A soggy hello from Hveragardi, Iceland, approximately 30 miles from Reykjavik (to give you no perspective for where we are). People. It's wet. This rain thing is very strange for Chris and me. At first, we assumed that the angels were crying or something, because that's what the checkout lady at the Smith's in Green River says happens, but this is apparently rain.
Rain gets everywhere. Everywhere.
We are cold. When we got in at Keflavik International Airport and snagged a cab to Reykjavik, the kind driver explained that, in Iceland, it does not rain up and down (indicated by a vertical karate chop), but side to side (indicated by a horizontal karate chop). This apparently correlates with the sea "breezes" and their whimsical rotations from north to south, east to west. The man then said that he thought cyclists were masochists. Quote. An accurate assessment, I would say, particularly after our first day.
Rain gets everywhere. Everywhere.
We are cold. When we got in at Keflavik International Airport and snagged a cab to Reykjavik, the kind driver explained that, in Iceland, it does not rain up and down (indicated by a vertical karate chop), but side to side (indicated by a horizontal karate chop). This apparently correlates with the sea "breezes" and their whimsical rotations from north to south, east to west. The man then said that he thought cyclists were masochists. Quote. An accurate assessment, I would say, particularly after our first day.
We left the very next day for Hveragardi, bolstered by the general lack of trouble we had constructing the bikes, despite them being in 30000000000 pieces from the plane. Our work was aided by a chat with a man from Toronto (pronounced with fewer syllables than we expected) called Henry, who explained that the hiking was unmatched in Iceland and that people called him O'Henry as a kid, which is apparently a Canadian chocolate bar. Bikes built, we set off, gear in tow and grinning like monkeys.
It was five miles before I begged Chris to check my bike, at which point we discovered I'd been cycling uphill with the rear right brake deployed the entire time.
After Chris lauded me for keeping up with him without losing pace or my temper, we headed to an Icelandic pharmacy to repair my rapidly degrading knees. It was after another 15 miles that I found that the pharmacist/doctor/man had given me two codeine and a massive Ibuprofen, with more narcotics to spare (apparently they don't have a meth problem in Iceland). With me quickly dissolving into nonsensical dreaming, we pulled off at a gas station in no-man's-land to have a cup of tea and enjoy their interior decorating, which consisted entirely of soccer scarves from every team on the planet, even Tottenham of North London, which I thought was generous. We thought we might keep on, but fog stopped us mere miles later, and we pulled off at a scaffolding enshrining two totaled cars and a cross that reminded us to buckle up or drive sober or phone free in Icelandic. Basically, extremely comforting in the fog in a foreign country. (It was at this point that we adopted our cycling club name - Team WTF) We stopped in a lava field and I slept off the codeine (deceptively called Parkodin in Icelandic) for fifteen hours.
The fog obscures much of the backdrop, but the general ambiance helps me understand why elves and trolls are thought to be real here.
Bolstered by unexpected druggings, we rode the next ten miles to Hveragardi, an unbearably charming town of a thousand at the base of Lord of the Rings type mountains. A fast downhill on the way into town, as well as later scanning of a topo map, indicated the nature of the climb we had from Reykjavik, ever complicated by riding with a brake on. Christopher's dad, an avid cyclist, would be horrified by my elementary mistake (but I like to think impressed at the strength of the tree trunks I have for legs).
Hveragardi is the sight of much geothermal activity, with earthquakes more than occasionally changing the landscape to reveal newer and greater vents. Though beautiful and unbelievably neighborly, the town also intermittently smells like hideous gas (sulphuric in nature) and poo (caused by the abundance of geothermally heated greenhouses, and thus a widespread need for quality, Icelandic pony fertilizer). Add the fact that the sun never sets, and children safely roam the streets with dogs and bicycles at 11:00 at night, and you have a veritable wonderland of the lovely and the strange. See?
Bolstered by unexpected druggings, we rode the next ten miles to Hveragardi, an unbearably charming town of a thousand at the base of Lord of the Rings type mountains. A fast downhill on the way into town, as well as later scanning of a topo map, indicated the nature of the climb we had from Reykjavik, ever complicated by riding with a brake on. Christopher's dad, an avid cyclist, would be horrified by my elementary mistake (but I like to think impressed at the strength of the tree trunks I have for legs).
Hveragardi is the sight of much geothermal activity, with earthquakes more than occasionally changing the landscape to reveal newer and greater vents. Though beautiful and unbelievably neighborly, the town also intermittently smells like hideous gas (sulphuric in nature) and poo (caused by the abundance of geothermally heated greenhouses, and thus a widespread need for quality, Icelandic pony fertilizer). Add the fact that the sun never sets, and children safely roam the streets with dogs and bicycles at 11:00 at night, and you have a veritable wonderland of the lovely and the strange. See?
Here we have Christopher's delightful rendering of what I believe is a tributary of the River Varma, which runs through Hveragardi and produces the small-ish, yet impressive waterfall in the photo of us from above. He took this photo at about 1:00 in the morning, which gives you a sense of the perma-twilight state of an Icelandic summer. This piece of river is far above town, though, along a rather strenuous hike we took up and into the mountains in an attempt to access what is called on our map a "hot river."
The walk from town to the car park alone was a bit long, winding us through geothermically active fields and past farms grazing the cartoonishly majestic Icelandic horses, and when we arrived, I was delighted to note that the sheep truck that had passed us much earlier was now depositing its brood to graze in the mountains. Much bleating and hopping ensued. While the new sheep adjusted to the existing herd, we began to tackle what proved a steep, satisfying hike through the pages of The Hobbit until we reached a small stream visibly steaming and dotted with people up to their chins in flowing water, roasting like macaques in various hot pools. Even a dog had joined his family in the pleasantries, and was happily cooking with his people while his dog brother paced nervously on the shore.
Chris settled in front of a small waterfall like a fishing grizzly, and we didn't move again until it became absolutely necessary (as in, when the light changed ever so slightly at 12:30 in the morning, and Christopher's photography instincts kicked in). In a word - bliss. What a lovely way to heal our bodies before we hit the road again.
Which we do tomorrow. Despite rainy conditions that we can't seem to shake, we'll be going anywhere from 10 to 35 miles. We may land in Hella, providing us with Internet and proper camping. Or perhaps we'll take a primitive campsite beyond Selfoss and break the riding up. We'll go with the wind. Iceland will tell us what to do (by cooperating or soaking us to the core).
She's a Viking, this place. A life force if ever there was one.
Stories and vignettes to follow. I've take copious, rain-spotted notes. Teasers? Camp Warden Foxtail. The American Woman, as Interpreted by British Teens in a Bathroom. United Nations School Something of New York Something, or How a Bus of Teens from the Inner City Disrupts the Peace of Grown Adults Paying Their Own Way to Travel.
Good stuff ahead. Stay tuned.
The walk from town to the car park alone was a bit long, winding us through geothermically active fields and past farms grazing the cartoonishly majestic Icelandic horses, and when we arrived, I was delighted to note that the sheep truck that had passed us much earlier was now depositing its brood to graze in the mountains. Much bleating and hopping ensued. While the new sheep adjusted to the existing herd, we began to tackle what proved a steep, satisfying hike through the pages of The Hobbit until we reached a small stream visibly steaming and dotted with people up to their chins in flowing water, roasting like macaques in various hot pools. Even a dog had joined his family in the pleasantries, and was happily cooking with his people while his dog brother paced nervously on the shore.
Chris settled in front of a small waterfall like a fishing grizzly, and we didn't move again until it became absolutely necessary (as in, when the light changed ever so slightly at 12:30 in the morning, and Christopher's photography instincts kicked in). In a word - bliss. What a lovely way to heal our bodies before we hit the road again.
Which we do tomorrow. Despite rainy conditions that we can't seem to shake, we'll be going anywhere from 10 to 35 miles. We may land in Hella, providing us with Internet and proper camping. Or perhaps we'll take a primitive campsite beyond Selfoss and break the riding up. We'll go with the wind. Iceland will tell us what to do (by cooperating or soaking us to the core).
She's a Viking, this place. A life force if ever there was one.
Stories and vignettes to follow. I've take copious, rain-spotted notes. Teasers? Camp Warden Foxtail. The American Woman, as Interpreted by British Teens in a Bathroom. United Nations School Something of New York Something, or How a Bus of Teens from the Inner City Disrupts the Peace of Grown Adults Paying Their Own Way to Travel.
Good stuff ahead. Stay tuned.
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