Iceland is not Instagram Worthy

Some experiences simply don't translate to TikTok and Instagram, so don't.

Some experiences are not what you originally think. The key is to be open to more. You won’t regret it. If, you pay attention.

Every experience can deliver growth— if you allow it.

In the summer of 2022, I found myself on my way to Hvolsvöllur, Iceland to participate in The Rift, which is a bike race, of sorts.

At the time, I believed my sole purpose for the trip was the somewhat grueling race that rolls through the south center of Iceland’s most desolate yet rawly beautiful landscape.

I had no idea what to expect and was somewhat surprised to actually find myself on final approach into Reykjavik’s international airport. It had been a very tough few years.

Actually that statement is bullshit. It had been ugly beyond words. It was a time, when in the middle of it, it felt like free falling without a parachute from an airplane that had just been hit by a missile. There was a shudder before the plane began to break apart at 30,000 feet, falling free of the rapidly disintegrating fuselage, seeing it all happen in slow motion and thinking none of this can be happening. Then tumbling over to face the ground rising up to greet you at terminal velocity. And waiting for the impact.

Somehow, through a mix of grit, providence and a the universe intervening in the flow of events at just the exact right time, I survived.

Looking out the window of the new United Airbus, thankfully still intact, Reykjavik slowly presented itself through a thick line of clouds and mist. There was an equal mix of excitement and trepidation as the plane kissed the tarmac.

Since its inception, The Rift had become as much legend as race, given its extremely remote location.  And, here I was. How it had all happened, a new life forming out of the wreckage of the old, was still a bit of a mystery. I decided this was a time to be present and grateful, rather than introspective about the ticket of good fortune. There would be time for that soon enough.

Several hundred top amateurs, adventure seekers, pros made the nearly five hour trip from Reykjavik to Hvolsvöllur 3-4 days before the race. The Rift is an arduous 200 kilometer march across Iceland’s southernmost glacier over volcanic ash and stones, in between house sized boulders and across seven frigid glacial rivers. 

Most people would categorize who made this trek to do this thing intentionally, clinically insane.

The universe can open unexpected doors. If you step through, what surrounds you can quickly vanish. You have to have the courage to step through though.

At that time, if you had told me I’d be landing in Iceland only a year in the future from that time of chaos and catastrophe, I’d have cried out of bitterness of the lie or the beauty of the truth. 

Arriving in the tiny hamlet of Hvolsvöllur bike bag and duffel in tow, I set out on foot to find the Midgard Base Camp which would be my home for nearly the next week.

I needed to hustle in order to make the unofficial shake out ride scheduled to start in just over an hour.

Finding Base Camp, I set up in the garage, meant for maintenance of the giant SUV’s used to trek across glaciers. Along with other new arrivals, I removed my race bike from its travel case and reassembled it. Satisfied with my efforts, I dropped my gear in my tiny, spartan room and rode off to the ride’s rally point.

Everything seemed intensely foreign, yet familiar all at once. It was a very strange sensation. Not quite Deja Vu, but more like returning to a place you had not been for a very long time. Although the feeling wasn’t about the place. It was the energy.

Joining the small group, we rolled off for a several hour ride that would end in the dim light of midnight sun. Iceland at that time of year had some degree of daylight around the clock.

You may ask yourself, "Where does that highway go to?"
And you may ask yourself, "Am I right, am I wrong?"
And you may say to yourself, "My God, what have I done?" —The Talking Heads

Day two brought more race prep, some exploration and another group shakeout ride for the later arrivals to ensure both they and their equipment were race ready. The day passed with a degree of exertion and focused preparation but without incident.

In the waning afternoon hours, I sat down in a chair just inside the wide open door of the spartan one story lodge.  Rural Iceland is sort of a no-frills place. The guy sitting next to me appeared to be about 10 years younger than my just over 50-ness.  He introduced himself in a thick accent.  Australian.  Wrong.  Kiwi he told me.  New Zealand.

He reminded me we had together on the previous day’s ride. We talked about the horses who ran along next to us as we rode through the Icelandic mist and sleet.  

The skies were overcast, the color of oxidizing steel. A wet mist blew down from the still snow capped mountains and across the nearby grassland.  It was a chilly 52 degrees, which was standard issue for late July. As such, the doors of Midgard remained open, the fresh air intermingling with the smells of coffee, fresh bread, pastries and beer.  

Sometimes what you expect, isn’t what you experience. That’s the joy found in living.

My new friend and I sat sipping a version of Icelandic coffee. A special Nordic roast made with frothed milk, perhaps goat. Maybe horse. We didn’t ask. 

We were surrounded by the comings and goings of racers and adventurers from across the globe.  At least 10 languages echoed across the gravel lot.  Some faces I recognized.  A Red Bull pro from the U.S., a former world champion, and a European pro who had recently competed in the Tour De France all milled about without fanfare with a few dozen average Joes like me. 

The experience was subtle, rustic and yet epically and uniquely grand. 

The feeling of familiarity from the other day returned. It was a feeling of…home.  Not home of place, but a home of being.  The ability to not need a script or a persona but simply to embrace and experience, what I was thinking and feeling and what was there.  Truth in expression and interaction.  No curation or editing. This was raw footage.

It was as, as Einstein said, “As simple as it should be, but not simpler.”

That past’s former reality had. been left on the other side of some kind of door I had chosen to step through. While some of my life, some friends, my family had remained exactly the same, much had jumped to something entirely new.  I had been a visitor in that previous time and place that had inadvertently stayed too long.  The universe had reached out its hand and said, “its time for you to come with me”, so I did.

Looking back, I realized that all of my worst fears had in fact come true inside of two years.  All of the terrible ‘what if’s’ that creep into our psyches in the middle of the night demanding attention and energy until sun up.  Those things that I feared would show up and upend my life, sending me careening off my axis. The nightmares which wanted to destroy my very grip on reality had knocked on my door.

All of those demons armed with these fears showed up en masse.  Opening the door, I was surprised to find instead angels.

A shout from outside brought me back to the present. Breaking that long silence, I mused, “well, it’s not the Ritz, but it surely is something.” 

For what seemed like an eternity, he didn’t respond. Then softly he uttered some words I will never forget and are the basis of this story.

So here we go…

He said, “Yeah, it is sure something mate.  This thing here, this is a Masogi.” He gestured around.  It’s how I chose to live now. Simpler with more purpose. More intention.  I used to be in finance in Melbourne and it nearly killed me.  I woke up one day, miserable and all. A real shit of a person. Out of shape, partying, chasing stuff, you know. Just stuff. Only to say I had it. And one day I woke up, looked around at all the crap I had collected and said to myself, “why"? “To what end?” He continued, “Most of the people I knew then are all asses. But then again, so was I. So I said to myself ‘fuck it’.  Change it. I moved back to New Zealand. Do a different type of finance now. Better work. Better people. I control my script now. Funny thing is, some of my former colleagues have looked me up when they are in town on holiday. They are even more miserable pricks than they were before.”

“You should never let your fears prevent you from doing what you know is right.”

— Aung San Suu Kyi

“You can sit on your Bali resort veranda and post to Instagram all day long. The whole goal of all that flex and curated bullshit is to make yourself feel better by making others feel worse.  Isn’t that just crazy when you think about it?”

“You can collect places, check them off your list for the wrong reasons and never really fucking know it.  You go. You do a ‘private’ tour. Spend the day at the VIP beach club with bottle service.  What utter bullshit.” 

Leaning in close as if to whisper a dirty joke, he said, “You aren’t living in any of that here are you now?”

I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant.

“Look around you!  None of us are here trying to make anyone else feel bad about not being here!”

“You can’t capture this experience on a social media reel.  This experience transcends that!  You have to EXPERIENCE this for it to matter!  Life isn’t about keeping score and outdoing others, life is just about living.  Look around you! That’s EXACTLY what’s going on here.”

Looking intently at me, he leaned again and pushed his index finger into my jacket to make his point.  “We all chose to be here.  We chose this. Chose each other. We are here to race against ourselves. All of us, even those pros.” He said pointing to a small group of very fit riders nearby.

He was on a roll. 

“Keep your St. Barth’s, your gold watches and your plastic wives.  Let them compete with each other. No…let them EAT each other.  Fucking Lord of the Flies, if you ask me.”

“All that is…stuff. Noise.  No more fucking stuff! It’s the Gear that is important.  Gear is what we need to live an epic and purposeful life.  Gear allows us to achieve what we thought we couldn’t.  To make a difference.  To create art.  To create possibilities. To live… IT’S THE GEAR MATE!!”  

He gestured around and in a much louder voice, which drew exactly no attention from anyone around us, “this…this is the gear.  You are the gear.  I am the gear.  This place and this coffee is the gear.  This weather.  Those mountains.  These bikes.  The freezing waist deep rivers we have to cross tomorrow. The glacier.  The volcano.  The climbs that will kick us in the nuts.  It’s the wanting to quit, but not.  It’s the pain of doing something really fucking hard.  It’s the belief of knowing you can.  It’s the fucking incredible beauty of it all.  It is all gear!”

Want to enrich your life? Do something hard and don’t die.

“What’s Misogi?” I asked a little late to the question.  He looked upwards for the second time, as if asking God why such a fool had been seated next to him. He let out a peal of laughter.

“Do something hard and don’t die.  I take the dying part spiritually, not literally, although I guess that could happen.  Anyway, don’t die inside.  Do something hard where there is a good chance you will fail in trying.  Don’t give up.  Learn and grow.  You fail, you learn. You succeed, you know what you are capable of.

Embrace it.  Don’t die inside. Don’t go stale.  That’s the important thing.

Also, don’t share it for others to be impressed or boast about doing it or having done it.  Simply do it.  That’s Misogi.  And, that’s life too mate.”  

The next day we awoke early, lined up for the start and each of us went off to race full Misogi style.

For me, this experience in Iceland wasn’t about a race at all. It was this new reality teaching me to see and experience life slightly differently. To find the concept of Misogi. A second chance to live better and more fully.

After all, isn’t that what it’s all about anyway?