Idyllic Iceland

 

In my dad’s opinion, there are two types of people in this world. Those who are willing to “get their hands dirty” and change that metaphorical light bulb, and those who desperately claw at the light bulb box before breaking a nail and giving up, resigned to sitting in darkness for the rest of their days. I would be the first to admit that I belong to the latter group, and that the more practical and hands on skills that all of our fathers seem to have bypassed my generation. But that’s fine. I have accepted that I will never build a decent spice rack, in the same way that my dad will never beat me on FIFA or keep his composure when faced with a touch screen. As a result of this realisation, he decided that a gruelling test of mental and physical endurance would be the perfect thing to ‘man me up’, teaching me some good old fashioned values along the way. Alongside my dad and two of his friends, our aim was to cycle across Iceland, conquering glaciers, mountains, volcanoes and extreme weather.

 

There would be no hotels or home comforts. Just my tent, several pairs of unflattering Lycra shorts and all the high energy food I could carry… “We’ve got no Cash, but we’ve got the Ash!” was one of the many slogans proudly displayed on tourist t-shirts for sale in the Haukadalur valley. This seemed to sum up the Icelandic mentality. Following it’s eruption in April 2010 the volcano on the Eyjafjallajökull Ice Sheet became world famous after the ash it emitted into European airspace brought air traffic to a standstill.

Having been in Iceland for a week or so, it was becoming apparent that the natives were quite entertained by the worldwide notoriety their country had. The collapse of the Icelandic banks in 2008, losing the British government millions of pounds, is just another such event which is regarded by Icelanders with an amused sense of nostalgia, in an “Awh what are we like?!” kind of way. Personally, I found this perspective as welcome and refreshing as the tailwind which had blown us through 50 kilometres of Icelandic wilderness that morning. The geothermal valley at Haukadalur is part of the ‘Golden circle’ of Icelandic attractions. Visitors have the chance to see the famous Geysir, a huge hole in the ground which fires boiling water up to 50m high – from which all geysers have taken their name. Unfortunately, Geysir is now rarely active; it normally takes an earthquake or two to stir it into life, rendering it little more than an impressively large jacuzzi for most of the time. This is apparently (don’t quote me on this) due to obese American tourists flinging rocks into the crater, blocking it up; oxygen thieves, if you ask me. We didn’t leave disappointed however, as there were a number of other geysers, including Strokkur, which erupted every five minutes or so, sending a torrent of water well over 20m high. After a difficult first few days I was starting to get used to the cycling malarkey. I had been naïve to think that being half the age of my fellow cyclists gave me some sort of advantage.

Challenges like this obviously take a certain amount of athletic ability, but I was slowly realising that this ability is worth nothing without the mental strength and discipline to apply it. I’d had days of sitting on my bike just peddling, peddling, peddling, too angry and frustrated at my own lack of will power to take in the spectacular views around me.

I could think of nothing but the long term damage the saddle was causing my rear end and how much I regretted ever taking up this ridiculous man challenge. I’d already had what I considered to be my first near-death experience, which my dad laughed off, only to then contradict himself by telling me not to mention it to my mum, as she might get a tad worried. We had been so exposed to the elements whilst going over a mountain pass that we were forced to take cover in an abandoned trailer, whilst desperately throwing on every item of clothing possible to prevent our certain death. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but I was scared at the time. I was beginning to have irrational feelings of hatred towards all other tourists. In taking the two-wheeled option, it felt as though I was really making an effort to experience Iceland, I was somehow more deserving of the epic scenery and landscape I was cycling through. The regular tourists (they were not all obese or American) were simply being driven to and from each sight. They would take a few pictures to show the folks back home, and then hop back on the coach to finish the quail’s egg and cress baguette they had been munching on before the rude interruption from the tour guide. We were often passed by these coaches and the tourists on board would wave at us, with expressions ranging from pity to awe, while I would sit exhausted by the roadside, forcing down another sesame seed bar. Of course whilst looking quite the part in my orange Lycra. Aside from the natural wonders Iceland has to offer, my highlight was halfway through the journey, having just reached the north coast.

During the day we checked the map and set our sights on a small town called Blönduós, which had a field where we could camp. From a mile or so away we could see that there was steam rising up from the field we were headed for. It was looking good. We’d already had a few cheeky natural hot spring sessions which, apart from smelling like eggs, (they don’t advertise that bit) is exactly what a hardcore cyclist needs after a long, tedious day spent having to stare at the cyclist in front’s lycra-clad arse. As we cruised in, we were stopped at the gate and told that the campsite was being used by the Icelandic Motorcycle Society for their annual festival. We paid to camp and walked in with our bicycles, looking more than a bit out of place amongst hundreds of leather clad, hairy and rather intimidating looking bikers. The steam we saw on the way was actually an industrial sized vat full of lamb stew, which turned out to be the nicest meal of the whole trip. Any anxiety about being surrounded by Hell’s Angels members quickly went away as we and our bicycles were accepted with open arms. A night of heavy drinking ensued. I hazily remember it consisting of Icelandic schnapps, eating Hákarl (a traditional snack, made of fermented shark), several proposals from butch Icelandic women and getting lost in my own tent (don’t ask). The route we took on the way down south was a stunning one, cycling alongside the Langjökull glacier. After two weeks of pain, I was now seeing the light at the end of the tunnel and enjoying myself a lot more. In many ways arriving in the capital Reykjavik was a massive relief. We could finally be normal tourists, appreciating a fantastic city with some great food and a spot of whale watching. The only setback was that I hadn’t really packed for urban tourism, so I did look a bit like a poor man’s Bear Grylls. The capital was testament to how Icelanders embrace living on a volcanic island. The pavements are warmed by naturally occurring steam, melting ice in the winter. This same geothermal energy also heats local greenhouses to make Iceland Europe’s largest producer of bananas.

So yes, if you want a bit of adventure, near death experiences and a nagging pain in your genitals for the weeks that follow, you could quite easily venture to Malia or Ayia Napa this summer. But if you fancy something different, you could get the same and more from Iceland, without being too ashamed to tell the grandkids. It really is a unique place, and after going once, I have no doubt that I will return one day. Might leave the bike at home though.