Bikepacking in Iceland: The Gift

Our 12-day bikepacking journey through Iceland’s Westfjords wasn’t just an Arctic adventure; it was a crucible for life-changing learning and transformative meditation.

We did it all for an Icelandic hamburger and a chocolate milkshake at Tommi’s Burger Joint in Hafnarfjörður. 

It was the final day of our 12-day Icelandic bikepacking odyssey, and we wanted to end with a proud display of fortitude and gratitude for this place that we knew had changed us. 

We were intent on doing something big, arguably ill-advised, and worthy of a grand finale.

The day began with clouds hung low over the barren black hillocks, whose swooping slopes were painted with various shades of low-lying, squishy lichen—Cetraria islandica. We were on the edges of the Highlands, Iceland’s vast volcanic interior.

We trundled over the gnarled detritus that comprised this doubletrack, knowing our gravel bikes were not ideal for this terrain, while simultaneously dismissive of that fact. We couldn’t care less about tire width and weighty packs dangling from our 50-pound bikes. We were going somewhere; or rather, we were being pulled.

Each pedal stroke took us farther away from where we needed to get to on the outskirts of Reykjavik. So, we thought. Right now we were right here. And now was all that mattered. 

Settling mists wet our faces as we climbed higher toward the belly of the clouds. The stillness and the quiet became glaringly apparent, even over the grind of rubber on rock. Incongruous, ghoulish folds of lava surrounded us on all sides. We were tiny and alone, right where we wanted to be.

After five hours and two frigid river crossings, we headed toward the exit of the wilds, reluctantly capitulating to our predetermined plan to leave the country tomorrow. As we did we flashed past the gnarled fissure of Almannagjá, a geological wonder that showcases the visible gap between the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates. 

Next came an undulating traverse along the edge of Þingvallavatn, over hills and humps, all vibrant green and looking like Hawaii, made soggy by sinister sideways rain. 

And, finally, after another five hours of effort, we came to the hard part: the savage climb of Nesjavallavegur. This rude ramp features sustained pitches of 20% next to a steaming geothermal plant and pipelines that bring boiling water to the city of Reykjavik. 

The wind and rain persisted, of course. I say that not because that’s all that is found in Iceland—over 12 days we experienced as much sun as rain—but simply because this was the climax. And the most fitting way to cap off an arduously incredible journey is to get smacked in the face with everything this country’s got. 

And it has plenty. 

In total, over some 850 miles and 63,000 feet of climbing, we cruised in and out of countless fjords—mighty headwind, ripping tailwind… headwind, tailwind… again and again. We scaled ancient volcanic slopes doused in mist; gawked at glaciers dripping from mountain slopes; showered in the sprays of a hundred nameless waterfalls. 

Each day was both a novel and a blur, moments of revelatory clarity intermittently plucked from the trance of repetitive motion. We labored far more than is normal, and so we were changed by the effort and experience beyond the rudimentary. 

While our finale was punctuated with a simple, tangible reward of calories, once we thawed, and regained semi-consciousness from improved blood-sugar levels, we realized what else we had gained: By repeatedly venturing into our unknown, the intangible rewards—physical and psychological—were vast. 

Our very character was altered.

Icelandification

On this journey, I was guiding two friends—Jeff and Chris—on their first official, full-size bikepacking journey. One had a day job where he crunched numbers all day. One had been an orthodontist until cancer entered his life (and never left). They were middle-aged novices from America, seeking challenge and a recharge. 

So I intended to give each of them much more.

“I've been given a gift; with this diagnosis, I've been tapped on the shoulder and told, ‘Hey, life is short. You better make the most of it,’” Jeff said. “One day I was driving early in the morning watching the sunrise, and I said, ‘I need to start being intentional with how I'm spending my time because I've already been given notice.’”

Chris’s level of inexperience and fitness made him apprehensive, maybe even reluctant. But he trained hard, heeded my packing advice, and tried to absorb why all my talk of scarcity and challenge was going to be a good thing. He prepared as best he knew how.

But nothing can truly prepare someone for it. Iceland. The raw landscape. The incredibly fickle weather—wind, rain, windy rain, sun (glorious sun!), wind-chill factors near freezing in the heart of summer. Sapping road surfaces and arduous terrain; Arctic terns attacking your head. But also incomparable landscapes and vast vistas, luminous nights, contrasts of light and dark, bleak and lush. The scenery. The waterfalls. The wilds.

This place isn’t for everyone, and spits out those who aren’t prepared.

Our plan was simple: build bikes near the airport in Keflavik, ride through the Highlands to the Westfjords in the remote northwest of the country, then around the Westfjords Way bikepacking route created by Chris Burkard, a professional photographer (and bikepacker). And then make our way back down to Keflavik, once again through the Highlands. 

Circumnavigating loops, whether perfect circles or wildly twisting, fjord-hugging routes, are intrinsically more rewarding to complete than out-and-backs. After all, no matter how convoluted, hoops represent wholeness by virtue of their infinite arc.

We had 12 days and all the physical gear we needed. My task was to arm my novice guests with a few psychological tools to cope with the challenge ahead—pedaling forward no matter the weather or level of fatigue. 

That’s when I introduced the concept of chunking—breaking a massive, intimidating objective into digestible bite-sized portions. 

When you’re out there in the raw wilds of Iceland—or anywhere really—there will inevitably be times when you are tempted to ruminate on that overwhelming number: the hundreds of onerous miles you have left. Chunking helps you cope with the magnitude. 

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I told them not to forget that they would probably be in a sleep-deprived, malnourished state. Be kind to yourself, I said: break things into 30- or 60-minute blocks. Practice staying present. Focus solely on yourself and your surroundings. Think deeply about your skin, your muscles, your lungs. And simultaneously let go and follow the chirps of the whimbrels, Arctic terns, and other seabirds who join you for a brief moment on your journey. 

Resist the temptation to think too far ahead. Compartmentalize by leaving the ghosts of miles ridden in the past. Remain present and the lonely, challenging moments seem far more finite. For they always end.

Stay chunky, I repeatedly told my new friends. Good students, they quickly adopted this new methodology.

“The athletic aspect of this trip was at the bottom of my list while I was riding,” Jeff said. “I wasn’t thinking about physiology or athletics. I just kept nibbling away on snacks and kept going—soaking it all in. The moving meditation that I got everyday was a function of the magnitude of all that we did and saw.”

Moving meditation. Mobile contemplation. If you had to capture the essence and impact of this journey in two words, either phrase is relatively effective. In any case, out there on the lonely roads your mind is opened—not by force, but through task-oriented relaxation—to the all-encompassing. The closet of mental clutter vanishes, replaced by a canvas of fresh white. 

“Pedaling like that really does allow you to quiet the mind, and lets it freely roam, to focus solely on the surroundings and to let everything else melt away,” Jeff said. “You do that day after day, hour after hour after hour, and it transforms your mind.”

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We rattled off aphorisms in an attempt to capture the essence of our endeavor:  You can never know the highs unless you live the lows. Peaks only exist because of the valleys around them. 

Right here, right now.

We completed our 12-day mission knowing that we were insignificant, that we were mortal, and yet that we were existent. Depleted; soaked to the bone; and quietly joyous to have lived this day, and these past days together, to their absolute fullest. When else would we have this chance? Never. Not like this.  

“I was experiencing a lot of gratitude,” Jeff said. “Constantly, huge waves of it where I would almost start crying because it was so beautiful and because I was so thankful that I was able to do that—that I had my health, and I had the time, and I had the means.”

Beyond the ordinary

A mantra is a powerful tool used to focus your mind on a particular goal and create calm during challenging situations. 

My mantra? It scares some people: “Transformation begins when ordinary ends.” (I will admit that sometimes, when I’m feeling extra stoic, I prefer, “transformation begins when comfort ends.”) 

It isn’t meant to be intimidating. On the contrary, it should be seen as thrilling. For many people, everyday life is filled with convenience, monotony, and a lack of nature. I like to facilitate the opposite: challenging, invigorating, life-altering experiences in wild, fragile, gorgeous places. 

When I guide people into their unknown, my intention is not just to keep them from getting lost, but to make them more resilient, more thoughtful, and more joyous humans. Lofty goals, absolutely. But I don’t want to pamper anyone; there are plenty of other ways (and companies) to do that. 

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Whether we realize it or not, there are substantial psychological benefits to getting mentally and physically uncomfortable. Bikepacking through a place like Iceland affords the opportunity to do that in a big way, if you have the time and commitment. Thankfully, after all that hard work, you’ll never be the same again.

Motivation, self-awareness, and confidence can be improved and sharpened through the use of discomfort. It’s a tool. Scientific research backs these claims.

And then there’s resilience, which gets refined when we overcome obstacles and return to where we were—or better yet, return even stronger. 

So, challenging and, yes, uncomfortable situations can serve as a vehicle for self-improvement, and for creating more (or honing) resilience. And Iceland is the perfect venue for creating formidable and inspiring excursions with the potential for a tad bit of discomfort. 

The progress of process

If a big bike ride can help shape us into more resilient, more confident, more motivated human beings, I’d say that’s worth the price of disrupting your routine. 

As the mileage ticked up, and we ventured into the remote regions of the Westfjords where creature comforts became few and far between, we learned to lean into the adversity. We became comfortable being uncomfortable.

We reframed; took the opportunity to let discomfort lead to self-discovery, knowing that it would create small but meaningful alterations. 

Bikepacking in Iceland encourages you to ask consequential questions: What are the true necessities for living an inspired life? How can I live with this much purpose and presence every day? And why is this bird trying to eat my head right now? 

When a bike ride (or rides on consecutive days) prompts you to question your lifestyle, that’s the very definition of transformative. Reaching places of discomfort, with the goal of pushing through those emotions, yields self-understanding, which creates opportunities to recalibrate our capabilities. 

By pushing our “boundaries,” we soon realize they’re not actually walls—we’ve been constrained by arbitrary bookends. Which begs the question of each of us: Is this just the beginning of what we can do? 

That’s when we end up riding with everything we need to survive in Iceland tucked into a few small bags dangling from our bikes.

“Iceland challenged my perception of my boundaries,” Chris said. “I quickly realized I relished the opportunity to really be in a moment, to free my mind to singularly focus on just the task at hand. I will be savoring the memories for some time.”

We subjected ourselves to this effort, to this lack of comfort and convenience—an intentional, drastic departure from our typical routine—to learn what it means to feel really alive, maybe even a little feral. We came here, to this particular place at this particular time, to hone our capacity to know only the present. We didn’t travel thousands of miles to fail, or flail. We didn’t fly across an ocean to just pedal around an island. We came here to profit from effort. 

Our humble group of three started as strangers. We got tired together. We relaxed in geothermal hot springs together. We slept on the ground near each other. The next thing we knew, through the act of chunking and the power of self-actualization, we built momentum, and with it, confidence. We problem-solved. We turned fear into energy. We turned anxiety into anticipation. And we overcame obstacles.

We went beyond the ordinary. We became extraordinary in Iceland. That is the gift.