Arctic Cycle ..... by Andy Shackleton
See extracts from .....
A HITCHHIKER’S RIDE TO
“He had probably woken up, full of the joys of life: and wound up with a squeaky voice, his manhood in a bucket. And that bucket was travelling right beside me” ---
My first diary entry for the 20th of June, a Wednesday, reads "What a bloody morning." Sheltered though it was, behind the cafe, my tent was flapping fit to bust in a huge wind and torrent of rain. It had been a poor night. Trucks would pull up, leave their refrigeration motors running, their drivers shout above the wind, then slam doors before moving on noisily. It was hard getting out of my sleeping bag. But it was to be Reykjavik, almost a hundred and twenty miles away that day. And nothing was going to stop me. I had to get on the road. Fast. Put this weather business back where it belonged. In my head. A real test of resolve, a question of putting my money where my mouth was, so to speak. A hot shower would be just the ticket. Only it was too early. The cafe would not open for hours. Privacy beneath the bridge found me tramping some distance and slithering down ridiculously steep slopes beside the raging torrent of a river. Then, flapping clothes, a cold backside, and toilet paper near impossible to light in the breeze. The delights of rough camping were brought into sharp focus in those early hours.
In my experience, when things go this well there has to a snag. And close to the tunnel under Hvalfjordur that would save a thirty five mile ride round the head, it shouted “Gotcha!” I’d stopped for a short rest. And waking, something about it had caught my engineer's eye. Spinning the back wheel revealed a buckled rim and broken spoke. On the drive side. The difficult one where the gears are. So much for earlier good fortune. To ride on would plainly be madness. With the load I was carrying more damage might well occur if I didn't do something about it. After a heart sinking assessment of the situation, the practical fellow in me took over. After taking off the tyre for the umpteenth time I removed and stripped the block, carefully placing tiny parts of the freewheel mechanism on plastic bags laid on the grass, desperately hoping that they didn't get blown away. With the block out of the way I fitted the new spoke, trued up the wheel and, unlike all the king's horses and all the king's men, did put the whole thing back together again. Ever lateral thinker, but carrying no grease, the margarine I used to cook with came on as an admirable substitute. That I could do the work at the roadside without a bunch of specialist tools was down to the good fortune that I had fitted the high quality, if rather expensive hub before leaving home. A full hour later, having once again showed my bike who was the boss, I made for the tunnel. Seventy seven kilometres to Reykjavik, the sign said. Under fifty miles. But bikes were banned. Earlier, in the day it had been the tyre. Now it was my turn to be deflated. The prospect of riding right round the fjord, with my goal so firmly in sight was too much. Weather, puncture, breakdown. And now this. There used to be a ferry that ran from nearby Akranes all the way to Reykjavik. It had been discontinued since the tunnel opened. I considered riding on ….. would claim that I didn't understand the sign. But there might be toll staff and police to contend with before getting through. Against the odds I had made it this far. Banned from the tunnel. Detour unthinkable. There had to be a third way. And fresh from a castration, here it was.
Approaching larger places by bike, it is easy to get into the scene. My normal practice is to stop well before built up areas, take a good look at my map and work out some general directions. Now, having exchanged addresses and said goodbye to my knight in shining armour, suddenly I was standing alone beside a dismantled bicycle and heap of luggage at a filling station in suburban Reykjavik ….. Iceland’s capital city, with a population of 175,000. Convivial company one minute. Out on my own in concrete suburbia, the next. It was as though I had been beamed there from the tunnel entrance. Leaving me with the odd feeling that I needed somewhere to sort myself out. The burger bar was everything that I dislike about fast food. But I needed that coffee. And having got a fix on my map, set off beside the busy dual carriageway amongst factories, supermarkets, housing, and open parkland. On, through increasing traffic and, with a stop or two for directions, heading for the sea. There were two reasons for this. As ever, I was drawn there simply to absorb the scene, but secondly, my city map wasn't a lot of help until I got right into the centre proper. Reykjavik is built on a narrow spit that faces west into Faxafloi, a large bay bounded in the North by Snaefellsnes peninsular, and the South by Reykjanes. Riding west, into the evening sun, I would eventually get close to the city centre and the grid system that my map indicated there. Thus far, it worked. Then, simply by following my nose I found the coast and headed ever closer to the tall buildings and port area. Pausing for a moment or two, I did feel just a little emotional. Downright privileged, if I'm being honest. The capital city of Iceland. Somewhere I had imagined for years. And here I was, arrived by bike ….. a simple way to travel. Like walking. Only more so. Back where I had come from, the now standard issue backdrop of water and snow capped mountains. Turn 180 degrees, and a thoroughly modern cityscape, complete with all the trappings. The contrast, quite simply enormous. Here, I would forget the tent and use the Youth Hostel. Only it didn’t feature on my map, and the tourist information office had closed for the evening.
But what to do whilst here in Iceland's capital? Guide books are fine, but a little local knowledge spreads a long way. And with this in mind I sought a list of "must sees" from hostel staff. The Golden Circle, the blue lagoon ….. they would have to be included on the hit list next day. And my bike could have a rest 'cos, one way or another I would be a proper tourist. But content with seventy miles by bike and another fifty in the back of the Tonka truck, what I really needed was sleep. Basking in the glory of a plan that worked, if not quite how it had been planned, I was confident of a decision by morning.