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Tuesday, July 30th – Kristiansand to Saelby, Denmark, 7931 km
I am up early this morning, packing as quickly and quietly as I can so not disturb my four roommates. I leave before breakfast to check in at the ferry by 7:15 am. The passage across the Skagerrak between Kristiansand and the Danish landing point at Hirsalts, is much shorter than between Copenhagen and Oslo. It will the full morning. I make myself comfortable on the deck, hopefully for a pleasant ride.
I am seated beside an older fellow, perhaps in his early 50s, a Norwegian who notices my front pannier which I am using as a sachet, the one I keep with that contains my ID, my guides and journal. He asks about my trip. I tell him about my route so far and where I might be going, announcing that I am almost at the 8000 km mark. But he is more alarmed than impressed, not the typical reaction I get to my story. He shakes his head and warns me not to do too much. What do you mean by 'too much'? I ask, slightly offended by his comment. He just shakes his head again and repeats himself, staring pensively at the open water.
I am too irritated to pursue his point any further, and I walk away a minute later. The world is full of people quick to shoot others down for doing more than they would, as though we rock the boat of their limited world by trying to do something extraordinary. I want to dismiss him this way, which would be easy enough to do, but that doesn't seem to satisfy me. He seemed wise and thoughtful, not the type of conformist who thinks the pinnacle of life experience is a good football match. I have not considered the concept of doing "too much" up to now, that perhaps what I am doing is harming me in some way. That thought is unnerving, and offensive. I am wondering if he said that because I am as skinny as a rail, but I can't see that I am doing too much.There's a bank of fog that diminishes the view of the Danish coast. I am talking with a handsome Dane named Sven on deck as we approach. When we land in Hirsalts we are in the thick of it. I disembark. It is a small town, even compared to Kristiansand, but because it is a customs entry point there are more services than a town this size would normally have. I go to the exchange office to take out some Danish money and visit the tourist information office to get maps of bike trails and a list of youth hostels. After I do some grocery shopping the fog has lifted.
I follow the road south from Hirsalts and turn east along Skanensvej, a small highway that parallels the coast of the north tip of Jutland. It is set back two to three kilometres from the shore, to the south of the dunes. I find the bike trails on the map I was given. They are mostly unpaved, but they make for peaceful, scenic riding free of traffic. I entertain this fantasy of sleeping on the beach tonight. I make several detours north to the white sand expanses in the hopes of finding a remote cove, perhaps even a nudist beach, but the beaches are accessed by cars and trucks that cruise along 
the sand, affording no privacy to anyone. The dunes are nice and there might be hiding places in amongst them, but instead of abandoning my bike to check them out I return to the trails.
When I reach the east coast I stop in Albaek to phone the youth hostel in Saeby to make a reservation. With the southward change of direction the headwind disappears. I follow the highway now, not bike trails, but the traffic is light and the road
surface smooth. I make excellent time. It is a blessing for my achy knee. Around me are fields and pastures and the occasional banks of power-generating windmills. It is all very pastoral and open, scarcely a rise anywhere large enough to call a hill. I glide through Frederikshavn, the largest town I have seen today, and onto Saeby, 12 km further south.
The youth hostel is in a small gymnasium in a local school. It is subdivided by temporary dividers into doorless, ceilingless cubicles with two bunk beds in each. My cubicle has no mattresses on the upper bunks so I only have one cellmate. His name is Martin, a 31-year old German architectural student. We joke about being residents of a refugee camp. After I shower up and change the two of us eat dinner at the hostel and go into town to share a couple beers. There isn't much to Saeby. It is slightly more than a village and there isn't much of a commercial strip. The only pub in town is in a hotel. It is reminiscent of a British pub with its solid oak furniture.
Martin is a solid guy, but not heavy. If his lack of fashion sense and hair style doesn't flag him as straight, his obsession with women does. He doesn't stir up any sexual appeal for me. He talks about girls and sports. I don't have much to add, so I just nod in mock agreement. It's better than drinking alone.
While he is talking, I am thinking about the idea of cycling the length of Norway. I would not do it alone, but I've had great difficulty finding suitable gay cycling partners. I have this fantasy of doing it with a handsome straight friend who I gradually introduce to man love as we share a tent each night, but more realistically, I suppose it would end up being a situation like tonight, and I wouldn't be able to get aroused in his presence if he wanted me to.
PHOTO 1: Sven
PHOTO 2: roads near the beach, north coast
PHOTO 3: Danish horses
PHOTO 4: pastoral scenery
PHOTO 5: a quiet Saturday in Frederikshavn
PHOTO 6: Park Hotel, Saelby
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