The Jewel of the North

I am in awe of the determined cycling souls I have met so far, a Belgian who has been on the road for 3 years now, a 67 year old German who does a 3000 km tour each year - all have tremendous stories of their travels and listening and learning from them is true highlight of this trip. I get the feeling I'm not going to meet too many locals here in Iceland (there are not many of them around!) so I am trying to get the most from the other travellers I meet.

I am starting to look a bit gaunt and ragged now, I have slept in a tent now for 6 days and haven't shaved for nearly a month and I only have one set of clothes that I use for best occasions, and they are starting to look somewhat ragged, I have a tear in my best trousers that is patched with Gaffa tape on the inside, when I was in Aberdeen the beggars on the street and the Big Issue man never asked me for a penny!

After a another long day in the saddle (I am managing 100kms now without too much problem, a consequence of increased fitness and finding a new slower pace) I arrive in Akureryi, Icelands 2nd largest city and home to about 15,000 people (yes that is only fifteen thousand!). Only this weekend, Iceland's equivalent to a May Bank Holiday all of Icelands Boy Racers seem to be in town and have been told there are over 30,000 just here for the festivities. The last 3 kms into town I am passed by every modified Camaro, BMW and Dodge you could imagine. Sporting a variety of over the top modifications, all have the trade mark drain pipe exhausts and blaring bass retarded sound systems - just like the Kings Road on a Saturday evening. Once of the main roads is sectioned off for an organised drag race where male (and female) testosterone compete to see who can make the loudest noise and reach the end of the kilometer track and brake before shooting off the end of the pier into the Arctic Ocean.

Not wanting to do anyone an injustice and certainly not wanting to compare the UK to Iceland but as in the Faroes, Iceland seems to have a bit of a problem with alcohol. Lots of teenagers strolling the streets with bottles of spirits, beer and alco-pops. Everyone at the tables around me in the local alfresco cafe have a large glass of beer and a few shot glasses filled with the local Brenevin. This is Icelandic schnapps, and in my opinion tastes fermented seals blood over here they call it the Black Death. It might have just been this holiday weekend, but the whole atmosphere was like the pub district in central Liverpool on a Saturday night, but the Icelandic girls wore more clothes.

I was sat having a quiet but very expensive beer (over £5 a pint), watching all the boy racers cruise up and down the strip, when suddenly from the passenger window in a pimped up Mercedes, a bottle of orange Fanta flew through the air, hit me on the side of the head and then knocked over my beer. I was up out of my seat in a flash, and ran towards the car and without really stopping to think, I shoved the bottle up the exhaust pipe, it was the diameter of the channel tunnel so slid up easily. I got a cheer from the other drinkers at the bar, then the driver revved his engine and the car stalled - another cheer from the crowd. I thought this would be a good time to make myself scarce and so disappeared into the crowd.