From Surf to Summit: A Day with Fjord Bikes

The day starts with the usual routine for riding in Borgarfjörður Eystri, but the weather suggests a different kind of adventure after yesterday’s sun-baked ride. Heavy, dark clouds have moved in, hanging over the jagged peaks. We can just about see the bright white stripes on our shoes. However, the weather isn't a problem; it's part of the experience. We’re no strangers to type two fun. The air smells strongly of salt and seaweed from the northern breeze, mixed with fresh coffee. We gather, a small but determined group, for a final, thorough check of our bikes and equipment for the day ahead.

It’s crucial to keep your drivetrain clean and ready for the day’s conditions, which can change at the drop of a hat.

The forecast promises raindrops, so we decide to get the wet lube out, throw on our waterproof layers and hope for the best. I pull out my phone and check the weather forecast one last time. A wide grin spreads across my face. “Looks like we’re definitely getting wet today,” I announce, my voice playful. Challenge accepted. The thought of the weather we're about to face is balanced by the promise of a warm reward. After the ride, soaked and chilled to the bone, we go to the local spa and warm up in the hot tub, perfectly paired with an ice cold beer. It’s a ritual as ingrained as the morning coffee—the wild ride, the hot plunge, the shared stories of the day’s journey. This is what riding in Borgarfjörður Eystri is about, where we meet challenges with a smile, and every adventure ends with comfort. 

Each day begins differently depending on the weather, but the rhythm is always the same — check gear, sip coffee, study the map, and head out. We read the day’s mood. If it’s bright and sunny, we aim for the peaks. If it’s foggy and rainy, we stick to the lower hills. The air's fresh from the rain as we start our first big climb. Leaving the fjord, the trail immediately starts climbing, switchbacking through rocky slopes. The stark landscape is brightened by colorful lupins and wildflowers against the cream-colored rocks. Streams from the rain flow down the hillside, their gentle sound a constant companion as we trace a path through the landscape. It gets quiet; cut only by the sound of our breathing, the mechanical sounds of drivetrains working, and a few raindrops on our helmets. Halfway up, we stop to catch our breath and take in the views. I point out an old path where farmers used to lead their horses when traveling between farms, often heavily laden on the loose rocky scree. Everyone agrees, "Much better on a mountain bike!" We respect the old ways, but the thrill of these trails on two wheels is a treat. We keep going, knowing we’re close to the summit.

The old trails can be tricky and challenging, but they offer a rewarding ride through the amazing landscape of east Iceland.

The climb was a killer, a winding path that just kept going up. Every so often we would need to take on a new feature, the trail technical and loose. Then, suddenly, we were at the top. It wasn't a gentle slope, but a sharp ridge against a moody sky. Just then, the clouds broke, and the view blew us away. The whole landscape opened up. Below, the fjord shimmered, and the mountains, dark from the rain, glowed. To the east, the Arctic Sea stretched out. We felt tiny, but totally connected. We got off our bikes, legs grateful for the rest, and the quiet awe quickly turned into chatter. We ate, laughed, and snapped photos, knowing no camera could truly capture it. I told stories, old tales of farmers who built these trails, and myths of the hidden folk who guard the mountains.

But all that was just warm-up for the real reason we came: the pure joy of the descent. We hopped back on, buzzing with excitement. The first push off the ridge was rowdy. Tires bit into the dirt, rocks flew, and the world blurred. Everyone found their rhythm. Some flew through the trail while others took it all in. The descent was a rush: wind in our ears, the musical notes of rubber on rock, shouts of pure joy. The mountain, once a challenge, was now our best friend. Every bump, drop and corner fueled our excitement. When we hit the valley floor, it felt sudden. We’d dropped 400 meters in one glorious rush. Hearts thumped, calves ached, and our voices were hoarse from yelling. We were tired but pumped, already planning the next climb, eager to do it all again.

Biking down the false summit of the Grey Ridge trail offers a fast descent over the arctic moorland. The views don’t spoil it, either.

Back in the village, bikes freshly rinsed of the day’s adventure lean against the local brewery’s rustic stone wall. The hot soak in the waters of the spa did its trick, and it’s time for the second part of the post-ride treatment. Pizza is served, a much needed refuel after a long day chasing thrills through the rugged landscape. Riders swap stories to the clinking of glasses. Someone jokes that this might be the best beer of their life. Late in the evening, the sky glows orange over the fjord. The group, settled on the beach, watches the midnight sun reflect in the still waters of the Fjord in silence, tired in the best possible way. 

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