I was trapped. The Arctic Race of Norway, a world class cycling race, was scheduled to pass Reine on our day off there. The only road out of town would be closed for much of the day, curtailing my plans for a day ride to Å where the road ends at the bottom of Lofoten. It was a silent message to get out of my rut.

Rich was enthralled with the idea of the race. He spent hours scoping out good photography spots, eager to see it and get artistic shots of the racers. His goal was to capture the string of cyclists from afar, framed by the dramatic scenery. Long before the start of the race, he loaded up his equipment and set out to claim his spot. Oozing with anticipation.

Mildly interested in the cyclists, I arrived at the corner where they would pass closest to town shortly before the start of the race. I wanted to see them up close. To feel the breeze as they whizzed by.

Just minutes after the starting gun nine kilometers away, the lead cars came into view literally coming around the mountain in the distance. Followed in close pursuit by the pack of cyclists. In short order, they shot out of the tunnel at the bottom of the hill and advanced up the slope. A short column of cyclists had pulled out front with a seething mass of rainbow colored jerseys and madly rotating pedals right on their heels. That early in the race, they were tightly packed. Gone in a flash.

On my way back to our rorbu I spotted a Viking ship in full sail, just leaving the wharf. It was from the Lofotr Viking Museum, all of its crew in full costume. No doubt it was drawn to Reine as part of the race festivities. Rounding the corner it sailed right past our rorbu.

Not bad, a cycling race and a Viking ship. But the highlight of my day was yet to come. Wanting to do something unique, I had signed up for a kayaking trip in the afternoon. Piling on all my warm and waterproof clothes I headed for the paddling center.

My tour was led by Marco from Belgium, and I was joined by seven other assorted kayakers. All of them French speaking. I was assigned a kayak with a young woman from France. As soon as we launched, she turned around and said, “My English not good.” I thought it wise to get “gauche” and “droite” sorted out right away. She assured me she understood the English words for left and right. I needn’t have worried, she was a competent paddler.

The skies were leaden and the clouds hung low over the mountains. It wasn’t a glorious day for scenery, but I didn’t care. I was kayaking in Norway. In a fjord. We followed Marco across the fjord to the base of a mountain, the one they call the Queen. From our position the sheer rock face rose straight up, mossy greenery clinging part way up then solid gray. Truffle seaweed floated in abundance on the water, and Marco handed out samples to taste. The brown salty leafy leaves tickled my mouth, but had a pleasing flavor.

It was calm enough to venture out into the open sea. Still well protected, we paddled among the rocks, watched cormorants perched in a row, slid through a narrow crevice. The pace was leisurely, the temperature mild. Our paddles dipped through the water, light waves slapped against the boat. There was nowhere else I wanted to be. Not even on a bike.