I
took off my helmet, the cold
rain dripping down my face.
I could barely feel my fingers
even though I’d ridden for the
past 4 hours with my winter
gloves and heated grips. I al-
ready had thermals, base layer, leath-
ers, and an all-in-one over suit on but I
unclipped my top box lock and pulled
out another layer of clothes to add.
I stepped inside an ultra-modern
looking café with towering glass win-
dows and searched for the restrooms
where I could get changed. The place
was packed with tourists from all cor-
ners of the world. I grabbed some
soup to try and warm my body, but it
was so busy, I found myself sharing a
table with an elderly Canadian wom-
an who’d invited me to sit down when
she’d seen me looking unsuccessfully
for a free table.
I’d barely seen as little as a picnic
bench across the moon like landscape
for hundreds of miles and, suddenly,
I was in this bustling service station
come tourist centre, surrounded by
tour buses, beefed up 4x4s, the mys-
tical hot springs, with steam bursting
into the cold air like the plumes of
smoke coming off a power station, in
the background.
I was in the North of Iceland on the
shores of Lake Myvatn, part my latest
TRAVERSE 95