On the run up to the trip, I’d had a busy few days at work, and then, two days beforehand I was struck down with a cold. The weather outside was appalling with gusting 50 mile an hour winds, so I retreated to the kitchen, and boxed up my bike in there. Luckily I’d ended up with an enormous bike box from Decathlon, but was it too big? Its length was 195 cm and the length for an oversized bag was meant to be a maximum of 190 cm…
Arriving at the airport in plenty time, I was relieved to see that at 21.2 kg, my box was comfortably under the 23 kg weight restriction, and that seemed good enough for the check in staff. Getting to the oversized baggage point, however, I was momentarily alarmed when asked to match up my 195 cm bike box alongside a 3D template of a 160 cm one. ‘Oh it’s ok, it’ll still go’ I was assured, ‘you just need to take it over to that room at the far end of the hall as it’s too big to go through our scanners’. Whilst I watched another member of staff opening up the box and carefully searching through all of the contents, it did make me think about all the other bike boxes that I’d brought to this airport that would have been too big to go through their scanners…
The two flights went smoothly enough, the final stretch into Amman circumventing Israel by heading further west over Egypt, and then approaching from the South. Rushing around the airport after landing, at midnight, I procured some Jordanian Dinars and a new SIM card before meeting up with the driver of the van who was hopefully going to squeeze a very large bike box in the back. As the driver didn’t speak English, the manager of the hotel had also come along in a car, to meet me off the plane.
Once back at the hotel he pushed me to pay for the return leg as well – as van drivers were difficult to procure – then proceeded to charge me an eye-watering fee given the prices that should have been involved. In my depleted state, I paid what he asked, but I had been totally ripped off. And, as I lay in bed that night, there was no way I could make the numbers add up to what I’d been charged, even if I paid for the ‘van and car’ combination both ways!
Looking at it pragmatically, if I placed a value – to me – of being able to get my bike to and from the airport in the middle of the night, and storing my bike box for a week while I was away, as well as somewhere to stay at the beginning and end of the trip, maybe the manager had achieved that figure. That’s the way I’ll look at it anyway, as long as the van arrives to take me back to the airport next week…
At the culmination of my lap of Iceland in the summer, I was asked ‘what’s next’? I quickly responded that somewhere warmer might be nice, like a winter escape to Jordan… And it might be nice, I’ll find out very soon!
Usually, when I’m planning a cycling trip, it develops gradually into a vague outline and a smattering of half-formed ideas, then I book the flights, and quickly those half-formed ideas become a plan. On this occasion, after several months of agonising over which flights to book, a sudden price drop forced my hand, and only then did I think to check out the news flash about the Gaza strip which had just flashed across my phone screen.
From that moment, an air of uncertainty hung over my planning: firstly when British Airways extended the duration of the flights in and out of Jordan, presumably deeming it prudent to take steps to avoid flying directly over a war zone; and secondly when they cancelled my homewards flight, offering up the possibility to postpone my trip until a time when the region appeared slightly less volatile. On considering my alternatives, I quickly realised that I would almost certainly end up claiming a refund on the flights to Jordan, then immediately replace them with cheap flights to Egypt, a country also bordering Israel and the Palestine Territories, but in which I had done no research at all. So, Jordan it was…
Jordan was somewhere that had appealed for many years, my interest piqued by photos of the red sandstone tombs of Petra glowing in the slowly-setting desert sun. In recent years, the country had positioned itself as a safe haven for adventure in the middle of a turbulent region, so, when I first learned about the Jordan Trail, a mixed terrain mountain biking and trekking route running 400 miles down the middle of the country, I took notice. In calculating my remaining annual leave for the year, it was clear that I didn’t have enough days left to undertake the full thing, but surely I could find something to entertain myself?
In reading about the Jordan Trail route, there was regular mention of a road, ‘The King’s Highway’, an old communication path down the spine of the country, starting in Damascus, Syria, and finishing up at Aqaba on the Red Sea. Regarded as being one of the oldest roads in the world, it was documented in the bible and dotted with Roman ruins and Crusader Castles along its length.
The 250 mile stretch from the Jordanian capital, Amman, to Aqaba appeared to have some of the most impressive landscape features, bisected by the towering gorge of Wadi Mujib, tiptoeing around the edge of the Dana Biosphere Reserve, before descending to the spectacular desert landscapes of Wadi Rum on its final approach to the sea.
Oh, and in case I forgot to mention, it passes Petra along the way..
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.
The author (left) with fellow Ring Road cyclist, Ken, in Djupivogur, 22/06/23
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?…
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.
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