Many Misty Mountains

Up, freshly showered, and ready for more adventure!

Before leaving town I decided to have a nice breakfast at the restaurant. Only a handful of people were there, and the atmosphere was quiet and comfy. In the corner I noticed an interesting collection of furniture:

The owners had set up a little play area for kids to mess around while their parents ate. Lovely! I can’t imagine any American restaurant doing this, at least any corporate-owned one, because of liability issues, and the drive to make customers move along as soon as possible.

(Much later when I was thinking about this, I discovered that Djúpivogur is the first – and so far the only – Icelandic town to join the Cittaslow movement.)

The day’s riding was relatively short, so I lingered in town a bit more, to poke through a museum and grab a few snacks.

Just when I turned onto the main highway again, I saw another cyclist cranking up the hill toward me. We stopped for a chin-wag.

Glen is a long-range cycle tourist, and has been all over the world. For his Iceland visit he’s using a trailer, and is not entirely sure he likes it.

The luggage rides low to the ground and the trailer tilts with the rest of the bike, so maneuverability is pretty good, but there’s still extra drag to deal with. On the one hand you can inflate the wheel to a very high pressure to make it roll better – but on the other hand, the wheel is relatively small. Plus there’s the weight of the frame.

“So what do you like the most about Iceland so far?” I asked him.

“I think I’ve been the most impressed by the deep clear water here.”

“Is there a place you’re recently been that you think is under-appreciated by cycle tourists?”

“Turkey is amazing, and relatively unknown. It was kind of a paradox, to be honest. I wanted to stay there longer but I also knew I would never want to stay permanently. The people there are in denial about the social and political problems they have, to the point where it’s surprising Turkey even holds together as a country.”

We chatted a bit more and wished each other luck, and as he vanished around the corner I spent some time preparing my rain gear. I’d been lucky the past few weeks, but now it was back to the standard waves of rain, and the all-day dance of add-a-layer, shed-a-layer.

I had to pause for a moment and enjoy a thankful thought for something I use every day: The flat surface on the top of my backpack. On a tour, it’s my kitchen table, my workshop, my clothesline, my staging area, and my extra pair of hands.

As I rode along, the rain intensified, and so did the wind. By the time I stopped for a self-portrait in the afternoon, I was fairly soaked by the wind blowing water sideways into my jacket and hood.

Ask me if I cared. Nope! Because the terrain was just bonkers.

I kept pausing for photos, or to eat snacks, or to just stand around breathing the air, and lost all track of time.

Before I realized it, between the cloud cover and the hour, it was getting pretty dark.

I assumed I wouldn’t be doing any night-riding on this trip, partly because I have to pay more attention to a work schedule and keep regular hours, and partly because it’s less interesting to ride at night in a country as gorgeous as Iceland.

If I was riding through boring terrain with nothing new to see, then night time would have some clear advantages: It’s quieter, there’s less traffic and more privacy, and there is a real increased sense of intimacy with the bicycle. On a recumbent it’s like sitting at home in a chair in a comfortable study, though of course you need to keep spinning your legs.

But to cycle at night in such a gorgeous place as Iceland, wouldn’t that just be a waste?

Yes, with one exception: Sometimes you can see the stars.

On a whim, I pulled to the side of the road and dismounted. My headlight went dim, and then slowly began to fade out entirely.

I looked up and saw two satellites slowly coasting across the sky.  As my vision adjusted, I tilted my head and realized I could see the arc of the galaxy spread right across the top of the sky like a stripe. Turning my head to take in the view all around me, I looked back up the road, and above it on a shelf of cloud the constellation of the Big Dipper was right in the center of my vision, looming larger than I had ever seen it before.

I looked around for Orion‘s belt – which I thought would be easy to see because it’s a very familiar constellation – but there appeared to be so many other stars in the sky that I couldn’t pick it out.  If I set my camera up for a long exposure for 30 seconds or more like I did a few days ago in the Viking camp, I was certain it would reveal a deep royal purple undertone filling half the sky as the northern lights undulated across the camera.

I stood around in darkness for almost half an hour, lost in thought, and then abruptly realized that I hadn’t been passed by a car the entire time. The only car I could see was a microscopic point of light on the outer edge of the mountains across the bay ahead of me, just where the mountain slope met the ocean. I saw another light below it, coasting off in a straight line to the east, following the horizon.  That would probably be a fishing boat, starting the night’s work.

Perhaps the majesty of this environment isn’t entirely lost when the sun sets.

I got back on the bike and rode for a while, reaching a decent speed, and then tilted my head to look at the Milky Way again. Instead of a scattering of stars forming a rough shape, it was now a distinct band with its own weird texture. Tilting my head made my balance a bit wonky so I tried to keep it brief, but nevertheless in that few seconds a minor gust of wind shoved my helmet right off my head. As it rolled on the highway behind me I hit the brakes and burst out laughing. Nothing says “safety” like a helmet that tumbles to the ground randomly because you forgot to clip it on…

As I laughed quite loud at my own folly I looked up again, and a meteorite went streaking across the horizon. I stood and appreciated that, and a few seconds later I heard a loud bleat from a sheep directly behind me, surprisingly close at hand.  This patch of road was full of surprises! I wanted to stand there for hours, watching the sky get ever more grand, but there was a number I had to contend with: The one on the thermometer. In conditions like these, if I stop cycling for more than about ten minutes I grow very uncomfortably cold, even with all my layers on. And tonight my layers were compromised by water. Best for me to move along.

Google and Apple maps could not agree on where the hotel was.  Apple maps had the nerve to present two results for the same address, each about half a mile apart on the same stretch of road.  I found the place on the third try, an hour after I passed it the first time.

It was a four unit lodge built underneath a house, with a common kitchen and showers. There were plenty of shoes propped on the rack by the door so I tried to stay quiet as I lugged my gear and my exhausted ass inside.

My room had two beds, so I luxuriated by pouring all my stuff on the smaller one to organize it. My last act for the night was to prop my squishy gloves on the windowsill over the radiator.