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Scaring Meece

[Well what is the plural of "moose" anyways? I always figured Mooses to be the bull that split the traffic on the Motorway, to lead them to the green pastures or something]

And so I started subscribing to the VFR mailing list. Seemed like a reasonable thing to do, having replaced my crashed '86 FJ1100, with a '95 VFR750F.

So I get involved in a stupid møøse discussion. And so on Friday afternoon, I get this message from Magnus Taraldsen, saying basically "I see you're subscribed to the list for people with *real* bikes" and when could he get to see the new wonder?

So I say, how about a trip somewhere on Sunday. Nope, he replies, busy then, but how about just leaving early from work?

The weather was clearing up, and I really didn't feel like spending more time at the office, so I figured this was a good idea. He left from Oslo, and at around 15:30 I met him and his '87 VFR, at the Statoil station, at the turn-off from the E18 to Horten. Some 90-100km southwest of Oslo.

I flipped the map book out of the tank bag, and we decided that Telemark would be a good place to spend the Friday afternoon. There were some roads around Rjukan that neither had tried, so our basic plan was to zip up to Rjukan, past the old heavy water plant at Vemork, up over the mountain to Rauland. Then from Rauland, through Åmot and Dalen down to Skien, finally cutting over Siljan and Hvittingfoss and back.

But before we got going, a couple in their late forties or early fifties, started talking to us. Their son had just bought a '78 CB750, (to what even in Norwegian terms, seemed like a horrible price) and they wondered if we knew of any good Honda mechanics.

We told them to steer clear of Jeco in Oslo. But I, at least, didn't have any positive advice to give them. Finding a good mechanic that'd neither butcher your bike, nor charge you an arm and a leg, isn't any easier in Norway than anywhere else.

We tried to break off and get going, didn't leave early from work to discuss Honda mechanics with complete strangers. The woman persisted. See wondered if we would be heading up to Trondheim for the weekend, to the Norwegian Chapter of HA's cozy little get-together.

I let on that our Nipponese plastic crotch rockets probably wouldn't be too welcome, at the Trondheim Angels' headquarters. But I don't think she listened to me. There's been some incidents lately, with members of Nordic Bandidos, and HA members being shot at, thrown hand grenades at, and shot by LAW rockets.

This is naturally hyped up by the Poh-lice and the media, in such a way that Ola & Kari Citizen believe that anyone riding any form of motorcycle, is ready to pull out a Glock, and put it against the forehead of anyone looking askance at them.

Magnus was wearing a denim vest with DoD colours over his leathers. She sent the odd furtive glance to the red daemon's head, grinning out to her, from his back.

I was trying to be the voice of reason, and downplaying the HA, Bandidos thing, while quietly cursing the fact that I wasn't wearing my own vest. It's a bit... er... ruined after the paramedics cut me out of a set of leathers last august. I've stitched it together, sort of, but the result is a good reminder of why I didn't become a tailor.

Anyways, we finally managed to cut loose from the talkative old timers and set course for Telemark. Started out on 310 and 35 to Hof. Then 32 to Hvittingfoss, and 40 in direction Kongsberg.

A while before Kongsberg, we stopped to buy ice cream, and switched bike. I was surprised at the difference in the sitting position between the two. The '87 felt higher, and narrower than the '95.

VFR Generations. My red 1995, on the left. Magnus Taraldsen's 1987 "Blue Baby" on the right. Magnus in the background. We traded bikes at this gas station. (JPEG 85K).

Before we had started, Magnus said that I shouldn't feel too depressed, if his bike turned out to be quicker than my bike. It's supposed to have 105hp against the 100hp of the '95.

But I didn't find this difference noticeable. What it did feel like, was that the '95 has more torque at low RPM. Don't have any facts to back this up.

Other than the sitting position, the major difference was in it's handling characteristics. Coming from an FJ 1100, I had had the feeling that the VFR cornered all on its own. I barely had to *think* turn, to make it turn.

However, a cow-orker had borrowed my VFR for a weekend, when I was at the Roskilde festival in Denmark. He had tried a VFR some years ago, and complained that my VFR was hard to lay down in the corners.

Hurt by any form of criticism of my beloved moto, I denied this vehemently. But after trying the '87, I can see where he got it from. The '87 wants to corner even on the straights.

Which was the better? Well the '95 is a clear winner on rear view mirrors, and on brakes. The brakes on the '95 is outright scary. I almost dropped the bike going home the first day. I used two fingers on the brake at slow speed, and locked up the front wheel. I've found out later, that two fingers can lock the front wheel at speeds over 100km/h.

There is also a different *feel* to a new bike (the '95 was registered last October, and had only 3400km on it when I bought it in may, so it's still fairly new).

Switched back at Notodden. After Notodden, I suddenly see a DoD vest in front of me. Closing in I recognize the bike and the gear, to be belonging to Thomas Waadeland. He declined to accompany us on our trip, since he was heading for his grandmother's 75th birthday.

Oh well! I guess even Denizens have families...

Unexpected meeting, west of Notodden, Telemark. Other Norway Denizens on the road. Magnus Taraldsen and Thomas Waadeland. (JPEG 92K).

After Notodden, we turned off from 11, and headed towards Rjukan on narrow twisty 361. This is the kind of road I crashed on, so I waved Magnus past, and took it easy. I'm simply unable to go at any speed through a corner, I can't see the end of.

But 361 joins 37 somewhere there up in the forests of Telemark. And 37 from Tinnoset to Mæl is brand new road. Brand new road in Norway, means a fairly wide two lane road, with excellent asphalt, and gentle corners.

Magnus Taraldsen and Viffers, in front of the Vemork plant, famous from "Heroes of Telemark". (JPEG 91K).

Steinar Bang and Viffers, in front of the Vemork plant. (JPEG 78K).

Past Rjukan, we stopped at the old plant at Vemork (the target of "The Heroes of Telemark") and snapped some pictures of the bikes, with the plant in the background. Our stomachs told us that it was time to grab some food. We stopped at Rjukan Fjellstue, at the end of the switchbacks. Seemed a nice enough place, except from being hip deep in sheep dung. But the menu was a bit more ethnic than we were prepared for. Rømmegrøt and Spekemat.

Magnus Taraldsen (left), and Steinar Bang outside Rjukan Fjellstue. Magnus with helmet on. He was hungry, and in a hurry. Neither of us found the menu of Rømmegraut tempting. Picture taken by a nice Finnish tourist. (JPEG 101K).

So we headed on over the mountain. This is the south lip of Hardangervidda, the mountain plateau that fills much of Southern Norway between Oslo and Bergen. Nice road, with a bit of desolation to it. *My* kind of road.

After a café dinner at somewhere near Vierli, we headed on towards Rauland. The twisties down to Rauland gave Magnus a chance to try out his bike, after installing new öhlins rear shock, new tires, and carbs and valve adjustments. He *really* tried it out. Magnus is a smooth and fast rider. I doubt I could have followed him even before my accident.

Finally found food. Magnus used the occasion to call home, and explain that he was in the middle of Telemark. (JPEG 92K).

By this time it was started to darken enough, that we dropped the plans of going down past Dalen to Skien, so we just got on the 11 and headed down towards civilization.

We had been riding all day, with full headlights, much to the annoyance of meeting cagers. But my philosophy is: better hated than unseen. And besides, full headlights on a bike supposedly jam the returns of the police's laser guns.

I noted that we weren't the only ones doing this, as a row of bikes with packs crammed with camping gear blasted past, as we had stopped at Seljord.

Seljord, yes. If you should be going past, I suggest you drop by the Shell station alongside the 11 in Seljord. There was this incredibly easy-on-the-eyes girl working there, with dark hair and a mischievous grin. I "forgot" to ask if they had any chain lube for Magnus' bike, as I was in paying for the gas, just so I'd have an excuse for going back in and talk to her again.

Ah! sigh!

From Seljord, we took 36 and 360 over Bø to Notodden, instead of staying on the 11. Better road and shorter, they say.

But from Notodden it was back on the 11 again. It was getting quite dark by this time, so Magnus took the easy boring roads back to Oslo, while I left off at Kongsberg, and back the same way we had come up (Hvittingfoss, Hof).

One thing about riding at night. The road seem to be full of white butterflies, all determined on kamikazing on your visor. I looked hopefully for open gas stations, with buckets and sponges for cleaning windshields outside.

But everything was closed until I crossed the E18, and was almost home. The Statoil station is thankfully a 24h station. A quick operation with the sponge, and wonders of wonders: I could see!!

It had been a great trip, and not even finding my parking spot being taken by my landlord's weekend guests could ruin my mood.

In spite of the Subject, and in spite of the frequent triangular Moose danger signs lining the roads, we didn't really find any meece to scare. But it seemed like a good title...

Blank side up! Rubber side down!