Distance: 41.5 mph

Time: 3:46

Average Speed: 11.02 mph

Elevation Gain: 846 feet

The day started well when a kind Austrian man from the neighbouring pitch brought over a cup of coffee, to the picnic table where I was hunkering down in amongst my layers eating a little breakfast. ‘I used to do the cycling he said, and I thought you could use a cup’. On this occasion he had been travelling with his wife and a caravan, all the way up to the Lofoten islands in Norway, and they were now on their way home.

The weather worsened before it improved and there were regular showers and strong gusting winds all morning, so I sat it out a while, having a lunch consisting of a donner kebab box from the campsite restaurant, before setting off at half past 1, with the sun starting to make an appearance.

Yet to reach the German mainland, I was on the small island of Fehmarn, which was attached to the mainland by a bridge. Looking at the route to get there, I was a little dismayed, it ignored the direct path taken by the main road, and swung round by the small town of Burg auf Fehmarn en route, my dismay diminishing rapidly on arrival, the small town square was picture-postcard perfect with rows of tall trees and chunky cobbled streets.

Continuing onwards towards the bridge, I found the steeply-sloped pedestrian access ramp to be closed off at the bottom, but there was just enough room to get past, so I went for a better look. As I climbed, the view opened up with extensive views up and down the coast, and was worth the climb, even when I reached the top to find the cycle path on that side of the bridge was definitely closed with three additional barriers forming a blockade. Furthermore, there wasn’t a cycle path on the other side, it was reserved for a train track.

Doubling back, my onwards progress seemed to have hit a snag, however, Google Translate was available to lend a hand, truffling out the relevant information from the warning notice at the bottom of the ramp. It appeared there was a scheduled shuttle bus leaving the small village of Avendorf, some 2 km back, and when I scanned a QR code on the sign, it downloaded me the timetable. There was one in half an hour.

Safely dispatched, with my bike – and several other shuttle service users – at Grossenbrode Nord, I now had some time to make up, so plotted a route to Oldenburg in Holstein, before quickly becoming unstuck when the bike suitable route led me around a crescent-shaped bay on an unsuitably bumpy beachside path.

Back on the road, it was clear that the strong winds were going to be an issue along this stretch, I was now trending west as I headed inland, the wind sapping my strength.

Stopping briefly in Neukirchen, I had no idea how new the church actually was, moreso preoccupied with the strong gusting physical barrier to me reaching today’s target campsite in Eutin, still over 20 miles away.

When I did eventually arrive in Oldenburg, I was running low on energy, and feeling chilled by the wind, so when I looked at the map once more, and realised that I probably should have taken the route nearer the east coast via Neustadt and Lübeck, and then considered the fact that if I made for Neustadt now, it would be trending downhill, and with a slight wind advantage, I jumped at the thought.

So, after popping into the supermarket for a few focaccia and pastries, I was off in a new direction, and, buoyed by the significantly easier progress, I made short shrift of the remaining 15 miles, arriving in Neustadt at just after 7, and, third time lucky in finding a campsite with an open reception, I grabbed a beer from the shop and soaked in the sea views.

Are there any other cyclists who’ve ‘been round’, I’d asked Bob the night before. ‘Sure, there’s the guy from North Carolina’ he’d responded. Oh, yeah, is he from Raleigh? ‘No, he’s not from Raleigh, he’s from Charlotte’, Bob responded. Aah, I spoke to someone who was flying back to Raleigh. ‘Oh, he could be flying into Raleigh, they’re only 150 miles apart!’

‘Yeah my wife ain’t too happy about the 3 hour drive’ responded Chris, he was flying into Raleigh, and he did live in Charlotte. He was a retired cop, who now worked as a security guard in a school, and had previously cycled the TransAmerica across the States. He’d been at the campsite for three days already, having used a rare tailwind to power through 115 miles on his last day. 

It had been over a week since I’d met Chris – going the opposite direction just outside Hofn – but it seemed so unusual, that on a cycle tour, we could meet going in opposite directions, and yet still find each other at the end. Because it was a ring road yes, but also because Reykjavik was small enough that everyone cycling it, would finish at this one campsite.

After I’d had a brief sortie into town, I returned back to find another one of my comrades from the road just about to head off. The German cyclist from the Rhine valley, Benjamin, had made it into camp the night before, maybe only half an hour before me, and although I hadn’t seen him there, had also camped at the Borgarnes quagmire the night before that. He was just about to cycle out to the airport before his own early morning flight the next day. His entire Iceland escapade fitting neatly into a two week break. 

The family from Utah had made it as well, I caught a glimpse of them trudging through the site after a tough day on the road. There were others too, a French cyclist on a €6000 bike, bought for cycling around the world before Covid brought his dreams crashing down, he’d been cycling some of the rougher roads, including the F35 gravel road through Iceland’s mountainous heart. Another who had taken the higher road was a Swiss cyclist – with Scottish family connections, who’d had to return by bus, from Varmahlid, as she’d hurt her back on the rough roads.

Finishing the trip as I began, I packed my possessions long into the night, struggling to comprehend just how many things I’d given the tour of Iceland. It was 2 AM, before I settled into my tent, setting my alarm for 04:15, before my 05:00 transfer. Waking at 05:18, panic set in as I bundled my camping equipment over to the dining area and phoned the bus company. They were able to get me on the next bus to the bus station – at 6 AM – but the onwards bus from there was over-full for my bike. Luckily, the next bus wasn’t too far behind, and after a dash through the airport, I managed to make the flight. 

As I settled in for the short hop back to Edinburgh, I couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction when I thought about what I’d achieved this time. 976.88 miles, 15 days, 65.1 miles per day. A full 7.5 miles per day higher than my average for Land’s End to John o’ Groats had been. On that trip, I’d been blessed with excellent weather, on this trip the wind had battered me – almost to submission at times – and I’d just got on with it.

The route had felt almost unique in its simplicity and its ubiquity. One full tarmac road encircled the country, and if you wanted to travel around Iceland you’d be using it, and therein lay its beauty. When I’d cycled LEJOG, there were so many possible variations or permutations of the route that I hardly met anyone else who was attempting the same thing, and I missed the camaraderie that I’d experienced when I’d cycled the Pacific Coast Highway.

It had been while sitting in the Samuel P. Taylor State Park, just north of San Francisco, that Iceland had first been placed on the map for me, as a cycling destination. I was riding with new friends Matt and Joe, and we were sharing a camping area with a couple named Kelly and Dan, who had cycled the 30 miles out to the campsite, from San Francisco, as part of a training ride for an upcoming trip to Iceland. At the time, Iceland seemed – not only – like such a distant land, but also such an ‘out there’ travel destination, that I would never have imagined that I would cycle there myself. But now, here I was, memories overflowing from my time on the road; volcanic plains and glacial winds, towering falls and steep-sided fjords, gushing geysers and bubbling mud pools, Gullfoss and Godafoss, and glacial lagoons. Hot dogs and hot tubs and irate Arctic terns.

Other than the weather, the largest obstacles I encountered in undertaking this challenge were logistical, with long stretches between facilities; up to 100 miles between settlements, and 70 miles between campsites. I quickly learned that I was going to have to resupply at every given opportunity, just to make sure I didn’t run into difficulties.

It was also necessary that I remained self-sufficient in maintaining the bike, there were maybe only two or three towns in the whole of Iceland that had bike stores, having to reach one in an emergency would probably have derailed my Ring Road attempt, and likely have required a lengthy bus journey. Indeed, when I’d been at the campsite in Svinafell, I’d seen another cyclist who looked like he must be having a rest day, but, I later discovered – from Ken – that this was a 20 year old Canadian, who had a gear shifter problem and was waiting for the bus to take him the 170 miles back to Selfoss.

Luckily, the work I’d undertaken to get my bike to the start line, had stood me in good stead, and the bike performed well. The new wheels and tyres held up well to the rough roads and the gears had stayed – largely – in working order. I’d actually completed the tour without the use of two gears, one at either end of the scale. I didn’t use the lowest gear as my rear derailleur was hitting off the spokes, a hangover from the bent derailleur hanger sustained after my Pacific Coast tour, and I didn’t use the highest gear as the screw I’d employed to attach my rear rack was too long and would impede the chain. Looking back, in climbing the 15% switchbacks at Vik without my lowest gear, it perhaps showed that my cycling form was better than I realised.

In four tours, The Pacific Coast, the Ho Chi Minh Trail, LEJOG, and the Icelandic Ring Road, I’d cycled 5,379 miles in 92 days, an average of 58.5 miles per day, with no rest days. I didn’t know how I’d done it, and I didn’t know why, what was wrong with a rest day, you’d have to ask?…

Thanks for reading,

Michael

Distance: 73.08 miles

Time: 6:49:17

Average Speed: 10.7 mph

Elevation Gain: 3,572

As is always the case on a tour like this. I was suddenly up early and feeling motivated to get going on what would, hopefully, be my last day in the saddle. I certainly wasn’t planning on hanging around in the Borgarnes campsite for very long, so I packed up and made for the main junction in the town, where three petrol stations, an EV charging point, and three supermarkets, were all positioned in close proximity. Having spent the previous evening in the Olis, this time I made for N1, and it was clearly the main draw here, and where all the coach tours stopped off.

Not having spotted the Skyr bar in amongst the various food offerings, I opted for a panini and smoothie, but worried about the lack of calories, I grabbed a couple of pastries to stick in my panniers.

I expected the day to be a frustrating one, Borgarnes – Reykjavik didn’t look that far on the map, but the shortest route included a 6 km tunnel, and bikes weren’t allowed. The alternative route included a 40 mile detour around a fjord, and as things stood, the whole way back would be into a headwind. To make matters worse, the clouds were way down and it was highly unlikely that I’d be able to see very much.

Still, looking on the bright side, all I needed to do was keep pedalling, eventually I’d be in Reykjavik, and then I could stop.

After crossing the bridge out of Borgarnes, the next stretch was the busiest part of the route so far, I knew the views should be stunning, but with the mountain tops chopped off, it was hard to tell.

Eventually, I reached the turn off to route 47, the start of the long and winding road around Hvalfjordur. Instantly the traffic had disappeared, and soon I met a cyclist from Berlin coming the other way. He had taken the ferry from Denmark to Seydisfjordur in the Eastfjords, so this was him about half way round. There were a few stretches where he was unsure of his camping options, so I was happy to pass on what I’d learned along the way.

Dropping down to an old whaling station, the road continued steeply up over a headland, and, soon I was on a straighter stretch, just along the water’s edge.

Reaching the far end of the fjord, I turned back into the wind and it hit me hard, bringing with it rain and toil, and as I pedalled downhill at 7.6 mph, I knew it was going to be a long 20 miles back to the main road.

Pleasant views followed, gushing streams and waterfalls. At Fossa falls, I met two couples from Montreal, one now living in South Island, New Zealand, the other in Reykjavik. ‘It’s winter back home’, said the lady from New Zealand, ‘and it’s still warmer than here’. Wasn’t it that way for everyone?

The fjord had saved the worst for last, and after several miles of loose stones, the surface reverted back, just in time for a tough climb to start.

Finally back on route 1, after 52 miles for the day, the road was busy, it was nearly 6 o’clock, and if Iceland had a rush hour, this was it. I kept off the road as best I could, finding 6” of tar outside the rumble strip. But 6 became 2, and 2 became 1, and then I found that rumble strips on bicycles, really aren’t that much fun.

At half past 6, with around 18 miles to go, I stopped at the first petrol station I’d seen since Borgarnes, having a toastie to get me through the final few miles. I had 8 miles left on the busy main road, before I could escape to the sanctuary of the Reykjavik bike paths. The bike paths had their own challenges, though, as I attempted to keep on route while the various paths meandered divergently through the landscape.

Arriving back at Reykjavik campsite, after 15 days, and 970 miles on the road, it was much busier than when I’d left it, and I just found time to order a celebratory beer before a coach party of school kids checked into the hostel.

Sitting down at a vacant table in the bar, a man at the next table enquired if ‘I’d just been round by bike’, This was Bob, of Tom and Bob, and they’d just been round themselves. 33 days, ‘counterclockwise’. Bob, now in Kentucky, had previously lived on the Oregon coast, well that would be a great place to live.

Eventually, I made to leave, I had a place that I should be, and, as I soaked in the 42° hot tub at the Laugardalslaug pool for the last time, and considered the beauty, the wilderness, the rough roads and exposed plateaus, the irrepressible rain and unstoppable winds, the lightless days or endless light. Life was tough out here, in the middle of the North Atlantic, but no matter how bleak each day got, weary limbs and tired minds, were restored here by this hot pot.