Between Ice, Fire, and Friendship
Three Weeks of Bikepacking Through Iceland
Meet Katharina Kruse.
She’s a 28-year-old rider from Hanover, Germany, living near the Deister trails she calls home. After studying Visual Communication until 2023, she joined the team at FIDLOCK, balancing her career with her passion for riding. Katharina raced competitively in the 2019 and 2020 seasons, but these days, cycling has taken on a deeper meaning: “Cycling now means more to me than just racing against the clock. It means discovering my home in new ways, exploring countries and cultures, being close to nature, meeting people with inspiring stories, and ultimately, understanding myself better.” This summer, she and her friend Miri set out on a bikepacking adventure across Iceland. What followed was a journey that tested not just their endurance, but their friendship.
Three weeks, two bikes, one plan: cross Iceland.
The route was ambitious—1,500 kilometers, 15,000 meters of climbing, and stretches of four days at a time without shops or water sources. Our gear was simple: freeze-dried meals, water filters, and a tent. We expected rugged highlands, hot springs, and endless gravel roads. What we didn’t expect was illness, separation, and a challenge that would push our friendship to its limits.
It all started in northern Germany on a Friday night.
Miri was in my kitchen, pale and sniffling into a tissue.
“It’s nothing serious,” she said, but we both knew it wasn’t true. After months of planning, this wasn’t how either of us imagined our adventure starting. Mountain biking has been our shared passion since 2017—an unspoken bond that you only share with a few people in life. In 2023 we decided to start an annual tradition: a bikepacking trip. Iceland would be the second.
By the time we landed in Reykjavík, Miri was already at her limit. Our first night was spent in a stuffy airport hotel, staring down the decision no one wants to make: she would stay behind, and I would ride on alone. My first solo bikepacking trip was about to begin.
The first three days were silence and struggle: harsh gravel roads, endless hike-a-bike sections, and lonely tent nights with only sheep for company. I battled the emptiness of the landscape and the heavier emptiness of riding without my closest friend.
But then came the reunion.
Miri rejoined me, and for the first time it felt like our trip had truly begun.
We rode together for five days before it was my turn to fall sick—fever, exhaustion, and another forced separation. Our carefully planned route suddenly seemed impossible, and Iceland made it clear that it had its own ideas.
While I recovered, Miri set out alone into the wild north—far from the tourist trails. Her days were long and lonely, marked by relentless headwinds and endless roads. Five more days passed before we reunited again, ready to start our final week together.
This time, we felt the pressure to make up for lost time, but quickly realized we shouldn’t. Instead, we slowed down and began noticing the beauty in every small moment: the play of light across volcanic gravel, the sound of glacial rivers, the joy of simply being together again.
Between tears, ice, and volcanic gravel
What was supposed to be a perfect loop turned into a mosaic of moments. We rode across lava fields, soaked in natural hot springs at Landmannalaugar, and stood awestruck at Diamond Beach, watching icebergs drift in the surf. We even felt the ground tremble beneath us as a volcano erupted more than 150 kilometers away. Iceland showed us its wildest, harshest side—and its softest.
Food was simple: bread, cheese, tomatoes, chocolate, and tea. The water filters went unused. But the real lesson wasn’t about gear or logistics—it was about adapting to each other, day after day. Illness, lost gear, and mechanical failures tested us in ways no route map could predict. When both of Miri’s derailleur batteries died—and the charger was missing—we somehow tracked down the only four-port charger in Iceland and had it shipped to a remote post station. She spent a day and a half with a single gear. It was expensive, but it worked. And like so much of Iceland, it reminded us: almost everything is solvable.
Not perfect, but real
We didn’t hit our original mileage goal, and that’s okay. What we gained was more important: the ability to hold space for each other in moments of doubt, to adapt when our bodies demanded it, and to speak honestly about what was possible—and what wasn’t.
Iceland wasn’t our hardest physical challenge, but it was raw, emotionally intense, and unpredictable. And because of that, it was unforgettable.
What remains?
What remains now isn’t the perfect route or the stats on our GPS. It’s the laughter in the tent. The silence when words weren’t enough. The awe that stopped us in our tracks because we couldn’t believe what we were seeing. The wind howling across vast, empty plains. And the choice to keep going, even when nothing was going according to plan.
This is a story about starting with a plan and finding something far more meaningful: trust in yourself, trust in each other, and the quiet certainty that you’ll always get further—together.
Even if it’s just one gear at a time.
Words by: Katharina Kruse
Photos by: Björn Reschabek
