Reykjavik (2)

Friends: Reykjavik has rolling terrain like much of Iceland, though there is one sector flat enough for the domestic airport. It is about as close to the town center as Meigs Field was to Chicago's downtown. Unfortunately, there isn't a runway long enough for international flights. The international airport is 30 miles away. That will make a nice final ride through the lava fields and wind and rain.

Atop the two highest hills in Reykjavik are two of the city's most prominent features. One is a cathedral with a spire some 250 feet high. The other is a cluster of four gigantic, gleaming silver tanks, holding the city's hot water. They look like something placed by NASA to thank Iceland for letting Neil Armstrong and the Apollo astronauts use the rugged terrain of Iceland as practice for their lunar escapades. It wasn't until 1940 that the country began heating itself with the massive amount of hot water that lies beneath it, some as hot as 400 degrees Celsius. The hill where the hot water tanks reside is laced with hiking and biking paths. I saw someone out mushrooming as I bicycled up it. There is an expensive restaurant above the tanks providing the best view in town. There are also two man-made geysers on the premises, one inside the complex shooting up four floors, and one outside, spouting even higher.

The best spouting I've seen here in Reykjavik, however, came at the Volcano Show, a two-hour movie of erupting volcanoes and flowing lava shot over the past sixty years by a father-son. The son is now about sixty. When he's not off filming "another volcanic disaster," as he phrased it, and as he'd prefer to be doing, he is on hand to present his film. Lucky for me, and the country, he was in town. He warned the thirty of us on hand for his noon show that he could go on for weeks telling about his experiences. He was so enthusiastic, none of us would have left if he had.

Yesterday I had a pleasant day of just meandering about this pseudo-metropolis letting my bike take me as it whimmed. We followed a bike path along the coastline and another around the mile-long lake in the heart of the city. There were hardly any automobiles to contend with other than on the four-lane wide arteries that skirt the city. They had no shoulder. A non-messenger might have had occasional cause for alarm, but the traffic couldn't make me flinch.

The Ring Road, Route 1, turned into a four-lane divided Interstate as it neared Reykjaik, but still, there were none of those dreaded sings of a bicycle with a slash through it, just signs of a tractor with a slash through it. And there are such tractor-restricting signs on some of the four-lane arteries in the city as well, though some that just apply during the rush hours. Reykjavik may be the only national capital in the world that has the need to restrict tractor use. Another common sign with a slash through it applies to dogs. Dogs aren't welcome in the parks or even on the main shopping street or in many of the plazas.

Today I purchased a pass good for many of the city's museums and its seven geothermal pools and the zoo. It may be the best deal in all of Iceland. The card also allows use of the bus system, but I remained faithful to my bike. I visited all eight museums it entitled me to and the zoo. The pool by the campground is open until 9:30 p.m., so I'll end my day there. It also grants me entry to a soccer match in the city's stadium. I swung by the stadium as preparations were being made for the game and was joined by four boys on their BMX bikes. They were going to be selling concessions at the game. They told me, "Iceland sucks at all sports." Like nearly everyone I have met, their English was fluent and accent-free. Nowhere that I have traveled, where English isn't the main language,  has English been so universal.

None of the museums here were as fascinating as the truly remarkable Maritime and Whaling museums of Husavik, but all were worthwhile. Two of the museums were devoted to sculptors. One of the sculptors carved a gavel that was Iceland's gift to the United Nations upon its birth. That gavel met its demise when the presiding officer banged and banged it trying to still the chaos set off by Kruschev's shoe-banging fit. One of the art museums had an exhibit devoted to the rock band Bad Taste when Bjork was a member. She joined the band when she was fifteen and was an immediate sensation. She may be the most internationally known Icelander, so it was appropriate that a museum would acknowledge her. It is the same in Sweden. When I visited Stockholm two years ago, two museums had exhibits devoted to Abba, its country's best known musical act. For many around the world Bjork represents Iceland, just as for many Abba represents Sweden.

The Museum of Culture had books of the Sagas that were over 500 years old. They were illuminated by the dimmest of light, activated by motion detectors when someone came in to their room. There was a video of the return of several of these books from Denmark some time in the 1970s. It was a huge event that was declared a national holiday. The Museum of Culture made a strong case for the Vikings, who were based in Iceland, as having visited America long before Columbus. The bi-weekly English newspaper has a regular feature interviewing tourists about their impressions of Iceland. Among the questions they are asked is, "What do you think about whaling?" "Who is the premier of Iceland?," and "Should North America be returned to Iceland?"

I had to bike to the outskirts of the city to visit a vast outdoor museum with some twenty typical Icelandic houses and structures, some 200 years old. Milling around were young Icelanders dressed in the costume of the various eras, engaged in traditional activities. There were several sod houses. With no wood or stone for building they were the most common dwelling in Iceland for centuries. In 1910 they were banned from Reykjavik, when its population had grown to 12,000. A Model T automobile represented the first car to come Iceland in 1904. There were some old bikes scattered about, but history has not recorded the first to arrive.

This has been another most memorable trip in an environment of many distinctive features, natural and man-made. The Icelanders are a sturdy and proud lot. I thought they might be similar to their fellow islanders, the New Zealanders, who feel isolated and overwhelmed by Australia, and suffer an inferiority complex of a sort. There was no evidence of such a thing here. Most of the Icelanders hop over to Europe for extra schooling and travel, but the majority remain loyal to the homeland. Iceland may be a speck in the international community, but that doesn't seem to bother them, or be an overriding concern. They know they have it tough here and they are proud to have the toughness to endure it. It was a pleasure being amongst such a people.

Later, George

Reykjavik

Friends: Like the other two national parks I've visited here in Iceland, the essentials of Pingvellier could be seen in a couple of hours. If the weather had been more amenable, I would have gladly lingered, but the 40-degree temperatures with wet in the air prevail, so it was back on the bike and on to Reykjavik thirty miles away after giving a look to the park's main attractions.

I arrived at Pingvellier at 9:45 this morning after a not-so-bad 35 miles of unpaved roads on the lightly-traveled back way in to the park.  Not many others chose this entry, less than a car an hour. It made me wish I had spent more time in the interior of the country, even though this route included a twenty per cent grade on dirt, a descent this time. I would have much preferred straining to climb it, than having to descend it. Squeezing my brakes as hard as I could to keep my speed in check was more harrowing than I'd prefer. I had to stop every fifteen seconds or so to rest my wrists and rest my brake cables and to calm my heart, not from the strain, but from the danger. The last thing I wanted was for a brake cable to snap.

I camped seven miles from the park border, perhaps my last night of wild camping on this trip. As always, I gathered a stack of heavy stones to rush in to my tent if a gale suddenly blew up. And, when I departed in the morning, I left them stacked for good luck, as is the Icelandic custom, and to mark my spot.

There was a notice at the park headquarters of a free tour at ten a.m. at the church, a couple of miles away. I'd missed such tours at the other parks and, in fact, should have remembered the possibility of such a thing here and arrived a little earlier. I rode hard and found the tour shortly before it was to begin. There were only two others on the tour and it was the Swiss bicycling couple. For once we were able to greet each other with pleasure. I quickly switched out of my cycling shoes, as there was some climbing to do.

This park has great significance to the Icelanders. It is the site where for centuries Iceland's Parliament gathered every summer beginning in the year 930. For ten days they legislated and partied, trying to to sort out all the island's problems. It is the world's oldest legislative body, something the Icelanders take immense pride in. There was a council of 48 chieftains who decided all issues. Anyone could raise a suit at this time regarding any matter, large or small.

There was no town or village at this site. It was chosen for its central location and availability of water besides the island's largest lake and also for the acoustics. A cliff forms a backdrop, which is part of the great rift where the continental plates come together that are responsible for all of Iceland's earthquakes and other geological mayhem. There is only one other place on earth where such a rift is so prominent, somewhere in Africa. It is continually widening, expanding the size of Iceland millimeter by millimeter. In time, Icelanders say, their country will be bigger than North America.

The final miles of my circuit of Iceland to Reykjavik were all too typical--into a head wind with a light mist in the air. There was a picnic table at a viewpoint every ten miles or so, but they could not be enjoyed. Garbage cans have finally started turning up at these rest stops. As I near Iceland's only metropolis, stray refuse is appearing along the road. There had been virtually none for the majority of my miles, denying me my usual scavenging. My spoils have amounted to not much more than a couple of bungee cords, a water bottle, a pair of socks and a pair of soccer shorts. Rare was it to even find a scrap of cloth to clean my chain.

My first site of Reykjavik came from a hillside as I reached the coast. It didn't look overly intimidating. The city itself amounts to 120,000 inhabitants, but there are several suburbs of 20,000 or so nearby. Like every town in Iceland, Reykjavik's campground is fairly centrally located, just a mile from the city center, by the Botanical Gardens and Zoo. I'll wait until later this evening when traffic has thinned to go exploring. It will be the first time since I've arrived that I will ride my bike without panniers.

I could celebrate my arrival here and the completion of this trip with a feast of whale steak for $35 at the lone restaurant in town that still has some in reserve. Or I could celebrate with some other delicacy such as roast puffin or ram's testicles or the dreaded putrefied shark, but I'll celebrate by doing what brings me the greatest satisfaction--I'll go a-wandering on my bike, feasting on my new surroundings. I'll instantly immerse myself in the city and become a part of it. I'll be just another Reykjavikian, and when someone hails me to ask directions I will not be surprised. I will be at one with the joggers, the strollers, the commuters, the laborers, the bench-sitters, the hand-holders, the skateboarders, the drunks and the occasional bicyclist. I'll feel at home, but every site will be fresh and exciting and new. And I can glow with a sense of triumph and accomplishment having completed my circuit of this country.

From the "World as a Village" Department: There were copies of Hillary Clinton's recently published biography at the checkout counter of the local supermarket back in Borgarnes, a town of 1,800.

Later, George

Borgarnes (continued)

Friends: As I was on my way to the Internet for Lance's time trial, I suffered my first mechanical of this trip, a snapped rear derailleur cable. All the rain and salty mist blown in off the ocean had stiffened my handlebar end-shifter. The stress finally broke the cable. If I'd been Lance, I would have had a new bike in an instant, either from a teammate or the team car. Replacing the cable was a minor operation, not much more complicated or time-consuming than a flat tire. Fortunately, I had cable cutters with me this time, unlike in Scandinavia when I had to go in search of someone with a cutter after failing to cut it with my knife.

The cable broke just as I was starting a lengthy climb. I didn't know how long, as I was swallowed up by clouds reducing visibility to less than two of the yellow snow stakes that line both sides of the highway about every fifty feet on just about all the roads here. In most places they are about three feet high, though they can extend to as high as six feet. Just as my altimeter recorded an elevation 1,500 feet, I came upon a cyclist stopped alongside the road at a slight clearing--the summit I hoped. The cyclist couldn't tell me as he was headed the same direction I was.

He was a smiley 25-year old Japanese, the youngest cyclist I had encountered and the first from Japan. He had a half-empty, two-liter bottle of Coke strapped to the back of his bike and a pint-sized bottle of Coke in the lone water bottle cage on his bike. "You must really like Coke," I said.

"Yes, it gives me lots of energy."

"Do you drink coffee too?"

"No, just tea."

"And what do you eat?"

"I'm Japanese, I eat rice every day and sometimes soup, but I'm always hungry."

"Are you eating any hamburgers?"

"No, too expensive."

"How about Icelandic sushi, rotten shark?"

He'd never heard of it, and wished he hadn't.  I asked what other touring he had done.

"New Zealand and Canada. I like very much."

"What do you think of Iceland?"

"It's a very beautiful country, but next time I'd like to do it by car."

"Have you used the buses?"

"No, too expensive."

Not that he was complaining, just stating the way it was. He was clearly quite pleased and content to be doing something he truly wanted to do, something that was in his bones to do, that he was meant to do and needed to do and brought him great satisfaction. It was harder than he anticipated and not all that much fun, but he didn't mind. He radiated an aura of quiet self-contentment. He was the first cyclist I had met here with such an elevated disposition. He is a master in the making. He wasn't doing this because he thought it would be a cool thing to do, or to distinguish himself from the masses, or because he wished to emulate a friend. He knew himself and was being true to himself. He so much wanted to bike Iceland that he had quit his factory job to do it. Such were his priorities. If Lance somehow faltered in today's time trial, it still would have been a good day having met this genuine touring enthusiast.

He complimented me on my Ortlieb panniers and handlebar bag, just about standard gear among the touring cyclists here, as they are the ultimate in keeping the rain out. But this young man was one of the few without such quality gear. "Too expensive." They'd always been too expensive for me too, but thanks to wonderful Debbie, who grows more wonderful with every rain shower, which means here in rainy Iceland she has surpassed sainthood, I am fully Ortliebed. If I'd known what a monumental difference they make, I would have made the splurge for them long ago.

I told my new friend that I couldn't dally, as I had a date with a computer down the road. He wasn't following Lance and The Tour, but hoped to catch up to me. We took some photos including one of us together. It was easy to set up as he had brought a tripod. I quickly descended into a valley.   Out of the clouds I could see actual patches of blue sky, the first I had seen in days. I at last had a chance to dry the clothes I had washed three days ago.

While I was eating on the porch of the Blonduos Tourist Office waiting for three o'clock to come around when I could have a glimpse at the Internet, the woman in charge came out for a smoke. When she saw I was eating a half-liter container of skyr, that unique Icelandic yogurt-type concoction of pasteurized skim milk and a bacteria culture similar to that used to make sourdough, she said, "Ah, I see you like our skyr."

That gave me the opportunity to ask her about that other unique Icelandic food, which I have learned to call "aged," rather than "putrefied," shark. She brightened even more, but acknowledged that, unlike skyr, not everyone likes the aged shark. I asked, "Is it true it has a distinct odor?," again putting it politely.

"Yes, it smells so bad, it isn't put out at parties, as it would stink up the whole house." She had no idea how the tradition started, but said there is a holiday in February to mark the end of winter when Icelanders go on a putrifed shark binge. She said she didn't particularly care for the holiday as "It can be disgusting with everyone going crazy."

Then she said, "Since we're not so busy, if you'd like to use the computer now, you may. You'll just have to pay 100 kroners for the connection." I would have gladly paid a lot more than that. When I connected to the "VeloNews" web site, Lance was ten minutes into his run and was neck-and-neck with Ullrich, who had started three minutes ahead of him. For the next forty minutes I was receiving minute-by-minute updates of their efforts. After half an hour, when up came the report, "Ullrich crashes," I could hear expletives all over the world. I could rest easy with Lance holding his own. It was an exciting forty minutes at the computer. David Millar won the time trial, but Lance retained the yellow jersey and was assured of winning The Race for a fifth time.

When I resumed my riding a bit after three, I set my self the goal of a century for the day to honor Lance's imminent victory in this 100th Anniversary Tour. I had 57 miles to go. There was little wind and it was not adverse, so unless the pavement turned to dirt or subjected me to much climbing, it was very doable. The next town of significance was over 100 miles away. I was told there were at least a couple of Esso stations, generally accompanied by a cafeteria of some sort, along the way. I passed up the first one after 80 miles but at 96 miles at eight p.m., I was hungry for something more than what I had in my panniers. The one bargain at these places is a $2.25 hot dog, less than a third the cost of a hamburger. They are extra-long and are doused with onions and various sauces, adding plenty of supplementary calories. One dog and I was refueled for those final four miles.

When I hit the century mark, I was in the middle of another long climb and was in the clouds once again. I was feeling good and didn't want to stop, but when I shortly came upon a rare clearing just off the road, I reluctantly stopped. My happy totals for the day were 100 miles at an average speed of 12.7 miles per hour, maximum speed of 37.5 and total climbing feet 3,770. Each were my second best efforts for the trip. I could dedicate them each to Ullrich, Mr. Second Place, who for the fifth time in his career was second best at The Tour.

I am now fifty miles from Reykjavik. I will go inland to another national park for a couple of days and put off my arrival at the big city until Wednesday. Its been a good trip and greatly brightened by the exploits of Sir Lance.

Later, George

Borgarnes

Friends: I arrived at the Blonduos Tourist Office at 1:42, twenty minutes before Lance was due in the starting gate for his thirty-mile time trial. This was the moment I, and the bicycle-racing world, had been looking forward to for days. This was the stage that would decide if Lance would join the elite ranks of those who had won The Tour five times. I felt triumphant to have timed it so well to have reached an outpost in this sparsely settled land that promised the Internet, enabling me to follow all the action.

As I rushed into this small town's Tourist Office, I was relieved to see no one was there but the woman in charge. When I didn't immediately spot a computer, I asked where it might be. She delivered the sorry news that this was a rare Tourist Office that did not have a computer for tourists, just staff. Another such Tourist Office had a similar arrangement, but let me check in on The Race, so I wasn't quite ready to slit my wrists. I told the woman with desperate, genuine passion how eager I was to learn the outcome of The Tour de France. I told her it should be decided around three, and asked if I might have a minute at the computer then. She said that would be OK. That was just barely OK with me, but I was happy to at least have that.

I had been in high anticipation all day awaiting the moment of getting on the computer at the same time that Lance was getting on his bike. It would be an hour of high drama awaiting the time checks to compare how he was faring against Ullrich, who would start three minutes before he did. It was a major letdown to miss out on that, forced to remain in suspense for eighty minutes before being able to connect with the proceedings and to learn their outcome. At least it would give me time to eat, to really load up so I could ride another fifty miles or so after The Race. I'd already come forty-three miles, which included a six-mile climb up to 1,500 feet, one of the longer climbs of the trip. I'd had an even higher climb yesterday, just the second of the trip that posted the height of the summit at the start of the climb. It was 540 meters, an ant hill compared to those 5,000 meter climbs in Bolivia, but still an hour of sustained effort in my lowest gear.

Just over the summit was another of those bright orange emergency huts. It was easily seen, but there was a sign right along the road with an arrow pointing towards it announcing a distance of forty-five meters. Such is the peril of white-out conditions, something that can engulf the countryside at any time. Fog and low-lying clouds have reduced my world several times to little more than being stuck inside a ping pong ball. In the snow months, nine or ten months of the year, and in the winter when dark is the norm, it doesn't take much to reduce visibility to cotton balls pressed against the eyeballs.

It was 7:15 p.m when I came upon the emergency hut. I was slightly tempted to take advantage of it as I had several days before, but I preferred to push on. I had a six-mile descent into a vast river valley. I considered continuing on for fifteen miles more to within thirty miles of Blonduous and the Internet, leaving me the same distance Lance would be riding in the day's time trial. It would be interesting to compare times. The challenge for me would be to do it in less than twice the time it would take Lance. What a joke a split screen of our two styles would be--he with his aerodynamic helmet and skinsuit, and me with my baggy clothes and fenders catching the wind, not to mention my sixty pounds of gear, and he on a fifteen-pound bike and me on one closer to thirty pounds including a kryptonite lock and three water bottles.

I chose though not to make a race of it and began looking for a place to camp well before the thirty-mile mark. I could still time myself for the first thirty miles of the day if I felt like it. Before long I came upon a solid-walled corral for horses just a little ways off the road. Its walls were about the height of my tent, not that I needed to be hidden. My one concern was that it might be pocked with piles of dung. I was happy to discover it was overgrown with weeds and had no indication of being used in months. I could nuzzle up to a wall and be protected from the wind as well as the eyes of passing motorists, not that I felt any concern of being seen. I have on occasion seen tents pitched in plain view with no pretense of trying to be discreet. Camping anywhere is accepted practice. Oddly enough, this was the first night that someone did come upon me as I slept. About two in the morning I heard the clomp of a herd of horses and the chatter of several cowboys. Could they possibly be rustlers out at this hour or just some pokes working late? I didn't feel any alarm, just charm at this moment. They doubtlessly noticed me, but just continued on their way.

Later, George

Borgarnes

Friends: I arrived yesterday afternoon at the Blonduos Tourist Office by the town campground at 1:42, twenty minutes before Lance was due in the starting gate for his thirty-mile time trial which would determine the outcome of the Centenary Tour de France.  (Its not the 100th, as there were ten years during the two World Wars when it was not contested.)

But this Tourist Office was one of the few that did not have a computer for tourists, just staff.  Another such Tourist Office had a similar arrangement, but let me check in on The Race, so I wasn't quite ready to slit my wrists.  I told the woman on duty how eager I was to learn the outcome of The Race, which should be decided around three, and could I just have a minute at the computer then.  She said that would be okay.

That was just barely okay with me, but I was happy to settle for that.  I had been in high anticipation all day awaiting this moment and now I had to wait another eighty minutes.  At least it would give me time to eat, to really load up, so I could be well fueled to ride another fifty miles or so after the race. I'd already come 43 miles, which included a six-mile climb up to 1,500 feet, one of the longer climbs of these travels.

I'd had an even higher one yesterday, just the second I've come across here that posted the height of the summit at the start of the climb.  It was 540 meters, an ant hill compared to those 5,000 meter climbs in Bolivia, but still an hour of sustained effort in my lowest gear.  Just over the summit was another of those bright orange emergency huts. It was easily seen,  but there was a sign right along the road with an arrow pointing towards it.  It also gave a distance of 45 meters, as in white-out conditions it couldn't be seen.  I've been in near white-outs here thanks to fog and low-lying clouds, but no true white-out. In the winter with driving snow-storms and the dark, true white-out conditions can occur any time.

It was 7:15, near quitting time. I was tempted to take advantage of it, but preferred to push on.  From the summit I had a nice six-mile descent into a vast river valley. The pedaling was so pleasant I contemplated continuing on to within thirty miles of Blonduos and the Internet, the same distance Lance would be riding in  the day's time trial, so we could compare times, but the unexpected climb had depleted me.  It wouldn't be a fair comparison, he with his aerodynamic helmet and skin suit and super-light bike, and me with my baggy clothes and fenders catching the wind, not to mention my sixty pounds of gear.  He'd manage those thirty miles in less than an hour.  I'd be lucky to do it in less than twice his time.

When I decided to call off the race fifteen miles before that thirty mile mark, I began looking for a place to camp after the terrain flattened out.  Before long I saw a solid-walled corral for horses that was about as high as my tent a couple of hundred yards off the road.  I gave it a look and discovered it was overgrown with weeds and was dung-free, perfectly suitable.  It was wind-protected as well as sheltered from the road, not that it mattered.  I have on occasion seen tents pitched a little ways off the road with no pretense of trying to be discreet.  Camping just anywhere is accepted practice here.  But this was the first night that someone did come upon me as I camped wild.  About two in the morning I heard the clomping of a bunch of horses and the chatter of several Icelandic cowboys.  Could they possibly be rustlers out at this hour or just some pokes working late?  I didn't feel any alarm, just charm at this moment.  They doubtlessly noticed me, but just moved on.

Later, George

Akureyri (2)

Friends: Another cold, wet, low-ceilinged, miserable day in Iceland, too inhospitable to linger at the fantastic Botanical Gardens and read Boswell's "Life of Johnson" as I had hoped. Instead, I'm back at the library for a spell before heading down the road. As required at many of the Internet outlets in Southeast Asia, I had to remove my shoes before entering the library, a first here in Iceland. I could easily spend all day at the library catching up on current events with the latest issues of "Time" and "Newsweek" and "Rolling Stone." This is the first library I've come across with such a selection. But I only have time to give them a glance as it is ninety miles to the next Internet, where I need to be by early afternoon tomorrow to make sure Lance wraps up The Tour in the climactic time trial.

After I left the library last night at seven p.m., I gave the local campground a look. It was in a residential district just above the downtown of this city, which rises up from the harbor on a hill. I cringed at the prospect of back-to-back nights in a tent city. I went to the grocery store for some herring and rye crisp and skyr (Iceland's version of yogurt) to supplement my dinner supplies, then meandered over to the Botanical Gardens just a couple of blocks away. I had hopes that it might be wild and overgrown enough that I might find a place to camp, as I once did in Melbourne's Botanical Gardens. Unfortunately, this one was much too orderly for that.

If I'd had the cover of darkness to aid me, perhaps I could have found a spot. Instead, I had a snack on one of its many benches and then took a secondary road out of town in search of a place to disappear for the night. I didn't even have to go two miles before I found a dirt road that climbed a ridge to what passes for a forest here and found a nice clearing for my tent. Among other things, it was a relief to be able to answer nature's call nearby rather than having to stumble through an obstacle course of tents to a porcelain bowl. It was nice, too, to be able to brush my teeth gazing out over the inlet rather than in some cell of a rest room. I could also sleep late in my private, secluded campground and stock up on sleep, just what I needed so I could ride as late as I cared to the next night. I stayed in my tent until ten waiting for the night-long drizzle to abate. When it had faded to a mist I broke camp and headed straight to the Botanical Gardens, the northern-most in the world.

I strolled about its labyrinth of paths with Laura of Brooklyn in mind, faithful correspondent and horticulturist extraordinaire. I kept imagining her glee at seeing this and that. There were over 4,000 specimens for her to be excited about. I imagined Laura exuberantly extolling the virtues of this plant and that. I imagined her excitement upon discovering something she had never seen and wanted to grow herself. What great fun we had. There was a profusion of colorful flowers amongst the many plants. Many were indigenous to other parts of the world--Patagonia, Alaska, Africa. There was bench after bench I wish I could have sat upon, but the sultry weather forced me to keep moving to stay warm. There weren't even ten others on the grounds along with a couple of dozen young gardeners.

Among them were a pair of cyclists I've seen at least five other times. They appeared to be seasoned cyclists, but they refused to exchange anything more than a nod or a muttered, almost obligatory, greeting before turning away. At last, here, on foot, without bikes to intervene, we finally had more than a cursory exchange of words. I thought they were French. I was partially right. They were French-speaking Swiss, and fluent in English. They were well-traveled, having cycled New Zealand, Cuba and Canada. We didn't have time for a wide-ranging conversation, but we at least established that we have grounds for friendship and have respectable touring credentials. We have much to share.

When we meet up again down the road, as we surely will, we can greet each other with some warmth. We are long overdue for one of those animated, non-stop, free-wheeling, free-association conversations I have had many a time in my travels in places where touring cyclists are much less common than here, and are thrilled to meet a kindred spirit. The only disappointment of this trip has been the reserve of the touring cyclists I have encountered. Ordinarily, meeting up with a fellow touring cyclist is one of the highlights of a trip. More often than not, we are instant best friends, similar berries off a very, very rare tree. In most places, when touring cyclists pass on the road, they stop and exchange information, and email addresses. We are common enough here we barely acknowledge one another. Only in New Zealand have I encountered a similar phenomenon.

I'll shortly be back on the Ring Road, another of the world's great Highway Ones. Whenever I spot a highway 1 sign here I hearken back to that Highway 1 I was bicycling last November from Hanoi to Saigon. The two roads couldn't offer a more dramatic contrast--steamy heat versus arctic cold, tons of people and traffic versus nearly none, ridiculously cheap prices versus outrageously expensive, virtually impossible to camp versus camping at will, exuberant, outgoing people versus very reserved, hardly any touring cyclists versus touring cyclists aplenty, swampy, cultivated terrain versus rocky, uncultivated terrain, an 1,100-mile point-to-point road compared to an 850-mile circuit.

Vietnam was a frolic by comparison, but that does not mean I'd rather be there than here. I am in my preferred element here--great wide open spaces and striking rugged natural beauty little marred by man. Iceland is most demanding. The forces of nature are quite harsh and unrelenting. There have been spells of idyllic cycling, but it is difficult to fully enjoy them, knowing how transitory they can be. Still, it is a great joy to be on the bike experiencing the elements. A month is not enough time to come close to exploring all that Iceland has to offer. I would gladly return for more, but since I am all too aware how short life is, and that this planet has way too much to offer, I probably won't. But for now, I am happy to be here in Iceland.

Later, George

Akureyri

Friends: Last night I camped alongside Lake Myvatn with about 150 others, seventeen of whom were cyclists. The cyclists were scattered among everyone else, mostly in pairs. Like all these Icelandic campgrounds there were no specific sites, just one big meadow. Sometimes the meadow is separated into smaller sections by a hedge or two, which also serve as a windbreak.

The campground looked as if it was near capacity, but another 50 tents could have been crammed in rain fly to rain fly if need be. The cyclists were French, Dutch, German, one Czech pair and me, the lone American. I've heard of only one other American cyclist, some chap from Michigan. Most of these European cyclists fly in to Eglisstadir, about 100 miles away, a cheaper entry point than Reykjavik on the other side of the island. It is a two-and-a-half hour flight from Germany. Most of them had no plans of going all the way to Reykjavik, content with seeing just the eastern half of the island.

There was a nearby thermal power plant, so we had hot water aplenty and no extra charge for showers. We could take as long as we cared, or at least until someone started to impatiently pound on the shower stall. There was just one communal bathroom with three toilets, three sinks and two showers. There was quite a line for the showers, so I waited until nine p.m. when the line had diminished. It had been four days since my last shower, so a few extra hours meant little. The ratio of showers to campers has been about the same at all the campgrounds.

This campground also had two Internet terminals. I feared a long wait for them too, but they weren't in high demand. Only once in my two weeks here have I had to wait to use a computer. In Scandinavia I was lucky to get twenty minutes on a computer in a library before having to give it up. Here, libraries are little used in the summer months. Everyone wants to be outdoors taking advantage of summer, such as it is, when the temperatures are relatively mild and there is daylight, even if the sun may not be shining. They'll have all winter to sit indoors and read. It could be, too, that the computers are rarely free in the libraries here, in contrast to Scandinavia. I've spent more money on the Internet than I have camping or eating in restaurants, but it is money I don't much mind spending.

I arrived at the campgrounds at one after a short day on the bike, climbing back up to the Highlands from Husavik on the coast. Lake Myvatn is a central traveler's gathering place with much hiking in the area. The lake has a circumference of 28 miles and is dotted with small islands, many of them mini-volcanoes, long extinct and grass-covered. Off in the distance, there are just as many full-sized volcanoes jutting up from the Highlands. It is a most other-worldly setting. After pitching my tent, doing some wash and checking in on the Tour de France, I set off on a five-hour hike to the rim of one of the nearby volcanoes. I pranced along in delight at Tyler Hamilton's dramatic stage win. One thing I didn't have to worry about was being caught by dark since there is none for another month or so.

The hike passed through a lava flow from the late 1700's that pretty much wiped out this town, all except its church. "A miracle," some say. The trail took me past a row of caverns containing steaming 50-degree Celsius water. There were warnings of excessively hot water and not to slip in. At one time they were a favorite spot to take a soaking. The rim of the volcano gave a spectacular view of the lake and dozens of smaller volcanoes all the way to the horizon. A thousand feet below, the crater of the volcano was filled with graffiti, mostly people's names, etched in the sand or marked with rocks. The crater is protected from the wind, so they are fairly enduring. It is now prohibited to go down into the crater, though no one knew whether the markings were made before or after the ban, or why those there hadn't been raked away. The lip of the crater's rim was lined for half a mile with scattered hikers. It looked like the photos of climbers plodding to the summit of Everest. The wind was most brisk, threatening to blow off my hat. Like most of the hikes I've undertaken here, this was an out-and-back, rather than a circuit.

I biked 65 miles today to Akureyki, a veritable city of 14,00 back on the coast. I didn't set out until nearly noon after taking another hike. My intention was to put off my arrival here until tomorrow, but the winds were so favorable, I arrived at 5:30, an hour-and-a-half before the library closed. If I want to wild camp tonight, I'll have to head on out of town after I'm done here at the library. If it weren't so chilly, I would have paused on my ride in this afternoon along the road to read to delay my arrival. I stopped only once at the lone service station between here and Myvatn, where I could sit against a wall, out of the wind, and not freeze, and eat my lunch of baked beans thickened with some sort of pizza loaf luncheon meat.

I bicycled for about an hour with three French guys. They envied the drop handlebars on my bike, allowing me to be a bit aerodynamic to better cope with the winds. They wished they'd brought along their road bikes rather than mountain bikes. They're not the first to tell me that. I am the only one I, or any one, has seen not riding a cross or mountain bike. Everyone was intimidated by the reputation of Iceland's roads. They can be rough, but I'm managing just fine on my semi-skinny, 27" x 1 1/4", tires and have no regrets about my choice of equipment.
 

I'll spend tomorrow here seeing the sites. I'm most looking forward to its botanical garden, the largest in Iceland, containing every species of Icelandic plant life as well as plants from around the world that can brave these latitudes. If it's a sunny day, I could devote a full day there to R & R (rest and reading). But if it is the usual dank, cold, overcast with a chilly wind, I'll have to keep moving. My top priority now is to be in a town with a computer for Saturday's time trial. With just a minute separating Lance and Jan, it will determine the outcome of The Tour. I had hoped I could do that here, but I arrived sooner than anticipated.

Later, George