Back in Bergen, after my semi-successful hiking foray into the
Norgewian fjords, (the good: I hadn’t been washed down a
waterfall, the bad: left empty handed without any farm produce), there’s another
mountain by the name of Fløyen (elevation 425m) to climb. There is the option of the funicular to take you to the top - of which I am quick to poo-poo, given my earlier successes with hiking. Admittedly, I’m a tad smug as I commence my ascent, passing the stationary funicular loading up with overweight tourists. Any feelings of superiority is quickly cut short as the universe wisely puts me back in my place. Half way up the mountain, I find myself breathing laboriously, only to have one of the local seniors, obviously on route his usual morning run, come gliding past me without even breaking into a sweat. Gliding. There’s no other word to describe it. His movements were fluid and effortless, as it was as though his feet never made contact with the ground.
"Wait for me!" I wanted to say, but couldn’t say because I was concentrating on breathing.
So much for being fitter than a senior.
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