I'd spent a lot of time during the boredom of lock down reading various ride reports from all over the world, dreaming of places to visit. The various Iceland reports caught my attention as I've never been there. Then when I spotted Iceland was on the green list for travel my interest shot through the roof.
Contact was made with Tim, there was space on his second trip. Two mates, John and Christy said they were in as well. The fly in the ointment being my knackered knees and waiting for knee replacement surgery, but i thought if I can't cope with the off road I'd just resort to riding on the road.
Then the God of Sod's Law shoved his unwanted ugly head in and our pre booked flights got cancelled or the dates changed to days not suitable not once but a total of 5 bloody times. Not only was this getting frustrating but i began to think is this an omen, telling me not to go!
Then the day of loading the bikes at Hull, I'm en route to Hull when the fuel pump on my 690 craps itself, swiftly followed by me crapping myself as I'm doing 70 mph in the third lane overtaking traffic and the bike dies. Fortunately a very observant driver realised something was wrong and he shielded me in heavy traffic as I coasted across three lanes and onto the hard shoulder. Many thanks mate. By this stage, I'm thinking is this really another omen, "don't go to Iceland"
Plan B kicks in, get my 500 sorted, new tyres, air, oil and filter change etc and condense luggage down to fit on the enduro bike. Tim and the shippers are very helpful and they're happy if my bike arrives a few days late at Hull and all of the relevant customs and insurance paper work is changed. Jobs a good 'un. All sorted at last.
Then on the day of departure, through into the departure lounge at Manchester airport, an hour before the flight departure time, the announcement comes over that our flight is cancelled. FUCK and I'm getting seriously paranoid about going on this bloody trip. A week at Butlins in Skegness suddenly sounds appealing. However on checking Butlins is full so the only viable alternative is a flight later on that day from Stanstead. A few calls later and a very good mate turns up to drive the three of us from Manchester to Stanstead. As we board the plane I'm worriedly checking Bruce Willis isn't boarding and that nobody has a blue fuse poking out of their trainers.
Luckily the plane doesn't crash, we land in Iceland very late on. John goes to bed, Christy and myself go to the pub.
Contact was made with Tim, there was space on his second trip. Two mates, John and Christy said they were in as well. The fly in the ointment being my knackered knees and waiting for knee replacement surgery, but i thought if I can't cope with the off road I'd just resort to riding on the road.
Then the God of Sod's Law shoved his unwanted ugly head in and our pre booked flights got cancelled or the dates changed to days not suitable not once but a total of 5 bloody times. Not only was this getting frustrating but i began to think is this an omen, telling me not to go!
Then the day of loading the bikes at Hull, I'm en route to Hull when the fuel pump on my 690 craps itself, swiftly followed by me crapping myself as I'm doing 70 mph in the third lane overtaking traffic and the bike dies. Fortunately a very observant driver realised something was wrong and he shielded me in heavy traffic as I coasted across three lanes and onto the hard shoulder. Many thanks mate. By this stage, I'm thinking is this really another omen, "don't go to Iceland"
Plan B kicks in, get my 500 sorted, new tyres, air, oil and filter change etc and condense luggage down to fit on the enduro bike. Tim and the shippers are very helpful and they're happy if my bike arrives a few days late at Hull and all of the relevant customs and insurance paper work is changed. Jobs a good 'un. All sorted at last.
Then on the day of departure, through into the departure lounge at Manchester airport, an hour before the flight departure time, the announcement comes over that our flight is cancelled. FUCK and I'm getting seriously paranoid about going on this bloody trip. A week at Butlins in Skegness suddenly sounds appealing. However on checking Butlins is full so the only viable alternative is a flight later on that day from Stanstead. A few calls later and a very good mate turns up to drive the three of us from Manchester to Stanstead. As we board the plane I'm worriedly checking Bruce Willis isn't boarding and that nobody has a blue fuse poking out of their trainers.
Luckily the plane doesn't crash, we land in Iceland very late on. John goes to bed, Christy and myself go to the pub.