Fjords Have Mercy
Norwegians have a reputation for being a hard bunch. In this sportive we find the proof…
Norway’s Voss-geilo sportive serves up lessons in prior preparation, group camaraderie and nature versus nurture
If I had to put my very numb finger on it, I’d say there was one ride a few years ago around Hertfordshire that did it for me. There’s a saying in the army that if you’re properly dressed you start cold and finish warm, but that day I started cold and finished very, very cold. By the time I got home it took a full five minutes to unzip my jacket and unlock the front door, and a further 20 cowering under a boiling shower like a prisoner getting hosed down before any feeling returned to my body. Since then, I’m sure my resilience to the cold has been irreparably damaged. Today, as I near the finish of the Voss-geilo sportive, I can’t help thinking that none of the Norwegian riders here has ever had a similar experience.
Dressed in thin layers, bibshorts and frequently with bare hands, the Norse men and women I’m trying to keep up with seem oblivious to the freezing conditions. Even though it’s the tail end of August, the weather has flipped on its head since this morning and for the last half an hour the sky has been doing its best to top up Norway’s 450,000 lakes. I’d normally steer away from using the word ‘biblical’ to describe riding conditions, but today I wouldn’t be surprised to see an ark.
Back to the start
Norway isn’t the first country that springs to mind for cycling, but as I arrive at the start line of the Voss-geilo I soon realise that, like many other countries around Europe, Norway is
Inge warned me the VossGeilo was basically flat until ‘it suddenly really isn’t’, which translates to a mammoth 30km climb
experiencing a boom in road cycling, albeit with a few sartorial twists. While the participants lining up along the side of a well-kept cemetery in Vossevangen (Voss’s municipal centre) have all the hallmarks of die-hard roadies – the expensive bikes, the shaved legs, the Lycra – there are an alarming number with backpacks.
Tentatively I turn to see what my riding buddy for the day, Inge Paulsen, is wearing. And yep, there’s a backpack. But before I can ask him what the deal is, Inge turns to me with an apologetic smile and declares he’s left his shoes at home. ‘I can’t believe it, in all my years of cycling you worry about this day, but it never comes. Today of all days!’ However, his dismay is short lived when a call to Bergen CK clubmate and sportive organiser Nils Olaf Solberg results in a local sports shop owner rolling up his shutters early to provide Inge with a new pair of shoes and cleats. So, back to the backpack.
‘People have food and spare clothes in them. You never know with the weather here,’ Nils cheerfully informs me. ‘But today it is looking good, you should be fine.’ Famous last words.
Before I can ask if I might pop to the sports shop too, the crack of a pistol signals the start, followed by a series of clicks as 1,200 riders clip themselves into their pedals to tackle the 160km of road that will take us east across the fjordpocked wilderness and on to the finish in Geilo (don’t get the ‘e’ and ‘i’ mixed up, unless you want your sat-nav to direct you to a metallurgist company in Poland).
The road out of Vossevangen is relatively flat. Groups form quickly, and I soon learn about another crucial piece of Nordic kit I’m missing: a bit of duct tape stuck to my helmet with my name on it. Inge informs me that although this is not a race, Norway has a strong cycling club scene and riders descend on events like this with organised veracity, assembling club chain gangs from the off and using the helmet names to bark instructions at each other. Outsiders can join in, but they’re expected to cooperate in regimental uniformity or risk the ire of the gangs’ leaders – which I manage immediately when a gruffsounding rider on a Cannondale pulls alongside and shouts madly at me.
My Norwegian doesn’t extend much past the phrase ‘Gosh, this is expensive’, so I’m at a loss as to what I’ve done wrong, but I’m soon put right by a more friendly rider who explains that I’m accelerating too quickly when I take my turn on the front. I nod and apologise, but can’t help thinking that perhaps it’s the others here going too slowly.
Twenty-five kilometres later I understand my sympathetic companion was right. The pace, while never too fast, has been relentless, and I’m almost happy when the first proper climb of the day rears its head and naturally slows our chain gang. The climb itself forms the early stages of a detour along the old road towards the ferry that used to cross the Hardangerfjorden, the third-longest fjord in the world at nearly 180km in length. It’s a fairly sedate uphill at around 5% and 5km long, but nevertheless it’s enough to thin our pack, and this time I take advantage of our lower speed and admire the surroundings.
If you haven’t been to Norway it’s a tough place to describe. Its interior is all damp conifers and chiselled rock towers, but that’s about where words fail. Whether it’s the time of the season or just the time of day, the landscape presents an eerie beauty that whispers in and out of the trees, inviting and warning at the same time. It’s not a place you’d care to find yourself alone at night, yet by day it’s perfectly lovely to cycle through.
As we get up and over the crest of the climb we meet a sweeping set of hairpins that skilfully traverse the Skjerfossen waterfall to the lake below. It’s truly beautiful and it’s tempting to stare at the plunging water as I pass, but Inge shouts at me to go easy on the greasy road,
wet from the spray, and so I focus on speeding down the winding descent.
A quick stop at the first feed station turns into another ‘always read the instructions’ moment when Inge notices I don’t have any lights. Even though we’ll circumvent most of the tunnels on our route, it’s a prerequisite to have lights on bikes lest the wrath of the local constabulary be felt in full force. Inge informs me riders
My Norwegian doesn’t extend past ‘Gosh, this is expensive’, so I’m at a loss as to what I’ve done wrong
have been thrown out of sportives for flouting such rules. Fortunately, it seems the Nordic way is to come fully prepared for yourself and any stupid Englishman you might encounter, and a rummage in his backpack produces a spare set.
He clearly knows the road, as it’s only a few kilometres before the lights are pressed into service through a short tunnel that brings us up and onto the Hardanger Bridge. At 1,310m, it boasts the longest span of any bridge in Norway, 30m longer than that of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge and the 10th longest in the world, and today it has a dozen workmen straddling the bundles of steel wires overhead. We’re separated from the traffic with our own cycle lane, but judging by the workmen’s reactions it’s not often this path sees such a procession of riders. Like all good cyclists, the more they cheer, the faster we ride, so it’s almost with regret that we reach the other side in double quick time.
The next 20 kilometres are another brisk lesson in group riding. Flat and fast, we bowl along at speeds that would be impossible for me to maintain on my own. In fact, the process is so refined that I’m brought to the foot of today’s real test feeling almost as fresh as when I started, the speedy through-and-off changeovers proving exceptionally economical.
If I was impressed by the waterfall earlier on, it’s nothing compared to the vast rocky chasm that we’re soon climbing up. For a time, we go from steep to steeper, with the only things moving slower than us riders being the rivulets of water that seep in and out of the lichen-filled crannies. Once again our route has taken us away from the main tunnels, but I still find myself fumbling for my rear light when we hit a short, dank stretch of excavated mountainside. Once more the word eerie springs to mind.
Until now, with a little help from Inge, things have gone rather well. I’m not spent, I’m not in prison and I’m still smiling. I can feel that smile broaden as a gaggle of people come into view in a layby ahead, waving flags, supping a few beers and shouting whatever words Norwegians shout to spur on their tired family and friends.
End of the innocence
Inge had warned me that the Voss-geilo was basically flat until ‘it suddenly really isn’t’, and what that translates to is a mammoth 30km climb with an average gradient of a little over 5% that crops up at the halfway mark and takes the riders from virtual sea level to over a kilometre towards the sky. As we rise the wind is already whipping up, with some pretty ominous clouds gathering ahead. The landscape has shifted from dense forest to something more Hebridean, with vast plateaus of shallow lakes, scrub and moorland. Occasionally a wooden-slatted cabin
We go from steep to steeper, with the only things moving slower than us riders being the rivulets of water that seep out of the lichen-filled crannies
pops into view, and at one point I’m sure I see two bears skulking around for food (this turns out to be some pretty hardy-looking hikers). But save for those interruptions, the view, and the weather, is getting bleaker by the second.
By now I’ve lost my riding compadres, who have once again kept a sensible pace while I foolishly ploughed ahead. Checking my Garmin shows another 8km to climb, and right about the time my head begins to sink, the heavens open. Soon the horizon has become a blur of saturated grey and green and I enter that dark place where all cyclists go from time to time. I consider stopping, but let’s not forget this is a country ruled by gods and trolls, and just as it seems the latter have decided it would be fun to throw great stinging handfuls of hail at my face, the former toss some crumbs my way in the form of a group of riders emerging from the gloom up ahead. I dig in and finally, praise Hushovd, reach the back of the group.
‘There are many already riding back to Voss. And one or two are even riding on to Oslo! But of course they are Norwegian. We are hard men’
The last few kilometres are a mixture of frostbite, stinging cheeks and jubilation. For the most part the jubilation comes from riders in my new-found group, the strongest of whom is riding with his jacket flailing open in the windy rain, hands clad only in some thin mitts, occasionally smiling at his mates. Anything on my face that might pass as a joining-in grin, meanwhile, is born from an inward grimace.
Agony and ecstasy
The final stretch to Geilo is a blur. Thoughts of icicles on Cav’s helmet at the 2013 Milan-san Remo and the chillblanes I inflicted on myself in Herfordshire flit through my mind. Cold as I am, sprinting for the safety of the finish line, I know I’m about as far from Cav’s pedigree and pain then as I am from Voss now, but I don’t care. In spirit I’m there, souffrance and all.
At the finish I’m greeted with the largest cup of tea in Norway, and a word with Voss-geilo’s sporting director, ex-pro Bo André Namtvedt. ‘You are pretty cold, no?’ he says. I nod, and explain it’s taken 10 minutes under a hot tap plus this tea to let me feel my fingers again. He nods pityingly, so I enquire as to the other riders. How is it so many rode in such minimal kit? Were they caught out by the weather? ‘Did you not see?’ says Bo, ‘There are many already riding back to Voss. And one or two are even riding on to Oslo! But of course they are Norwegian, so they are born with the cold. We are hard men.’ I nod, turn, and go to sit in my parked car with the heater on full blast. It’s been an education. Hard men indeed.
James Spender is staff writer for Cyclist and tapped out this article with his nose