The land of ice and fire, behind The Rift
- Miles Baker-Clarke
- Jul 31
- 10 min read
Once a year, I like to take on a challenge that I'm not sure I can complete; it gives me the motivation to push myself, something to look forward to and keeps me honest. This year, I took on the Rift, the 200km Icelandic adventure across the lava fields of the Highlands, up volcanoes, over glaciers and through rivers.
Words: Miles Baker-Clarke
Pictures: Miles Baker-Clarke, Chris Hall, Lucy Baker-Clarke & David Greenfield
I think it's important to explore the reality behind taking on challenges like The Rift, as behind the glossy photos, the amazing scenery and the Strava kudos and comments is a very real experience, and it's not always as perfect as it looks.
I'm in the fortunate position that I've been able to ride my bike all over the world, and it's not lost on me how privileged that makes me. This July, I took on The Rift, a challenge that would not only be my biggest to date, but one that I was, at times, genuinely unsure if I would make it.
The Rift is an adventure across the Icelandic Highlands, one of the most striking and picturesque while also being the most unhospitable and savage. You ride literally across fields of lava, thousands of years old, glamber down glaciers, climb volcanoes and cross rivers of volcanic water on its epic journey across the plains and down a beautiful waterfall somewhere. The landscape is otherworldly. The silence, at times, is deafening and the brutality and starkness of the landscape is absolute.
When I originally signed up to do this race, I was riding high after a good race at the Traka 200 and this seemed like a suitable challenge to continue my foray into challenge and adventure. At the time, I think I had made this decision based entirely on the context of legs. Could my legs carry me that sort of distance? Well, they did at Traka, so why not. What I hadn't considered was the wider context of taking on big challenges in different landscapes. Weather, terrain, isolation, scenery fatigue as well as how my body would cope with all that. I do, after all, work at a desk full time and spending 12+ hours in the saddle is not a regular occurrence for me.
Spoiler alert: I did finish The Rift. This isn't a carefully worded recap that winds up to an incomplete story, and that is key, because I categorically won't be returning. Not because it wasn't an amazing experience, but because it pushed me to my very limits in what will easily go down as the hardest thing I've ever done. I am grateful for that experience, but unlike a dog with a bone, I'll be ticking that box and moving on.
Into the abyss
As with any challenge, you have highs and lows, but I think the lows are the most important as it's those that you work through so you can see the other end of the tunnel, it's only those dark points that help you find and appreciate the light and it's those lows that feed the sense of accomplishment you feel in the days and weeks after the stiffness has subsided.
The Rift is uniquely challenging in several ways: the aforementioned terrain, the distance itself I did the 200km for reference, and the changeable weather. All played a part in slowly but surely breaking down my physical and mental resilience. Climbs were walked, swearwords were uttered as I rattled down rock garden number 83, I lost my front (and back) wheels to sand on more than a dozen occasions, and there was a point where visibility was 10 meters and the water so heavy in the air that it ran down my glasses, nose, helmet and arms, chilling my body to the core.
My camera roll tells a story of its own. Up until kilometre 140, I had been taking an infrequent but regular stream of photos and video. Landscapes mostly, but the odd rider or other point of interest. It's rough going for most of the race, so pulling a camera out is pretty challenging, let alone capturing something good. 140km in saw the last photos taken.
Kilometre 140 put us squarely in what I'm referring to as the cloud, the roughly 5-hour period where David, Chris, myself and eventually, Marjorie, rode through the clouds, the atmosphere stealing every ounce of warmth in our bodies, testing our extremities, our will, and our skills as the kilometres ticked by ever more slowly. The photos stopped then because documenting moved swiftly down the priority list, passed mostly by survival, completion and putting an end to the ordeal. It's difficult to describe what goes through your mind as you pass the distance where you know others are climbing off. If you're feeling good, I guess it's a non-moment; if you're suffering, it's a sucker punch to morale.
That last 60km was a tale of two halves. First was the ascent of Hekla, the active volcano that Iceland had been waiting to erupt for 26 years, but that had been stubbornly avoiding the topic, ignoring its normal 10-year schedule, as we were reliably informed by two Icelandic riders bombing it down a descent on their Lauf bikes.
Hekla was a savage climb, from the lower slopes characterised by loose sand, stealing all momentum and gradual pitches punctuated with hash and unpredictable spikes. This paled in comparison to the second part, which saw the 'road' rise off the plateau in a single winding climb, visible from the bottom and designed to break your will before you pushed the first pedal. I watched Chris climb away, his strength unwavering, while I struggled to turn the cadence my gearing allowed. Eventually, a dismount and a walk was the only viable option. There is no shame in it; these climbs take no prisoners, and my back had long since left the chat, leaving my legs cashing cheques it couldn't pay. However you complete that, you were rewarded with a second, single pitch that was just as steep and unrelenting, with 150+ km in the legs. I walked, remounted, rode 150-200metres, walked, remounted and slowly made my way up the volcano.
What kept me going was the thought that we were cresting the highest point and the last significant elevation for the race. Little did I know, but the elevation was the last of my concerns.
On top of the world and at the bottom of the barrel
As we hit the last feed station, there was still a feeling of optimism in the group; we felt it was all downhill from here, and we wondered, and hoped a little, that it would be smooth sailing from here on out. Enjoying the well-earned descent and seeing us home in a few hours. I'm working out average speeds and feeling positive. Even here, though, there were signs of what was to come. A chill in the air, a fog sitting up the road, and before we knew it, we were climbing into it. But it wasn't fog; we were climbing into the clouds.
Not only did the kilometres to follow not go downhill, but the cloud gradually thickened, dragging with it my morale. Our group began to split; Chris, wanting to stay warm, rode his own pace up the gradual rise, building a distance ahead of me. David, to my rear, dropped off my pace and settled into his own, and for what felt like an hour, I was alone. It was here that I really felt the desolation of my surroundings. Visibility was increasingly low, and the black roads seemed to stream endlessly in front of me, slipping and sliding under my wheels and robbing my speed. This was a dark point; that isolation hit me hard, and left alone in my own thoughts, I began to think about what it would be like to simply give it up and head back somewhere warm and let my body rest. My legs had juice, but the rest of my body was screaming. Painkillers no longer did anything, on-bike stretches could only do so much, and I was in the wild, at the mercy of the distance to come. My average speed calculations looked increasingly bleak; my calculations suggested we had 4 hours to go. How could that be? How could we still have 4 hours left? Having been on the bike for over 10 hours at this point, this was a hammer blow. But there was nowhere to go but forward, no way to quit, nowhere to sit and contemplate my fate with only jagged volcanic rocks for comfort. So push on I did.
The Second Coming
As we crested that gradual but brutal climb, I saw two figures ahead. Chris and one other were chatting away, Chris in his usual cheerful and upbeat way and a few curls of afro hair sticking out of the back of a helmet. Having been riding all day, we'd found Marjorie! One of our contributors here and one of our scholarship beneficiaries who I'd known was on the course, but who I had assumed was way ahead. Finding a friendly face in the mist was a welcome boost, and selfishly, she was in a worse place than I was, which gave me a boost, working not for my own race but to keep her going. As we regrouped, we all had a resounding but unspoken agreement to get our heads down and press on. We were finally descending, but not an alpine descent where you can enjoy the kilometres tick away; it was arguably the biggest mental challenge of the day. Loose surfaces, sand traps and poor visibility, all compounded by freezing rain and frozen hands. A lapse in concentration saw me come down in the sand. But quickly back up, straightened the shifter and crack on. I got off lightly, with a bruised rib, which I didn't discover until the next day, and a few other bruises were my only memorabilia.
We continued pushing through the cloud, watching as the kilometres trickle down painfully slowly. The grey grim was seemingly endless, and the terrain continually fought back, breaking up gravel with sand, rock gardens and loose stones. At some point, I don't remember exactly when or what kilometre we were on, we emerged below the clouds, and I yelled in elation, 'we are free!' We weren't dropped into sunlight; the gloom was still fierce, but just to be free of the endless unrelenting water was a welcome respite. We tracked down the mountain through a challenging rocky section where I was reminded quite how much my body was suffering. My hands were frozen, and by the time we rolled into the final feed station, I was shivering. 25km to go.
At this point, the pull of the warm car was oh so tempting. Seeing me shivering, one of the Icelandic marshals pulled me into an embrace so warm, I could have wept. They had been in that spot since 4 am the previous morning, yet they stood around with smiles on their faces, jokes on their lips and such warmth in their bodies, despite the weather. This was a turning point for me; I realised I could do it, a little bit more, a little bit deeper. That hug changed everything.
I led the group for the next 10km, renewed motivation, good legs and full of carbs, pushing on to get this done and close a chapter on the brutal day. The final challenging rocky trails, one final river crossing and finally the sweet relief of tarmac. Chris, still jubilant and full of energy, led us home and we averaged 30km an hour over the last 8km. Full aero tucks, pulling turns and if I'd had a power meter, likely some very encouraging power numbers for hour 13.
As we crossed the line and spotted my wife, Lucy, I felt the relief flood my body, the pain recede and a smile spread across my face. We'd done it, I'd done it, I'd paid my dues.
The Rift is not to be trifled with. Iceland takes no prisoners, and if you're not ready, then it's a brutal and unforgiving day out. You'd better bring the legs, but also the will to push through some of the most challenging terrain and weather you're likely to ever experience. If you do, you'll be rewarded with unique and stunning landscapes, breathtaking natural beauty and a day out you're sure to remember.
The Price of Adventure
Besides the challenge, the other element and possibly elephant in the room is the actual cost of undertaking something like The Rift. Whichever way you slice it, it's significant, and I think it's important to be honest about what it costs to do something like this. While the weight and value of an experience, in my view, should never come down to cost alone, it is a factor.
First up is race entry, and this costs the currency equivalent of about £200, on the upper end of any race I've ever entered. Fortunately, due to my deferral, I spent this almost two years ago, but it's sunk cost nonetheless.
Next you've got travel and accommodations. So it's worth stating that I decided to take my wife Lucy away at the same time, and we made a trip of it. So it's possible to do much more cheaply. Our flights, with one checked bag and bike, were around £850; it's a three-hour-ish flight for reference, and we flew Icelandair.
We stayed in a little self-supported lodge. Beautiful but basic, and that was around £1000, £250 per night.
Lastly, we stayed 4 days, arriving on Wednesday and leaving on Sunday. We needed food, drink, sightseeing and car hire. All in, we spent north of £1000. Again, taking into account we made a bit of a holiday of it, and I couldn't get my wife to stay in a hostel, you could do it a bit cheaper.
So in total, our investment was around £3,000, not to be taken lightly and again, I recognise the privilege of being able to do this.
The Bike
I was lucky enough to be able to borrow a stunning Orbea Terra to take on The Rift. Why didn't I ride my own Terra (the 2022 version)? Tyre clearance! Easily the best choice I made, as I feel for the Rift, bigger is always always better. I'd have had bigger if I could have.
The 2025 Terra didn't miss a beat, great compliance, great handling and more than enough bike for me. I paired it with a set of OQUO RP50 gravel wheels and 50mm Panaracer X1 + tyres, and I had zero mechanical issues all day. Something I was very grateful for, as that element would have added even more to the challenge. One thing I would consider if you're thinking about doing The Rift, aside from tyres, is gearing. The climbs are brutal and the bigger the gears you have, the easier they will be. I'd have liked a bigger range at the back on the SRAM Rival group I had, to keep me spinning up some of those climbs.
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