Biking In Stavanger, Norway.. and the lingering thoughts of my grandfather

Never in my life did I imagine I would be cycling across a small Norwegian city for more than ten kilometers, tracing quiet roads in Stavanger with the kind of ease I never thought I would have. It felt almost ironic. I only learned how to ride a bike at ten, awkward and unsure, and I owed it all to one person. My Daddy. My grandfather.

I was never built for the outdoors. I avoided it, even. Biking was something I resisted, something that made me feel small each time I saw other kids glide effortlessly without training wheels. I remember the embarrassment of wobbling, of still losing balance despite the extra support. I carried that image of myself for years, the clumsy kid who could not quite get it right.

Then one afternoon, Daddy restored one of his old bikes and decided it was time. He stayed by the gate, as he said he would, watching quietly as I tried to find my balance along the street in front of his house. There was no pressure in his voice, only a steady kind of belief. And somewhere between the fear of falling and the need to prove myself, I found it. The balance came, hesitant at first, then certain. I remember looking back at him, wanting him to see that I could do it. I remember his face, calm and proud, as if he knew all along.

Years later, I found myself pedaling through Stavanger with that same motion, though the stakes felt higher. From the suburbs, we cycled into the city center, then further into a park where the smell of barbecue would later linger in the air. It was not an easy ride. We shared the road with cars, and here, bikes were treated as vehicles. I did not know how to drive, barely understood the rhythm of traffic, and I could feel the panic rise quietly within me. But my friends stayed beside me, matching my pace, steadying me in ways they might not have even realized.

The sun was out but the air held at eight degrees, sharp and unrelenting. The wind pushed against me as I rode, sometimes reaching speeds that made my eyes water. The road shifted between climbs and descents, each turn revealing something softer. Trees lined the streets as we entered the park, their branches just beginning to bloom, casting small, trembling shadows on the pavement.

And then, without warning, the past slipped in.

A different street. A different time. A ten-year-old boy trying his best to impress his grandfather, pedaling with all the focus he could muster. I could see it so clearly, the way Daddy stood nearby, ready to catch me if I fell, but never quite needing to. The way he trusted me to find my way forward.

I never made it to the main road back then. I stayed within the safe, familiar boundaries of our street. But here I was now, in a foreign place, moving through unfamiliar roads, carrying that same lesson he gave me all those years ago.

Cycling through Stavanger was more than just seeing the city like a local. It became something quieter, more personal. It gave me the space to remember him. It has been a decade since we lost Daddy, and the weight of that loss has never truly left. Grief does not disappear. It lingers, softens, then returns when you least expect it.

But as I rode through the cold air, feeling the steady turn of the wheels beneath me, I realized something simple and certain. He may no longer be standing by the gate, but every time I find my balance, every time I move forward despite the fear, a part of him rides with me still.

And for that, I will always be grateful.