Not far from Nyborg, the Danish Meteorological Institute issued a severe thunderstorm warning for the next 24 hours. If the Danes were concerned, so was I. Opting for safety, I decided to stay put at a campsite and wait for better weather. In the end, there were no dramatic storms, just a heavy downpour one night. At Nyborg, my admiration for Danish cycling credentials took a hit when I learned that to cross the long bridge connecting the islands of Funen and Zealand, I would need to cheat and take a train. Denmark lost more points when I discovered that boarding the train involved lifting my bike up four steps. Thankfully, a burly Dane on the platform helped me with my heavy burden, and in twenty minutes, I was on the other side.
That evening, I was hosted by Johannes and his German wife, Gertrud. We had arranged a six o’clock arrival, with Johannes requesting I call an hour beforehand to confirm. Arriving early, I visited a nearby village grocery store. As I reached it, a man exited, mounted his bike, and looked at me with curiosity. A few minutes later, I tried calling Johannes, but there was no answer. Upon arriving punctually at his place, I realized that the curious cyclist was Johannes himself!
“Didn’t I just see you at the supermarket?” I asked him.
“You did! I thought you were travelling on a Brompton bike so I thought it ist be someone else…”
Later he boasted my ego, telling me that he knew about me and had seen some of my travel videos. He then informed me that, at the ripe age of seventy, I had inspired him to travel on a Brompton bike himself.
I could spot a hint of disappointment as he looked at my larger bike and he said, laughing, that should I visit Again I better do it on a folding bike.
Apparently, in the past, he had been the Chairman of the Danish Cycling Association. His wife was as passionate about it, and a pleasant evening was spent chatting about gear ratios and cranksets.
Italy is a popular destination for Danes in search of some sunshine, just don’t mention the trains. Somehow we shifted to that topic. I mentioned that in Italy bikes travel for free on regional trains and that the newer trains are easier to board. They were both raising eyebrows, there was something about Italian trains that nagged them. I asked about it and heard details about the Italian trains fiasco. Politely they half blamed their own government and did not load all the blame to my country. It appears that sometime in the past a huge contract was awarded to an Italian train manufacturer to produce trains which allowed a step free access. Strangely, and this is the bit that saved me from blushing, the Danish government wanted diesel trains and not the standard electric ones that the manufacturer wanted to sell. In the end the project got entangled in knots and major hiccups and the country ended up being filled with temperamental trains prone to breakdown; eventually they were ditched and they had to revert to their old ones.
“If you go to Jutland you’ll l see them all there!” said Johannes with a sad tone for all that taxpayers money that had gone wasted.
“They parked them there as they did not know what to do with them and decided to let them rot on unused rail lines…”
My weather research from multiple sources had seen me resign to a miserable, wet ride to Copenhagen on the following day. Gertrud wouldn’t have any of that doom and gloom. She pulled out her phone, thinking that the reputable Danish Metereological Institute should have the last say. She seemed to find confirmation I. Her doubts, and smiled.
“No…You see?” She said while showing me the screen of her mobile phone.
“Hardly a millimetre of rain…”she told me reassuringly.
“By the time the weather front reaches this area it will have run its course.”
The reality was that come the morning, it bloody didn’t. By the time we finished breakfast and I was ready to say goodbye a light drizzle turned to steady rain. We took some soggy farewell pictures in their garden then it was time to take cover under my trusted orange poncho and start pedalling. Adding insult to injury, the morning turned into any cyclist nightmare with not only rain but also a strong headwind that tried to entirely crush my spirit. I decided it was not a day for niceties and took a the straighter road to Copenhagen that I could possibly find. Even the most idyllic cycleway would have turned into a dreary slog anyway, besides, they have a tendency to progress on a wiggle that adds a lot to the mileage. Curiously, these unfavourable circumstances didn’t manage to unsettle me. I stoically kept pedalling putting a smile on my face; maybe it was an early onset of senility, but at times, I could even be heard singing, filling myself with positive vibes on a day that one would have rather be sitting on a sofa with a book and a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Johannes later, corrected the overoptimistic weather forecast by sending me a text message saying that actually between 12 and 3pm there would be some rain. He also apologised for a dreadful Danish summer that hadn’t yet arrived.
Copenhagen demanded a few days of exploration. I relished the city with its harmonious blend of modern and historic architecture. It claims to be the best city in the world for cyclists, a title it likely deserves. There’s a constant stream of bicycles of all sorts—sporty racing bikes, hipsters on single-speed rigs, ladies riding in long dresses and high heels, and the unmistakable Christiania tricycles carrying the daily mail or a newly bought sofa. Cycleways are everywhere, but so are tourists and the occasional unruly cyclist, which requires vigilance. Jussi, a Finnish cyclist I met at the hostel, recounted witnessing a mighty crash that same morning, while touring the city. Someone was peacefully riding along a scenic spot by a canal when a tourist suddenly stepped the wrong way without much care, sending the youngster into a somersault that could have ended tragically. Fortunately, the cyclist quickly got to his feet and was well enough to give the hapless tourist a thorough scolding.
Another Danish trait I noticed is how strictly they follow rules, especially when it comes to traffic. Hardly anyone dares to cross an empty road against a red traffic light. Sometimes this was unnecessary, as the only intersection was closed for roadworks, yet the resolute Danes would just wait for the green light. It reminded me of the Japanese. In fact, it would be fascinating to run an experiment: set a pointless and permanent red traffic light on a straight road with no intersections, and place a Japanese and a Dane there waiting, just to see who gives up first. For the ill intentioned it would seem like the best, bloodless way to grind both countries to a halt.