ICELAND 2017

MilkMaid

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ICELAND 2017

It’s taken a while to get this ride report written, and as I do (1st March 2018) the UK is currently in shut-down due to the “Beast from the East”. I thought Iceland was going to be cold, but it has nothing on Britain in March!

The trip was organised by Mark Hatto (Merlings1200) and Tim Godsmark (Timolgra) of this parish, who took two groups out to Iceland in June and July 2017. This report is a memoire of the first group’s trip. There were 8 of us in total, but as the report indicates, we were to split into two parties (6 + 2) after the first day of riding. We were: myself, Craig, Mark M, Rupert and the aforementioned Mark H and Tim, plus husband and wife, Ian and George.

This is our story: words by me, photos by everyone, videos by Rupert.


The six of us (left to right): Rupert, Tim, Craig, Mark H, me, Mark M.

Pre-amble
Before our June departure, Mark H organised a shake-down and get-to-know each other weekend for both groups from his base in mid-Wales. I won’t write much about this, other than if you want a great couple of day’s riding green lanes in a stunning location, Mark is your man: https://www.trailridingrhayader.co.uk

Here’s Rupert’s video from the weekend: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_F7M8Hyn_4&t=1s

Day 0
To the airport

I spend the day working from home in the Welsh borders before driving down to Luton ahead of tomorrow’s flight. After what seems like the longest day in history (I’m keen to get going, and have been for the previous 12 months since I confirmed I’d be on the trip) I give my 3-year old a bath, read her a bedtime story and kiss her goodnight for the final time in a fortnight. After a quick bite to eat with Mrs Milkmaid I hit the motorway only to have my journey time doubled by extensive roadworks on the M1 and a lot of unexplained police activity. I arrive at my hotel at 22:30 (too late to join Mark H and Craig for a beer) and head straight to bed for a fitful night’s sleep – I’m far too excited to sleep properly.

Day 1
Luton to Geysir

I’m up at 3:30 am and drive a short distance to the airport’s long stay car park, making a note on my phone to remind me where I’ve left the car – a lot’s going to happen before I see it again and I’m not convinced my puddled brain will be able to remember where I’ve parked.

After a short bus trip to the terminal I head straight through security into Luton’s newest stag/hen party themeland – there are huge groups of revellers on the lash everywhere at 4am. Lucky bastards! I find Craig and Mark H and join them for a cuppa before boarding the plane.



We land at Keflavik airport at about 9am and jump onto a Gray Line coach which takes us into Rekjavik city where Tim and Rupert are waiting for us at the bus terminal. A quick man-hug with Tim (experience tells me it’s important to get the group bonding as soon as possible on this sort of trip) before we walk down to the port to collect our bikes: me on a KTM 1190R, the others on pathetically small Husky 701s, a KTM 690, a KTM 640 and a CCM 450GP.


As I go to board the bus, it dawns on me that I might have come on a Saga holiday by mistake.

We quickly change into our riding clobber, repack the bikes and we’re finally off on our adventure… all the way around the corner to the petrol station and supermarket. All fuelled up, and with food crammed into every available space in our panniers (plus a six pack of 2.25% beer), we head north east out of Reykjavik towards Pingvillar (the site of the Iceland’s historical clan/parliamentary gatherings) enjoying fast tarmacked roads with sweeping bends hemmed in on both sides by throngs of bluish purple Lupins and a geothermal pipeline.


The bikes in parc ferme.






Above Pingvillar

And then, all of a sudden, Tim leads us up our first trail of the trip. No f*cking about here – it’s a steep, rocky ascent up the side of a wet and windswept mountain. I struggle for traction, but make it safely to a hilltop summit where there’s a very dramatic view waiting for us. As mentioned, it’s fairly wet and windy, and subsequently pretty cold, so we don’t hand around. In no time we’re soon back in the saddle and enjoying more of the type of trails which will become the norm for the next 10 or 11 days.


At the top of the first climb

We stop briefly at the mid-Atlantic rift – the technotronic junction between America and Europe – electing to avoid the main tourist hotspot in favour of a quieter look at the fault line.


America on the left, Europe on the right

Shortly afterwards, we split from Ian and Georgina who will be riding on their own (mostly on tarmac) while we remaining six hit the dirt: Ian broke his hand a few days before we left the UK and George, by her own admission, isn’t sure she’ll be able to manage some of the anticipated river crossings.

The six of us take the F35 towards Geysir, stopping a couple of time so that Rupert can get some drone footage of the stunning landscapes. We’re soon ‘enjoying’ what seem like endless fields of black lava sand, with Rupert and I falling behind as we try to get to grips with this new terrain and tricky surface. I drop my bike on a rocky section (stalled in second gear – should have been in first) and again a little while later in the deep sand (lack of rider skill). Luckily the lads are there to re-right Cuthbert (the slippery pig) and I soon have a chance to repay Craig’s efforts as he drops his bike in deep sand (twice in the same spot).










The lava fields

A few minutes later, Craig’s worrying that he might have damaged something on his bike because his engine management light is shining red. His fears of a damaged radiator were fortunately to come to nothing as it seems the bike had just overheated a little. After a top up with some water the radiator stayed full for the rest of the trip.


Craig inspecting his bike for damage

We leave the lava fields behind and enjoy a seemingly endless trail through open countryside before eventually hitting tarmac again.

After a brief visit to Gulfoss waterfalls we reach our campsite at Geysir. I camp next to Rupert, Tim next to Mark M, and Mark H and Craig are a little further along. There’s no sign of Ian and George when we arrive but their tent is up and both bikes are parked up so we know they’re safe and sound.






Gulfoss (still excited)

It’s our first night on camping rations, with most of us electing to break out an assortment of freeze-dried and ready-to-eat meals. Meanwhile, in a quiet corner of the campsite, Mark H and Craig are creating the first of many Icelandic lamb based dishes which makes me just a little envious. I share my super-strength lager with the group to celebrate a successful first day in Iceland (little did they know the beer was so bloody weak) and a little later Rupert and I break out the whisky. My single malt is delicious, while Rupert’s Icelandic brew – Floki – is, how shall I put this… an acquired taste (and one that only Rupert manages to acquire).


The geyser in Geysir


The posh end of the campsite, where the real cooking takes place


Vile

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPuPJizXBS0&t=192s
 
Day 2
Geysir to Siglufjordur

After another below-par night’s sleep (Rupert and Mark M were snoring like it was going out of fashion) I awake tired but still excited. Rupert goes for a shower (again) while the rest of us elect to adopt the smelly adventure traveller approach to personal hygiene.

We break camp and are on the bikes just after 9am (9:30 if your name is Rupert – he wasn’t late again – not after all the piss taking he got) and refuel ready to head north. Lunch is served at a remote café (which has its own hot spring; read “Tourist Trap") by an Icelandic beauty that we all fall in lust with. I think the words “next wife” were uttered by at least two of our group, but names shall not be mentioned. Some of us have to wait a quite a while for our food to arrive as there’s some confusion with the order: mainly because Mark (“I don’t eat fish – it’s fucking disgusting”) M has just enjoyed a delicious bowl of traditional “Icelantic” lamb hotpot turned out to be Mark H’s fish stew.

With full bellies, and mucky thoughts of Icelandic waitresses running amuck in our minds, we get back on the bikes, soon hitting more wet weather. It’s hoofing it down and the trails resemble muddy Welsh by-ways. The weather soon clears though, just in time for us to tackle the first serious river crossing. We’ve got an audience of pony trekkers who patiently wait for us to cross the river one-by-one. It’s at this point that the unthinkable happens: Godsmark drops his bike. Yes, you read that correctly, Godsmark dropped his bike! That single act was enough for the rest of us to declare it an “All Hands To The Pumps” river crossing and we helped each other safely to the other side by wading alongside each bike as it was ridden/paddled across.


The rocky river crossing - all hands to the pump


Me on stand-by in case Mark M loses his balance. It doesn't look deep at this point, but it was at either side of the crossing, and it was fast flowing and rocky enough to have you off in an instant

A hour or so later, we’re cruising along a fast tarmac road which leads us to Iceland’s north coast. It’s the perfect place to get some “bike shots” and to have a picturesque pee. Unfortunately it’s also very windy. Windy enough in fact for my bike to get blown off its sidestand, resulting in a broken handguard – it’s now my turn to have the piss taken!


Craig's bike enjoying the sea view and sea breeze


Looking inland

We take the coast road eastwards to Siglufjordur (we’d tried to go over the top, but the off-road mountain route was “impassable”) breaking up the monotony of riding on tarmac by taking a short off-road diversion which ran in parallel to the metalled road – it was on this off-road section that we encountered our first properly dusty conditions. Fortunately, we were to see a lot more dust as the weather was largely favourable for the rest of the trip. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t exactly like we had to rub each other down with factor 50 Ambre Solaire, but at least our fun was only spoiled by the odd short rain shower. As the saying goes, “If you don’t like the weather in Iceland, wait a minute!”

We camp on a patch of grass in the middle of Siglufjordur (a once-bustling herring port) where we meet the unforgettable Helena: an 8-year old local girl who is keen to be-friend us. She too has a bike, a fetching pink, pedalled powered one which I reckon could give the 701s, 690, 640 and 450 a run for their money! We shake Helena off by eating in a small fish restaurant where we each spend a small fortune (bowl of soup, fish main course and 3 beers = £79. If you think that’s bad, you should try petrol station sandwiches at £20 a pop!). I shared a very romantic meal with Mark H while the other four sat looking at their phones.


That's approximately £12 I'm drinking there!


Those four


Our urban campsite


Siglufjordur was one a busy herring port. Now it's a sleepy little town, famous mainly for its herring museum.

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ykS1aDHUdPw&t=159s
 
Day 3
Siglufjordur to Husavik

After another average-at-best night’s steep (due to a mixture of strange noises coming from the local birdlife and what I thought were my fellow travellers snoring, but in fact turned out to be a pod of beached Humpback whales, plus a keen desire not to be the last man to be ready each morning) I decide to take a shower: I really do stink, even though we’ve only be on the road for a couple of day’s, and I'm seriously worried my riding gear is going to rot off me if I don’t do something about it.

On the bikes, we’re straight into a lush green valley. There’s a with a rather exclusive looking traditional grass-roofed hut complex on our right with an assortment of 4x4 vehicles parked outside. It all looks very glamourous, but I can’t help thinking being cocooned in heated vehicle, protected from the wind, rain, cold and dust, would take away a huge part of the Iceland experience.

Today's pics... some of which might be in the wrong place (looking back through the array of photos I can't be 100% certain which scenery shots were taken on which day).







Our first proper stop of the day is in Dalvik on the north coast where we have crap coffee from a vending machine and watch a group of Americans head out on a boat to spot some whales. At least the coffee was warm though, which is more than could be said for the weather – we were within spitting distance of the arctic circle and the size of my balls was proof!

A couple of hours, we’re significantly further inland and therefore warmer, eating burgers and fries at a petrol station on the outskirts of Akureyri. I’m not sure why, but the buger joint also sold pregnancy testing kits!

Next up are a series of steep, winding dirt roads which take us towards our next overnight stop in Husavik.


The local vehicles make our bikes look like toys


No idea which day this photo belongs to, so I'll throw it in here anyway


I'm 50:50 as to whether this was Day 3.


Some traditional Icelandic houses, somewhere in Iceland, on one of the days I was there


Farmland. One minute you're riding amongst a largely barren, rocky landscape, the next minute you ride over a hill, into the next valley and you're in prime agricultural territory.

Right, back to it...we’re camping on the north coast again, it’s raining and cold, so Mark H, Rupert, Craig and I go for a dip in the local swimming pool/hotpool complex. The water is in the hot pool is naturally heated to 41 degrees C and was only bearable for about 10 minutes before I started to overheat. Tradition dictates that when you get too hot you exit the hotpool and jump in the plunge pool – an oversized dustbin filled with 4.5 degrees C water. Feck me it hurts in there, but it hurts even more when you get back in the hotpool.

Relaxed and restored, it’s back to camp. Thankfully the weather has dried up so we sit around as a group enjoying some music as I drink the only can of beer to have made it this far. Rupert tries to persuade everyone to help him with the Floki, but unfortunately for him, the £70, 500 ml bottle of 3-year-old single malt doesn’t win many fans. It looks as though he’s is either going home with a lot of horrible booze, or he’s going to be getting very drunk on his own!


One of Mark H and Craig's culinary creations - featuring the ubiquitous Icelandic lamb

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lKxtFac3R0&t=79s
 
Good report but ffs put the place of the pic at the top of the pic rather than below, saves looking at the pic then where it is, then looking at the pic again.
 
But doing it my way means you get to see the pics twice, which means you're getting twice the value. You could always read the ride report standing on your head - that'd solve the problem for you!
 
Day 4
Husavik to Modrudalur

After the previous day’s mixed, cold weather, we wake to blue skies. By now we’ve acclimatised to the trip’s daily routine – get up, eat, break camp, ride, eat, ride, set up camp, eat, sleep, repeat – and we’re keen to get going.

The first trail takes us up a hill directly above Husavik, giving us a bird’s eye view of last night’s destination.




Above Husavik

From there we make our way south and inland, stopping briefly at Asbyrgi Canyon to assess the damage made by Odin’s eight-legged horse, Slippy (Google it!).



After a brief rain shower, we’re heading deeper into Iceland’s interior. For me, this is where the real riding starts: the trails are endless as we speed our way along gravelly tracks. This is what I imagine it feels like to ride a 450 Dakar rally bike at pace. Except of course I’m on an 1190 so I’m going much, MUCH faster than the likes of Coma, Sunderland, Price or Peterhansel could ever imagine!

We’re soon in what can only be described as a desert. There’s almost no vegetation. Just rock, black sand, extinct volcanic plugs, some patches of leftover snow and the Fuzz in a huge 4x4 cop car: they’re on patrol making sure nobody is riding off-road. That’s to say, riding off the off-road roads. That makes sense, doesn’t it? If you are caught straying off the off-road roads, they’ll nick you, fine you and throw you to the hounds without so much as a caution.

The scenery is stunning. Even more so because we’re in such a remote part of the world.

















As well as the fast almost desert-like trails, there’s the rivers. Before the trip, I spent countless days and nights wondering how I’d managed hauling the 1190 through Iceland’s deep rivers, worrying that I’d end up drowning it and having to spend half a day stripping it down. But, so far, so good: we work as a team to make sure everyone gets across each river safely, wading back into the deeper rivers to usher the next bike through.














Some of the rivers were so fast-flowing that one of Craig's legs fell off


More hugs for Tim. He's a taker, not a giver. (Of hugs).

After multiple river crossings we’re almost at our next overnight destination – a really remote campsite in a village which only really consists of a hotel, a farm and a few small cottages. There’s also a family of semi-feral Artic Foxes living on the edge of ‘town’ (the hoteliers throw the fox cubs a few scraps of food each morning) and a campsite goat which smells like I did on Day 3.

There’s also a teeny, tiny stream running through the campsite which Mark H tries to catch his supper in. He did manage to catch a fish – a small trout – but it was too small to eat and was released back into the stream.


Mark and Craig catching supper

Anyway, I’ve got ahead of myself. As I was saying, we’d successfully negotiated multiple rivers and only had one more small crossing left to make before the final blast into camp.

In hindsight, I think I’d got a bit over-confident and didn’t give the river enough respect. It certainly wasn’t deep, overly rocky or fast-flowing, but before I knew it, my bike and I were having a swim. Fuckity Fuck! It was cold. Really cold. But I didn’t care about that. My mind was racing with thoughts of a hydro-locked engine. Poor old Cuthbert. What had I done to him?




In the drink

Tim and Mark M were soon wading in to my rescue and helped me to right the big KTM. Fortunately, I’d instinctively flicked the kill switch on my ‘bars as the bike went over and had prevented any water being sucked into the air box. There was a brief conversation about whether or not I should just hit the starter button and see what happened, but what if there was water in the engine and I ended up bending/breaking/buggering something.

Sod it I thought… and prodded the little black button.

After a couple of coughs and splutters, Cuthbert was breathing again. It might have been my guilty conscious, but I’m convinced he swore at me as we buck-a-rooed our way over to the far side of the river where I was greeted by a delighted looking Mark H. Delighted because I was piss wet through and he had more ammunition to take the micky out of me with!

I spent the remainder of the day’s ride standing on the footpegs with all my vents open in a vain attempt to dry off my wet clothes. By the time we got to the campsite I was frozen, but at least it started chucking it down which made me feel much better.

For the next hour, no-one spoke as we all hunkered down in our tents trying to keep dry (get dry in my case) and sort our admin out. Mark M made the best decision: instead of sitting in his tent he made a B-line to the hotel for a birthday meal for one. Birthday? No-one told me it was his birthday! There was only one thing for it – as soon as the rain stopped, I hung my wet clothes on the fence to dry and joined Mark, Mark and Rupert in the bar for a few birthday beers. We spent a small fortune that night!


Drying my kit






Our campsite - we'll be here for two nights


Supporting the Icelandic economy by investing our life-savings in a few birthday beers

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rKfzN_tfLps&t=312s
 
Superb pictures and write up... :clap :clap :clap
 
Day 5
Modrudalur to Modrudalur

Today we had the unexpected treat of not having to pack our camping gear onto the bikes: instead of making our way to a new destination, we’d be riding a circular route to a nearby ice cap and camping at last night’s campsite again. Just because. I say nearby, but the round-trip actually took the best part of 10 hours. This was due to a culmination of shear distance and the fact that many of the trails leading to the ice-cap were strewn with fist-sized ‘marbles’. There was also quite a lot of soft sand to deal with. I think I struggled more than most today – the big 1190 was fine on the fast, non-technical sections, and I’d got to grips with the soft sand (just relax your grip on the ‘bars and keep a constant throttle to power along. And if the rear steps out, let it: there’s no point trying to fight it because you’d need the strength of 10 men to prevent the heavy bugger coming round). However, as soon as the trails got tighter and the surface rockier, the big pig became a bit of a handful and I wished I’d been on a smaller bike. I’d already dropped the 1190 on a couple of occasions (including the previous day’s little swimming incident) so my confidence wasn’t where it should be. And after a silly off half way through the morning (too much right wrist going into a right hander in deep sand) which left me stranded until Craig turned up and helped me to re-right the bike, my confidence was even lower.


This photo was from the previous day, but I forgot to post it, so it's here and there's nothing you can do about it


This volcanic plug was a constant feature on today's landscape

Anyway, as much as I thought I might like to turn around and just relax at camp, I persevered and finally arrived at a very remote hotel at the edge of the ice cap. Tim and Mark M were loving the technical trails and went off to take an even closer at the ice. Meanwhile the rest of us sat on our backsides and enjoyed the solitude, silence and sunshine in this quiet corner of Iceland.


Mark M coming back from his and Tim's extra excursion to the edge of the ice cap

I was knackered at this point and decided the best way to recharge my batteries was to have a cheeky snooze on a small patch of grass followed by a massive dump in the nearby toilet block. It was like being re-born and I was soon ready for the return journey. With renewed vigour, I rode the rocky trails much more aggressively and was now loving our little day trip. My confidence was back where it had been prior to the previous day’s water sports. And of course, that’s why, when we were re-crossing the previous day’s river, I came off in exactly the same spot!

I was livid with myself. And my language showed it. If you watch the video (link below) you’ll hear a certain amount of effin’ and jeffin’. Tim tried to calm me down, but it wasn’t until the bike kicked back into life that the potty-mouthed antics abated. Fortunately, as with the previous day’s fall, I’d flicked the kill switch as the bike went under and had once again got away with it: after a couple of prods of the starter button, Cuthbert was barking his obscenities at me again.

I’d not sure how, but this time I didn’t get wet (OK, my feet got wet, but they’d been soaked since day 1 so it didn’t matter) and didn’t have to go through the process of trying to dry my kit in a cramped tent. I did however have to endure a torrent of piss-taking from the lads who had by now renamed the river, Paul’s River. Twats!

The only other incident during the day was the loss of Mark M. We’d somehow lost him at a fork in the trail on the way back to camp and he’d assumed we’d gone back the way we came. In fact, the five of us had taken a slightly different route, so Mark had spent a couple of hours going around in circles trying to find us. We’d been back at camp for a couple of hours and it was starting to get dark (yeah, right… it’s light 24 hours a day in Iceland in early July) and we were starting to worry about what had happened to him when we heard the unmistakeable sound of a KTM 690 thrashing towards us. Cue Mark, with a grin the Cheshire Cat would have been jealous of: left to his own devices, and trying to work out where we’d gone, he’d had “one of the rides of his life” in the Icelandic wilderness!

Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oGSCPtvN_QY&t=204s
 
Those bloody fist-size rocks. *shakes fist* Hated ‘em.

The journey back was much more fun, though. I think I even enjoyed the sand.
 


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