Summer Solstice 2022

There's definitely something satisfying about riding to work on a fully loaded bike. Taking your bed into the office and reloading it later, riding away.

My morning meeting was done from home then I finished packing and set off for the office in my lunch break. My bike has been cleaned but not ridden since the highland trail so I had to pump my tyres up. This meant my 1pm meeting was conducted leaning against someone's garden wall with my notebook on the pavement in the little housing estate at the back of the factory.

I worked till 5:30 to get my day done which meant my planned excursion over Cut Gate and down to the Ladybower Inn to meet boys for a pint probably wasn't going to work out. Still, as I left work, the thought of going the quick way was not appealing - retracing back to my house and riding the same way I ride all the time.

I turned right at Meadowhall and got myself on "the motorway" - a disused railway line bridleway that runs parallel to the M1 to Eckington, Chapeltown and beyond. Eckington was my stop. I turned through some road junctions then along country lanes to a bridleway in Wortley Woods and then my internal GPS ran out. After I'd climbed zig zags up the hill I followed the "cycle route" instead of following the "loop path" and it dropped me back downhill. I passed a gymkhana where young women rode horses and smaller children dressed in riding clothes and helmets ran around a field pretending to be horses while older women in vests and too-small shorts looked on. It all looked a bit warm.

The track dropped me back onto the busy road half a mile further along from where I left it. Rather than retrace I settled in for the long, uncomfortable ride around to Warncliffe, where I meant to be. I didn't get squashed by cars travelling at 50 mph, though how some people live with themselves is beyond me. It was a relief to turn off onto a minor road but of course the speeding Rangerover behind me also made the same turn so I stayed on tenterhooks until he'd squeezed by too. Finally I could relax and potter down to the TransPennine Trail on a mix of forest trail and country lanes.

No matter how fast my legs would carry me I still wasn't going to make it on time and I was also sure that they - if not I - would have any mobile reception to send or receive any messages.

By the time I reached Oxsprings and the tempting Wagon & Horses pub, I wasn't that hungry and a full carpark made me think twice about dropping downhill to see if they had a table. If I carried on to Penistone I could stop for chips or a supermarket dinner or keep going, sprint to our planned bivi spot and brew up an instant meal before bed time, spending some time with other people instead of eating alone.

By the time I got to Penistone I was starving. I couldn't remember exactly where the chippy was but in the end I followed my nose, leaving the TPT as soon as I smelled vinegar then dropping down the ramp to their open door. I threw a string lock through the rear wheel of the bike, stood in the doorway to order then pushed the bike and box of chips up the hill back to the TPT and found myself a bench in the park in the sun next to the skatepark for entertainment. 

I text'd Landslide to let him know I was on my way and that I'd be late and arriving from Cut Gate direction.  They'd found the pub shut and were inching up to our planned bivi spot.

Having checked my tracker, Chris text'd me back to remind me I'd have a long trek to get to them after Cut Gate which I needed as I'd forgotten a few details of my plan.

By the time I got to Langsett moor the sun was starting to set and the brown reeds and grass from winter stood out golden in the ocre sun against the foundation of green.  Foolish lambs thundered around the track calling for their mummies.

I passed unhindered across the Woodhead Road, stopped at the river to check I didn't need a water top up, then climbed back up onto the moors where heather and juvenile bracken joined the explosion of colour as the sunset behind Emley Moor.

A mixture of pushing and riding followed. Pushing where I was forced off by lose stone and the occasional insurmountable boulder. Enduro bro's passed the other way picking up a pinch flat on said massive (sharp) boulder.

• • •

I stopped for a wee in the shelter of a bog, watching the orange glow disappear and thinking I had the place to myself and feeling too tired to push my bike further away to find more cover. 2 of the riders passed back the other way, waving at me. Friendly. Thankfully it was almost dark.

We had a chat later as we all added lights then I let them go on ahead for the descent.

I could see lights over at where I thought the bivi spot was. I flashed my hand over my light a few times in acknowledge­ment. Sadly their lights went out soon after as I was kind of using them as a marker.  I was just about to try and pick out the distintive black lump of our spot against the other black lumps and identify the crease in the river where I'd climb out of the valley when their lights disappeared.  I realised I'd set out with an ambitious plan but no actual means of making it pan out (ie a map). What seemed like an obvious lump on the horizon was one of many obvious lumps on the horizon.

Spots in the foreground are the lights of Sheffield 

My plan was to follow my track so far then pick up a sheep trod I'd ridden once then cross one of many streams which led to another track which led to the second track to where my friends were. In the cooling darkness it started to feel over ambitious and when I found myself on a good quad bike track I'd not been on before I decided to go with it. It's not like I'd be doing any more damage to sensitive environments on a fucking quad bike track. Owls and harriers wheeled out of the undergrowth in my light from time to time.  The fat lambs, now big enough not to need their mummies, thundered along the quad bike track in front of me in flocks of four, buoyed into stupidity by eachothers' company until finally their nerve broke and they scattered in different directions then came back together again for solidarity.

I rode and walked some sketchy descents and slogged back up the other side. These valleys could make for nice cool respites on a hot day but weren't at all tempting stop spots for a bivi tonight, damp as they were. After the third river crossing I knew I was wildly off course and stopping for the night on my own started to appeal. At least the fun of being lost in the dark on a bivi ride is you can just go to bed and figure it all out in the morning when you can see better.  Maybe our chosen spot would be busy tonight and I could get to sleep earlier and have the sunrise to myself in the morning. But I hadn't seen Chris since March so I decided to follow the track to its conclusion and see where I came out.

Eventually the gates became more mainstream, more solid. The kind where a sheep needs a science degree to un-latch them. Suddenly I knew where I was. The bad news: I'd lost all elevation and would need to climb all the way back up again. The good news: I'd always wanted to know where that went and how better to find out? Also: I didn't have to go much further to head back up again and this time I was on familiar territory. I still had to do a bit of from-memory / making-it-up navigation and largely that involved following a path along a fenceline then picking the line of least resistance up the side of a ridgeline rather than the direct, steeper route.

My choice brought me out by a familiar landmark only 200m from where the boys were camped. More through luck than skill but I was still smug.

There was a bit of a breeze up and I wanted a pleasant night so I'd happily camp anywhere out of the breeze, even if it was nowhere near the others. I went around to find them. 2 still bivi bags and bikes were exactly where I expected them - in "the usual spot". I continued past, riding as much as possible to silence my noisy freewheel.

The next bay housed a large boulder with a gap to the crag just large enough to fit a bike and a Trep. I parked my bike and changed into dry wool shorts and a dry wool baselayer a synthetic coal The bivi spot had a rock embedded in the sleeping spot but my air mattress would take care of that. I lay on it to check for slope and nearly fell asleep right there it was so warm a cosy.

• • •

I was glad of the rock wall between me and my sleeping friends as I rustled bags and breathed life into my mattress and celebrated finding my pillow. I had no idea whether or where I'd packed it but I couldn't find it in the house so had to assume...

It was playing out to be a perfect night's bivi so I threw in my sleeping bag liner just to make sure I'd be toasty then pinged my OK on my tracker at 00: 48 and got my phone out to text Chris There was an unread message from him,

"We can see you! "22:49

I replied,

"Came the long way round! I'm in the next bay behind a boulder. Wake me when you get up" 00:49.

After 4 months without contact I wasn't going to miss out on hill breakfast. I heard his phone buzz quietly "next door".

I lay on my back with my bi vi hoop around my belly, staring at the stars above. The light show that was the sunset had simmered into an orange line on the horizon with inky blue above and the 6 red lights of the Holme Moss transmitter station glowing in the night sky. It was dark enough for the stars to make an appearance in large quantities in spite of the vague glow of light pollution from Sheffield. From my broad wedge of rocks, I couldn't make out any constellations but watched a few satellites slew past and a couple of shooting stars flare then peter out just as my real vision caught up with my peripheral vision. I wondered if I'd ever sleep through this light display so zipped up my bug net to raise the hoop on the bivi over my face to get a bit of darkness. That all made me kinda shivery until I realised I was shivering from the sweat building up inside my sleeping bag liner.  Once I ditched my bag liner and coat I was fine.

The next wake up call was the squeal of what Chris later concluded was a pair of her harriers, swooping above our heads sweeping up food as the sun started to announce its presence at 2:25 am.

I noticed my hip was cold and aching. Apparently my mattress has developed a slow leak and I spent the next 2 hours intermittently reinstating it - pleased to find it can be done without getting up - only to wake to do it again, however many minutes later.

Then there was the 3:30 grouse barking. I could hear one of the boys breathing loudly so put in my earplugs and settled in to part-snooze, part watch-the-light-show as the orange line on the horizon began to broaden again.

Eventually at 4:20 the light was too bright, even if the sun was mostlyobscured by a massive low cloud bank. I was bored of reinstating the mattress and the rocks were turning pink then golden. I went for a wee then got my camera out to capture the beautiful silence. Chris got up next, read my text and waved as I sat munching porridge while waiting for my coffee to brew.

I've been up there many times but never taken the time to really appreciate what can be seen - beyond the Lady bower into the Edale valley and Rushup Edge and beyond. In the distance valleys were full of fog yet we were perfectly clear and the temperature and breeze were just enough to keep the midges at bay. Nelson joined us to stare at the view a bit longer then I returned to my spot to polish off my coffee and pack up most of my kit before joining the boys camp to chat through their breakfasts and watch hares and cotton grass bobbing across the moorland.

Reluctantly it was time to get out of my wool boxer shorts and into bibs for the final pack-up.

• • •

It's an uncomfortable feeling that you've left something behind when everything packs down so well. Then I remembered I was still wearing my coat. I switched to my windproof for the descent and Chris andI turned left while Nelson turned right to get back to work in Hathersage.

Sprightly, Chris raced ahead while I pottered down more serenely, reluctant to hit the road, though by the time we reached Bradfield I could have done with the cafe being open at the pub. Hey ho. We weaved through the traffic in Hillsborough where my tyre picked up a copper tack which I shoulda known wouldn't seal but had too much faith in sealant but thankfully enough sense to stop.

Rather than fiddle with my own shitty repair, landslide stepped in with a plug that was much closer to hand and we were soon rolling again. Chris headed home to take his boys to school and I threaded through Kelham Island. It would have been early enough for me to stop for another breakfast before work but instead I foolishly took the dubious decision to save time by taking my trail food (rice pudding & cinnamon) into the office and catch up on work hours before I ran out of momentum.

(I subsequently forgot to take my trail food to the office and instead got through the morning on office fruit, chocolate biscuits and tea).

At lunchtime I procured a Large sandwich (the size of my face), crisps, flapjack and coke and this was still insufficient to provide enough calories to sustain me for the ride home. I crawled back the slightly long way around in order to avoid the steep hills then missed my turning and ended up climbing the 70m long 16% cobbled Lark street instead.

I walked in the house and parked my bike then lay in a lukewarm bath and went to sleep. A very happy camper.

Highland Trail 550 (556!) 2022

Day 1 - Tyndrum to Melgarve Bothy

In the morning I was relaxed - a little too relaxed - and I was still running around between van and pod when the group photo was taken and only just made it to the start line for the end of the "speeches"... Alan's political commentary on Brexit (point well-made), Annie's helpful instructions to "keep enjoying it" and Liam Glen shouting "Go!".

No start waves this year so I loitered at the back as I knew my start would be slow.  It was.  By the time we got to the railway tunnel, I had the place to myself.  The most dreaded part of the course for me - would have seen me struggling to lift my loaded bike over the stile and I didn't need an audience.  Really, I wanted some training (racing) under my belt before I lifted the bike up as I was still finding it very difficult (see earlier comments about not having been to the gym much this year).

To my joy, the stile has been replaced by a normal, opening gate and I simply wheeled the bike through.  First major hurdle of the race overcome!

The open space after the tunnel is incredible.  We all hurtled down the track and I caught up Lukas who'd lost his multitool and was having a look for it.  I didn't have much company for the rest of the day.

I thought of last year when my brakes were slightly rubbing and I didn't notice for ages.  Maybe I'd save some time here.  I looked at my watch.  It was the same kind of time.

There was some planning that went into today.  I knew there was one deep river crossing.  My plan was to stop there to empty the water out of my boots, ring out my socks and then carry on and try to dry everything out over the rest of the day.

Whilst executing this plan, another rider arrived.  A tall, dark haired stranger.  This turned out to be Spanish rider Ramon Diaz Colomer who had started an hour late.  He was having difficulty deciding what to do about getting wet.  He joined me on the floor to ring out his socks and insoles and complained that he didn't like the water.  I told him he'd need to embrace it.  He was looking to finish in 6 or 7 days so I told him he'd need to get a wiggle on and reassured him there'd be no more river crossings for 5 or 6 hours.  I left him to his socks.

The next rider I caught up was Kirsty Gunstone and we had a nice chat until, on reaching the hills around Bridge of Balgie, she left me for dead... closely followed by Taylor Doyle from Canada.  Finally Ramon caught me up and I asked where he had been.  Kirsty and I were starting to worry about him as we hadn't seen him for an hour and he's seemed to be tanking along when he caught us earlier.  Of course, still being on European time, he'd already stopped to eat at 11am and caught us up at Bridge of Balgie.  I told him to quit hanging out with the middle-aged women at the back.  It was on to the forest trails to Rannoch lodge.

Somehow land marks came and went.  Somehow I made a wrong turn leaving the forest and had to back-track 5 minutes riding.  Somehow I got to Ben Alder cottage late, slow but feeling OK.  I rode what I wanted to, got off and walked when my HR got too high.  

At the bridge, I found a niche advantage to riding the long-shot Cotic SolarisMax frame.  There's a rather large 3-4ft high step up partially shown in the foreground of this pic by Ian Lees. It's difficult to push a loaded bike up on to the bridge as it's higher than most people's reach.  

With the longshot frame I managed to lift the front wheel up and on to the bridge. The back wheel was still on the ground, unlike the Trek which dangled precariously and pointlessly in mid-air.  This left me hands-free to scramble up to the bridge platform and lift the rest of my bike up behind me when I was ready.

With the bridge crossing done, the real HAB starts.

The light starting to go already on Ben Alder with Loch Long in the distance.

 

I looked at my watch.  I was a bit later than last year but then I suddenly found consolidation here.  I was never going to beat my day 1 last year.  That was a solid ride and all was well on day 1.  I was fit, my bike was light.  By that point nothing had gone wrong.  All I needed to do today was my best shot and the gains would start to come later in the week... starting with day 2.

My water levels were low but I continued up the hill to get away from Bothy water before stopping in the stream to fill up my bottle and camelbak.  Pressing a bag of cold mountain water onto my back was a relief on some pretty warm climbing. 

As usual, I ate some food on the way up.  I reminisced about my first recce ride when I moved out of the bothy at 2 am for the much nicer comfort of a high-pitch on the mountain to get away from snoring.  Back then I camped amongst snow patches but by now these were all clear except for on the really high slopes.

The Cotic and I soon got into the swing of drain crossings.  These require some bunny hopping skills to first get the front wheel over the crevasse and then hop the back wheel over - in one or two steps depending on how strong and brave you're feeling.  There are over a hundred drains (guestimate) and they range from blips you hardly notice to foot-deep / foot-wide chasms that threaten to consume both wheel and person.  Those that can be hopped need to be segregated from those that are best-off walked.  

Again, the longshot came into its own.  When hopping one wheel at a time, the extra split second required to co-ordinate the rear wheel hop gave my brain enough time to get it right more than not.  Only once or twice did I slam the rear wheel into a sharp edge where it responded with little more than a painful twang of the spokes and seemed to be OK.  

Where I had to walk the drain, the longshot meant I could stay on my bike, lifting the front wheel across first then stepping both feet over with the rear wheel still firmly planted on terra-firma. Only when my weight was balanced did I need to commit to walking the back wheel over the chasm.  

The final ride to the saddle of the pass was a joy - sweeping lonely singletrack and views to die for and I found more people!!  Two riders were ahead.  I soon caught up to Taylor who was doing something with her phone.  I called out that I was approaching (as she was standing in the middle of the track), then whistled, called again and finally shouting "HEY!".  I guess she had ear buds in.  

She moved over and I checked she was OK.  She said yes and off I went to enjoy a few more drainage ditches.  

I've still not forgiven myself for crashing down here in 2019 but I seemed to make it unscathed and started out on the long flat ride out of the glen.  At the bridge turning I caught up the next rider.  A chap who I'd been chasing for a while.  He had stopped to tighten up the straps on his saddle bag and I nearly missed the bridge turn off.  Once his "rear end" was secure, he caught me back and lifted his game so I couldn't stick with him so I went back to bimbling through the muddy ruts which didn't seem to bother me nearly as much on the Cotic.  I guess its extra weight meant I really didn't get thrown about much.

Motorway Services

Once on the big open tracks out of the estate, I relaxed, played back memories of fighting off the rain in 2019 and got on with the job of making as much progress as possible that night.  As the sun started to turn from white to yellow, a substantial breeze blew about and every time the sun ducked behind the hill or into cloud it got deathly cold. I decided that I'd stop and brew up a meal while the sun was still out and it was still warm enough for stopping.  That would fuel the rest of my night riding well - rather than being in energy debt at the end of the day.  I'd already determined that I wouldn't make it to Fort Augustus so eating some of the weight I'd been carrying around felt like a really good use of my time.

A literal food-baby aka hot water bottle.

I'll take a window seat please

In line with my thinking, the perfect rock spot presented itself and I gorged the contents of my frame bag and put the stove on.  Fresh water out of the stream nearby.  I padded about in my bare feet as my socks were drying on the sun-baked rock and my boots were emptied of their insoles to dry out in the breeze.

I stuck the warm pouch of food into my coat to brew for its 8 minutes and set about some other menial task up until the point when two friends of Taylor came riding by, on a rescue mission to cheer her up and get her out of there.  They told me she was struggling somewhat.  That's a shame, I was looking forwards to having a chat with a Canadian at some point this week.

My mind turned back to yesterday when I'd pulled a face at the realisation that my "Reindeer stew" meal would be pretty revolting made from cold water.  This had only just translated into my new philosophy (bring the stove) that now I got to eat my Reindeer Stew warm and I was REALLY looking forwards to it.  I thanked Ian Ashton for the inspiration.

Ach... the stew was OK.  I'd built it up a bit in my mind and in the end, it was a bit "mashed potato" for my liking.  The meaty bits were OK but the rest of the stew wasn't up to much.  Still, it was one of the heavier meals and now that it was in my belly, not in my frame bag, I could ride a little faster.

I descended to the road in the sunset and turned on the rear light to blink its way to the turn off for the General Wade's road.  This bit of HAB seemed to be a little bit slow and when I hit General Wade's place I was struggling a bit.  It was seeming to take forever to get places.

When you think of the Highland Trail before the event and run through the milestones in your head: Ben Alder, Correyairik, Contin, Northern loop, OBH, Ledmore, Torridon, Glen Affric, Fort Bill, Mamores, WHW - you can get through the Highland Trail in 5 minutes. This was where I was starting to show my lack of training and my lack of patience.  It's not the pain I'd forgotten, it's not the epic climbs or descents I'd forgotten, it was the tedious links. The never ending paths in passable scenery that go on and on (whether on-wheel or on-foot) and eat away at the time zone. "Gosh, that took longer than I thought" started to become a catch-phrase.

Where to stop the night?  

I hit the road that climbs up towards the off-road part of General Wade's military road.  I was just thinking of Mart's camp spot from last year when I saw a black fluffy creature by the side of the road.  It heard me and looked up - a Pine Marten! He slinked off into the wood, running through the grass in little arching bounds then scrabbled behind a tree and poked his little face around to see if I had gone.  I've seen these little critters before but it's always a pleasure.

I complimented Mart on his choice of spot last year.  It was indeed a good find and low down to avoid the worst of the frost.  In retrospect, I must've been a bit ahead of myself last year because it was still light enough for me to see the surrounding woodlands and buildings.  I just felt a lot more tired than I had last year.  By the time I got to Melgarve Bothy, I needed more food and, with it being 10:30pm, I also fancied some sleep.  I resolved to try and eat and get back out but admitted it probably wouldn't happen now that I was in a building.  I think I gave myself the option of leaving because of 2019's interface with a drunken scot who'd clearly been driven out there with the sole purpose of getting pissed.  

This year, there were only two tired bike-packers inside - Eliza Sampey and the man I'd caught up earlier with the saggy bag straps.  Both were already bagged up but Liz and I had a hushed chat about our day (she'd had brake issues and her bike wasn't switching into her lowest gear) whilst I pumped some heat into the room in the form of a hot water brew to make apple and custard and get my rucsac weight down for the rest of the week.  Whilst eating I checked with Eliza if anyone else was in and, reassured, headed up to the first floor to sleep.  

Wrapped up in my bag & liner I still shivered a few times and regretted leaving my heat packs in my bag downstairs.  I got some rest though and was awake with the light streaming through the loft-lights and packed up as quietly as possible - walking out the door at 5:30am.

Distance (to FA next day) -  146.2km 

Elevation - 2810m

Avg HR - 145

Sleep - 2300 - 0430

Day 2 - Melgarve Bothy to Contin

The first pedal strokes were a challenge on the bumpy military road.  In fact, I set off walking, giving the body a chance to warm up. It didn't take long as I'd dressed in all my waterproof layers for the splashy puddles on the few lumps and bumps before the Corriyearik pass starts properly and as protection from the water bars on the way down the descent into Fort Augustus.  That strong Northerly wind was still blowing and cooling everything down and I was a bit annoyed that I didn't bring any riding gloves that were warm enough for night riding in a cold breeze.  I could combine my liner gloves (that were burried) or my biking gloves (which were too bulky) with my rubber gloves that I'd brought for waterproofing but the rubber gloves soon squeezed much of the insulation out of whatever was underneath them.  

By the time I'd reached the lumps and bumps before the steep climb, I'd worked up enough of an appetite for another dehydrated meal (breakfast) and some coffee that I wouldn't now have to carry up the hill.  The dehydrated meal was the same brand as the Reindeer stew and so had a lot of weight and bulk to it so I was glad to be eating it.  I was really looking forwards to this one too but the stove was being awkward - kind of spitting and petering out - so I only warmed the water to just below boiling then put the coffee on to brew up whilst the meal hydrated.  

The coffee was an interesting experiment.  I usually luxuriate in real coffee plus a filter but this year realised I can carry the same pot full of instant coffee and get the same hit off it - and carry 8 brews instead of 2.  The meal was a disappointment - watery like hot milk rather than porridgey - but the coffee was a bit of a hit considering my snobbery when it comes to coffee.

The climb went well and the descent in the daylight was a real treat.  At the point where I camped last year and photographed the sunrise over Loch Ness, I was 4 hours behind last year.

At FA I rode straight up to the Cafe where I got stuck in 2019.  I checked they were open and ordered the best thing on the menu - coffee and pancakes with bacon.  Then I set about any bits of bike admin I needed to do - recharging garmin battery, checking phone messages.  Food and drink was dealt with and I moved on to the shop to get lunch and head straight out.  By getting back on the trail before lunch, I was already ahead of 2019 but even further behind 2021 because when I passed through FA, everything was shut.  Still, I hoped to surge ahead at Cannich where I got stuck in the cafe last year (theme?).  This year I'd already done my shop at FA and wouldnt need Cannich's shop.

After FA the trail climbs steeply to the Great Glen Way (GGW) where we fly along to Invermoriston.  There was the ever-present northerly wind but it wasn't too bad.  I had the company of a group of leisure MTB'ers - one of which knew of the HT550 but wasn't at all tempted.  They annoyingly got in my way on the downhills then rode on past me on the climbs since they hadn't got the encumberance of bags.  Eventually they buggered off.

At Invermoriston I did a water stop at the village hall then got going again.  My new friends had done their ride and I got the climb up to Corrimony all to myself.  Suddenly the sun took on a new strength and I needed to lose all my layers.  Gradually the waterproofs, gaiters, socks came off.  Eventually the coat and then the jersey were off and I was just riding in bibs!  When the North wind blew it gave me goose bumps but I had a few hot flushes to balance it all out so persevered in bibs - I reasoned, until the terrain flattened out.

I got pretty excited when I saw another rider ahead.  He looked like he was taking a break - sheltering by the dam with his bike in the grass.  In fact I slightly worried he'd crashed.  When I got closer he came out from his hiding place and I was disappointed to see him carrying a microphone - so he was not a fellow competitor but the "sound man" Phil taking vox pops for the event.  I was slightly reluctant to chat since I didn't have much to say that wasn't completely self-centred on my race but then I assumed that was the kind of thing he was after - since what else would we be thinking of?  First things first I joked about my state of undress and then, as the hill started to top out, hurriedly put my baselayer back on.

I answered Phil's questions about my training, saying "I didn't get chance to do much this year so I thought I'd just show up and ride into it".  He laughed and asked, "So how's that going".  

I was knackered and just laughed, "Day 2 is not the day to ask me that question".

The rest of his questions were a bit profound.  "How important is it that it's a race?"  It didn't seem like a good question to ask someone who was at the back and also who was already thinking that I didn't want to do this again as a race.  I mumbled something about myself.

I spent a lot of the rest of the day thinking of much better answers to Phil's questions.  I guess the main one being that if it hadn't been a race I'd probably still have been sat in the cafe at Fort Augustus and I wouldn't have seen a pine marten bouncing down the road at 9:30pm on the way to Melgarve Bothy.  The lines that the group start create on the route - definite advantages to those towards the back of the field to improve on their previous times and finally the chance camaraderies that join people (dots) together that probably wouldn't occur in an ITT (for sure) or even a Group start that wasn't a RACE...and isn't the point of all this to get away from the tech for a week(end) and just focus on the task in hand?

One more thing that I didn't tell Phil is that I was dreading the Corrimony reservoir trail.  Killer of derailleurs and feet!  Last year I had said I never wanted to see it again... yet here I was.

It's odd really because I'm a birder and it's a bird reserve.  I should cherish it but last year - wearing cycling shoes - it really hurt.  

I started walking from the off - my brain wouldn't let me ride the derailleur over those rocks. Then a miracle happened, more riders appeared - and rode past me!  I was inspired and had a little ride - despite my reservations.  I covered a little more of the course a-wheel than I otherwise thought possible.

When we got to the real walking bit, I chatted with the riders. Obviously not part of the race they were american hipsters (complete with drop bars, check shirts and - what people of my age refer to as - porn-star moustaches) and they sympathised with my nervousness around derailleur safety.  They turned off to investigate the haunted house - now surrounded by scaffold - and I carried straight on across the moor, through the landrover tracks and eventually dropping down towards Corrimony Cairn.  As I made my way through cattle gate after cattle gate I thought to myself "Gosh, that took longer than I thought" but also I had a refreshing thought, "I enjoyed that!".  Based on the fact that my feet weren't actually hurting yet, my ankles did not feel like they were about to snap, I actually started to believe that I could do this - regardless of coming from a state of being under-trained, I could actually do this and I could actually do it better than last year.

Then I was down and I was in Cannich and I streamed straight past! No coffee stop, no shopping - straight onto the road to ride away, though I was stopped dead in my tracks by the bluebells.

Then I blasted through Struy to the turn off for the road of 1000 puddles.  

Because I hadn't stopped in Contin, I pulled over by the road side to consume my remaining lunch purchases from FA.  The Americans arrived and when I asked how they'd found the haunted house, they went on to complain bitterly about all the locked gates on the descent.  After some confusing conversations, we concluded they had an old copy of the route and had been lifting their loaded bikes over locked gates all the way down whilst I sailed through the official route.  They were now considering their options (in the middday sun!) My aim was to surpass Contin but the Americans had been asking me if there was anywhere to stay and where I was planning to stay.  I said, "where I fall over" and they laughed nervously.  I asked if they were doing the HT route and if they knew anyone in the race. They said no, they didn't.  Did I?

I said "yes, me" and rode off.  I assume they'd decided I was mental and left me alone then as I did not see them again.  I assume they booked into the Struy hotel!   

I started counting the puddles.  I got as far as 18 and had to concentrate too much.

I started a log of puddle formations of the Highland Trail:

Day 1 - "Yay puddles! Yay Racing!"

Road of 1000 puddles - "I am so SICK of wet feet.  SHOW ME THE LINE!"

... to be continued.

I followed the puddle-avoiding lines through the heather, up the middle, over the rocks.  Through the occasional puddle someone had trusted to try and found it solid.  We did not do too badly and I realised my Cotic's tall Bottom Bracket means most trenches are possible to ride without pedal strikes.  Our confidence was growing as a team.

We paid homage to the (now deceased RIP) Hydro Bothy which continues to be a bare concrete slab and set off down the descent.  

The Cotic saved my bacon as I flew over the top of a descent only to find myself facing a 12 inch drop off followed by a gravel bar.  I pretty much feathered the brakes as much as I dared then gave up, pointed the handlebars loosely in a straight line, shouted, "COME ON! COME ON!" loudly, and let the bike do the rest.  After a brief slide with the bike facing 45 degrees to the direction of travel we soon righted and were flying forwards to new challenges with me hanging on for life!  A bit more thrill than I was after in such a remote place.

On the way to Contin my thoughts switched between getting a B&B and camping at the camp site so I could stock up in the morning.  I didn't want to use Oykel Bridge hotel and I didn't want to rely on Invercassley completely so I needed to go into Contin stores in the morning.  Thankfully I know they open early.  The B&B option went out the window since I couldn't remember how long it would take me to get there.  It was 5pm and I'd have guessed 2.5 hours to descend.  As it turns out I would have been way off in my estimation.  I decided to try the campsite and if it wasn't open, default to last year's camp spot.  At least I'd know I was back on track timewise.

I gloved up for the descent then ripped all the way down to the road.  After 25 minutes descending, my legs weren't working when I got to the bottom.  On the road to Contin I found myself thinking, "Gosh, this is taking longer than I remember".  I kept one eye out for a friendly person in their garden who might like to make a tenner out of a tired cyclist but none emerged, it was - after all pretty chily and threatening to rain again.  

I got to the campsite gate.  This site used to be completely open and you could pitch up and leave any time.  In working hours the owner would come and take your money and bring you tea when you arrived.  If he didn't get to you, ah well, these things happen.  The gate was a shock last year.  This time I took the time to read the notices, "This is a private campsite.  Bookings please check in using the code given.  Walk-ins are possible - press the bell or phone this number after 2pm.  We will not answer before 2pm."

It was 21:00h.  I rang the bell.  Some people arrived and held the gate for me.  I (being the dilligent and polite person that I am) said, thank you but I'd better book in.  I held the gate and dialled the number.  No-one answered but the owner did appear.  I smiled and asked, "any room for a little tent?"

"Well, I don't suppose I have the option to say no now do I?  Wouldn't normally have taken your call after 9pm but here we are."

Confused as to what I had actually done wrong, I handed over ten crisp English pounds, desperately wishing I had the energy continue so I could have told him to shove it up his ass I'd be fine but thanks for the offer. 

Down on the site itself things took a turn for the better.  The Dutch lady who had conspired to let me in brought me a selection of teas and a cup of hot water and a nearby group of cycle-tourists popped over for a short chat but then left me to my business of pitching the tent and brewing up yet another dessicated meal to lighten the load further.

I was hoping to use the toilet for a proper poo but my body wasn't obliging.  Despite plans to be up early and get moving to gain some time on last year, I slept through the first alarm and packed at a slowish pace since I was going to eat my breakfast in the shop so was packing on an empty stomach.

However, it being a low-level camp, it made for a comparatively warm night and I slept right through.

Distance (from FA) -  93.58km 

Elevation - 1771m

Avg HR - 120

Sleep - 2300 - 0500

Day 3 - Contin to West Merkland

I packed up alone and walked my bike across the campsite to the Dutch camper to drop off my mug and teaspoon then headed up to the shop.  The owner was lovely and chatted to me about the state of the other riders and helped me out with finding stuff.  I chomped through my scotch pie then went back for yoghurt as it's what the body was demanding.  I packed away half my sausage roll and gulped down my coffee whilst watching the world get back to work after the weekend.  Yes, it was a very different approach from the front of the field who just grabbed and ran.  Apart from getting a blast of black smoke from a trashy fishing van, I didn't regret my life choices in the slightest. Maybe one day I'll make a real racer.

I left my bike locked up and let myself back into the campsite using the code I had reluctantly been provided with after I handed over my tenner and demanded it "in case I needed to get out and back in again".   I fully intended to get my money's worth before I left.  I could feel the CCTV burning into me as I let myself in, pooped as hard as I could manage and left... turning the light off as per the notices, of course.

On the trail, I had a conversation with a stick.  Yep.  I thought it was a bird in my track and asked it to move out of the way. When I realised it was a stick I told it, "That's OK then, you just carry on doing what you're doing".  The stick obliged.  Yep.  I've not seen any other people for a few days now.

The adventure centre at Ben Wyvis came with a cuckoo sighting (often heard but rarely seen) and the bridge over the river reminded me what a wonderful place this would be to stay one day when I get there at the right time.

I stopped once to pick up a re-useable zip tie off the track - having realised earlier that I hadn't packed any of my own. As I battled my headwind, I remembered Dotwatcher writing about this stretch, "this is where the race really speeds up as the riders head north - usually with a prevailing tailwind". 

This section was where Mart and I finally started to cross paths more regularly last year and I was reminded of the digger trundling along the road in the pouring rain (no traffic this year) and the place where the river was just running along the path as well as along its own sweet course.  I was reminded of the nesting birds swooping over thier rapidly disappearing nests in desperation as this year, the skylarks reeled and sang overhead and this little stonechat stopped in to give me some grief.

 

The stretch to the Outdoor activity centre seemed to fly by - probably because I wasn't at all hampered by the torrential rain from last year but just as I was starting to get complacent the heavens opened at the top of a descent.  I sprinted for the shed where - last year - Mart had stopped in desperation to make a cup of coffee to cheer himself up.  

I dived inside the same shed and donned my gaiters and waterproofs and set off back out into it.  It was, however, short lived and I went back to enjoying the drop into Glen Alladale and all of its undulations, benefiting slightly by some Estate team people involved in a photo-shoot at the bothy who had left all of the gates open.  

I foolishly let the landrover pass before the descent and he was going much slower than me so I stopped to eat my last energy bar brought from home then followed after. When I got to the bottom he was opening the last gate for me. Success!  Anatnatua - completed it mate!

A left turn.

For once, I resisted a stop at Croik Church - even though I could've used a loo - and instead, stopped to gather some water from the river before the Ullapool "road" gate.  Not sure what the wildlife cam was capturing there but they got a picture of a rather grumpy looking Trep as I was starting to feel a bit tired by that point.

The passage through farmland was as slick as ever - don't stop, keep your mouth shut. 

Finally, I was at the top of the descent to the Oykel Bridge Hotel and despite it being open now it was Monday, I fancied my chances for food elsewhere.  I dropped down, through the deer gate and onto the valley road over to Rosehall.  I was dogged by a nuisance driver who seemed to be cruising from photo op to photo op (passing place to passing place), constantly tinkling along behind me and when I stopped in to wave him past he hessitated just long enough to make me use my brakes and run out of passing place before driving on a half mile and stopping again.  Not sure if it was a race photographer or just a tourist but they won't have got any good photos of me!  I finally got away from him and got to Rosehall without much more interuption except the bin lorry.

At Rosehall, I'd missed the cafe unfortunately and decided to try the hotel.  I just caught the staff arriving and they agreed to serve me tea.  In answer to the tentative question of "what time do you serve food?" I was offered 5pm soup.  Perfect.  Once that was finished, I topped it off with a Lasagne, lemonade and coffee and bants with the locals.  They commented that my strategy was very different to the other racers and we had a good laugh about life goals.

They warned me to look out for the missing walker on the route and I scolded them for putting such thoughts into my head before leaving for a night alone on the bogs.  They were such a friendly crowd I could have stayed all week.  

Instead, I wasted some time in the toilets.  Now, you might remember from last year I suffered some gastric distress after leaving OBH.  I knew what it was and I knew I'd need the loo badly at some point on this ride so I went to the loo in the Achness Hotel and did a bit of yoga - all the stuff that's good for the digestive system.  Nothing was budging. I took as much time as I dared but eventually got bored of wavin my bum around in the air and put on all my waterproofs and went back out into the pouring rain.

What is it about this place? It really doesn't like me!

The climb up before Invercassley power station was less slick as I struggled to make the legs work.  I waddled into the bog for a wee before the top and, instantly 1kg lighter, I powered through to the trash weir and the next climb on the road.  Riding it was short lived and I walked the rest.

I've often looked out for flat spots by the side of this road and tonight was no exception but they were all quite breezy and anyway - I wanted to make the turning off into the Northern loop-proper before I bedded down for the night.  A few of the hay bails on the descent of the road looked like tempting camp spots until I remembered the downside of flies, midges, tics and dung and kept riding.

Into the wild north.  Those are clouds, not sno' tho'!

At least the downhill is rewarding in terms of miles. You can see the route on the other side of the loch but first you have to ride round it and, "Gosh, that took longer than expected".  Other previous camp spots came and went and I managed to keep going - through power station gate, the tiny hamlet and on up the road - always watching for otters and other wildlife.  

All the lights went on - rear blinky, front dynamo to power the vision forwards.  At West Merkland the rear light went off as I left the road and I started the long climb up towards my favourite camp spot up here.  It'd kind of be dreamy to make it that far but that would mean a good 90 minutes extra riding and some tricky terrain on lights in full darkness (the moon has just been a sliver).

Sure enough, part way up the climb from the road, the poo alarm went off and it was a race against nature to dig out my poop trowel, find a disguised place far enough away from the track and dig my cat hole.  Still, I got it done and crouched down to go.  Through the chill night air I could have sworn I heard voices.  Please don't tell me I've just pooped outside someone's camp.  Please tell me there's not a photographer here.  I concluded it was deer coughing and yapping in the night.  Probably gagging at my stench.  I burried my muck, staggered back across the bog and headed off into the night, feeling only as awesome as one does after a massive poop.

I decided I wouldn't go and try out my favourite camp spot as it's close to the river and I wasn't sure what level the river would be, given the heavy rainfall recently.  I wanted somewhere flatish with just the right level of breeze to avoid midges but not freeze.  I didn't want to drop too close to the lodge where I might be overlooked.  

I found a flat spot high above the trail and hoped that I might at least have a great view in the morning.  It was a bit of a trek to move the bike up there but it was well drained and I'd get a good sleep.  Everything went up without a hitch except I was on a bit of a camber and spent the night sleeping diagonally and hoofting myself around to avoid pressing on the tent sides.  Still, success was on hand.  I was now substantially ahead of my 2021 self including the extra progress I'd made up the road and the food that I was carrying to see me through to Drumbeg stores (last year due to the extra stop I had to stay at the hotel until breakfast to squander myself enough calories for the rest of the day).

I went to bed looking forwards to the sunrise over the mountains.

Distance -  131.26km

Elevation - 1821m

Avg HR - 108

Sleep - 0015 - 0730

Day 4 - West Merkland to Glen Canisp 

I slept through my early alarms so clearly I needed the rest - and I say that - ALL OF 7 HOURS!  I brewed up a coffee and ate the leftover garlic bread from my lasagne for breakfast.  The stove was still being annoying.  I'd thrown the doors of the tent open enthusiastically only to find the "view" was nothing but blank hillside across from me. 

To add insult to injury, a rider pedalled nonchalantly by on the road below me.  I put it down to being a race photographer or just someone out for a nice bike ride since I assumed that, by now, I was the last person on the course. 

Using a dull morning view as incentive to get up and get around the corner.

 

I slithered out of my bog and joined the descent to the lodge and the joyous single track into Glen Goly.  At the first lochan I stopped for my second breakfast and my rucsac played host to this pretty thing.  I'm assuming, a young dragonfly.

A host of small birds escorted me across the moorland.  A female grouse stopped in the path in front of me.  Her male counterpart had barked off someway into the distance. She stood her ground - not barking but co-oing like a pigeon.  I took her picture as she was so pretty then realised she probably had babies nearby so I proceeded with extreme caution.  She had a bit of a flap at me but eventually moved away.  I steped by one step at a time, minding my feet and my tyres until finally I saw a tiny yellow and brown freckled fledgeling cowering under a heathery cover.  I made my way and left them alone, realising only later that I managed to capture them both in my picture (you have to look really closely to the near left of the adult bird).

What I've later found out from Dawn to be meadow pippits escorted me from rock to rock.

Day becomes evening real quick on the Northern loop.  I needed to make it to Drumbeg to get enough food to carry me into Glen Canisp and beyond to Ullapool.  I rode on past where Johny Boy Baker caught me up last year and kept going! The pot noodle stayed in the bag this time.  

The Bealach Horn was fun.  The usual bog hopping resumed and I found a rear light at the predictable location of the drop-off.  I pocketed it in case someone had some emotional attachment to it. 

The river crossing was not nearly as bad as last year and I mostly kept my feet dry.  The push up the other side was time-consuming and hard but I felt like my arm muscles were finally starting to get on board with the process.  Stopped for a snackette to take it all in before leaving this magical place, promising to come back another time and enjoy it properly. 

Inadvertent selfie where I feel better than I look.

Want to camp here one day.

Over the top of the climb, Foinnaven greeted me with its usual sunshine. I dread the day I ever try and climb this beast and it actually rains on me.  I soldiered on up the other side of the valley from Achfary, changing to the "back" route with glee!

I can see the sea from 'ere! Nothing 'till Greenland.

Before I knew it I was swooping down the descent to Kylesku which is massively fun and even more so on the bike you love.  At the bottom, when you unceremoniously get dumped onto the road to a holiday chalet complex, you can laugh at people who don't say hello and pedal by silently in the knowledge that they haven't even noticed the seal frolicking in the changing tide as it rolled, dived and splashed about.  

Perhaps it was wrestling with a particularly chunky fish or maybe it was just really excited to see me.  On the main road, I completely ruined someone's photo of their mate driving the campervan over the bridge as I passed the other way and stormed on past the Kylesku hotel.  This was a novelty! I'd never been to Drumbeg before, having previously passed at extremely unsociable hours.  Getting people up at 11pm is one thing.  Waking them at 4am is a no-no, I don't care how lovely they are.

The traffic on the NC500 was blissfully quiet in the evening sun except for the odd knob-ed who can't be bothered to wait.  For one camper coming up the steepest slope, I dismounted to let him past, having run out of steam by that point anyway.  I passed my camp spot and Johny's camp spot from last year and pulled up at Drumbeg just as Eliza was leaving.  "WHEN DID I PASS YOU?" she cried.  I looked at her backpack - she was the serene-looking rider I had seen at 8am that morning.  

Two for tea?

Whilst I knocked on the door, we quickly caught up on our news then I was escorted around the shop, purchasing a range of immediately consumable items and some stuff to brew - ie. couscous.  This was all topped off with a tuna roll, consumed in the setting sun and a pot of tea. They left me to it and once I'd finished eating, I made use of the drumbeg services for a hands and face wash then set off to Ardroe to watch the zombie apocylpse campers coming out of their caravans to take pictures of the sunset.

I had to admit it was impressive and joined them, briefly capturing these paddle boarders in the harbour.

I guess one of the joys of being on a bike is you can see multiple views of the same sunset.  As I rode away from the coast (reluctantly - what a place it would have been to stop but it was too early!) I stopped to capture the final pink on Canisp and Suilven from the lane.  Had a chat with a German lady to explain how lucky we were and commiserate for all the lads and lasses who passed here earlier in the weekend - possibly in the rain, possibly in the dark.  Or maybe they saw an otter - we can't assume.

Canisp and Suilven - ready for the next round.

I didn't see any more cars - which is a blessing as I was going fucking fast on the newly surfaced road.  The offroad to Lochinver was a joy in the sunset (if not a little slithery still) and whilst Lochinver looked like a happening and vibrant town with the lights of the shipping harbour, it was actually dead and really odd to cruise through after the excitement of seeing Javi there last year.

No pies for me - in fact not even any toilets as they were locked up for the night.  

The head light went on after the Canisp Lodge and RSPB site and as I rounded a corner a massive bird of prey reeled out of the gauze bush, my light illuminating its under-belly.  I have no idea what it was (owl?) but it was very impressive and the bats were entertaining - dive bombing me as if to check if I were real.

Eventually it was just me and the river and time.  The descents were getting more technical, I was getting more tired and I didn't want to burn too much light or gain too much height and be cold.  After a well, placed wee stop, I found a flat saddle on the ridge overlooking the lake below and with a partial view of Canisp for the sunrise.  I convinced myself the moss was dry enough and convinced myself that if I pitched between these two strips of heather, then the heather would give me enough lying-down protection from the breeze yet, there would be enough breeze when I got up to avoid midges. 

In reality, a gentle blanket of fog settled over everything and it was a little bit damp out there.  This time though, I managed to remember my heat pads and I sacrificed one pair to a warmer night, sticking one to my back to warm my sleeping pad through and one to my belly to warm my sleeping bag up.  At least I had a packet of fresh Isle of Mull cheese from the Drumbeg stores and I nibbled down chunks with English Honey brought from home.

Distance -  93.76km 

Elevation - 2773m

Avg HR - 122

Sleep - 0010 - 0620

Day 5 - Glen Canisp to Drumnadrochit

Sunrise on Canisp

The only pic I actually took with my tent (and rubber gloves) in it 

A combination of light and alarm clocks told me to get moving.  I'd had porridge in my frame bag for days and today would see me on a resupply to Ullapool so I brewed up the porridge.  Stove still being twitchy so it took a while to get the water to brew for porridge and I gave up on coffee and drank the last of the San Pellegrino Orange/pomegranate pop from the Drumbeg stores.  I felt so middle-class I couldn't get the marbles out of my mouth. 

I soon realised my overnighter mistake - or was it? An extra 90 minutes walk/riding would have got me to the Suileg bothy where I could've spent the night under a roof.  I guessed this is where Eliza had ended up and I felt a bit of a fool. (later I asked on how the bothy was and her first answer was "busy" so I don't think I'd have been that welcome late at night).

The temperature rose dramatically as I crossed Ledmore and the tumbling river pools became overwhelmingly tempting for a swim but I am sworn not to swim when racing as it takes the body too long to recover from the cold.  So I photographed them for later instead.

Last year on Ledmore /Glen Canisp crossing, my feet really started to hurt badly and I was exhausted - constantly stopping to recover the energy to continue.  I was adamant that I'd never come back with a bike.  

This year on the way up I thought that was a ludicrous thought and that I must've been being really silly. On the way down, my mood started to shift again. I mean, there's just no point in riding.  For a while, you suck it up because you're in the most beautiful place but then you get to bits that could be rideable and you try and your wheel sucks into a bog and you're off and walking again.

A few times I stopped and took a breath but in general, I didn't lie down on a boulder and wish myself dead like I did last year.  It really was going a lot better and I patted myself on the back for accidentally breaking up the heaviest walking section over 2 days with a nice restful sleep in the middle.

I arrived at Cam Loch full of the joys and spent a mandatory few minutes sat on the log eating sweeties before continuing to the Ledmore Junction (road).  I honestly have to say though that in around 6.5 hours I feel like I rode 300m.

Looking across Cam Loch to Cul Mor

The final pitch of this track does at least give some opportunities for fun along the lake shore and I was back to pushing the Cotic to do more than the Trek ever could.  We'd done this route on a reccee so I knew just what the bike could handle.  Unfortunately, having done the whole route this time, I wasn't in a fit state for much but we rode what we could.

The Ledmore Junction is a bit of a baptism of fire. Two lanes of highway soon become a single track with fast moving cars though most are sensible and pass carefully or even wait for oncoming bikes.  I know this time that it is really not long until OBH is reached (although I still wasn't intending to use it) and I cruised down - stopping only to remove my thick socks that had been protecting my feet all day and were now getting rather warm in the sun and would only get hotter on the climb away from OBH.  

In my enthusiasm to maintain momentum, I almost went back the way I'd come then set myself straight on the road to the Schoolhouse bothy. It came up sooner than I'd remembered and I thought I must at last be getting on top of the fitness.  A few walkers and runners exchanged empathetic glances and words with me.

At the river-crossing soon after where Johnny Boy Baker had camped out last year, I stripped down to bare feet, tied my boots around my neck and waded across in a paddle.  I didn't fancy wet boots for the descent, for the shopping in Ullapool or for the Fisherfield crossing.  I really fancied clean feet.  Socks back on and I was moving again then surprised by a convoy of bob trailers coming the other way (WHO? I haven't seen a bob trailer in ages!)

Once on the top road (which just goes on and on in undulations through more streams and splash-pits) I started to worry about closing times in Ullapool which was a shame as I met some nice ladies and dogs walking and could've stopped to chat but needed to push on. 

At the next gate, my opportunity for a chat with a real human arrived in the form of Eliza who finally caught me up after fixing the last of her mechanicals in the Bothy over-night and having a bit of a lie in to celebrate.  We commiserated over soggy shorts and funny hours - jet lag / sleep patterns - and agreed we'd probably meet up for fish n chips in Ullapool after a supermarket stop.  She rode on ahead leaving me to plough into the headwind along the loch cursing, fucking small people who slip under the wind without detection.

The singletrack to Ullapool was ultimate fun again, only a little more sideways than usual.  I went straight to the supermarket for the more urgent matter of 2 days breakfasts and some forward-thinking evening meals (sauce to go with the couscous). I picked up a limited amount (not enough): porridge pots, lunch stuff, chocolate and sweeties, assuming I'd get my main calorie source from Fish & Chips.

Eliza went the other way and I left her sat on the bench trying to eat / pack her food enough so that she could carry it. 

I ordered my food at the chippy then set off to secure a bench fit for two.  Shortly after Eliza arrived and we had a good catch up where I casually mentioned I'd picked up someone's light in the bog on the Bealach Horn.  "That's mine!" she squealed with delight.  I mean really, she screamed it so loud I thought she was putting it on! However, I was chucking rubbish out and relieved to avail myself of 50g of red light that was surplus to my own requirements, I handed it over so she could be visible on the road and return it to Naoimi Freirch when she was done with it.

Again I left Liz flapping about battery power and started to enjoy her company - she made me look organised and composed.  I took a turn up and down the sea front looking for water and eventually settled on the pub who let us both fill up bottles and Liz used the loo all for free.  We have promised to return to buy beer.  We set off down the road side by side, hoping two red lights shining into the twilight would be safer than individuals and occasionally drifted apart to avoid drafting when cars came by.  She pulled ahead of me on the road at the end of Loch Broom and I overshot the Coffin Road before turning back to retrace.  After all I waxed lyrical about enjoying it Alan would be highly amused to think I'd nearly missed it.  It was all slightly confused by a pair of classic cars driven by Germans (hired?) who were a) lost and b) really embarrassed by the old TR7's tendancy to beep whilst being reversed.  They were mortified and I was just wanting to pull a U-turn with them in the way.

We moved up the coffin road with Liz well in front and me stopping to test my garmin to figure out why it didn't send me up the coffin road.  I put the spare into action and tried to re-load the route onto the main Garmin before we went out of phone signal.  After 10 minutes of trying I gave up but at least it gave me the opportunity to snap this little gem.

I met up with Liz consuming more of the food that was now swinging from her backpack like an unwanted papoose and was piling on layers of clothing for the night-hike into Fisherfield. I marvelled as to where she was keeping all this stuff on a tiny bike and could only manage it by reasoning that she had a tiny tent, tiny sleeping bag and mat and tiny clothes... and no room for food.

We talked a lot of shit on the crossing of the Coffin Road until eventually concluding that we didn't fancy the boggy descent in the dark as we looked over the edge into the black abyss, the puddles reflecting back the still twilighty night sky.  We spread out to identify flat spots on the hillside and for the second time in two days, I deployed heat pads to help me get to, and stay, asleep. 

Distance -  89.58km 

Elevation - 1605m

Avg HR - 108

Sleep - 0015 - 0500 shortest sleep yet

Day 6 - Drumnadrochit to Tollie Path

I woke up shivering chronically.  Not only cold but needing the loo desperately.  I scrabbled for trowel and, trying not to wake my new friend, set off somewhere well away from the camp spots and out of sight and stench of the path.  I took a very long walk, had a successful mission and returned to camp in a much better mood.  Having texed my husband the night before to tell him I was "a bit grumpy, fed up and tired", I spent the rest of the day meaning to follow up with "had a big poo, now feel much better" but I never did.  I'm sorry I missed this important opportunity.

 

My crashing back to the tents woke Eliza who packed up and followed me off into the bog, whooping and laughing along the way.  With her on a full suss and me on the hard tail we have a mini riot.  She filmed me descending the steep slope and must've captured brilliantly on camera as I dinked my helmet on the over-hanging tree then grinned as I realised I'd played for it and (for once) won, until I slid out on the corner and nearly tipped into the nettles.

A little ray of sunshine in Drumnadrochit

We dropped into Drumnadrochit and before I knew it we had left it again which I'm annoyed about because I got quite a long way along it before realising I was still carrying a ton of rubbish and some uneaten chips in a box and I could've dropped them in a hikers carpark bin.  

 

I stopped to enjoy the river with Eliza up ahead and out of mind and ate the last of my chips so I was at least only carrying a cardboard box.  Onward and upward, the push was burning in my arms but I just trudged, then things open out and you can ride along with the lower slopes of An Teallach to your right and all is well with the world.   

Sheneval at a distance

Some women coming the other way called out that they'd left some whisky at the bothy that they found in a bog.  Not for me - alcohol and racing - not sustainable.  I did catch up with Eliza who had partaken in Whisky and was in the middle of down-dressing to take on the Fisherfield crossing.  Why have one semi-naked woman when you can have two?  So I joined her sat in the sand, disrobed, put my boots back on then waded over - first my heavier bags and then carried the bike second.  

My camera was a bit embarrased!

A brief stop to wash off body parts again and then we set off across to Larachintavore and the climb up by Ben Dearg Mor.  Once we'd left behind the stream, Liz disrobed again and on my advice that no-one in the valley would have any phone signal to report her for indecency, she set off butt-naked up the climb.  I was tempted to join in but valued my under-carriage too much so stuck to climbing in bib shorts, still flabbergasted at my ability to capture this mountain range at its best.

I did my best to slither down as much of the descent as I could but my bottle eventually broke and I walked to the rideable sections that cut across the hillside and rode all but the biggest of boulder fields.  By the time I got to the bottom I was exhausted and out of food apart from 6 jelly-beans and some couscous.  The important thing was, I had made it to the Causeway.  Unfortunately, I'd hoped to be there sooner but we'd stopped the Dundonnel side instead. It was too early to stop now and I had to get out but I had so few calories left in my body.  A large boulder presented itself out of the breeze, just around the corer from the Causeway so I established a brew stop there and - once the food was brewed - lay on my side and chowed my way through couscous and pasta sauce with my head resting on my arm trying not to fall asleep. Whatever was left over was all I had left to eat without getting the stove out again and Couscous often swells in my stomach and makes me ill so I saved half for later and reluctantly shovelled it back into the pot.

A quick hunt through my bags revealed one energy gel I'd not yet eaten so I churned that and it found me another gear to get out of the valley.  There were a few walkers on their way in to a beautiful long weekend - though not as many as I'd expected. It was a bit of a relief to be honest and another accidental timing bonus - getting away from the holiday weekend "traffic".  I wondered if Liz had stopped in Carnmore bothy or carried on. 

I rode all the way out to Poolewe, assuming that by the time I got there most places would, unfortunately be closed.  When I reached the bridge over the river Ewe, I had used up all the couscous in my body so sat on a bench to polish of the last of it then headed into the public toilets to have a wee, hands and face wash and clean my teeth for the night ahead.  It took me back to my childhood camping days.

Up the road climb then back down the trail.  What took me time this evening was searching for a camp spot as the sun sank - anything to get me out of sight of cars, enough breeze and a bit of a view.  A lot of discarded points, eventually I settled on the first drop off down to Loch Maree with a view over Slioch and Kinlochewe in the distance.  I don't remember being that tired this night but somehow in my plan was a camp on the Tollie Path and I didn't feel like arguing with that plan.  I set myself an alarm for the sunrise - which I was surprised to learn happened at 3:15am.  

It was 10:15 when I stopped and probably 1200 when I finally fell asleep watching this fade to grey and purple from under my tent door.  Unnervingly when I woke again the next day the scenery was the same as the rising sun in the mountains cast the colourful glow onto the sea.

Distance -  50.91km 

Elevation - 1509m

Avg HR - 108

Sleep - 1130 - 0600

Day 7 - Tollie Path to Glen Affric

Sunrise over Slioch and Loch Maree - the other way this time.

Despite the early alarm, I dropped off again.  Luckily I was woken again by frantic flapping from the tent due to a sudden change in wind direction.  Clearly I'd felt the need for a proper rest and given my distance total to date, I needed to pull an all-nighter on the last night to at least balance last year's time and hopefully beat it.  Strange reasoning here to use this rest to offset not resting later but I realised, despite the disappointment that I was unlikely to go sub-8 days, I'd just done Fisherfield in one day and that was something to be proud of after yesterday, telling everyone it wasn't possible.  Of course the short distance of the Coffin Road helped, dropping us into Dundonnel before the big attack on the valley.  

I packed up the tent quickly to stop it from getting ripped to shreds.  In general I was impressed with what it was standing up to and realised why the sailing community use SIL so much.  I set off down the hill in a bit of a hurry, only realising too late that my rucsac was open and I'd lost *something* from it - though as yet I didn't know what.

Thanks to the lack of calories on board I had to get to Kinlochewe on time for the shops to be open to fuel me over Torridon and beyond.  At least I had the porridge on board and half way down the hill, once the breeze had dropped enough, I brewed up breakfast and went to use some of that instant coffee I dislike so much.  It was that which had been lost from my bag and, while I was more upset that I'd lost one of my Nalgene bottles than upset about the coffee, I was a bit bummed that I didn't get the caffeine rush.

The stove was playing up but I got it going enough to make the porridge.  The cannister seemed to the be the problem so I resolved to replace it.    

I changed into lightweight socks as the temperatures started to climb.  Dropping on to the road, the relief was short lived as I had to cope with holiday traffic and close-passes although most drivers were good and waited until they could see around the fast bends and rises.

I pulled into Kinlochewe stores and filled a basket with produce for the day, a tin of tuna and a compulsory icecream. Once I'd packed the first and consumed the latter, I went back in to replenish my gas canister (in the hope of making the stove work better) and bought some matches since I'd used a lot of lighter fuel getting the gas to flow.  I then moved back down the road to the petrol station who were serving excellent coffee and toastie and cake.  I had a nice chat with some Dutch motorcyclists who had stumbled across Morten Kjærsgaard at Eileen Donnan Castle yesterday.  I felt slightly less alone.

It was weird setting off towards Torridon in daylight as I'm usually clinging onto Kinlochewe as the last stop of  the night.  It was nice to turn off the road and get away from the stream of high-brow motor vehicles blatting along the single-track roads. The new section of track was blissful with the tide out.  It replaced a long forest climb and fast rocky track that I punctured on last year.  I was trying not to take too many photos but this cormorant basking on the shore couldn't be ignored. 

My day in Torridon was punctuated by satisfying moments when I remembered the fuss that had been required to fix the puncture and how I'd walked through the night to make some time back last year.  Although I was making up time on the puncture, I was haemoraging it to the overnight moves I'd pulled.  My aim today was to come out of tomorrow morning still up on my position last year.

 

I massively enjoyed Torridon in the daylight, riding all but the steepest droppiest of slabs and rolling into LochCarron just in time for some dinner at the Strathcarron hotel.  I met the new owner on my reccee 3 years ago and it was great to see her doing so well with plenty of customers and at least 3 other staff members.

I was watching the sun starting to set instead of starting to rise so I was still 12 hours ahead of my last year schedule.  I also rode most of the way up the steep road climb so things were looking good.  I crossed by Attadale Gardens and promised myself I'd be back later to take a visit here.  Over the hills and into Dornie.  Another stretch that didn't feel so bad and passed relatively quickly.  Knowing it was evening and everything would be shut I was glad I ate when I did at Strathcarron.  My aim was to get into Glen Affric as far as possible. I was gutted not to make it to Manuella's cafe in Dornie again but instead I went down to the public toilets to ditch my rubbish and put my knee warmers on for the evening riding.  All done whilst dodging teenagers getting drunk and singing karaoke at the Hotel in the village.  The road climbs were a slog, but a pretty slog and the roads were relatively quiet.  

I dropped down into Morvich and checked my electrics on the bike.  My light wasn't giving off as much light as it should have been.  My battery had only charged one bar though all of the road riding I'd done.  Bugger, I didn't need this to fail.

As usual at Morvich, I forgot to take the turn off to Glen Affric itself.  A double back outside the mountain rescue hut is always a special thing.

I let the light determine what time I stopped and also finding a sheltered spot to get out of the stiff breeze that would keep me awake with flapping and strip the heat off.  With no heat patches left, I didn't want to camp high and soon enough a pair of large boulders by the track gave me enough space and flat ground to pitch the tent between them.  It was a pretty shivery Trep that rolled into bed but a properly tired one.

I ate the last of my Isle of Mull cheese and dropped off.

Distance -  95.2km 

Elevation - 1504m

Avg HR - 116

Sleep - 0130 - 0530 new shortest sleep

Day 8.75 - Glen Affric to finish

Foolish to start my longest day after my shortest night's sleep but my Tollie Path sleep had left me with fuel in the sleep tank and I couldn't wait to get onto the hill and do as much climbing as possible before the temperatures got up.

I was on the trail by 7:30 and filled my water bottles up at the mountaineering hut before the steep climb.  By the time I was 3/4 of the way up, the sun was already blinding, the temperatures searing.  The helmet was off but without the peak I was nearly blind so I had to wear my buff and pull it over my glasses to give my eyes some more protection.  Was I really in Scotland?

Channelling my inner pirate.

 At the begining of the climb I'd tried carrying my bike for the first steep section at the steps.  I instantly regretted it because it filled my bra with grit at the back and I spent the rest of the climb trying to get grit off my suncreamed neck and shoulders.

I knew the Glen Affric climb was long and last year it really dragged after my Torridonian all-nighter.  This year I just enjoyed it although the heat really did start to grind, I gave in to the water and took off my bib shorts to sit in one of the scallopped pools before the summit.  I was mostly alone on the hill and managed this feat without upsetting any strangers.  It felt wonderful to be clean and cooled by the mountain water.

In the words of the great Annie Le - "Glen Affric, still not shit"

As I hit the summit, I was pleased to see three riders coming towards me actually ON their bikes - and with drop bars too.  They asked me if the path ahead improved! Ha!  I gave them the bad news that they were about to have a long carry.  We swapped cafe recommendations for the road ahead.  Thanks to them for reminding me that I had Tomich to look forwards to.

The best thing about doing Glen Affric in the heat - apart from the dip - was the complete disregard I developed for puddles and river crossings.  At one point I cursed Alan and his route after I rode through the river crossing then felt guilty and retraced my steps to follow the designated route over the bridge and back again, just to say I'd completed the course.  All the other puddles I splashed through at full force except for one which I knew was a stinking hole from previous experience. 

After the private bothy, the long slog starts so I took some time to eat some of my food, sitting by the head of loch Affric and watching families paddle in the water.  I then started the long drag along the lake shore.  Sometimes powered and positive but more gradually getting dozy.  It wasn't even sleepy time but I just got a bit bored - gosh this was taking longer than I remember.  I started to fall asleep in exactly the same place as I did last year and it was only 2pm on my all-nighter - things weren't looking good.  I looked down at my Garmin and for the last 20 minutes I'd been weaving across the track as I dozed off.  At each zig and zag I'd dreamt of old women, dogs and children running into the track infront of me and I swerved to miss them. In fact I'd slept through nearly running off the side of the trail several times.  Turns out my intuitive balance is pretty good. 

I gave myself a caffeine or sugary kick in the ass and dug in a bit.  I could chivvy myself up with the promise of the cafe at Tomich if I just got myself there in time.  

It worked and I sloughed down the descent to Tomich, just picking up a bit of traffic on the way.

Pony Treking - caution, theiving cyclists.

Things worked out well, though.  The lead rider was piloting two horses so really struggled to open the gate.  I called ahead to let me close it for them and then they let me past to open the next gate and they let me continue on to catch the cafe in time.

Tomich cafe is a wonderful place and I plied myself with Ice cream, cake and coffee and then went back for a scone and crisps for the ongoing journey. I also asked her to grind me another cup's worth of coffee which she did, wrapped in crisp brown paper and lovingly packed into my awaiting ziplok bag.  I nearly gave her all my money and bought the house down the road I loved it so much.

I reluctantly pulled myself away from the normal people, taking my pile of drying socks and sweaty gloves with me.  It was time for the Pylon road which I wasn't looking forwards to.  

Last year the pylon road came as a bit of a surprise for me as I'd never reccied it.  As such it felt longer than it really was.  I mean, it still went on but this time I knew what to expect.  I had enough water that I didn't need to refill.  I ploughed my way through herds of sheep - all of which wanted to run on the road in front of me which was fine until I wanted to go downhill faster than sheep could run and then I had to ball my voice off at them to get off the fucking road.  It was great fun and a good outlet for some pent up annoyance and good to keep me awake.  Screaming "NOT THAT WAY" at some Ovid who chose to run across 2 ft from my 25 mph front wheel. 

I'd imagined I might camp on the drovers road section where I'd sat and drank water last year at the stream crossing but we were all too early for that and I just crossed over and carried on my way, dropping into Fort Augustus just in time for the last few orders of chips.  Except I didn't want chips, I wanted anything but.  I got a veggie burger smothered in Mayonaise, checked but the shop wasn't open so just carried on my way with what I had, hoping that the Chinese in Fort William would still be open by the time I got there instead.

The sunset over Loch Ness and Ben Nevis from the Great Glen Way

I set off into the dusk, crossing the weir which was dry as a bone - unlike last year - and on through the series of kinks in the river, road and bridge crossings, past the Eagle Barge where the group bail of 2019 came together.  I thought ahead of all the bits to go - the singletrack by the loch, the forest roads.  "Gosh that's longer than I remember it".

At the Moy Bridge my light reflected off shining eyes.  Initially I thought it was a cat but then the distinctive beige bib of another pine marten bounded towards me.  It gave me a stare, before disappearing into the hedgerow.  My ride had been book-ended by pine martins.

With enough battery on my GPS to last me the rest of the trip, I dug out my power bank and set it to charge my spare head torch light for the "long" night ahead.  As soon as that was done, my dynamo light perked right up so obviously the two had been in conflict.  It was just in time for a night-ride through Fort William so good timing.  

The little estates on the edge of town came and went.  It was already midnight so I didn't even bother to check the Chinese take-away.  

The railway crossing and soldier's bridge always feel like great milestones of urban refuge.  Like if you were really really desperate you could hide out there with the homeless and the estranged until everything opened and your life was OK again... but I didn't need them.

When I pulled out on to the main road, I checked left and right to see if the petrol station had indeed become 24 hours shop (no) or the new fast food outlets on the way out of town had a 24 hrs Maccy D's (no).  A part of me was relieved that a modicum of decency has been retained.

Now I had to make a really important decision as to whether I had enough calories to get to Kinlochleven in the morning: two portions of couscous that needed to be cooked on a dodgy stove (which hadn't let me down yet), half a bag of jelly babies, a packet of crisps, half a packet of "onion rings"... yep, that was it.

I really didn't know if I had enough calories but I sure as hell wasn't going to stop in Fort William as long as I had a clear night ahead of me and a race to finish so I set on up the track, first twiddling a low gear and then reverting to walking and cracking open the onion rings.  My mouth really wasn't in the mood for fake onion-flavoured fake batter but the calories! Oh the lovely calories!

The hike was long so the packet was folded away in the rubbish pocket and the crisps I'd bought earlier came out.  When I bought them I thought, "ooh yes - ham and English mustard".  When I ate them, my brain went, "OH YES!"  So tasty.  Thank you posh crisps.

A few jelly babies for desert.  Save the rest for later.  It killed the time it takes to get to the fun bit - the twisty singletrack descent into the woodlands which - with insufficient light to see the wreckage of the forestry operations - is much more pleasant in the dark.

The river crossings (bridges) were booming into the night air, flowing cold breezes around the place.  This is what I was here for - sunshine avoidance.  As well as wanting to finish the ride as quickly as possible, I was dreading doing this pitch in full, sweaty sun.  Yesterday on Glen Affric was bad enough.  Yes - it was yesterday for the time was now reading 2am.

The stomach was hungry again and at the first reasonable flat spot I promised myself a brew-up of couscous.  Shelter was provided by the roots of a Scotts Pine above a waterfall. My sit mat took the worst of the bumps out of the ground.  My sleeping bag liner was deployed to keep my legs warm while my synthetic down coat went on the top half.  The stove worked perfectly and I brewed my couscous, stuck it in my jacket to cook-through then brewed up water for my posh Tomich coffee which I percolated in a pot noodle container, let the grounds settle then decanted back into my Ti mug.  Pro wild Barista.

Even with the coffee on board I was feeling sleepy.  Inky blue, orange and yellow still tinged the skyline at 2:30 where the sun had left, and I knew the sun would start to come back behind me at 3:15 so I lay down where I was and had a turbo nap interspersed with shivers.  For a moment I thought of getting out my sleeping bag and mat but the thought of sleeping in and another mountain biker coming over the top to find me asleep on the "good line" was too much of a horror story to contemplate. When the shivers got too much for me, I packed back up and set off again.

There was, and still is, a blackout point in my memory of this trail.  I had to go back to the map to look it up.  That fine, nourished highland glen filled with indigenous woodland, hanging on to a scrap of authenticity eventually transitions into the approach to Kinlochleven... but how?  

I got there - I didn't remember anything about it.  A series of deer gates, that keeps out the pestulent critters.  More woodland scrub, then eventually, the last deer gate and out onto open moorland again.  The broad rocky line of the West Highland Way and back onto familiar territory.  Gosh, that last bit took longer than I remember.

Last year I watched the sun rise here from my tent at the top of the climb out of Kinlochleven, just before the devil's staircase.  This year I was 24 hours earlier, although a few kms (and two massive climbs) behind.  As I mixed up walking loose stones and riding the solid bits, the light levels increased and the shadow-line gradually crept down the glen towards me.  I was still wearing my synthetic down and waterproof, my knee covers and rain-legs.  Eventually a steady stream of WHW walkers started towards me - all of them wearing teeshirts.  A few came out wiht the legendary, "I'm glad I'm not you".  Well, "Thank you, I'm glad I'm not you".  One guy was interested and asked me how far I can travel in a day.  When I answered he said, "Oh, so you could basically do the whole WHW in a day".  "well I could, but I'm not, and that's why I have all this stuff".  He seemed genuinely intrigued like he might give it a try.

New ferns, full of colour in the early morning fugg.

At last I poured into sunlight and it was time to lose the layers.  The sunshine/shade continued for a while and there was a slight breeze but generally, things were hotting up - and for the descent as well. I slithered down as much as I could and walked the rest.  The bridge at the bottom that tried to kill me last year was either gone or I ignored it and splashed through the water instead.  I nearly cried when I realised the co-op was open at 7:30am on a Sunday.

I locked up the bike and bought a ton of stuff, ate some of it, drank a whole bottle of juice then went back for more food and a can of coke to bag for later.

Final pit stop was the toilets for the hands and face wash and usual stuff including a water bottle top up.  With cool water on my back, I started the climb up the pipes.  Half way up I was falling asleep so I found a nice layby, stuck my feet up on a rock, put my windproof over my eyes and had 20 minutes sleep.  I was bouyed by that and floated on up to the switchback where I sat down last year to eat my dinner as Mart caught me up and passed me, flaking out 200m later.  That's it, I thought - I must almost be there.  (Gosh - that bit actually went quicker than I remember).

I didn't quite make it past the spot where I camped last year.  It was such a lovely spot, I got my lunch out.  For the first time in a week, I spread fresh guacamole on fresh sourdough bread and added lashings of fresh salami, washed down with fresh coke (well, still cold - just).

The walkers were all amused by me pushing my bike down the descent but seemed sated when I grumpily told them I'd have 50 minutes sleep in the last 30 hours.  Some were just encouraging.

The last 100m were depressing.  They said, "welcome back to planet motorcar" as traffic hurled left and right along the main A road - holidaymakers heading home from the long weekend.  Others heading into the hills for their last day of freedom.  Thank god for the footpath.  Another walker asked me, "do you guys go on the road after Glencoe?" I bit my tongue to avoid screaming, "I'm not doing the fucking west highland way!!!".  I muttered something about only going to Tyndrum.

At Kingshouse I was passed by a renault kangoo who needed me to get off the road so that he could speed up to the barriered road.  He wasn't thankful. He then parked his kangoo blocking the passage for all but the skinniest of bikes but he wasn't bothered.  Oh god, get me out of here.

Thankfully, some women doing LEJOG with a support vehicle offered me some flapjack which cheered me right up while I waited for a gap in the traffic to cross the road.  I promised myself one last comfort break - a sit on the boulders at the start of the trail to change into my fluffy socks and protect my feet a little from the continuous bashing that was to follow.  I then rode on a half mile with my rucsac open so god knows what (if anything) I lost but as yet, it doesn't seem like it was anything important.

Amazingly, the walkers coming towards me were all quiet on the downhill stretch. Something told me they were pretty jealous of my breeze-generating speed machine as I flew past in the opposite direction.  A lady with a Louisiana drawl asked me how far it was to the next tree (for shade).  I was moving too fast to answer.  As the day went on, the walkers became flakier and flakier.  They huddled around rivers and forests, getting respite from the heat.  They lay down on boulders using arms and rucsacs to generate paltry shade that they could rest in.  

I flew by.

When I reached the Lodge I was convinced that most of the foot damage of the highland trail takes place on that downhill.  A consistent 15 minutes of foot-bashing on solid rock and so consistent.  I might as well ask a baseball player to smack my feet against a rock for 5 minutes.  I resisted the pull of the river - though a big group of tents and their occupants were indulging fully.  I had the Mur to complete and it did challenge me.  As soon as I'd started the climb I felt dreadfully sleepy and without my auto-generated breeze, incredibly hot.  I put my bike down, dropped to my knees to get out my windproof from my rucsac and instantly fell asleep and started dreaming about the stores at Drumbeg. I was still half awake, keeping myself perfectly upright but at the same time, half asleep - totally still with one hand in my rucsac.  

After this short snooze I came to, put my coat on to cover my skin, took my helmet off and re-started the climb.  My feet were hurting and my legs were slow so when I got to a place with a breeze, I lay down again - this time with my feet uphill of me and my coat over my eyes and I stayed awake and ate another packet of crisps, hoping the food would flow up hill into my belly without choking.  At least I managed to stay awake and draining some of the toxins out of my legs and feet seemed to help.

I could really smell the finish now.  I'd been snacking on tic tacs for a few hours and my descent of the slopes to the Bridge of Orchy were accompanied by the percussion of tic tacs bouncing up and down in my bar bag.  The old ladies loved it - that shit was better than a bell and they cheered me down the descent for that brief moment when I actually felt like a mountain biker again and not some old lady dragging a bag-trolley around the highlands.

I tried not to feel jealous of the hotel residents and crossed the road, chatting with locals about how a pedestrian crossing would be nice just there.

Boop.  Onto the final straight.

There's nothing quite like dropping onto the bridge and into the gate that you last passed through, days ago.  You know that there's nowt between you and the finish but one long uphill slog and then the last downhill at the end.  And now I didn't have that bloody stile to worry about.

Right at that moment though, I didn't have any room for emotions. I dealt with facts. Some people say they don't want it to end. I was ready for a sit down. I was ready for a shower. Damn. It was 5. 30. I was ready for my dinner.. I was ready for a sleep. As my mind turned down for another snooze, my logic brain took hold and I shouted, "No, you're nearly there! keep going!" Thankfully that woke my legs up and I started powering up the climb.  It hurt my feet but it was the best I'd ridden in hours. 

A couple passed me on bikes, asked if I was doing the HT, then told me two of his mates were doing it. "Did they finish?" I asked. I'd still not looked at trackleaders the whole time - despite occasional weather checks on my phone in the first few days to decide what time I might stop and sleep to avoid bad weather.  Was it even possible anyone else was on the course behind me?  He said one of his mates finished but he wasn't sure about the other one.

One more hiker to contend with, carrying a backpack bigger than me. For once I moved faster than someone.  Under the railway bridge and over the rough terrain to the final drop. There was a Stop sign at the end of the track that wasn't there before then I realised it was TSK wearing his Penguin books teeshirt - only the orange & white background was visible against the black teeshirt standing by the shady trees. Over the line I dropped to the ground and stuck my feet in a washing up bowl of fresh cold water then flip flops.

The steady walk down the hill to the real food cafe. Bundled inside to a shady spot to bird-watch from indoors fuelled by chips and a tasty burger. Real Salad.

The shower felt good, the bed felt better.

There were no arguments over the fancy pillow. I chose the inflatable camp pillow. Hanging onto the final fringes of wildness before the long drive home.

Wearing my windproof to keep the searing heat off.

 

Distance -  187.87km 

Elevation - 2135m

Avg HR - 112

Sleep - 80 minutes