story & photos by Christopher Langlois

Sky, earth, light: Patreksfjördur

Looking up from the saddle of my bike, I saw hanging mist, endless dirt road, at least four waterfalls, and a sign warning of rock avalanches ahead. I was already delirious from five hours in the saddle fighting a relentless crosswind and pissing rain, so what the hell else could screw with me as I rode up another lonely mountainside? An avalanche to end the suffering? I was not so lucky. My turmoil and pain would continue.

Welcome to Iceland, land of Vikings, insane weather and views so sublime your jaw will not only drop, it will fall completely off. Below are journal entries from my solo mountain biking trip through the badlands of Iceland in late summer 2003.


Legend for weather:

Q = SUN = Ra = not often enough of it as in ancient Egypt
Ù = CLOUDS = Atari space invaders = flying saucers = delirium
òòò = RAIN = the norm = reality = fucking tons of it
Þ = WIND = tons of that evilness too.

The report follows with dates, times, towns, weather, ride updates, and my
skewed impressions of a few things Icelandic. (email Inversion for a complete gear list)

Wednesday, Aug. 20
Boston - Reykjavik - Borgarnes
Q / Ù / òòò

8:24 p.m.
It's been a brutally long first day. I flew out of Boston last night at 9:30 on Icelandic Air. Five and a half hours of economy bliss on a Boeing 757 in a window seat in the second-to-last row. Engine noise and definitely no 'More Room Through Coach' like American Airlines. Thankfully, it's over.

The author's ride, the author's curse

Bizarrely they showed Britain's `Inspector Morse’ the entire time. I arrived at 6:30 a.m. to partly cloudy skies and no rain. Good omen. Collected my two "bags" (my Seven mountain bike and Yakima bike trailer) and caught the FlyBus to Reykjavík's main bus station for points north. I wasn't exactly sure where I would start, so I put my bike and trailer together, which took forever. I had completely disassembled the damned things so it took about three hours to put back together.

Had some lunch at the bus station café: fried haddock with potatoes and vegetables and split pea soup, which was way too salty. The fish was great though. Good coffee, too. Endless cup. Then I stole some butter and jumped the bus to Borgarnes.

Today's weather was awesome by Icelandic standards, I would think. The morning was cool and as the day wore on it was in the 70's...sunny by the time I arrived in Borgarnes. Beautiful. I found the campsite and set up my gear, planning on taking it easy on day one since the trip over was exhausting. Prior to the camp, I met a German and Swiss who had been cycling and hiking the island for six weeks. Crazy. I have a paltry 14 days or so...two of which are travel days. Maybe next year I'll return. Right now I am sitting on a ridge overlooking an inlet below the campsite, which is bordered by mountain peaks to the south.

Thursday, Aug. 21
Borgarnes - Vegamot
Ù / Q / Þ NE

8:13 a.m.
It's morning and the sky is mostly obscured. I hope the sun comes out like yesterday. It'll be a long two weeks if it rains all the time. Last night's meal was tea and ramen. This morning it's tea and oatmeal. I met a miserable fellow from Germany who has been traveling here for two weeks. Talk about sullen. The guy was absolutely hopeless. I hope I am not that way after my trip.

9:10 p.m.
Wind. I thought long and hard if that should be my only description of today's ride. It is fitting. Head wind, cross wind, more head wind.Quartering crosswinds turning back into... yes, head wind.

A lighthouse guards cliffs stained with guano, western Iceland

At least the sun was out all day. Beautiful light on the mountains. I started in Borgarnes and finished in Vegamot. I overtook three German cyclists, all on mountain bikes. These three are from Bavaria so they are worth keeping around. They're very nice and funny fellows, unlike their countryman from last night. We had dinner together after about 74 km. All damn day it took. My lousy trailer is too heavy; i think it weighs
well over 60 pounds. Perhaps I should throw some stuff away. Not sure yet. Tomorrow, I will go west while the Germans go north to Stykkishólmur.

I'm not too lonely yet. In fact I'm down right friendly. Whomever I meet that looks interesting I say 'hello' and start a conversation. I'm sure that won't last. I spent the night with the Germans near the Grimsá River in an abandoned sheep pen, protected from the incessant wind. Quite nice actually. Soft ground for my tent. Their names are Marc, Robert, and Johannes...like Brahms and Bach.

Friday, Aug. 22
Vegamot - Ólafsvík
Q++++

1:00 p.m.
A late start today, but definitely needed. Yesterday was a ball buster. I've made good time so far. The only difficulty has been my sore ass and hands from the rough ride yesterday. Vegamot to Langadalsströnd (Landalzot) the junction of Routes 54 and 574, which will be the true tough part. It looks like the road to Ólafsvík is way uphill and gravel. Dive-bombed by angry terns only twice so far on the trip. Birds and their territory can be a scary thing, as Hitchcock emphasized.

9:30 p.m.
Ólafsvík
The first part of the day was quite nice. No headwind or crosswind. The turn northwest over the mountains to Ólafsvík was the only difficult place. Damn Steep! 10-12° grades with the damned trailer in tow. I had to walk a section for about 1-1.5 km. Way too steep for the fully loaded bike. Crazy descents down the opposite side of the mountain. I was on the brakes most of the time. Control and stability are an issue with the trailer. It was fishtailing when I turned and applied brakes.

Making the grade

Tomorrow if the weather is good, I will go whale watching from the local port. There is an excellent chance of seeing a blue whale. Fin, humpbacks, sperm, and minke whales, too.

Saturday, Aug. 23
Ólafsvík
Ù + / Þ SW + / òòò

7:20 a.m.
It's cloudy this morning with a lot of wind. The wind was up all night blasting away at my tent, keeping me up, light sleeper that I am. Unfortunately, I think I slept on a rough surface so my back is now sore. What am I complaining about?

At the camp sinks, an elderly man from Holland and I talked about our impressions of Iceland. We discussed the unpredictability of the weather. He also focused on some German campers at our campground who were up late. It is obvious that most Europeans dislike the Deutsch immensely. Not exactly a surprise considering the country's checkered history. But still not a necessarily fair judgment to level on someone you do not know or haven't met. Yet these are the people who brought us the Third Reich. Of course, I met the German family this morning after breakfast. They were incredibly nice, engaging, and friendly. Stereotypes are the killers of rational thought.

Later in the day, miles out to sea, I am on a whale watching trip out of Ólafsvík. Rita Stephens would appreciate these sightings of birds: Fulmar, Artic Tern, Gannet, and Puffin. I just had a contest of wills with a German tourist on the whale watching boat. Are they the only tourists who travel to this rock? With the wind howling off the bow I was reading on the stern when a barf bag that some lazy fuck had stuffed into the bench opposite me fell to the deck. It was obviously full, but closed tightly. For a full minute the German and I eyed the bag as it moved back and forth on the deck, sliding closer to the toe rail. Will it blow over into the water? Will it open and spew puke all over the deck? I buckled and picked it up to take to the trash. I’m such a loser! And to add to the humiliation of it all I had to walk down the side to throw it away in front of the passengers below deck. We're getting swindled. No lousy whales. Only a few dolphins, which in my book don't count. Where the hell are the Fin whales? The Blue whales?

More German stories: Do I have it out for them or do they bring it on themselves? Maybe both. While speaking with a couple with an adolescent boy on the bogus whale trip, they said they wanted to visit New England in Indian summer. The man said they were going either there or to Florida for their next vacation, but he preferred New England because it was 98% white. Huh? Is that what he meant? Did I hear it correctly? Or was he emphasizing something missed in the translation. Was he influenced by the huge immigrations into Germany and the rest of Europe by peoples of different color and creed? Who the hell knows.

Originally, I had intended to finish up with the whale watch and then ride out to Stykkishólmur east of here, but outside there is a deluge. Plus it's late. Massive amounts of rain are pounding my still standing (and dry) tent. Some of the neighboring tents are blowing all over the place.

Going (to) berserk

If all goes well for me, I will board the ferry at 4:00 p.m. enroute to the West Fjords (Norse rain and wind gods permitting). During the trip, I should pass a town called Berserk, where the word “berserk” comes from. It's story about two Icelandic brothers a millennia ago who were able to enter a trance-like state before battle, thus making them impervious to injury or pain while they fought. Ah, the Vikings.

Sunday, Aug. 24
Ólafsvík - Stykkishólmur - Brjánslækur
òòò+ / Ù++

10:23 a.m.
The horses, the cows, even the fucking stupid sheep stare at me as I ride by. They gawk knowingly, watching a lunatic pass. I never expected scorn from farm animals. I am in a café having my second cup of coffee soaking wet after riding through a downpour to Grundarfjördur on the road to Stykkishólmur. Bloody cold today. I hope the sun decides to show itself and warm me up and dry me off. I changed into some dry cycling clothing in the bathroom. Now I'm screwed for tomorrow.

Later. No sun. Rain and more rain, plus wind. What did I expect? In Stykkishólmur I made it in time to hit the public pool and go for a swim in the hot bath. Excellent to relax after a brutal, but still rewarding day. It would have been a beautiful ride if I wasn't soaking wet. I guess I'm still a little delirious. I hope my stuff will dry at the campsite. On the ride east I traversed an ancient lava field that looked like the surface of the moon. Thick spongy colorful moss carpeted some sections of the rock. It was insane to walk on.

Later, I’m on the ferry, where I had my first Pylsur, or Icelandic hotdog, for a snack. Not too bad, better then a Fenway Frank, but most likely my last one. Everyone in this country eats these damn things. Getting off the ferry, great, I broke my Yakima trailer. I bent some piece of shit piece of metal designed to keep the trailer locked to the bike's dropouts. I've taken it apart but haven't quite fixed it yet. It better work, God damn it.

On the road to Látrabjarg, views of Patreksfjord

Monday, Aug. 25
Brjánslækur - Patreksfjördur
Ù

9:00 a.m.
It's still heavily overcast, which makes me worry. Riding yesterday was difficult, but not the end of the world. Today I have a few problems to deal with. One: the damn trailer is broken and two: all my stuff is soaking wet. If the sun shows itself, everything will change.

9:27 p.m.
Well I'm here in Patreksfjördur after a long and arduous day. I arrived around 5:30 p.m. and rode around town for a while. I was totally fucked after the death march over the mountains. This was more brutal then the climb into Ólafsvík. My knees are killing me. I must be soft. I hope I don't have to pull a Bernard Hinault and drop out of the Tour while in the maillot jaune. Ibuprofen please.

So far today I've been chased for miles by a deranged sheep dog and been told, "I have no life," by a lady at the local ESSO station. She thought it was stupid that I wanted to ride my bicycle around Iceland. Hey lady, I don't live here like you. I just want to look around a bit and ride my bike while I'm at it. But after that hellacious climb I sort of understand what she means.

He didn't seem angry

After 500 meters—not even a damn kilometer—a rabid mutt ran me down thinking I was either prey or a stray sheep. I sprayed him in the face with water, yelled at him and almost tore my pump out to smash his skull when he ran off after some real sheep.

After running for a long time he grew weary of the sheep and came back after me—I was trying like hell to ride away, but not making much progress with the big load of gear behind me. In any case, I was racing away as best I could when I had an uncomfortable impulse to look back. Sure enough, the hound was on my tail and gaining. Swearing like a madman, shooting him again with water, I yelled No, Non, Nein, Niet, whatever I could come up with. Finally he gave up. I was scared for about another 10 kilometers and kept looking back to see if he was there, ready to take a piece out of my leg.

Upon arriving in Patreksfjördur, I set up camp way up a hill on an old football field. Then I rode to the swimming pool and spent some time soaking and stretching. This place is a microcosm of Icelandic small-town life, and a microcosm of weird, pool-borne germs. Every person who came out of the showers immediately went into the 38°C hot pot. Not the 41° C tub, nor the pool, the 38°C tub. There must have been 20 people in that thing yapping away, glancing at me and wondering who the hell the outsider was sitting alone. Small town. Excuse me for not squeezing in beside you all.

Tuesday, Aug. 26
Patreksfjördur
Ù / Õ / Q+++!!!

12:00 p.m.
Today will be a down day after the hill climb yesterday took its toll on my
knees. It looks like the bus for me tomorrow, which will take me to Ísafjördur via Látrabjarg to see the birds.

A cloud stampede rolls over Vegamont

Thousands and thousands of birds: Puffins, Guillemot,Razorbills, Cormorants, Fulmars, and Kittiwakes. It's still overcast and the promising sunshine across the fjord has disappeared. It looks like yet another day in fog and clouds. That will make four. I'm losing.

I thought going solo was going to be a challenge, but I have realized it is much more. I enjoy being alone, no doubt about it, but there is something to be said about companionship while riding out on the roads. Solitude can be infuriating. There is nobody to speak to, which is an obvious observation, but moreover there is no one to be in awe with or to be encouraged by. Upon the eighth hour of riding, I get a little punchy. There is a creeping delirium that comes with shitty weather and a mind left alone to its delusions.

8:00 p.m.
The sun has been out for hours upon hours. This is rare, really is something to celebrate. If there were a few virgins, a defeated foe, or a chicken available here, I would gladly sacrifice them to the almighty sun if it would guarantee a week of light.

Thursday, Aug. 28
Ísafjördur - Bolungarvík - Ísafjördur
Ù / Q+

10:00 p.m.
I really didn't have a chance to write much yesterday since I was on the bus most of the time. My knees are very thankful for it. We started in Patreksfjördur at 1:00 p.m. enroute to Látrabjarg and its cliffs. Very cool. There were many birds, but unfortunately no puffins.

The sun is deciding what it wants to do for the day. I, for one, vote that it shines brightly for the remainder of the day. But who the hell am I? In any case, yesterday was interesting, if expensive: 8,000 Krona for the total bus trip. Enroute to Látrabjarg I saw the scenery—from a British cycling magazine—which gave me the idea for this trip: a cool shot down a valley into a fjord. At Látrabjarg the cliffs are very shear. The birds zip around, creating a loud racket which seems to disappear the moment I step back from the cliff's edge. Oh, and the smell. Think ammonia, but worse. There must be thousands of years of bird shit caked on the cliffs. The accursed sheep were there, too, to stare and contribute their waste to the mix.

Telephone poles pass for trees on the wind-scoured hills

I met some interesting people on the bus. Two American guys who had just graduated from Notre Dame were traveling Iceland by car for one week and came over on the ferry to see the cliffs. Also there was a couple from Munich, a Danish woman, and the most hilarious guy from Poland. He was a talkaholic, asking questions and spouting off strange information the entire bus trip. He needed to be included in every conversation and wanted to know the height of all the mountains we passed. I thought one of the German women was going to bash him.

The sun just went behind a cloud. It has been doing that on and off for the last hour. The temperature must drop 5-10° F each time it happens. This campground is quite nice. On par with the one in Ólafsvík and Borgarnes. Important campground details are: view, level, soft ground, trees for wind blocking, space from other campers, bathrooms and sink, and the piece de la resistance: showers with hot water. This one in Ísafjördur allows only 3.5 minutes of hot water, so you have to be quick, but boy does it feel good. This campground has a great view of a waterfall to the west, mountains to the south and east, and a fjord to the north. The waterfall's stream runs right through the middle of the camp adding some nice white noise.

1:49 p.m.
In a bakery in downtown Ísafjördur. Not too bad, but definitely not French. Hell, what country's bakeries rival France's? I'm sitting down having coffee and reading one of my many New Yorkers. I am glad I have the subscription, but as always I grow weary of its inexorable arrival. I think I brought 15 issues. The damn thing is relentless, it just keeps coming and coming and coming.

Housing: Icelandic style; Isfjordur

Glancing up from my map and magazine, I noticed a waving motion from one of the patrons walking into the bakery. It was a kid, maybe 14 years old, who had a realistic toy gun in his hand. He was sweeping the room with it, mowing us all down in his imagination. The gun was black, with a small orange tip on the barrel. Nobody but me flinched. That kid would've been blasted to smithereens in the States.

Ísafjördur has a small Thai population, which I find somewhat incongruous. Think of the huge climate difference between here and the Thai Kingdom. About 40° F, I would think. It seems that many men from all over the world go to Thailand to find wives. A fat, worn-out guy across the room from me obviously found a flashy Thai bride on his travels there. How long will she stay in Iceland, I wonder? The Thai restaurant was okay, but not up to my expectations. It was fresh, but not cooked to order—only pre-prepped stuff. I would have liked some basil and chicken-fried-rice with lime. Spicy hot please, but not Thai spicy. I've fallen for that one before, thank you.

Today, I cycled from Ísafjördur to Bolungarvík and back, maybe about 40 km. I needed to stretch my legs and knees without the burden of the heavy Yakima trailer. I felt pretty good by the end, even though I was wet from rain. My legs were stiff at first and I imagine they will be tomorrow, but if I take it slow I'll be all right. Spin, spin, and spin again. I need to work on using smaller gears and pulling through the entire circle of the pedal stoke, not just the downward push. That will save my knees from abuse. I'm no Jan Ullrich.

When I'm alone time is compressed. This sounds like a repeated thought, but I'm not sure. I feel like I've been on this trip forever. Truly. I guess it has only been 9 days but it sure feels like much more. This is a place best seen by car, I'm afraid. The mountains are too unforgiving, too steep, and too remote. At least in the west fjords. Perhaps I will ride the ring road one day if I can find a fellow nutcase ready for a challenge. It's good to be unemployed.

Friday, Aug. 29
Ísafjördur - Hólmavík - Stadarhöls
Q+ / Ù / Q+

12:26 p.m.
Sunny four-hour ride with crazy 14 -16 degree climbs and descents. I am in some no-name town camping near a tiny church called Stadarhölskirkja. Right. I started the day with a ride into Ísafjördur to catch the bus to Hólmavík. It left at 11:45 a.m. and we arrived into Hólmavík around 3:15 p.m.

Campsite with view, sun

I started riding in clouds, but it soon changed to brilliant sunshine. The riding today was some of the most challenging I've had to date. Can it get any more difficult? Many small climbs enroute to a pretty high altitude combined with terrible road conditions. Thankfully the sun was out. Entire sections for miles were beat up and a soggy mess; quagmire of mud in some places. I was (and probably still am) covered in dried mud. I'm in a field with no washing facilities so it's a half assed wash. The woman at the gas station must have been horrified to see my sweaty dirt-covered face when I waltzed into the bathroom.

Saturday, Aug. 30
Stadarhöls - Búdardulur - Grafarrat?
Ù / Þ ð16kNW

8:40 a.m.
Outside, the sky is overcast. I'm lounging around in my sleeping bag avoiding getting up because I'm a bit sore from yesterday. I need to eat and hit the road. If I feel good today I can maybe make it farther than planned and therefore have a more leisurely day tomorrow and the next. I am on the downward spiral of this trip, just looking to get to my destinations so I can chill out and read. What a lame-ass.

2:30 p.m.
Búdardulur. I am in the ubiquitous ESSO café having a sandwich and a coffee and taking a break from riding. I'm not too tired but my knees are still sore. I figure I'll sit here for a while and maybe head out south to Eiríksstadir where Eirík the Red, father of Leif Eiríksson, was born. Or I could continue onward towards Borgarnes and stop whenever if I'm beat. Possible storm out there, which would throw a wrench in the works. Making Borgarnes tomorrow would be good since I could email in my unemployment information to New York.

Getaway cottages on the Latrabjerg fjord

6:07 p.m.
I feel like Bobke over the Gauz pass in a 1980's Giro d'Italia, following Andy Hampsten for the win. Fuck, I am totally screwed. Plus a fucking hearse passed me on the way. That is a bad omen. Uphill most of the day, gravel roads, mist, and tons of cold rain.

10:00 p.m.
Grafarrat
Lots and lots of rain. I stopped at Bifröst to find a room at a summer hotel, but it had switched back to being a school for the year. Bullshit. I was soaked and tired after riding forever. I went back up the hill to check on a restaurant to see if they had rooms. No. Now I was fucked. Wet and approaching hypothermia, I didn't know what to do. I almost lost it.

Man, these people are not that helpful sometimes. After eight to 10 hours on the bike, I needed to stop. So I saddled up and looked for open spots along the road. There was a nature walk which, upon investigation, had a nice place to set up camp. There are even bathroom facilities and H2O. The little things make it awesome. I stopped immediately, set up my tent, and then got out of my wet clothing. Boy, did that feel wonderful. Next, food, which I desperately needed. Soba, ramen, tea and finally chocolate. Now for another a long, dreamless sleep.

Sunday, Aug. 31
Grafarkat? - Borgarnes
Ù + / òòò++

4:21 p.m.
I'm in Borgarnes at the ESSO café and bus stop, waiting for the bus back to Reykjavík. I arrived around 1:00 pm and immediately hit the pool to wash and warm up after another very wet morning and afternoon. Having a warm public pool and hot tubs in every town is very civilized of these people.

On the other hand, everybody here chows down on fried food and coke. It's America 20 years ago. Fat is the future. And get this: today at the pool they were playing the Pixies. The goddamn Pixies. I've also heard Nick Cave, Kajagoogoo (who suck), and tons of other bizarre stuff from 1980's American radio. After a good tune, they usually kill the mood with Cher or some worthless crap like that. Abba is on a lot, which isn't all that bad, I guess. Better than Britney Spears. They're Scandinavian, after all.

While parked here on my ass I saw a bunch of other cyclists take off from the café across the street to Akranes I imagine. If my knees were up to it I might have joined them, but I'm too wasted to continue. I really do feel shamed seeing them riding though. There is a massive headwind, so they're in for a long journey.

My favorite word in Icelandic is "yes". Spelled já, but pronounced phonetically as yow as in Mao Zedong (spelling error). Awesome word. You, já, Yow.

8:13 p.m.
I am on the bus to Reykjavík from Borgarnes and the damn bus driver has been making non-stop calls on his annoyingly loud telephone. I am halfway down the large bus and I can hear each brain-penetrating tone when he presses the buttons to make a call. Hang up and fucking drive, you bastard.

Reykjavik on a typical Icelandic day

Monday, Sept. 1
Reykjavík
Ù + / òòò-

1:29 p.m.
I'm in Grái Kötturinn having my best cup of coffee to date in Iceland. Wicked good. Wicked means 'very' in Massachusetts. Plus a tuna sandwich with fresh baked bread. Nothing beats a cool coffee shop with good eats and some swell people sitting around...save for the fucking smoke. Cigarettes and cigars abound in this country. It will be their demise.

6:12 p.m.
Reykjavík
Did I mention that this is a wet country? Yes, brutally wet. My feet have been soaking wet all day. Cold wet feet suck. Man, alone I am a whiner. I am back at the campground sitting at the picnic tables. I just finished some lox, butter, and brown bread. Excellent. I need to bring some of the bread home to my Pop. I think he would love it. I need to buy some flat bröt too for home. There are good things in bread. Some Germans are at the table next to me. Annoying. Mostly it's one guy who can't finish a damn sentence without a chuckling stupidly. It's pissing me off.

Tuesday, Sept. 2
Reykjavík
Ù + /òòò+ / + Q-

Morning.
More crow to eat. That annoying German guy from Karlsrue just has an annoying laugh. That's it. Simple. It's how he chooses or unconsciously chooses to speak. Initially, I should not be so judgmental, but I am. I told myself I was going to be nicer. Is that the truth? Not sure. It is true that it is 100 times easier to simply pass a critical judgment on somebody after a fleeting interaction, without ever having actually met the person or spoken to them? Why? Because people like to be assholes. I must move beyond that one of these days. Tomorrow is too soon, however.

8:35 p.m.
I just finished a pretty descent supper. Some smoked salmon and butter on bread, tea, and pasta with a cherry tomato and olive sauce. For dessert, dark chocolate. I could live on meals like this. I do need some eggs for breakfast, though. Having quality eats outside is very important. This while my tablemates are eating nasty-looking soup and ramen. I'll eat ramen (and I did on this trip), but if I'm in the city, I'm eating well. I bought all kinds of good eats today. It was expensive as hell, but damn, food is life, right?

Wednesday, Sept. 3
Ù

1:10 p.m.
It is true that every person in this country smokes? Yes, I think so. I'm in Mokka, a swank coffee joint near the main drag and the smoke is so thick in here you could cut it. Cliché, I know, but definitely true. I initially thought the other café had more smoke in it, but, no, this place is over the top. I can barely see across the room. I wonder if there is a back room for opium? At least with the burning smell of smoke the patrons can't recognize my odor. Two weeks of unwashed clothing.

I’ve been reading Light Years by James Salter. I knew it was coming, but now that the protagonist, Viri has finally gone over the edge, it pains me. Why? This book is so casual, so punishing. Nonchalant as a hammer upside my head. I just found out the wife is up to the same. This will be heartbreaking, I am sure. This guy is without a doubt the best writer I have ever read. I hope that he has at least one more in him before he dies. He's 78 or 79, so he better be cranking something out. Not being that prolific, however, I am somewhat skeptical of my chances of reading another of his stories. One must pray that he has it in him to produce another The Hunters or Solo Faces.

Thursday, Sept. 4

5:00 p.m.
Airborne. Passing through about 5,000 feet right now. Windy as hell on takeoff but at least I’m not riding in it. I'm headed home. Home, where it will be exceedingly difficult to find enough time to ride. After all, cycling was the central reason behind this trip. Cycling and sightseeing. I wanted to ride as much as possible, but balance my time spent on the bike with a wide traveling view of the countryside. I chose the western peninsula north of Reykjavik for its relative convenience for a bike and the West Fjords for their isolation and beauty. I was not disappointed. Iceland is vast and beautiful country that needs to be seen again.


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Author C.Langlois was recently accepted to a graduate program at the Rhode Island School of Design. He is a a pilot in the Rhode Island Air National Guard and he is currently serving in Hotashellistan. When he is not working or traveling he is keeping his apartment very, very clean.