This got me to Tyndrum for Thursday 0900 but with faffing, breakfasting and a bit of shopping to do, was by no means a race-time start. Chats in the carpark with friendly locals who winced at my enthusiasm to do the whole route one day, didn't fill me with confidence. Still, I pumped up the new tyres (first trial) and headed out the carpark about 10:30.
By 11 I was stripping off layers, sat next to the trail on an ancient railway sleeper. In my flippancy of this not being a race I was carrying substantial extra kit - a winter sleeping bag, leggings, gloves and - it seemed - 6 different jerseys / jackets.
Initial trials of the new tyres and new fitter me, went well over the rocky sections of the trail then I whooshed down into the bottom of the Glen, dinging my bell at some walkers I passed - seemingly out-of-context in the mountain environment.
The turn onto Glen Lyon was messy. A barred gate and signs indicating no access to the West Highland Way were placed there to turn away wandering walkers who were lost, not to keep people out but I mistook the markings, crossed the river bridge and cycled through a field before spotting some walkers, realising I really should have been on the other side and taking a mini paddle through the stream before rejoining my route. The sun was shining, I had wet feet and I was suddenly alone. Life couldn't be better.
Some moments in the forest were a little weird. Just after this I found a handbag in the forest. Thinking it might make me rich (or a hero if I returned someone's purse), I investigated. It contained a rucsac, inside which was some "rock tape" and... a large rock. In fact, an attempted theft of a rather nice piece of quartz limestone from mother nature.
Part way along the Glen I saw 1 walker - a guy who looked like he'd been in the hills for days. I took that as a cue to sit on a rock and eat my sandwiches then carried on to the Loch. Multiple river crossings later - some ridden, some on foot - I started towards civilisation again. First a pair of kayakers, then a few parked cars for fishermen then the valley road which meanders to Bridge of Balgie and its cafe and another human to talk to. I ate second lunch whilst talking cycling with a bloke from Manchester.
Next it's Rannoch. A beautiful trail that stretches out across the moor and a view that stretches back to where you've come from - Loch Linne on the West side of the country.
I cut through Rannoch village - a little more pleasant than I expected it to be. Then back out on to the moorland. So much possibility here. Then the trail just stops. It's a common feature to the Highland Trail - I know that now.
I did a bit of bouncing over rocks and a bit of pushing. The tussocks weren't as bad as I was expecting and the bogs were relatively dry. I gradually got more tired and more hungry and eventually the evening sun dipped below the hills across the valley and a stiff breeze blew across Lock Erricht. I set my bike down and leant against a tree out of the wind to eat something and put on my knee warmers and a windproof jacket. I could've slept right there, such was the peace and beauty of the place but for that blasted wind. I had a chat with the tree, thanking it for being lovely and explaining that it just wasn't big enough for me to sleep behind.
We pushed on into the evening, away from the tree and inland to some of its buddies. This WOULD have been a lovely place to camp but I now had Ben Alder Cottage in my sights. If it was empty I would stop. If it wasn't empty, I'd eat there and then press on. I was a little disheartened to smell wood smoke drifting across the hillside and didn't relish the idea of walking in on someone else's cosy community but I was a bit tired and drained by now so I ventured across the bridge.
The bridge is its own little challenge - a 4 ft high step up with a mountain bike I can hardly lift on to a structure that isn't really wide enough for my handlebars. I contemplated taking the stream.
My nervousness was quashed by a friendly face waving from the bothy "garden" and so I de-bagged and set up my stove. The fire the guys had going in the grate was awesome I and set about drying my socks and shoes. I ate dinner and before I knew it my sleeping bag was stretched out. This was a holiday after all.
A little bit of me resented my desire to sleep inside. When I went out to the loo, the moon was full over the loch and it really wasn't that cold.
Over dessicated food and sparking flames I talked life with a couple of hiker guys and occasional engagement with the couple next door. I left the door of the room open to allow heat from the fire to dissipate next door to the guys room as they didn't want to sleep on the hard stone floor and that was fine by me.
I slept fitfully until midnight when the snoring from next door was unlikely to allow further rest. What's more, I felt recovered and ready to go so I did, hiking up the side of Ben Alder until I felt the need to sleep again which coincided nicely with a patch of moss baked-dry by the day's sunlight.
Mistake No 2 was pitching my tent to see the sunrise which actually directed it towards the flush of cold air descending off the neighbouring snow patches. Still, I got 3 hours reasonable sleep before topping off the climb and descending the other side.
The Ben Alder path is uncomfortable due to a proliferation of drainage ditches. Granted, these well manicured drains probably make for a better path over all but I got some hellish kind of a work out drying to bunny hop the hoppable ones and pushing over the biggies that threatened to take a tyre, a rim and my life with them.
The descent was no different. I passed another tent high up and two on the opposite side of the mountain, near the "other" closed Bothy. I made a mental note. On race day I'll be travelling lighter and earlier but you never know... I might want to stop here
The descent breaks did seem to give me the opportunity to look at the view a lot though. I'm imagining much of the snow will be gone by the end of next month.
After descending into sunshine and finally finding a river bed where I could get out of the breeze, I brewed up some porridge and coffee - this is a holiday after all. It tasted of success, happiness and sunshine although I did get the estate ghilly driving past in his land rover to make sure I wasn't poaching. Poachers don't tend to dress in bright blue down coats and orange helmets though right?
Out on to the road and I was lulled into the Cakes and Jam box by the side of the road, leaving a few quid and waving to the baker/farmlady as I set off down the road, only to find myself at the Wolftrax cafe. Oh well, stocked up for later.
Despite having eaten a flapjack, I downed an early lunch of nachos with all the trimmings then sat outtide to eat icecream.
Just as I was leaving I had a chat with a fully loaded (yes more than me!) German who complimented me saying I was "travelling light". Ha! He had come to ride HT over 14 days and that was his tent I saw on the climb this morning.
Soon back onto fire roads and a bit of a faff to get bottom gear - finally the cables have stretched! Faff over, I cheered on a family out for a day ride. It was time to learn about General Wade and his military road.
Starting off as a present day road, it's easy at first although the sun and low sleep levels were getting to me. I stopped near the bothy at Melgarve to rest my bum and back against a rock and fell asleep for a few moments. I was tempted to get my bag out but didn't want to be woken by a stream of concerned motorists... stream of! Ha! One car passed the whole time I was there.
Most of General Wade's bridges are still standing, temptingly so. But I rode over their modern-day counterparts, the Fords also looking tempting in the heat. Eventually the road does a Jazz. The only way is up, baby. Pushing up the switchbacks was tough. Constant crunching of gravel under foot. I stopped with two to go, hidden from the wind by a boulder and chomped my way through an entire pack of dried apricots.
As I departed, I waved to the German who was just arriving at the bottom of the climb. It was as close as I have been to Torino Nice Rally in the UK.
At the top of the switchbacks, the suspension mounts - what will the view from the top be like? Well, it plateaus and there's nothing to see but more track, the cables on the pylons you've been walking under for the last hour and a little weather station. It's a bit other-worldly.
There was also some snow to play on and I left tracks for the German to cross. Further around the hill, I stepped across the rocks - not ready to trust the ice-bridge across the snow-melt stream with my own body weight but I was surprised it held the 21kg of bike weight. As I descended away, I hoped the German took the same precaution and didn't just follow my wheel tracks over the inch thick ice - maybe they would have made it?
Time to enjoy the landing - a sweeping descent of the mountain on fading light. Downhill all the way to Fort Augustus. My first full mountain day on the bike and already I was struggling with the culture shock of the town. I locked up the bike, prioritising buying the next night's food before the shop closed then bought crisps and a cold coffee drink then sat against the railings by the river and sagged. I have to admit I was a bit flummoxed as to how people do this passage in one day. It was 3pm and had taken me the best part of 2 days to get here.
As the food and coffee soaked in, I reminded myself that I did a hard run on Wednesday so this was, effectively, my day 3. I reminded myself of all the extra weight I was carrying (all those jumpers!). I had certainly learned a lot in 2 days.
When you're ready to quit, all it takes is some food and a sit down. I ordered chips and locked my bike on the railings then got my phone out to report my progress. I hid from the guy checking out my bike - to be honest, I couldn't remember the names of most of the places I'd been and just wanted to eat my chips then I threw half of them away. Consumerist appetites were not working for me.
From here I had two options for Easter weekend: get on the Caledonian Canal and start heading back to Tyndrum - effectively doing the Southern-most loop of the ride; or, continue up to Cannich then cut across the Tomich and return back to Fort Augustus tomorrow to do the southern most loop plus an extra bit with a few kms road ride in between Cannich and Tomich.
It was only Friday. I still had 3 whole days of Easter left to go. No matter how tired I was, I wasn't ready to get on the Caledonian Canal just yet. That would be an easy bimble kind of a day. The weather was shaping up to be fantastic. I didn't really want to spend a "good body day" sitting on the flat in the valley.
Setting my fatigue to one side, I decided to see what the trail to Cannich was like.
I enjoyed the Great Glen Way in my fatigue, a beautiful push up through the park. The water works which had previously closed the track earlier in the year were well progressed and the trail was open. It didn't make for any tempting bivi spots and I passed a "site" works en route with generator running and full lights on. Whilst they weren't working Friday, I didn't particularly want to be woken up by security on Saturday morning - at any of the sites.
I pushed on for Invermoriston, agreeing to let myself sleep just outside of town before I got too high again.
At Invermoriston I met a couple from Birmingham who'd been driving for 10 hours and had gone out to stretch their legs. They were lovely but I then felt I didn't want to camp too close to town. By the time I'd got ready to sleep, the hill was too steep and there was too much forest detritus everywhere. It didn't seem to deter the deer whose eyes blinked back at me as I slowly crunched up the climbs. Damn those crusty tracks again. The noise offended me more than the pain in my shoes. By the time I was really ready to stop I could smell woodsmoke.
I'm not sure if it's because I've lived in Canada but the smell of a forest fire strikes the fear of God into me and I just kept riding. For a while I had to ride further INTO the smoke before the trail skirted around the source of the fire and headed away. I ... just... kept... riding. I hoped that the large bonfire that was raging was in a garden and all under control... but I couldn't sleep there.
A quick check of the map told me I had a little bit of up to do, over a lump and then I'd be on the descent to Cannich. It seemed like a good logic choice to get away from the breeze and the smoke and get closer to my final destination. I didn't expect the track to run out at the reservoir at the top.
I'd had no water for some time and now I was at the reservoir I didn't want to take any from the river in case it had been through a generator turbine. I grabbed some from upstream and vowed to boil it before I drank it. And so began the slow hike along the reservoir shore. It was, from the light of my torch, rocky and unrideable so I pushed and pushed.
Eventually I found some tyre tracks in sand and in a moment of hope, hopped on my bike and started to pedal. Undeterred by more rocks ahead (with sand beyond) I mashed across the rocks, hoping to attain riding conditions on the other side. Instead, my front wheel bounced to a halt and so did my back. My feet went down and I started to scoot over but something was wrong. The back wheel wasn't turning.
I looked back. My derailleur was somewhere inside my wheel and definitely at a jaunty angle. With 10k to go on this bloody reservoir this wasn't what I needed. All kinds of thoughts were spinning through my head but thankfully, they started with, "get out of the wind and get some layers on".
Then I thought about what to do. I could fixie the wheel and ride down but soon realised that, with little damage done to the wheel and just a bend in the derailleur, changing into the top gears would give me enough drive to get off the hill. So we continued to walk, pushing in a big gear to allow the bike to move. I organised a pick-up the next day but had no reception. I sent the text anyway, even though I knew TSK would be in bed by then. I was miserable. I didn't know what was going to happen but one thing was for sure, I wasn't doing this bloody hike again, the Highland Trail was off for me.
After about 30 minutes hiking, I checked the map - a big island with a building on it came into view. I thought about a bivi in the building but as I looked across the causeway at the building, something horrified me. It was probably the reflection of my head torch on a broken pane of glass or the remnants of a torn curtain hanging in the window but, in my exhausted state, I saw a figure pressed at the window, hands up in the air in longing, a kind of incarcerated "Scream". I looked back once more - it was still there - but at least it wasn't moving. I stared forward again - at where I was going - I have never stared forwards so hard in my life. Forwards. Forwards. Forwards. I carried on walking - a little faster now.
Off the reservoir the trail would have been enjoyable, given gears. It was a trail but an old and bumpy one with the full compliment of rough terrain, bogs, puddles and hard-pack. With three top gears that clattered in the night and a large bag of paranoia, it was less enjoyable but still allowed me to make reasonable progress.
Eventually the track turned into another fire road and great cattle gates barred the road. At 1am I couldn't deal with them so instead, lifted the bike over then climbed the sturdy fences at the side. Eventually I left the stripped forest behind and the land turned decidedly farm-like with warnings of cattle (leaving me not wanting to camp and be trampled to death in a herd). Finally one of the cattle gates had a tiny pedestrian side gate. I pushed the bike through, reading "RSPB Reserve" on the sign on the opposite side and set up my tent. I tried to ignore the fear that I would be on an "Eagle-cam" somewhere as the terrible woman who camped in a bird reserve and frightened all the eagles away.
Funnily enough, once I'd determined that I still wasn't doing the Highland Trail race, I slept very easily, only being woken by the farmer beeping his truck horn to move the cattle along. It was 8:30am. I soon realised that, as the sign was on my side of the gate, it was indicating the RSPB reserve was back up the hill at the reservoir I had just come from. I'm sure there was plenty to see up there, it's just at 1am, I didn't get any of it. Still, I wasn't going to be wildlife-shamed on Eagle-Watch and I packed up my stuff, a little more relaxed.
Just as I sat down to boil up my bitty water from the reservoir, a text came in from TSK to indicate his position. He'd checked up on my spot and got as close as possible. I checked the Garmin. He was only 700m away. The water with crispy bits in could wait.
The day disappeared into a fugg of eating and resting. I lay in the park in Dingwall on a camp mat and wrote down a long list of things I could change or ditch. It was very productive. Then we found the bike shop and the great guys inside said they'd try and find me a derailleur hangar. Suddenly, my enthusiasm to do the Highland Trail Race was back on again.
Sadly, my bike is a bit old and any hangar they might have had in stock has since been used up on someone else's frame. They did however, smack the old one into the right shape, bend the derailleur back a bit and get me my full compliment of gears back, whilst cautioning to replace them later, of course.
I had a lovely dinner with my husband and a sound night's sleep and got up the next day, raring to go.
I should have got a lift to Inverness with TSK but instead, I rode it, taking the excuse to ride the back roads and gently test out the gears (and some of the mountain bike paths along the way). I didn't leave till late, had early lunch and then by 3pm I'd done with trying to take trails and had hit the road and then ended up in a pub. I didn't have a drink though and instead, used my pasta to forge a wonderful forest trail across the hills to rejoin the Great Glen Way above a town called Dochgarroch. It was so pleasant using the 810 to navigate on OS maps again, it made me nostalgic for the days when mountain bike rides had lots of "map stops" in them.
My 3pm lunch/early dinner lasted me all the way into Drumnadrochit - more sensory overload / more people than I could cope with. Drumnadrochit had clearly been a party town all day with the pub right across the road from the Youth Hostel and all of the bins full to the brim. I was the second-to-last customer of the shop - with some good sandwiches, trimmings and icecream to get me through the rest of the ride.
I took on the rest of the Great Glen Way on the high route. Lots of pushing up 30% slopes followed by equally taxing descents. For a while it was a novelty and gave me a great opportunity to practice my bike skills some more. Then I got bored of pushing my bike up only to descend back down again - and repeat. Great for a day out on an unloaded full suss enduro bike. Less fun for a fully loaded hard tail trying to get somewhere. It also took me substantially out of my way and the wood smoke started again. I have to accept that what the Scotts tourists do on a fine bank holiday weekend is burn shit but it still scares me, so I dropped onto a B&B access trail and hopped out onto the road at Invermoriston from where I rode along the road for 30 minutes to get to Fort Augustus where TSK had already pitched a tent.
I went to the loo, couldn't resist a shower although I'd left my stuff on the bike. I carried as much soap as I could out of the dispenser and washed the sweat and suncream off me (well, most of it). Dried myself with my wool socks and then went to sleep in the plush luxury of a car-camping tent.
Easter Monday
Well, for someone who didn't want to spend a glorious sunny bank holiday weekend doing flat rides along the canal, I kinda messed up. My body was a bit of a mess, my feet hurt and I was tired. Still, I decided to give the end of the Southern Loop a go. I was a day-down from my Dingwall excursion but still, I could try - I mean the bimble along the Caledonian Canal is easy and could be dispensed of in no time right?
As I came back from the washrooms I remembered my earlier plan - to get a lift through the Canal section with the van and ride the hard bit to recce it. Unfortunately, it was too late - TSK had got my bike out of the van and loaded up stuff in its place. Oh well, the Canal is easy, it won't take me any time.
It was a late start - 10am. The sun was already beating down - and back up again - as the canal towpath surface is white stone.
The last time I rode here, they'd just laid new stone and the ride was horrible - bumpy, slippery, gravelly. This time it was a pleasure. I waved at yachtsmen on the river and watched the big boats come and go. I reccied a few bivi spots and stopped at the Eagle Barge where TSK showed up on his ride, catching me for lunch. We had 30 minutes to kill (with bad coffee) before they started serving food. It's a holiday right?
After TSK went, I decided to true my bent rear wheel which had been bumping along for the lst 15km. I re-rounded it and then tried to straighten it as best I could. I'm not sure if I made it worse - but it did ride round instead of having a flat spot on it.
By the other end of Laggan I was tired again. I sat in the shade of the toilet block (closed due to a water failure) and watched Ben Nevis, in full sun. So rare. I took a picture of the Fitz boat for Ian and then carried on to Neptune's staircase where I was already thinking about my first good coffee since breakfast and - to be honest - quitting.
By the time I found my way into Fort William it was 5pm. It had taken me 7 hours to do a flat 55km and I still had 68 to go. I pretty much decided to call it then and there. TSK was still in Fort William and up for picking me up again.
Most of my particles told me to carry on - to see the rest of the route over behind the Mammores in the setting sun and perfect conditions. I had everything I needed with me for a night out, could eat in Fort Bill, had breakfast on board already. On the flip side, it would have taken me all night, left me exhausted for the journey home and I might have broken the bike - or worse me. This wasn't a race, this was a family holiday. I was ready to stop. I was ready for a pint in the pub.
We had coffee in town - a place neither of us had been before and we were the last customers of the day - not through lack of people but through the staff wanting to go home and desperately trying to stop people coming in. I asked to sit inside after my day in the glaring sun.
We drove up to the glen Nevis site and I booked us in. I now know the best spots on site to camp if I have to come here on my journey... and it's not near the pumping station that chugs into the night.
The dribbles of soap left in my own bottle still weren't quite enough to wash off the grime and suncream.
I woke up in the morning relieved I hadn't been over the Mammores path - because I was also furious I hadn't done it... this left me hungry for it - and I'm glad I'm hungry for it. If I'd done it this weekend I might have broken my bike, I might have broken my body and there's every risk that I might have broken my resolve to do the race.
Doing this stuff over a weekend, knowing I have to go back to work on Monday (or Tuesday) makes me play cautious and I've accepted, now, that is fine. I got to help with the driving home. I went back to a "balanced" life. I had a week of responsible recovery. Doing it for real, without deadlines other than a finishing completion time - that makes me excited. "Risks" become acceptable in those situations.
Sure, I'm pissed off I missed an amazing night in the mountains but they'll still be there in May and hopefully in May I'll get to ride them in the daylight with a bag full of enthusiasm and a completion under my belt. That, I'll be very happy with.
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