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.

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?

Distance: 75.4 miles

Time: 5:56:10

Average Speed: 12.7 mph

Elevation Gain: 3838 feet

I had high hopes for an earlier start today. My hopes were soon dashed when a German lady who had camped nearby came over for a pleasant chat. She was cycling parts of Iceland with her son, who had just left school. It was his first cycle tour that didn’t involve cycling along a mid-European river path, and they’d just taken the high gravel road from Reykjavik. After a rest day here they would take the bus to Akureyri, then head back west to the Snaefellsnes peninsula.

Freewheeling back down the hill to the petrol station, I spotted some more touring bikes propped up outside. It felt like Varmahlid was a bikepackers’ crossroads. There were a couple from New Zealand, who’d got a ferry over from Denmark, and would be sailing back out of Seydisfjordur in the Eastfjords. They were having lunch with a cyclist from Chicago, he had cycled over from Blonduos in the morning, and was now waiting for a bus to Akureyri, so he could get his bottom bracket fixed. They told me I should have a ‘nice ride, after the hill’, so there must be a hill, then.

One thing I’d noticed, as I cooked my porridge this morning, was that the wind had turned a full 180 degrees, and whereas for the last few days I’d been heading north with a tailwind, it now looked like I might be about to start heading south again, but still with a tailwind. A massive stroke of luck. But first this hill.

Leaving the valley behind, the climb was a long drag, I was battling the wind more than the slope, and gradually I worked my way upwards, reaching the Minnisvardi monument, at over 450 metres.

Descending the views improved, and I was looking out over a lovely valley, when I realised that the route I had loaded onto my GPS wasn’t continuing along Route 1 to Blonduos on the north coast, it was taking a higher short cut inland, and checking my mapping app, I realised it had a 12 mile gravel stretch. Not a risk I was willing to take with road tyres, I committed to cover the extra miles to Blonduos.

Reaching Blonduos, after 30 miles, my eyes were on the clock. According to my weather app, rain was due for 6 o’clock, and I hoped that if I had a brief refuel here, I could get another hour on the road before it arrived. But, after a hotdog, and the largest portion of fries imaginable, I set back off and was quickly accompanied by the rain.

This was the type of irritating Icelandic rain that I’ve encountered on numerous occasions now, light persistent drizzle that feels like it’s just about to stop, for hours, and accompanied by a bitterly cold 20 mph wind, the moisture soon permeated everywhere. As it had started so innocuously, other than my waterproof jacket, I hadn’t put on any of my other wet weather gear, and 10 miles later I was soaked through, and cooling down fast.

But, with a strong tailwind behind, there were miles to be made, so on I battled, into the darkening evening light, trucks thundering past, on undoubtedly the busiest stretch I’d encountered so far.

After 65 miles, I reached my intended stop for the evening, Langafit campsite, Laugarbakki, the weather was atrocious, but the reviews said that facilities were poor, and I’d have a lot of wet clothes to dry. Then I remembered the next place had a Fjord-side hot tub…

It was a long ten miles – to Saeberg Environmentally Certified Hostel, Camping and Cottages – and with the weather only getting worse, I was worried I’d made a mistake as I dropped down the gravel track to the campground’s super-exposed position by the water’s edge.

I hurried inside the campsite’s spacious, lively, and very toasty dining area, and suddenly all hope was restored. After a hugely-rejuvenating and very warm shower, I set about cooking dinner, and draping sodden cycling paraphernalia over the kitchen’s numerous radiators, quietly satisfied at another day survived, and more miles won.