Corner to Corner — Iceland 2026

Iceland is an island you can ride around relatively easily. We’re going to ride across it.

The idea is beautifully simple: start at the lighthouse on Iceland’s most southwesterly corner, point the bikes north, and don’t stop until we reach the most northwesterly corner of the country.

Corner to Corner.

Three days. Four riders. Four motorcycles.

And between those two points lies the Icelandic interior. A vast area the Icelanders call The Highlands.

This isn’t the Iceland of the Ring Road, tour buses and crowded waterfalls. Our route takes us deep into the Highlands, across enormous volcanic deserts, ancient lava fields and some of the most isolated terrain in Europe. There will be long stretches with no fuel, no shops, no accommodation and, in places, very few realistic alternatives if something goes wrong.

Somewhere along the way we’ll cross a lava field so vast it covers an area comparable to Manhattan.

But it’s the rivers that concern us most.

Several of our route’s glacial rivers are effectively controlled by the temperature.

During the day the glaciers melt, sending increasing volumes of water down from the ice. Overnight, as temperatures fall, the discharge reduces. That means some crossings have to be attempted in the early hours of the morning, during a relatively short window when the water level should be at its lowest.

The plan is to reach the rivers, assess them and, where necessary, walk the bikes through rather than ride them. A drowned motorcycle this far into the Highlands could bring Corner to Corner to a very abrupt end.

Fortunately, we’re not doing this completely blind. Leading us is Birgir, an Icelandic rider who knows the Highlands intimately—the tracks, the weather, the rivers and the places where things can go badly wrong. He’s also helped arrange two brand-new KTM 390 Adventure Rs for Paul and Richard through Icebike Rental, a new motorcycle rental business in Iceland. This trip will provide quite an introduction for both bikes.

Richard is flying in from the UK and Paul from Minneapolis. Both will simply arrive in Iceland, collect fully prepared 390s and ride.

I’ve made life slightly more complicated for myself. I’m bringing my own KTM 500 EXC.

A few days before the trip, I hand the bike over in the UK and watch it disappear into an Eimskip shipping container bound for Reykjavík. Birgir will ride another 500 EXC, giving us an interesting mixture: two enduro bikes and two adventure bikes, all heading for exactly the same rivers, deserts and lava.

If everything goes according to plan, three days later the four of us will emerge at the opposite corner of Iceland.

Of course, plans have a habit of becoming considerably less important once an adventure actually begins. And this one hasn’t even started yet.

It’s Thursday evening when I land in Reykjavík and head pretty much straight to Icebike Rental, where Birgir is waiting for me. It’s quite a sight: a row of brand-new KTM 390 Adventure Rs, all waiting for Iceland to be thrown at them.

My KTM 500 EXC has beaten me here. Birgir kindly collected it from the port earlier in the day after I’d authorised Icelandic customs to release it to him. No wasting Friday dealing with containers and customs.

The bike is here. I’m here. We’re ready.

Richard and I have ridden together many times—Portugal, Morocco, the Balkans and Turkey, including long sections of the TET. He’s a strong rider, mechanically competent and, importantly, leaves nobody behind on the trail.

Paul comes from a slightly different background. He rides snowmobiles through Minnesota winters and knows remote terrain well. His off-road motorcycling is more occasional, but he blends into the group immediately.

And then there’s Birgir. Relaxed, Icelandic, very experienced and completely at home in the Highlands. He knows the tracks, the weather and where the real dangers are. He’s our greatest asset.

At six the following morning I hear Birgir moving around. He’s already getting ready to collect Paul from the airport. There’s no chance I’m going back to sleep—I’m far too excited—so I go with him.

Paul has just stepped off an overnight flight from Minneapolis and is operating five hours behind the rest of us. We bring him back to Birgir’s place and leave him sleeping while we do something very Icelandic. We go to the local swimming pool.

The hot baths are part of Birgir’s normal morning routine. Today they become our planning room, and sitting in the water the conversation keeps returning to one subject. Tomorrow’s rivers.

Three major glacial rivers stand between us and Askja. Timing will be everything. We need to reach them during the morning window when the overnight cold should have reduced the flow.

There’s definitely anticipation in the group, but I’m reasonably relaxed. We have Birgir.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Right now, we haven’t even started.

By 11:30 we’re back at Birgir’s place. Paul is still asleep and outside the wind is howling.

Preparing four bikes takes considerably longer than expected. Everything needs a place and everything needs to stay there once the terrain gets rough. My particular headache is the drone. There’s little point carrying it if every good shot requires unpacking half the bike, so I eventually find a way of strapping it securely to the tank bag where I can deploy it quickly.

Jobs like that keep appearing.

The original plan is to leave at one.

We leave at four.

Not ideal.

Eventually four bikes fire into life and Corner to Corner is underway.

The first trail immediately reminds us why we’re here. It winds past stunning lakes and through ancient lava fields close to the area affected by the 2021 eruption. Then suddenly the trail drops away and the new lava field appears below us, spreading through a landscape already shaped by much older eruptions.

The younger lava is darker and somehow looks almost wet against the weathered rock around it. It’s difficult to comprehend that part of the landscape we’re looking at simply wasn’t there a few years ago. This is Iceland at its most elemental—a landscape still being created.

By the time we reach Reykjanes Lighthouse, it’s around seven in the evening.

The lighthouse stands amongst black lava fields and geothermal activity, with steam rising from the earth and the Atlantic beyond. Nature’s raw power seems to be visible in every direction. It genuinely feels like standing at the edge of the world. And for us, that’s exactly what it is.

This is the starting line. From here, we ride until we run out of Iceland at the opposite corner.

The bikes are running beautifully. Spirits are high. There’s just one small problem. We’re already ridiculously late.

The ride towards the town of Selfoss is spectacular. The sun drops low and suddenly we’re travelling through Iceland in golden hour, ancient black lava contrasting with yellow grass glowing in the evening light.

Part of me knows we should be moving faster. Another part looks around and thinks: How can you possibly rush through this?

By Selfoss we’ve covered roughly 100 kilometres. We still have another 250 kilometres to the ranger’s hut.

Suddenly the maths doesn’t look very clever. We may not make it. Birgir gets on the phone to the rangers while the rest of us raid a grocery shop. Tomorrow we’ll need breakfast at the hut and lunch on the trail.

Iceland does smoked salmon extremely well, so we buy plenty. Then we discover tins of cod liver sitting in their own oil. It doesn’t sound particularly glamorous, but it’s ridiculously good. Rich, soft, almost the consistency of foie gras. We quickly christen it the gourmet foie gras of the sea.

By now dinner at the Highland Centre is becoming unrealistic, so we murder a round of burgers in Selfoss instead.

Meanwhile, Birgir gets an answer. The rangers aren’t exactly delighted about four motorcyclists arriving sometime after midnight, but the hut is a refuge. They agree to keep a little corner for us.

We divide the groceries between the bikes. Then comes the really important expedition equipment. Twelve cans of beer. Three each. Finding somewhere to fit those proves considerably more challenging.

Eventually everything is strapped down. The temperature is falling, so I add my winter layers and we leave Selfoss.

By the time we reach the Highland Centre it’s pitch dark and damp.

The place is dead. Everyone is asleep. We don’t even bother going inside. There’s nothing left for us here except fuel. We fill the bikes, top up the auxiliary bladders, strap them down and roll off into the night.

Ahead is the F26 — Sprengisandur, one of the great routes through Iceland’s interior, crossing a vast, largely uninhabited Highland wilderness.

In daylight, Sprengisandur feels remote. Tonight it feels like we’re leaving the inhabited world behind.

We still have around 100 kilometres of gravel to go. Then the rain arrives. Then fog. A lot of fog.

The world gradually shrinks until there is almost nothing beyond the beams of our headlights. Kilometre after kilometre of gravel disappears beneath the bikes.

We’re cold. We’re tired. The excitement of the morning has given way to concentration and the simple desire to arrive.

Then the F26 throws something else at us. Water.

I reach the first river ahead of the others and wait on the bank. My headlight illuminates the bottom for the first few metres and it looks shallow enough. Beyond that, it disappears into blackness.

In daylight we’d probably wade in and check the depth. Tonight, nobody is particularly keen on volunteering for several hours of riding with wet boots.

I give it a quick Hail Mary and go for it. A few moments later I’m climbing out on the opposite bank. The others follow. Then it’s back into the fog.

More gravel. More rain. More darkness. And, before long, more rivers.

There’s something eerie about Iceland at this hour. Shapes appear through the fog and vanish again. The headlights illuminate fragments of volcanic landscape for a few seconds before they’re swallowed by darkness. After long enough, your imagination starts filling in everything you can’t see.

Riding through this place in the middle of the night, rain hitting the visor, fog drifting across the track and black rivers appearing unexpectedly from the darkness, you begin to understand how Iceland became a country of stories about elves and hidden people.

At least the bikes are behaving impeccably.

Richard and Paul are getting their first proper taste of the 390 Adventure Rs and both are genuinely happy with them. After all these hours they’re still comfortable and the bikes haven’t missed a beat.

Paul, however, is running on borrowed time.

His body is still somewhere near Minneapolis. He’s crossed the Atlantic, slept for a few hours and then we’ve effectively thrown him onto a motorcycle and ridden him deep into the Icelandic Highlands in the middle of the night.

By now we’re all exhausted. Paul especially.

At 02:45, the ranger’s hut finally appears through the darkness. We kill the engines and creep towards the door.

The moment we open it, a wave of warm air rolls out from inside. After hours of cold, rain and fog, it feels unbelievably inviting.

Everyone else is asleep, so there’s no talking, no celebration and certainly no opening those twelve beers. We find the little corner the rangers have kept for us, unroll our sleeping bags and make as little noise as possible.

By 03:00, we’re in bed. Alarm: 07:30. Four and a half hours. We’re going to sleep in a rush.

We’d all thought Day 1 would be the uneventful one. Get everyone together, reach the southwestern corner and position ourselves for the real adventure tomorrow. It was anything but.

I close my eyes. Somewhere beyond the hut, three much bigger glacial rivers are flowing out of the Icelandic ice. For the next four and a half hours, while we sleep, the temperature will fall. And, hopefully, so will the water.