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Cyclesplat We camped in front of fishermen's storage huts by the stinking low tide in *. The numerous boisterously squawking seagulls woke us early. They certainly were protesting loudly about something. Their noisy raucous cries prompted Rebecca to yell at them, "It's not that bad!" On the way out of town we saw a group of oldsters walking to the beach for their morning swim. Some were already taking an exercise class on the grass, jiggling in motion to Elvis's, "I Did It My Way." Arran shook his head, "That's when it's time to pack it in." And that was the vigorous portion.We followed the meandering bike route with a name sounding like "Cyclesplat." After seeing a sign posting seventeen kilometers from where we camped last night we had, according to our meters, traversed thirty-four kilometers. In the afternoon we looked for a more direct route to Helsingborg. We explained to Arran and Rebecca what those puffy gray things in the sky were; it had been quite some time since they'd seen clouds. The road went over a bump; the biggest hill we had conquered in Sweden. On top were farms and a golf course, where a few single players hit a round. The caution signs for children playing looked like Pippy Longstocking, Tommy and Anika frolicking along. I took a picture of the gang imitating various poses of the sign. Sharon and Rebecca jumped in the air while Arran did a walking freeze frame. Lunch was by the river in Angelholm, after raiding the supermarket, getting rid of our last few shekels. When we finished shopping, I still rubbed two meager kronors together. I stood in line to buy a banana, but it came to two-fifty. During lunch I decided to buy two kronors worth of fuel, about half-a-bottle. The only leftover cash was exactly forty kronors for the ferry to Denmark. I suffered a flat leaving Angelholm taking a chunk out of my expensive worthless Holland tire. I put on a new tire and tube. I thought I would try booting the Dutch tire to stretch more mileage from it before tossing it, so I didn't feel so bad about spending the big bucks. That was the biggest rip-off for tire quality in my life. I should have bought the Czechoslovakia one-and-a-half inch monster I saw in a store the other day for fifty-five kronors. It featured hard gnarly tread that would have resisted flats. The ferry crossing to Helsingør took twenty-five minutes. We waited behind two Harleys going to Copenhagen for a "bad time" the driver informed us. |
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