Iceland Page 7

The long run out of Flókalundur

As soon as I was awake and folding up the tent, an attendant came by and asked me for the equivalent of about eight dollars. A total bargain.

The adjacent hotel was just finishing up with their buffet breakfast. I was about to resign myself to a day of substandard snacks when a manager pointed out that I could assemble a couple of sandwiches at the buffet and wrap them to go, for about three bucks each. Another total bargain.

The day got an easy start since I was heading inland. The wind pushed me gently along and I listened to some more Dead Ringers. The rocks just offshore looked terribly rugged and romantic in the angled sunlight.

As I came around the edge of a peninsula I could see out into the main bay again. There in the distance I spotted the ferry boat I was on just the other day.

The ferry boat from yesterday!

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The ferry boat from yesterday!

I switched from Dead Ringers to a Terry Pratchett book I hadn’t heard in a long time, called “The Last Hero”. I figured it was at least a little appropriate since one of the main characters is Cohen The Barbarian, and barbarians have some of the same mythic traits as viking raiders. That totally works; yeah?

Materials for building the highway, ready for further use.

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Materials for building the highway, ready for further use.

Power lines, Iceland-style!

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Power lines, Iceland-style!

Over and over I noticed sheep grazing in random spots around the road, or just hunkered down resting. I assumed they must belong to some farmer.

Do they look cold? I feel cold just looking at them…

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Do they look cold? I feel cold just looking at them…

It occurred to me that sheep from different farms might get mixed up if they wandered too far. But I suspect the land stops that from happening. Sheep are good climbers … but not THAT good.

Even without fences, you know the sheep will definitely stay in this valley!!

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Even without fences, you know the sheep will definitely stay in this valley!!

In the early evening I paused for a snack on a massive hillside, and took a photo looking back down the row of peninsulas. Such an odd view.

Looking back through a cross-section of the route.

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Looking back through a cross-section of the route.

An hour after that I paused for another shot, this time looking into the adjacent valley. The view was fantastic, and once I saw it I had to just stand there and gape for a while. Of course it could have been the exhaustion talking…

After hauling 120 pounds of gear and bike 1000 feet into the air. At least there wasn’t a headwind.

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After hauling 120 pounds of gear and bike 1000 feet into the air. At least there wasn’t a headwind.

This iPhone picture doesn’t do it justice. The view was astonishing.

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This iPhone picture doesn’t do it justice. The view was astonishing.

Slowly I neared the top. I was down to about a quarter-mile at a time between rest breaks. One thing I know for sure about bike touring: If you’re doing a long haul you need to pace yourself carefully.

Up, up, up!!

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Up, up, up!!

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Looks like a lovely place to build your dream home, except the drive to the store would be a bit much…

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Looks like a lovely place to build your dream home, except the drive to the store would be a bit much…

Some of that Icelandic lichen I’ve been hearing about.

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Some of that Icelandic lichen I’ve been hearing about.

At the top I strolled around for a while, and found this tiny isolated pond, tucked behind a small hill and concealed from the road.

I could have set up the tent here and spent the night unseen, but the wind would have been a menace.

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I could have set up the tent here and spent the night unseen, but the wind would have been a menace.

I was tempted to roll my bike over to it and pitch the tent. “How cool would it be,” I thought, “to wake up in the morning next to this? Maybe drink some water right out of it, or wade in and wash my face?”

I thought about the new regulations against stealth camping. How did I know this land didn’t belong to some farmer? If I found this pond, how easily would others find it, while I’m asleep in my tent? My paranoia got the better of me and I decided to continue biking.

I sailed down the other side of the hill, dropping nearly a thousand feet in less than five minutes. The road began following the coast again.

Not a boathouse … not a houseboat … something else!

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Not a boathouse … not a houseboat … something else!

It’s colder than it looks!

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It’s colder than it looks!

Just in case you’re wondering if you’re almost there yet.

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Just in case you’re wondering if you’re almost there yet.

The sun shines, but it doesn’t warm.

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The sun shines, but it doesn’t warm.

Someone’s boat got ’86-ed!

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Someone’s boat got ’86-ed!

No idea what this means or why it’s here.

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No idea what this means or why it’s here.

Probably parts from the boiler.

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Probably parts from the boiler.

Ten zillion layers of paint.

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Ten zillion layers of paint.

According to my map, I was done with all the big peninsulas now. Pretty soon the road would turn north again and I’d have a couple of short, brutal hills to deal with, then finally a campground.

Another good season at the giant licorice and taffy farm…

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Another good season at the giant licorice and taffy farm…

After such a long and empty stretch of road I was glad to see continued signs of civilization. Then I saw a sign I didn’t like at all:

Never a welcome sign.

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Never a welcome sign.

This caught me by surprise, which was a bit hilarious because I’d been inspecting the cycling map just minutes earlier, and it clearly showed a brown line indicating a gravel road. I felt pretty dumb. Now I was going to be climbing steep hills in the dark on a gravel road. That meant – potentially – sadistic potholes appearing suddenly in front of my wheel as I’m speeding downhill. Get ready to lean on the brakes!

To keep my spirits up I started listening to some old Monty Python records on the iPod. As the landscape grew dark around me and the air grew even colder, Michael Palin introduced me to the Wonderful World Of Sound: “The sound of a common household ant, magnified 300,000 times! ROOOAAARRRRR!”

I stopped and tried to empty my bladder. Just then, five cars decided to go rolling by, one after the other in opposite directions, taking their sweet time on the gravel road. There’s something about a full bladder that generates traffic.

While waiting impatiently I took out a plastic bag filled with mixed nuts – the last of my snacks – and tried to claw it open. It exploded onto the back of my bike, leaving little heaps of nuts, and the rest tumbled into the road. I swept together the ones on my bike and ate them. I was feeling a little nuts anyway just being out here in the dark. In my ears, Graham Chapman said: “And now, a massage from the Swedish Prime Minister.” 20 seconds of slapping noises followed.

I listened to a Python news broadcast about a pair of gangsters named The Piranha Brothers, who employed terrible violence and … SARCASM! … to dominate the London underworld. That entertained me as I grew increasingly cold and tired, shoving the pedals up the gravel hills, which seemed far too numerous to fit in the tiny chunk of map that stood between me and the next valley.

The situation was very familiar. If I tried, I could come up with a list of times I’d been biking up a crappy road at night, in some unfamiliar place, with only the promise of a destination somewhere ahead in the dark. The list would go into the double digits. It felt like this particular round had an extra edge of madness. As I cranked up the final hill, John Cleese was just explaining that he wanted to buy a license for his pet bee, Eric, but matters were complicated because Eric had suffered some kind of accident, and was now half-a-bee. Then John busted into song, and I couldn’t help yelling the lyrics out into the frigid air as I danced the bike back and forth across the road.

A laa dee dee, a one two three
Eric, the half a bee
A, B, C, D, E, F, G
Eric, the half a bee

Is this wretched demi-bee
Half asleep upon my knee
Some freak from a menagerie?
No! It’s Eric, the half a bee

I was thus in good spirits as I sailed down the other side of the hill, around a couple of hairpin turns, and into the last valley of the night, with gravel crunching under the tires all the way.

It was another half hour before I got to the campground — a big chunk of flattened dirt about 300 meters from the highway, with walls of rock and dirt bulldozed into shape around it to block the wind. I would have taken it for a construction site except there was a row of small buildings to one side including a set of bathrooms. Tucked into the corner between the buildings and the wall of dirt was a small tent, with a bicycle propped nearby. The only other camper in the site, and it was a fellow bicycle tourist!

I didn’t want to set up on dirt. I think the campground owners knew this was unacceptable, which is why they had unrolled mats of fake plastic grass around the bathrooms, making a ribbon just wide enough for a row of tents. I tried to inflate the tent as quietly as possible since the other camper was close by. Every time I use the hand pump – which goes shoopa-shoopa-shoopa – I imagine people around me waking up and wondering “What the heck is that noise? Are we getting a night-time visit from a hyperventilating goat??”

I curled up in my sleeping bag, and the tent walls rattled around me in the breeze that tumbled down the valley. I worried about food, and also worried about being harassed by a campground manager for not paying up front. There wasn’t any other option but to sleep and deal with it in the morning.