Weekend America

Retracing a Wartime Bike Ride

SEPTEMBER 6, 2008

Asta and Kristoffer Ladstein

(Courtesy Sasha Aslanian)

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In 1940, Sasha Aslanian's grandmother, Asta Ladstein, biked across Norway with her husband. They did it when Norway was under German occupation. They took a ferry from their island off the southwest coast up into one of the fjords. Then they pedaled over the mountains through Telemark. They went over 200 miles, just to visit Asta's sister. Their two-year-old daughter came along in a handlebar basket. This summer, Sasha Aslanian and her husband Leif Larsen retraced their journey.

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When I asked my grandmother why she did this wartime ride, she said, "There wasn't anything else to do."

I want to understand people like this. People who bike up mountains when life gets tough. I want to do this trip. My husband Leif is game. I email my Norwegian relatives and ask if they'll join us. They don't exactly jump at it. It seems people don't really do this kind of trip anymore.

But soon, we're off.

We begin on Finnoy, the island my family is from. Biking one hilly lap around the sheep farms and greenhouses reminds me that my grandparents were strong farm kids. I visit my great Uncle Sigmund. He did a similar wartime ride. Uncle Sigmund says they only had one-speed bikes back then. Petrol was scarce. Radios were confiscated. They needed to move around the country to see what was going on.

My mom's cousin Kolbjorn shows me what's left of the fort the Germans built on the island. He says the Norwegians feared the Nazis so they tried to appear cooperative, like when the enemy soldiers came to buy food from their farms. "They would buy some meat around in the farms," he explains, "and they sold cats and said it was rabbits."

"They would try to sell cats to the Nazis?" I ask. "Pretend they were rabbits?"

"The hide was open and they came back and said, 'Nicht mehr puss!,'" he says. "So they found out!"

We both translate: "No more cats!" And I laugh.

OK, people, these were barn cats and it was a time of war. Anyway you can see why a bike ride might have sounded like fun to my grandparents about now.

On day one, we go about 16 painful miles and reach an alpine valley. There are some fantastic sheep here. I think this must be Edelweis. I recognize it from The Sound of Music. I see Leif has already crossed the bridge. I'd better catch up.

On day two, we get stuck in a rainstorm. The tourism office says it's going to get better in six days. I keep going back and forth on whether this is a great idea or a terrible idea. I learn to love my rain gear in Norway. The landscape is steep and intimidating. When I fall asleep at night, I picture all the bad things that didn't happen that day. Rock slides. Falling off cliffs. Getting hit by cars in tunnels.

This is a stressful trip for a Midwesterner. I wasn't in good enough shape for this trip. I don't know what I was thinking. I did train for this, but the Paul Bunyon Trail in Minnesota is pretty flat. I don't know how many times I've reached down to downshift to find I'm already in first gear. I even added an extra low gear to my bike for the trip. It's called a "granny gear." My granny didn't need one. But out here, we have Norway to ourselves. Maybe for a second, my grandparents could forget about the war.

On day three, my cousin Kjartan and his wife Gerd Randi bring their folding bicycles up into the mountains to ride with us for the day. "What do you think about our bike ride?" I ask my cousin. "Very good," he says. "No rain, and it's good there's no sun. It might have been too hot."

Man, these people are optimists. And tough.

Our first mechanical failure of the trip comes in Seljord, on day four. A couple of spokes break on Leif's tire so we look for a mechanic. We find Arne Longesakker. Arne sacrifices his lunch hour for us and gives us spokes to fix the wheel. All he asks is for us to greet his Aunt Gerd for him back in Minneapolis. Everybody seems to have relatives in America.

Two days later, we ride into Heddal and ask about the farm my grandparents came to 68 years before. I realize what a crazy plan this is. We're only armed with photographs and the name of the farm. But the locals help us. They don't seem to think we're crazy for pedaling six days to get here.

I push my bike up the steep driveway and recognize the farmhouse and granary from my small black and white photographs. And there are people here who remember.

Tone Malansmo remembers my grandmother's sister who lived here during those tough war years. "Did many people come by bicycles?" I ask her. "No, not so many!" her grandson translates for her, and they laugh. They invite us inside for cakes and coffee. It's like they've been waiting for us.

The trip was a huge athletic feat for me. 220 miles. Maybe I wasn't elegant, but I made it. My grandparents didn't leave much of a record of their trip - just four photographs. But they must have enjoyed it. Two years later, they did it again. That time, the kid in the handlebar basket stayed home.

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