was now back on the eastern side of the water and campsites began to appear thick and fast. Nah, too near the road… Too busy… Too quiet… Just look at that view… What a pretty chalet with a turfed roof… And we are beginning to climb away from the road… Can you hear that? No, me neither! The E6 had disappeared from earshot.

  As the road had now climbed modestly above the valley floor, I paused again to take in the view. While I gazed, I was approached by a woman dressed for a strenuous hike. She was from Germany and on a pilgrimage from Oslo to Trondheim.

  'That's amazing,' she cooed when I explained where my own final destination would be. She then called over her much younger male friend to join in on the admiration.

  How had I managed to transform an early afternoon of aches, pains and mental malaise into an early evening of feeling as high as an errant drone and even receiving plaudits from an athletic elderly German and her toy boy? An achievement worthy of an Olympic medal in itself.

  Even when I was required to rejoin the busy E6 for the final few kilometres of the cycling day, my mood could not be dimmed. It wasn't long before I had set up camp and, from my position in my camping chair on the manicured lawn of Elstad Camping, near the town of Ringebu, I watched as the sun slid slowly down the side of the shallow hill opposite me. I had expected it to disappear soon after my arrival, but no. Such was my northerly latitude that the movement of the sun was now much more horizontal than vertical, and it kept the campsite bathed in sunshine for much of the evening. I pondered the astrophysics that allowed me to witness the spectacle in the first place. Late in the evening, when finally the sun had disappeared on its short journey below the horizon, I crawled into the tent and slept well.

  —

  I was making real progress in my journey from the southern to western coastline of Norway. Point-to-point, from Oslo to Trondheim, was almost exactly 400 km. From Oslo to Ringebu it was almost exactly 200 km. However, I was still languishing at only 200 metres above sea level. Looking on my map at the peaks to the north of Ringebu, there were some substantial mountains ahead of me: Høggia 1,641, Gravskardhøgda 1,767 and Store Sølnkletten 1,827. There was never any risk of me having to climb to any of those heights, as I would be weaving a path along the roads between the mountains, but they were indicative of what was to come. The path north to Trondheim was littered with dozens of peaks significantly higher than anything Britain could have thrown in my way. I had a challenging day ahead of me.

  The good news was that I would be leaving the E6 to fathom its own way to Trondheim on a route further to the west. Cycle route 7 was a more adventurous beast and so was I. Fortifying myself with a strong black coffee and breakfast in the centre of Ringebu, I set off for the mountains, assuming that I would have a few kilometres of respite before the real climbing kicked in. How wrong I was. Within metres of leaving the pretty wooden buildings on the main street of the town, the climbing started abruptly and, over the next two hours, the gradient never relinquished its grip on the side of the mountain.

  Great joy can be found in climbing a mountain using only the power of the human body and the determination of the human mind, knowing that in a relatively short period of time, a point will be reached from which you can look down, think Yes, I did that and smile, a little smugly. It's exactly what I had done on a wet and windy day in 2009 after a 60-minute plod through the 300 m of ascent from Alston to Hartside Top during my first long-distance cycle along the Pennine Cycleway in Britain. It's exactly what I had done on a cold morning in 2010 after a two-hour shakedown over the cobbles from Andermatt to the Gotthard Pass in Switzerland. And it's exactly what I had done under the blue sky and sun of Provence in 2013 after an uninterrupted three-hour crawl up 1,600 m to the summit of Mont Ventoux. It's also exactly what I used to do upon reaching the 'summit' of the 500 m long Chalk Hill from Harpsden village to the eighth green of Henley Golf Club on my way home every day after work. All 39 vertical metres of it. Not once did I approach the foot of that hill and wish I was in a car, for I knew that gratification awaited me at the top. I had done the training and I had the experience to know that it was never a race. Find the granny cog, slow down, sit down and let the thighs do the work. Hartside Top, the Gotthard Pass, Mont Ventoux, Chalk Hill – the same strategy worked every time.

  Only two things stopped me in my tracks as
I nudged forward from 200 to 1,000 m: a woman and a church. The former was in her twenties and dressed lightly. She needed to be, as she was powering herself up the mountain on long roller skis. With her long blonde hair, tall, athletic build and tanned skin, the woman fitted the Scandinavian stereotype quite well. She had stopped to rest – this was a challenging hill for even young, fit Norwegians – at a point where there was a break in the trees and subsequently a satisfying view down into the valley. I had seen numerous people speeding along the cycle paths using roller skis – think normal skis with a small wheel at either end – but this was the first time I had seen anyone attempt such a steep incline.

  'It keeps me in shape for the cross-country skiing season,' she told me before going on to explain that she worked in a hotel at the ski station at the top.

  'Do we have far to go?' I enquired, tentatively.

  'Only a couple more hours,' she replied, smiling.

  As for the church, I initially stopped only to take a photograph. The building, in the village of Venabygd, was small and simple, with wood-panelled walls, a tiled roof and a tall wooden spire. The walls and the spire were painted white and stood out in sharp contrast against an almost cloudless sky. Then, as I was packing away my camera and about to remount Reggie, I noticed a small green plaque attached to the wall by the church gate.