It would seem that this is it. The hardships and torments are behind us, there isn't much further to ride, the weather is excellent, and ahead lies the night and day life of Reykjavik, sex, drugs & rock’n’roll.
But no, the death grip of this harsh land won't let go. The headwind is so strong that it's barely possible to cover 10 kilometers in an hour. The exhaustion accumulated over two weeks suddenly descended upon us with all its weight. The landscape no longer inspires: maybe it's too monotonous, maybe we're just sick of admiring nature, or maybe the monotone pedaling against the wind is just pressing too hard on an exhausted brain.
The same could be said about my current story: it has dragged on for so long that I've already managed to fly to Copenhagen, and endless praises to Icelandic nature are no longer scooped out of the universe's information field with such ease.
The twists and turns of our ordeals are felt even more strongly because, at times, either Andrey is gloomy and mad at the world, or I am; that's just the way we are wired.
Truth be told, the thought often crosses my mind that people who travel are restless souls; they often suffer from mood swings, and they are not satisfied with what they have and do at home. Otherwise, why would they strive to go somewhere to foreign lands where things are by no means sugar-coated?
We were too lazy to turn back, and there was no other way, so we went through a cattle pipe
Iceland Cycling - day 11
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It's still beautiful along the way, though: a bay
Mountains and rocks, as if we hadn't seen enough of them yet
We barely covered twenty kilometers in three hours, and unable to take it anymore, we stopped for lunch at the turnoff from the coast to the capital. From this detail alone, it's not hard to understand just how exhausted and fed up we were. From such all-consuming fatigue, I left the protective cover for my bike bag at our cooking spot, but I'm not even mad at myself for it: whoever has been there will understand.
It got a little easier after that; the wind died down, but in exchange, the ascents and descents increased. You'll have to excuse me, of course, for sprinkling the story with such boring details, but they are etched into my memory for the rest of my life.
Sky and Martian soil
Andrey and the upcoming elevation changes
A little lake
Silos?
A farm
Fortunately, there are always pleasant surprises in Iceland. In this case, it was those very bubbling mud pits that we hadn't seen yet, and which the Norwegian cyclist had told us about. Near this specific pit, a German in a truck came up to us, asked if we needed anything, and gave us water and chocolate bars. I would have normally been surprised, of course, but by that time my emotions were pretty dulled, so all I could manage to tell him was that Icelanders had already helped us a lot, and thanks for the chocolate.
Pits with sulfuric gases are beautiful; the only thing cooler is probably a volcano
An acquaintance of mine, geologist Alexander Gr., told me that such pits are called mud volcanoes
Here, Andrey and I had another grandiose scandal minor argument. The place with the mud volcanoes turned out to be quite popular, it's called Krýsuvík, and so, naturally, there were buses with tourists there. Andrey started whining again that he was tired and didn't want to pedal. I don't understand this approach: we had ridden the entire way ourselves, and now we're going to ruin everything for the sake of some tiny stretch?
“Who are you trying to prove it to, and why, that we rode down the highway against the wind?” – Andrey questioned.
“Why prove anything to anyone? What do others have to do with it? You need it for yourself, first of all, so that it turns out beautifully and right, and so you have something good to remember in life,” – I replied.
However, he doesn't understand my values; he has different ones, so we failed to see eye to eye.
After that, I deleted three paragraphs of overly specific reflections on the complex nature of human relationships, in keeping with the overarching directive to “talk less”.
We rode a little further, and things got more cheerful: the highway was replaced by macadam, colloquially known as a “dirt road”. If your memory is fine, unlike mine, then you probably remember that in the last episode Andrey's frame cracked. Naturally, this didn't add to my peace of mind: my neck still hurts, Andrey is glaring daggers at me because he was forced to pedal instead of sitting in a bus, the hills are brutal, and the wind isn't dying down. However, as we know, there are only two paths – Jah Rastafari or war ride further, or stay the night without a campsite.
The landscapes inspire respect once again
By Lake Kleifarvatn, newlyweds were swimming taking photos
The dirt road alternates with asphalt
At first, it seemed like the Ku Klux Klan in exile, then – like a circus in training
It turned out they were building a road.
And here they had already built it – a very amusing track, straight as an arrow, only modulated up and down. Here, happiness fell upon us – the wind finally blew at our backs, and on such a wonderful surface, our bicycles flew like they were motorized - 20 km/h, which, after the constant 8 km/h before that, felt like having a jet engine. I would have gone even faster, but I had to finally enjoy the rest and look around without the constant tension in my quadriceps.
Lava fields all around again
Soon we reached the Keflavik-Reykjavik highway, where we had lunch once more. Moreover, in a weird establishment where a video rental store was combined with a burger joint (everything else was closed, it was too late).
The rest was just a matter of technique. A couple of hours and we arrive at the final destination of our journey, which marks its successful completion. Hip-hip hooray! We did it, yes. The day turned out to be ordinary, but ordinary for Iceland, meaning staggering in its apparent complexity and simplicity at the same time, just like our entire trip.
When we were flying out, I couldn't believe at all that this was all possible, although I suspected that there was nothing particularly difficult about our undertaking. Here again we have wave-particle duality – on the one hand, we are still just nerdy tourists who rode along beaten paths with the possibility of evacuation, on the other hand – you have read my story, and I hope you felt my emotions, and our grip, which is no lesser than the Icelandic one. In any case, the evaluation of our adventures is left to you, dear readers.
As for our arrival in Reykjavik, it went without incident: along the way we saw a bunch of painted and dolled-up teenagers flocking in droves to some place called Broadway, which, judging by the ubiquitous free newspaper Grapevine, is a tacky dance club. After a brief search near the swimming pool and the botanical garden, we also found the campsite and were stunned by the number of its inhabitants: more than half a thousand, if not a thousand, people.
My story, however, is not over yet, because after arriving at the campsite, the restless Andrey dragged me off to enjoy the nightlife of the affluent hipster capital. And the next day we also partied properly, without losing face. Stay tuned for new episodes.