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Pull Harder! "Another beautiful day in Norway!" I proclaimed as I passed Arran and Rebecca. That had become my daily phrase. It was beginning to sound redundant, but it still evoked a smile from Arran. The houses in this mountain area looked top heavy. Constructed of logs, the top portion larger than the foundation, gave the appearance of a square brown mushroom. Some were dark stained and plain wood. Others bore intricately carved designs and stained with a spiffy clear cedar lacquer. Sharon and I stopped at Rauland to have a yogurt. We waited for Arran and Rebecca to catch up. After fifteen minutes we decided we must have missed them. Four German walkers, ecstatic about seeing a red squirrel behind a tree, confirmed our suspicions. They had seen two other cyclists pass ten minutes ago. Arriving in Amot we met Arran and Rebecca just as they exited the grocery store. "We'll meet you by the river, by the river, by the river," they chanted as they pedaled off. After buying what we wanted for lunch Sharon and I set off in the direction they had gone. At the bridge, the river lay far below. Not finding Arran and Rebecca, we returned to a grassy area along the road. From that spot, we would see them leave town. Our hunger slaked we still hadn't seen Arran and Rebecca. Venturing out of town, climbing a hill, Arran swooped down the hill towards us. Sharon yelled, "Hey, you're going the wrong way!" We had mentioned taking a smaller road out of Amot, so he was coming back to say good-bye. He intimated, "Just leaving the grocery store without saying good-bye would be uncultured." We rode to where Rebecca was waiting by a stream. Her fair skin had burned severely the past three days. We could see her radiating painfully scarlet as we pedaled up. I asked, "Should we camp together again tonight?" "If you can stand us another night," Sharon added. Arran responded, "I was just riding back to say good-bye." Rebecca's bum was sore, so they planned a short day--seventy kilometers. We paused for ice cream at the one-horse-town of Hoydalsmo. It was four-twenty-two. The store had closed at four. I could see a light in an upstairs room. Their favorite soap opera must come on at four. Sitting on homemade three-legged male stools at an outside table, we surveyed the map. An old geezer dozed inside the gas bar. Just so much work, one guy could barely keep up. A short distance from town, a barrier led to Lake Ofterat. Deftly slipping our bikes around the end of the barrier we found an isolated place amongst the trees and rocks on the shore. Our stove wouldn't light. I cleaned the jet and still, not even a sputter. The instruction sheet advised the stove required more frequent cleaning when gasoline was being burnt, explaining gas contained additives that left deposits and clogged the fuel line. I hadn't cleaned the fuel line for the year we had used the stove; my motto being: If it ain't broke, don't fix it. I guessed it was time. I tried to remove the cable from the fuel line with the pathetic "cable remover" tool supplied with the stove, but the cable wouldn't budge. Arran suggested, "Pull harder." I clamped pliers on and tugged mightily. Arran yipped, "Pull until you think you're going to break something... and then pull harder." I told him, "I'm pulling so hard I think I'm going to burst a blood vessel." "They're hard to get out the first time," Arran understated. I asked Arran, "What does that cable do anyway?" After lengthy contemplation of possibilities he said, "I don't know. But if there's anything else you are wondering about just sing out. Don't hold back. I'll be happy to give further speculations and no answers." I wiggled and twisted the braided fuel line. Nothing. I reasoned, maybe if I heat the fuel tubing it would expand and I could pull the cable out. A science experiment of metal expansion and contraction ensued. I grilled the fuel line over Arran's stove and pulled mightily. The wire jerked out. Once out, the cable was supposed to be used to ream the fuel line. I couldn't force it back in. I took a break to eat... using Arran's stove to cook supper. All three of the party wished me luck and went to bed. I continued working on the stove. I still couldn't re-install the cable. There seemed to be a blockage at the bend in the tube. I tried to shove a smaller derailleur cable through, but it jammed too. Finally, out of light, I gave up and went to bed. |
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