Olderfjord – 4,079km completed
I guess being on the road by 4:50am is pretty good considering the past 24 hours, but I must have lost time somewhere. I do vaguely recall hitting snooze for an hour, which would make sense since 50 minutes would be about right to eat, clear up, kit up, drop the trash at the bins and the key in the box on the side of the shop. Mounting up to ride out I was still feeling pretty weak, but so much better than yesterday. And even short of energy, it was impossible not to be joyful at both another ridiculously scenic morning, and the prospect that today would see me finally reach my goal of actually completing a 4,000km ultra. This leg was the last entry on the last of those little cue cards, which had become so indispensable: 127km, with about 1,400m of climbing. Just a shade over a Cape Town Cycle Tour. A glimmer of confidence returned – if I took it steady, I had this.
The first challenge of the day was that uphill out of town, cutting across country to avoid going around the large headland jutting out on the north side of the bay. Honestly, the gradient was nothing – it’s daunting appearance purely a facet of the state I was in yesterday. Even with a tired body, I span over them with no real stress and warmed the body up in the process to the glorious riding ahead. The views were amazing – empty of cars and people, the road stretching out along open rocky moor studded stands of sparse, low trees. Before long it dipped down again to run beside the coast, dotted with boats hauled up on the stony shore, and houses dotted here and there – some fresh and brightly painted, others in much older, subdued hues of red brown. The NorthCape may have still been some distance, but there was no mistaking that we were on the way there. To anyone who’d studied this event, which was all of us riding, we’d entered the uniquely rugged landscape that was so evocative and alluring from images and videos of previous editions. This area was known as Sápmi, part of the ancient region of the Sámi-speaking indigenous people. Occasionally, along the route were signs of this. One of the most obvious indications of this was the little souvenir shop selling Sami jewellery and other items, which I passed early on in the morning – but if you there were boards marking various other historical sites too along the way.
After 19km of riding I came to a spot I had initially looked for ways to avoid when desk checking. The first long road tunnel. My fears were allayed when someone knowing the route posted on the forums that it had a dedicated cycle path. I was still kind of curious whether the “old road” which had just about been possible to make out from satellite images was in any way rideable. It looked pretty rough, and was probably the section another rider bemoaned taking some years back for the state of the gravel and the length of time it took. The pass less travelled always has the lure of mystery to it, but I did the smart thing instead and pulled over to don all my warm clothes for what I by reputation would be a chilly passage. Riding through a long road tunnel is not something I’d ever done and it brought a few of new experiences (many I guess predictable). As noted, the temperature seemed to drop almost instantly, only meters beyond the entrance – as if I’d ridden through one of those plastic curtains into a cold store. There were countdown kilometre markers too, which although helpful for safety possibly weren’t a blessing since it made it clear exactly how much was done and how much was less (in this case, the overall distance was around 4km). The most stressful part, even in the cycle lane, was the noise though. What started as a low thunder built up into deafening roar as it bore down on you – and until you saw the lights, you had now idea which direction it was coming from. Deep bass notes are not directional, hence why there is only one bass reflex speaker in modern surround systems – and this was louder than any kind of speaker I have stood next too, even at a Motorhead gig. Disaster Area (the plutonium rock bad) would have been proud. It was a relief to emerge back into daylight, just above the small bay where the old road could still be seen hugging the rocky coastline. I seem to recall dropping down to a rest area to use the bins and a loo. It was a relief to get the first tunnel done, and it was useful practice for the big one still to come.
I don’t have a lot of recollection of the stretch in between these two “main events” of the morning. I vaguely recall swinging west into a small cove where there was another very short tunnel – just 50 metres or so to protect the road from a hillside above which was obviously prone to shedding rocks. I did spend a lot of time getting more acquainted with reindeer – up close, they are still very cute, large soulful eyes which they stare at you with. But boy are they dumb. One group sprinted ahead of me along a length of road rather than simply wait for me to pass by. Concerned the tarmac was painful to their hooves, eventually I paused so they could relax and disperse up the hillside left of the road (another option they had ignored). Another group the same, but right alongside me the other side of the crash barrier. The grass was probably kinder to bound along, but I was afraid they’d make a misstep in the moraine of rocks and boulders and break a leg. For quite a time along this section I also looked forward to passing the small fishing village of Repvåg. I’d contemplated it as an overnight stop – there was a crab restaurant there which seemed well liked, and a small Hotel Repvag, which got somewhat more mixed reviews. By now though, I’d started to disregard a lot of those and I’m still a little curious how it would have been to stay at. In the end, all I saw of the settlement was a handful of house which were visible from the main road as I went pass. I did wonder if any fellow riders had stayed there, maybe even Christopher and Benjamin.
I was surprised how soon after this I seemed to reach the mouth of the North Cape Tunnel – it was 30km beyond Repvag, and I wasn’t riding any faster than usual. But one moment I was ambling around a bend in the road, and the next minute the way ahead was completely blocked by a towering hillside with a small dark hole in it. For a moment, I wasn’t even sure this was it (in my mind there was maybe another tunnel still). But swinging back and checking there was no doubt – the sign clearly read “Nordkapptunnelen”. No translation needed, I pulled over in front of the emergency service huts to begin the kitting up process again. I hadn’t put any gear away from the previous tunnel. It was all just crammed under the bungee cord on top of my saddle bag, so it was quick to access. If you are reading this and ever actually take part in this ride for yourself, do not ignore what others say and what I followed here. Put on every stitch of warm gear you have. Although they had come in handy already on a couple of chillier sections, this was the main reason I had a micro fleece, warm beanie, and proper insulated gloves. And boy was I glad of them!
Everything in this tunnel was the same as the last – but longer, and worse. The stats mention it drops 270m in the initial 3.5km and anecdotes from other riders talk of ice on the walls and sub-zero temperatures at the bottom. This is all true – the long descent forced freezing air through every gap in my clothing and my teeth were chattering by the bottom. There is no cycle lane either. None of the handful of cars or buses came unpleasantly close in a physical sense, but the thunderous road as they approached and passed was as terrifying as it was deafening. In the bottom, I pulled over into one of the emergency slip ways for a second to adjust my gear (the effort of way up would get warmer) and have a breather. Oddly, as I pulled in I spotted a helmet on top of one of the red emergency boxes. I was about to hook it over my handlebar so I could leave it at the end of the tunnel or deliver it to someone when I heard a familiar cry from its own:
Hi Rob!
What were the chances – it was Viktor. Still busy documenting his adventure in detail with photos and videos, he had taken off the helmet for some shots in the tunnel and was part way up and out of the tunnel before realising he’d left it behind. It was too cold to spend long catching up, but we chatted briefly and swapped a few stories. He’d read about my issues the last couple of days and wished me well before we parted company to ride on at our own speed. One of the roadside distance markers indicated that I made it just over halfway up the ramp out of the tunnel before deciding to give my legs a break from the 10% gradient and walk the very last bit. I could definitely have ridden all of it on any normal day – but there was a nagging doubt in my mind at this point. Not only was I low on strength and energy, but two of the possibly the toughest climbs since leaving Southern Germany were lurking up ahead in the final 30km. I doubted I’d get up both of them pedalling, but I wanted to give it a shot. And walking a kilometre of tunnel was a price I was happy to pay to conserve some fuel.
It was a truly amazing feeling to roll out into the bright daylight of Magerøya island (the North Cape itself is on an island which the tunnel runs under the sea to connect too). A broad flat expanse lay ahead, although I knew my destination was up the somewhat daunting hills beyond. I stopped one last time to switch out my warm gear, this time stowing it properly in my saddle pack (and leaving some piece behind, I forget now which, maybe warm arm sleeves). I also paid swapped over to the parking area for a last empty of trash from pockets and loo stop before the final slog. It was a few grams, but it was grams I did not have to carry. One thing I had forgotten though was another tunnel along the coastline. On spotting it I figured I’d just blast through – but it was a lot longer, and colder, than I expected and I was shivering by the time I came out 5km further along. It was a hot day now though, so I didn’t stay cold long – and once through the tunnel I had my first proper sight of Honningsvåg. The last town before the end of the continent, aside from a small fishing village after the first climb. What a feeling.
It wasn’t far past the turn off into town though before the scale of what was left came into view – swinging across the top of a bay, I could see the very top of the first climb. And it was massive. I really did not feel like I had the legs to get up the whole way, but I started off steadily and determined to give it a go. There was a short, steepish opening section to a 180 dogleg, after which the climb began in earnest. I was in my lowest gear, often standing, but I was still moving forward. And somehow, I managed to keep doing that. Every part of me hurt, and I was gulping down air. I was using energy and fuel I didn’t think I had – but I was pedalling. The worst of the gradient pitched to about 12.5%, and nearly broke me, but the majority was kinder, averaging about 5% overall for the 8km of the hill. I was, though, in tears as I crossed the top. Not because of the effort, but because I knew now, I had this done – across an expanse of rocky moor, I could see the final hill on top of which that iconic monument stood waiting for me. I was smiling, laughing, crying, and most importantly still pedalling.
The downhill to the turn for the fishing village of Skarsvåg was wonderfully flowing, but the wind was too strong to take it at any great speed. Mostly it was from behind, but at curves in the road big gusts threatened to toss me into, or off the side of, the road. The end of the downhill answered a overly hopeful doubt I had been carrying – maybe the final climb wasn’t as bad as the pictures I’d seen. It was every bit as bad though – shorter than the previous one, but still pitching well into double digits for much longer stretches than the last. Only determination and realisation that very little effort lay beyond kept me riding going. I was not about to walk any inch of this last piece. With one final sting, the road dipped down sharply again over the crest and pitched back over 8% again. But at the top of this ramp was the arch leading to the centre itself – with the fire that put into my legs, I stood and pushed hard over this last 800m or so.
And with that, I was there. The road flattened, became gravel, and I found myself being greeted at the car park by one of the photographers. The next half hour or so was a blur – whilst he grabbed shots of me first crossing the car park, and then by the monument itself, before finally going inside to get my card stamped. With great care, he showed me where to safely store my bike and how to get and use my entry ticket as we did this. The first riders had reached here days ago, and yet these guys were here treating us tail enders with the same care and love as if they had not been hanging around for a week waiting for us. It was incredible. I could hardly believe seeing the finishers stamp going onto my card. As we were doing this my phone rang – it was Yoli. She was in tears (joy of course) wishing me well. Needing to sort card still, I handed her to one of the organizers briefly – who also ended up in tears as she spoke with him about how much it meant to her and me. Honestly, I knew getting here slowly, only just inside cutoff, was less impressive than the chaps who had blitzed to the finish. But the adventure and sense of achievement was just as great for all of us. I think that is the whole reason this ride exists, and the spirit in which the organizers encourage us all to take part. Judging by that scene at the end, it felt very much like they genuinely shared the joy of all of us who made it there. It’s impossible to thank them enough for creating and running this event so that we could all share the magic which inspired them when they first rode up here from Italy.
Somewhere, in the many messages that afternoon, was one from my colleague Martin about how an earth we would get back from here. The ride may have been over, but that final interesting aspect remained which I will cover in one final episode.