The rain eases and I leave the truck stop, heading north on empty roads, and enjoying the lack of traffic. All cars in Denmark seem to have had their indicators disabled. All drivers in Sweden seem to have had their brains disabled. Most of the occasional biking Vikings that I pass don’t even wave, but an intelligent few do. The miles fly by as I enjoy the view and keep a look out for moose. I see plenty of warning signs and one carcass. The size of it makes it clear if I hit one it will be the moose that wins. Finding the hotel is a breeze, avoiding city centre traffic, and it has a secure underground car park, both important features for motorcycle travellers. It’s also much nicer than I expected given I chose from the budget end, and after a short walk I’m in the centre of the old town and surrounded by camera wielding tourists and (happily), Irish pubs again. Hoping I don’t look anything like the stereotypical tourists with their cameras, bum bags, anoraks, and arguing spouses, I retire to a tourist filled restaurant for tourists and sit surrounded by tourists eating food for tourists at tourist prices but knowing I’m not really one of them. Bikers are different.
