Iceland review - 2019, Side 110

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Iceland Review
Hafþór Júlíus Björnsson, the Icelander who por-
trayed Gregor Clegane, a.k.a. “the Mountain,” in HBO
series Game of Thrones, owns and operates a gym in
Kópavogur, Iceland.
It’s called Thor’s Power Gym, which, admittedly,
has an ever-so-slightly masculine ring to it.
It’s there where Hafþór and other might-minded
individuals convene to train for, among other
things, the sport of strongman. Called aflraunir in
Icelandic, the competition involves a potpourri of
premodern feats of strength (with a few modern
twists) often named for mythological heroes: the
Atlas Stones, the Hercules Hold, Conan’s Wheel,
Fingal’s Finger.
In strongman, there are no points for subtlety.
On a sunny morning in June, I lug open the door to
Thor’s Power Gym, unleashing a low frenzy of death
metal into the world. I’m here to interview strong-
man-in-training Theodór Már Guðmundsson – who
they say has at least two or three centimetres on
the Mountain himself. Theodór may be the only
Icelander big enough to accept hand-me-downs
from Hafþór (which, I am told, he sometimes does).
Strolling past a gallery of unreasonably hefty
weights – over-sized dumbbells, log bars, stones,
and axles – I come across three men casually perpe-
trating Iceland’s cardinal sin: squandering the rare
sunlight in their off hours. As I wait for Theodór, I
ask one of the guys, a stocky man neck-deep in tat-
toos, about a video I had seen last night. It showed
the Mountain limping off the competition grounds
at the World’s Strongest Man tournament (held
in Florida this year), following the second event.
Hafþór is defending his title: his first, but Iceland’s
ninth, making the country’s number of champions
second only to the United States.
“Is Hafþór really injured?” I ask.
“Yes,” the man replies. “He tore a sinew on the
bottom of his foot.”
Hafþór tore his plantar fascia: the fibrous tissue
along the bottom of the foot that connects the heel
and the toes. It’s the kind of injury that usually
requires a removable cast and calls for a period of
immobilisation lasting at least three or four weeks.
“Does that mean that he’s out?” I ask.
“For most people, it would – but Hafþór’s the crazi-
est fucker I know.”
“Crazy” can mean a lot of things. Applied to a man
who broke a 1,000-year-old Viking record by shoul-
dering the 640-kilogram (1,410-pound) mast of a
famed longship, Ormurinn Langi (The Long Worm),
before proceeding to take five whole steps, the word
“crazy” probably falls a smidgen short. The original
record holder, the legendary Ormur Stórólfsson,
only managed three steps, and – if the eponymous
saga from the 13th century is to be believed – was
“never quite the same again.”
Hafþór was fine.
A controversial figure in Iceland, Hafþór tends
to elicit the same polarised reactions that
Marmite does. On the one hand, his portrayal of
the Mountain, his feats of strength, and his way
of making those who stand next to him feel like
a jacked-up Gandalf has come to visit Hobbiton,
inspire awe. On the other hand, public accusations
of domestic violence have cast a long shadow over
his reputation.
In Thor’s Power Gym, people generally go for awe.
But Hafþór is only one in a line of local titans vying
for the title of Iceland’s strongest. Among those
hoping to emulate the Mountain’s mythological
exploits, is a lumbering behemoth who presently
enters the gym (stooping slightly). He greets me
with a smile – right before his ursine paw swallows
my palm.
Theodór Már Guðmundsson is 25 years old and
boasts, perhaps, the most remarkable before and