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Monday, July 29th - Risor to Kristiansand, 7847 km
When I get up this morning I realize that I injured myself mildly on yesterday's long and strenuous ride from Larvik. A ligament or tendon on the inside of my left knee is paining me a bit when I turn the wrong way. It is nothing serious at the moment but it could be by tonight if I strain it any further. I have another arduous ride to get to Kristiansand, near the southern tip of the country, so that I can catch a ferry to the north coast of Denmark tomorrow. I shower, pack, indulge in the hostels 40 kroner super breakfast, make a sandwich for lunch and I'm on the road by 9:30.
The weather from Larvik has been quite cool and grey most of the time, but at least it has been dry. Sometimes this weather is better and sunny dry weather where sun burns and heat exhaustion become a threat. I follow the slightly longer, quieter and forested Rte 411 past lakes and inlets for a couple hours to get to Tvedestrand, then along a similar route 410 south to the town of Arendal. I manage a good pace, covering 41 km by noon.
Climbing up a long hill out of the neighbourhood of Saltrod in Arendal, I stop for a break to photograph the stunning view of the town centre across a small bay. Even more stunning is a cute, young blond wearing only sneakers, socks and a pair of white track shorts who is painting the railing at the viewpoint with a brush 50 metres away. I can’t let this photo opportunity (as Mike would refer to it) slip by. I try ever so discreetly to use my telephoto lens to catch him in the wild. It takes a few seconds to focus and frame the shot but before I take it he turns as sees what I am doing.
He slowly stands from his squatting position and stretches out his naked torso before walking towards me. I am burning red with embarrassment and feeling a mild urge to bolt, but I am spellbound by his beauty, which increases as approaches me. He bursts into a welcoming, far-from-innocent smile and I realize that, instead of being offended, he is reveling in the flattery of my attention. He greets me and asks about my travels with the warmth and intimacy of a close friend. Now I am flushing instead of blushing.
His name is Oysteinn, which I am sure is Norwegian for “let me be your oyster”. He is tanned with fine blond hair that moves a bit with every breeze. The surface of his torso and limbs are covered with small, shiny golden hairs. There are little specks of white paint splattered on his forearms, chest and belly that are begging me to pick them off. But I feel like I’m caught with my pants down – getting a boner in cycling shorts is always a helpless, embarrassing moment. He doesn’t seem to mind in the least, which make me ever harder. He isn’t about to grab my crotch with paint on his hands. Instead, he stands very close as he tells me about himself. He’s 24,
single, a religious studies major in Oslo and he is in training to do the grueling iron man competition this summer while working with the Highways Department to make money for school and travel in the coming year. He asks me many questions about my travels so far and my plans for the rest of my trip. He tells me he will be traveling in India this coming winter. After chatting for what seems like half an hour (it is probably much less), his boss and co-worker pass by in a pick-up and he regrettably has to return to his painting. We exchange addresses and promises to write. I definitely will. Before he leaves he poses for me and offers to take a picture of me too. He goes back to his railing and I float away to the south on my bicycle.
That decides it! I am definitely going to in India this winter instead of Morocco! My imagination is running away ahead of me and I have to keep reminding myself about the shocking incident with the pothole yesterday to keep me focused on my cycling.
From Arundel onward the land is more built up and populated. I follow a few segregated bike paths to the village of Fevik, and then take an inland route away from E18 to get to the town of Grimstad. From here, I have no option but to return to E18 and face the traffic. On this stretch of the highway there is no more than 10 cm paved edge outside of the single lane. This takes all my focus as the buses and trucks whiz by me at close range. I make a game of racing as far as I can go between bursts of traffic and these last 30 km into Kristiansand past quickly enough.
The final step to enter Kristiansand, my departure point from Norway, is crossing another massive bridge, dumps me into the centre of town. It is a festive, casual setting full of fresh sea air off the Skagerrak, the strait between Norway and Denmark. I like its energy, but perhaps that’s just my own vibe as I am excited about the crossing and being out on the sea again.
I get the last available space in the youth hostel. While I am making the reservation a charming young man with curly blond hair steps up to me and introduces himself. His eyes look like blue glass. He’s around 19 or 20, with a beautiful build - a bit taller and heavier set than me, but still probably not fully-grown. He has a peaches and cream complexion and definitely looks more innocent than Oysteinn. At first I think he is staff, but he is just an interested local youth with a yearning for travel. I am sure he is drawn to every traveler with a backpack or a bike. He has been ‘inter-railing’ through parts of Europe this spring himself. He tells me his name is Magnus. If that isn’t funny enough, the very next thing he says is “would you like to eat my banana?,” offering the unblemished fruit in his outstretched hand without the slightest hint of a smirk. “No thanks,” I say, laughing openly at his amazing unawareness of his own words. He cannot believe how I have traveled on a bicycle already, or that my trip is less than half over. “You must have great legs by now. Can I squeeze your thigh?” I can’t believe this kid, and I am certainly not let myself get another hard-on, especially on the town’s main street.
He is so innocent I could ask him to massage my perineum to help wake it up again after my long ride, and he’d probably do it without realizing that it’s foreplay. But he might know what he is saying, so I suggest he meet me later and have a drink and some fun together out on the town. He doesn’t clue in. For a youth with his imagination focused on the magical mists of distant horizons, his life is strikingly bland. He says he rarely goes out because he has to babysit his grandmother. He says this matter-of-factly, as if he does this every night of the year, as though he has never considered doing anything else. His work life is as hollow as his social life. He sells encyclopedias door-to-door or by stopping strangers in pedestrian malls, much like he has done with me today without the encyclopedias. The only part of his life worth hearing about is his workout program. He flexes his pecs to show his progress.
In another private time and place I might offer to teach him to new massage techniques or some refreshing high-adrenalin push-up exercises, but at the moment I am salty, dirty (not in a good way) and quite tired after my second almost 150 km day in a row. As we are talking, my left knee is starting to ache badly, much worse than last night. I thank him, excuse myself and limp back to the hostel.
I decide not to walk on it again until tomorrow. I spend the rest of the evening talking to my four cell-mates, one Dane and three German lads. They are all typical straight boys who think and live inside the box, but travel this summer might wake them up a bit. They seem quite uninteresting in comparison to beautiful Oysteinn, who floats across the skies of my imagination tonight like a Michelangelo painting.
PHOTO 1: bridge south of Risor
PHOTO 2: Saltrod
PHOTO 3: Oysteinn
PHOTO 4: me
PHOTO 5: Magnus and I
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