Bikepacking Iceland – Between Ice, Fire and Friendship
Three weeks, two bikes, one plan. We set out to cross Iceland: 1,500 kilometers, 15,000 meters of elevation gain, long stretches without food or water. What we expected were empty highlands, hot springs and endless gravel roads. What we didn’t expect was illness, separation and how much it would test us.
When we arrive, Miri can barely walk. We make the call we don’t want to make. She stays, I ride. My first solo bikepacking days take me through black volcanic plains, against relentless wind, pushing through sand and rough terrain. Nights are quiet and vast, just sheep in the distance and the sound of the landscape itself. Somewhere along the way, doubt settles in.
When we reunite, everything feels lighter again. We ride through lava fields, cross cold rivers barefoot and find our rhythm in the constant movement. But it doesn’t last. This time I get sick. Another separation, another shift in plans. Iceland doesn’t follow plans, and slowly, we stop trying to force it.
Our journey turns into a mosaic of moments. Miri rides alone through the quiet north, I recover, we meet again and keep going, sometimes together, sometimes apart. We sit in a hot spring in Landmannalaugar under a sky that never fully darkens, stand among drifting ice at Diamond Beach and feel the distant tremble of a volcanic eruption.
We live simply, adapt daily and solve problems as they come. When both derailleur batteries die and the charger is missing, we somehow track down the only one in the country and ride on in a single gear until it reaches us. Not ideal, but possible. Most things are.
In the end, we don’t ride the route we planned and we don’t reach the numbers we set. But we learn how to adjust, how to stay, how to be honest when things get hard. Iceland isn’t the most physically demanding trip we’ve done, but it is one of the most raw and unpredictable.
What remains are not the kilometers, but the moments. The wind, the silence, the laughter in between. The feeling of vastness and the decision to keep going, even when nothing goes according to plan.
What we found wasn’t the perfect route, but trust. In each other, in ourselves and in the simple fact that forward is always possible, even if it’s just in one gear.
Bikepacking Iceland – Between Ice, Fire and Friendship
Three weeks, two bikes, one plan. We set out to cross Iceland: 1,500 kilometers, 15,000 meters of elevation gain, long stretches without food or water. What we expected were empty highlands, hot springs and endless gravel roads. What we didn’t expect was illness, separation and how much it would test us.
When we arrive, Miri can barely walk. We make the call we don’t want to make. She stays, I ride. My first solo bikepacking days take me through black volcanic plains, against relentless wind, pushing through sand and rough terrain. Nights are quiet and vast, just sheep in the distance and the sound of the landscape itself. Somewhere along the way, doubt settles in.
When we reunite, everything feels lighter again. We ride through lava fields, cross cold rivers barefoot and find our rhythm in the constant movement. But it doesn’t last. This time I get sick. Another separation, another shift in plans. Iceland doesn’t follow plans, and slowly, we stop trying to force it.
Our journey turns into a mosaic of moments. Miri rides alone through the quiet north, I recover, we meet again and keep going, sometimes together, sometimes apart. We sit in a hot spring in Landmannalaugar under a sky that never fully darkens, stand among drifting ice at Diamond Beach and feel the distant tremble of a volcanic eruption.
We live simply, adapt daily and solve problems as they come. When both derailleur batteries die and the charger is missing, we somehow track down the only one in the country and ride on in a single gear until it reaches us. Not ideal, but possible. Most things are.
In the end, we don’t ride the route we planned and we don’t reach the numbers we set. But we learn how to adjust, how to stay, how to be honest when things get hard. Iceland isn’t the most physically demanding trip we’ve done, but it is one of the most raw and unpredictable.
What remains are not the kilometers, but the moments. The wind, the silence, the laughter in between. The feeling of vastness and the decision to keep going, even when nothing goes according to plan.
What we found wasn’t the perfect route, but trust. In each other, in ourselves and in the simple fact that forward is always possible, even if it’s just in one gear.