After a little xc race series back in the states, I packed up the bags, hopped a freighter and put the anchor down in the North Sea port of Trondheim, Norway. The locals here speak with the treacherous Trondersk accent. The morning’s start with a bowl of Havregryn, topped with dried Washington cherries and maple syrup from my mom’s family’s little farm in Lost Lake, Minnesota. And the trails groomed for miles stretch far farther than the kilometers I’ve racked up.
My favorite section of the city sits on the banks of the Nidelva River. Former shipbuilding buildings now have given way to studios, studies, kafes and personal dwellings. Somedays, you can take your car across the bridge into downtown. Otherdays, you cannot. One street here is so steep and so many people ride bikes, there is lift (not unlike the alpine resort’s magic carpet ride) to take one atop the hill to the university and the hill where the locals would bombard Swedish Vikings looking to pillage the place.
When the springtime comes, I hear the crust skiing is crazy good. Getting my first taste in the sun at Ski Stua.
I titled this photo, Trondheim’s Splendor. I think the name should suffice. On a fine winter’s day in Trondheim could you suffer from the spears and arrows of outrageous fortune?
In other news, 6/7th of the field at the SuperTour in Minneapolis had to be disqualified for obstruction for not completely clearing their tails from the tips of the skier they were overtaking.