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Learning How To Drive a Dinosaur In Iceland — Page 2
By Luke Armstrong

I put on the flashers, rolled down my window and waved a line of cars past us, giving each driver a look I had spent most of the last decade practicing—sorry, I am a stupid gringo and everything confuses me.

Candice kept her peace and I will forever be grateful to her for that. In my Irish family we deal with such failures by shouting at the person responsible. Any increase to my already strangling anxiety and my heart would have likely given the other organs the finger and quit.

I reminded myself that a week ago, I had driven a Jeep in Guatemala. I could do this, and in theory, the more I did it, the better I would be at it.

The red light that had saved me was about return to green and it would be time to try again. There was a line of cars behind me, too polite or perplexed to pass. "The clutch is engaged," I said, talking aloud to the car. "The gear is in neutral." Candice stared into the windshield, filled with the Zen anxiety of an outcome controlled by another's actions. "First gear, giving it some gas, releasing the clutch. . ."

And just like that, there he came. Like he always did, unwanted and unexpected, but rapping words that—we must admit—fit the moment: Look, if you had, one shot, or one opportunity, to seize everything you ever wanted, in one moment, would you capture it, or just let it slip?

First gear. Gas. Release the clutch. The camper drifted back almost hitting the car behind me. But the gear caught and the beast lurched forward. Candice and I, in the pilot and co-pilot seat of our Kuku camper, lurched through our first intersection. His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy. There's vomit on his sweater already, mom's spaghetti. . .

First, then second gear. Gas. Still terrified, I decided third gear and its reckless speeds would have to wait. We drove like a dinosaur with a broken leg on a roundabout route to our Air BnB rental to pick up Shaun and Steffe. Along the way I turned the wrong way into a one-way street. I could not find reverse.

Cars going the right way formed a line in front of me. I was so unable to back into traffic, that the maneuver required me stepping out of the vehicle to ask someone trying to drive the right way on the street to do it for me. He did it with a kind grin. I am a stupid gringo and everything confuses me, said my face.

Lurching to the Southernmost Point
I pulled in front of our rental. "You did it," said Steffe and Shuan.

"Barely," I responded. 1 km down. 180 km to go that day if we were to reach Vik by nightfall.

On the way to the highway, traffic was tenser than a teenager attempting his first kiss, but my travel companions turned out to be the greatest support team a person could have.

"You're doing great," Shaun, Candice and Steffe told me, I don't know how many times.

After a time, the clutch became less of an enemy and I could breathe like someone not being led to the execution chamber. I began to take in the Icelandic countryside—plains dotted with sheep that gave way to mountains, a crimson sun and violet sky—Iceland was as beautiful as anyone ever guessed. Occasional glimpses of the sea joined us for the southbound ride. So much unlikely history was wrapped in these Viking valleys and hills.

I was driving the dinosaur and we were almost to Vik, the southernmost village in Iceland, 180 km from the capital.

When you find magic, you share it. Along the way, when we saw three young American hitchhikers freezing on the side of the road, we sped past them, talked it over, turned around and stopped to pick them up. They were also headed to Vik and each had a story worth telling, so we listened. They were thrilled to make a stop-off with us at our planned detour of soaking in a bath at the Seljavallalaug Hot Springs.

The warm water calmed my nerves and relaxed my body. I felt like an infant who had just spent the day crying it out, but now was resting peacefully as biological bling hanging off his mother's neck.

Rocky and ragged were the towering mountains, home to elves if you believe in magic. I did that day, because I now knew how to drive a stick. No one had died, and for the next three days the four of us were like prehistoric turtles, riding inside our portable dinosaur that transported our own unique recipe for a moveable feast across the Icelandic countryside.

Luke Maguire Armstrong is the author of iPoems for the Dolphins to Click Home About and How We Are Human. After finishing degrees in philosophy and English in Chile, Luke backpacked from Chile to Guatemala, where he spent four years as director of development organization Nuestros Ahijados. These efforts were featured on the 2010 ABC News Global Health Special: Be the Change, Save a Life. Follow him @lukespartacus.

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Strange Sensations in Iceland by Tim Leffel
Where is the Where? Hiking to the Horizon in Iceland by Lea Aschkenas
The Horror Movie Atop Panama's Volcán Barú by Luke Armstrong
Voices & Choices When a Human Flies by Lisa TE Sonne

See other Arctic and Antarctica travel stories from the archives