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Maj
Time flies. Already back again. Some words and pictures of my trip to Copenhagen below.
The route:
The bike:
It’s Friday afternoon and I’m sitting at work, slowly counting down the hours till the weekend starts. When I tell my colleague that I’m helping my brother move to Copenhagen, he jokingly asks whether I’m traveling there by bike. The guy has been sitting next to me for long enough to know this wouldn't be out of the equation. But I could kick myself for not putting one and one together myself. A quick calculation shows me that I would need to leave the next morning, in order to make it in time for my brother and his rented moving truck arriving on Thursday. Slight nerves start to kick in, as a little preparation would have been nice. My coworker then hits me with the one-two punch, suggesting I take the train all the way up to the north of the Netherlands and leave on Sunday, making Groningen the starting point of my five day trip to København.
I don’t know what I did to appease the wind gods, but somehow every day the vector along which they fiercely blow perfectly aligns with the direction I’m heading. Going east, going north, going east again, I’m greeted by wind turbines with their blades facing towards me. A train of big wheelers pulls me into their vacuum, forcing me to up-shift another extra couple of gears. I’m sure the tiny cogs on the cassette are happy they’re being used for a change.
The first two days are gloriously sunny, but April stays true to its Latin origin perire, meaning 'to open'. Day three promises rain, some more rain, and finally a bucket of rain to top it all off. As the heavens open up, Tuesday becomes a day of putting one’s head down and making it to the next warm bed as efficiently as possible. Around 5 o'clock a faint shadow appears next to me. Even though my core has stayed warm and dry, the reappearance of the sun gives my soaked feet, socks, and shoes a chance to start thinking of dehydrating.
As I’m riding along a gravel path parallel to a miles-long bridge, I begin to suspect I should be on the raised path leading up to the bridge. I ask a mother who’s cycling with her three young children whether she thinks there is a way up there, without having to double-back. A look of worry appears on her face, as she explains that even without a semi loaded bicycle on your shoulder this would be a challenge. Clearly the woman is unaware I’m sporting a Crust Lightning Bolt, the canti version no less. It’s in the friggin’ name!
The mom shields her impressionable offspring from the heroic ascent I’m about to undertake. Obviously witnessing this epic feat would instill unrealistically high expectations of what a man should be. Or maybe she just doesn’t want her kids to watch a maniac fall down a slippery grass slope, because he couldn’t be arsed to turn around the way he came from. Halfway up the 50% gradient I remember cycling merely trains the legs, as the fatigue in my arms slowly but steadily starts to set in. Powering through I make my way to the top, waving happily to the tiny people down below.
I arrive at the ferry crossing from Germany to Denmark at the perfect time. A man in a bright yellow high vis suit escorts me to the front of the queues of waiting passengers. Being the sole cyclist of that departure, I patiently wait as the semi trucks deboard the ship to continue their journey via Germany. An hour later I’m in Denmark. The final day I head towards Copenhagen in a straight line. I meet my brother at the house, and we go out for a bite to eat. The next day we unload the truck, only to head home again the day after with the bike in the back.