Distance: 66.31 miles

Time: 6:00:26

Average Speed: 11.0 mph

Elevation Gain: 2,862 feet

There had been another cyclist in the campsite last night, German from the Rhine valley, he had first passed me when I was taking photos near Lake Myvatn, and I’d seen him at a distance in campsites since, but this was the first we’d talked. He was on a tighter timeframe than me, starting from the airport at Keflavik, travelling anti-clockwise around the ring road in 13 days, before finishing in Reykjavik on Thursday, the same day as me, and also flying out on Saturday morning.

When I awoke, the next morning, his bike was leaning against the wall outside the kitchen, looking like it was ready to go. But after making use of the very pleasant fjord-side hot tub, the bike was still there. It was hours later that I realised that it was no longer his bike and an American cyclist had turned up that morning. Telling me that she usually was on the road at 5 o’clock in the morning, and had been surprised to see the other cyclist leaving as late as half past 9. I pointed out that I hadn’t gone anywhere yet and it was 20 to 1. ‘Oh, I thought you were just passing through’, she said. She told me to think of her as I went over the climb that day, one that she had eventually managed to push her bike over in the 20 mph winds that had been blowing me the other way.

Struggling, up the kilometre hill back to the main road, fatigue had set in, and the wheels had officially come off, this could be a long day. My plan was to breeze along the 9 miles to the next food stop and have lunch. Except it wasn’t a breeze as the road climbed away from the fjord.

Arriving at the N1 petrol station, I decided it must be time to give one of their burgers a try. Opting for the N1 Special, a cheeseburger with bacon jam, pickles, tomato and bearnaise sauce, it was pretty good, probably my second favourite burger from an Icelandic petrol station!

The afternoon started when an unwelcome sign warned me that the next section of higher ground peaked at 407 metres and was 37 kilometers long, it had started raining, the temperature ‘felt like’ 6°, and there was a gusting 20 mph cross-headwind. Great.

Struggling up to a bridge at just over 200 metres, I stopped to take some photos, and as I looked back, ready to set off again, I saw a peloton of riders racing up the hill behind me. It was a family of four who’d camped across from me in the site at Varmahlid the other day.

As I pulled away, from the side of the road, I started to think, was I about to be passed by other cycle-tourists on the road? Had that ever happened? No I didn’t think so. Bikepackers, yes, with their minimalist kit. When I’d stopped to take pictures every 2 minutes, yes. Because, I’d taken a 2 hour lunch break, for sure. Because I was still in camp at two in the afternoon, all the time!

So, with new found impetus, I attacked the slopes, maybe my legs weren’t so tired after all. Pushing over the top, at just over 400 metres, it looked like I’d given them the slip, so, relaxing on the way down, I stopped once, to take some photos, I stopped a second time, then I was feeling peckish, so stopped for some food. And that was when they caught me. I heard a hello hello, as they swept past, but that was fine, I was off the road.

Giving me a little carrot to chase, I kept them in my sights for as long as possible over the plateau, and I was thankful for the diversion, something to concentrate on other than tired legs. Eventually, as the road dropped down the other side, along the Nordura river, the scenery required a little more attention, and they drifted off into the distance. The area was a hugely vegetated lava-field between what looked like a wide glacially-formed U-shaped valley.

Battling the last 10 miles to Borgarnes, in yet more bleak conditions, I arrived at the campground just as the family of 4, bereft of their kit, were cycling back out of the gate, I presumed in search of food.

Taking one look at the campsite – the quagmire of a camping field, the small toilet huts on an exposed rock promontory, and the barely-covered shelf that made up the kitchen facilities- I headed back out the gate as well, with all my kit, I’d come back later. Much later.

Discovering that there was a 24 hours Olis petrol station along the road, I made for there. Home to Grill 66, and the Countryside burger, dinner was chosen in a flash, and, as it was 10 to 9, I figured that if it arrived quickly, I could make it along to the swimming pool for a soak before 10.

Just as I was finishing, the family rode up, looking drenched, having failed to find anywhere else to eat in town. They’d come further than me today as they’d also planned to go to the campsite with the poor reviews the previous evening, then when seeing it had no dining area, headed back, when I went forward.

Having made it along to the pool for a half hour soak in the hot tubs, and just as importantly, a shower, I went straight back to the petrol station, where I’d be hiding out to avoid the campsite long into the night.

The family – from Utah – were still there, though the boys were just leaving to ensconce themselves into the cramped 4-person tent before their parents tried to squeeze in. They were on their annual family holiday, except that the two younger kids were at the grandparents, they had the joys of this to come. The previous year they’d done some cycling in Norway, starting in Oslo, before making their way up to Tromso and over to the Lofoten islands, not all by bike, I hasten to add.

‘We were just talking about how you seem to have it made’, food at petrol stations, straight to the hot tub’. That’s probably the first time it’s gone that smoothly, I told them, I usually arrive after all the shops have shut! But finally, on my penultimate day, maybe I did have Iceland figured out, food from petrol stations, local pool hot tubs, for a trip like this, what else did I need?

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