22 KM – Heaven and Hell

Join us on Day 8 of our Icelandic epic, where the finish line feels tantalizingly close, yet the rugged landscape and unpredictable weather still stand in our way. We are The Bikepack, a spirited duo from Gothenburg driven by a passion for cycling that knows no bounds. Our goal? To prove that biking is so much more than a mode of transportation—it’s an invitation to explore, stay fit, and savor life’s greatest adventures.

Right now, we’re deep into the Iceland Divide—a ten-day, self-supported odyssey across dramatic wilderness, towering glaciers, and tempestuous storms that refuse to grant us an easy ride. Along the way, we’ve lugged every bit of gear and food on our bikes, covering an impressive 600 kilometers and conquering 7,000 meters of ascent. It’s grueling, it’s awe-inspiring, and it’s exactly the kind of challenge that feeds our soul and keeps us pedaling onward.

“Twenty-two kilometers—no problem,” we’d told ourselves. Oh, how wrong we were.

Morning light was just breaking through the cloud cover as we tiptoed into the big, empty kitchen for breakfast. The rest of the hut still slept, faint snores echoing from distant bunks. We moved quietly, already dressed in our carefully laid-out gear—a small, tactical victory before stepping outside into the drizzle.

Under brooding gray skies, we packed our bikes, filled our bottles, and bid farewell to the warm embrace of the hot spring. We couldn’t help but wonder why no one else was up early, hustling to avoid the worst of the storm. Surely they’d prefer a head start, right?

Moments later, we found ourselves hauling our loaded bikes up a narrow, twisting stone staircase, reassuring each other that this would be the hardest part of the day. Just a quick struggle, we told ourselves. Then it would get easier.

We couldn’t have been more mistaken.

What followed was a grueling slog across a landscape that seemed designed specifically to break the human spirit—and maybe a few bikes along the way. Loose volcanic rock underfoot, gusty headwinds hammering us from the side, and a trail that kept climbing no matter how many false summits we crested.

Every meter gained felt like a small victory, ripped away immediately by the knowledge of how many meters remained. We pushed, we hauled, we swore quietly at our bikes and loudly at the weather.

At some point, suffering becomes almost meditative. You stop thinking about the destination and start focusing on the next five meters. Just this rock. Just this gust. Just this step.

Despite the suffering, Iceland has a way of making you forget all of it—at least temporarily. At one point, we crested a ridge and were hit with an almost absurd panorama: jagged peaks draped in cloud, a river valley glowing an impossible green below, and a distant waterfall catching what little light the sun could spare through the overcast.

We stopped. Not because we needed to. Not because it was smart to. But because it would have been a crime not to.

Moments like these are why we ride. Not for the kilometers. Not for the stats. But for the instants when the world opens up and reminds you how small—and how lucky—you are to be moving through it under your own power.

Descending proved just as challenging as the climb, with loose stones and shifting soil threatening to carry us along for the ride. But as the saying goes, if you can make it up, you can make it down—one way or another.

Eventually, we broke free of the mist-shrouded heights and found ourselves gazing upon a lush green valley, crowned by a regal hill that rose like a forgotten castle, reclaimed by the wild. Just beyond it lay our destination for the night, nestled before the tranquil waters of Álftavatn, welcoming us with a big sign on one of the walls saying “Bar”. Relief and excitement welled up within us—another day on Iceland’s punishing roads and in its fickle weather, conquered.

We rolled in with tired legs and wide smiles, already dreaming of warm food and dry socks. The hut was cozy, the company good, and the bar—well, it delivered exactly what was needed after a day like that.

There are days on a long expedition when everything conspires against you—and days when the universe quietly decides to cut you a break. Today had been a bit of both, but in the end, luck tipped in our favor.

We’d been dreading the final stretch into camp, knowing the weather had more in store for us. Instead, as if on cue, the clouds parted just enough to let a sliver of golden evening light wash over the valley. The kind of light that makes everything look like a movie set—too perfect to be real, yet there it was.

We rolled the last few kilometers in silence, letting it sink in. Day 8, done. Two more to go. Tired, sore, and utterly grateful.

Sleep, when it came, came hard. The kind of deep, dreamless sleep that only truly tired bodies know—where you close your eyes and the next thing you know, it’s morning and your alarm is screaming at you from across the room.

We lay there for a moment, listening to the wind outside, mentally cataloguing the day ahead. One more big push. One more long slog. And then, if all went to plan, the finish line.

We got up. We dressed. We did it all again.