You know when you’re tired when you’re hallucinating while you ride. And right now I’m far too tired to be sliding a dirtbike sideways at 80mph on cinder roads in the absolute middle of nowhere. To my left is a glacier, a mountainous sheet of ice some 20 miles across. To my right, as far as the eye can see, is a lava field, craggy, endless and unforgiving. It’s 1am, and from under storm clouds the reddish-pink of the sun is visible. If there were birds on this Martian landscape, they’d be singing.
But nothing lives up here apart from the odd hardy plant and the moss that covers most things in Iceland. So as I look to my right and see horses and sheep grazing on 3,000 year-old lava crops, I smile inside. “Silly horses,” I say. “You’re not there. I know you’re not.” I blink and the horses turn into rocks the size of a Mini and the sheep into dirty lumps of snow. After 10 hours in the saddle and a hideously drunken night before, it would appear this country’s finally getting to me.
Getting to Iceland (population: 300,000) is simplicity itself. Hop on a plane in London and get off just three hours later. Everyone speaks English and, as I make my way through Keflavik airport, I’m amazed at how light it is at 11pm. It’s not even twilight. I’m met by Njall Gunnlaugsson and Eythor Orlygsson from Biking Viking (pronounced Wyking), one of Iceland’s leading bike adventure outfits. “Good timing,” says Njall, shaking my hand enthusiastically. “We had a good earthquake just yesterday – 4.6 on the Richter scale – and are looking forward to more. Tomorrow we will go earthquake hunting!” Not having experienced the ground moving before, this sounds bang up my street. I change £200 at the travel exchange and they give me 30,000KR in return. This sounds like a lot; I am soon to learn that it isn’t.
Get to my hotel for 12.30am, close the curtains, hop into bed and close my eyes. 30 minutes later I’m back up out of bed and using anything I can lay my hands on to board-up the windows. The feeble yellow curtains do nothing to stop the sunlight streaming into the room. I shower, get dressed, go for a walk – and then realise there’s another five hours before even breakfast is served.
From Biking Wyking’s HQ in an industrial estate in downtown Reykjavik we thread through town on a mix of BMWs; Eythor (our guide) on the tiddly 650X Cross Country, myself on Njall’s gloriously light and outrageous HP2 and Hjortur Jonsson on a F650GS. Even after three days and despite endless attempts I couldn’t remember or pronounce Hjortur’s first name. Lovely bloke with a pipe clamped almost permanently between crooked teeth and a 1961 leather motorcycling helmet as his favourite hat, but I had to circumnavigate his name at all times. It’s 12 degrees as we head off for our adventure at precisely 2km/h under the speed limit. “We’re pretty relaxed over here,” says Eythor. “There’s not many police but we’re in no rush, we just take things easy until we get to the good roads.” As an 18-wheeler grinds past uphill I set my jaw, resist the temptation to give the Beemer a handful and do as I’m told.
They filmed the invasion scenes of Clint Eastwood’s Flags of our Fathers on Iceland’s beaches due to its black, volcanic sand. That’s where we’re headed today as we split off the main road and onto the rough stuff. The HP2 pricks its ears up and gets stuck in, blasting its rear tyre sideways at every opportunity while the long-travel suspension makes a mockery of the rocks and potholes.
