Day 13: Örnsköldsvik to Härnösand | 117km
I woke up in a soft bed with a homemade breakfast spread waiting for me just outside the door. The rich, earthy smell of a fresh batch of coffee seeped through the small gap under the door, and even my sore, protesting legs felt a little lighter than they had in days.
Maria and Anders had prepared a hearty spread: warm oatmeal, sliced berries and fruit, and thick slices of Danish rye bread with cheese. We chatted over breakfast, and I learned more about their careers and what their kids, just a few years older than me, were up to. Maria also helped me prepare a few sandwiches for the road. It was a small act, but one that meant a lot.
After clearing away the breakfast dishes, Anders fetched cleaning products and grease from the garage to help me clean my bike. Rust (for those of you who don’t know the name of my trusty two-wheeled companion) was not looking his best. The wet gravel hills from the days prior had left the chain and cassette caked in mud. I’m starting to realize just how crucial proper bike care is on this journey, and I made a mental note to be more mindful of it moving forward. We scrubbed Rust clean, let him stand in the sun to dry, and then applied fresh chain lube.
Meanwhile, Maria showed me around the property, especially the timber cottages where my grandmother had spent time when she was young. She pulled out a couple of photo albums filled with pictures of my grandmother and grandfather in their 40s, photos I’d never seen before. As they’ve been (and my grandmother still is) such important figures in my life, it was incredibly moving to flip through these unseen glimpses of their past. It felt like being handed a new lens through which to see who they were, and I could spot a clear resemblance to my grandfather, who passed away more than ten years ago now. As she went through the photos, Maria shared stories from her side of the family, and it was such a gift to expand my own universe by learning more about where they’d come from.
After saying our goodbyes, I faced the reality in front of me: the first half of the day was steep, relentless uphill on gravel trails. For two weeks, those trails had been my nemesis, but I actively worked on shifting my attitude. Like it or not, the hills weren’t going to move out of my way. As I approached the longest climb of the day, I thought, How dare this damn hill stand in my way? Let’s just say it got personal. But instead of whining about it, I said, Bring it on. I may have said it with more harsh words in the moment. I wanted the route to throw its worst hill at me, because there was no way it could be hard enough to break me. The only way through was up.
The personal feud between me and those gravel hills continued until the final 20 kilometers or so, which took me over the Högakustenbron, the longest hanging bridge in Sweden. Luckily for me, one half of it was closed for construction, but that only applied to cars. Normally, this crossing would’ve been terrifying (or so I’d heard from the internet), but with the road to myself, it turned into a highlight of the day.
