DAY 1 to 3: ATLANTIC OCEAN - No volts, plenty of diesel

So here we are, peacefully floating over the Atlantic Ocean. Me, my old BMW GSA and 1500 or so passengers and crew all packed on the good ship Norröna, casually drifting towards Iceland. The coffee's terrible but no icebergs in sight so far.

The trip did almost hit the proverbial iceberg though, right at the kickoff, two days ago. When it was time to get on the road, the bike just wouldn't start. It turned out a faulty connection had drained the battery. The connection was fixed easily, but the battery wouldn't charge, or so it seemed. After four hours of fiddling with a rickety adaptor, we finally did charge to victory, with the minutest of watts and volts. I cheered when the bike finally shook to life, and my family with me.

Driven more by adrenalin than sanity, I made a dash for the Danish border, hoping to reach it before nightfall. I couldn't be bothered too much by the ridiculously low speed limits on the Dutch highways. But the German border police were at the ready to catch any transgressing motorists with their shiny turbo Mercedes SLE's - they're on edge since Germany hosted the European football championship. And indeed, they did pull up next to me to check me out, but after a friendly exchange of glances they waived me on. Doing 140 kph isn't going to offend anybody on the autobahn.

I didn't make it to Denmark before nightfall, but I did manage to get as far as Kiel. My place to stay for the night turned out to be a very pleasant little hotel at Laboe, right next to the seashore. Nothing much happening there, except for the wayward motobiker coming in a little late. I rode right up to the beach, sat down in the sand and watched the red sun go down silently over the light-blue and purple waves of the Baltic Sea. The quiet of the north.

Next day I woke up to the drumming of rain on the tin hotel roof. I had another 500 km's to go to Hirtshals, at the northernmost tip of Denmark. Rain showers were lining up all the way. I had to run the gauntlet.

And indeed, the whole morning I was pounded by one rainstorm after another, the only solace provided by a few dry minutes under a bridge. Only to be pounded again by an even more colossal rainstorm, like a mushroom cloud in reverse. At the next tankstop I found a bunch of bikers huddled together close to an electric heater graciously provided by an emphatic Circle K lady. They were all desperately munching on their currywurst rolls, trying to bring up the courage to face another foray into the Niagara falls. I warily joined them.

Finally, after 400+ km's of this, the rain cleared and I was able to enjoy a few hours of relatively calm weather. I used them to reconnaissance Hirtshals, where the ship to Iceland would leave next morning. Again a quiet little seashore town with a nice enough beach. But the day had worn me out, and after a simple evening meal, I found me a couch somewhere and soon fell asleep. I dreamt of Niagara falls.

Early next morning I lined up for the queue of bikes and 4WD's hoping to board the Norröna. Smyril Line is the only operator to provide transportation of vehicles from the continent to Iceland and the Faeröer isles. There was hardly anyone under 30 waiting in line, presumably because the trip to Iceland is prohibitively expensive. It got pretty rawdy there nevertheless, everybody getting ready for their slice of subarctic adventure. It took 4 hours to board, but that slided by easily enough with all the tales of broken engines and exploding tires.

Yes, we are a happy bunch out here on the Atlantic. The ocean's friendly, the drinks not too expensive, and the midnight sun rests lazily on the horizon. She definitely is a good ship, the Norröna. She smells of grease and diesel oil though. I think it's in the coffee as well.

I sleep a short sleep, and dream of weather-beaten wastelands. Ah well. Surely Iceland can't be that bad. Right?

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