As opposed to heaven and back with an actual Björk.
Iceland
1,650 kilometres (1,050 miles)
Yamaha T80 Townmate
Despite what AC/DC have been telling us for years, there isn’t a main road to the underworld. It’s not even a back road. More of a bumpy track which then turns into a quagmire of mud and sand, requiring quite a long hike on foot.
This particular misadventure was our fifth instalment of our alternative version of the Long Way Round series. We’d already done long, hot, high and stormy. Now it was time to do cold.
It was cold, in a sort of “that’s an enormous glacier” kind of way. But also quite hot, in a “that’s a massive volcanic crater full of bubbling stuff” kind of way.
Even though we went above and beyond by fitting knobbly tyres to our bikes, unbelievably, the unbelievable happened. A Yamaha Townmate broke down. Properly, terminally broke down. Apparently leaving a moped outside on a trailer for two years and then expecting it to bounce its way over shards of solidified lava and glacial moraine is a step too far.
Fortunately inflatable Björk enjoyed herself, apart from maybe the last one hundred kilometres or so where she let us, and most importantly herself down.
On this trip we learnt never to buy beer from a campsite vending machine unless your lottery numbers have come in, or to eat fermented shark unless you like the taste of a troll’s underpants.
Welcome to the Wrong Way Round Iceland.
Pumped and ready
A cocktail of Tennent’s Super and weapons grade plutonium
Who knew planning a trip to Hell and back would be like a trip to Hell and back?
It all started at our Pub General Meeting. To get our creative minds at full capacity we decided to hold the PGM in Marbella. This was good for many reasons but bad for one unexpected reason. That reason is Gordon. The moral of the story is never buy a crate of foreign beer because it has a comedy name without checking the strength first.
The next morning we were at a loss to recollect events of the previous night but evidently at some point we’d joined a What’s App group with the subject matter “Mums go to Iceland – because mums are heroes“. We were the only members so it would seem we also created it.
Whilst it is a well known fact that mums go to Iceland, it’s not as clear how you achieve “hero” status by filling a trolley with frozen prawn rings but that was not our dilemma to ponder.
In spite of the atomic hangover we forgave Gordon. Based on the available evidence, the brain-addling effects of this “exotic” beer had inspired us to to visit Iceland (the country not the supermarket).
In the cold light of day nobody was arguing that this was not an excellent idea so we set about doing some research.
The clincher came when Google maps turned up a volcanic crater in Iceland’s deep interior called “Hell”. Job done. That’s a destination and a theme right there. We now had a fully fledged plan and didn’t even need the usual long list of visas and vaccinations.
All we had to do was get ourselves and our trusty Yamaha Townmates there.
It was proving difficult to find any points of reference. Google turned up a blog by some BMW GS riders (obviously) who had ridden around Iceland a bit. We say a “bit” in the same way as someone puts a “One Life Live It” sticker on their Discovery and drives it to the golf club.
Apart from their consternation about the costs of glamping and provision of meticulous details about fuel economy, there was not much useful insight except for revealing they’d caught a ferry from Scotland.
Progress! Unfortunately booking the ferry proved challenging since it had ceased to operate in 2012.
Realising there was no direct sailing route to Iceland we hatched Plan B. This involved riding to Denmark (yawn), spending two days on a ferry, two nights in the Faroe Islands, and two more days on the ferry to Reykjavik.
A quick search of “the Faroe Islands” revealed it would be only marginally more interesting than spending two nights in a prison cell.
In summary, we’d have to endure nearly a week of puking over the side of a ferry just to set foot in Iceland.
This was not the kind of Hell we were seeking.
With plans A and B now in the bin it was time to go back to the pub. We set an agenda of a plan a pint.
After a recess for toilet-time and a bonus round with barbeque flavour Hula Hoops, Plan G was floated. Yamaha Townmates are small. If we could squeeze them on to a standard pallet, rather than paying for a container, then the cost of freighting would surely plummet?
Energised by our cunning new plan we left the pub and did nothing for several months. We were now in danger of missing the narrow weather window for the year so with a renewed sense of desperation we did some more Googlying.
Iceland’s Directorate of Customs advised that we were allowed to drive our own vehicles in Iceland, but was short on info about how to go about it. After a succession of digital dead ends, finally, there it was. The “E9”. A form you’ll agree with an important sounding name.
This was what we’d been looking for. If Iceland didn’t routinely offer all its official websites in the English language we’d have given up there and then but fate had thrown us a rubber ring of hope.
Pass the angle grinder my good man
The E9 guidance notes advised if we had any questions about completing the form to send an email. We sent an email. Three days later we got a reply saying “ask the shippers”.
We contacted three random shippers.
One didn’t respond. Another did but omitted to answer any of the specific questions we’d raised. Then, the third shipper’s email arrived in our inbox. It was written by someone who looked like they actually shipped stuff for a living. Guidance about things we hadn’t even considered. It was helpful.
We now knew what we needed to declare and who we needed to declare it to. It was only slightly less information than is needed to get a mortgage.
We assured the shipper that everything was in hand with our packing strategy. This was despite the fact it was blindingly obvious a fully loaded moped would not fit on a standard pallet.
The shippers then kindly advised us of the need to only use packing materials which conformed to ISPM15.
We didn’t know what ISPM was let alone there were 15 of them. Some more furious internet research took place.
Inserting wasps into one’s own anus would have seem liked a better alternative at this stage.
The road to hell was looking hellish.
You can’t open a jar of fermented shark in a bar
The AA are not the 4th emergency service in Iceland. They are not even a service.
The Northern Lights are shit if it’s cloudy
The Northern Lights are shit if you’re asleep
Turns out you can fit a Yamaha Townmate inside a standard crate. You just have to take quite a lot of stuff off first. Important stuff. Like wheels and handlebars.
