Glorious information-gathering failure - The Highland Trail 2019 write up

The start of the ride was quite serene for me for once.  My friends in no short order had lost their GPX files and their pod keys and I was confused about what I was missing out on.  I flitted amongst the pack wishing others a good ride.  The mens’ field soon rushed off and a few women and occasional guy left behind picked our way through the remaining open gates and walkers who, having waited for an entire peloton to pass were now reluctant to step out of the way of one or two stragglers.

Foto (c): Mike Clarke

I got to the bottom of the hill. At Easter I’d already stopped 5 times to eat food and remove layers.  The trek around Loch Long started.  Already we saw a few riders turning back the other way.

A number of times I thought to check that my spot was on but then waited till the top of the hill where I forgot… and repeat.  It was only on reaching the reservoir dam where my Garmin GPS always screws up that I thought to check.  It was off.  I started it going and swore a bit.  At least I had the GPX to verify my route.  I thought several times about saving the file – just to make sure I had it – but didn’t want to screw up the math.  It didn't feel like a good start but it kind of took my mind off the first 40km (I later discovered it was on all the way). 

At Bridge of Balgie, I tried to persuade Alan P to come in for lunch but he refused, citing guilt for stopping so early.  I gorged on soup and wondered why I’d carried so much food when I could buy stuff here.  I’d pretty much packed my bags at home then added more at Tyndrum through habit.

I hadn’t remembered the next turn well but soon remembered the long climb and the descent to Rannoch, now soggy.  The brakes were already a little sketchy.  Balloons hung on the fence post in the rain and I felt welcomed. This sensation spread as Isla Rowntree cheered us through.  Now the start of the road to Ben Alder.

All the memories were swathed in grey.  I had no-one to describe the non-existent view to so I pedalled furiously over to the end of the trail then started the slow bump over bog and broken branches.  I was with Steven – of the big rucsac – and Cath W was behind me as I passed her having a faff on the trail. 

Steven was keen for water from the bothy but I explained the process for sourcing water.  He was happy to follow me over the moor – probably because he was too far ahead to hear me having a conversation with the tree who protected me from the evening breeze last time I was here.  It was 4pm, not 7pm when we passed the bothy.  Steven waited whilst I manhandled my bike up onto the bridge and was kind enough not to laugh when the wheel flopped over to one side and the saddle pack smacked me in the face, leaving a muddy war-paint smear on me to carry up the hill.

We caught up to Nick Bubb and John Beckley(SA) as we made our way up.  They were taking care on the drains.  My training 1 month earlier meant I had good technique sorted though I mis-judged a few.  I was running high tyre pressure just for this section and I came away puncture-free.  At the point where I bivied in the snow in April, I stopped to munch on Bombay mix in the rain.  Not wanting to remove my hand from my glove I held the bag like an apple and scoffed straight from the wrapper.

Nick grinned at me as he passed.  A few metres later he was stopped by the trail, hydrating a food sachet.  I made him realise how hungry he was.

I made a fun descent of Ben Alder.  All going swimmingly till my front wheel lodged in a rut as my body was trying to do something completely different.  As soon as the wheel hit a rock I was off and flying through the air towards another large rock in the path.

Development on the bruises 2 days later

My elbow and knee impacted the ground first followed by my back and then the back of my head or my helmet on the rock.  I was OK to get up.  I checked the bike over then we had a little walk as the stinging pain subsided and all muscles returned to normal.

We rode it out to the other bothy where, despite asbestos warnings, 3 bikes were lined up outside.  It was too early to stop and too risky to get cold.  Besides I didn’t fancy waking up in such a remote location, stiffened from my fall.  I rode on.  As I descended to some semblance of community, I remembered my brakes were shot – possibly a contributing factor to the crash.  The rain was pouring now and I was cold from the descent.  I needed somewhere warm to fix the brakes up.

I rode on across forest-covered moorland until, descending to Kinlochlaggan, I found a farmyard with a shed and a very comfy – looking haybail.  I was considering asking about sleeping in the hay when I noticed caged dogs alongside and concluded it would not be a restful night, even if they said yes. 

Thankfully just around the corner was a tree, offering what seemed like the last bit of shelter in Scotland.  I donned the Rapha vest I almost didn’t bring and the fleece from my bar bag.  Both were already wet. 

By swinging my arms I managed to get enough dexterity into my fingers to adjust my brakes and made the remainder of the descent. 

A handy-looking log hut was bypassed.  I’d got this far and Fort Augustus still felt feasible.  Maybe not for the pizza shop but I had campsite food with me.

When I reached the trail turn off the road, two other dishevelled-looking riders were retracing.  I assumed I looked as rough but I was still riding.  I guessed they were headed to the log cabin but later, I found, it could have been Lucy and Jill heading to a sound night in the local village hall.

The next section was new to us.  Instead of the main road, a pretty climb lined with lush green grass and wild orchids led to a moorland double-track.  Kudos to the organiser, it was beautiful.

The track looked suspiciously like the Corrieyairak pass and I briefly allowed myself to believe I was going to pop out any moment at 1000m elevation with nothing left to Fort Augustus except a ripping descent.  Sadly it wasn’t to be (I knew deep down I hadn’t suffered enough Up yet) and a short descent brought us out at the canal / drainage channel at the bottom of General Wade’s military road, which  I recognised from my reccee.  The Corrieyairak lay ahead.  As the rain pelted down, I easily climbed the road where I’d had to take two cool-off stops in Easter.

I did have to get off and walk the steeper sections.  As I rolled down the other side.  I approached an odd sight, a man walking with an umbrella in a kilt, dead creatures hanging from his waist. 

As I got nearer the kilt turned to shorts, the umbrella was made of Cuban fibre.  The shoes were expensive La Sportiva trail shoes and the dead animals were his sun-hat.  We waved to eachother.

The cold of the descent combined with the pouring rain and the forecast from the Mountain Weather Information Services threat of sleet at high elevations put me off the pass.  I didn’t need to get that cold.  My hopes turned to finding the Melgarve Bothy – was it that locked building I saw last time?

I propped up my soaking bike, overjoyed to find the door at the front of the building opened and the glorious smell of wood smoke filled the air.  My gamble had paid off – I assumed anyone who got there earlier than me (in the fading light) would have gone over to Fort Augustus.  Anyone behind me would have stopped already.  There were no bikes outside.  Thinking I was alone I took the bike in the porch and stripped it of what I needed.  Inside though, a gruff Glaswegian accent answered me back with a Hello.  He sat in the corner of the dark musty room wearing an actual kilt and sporran and a black teeshirt stretched over his belly like a cross between Highlander and Rab C Nesbit. 

I wasn’t sure if I’d found the bothy or accidentally walked into his home.  The bothy didn’t look like a home it looked like a bothy – damp, no power or running water, pokey rubbish windows and very simple utilitarian furniture but then there were sofas and this guy who seemed as much a part of the bothy as the damp and the flaking windows.  I held out my hand to show I was friendly and introduced myself.  Presumably if I had invaded his home, he’d chuck me out but he responded with, “Hello Andrea, I’m Colin”, then pulled my hand towards him and went in for a kiss.  I reeled back quick enough but gently so as not to cause offence.  5 empty cans of Stella and an un-labelled wine bottle sat on the table. 

I didn’t particularly want to share the bothy for a night on my own with Colin but I did desperately want to stop.  I decided to stay long enough to cook up some dinner and only longer if someone else arrived.  I didn’t need to add drunken gropes to my already traumatic day.

Once Colin had asked me 4 times my name and where I was from I realised I was probably safe but I was still relieved when the American hiker, Nathan, arrived to join in Colin’s repetitive quiz.  I pointed out what a great job Colin had done of building a fire and was still slightly un-nerved by his “Aye, I've done you a favour alright", implying we somehow owed him one... something.  As more people joined,  the “party”, chances were I wouldn’t need to move on and Colin wouldn't be collecting payment.

None of the clothes on the drying rack above the fire got really dry but I took most items to my sleeping bag to finish off the drying process and hung my bib shorts on a hook on the wall – partly for drying and partly to ensure my most valuable (useful) items didn’t end up on the fire if Colin decided he needed a bit more warmth in the night.

Someone snored soundly for a person who didn’t feel tired and it was me who stayed awake late, my body recovering, not too many aches except for a lot of pillow (dry bag) stuffing required to support my whiplash.  It was my brain that was wide awake, telling me I was thirsty.  I hoped I’d sleep anyway but at 2am I had to sneak into Colin’s room to recover my water bottle.  He had passed out on the sofa, not quite making it *into* his sleeping bag.

Rehydrated, I fell sound asleep until Nick’s 5:30am wake up call.  I couldn’t be arsed to cook but ate one of the many flapjacks I'd packed.  Last night’s whiplash was OK and nothing else really ached badly.  The guys got away first as I tidied up my kit from the night before. 

Outside, my food bags were filled with water, the food still inside.  Raisins had turned back into grapes and the apricots had rehydrated nicely, though I suspected they would soon start to turn into Schnapps.  The cereal bars were mostly unscathed – good wrappers and stuff in ziplok bags seemed OK.  I was just a little disappointed in myself for carrying so much over the hill and not eating it yet.  I turned the bags upside down and squeezed over a pint of water out.

Up on the pass, Nick and John waved happily to me from above and I eventually caught them on the way down the descent as they were taking care with drains again.  The snow had receded to a few dirty slithers in north-facing gullies.

As I descended the rain got harder and the rivers deeper.  I moved through each or balanced my way over rocks until all the rocks started to disappear.  At the ford, the bottom of the crossing was invisible and the flow was moving fast.  I walked up and down the stream looking for somewhere narrower with rocks for me to cross but all of the rocks were submerged by at least 8 inches by water moving a 2m/s or more.  It would be impossible to put my foot on one, never mind stand on it or trust it to stay put. 

Eventually I returned to the ford and decided to take it one step at a time.  Every time I lifted a leg up to step, the free leg was dragged sideways by the flow but I managed to plant it somewhere carefully.  The water was above my knees and every so often the back of the bike also set off at 90 degrees to my direction of travel but I managed to drag it back down to earth. Gone was the drive to keep the dynamo hub dry, maintaining ground contact was priority.  It was pretty unnerving but I survived and on-balance my gear did remarkably well as my feet remained warm.  It didn’t seem like any new water had got past my OMM trousers and into my waterproof socks.  The dynamo hub survived to charge another battery.

The further I messed about pausing for crossings, the worse my brakes got, Jesus I just tightened them up!  I’d buried my tool bag but dodgy brakes weren’t a part of the plan.  I got out of the wind in the ditch where I could prop up the bike and pulled the cables through tight.  Fiona had caught me up from the Corriarack bothy – she’d left Colin early in the evening and moved over the hill.  She’d been in that bothy for 12 hours, not wishing to brave the weather at all.

The guys caught me up again, offering help which I passed-on.  I was a little pissed off I hadn’t done this last night because of the pissy rain and the cold.  Fuck, I was very pissed off I hadn’t done this at home last week!... but otherwise knew what I was doing.

From then on I held my breath at all river crossings as I had to estimate the depth and hope I wouldn’t hit a big rock.  It all went OK.  There were a few more short climbs than I remembered but I welcomed them as an excuse to have a jog to pump blood into my fingers and toes.  I still reached Fort Augustus pretty tired, wet and frazzled. 

I parked my bike at the same caf as everyone else and ordered exactly what I wanted followed by another dose of exactly what I wanted.  Two  breakfasts and two coffees in an hour – my first coffees in 3 weeks.

(c): Lucy Noble.  Me and Jill contemplating Scratchville

 Over a 2 hour period I held court with an unknown scratcher, a non-rider, Jill and Lucy, Nick and John (SA) and Cath.  I just couldn’t decide whether to quit or not.  The reports were coming in of danger, many scratches, the organiser advising that everyone should think seriously about continuing.  My biggest concern was for my injuries as well as the rising water levels and recalling a lot of rivulets and gullies across or under the road after Invermoriston… and there was that awful reservoir to come.  My nemesis.  Beyond that, I didn’t know but it would be nice to find out.

Cannich, beyond Invermoriston, where my forest bivi was at Easter, would no longer be dry and pillowy but spongey and wet.  I had no rescuers to call this time but I wasn’t ready to quit so I carried on up to Invermoriston to see how I felt.  Within 10 minutes of leaving, the sky brightened but on the well-managed Great Glen Way, torrents of water raged beneath.  I momentarily cheered up at the thought that this was doable and now my brakes were working too.  I was soon at the steep descent to Invermoriston, looking forwards to another (third) meal.  Another bike was already outside, the owner’s tent splayed out to dry on the picnic table outside but it had started raining again.

I went inside to call out to the owner, only to see nothing more than civilian clothed people staring back at me.  The waitress took the message that the tent was getting wet again and I went out side to lock up.  And that’s how I met the race organiser properly.  After he bundled his mostly dry tent back into its bag, I joined him at his table and ordered more food.  We stewed over pictures of waterfalls and rivers – young men staring at the torrents.  Angry foam, boulders of bitter beer-coloured water.  Someone had rescued someone else and fallen in upto his neck.   

(c) Lars Henning

 
Alan worried that the only people left on the course were Rookies but then there was the argument that anyone with a fast time to beat was not carrying enough kit and no longer interested in the race.

Alan worried that someone would misjudge it, take one risk too many and die on his watch.  As an RO it’s understandable. 

Given my unsure health, the lack of confidence in my helmet and the creeping feeling that I might not finish this, I agreed to head back to Fort Augustus with Alan.  What would happen if I got ¾  of the way around and then no-one could get across Fisherfield?  I’d almost rather quit after 3 days than quit after 6.  I was prepared to get stuck out on a hill but I wasn’t prepared to get swept off a cliff or stuck in a landslide.  It was the kind of day that, if you were making your own decisions, you wouldn’t go out because if you came to harm, mountain rescue would tell you you’d been a dick.  No-one wants a Darwin award.

So Alan and I left Invermoriston and headed back to Fort Augustus.  The trail was light and flowy and we were there in no time.  We talked of Wiltshire and all the things we could do now we weren’t racing – drinking beer being at the top of the list.

At the woods, we met Michelle with her bike.  We exchanged pleasantries and warnings and she continued on regardless.  I envied her a little but not enough to stop the quitting.  I didn’t want to ride any more.

In a wooded section of single track, Alan left me for dead. Suddenly I didn’t want to rush back to the finish. My legs were empty, my head and whiplash ached and I had pangs of back pain too.  I bumbled along the river side, listening to birdsong and smelling woodsmoke from campers with nothing better to do.  It was good to be alone for a while but Alan was waiting for me at Laggan Locks.  I pointed enthusiastically to the Eagle Barge, “I’m getting beer in there” I shouted over the wind that was now whipping up the canal.  I was showing the organiser bits of Scotland he didn’t know about. 

Pic (c): Alan Goldsmith - Me propping up the bar.

I didn’t really know what meal this was but Lasagne seemed the thing to eat.  We were soon joined by others – a stream of dripping wet riders in for a pint, in for a scratch.  We loitered near the stairs so as not to drip too much on the carpet.  One by one we all drifted off to find accommodation or lifts, waiting for trains in the morning.  I joked with Alan that I might ride through the night to get back to Tyndrum on the road but he seemed genuinely concerned that I shouldn’t.  For now the Great Glen Way was the best route anyway.  I sent him on his way so he didn’t get cold whilst I faffed with layers and electronics.

It was a long way compared to what I remember.  I attempted to stay at the Gairlochy hotel but they were full. The station didn’t offer enough cover for me to check my phone for bookings – I started to shiver and I was too exposed.  I rode on to Fort William, pouring over the seething river via the railway footbridge and climbing out of the estate I mashed my gears into the wheel for about the fifth time that day.  My bloody back wheel was loose.  Tightened up, everything seemed to be working again.  It was another problem that contributed to my scratch that was now working again.  I grumped at myself. Not impressed.

At Nevis Cycles, I pulled into the phone box to use its cover whilst I hunted for a room.  One check of the rear light indicated it was dead and that I wouldn’t be riding back to Tyndrum on the road in this fading light.  Besides which, it was a long way and I wouldn’t have enjoyed it.  My watch was long dead so I was pretty surprised when I checked my phone to realise it was 10pm.  I’d thought it was 5pm!   I’d lost some serious hours to the excitement of the day.

Nothing that involved interaction with other human beings or losing sight of my bike or removing anything from my bike, actually appealed to me.  I kind of hoped to get a campsite pod but of course the office was closed.  Still, the rain had stopped and I could at least get a warm shower, dry hair, use the hand drier to dry out some clothes and stuff my shoes with toilet paper.   I pitched my tent next to a table and locked my bike to it.

As I rung my sodden gloves under the shower to remove the grit and sweat, the waterproof membrane popped through the seam and then burst, overcome by my carelessness, conditions and a hard 15 months use.  I dried them out for the next day but stocked up on a pair of wool gloves from the shop and some marigolds instead.  So long Evans Cycles friends – you were good in your day.

The alarms were off – this was non race mode.  Still, I was awoken early by someone walking swiftly away from the bike.  Peering under the canvas, the bike was at least still there.

Breakfast and coffee got me out of the valley and onto the route.  I’d not done this section yet and decided not to bail out on a recce since I’d come all the way here.  I climbed sharply to the hill above the campsite and stopped to eat the bag of jelly beans bought from the shop. It occurred to me I was about to take on a long ride with nothing more than jelly beans, chocolate and some not-so-dry but not-so-palatable fruit from two days ago.  Perfect training then.

A bear bones jersey made sure I was OK and reassured me that a bunch were meeting up at the Kingshouse hotel to camp / van back down to Tyndrum in the morning.

The first of many hikers lined up to tell me it’s “not far now”.  Seriously, you have no idea, it could be miles.  You’re wrong and untrue.  Stop wishing your lives away. Stop wishing my life away.

The doubletrack road narrowed through sheep pens and streaked out across forests, tree rooted and rocky. I could see the orange Bear Bones jersey bouncing over the rocks below.  The increased flow of walkers became apparent - a MacMillan Cancer walk overlapping with the English bank holiday.  I said a cheery hello to volunteers at the aid station.  I hunted for an elevated spot to eat a cereal bar and exposed my legs to the sun, considering wearing thin socks and suncream.  I managed to stay midge free in the breeze only.

Passenger

Legs out.

Wonderful remoteness

Finally, the descent to Kinlochleven presented at 2:30pm and I squirrelled between the bar (coffee) and the Co-op before pressing on.  The Hydro pipes were putting on an impressive shower at a leaky flange and the culvert into the river bellowed out peaty water.  I chatted to walkers as they reassured me with lies that I hadn’t got far to go.  At least one lady asked for my reassurance that Kinlochleven was in the bottom of the valley.

Kinlochluncheon

I don't think it's normally like that

Minor leak.

Stepping out of the forest and onto the bare hillside, the pedestrian traffic faded with the light and the thickening cloud.  It was getting too late to be out without kit.  At 6pm the rain restarted although it halted a little on the Kinlochleven side, stuck in the valley.  I reached the top 90 minutes after the last walker told me it wasn’t far. 

I knew I’d reached the top due to the presence of a French lady wearing pumps and a fashion coat and carrying a leather hand bag.  She was looking for a Cairn that wasn’t on the OS map.  Sure enough, they’d not walked far from the A84.  I rode most of the Devil’s staircase except for being overtaken by a fit guy who wanted a race update.  I got out of his way and let him carry on being unladen and fully suspended… and tried to follow his local-knowledge line.  He was polite enough to explain that the local rivers dry quickly whilst the Northern will probably remain wet for some days.

I was unaware until now that there was a bike route / West Highland Way alongside the A84.  I dropped my front wheel in some loose gravel again, the bike ditching me unceremoniously into the heather and bog.  At least there were no rocks this time, just a soggy arse.  I got up quickly to minimise the wet. 

The Kingshouse Hotel with en-suite deer

The gradual climb to the Kingshouse passed without incident and bear bones came out to meet me at the hotel.  I’d already made my mind up to carry on past – at least once I’d decided that I didn’t want to spend £165 on a room without my bike.  The campsite looked midgey and the vague odour of sewage hung in the air.  I topped up my water bottles for cooking and used the loo before heading over to the ski hill, not before readjusting the front wheel to cope with the constant dink dink of a spoke on the brake caliper.  So that wheel was loose too.

In the carpark at the ski resort I bumped into an ex-work colleague returning from a sportive.  We shook hands before I carried on past, heading out on to the moor.  There were no pods available so I took to the wild for a night under the setting sun (impending showers) and somewhere in the breeze to escape the midges.  Just as the rain got close, I found a flat piece of grass next to a stream to roll out my tent and brew up.  

Glen Etive

A timely camp stop

The final few pics of the day were amazing.  The sound of rain on my tent were even more satisfying.  I was in my sleeping bag and had dinner and a brew without setting fire to the tent or myself.  Gold.   

Gold digga

I slept soundly until 2:45 am when the sound of a passing vehicle and footsteps in the grass outside had me completely beside myself with fear – mostly that my bike was going to get nicked and partly for the violence that would ensue if I put up a fight.  The vehicle drove away though and I was glad I’d immobilised the bike with its lock and fastened it to my tent using a peg and the pole.

I was too petrified of a return visit and too high on adrenaline to do anything other than pack up my stuff and move on.  I did so with the knife on my pliers drawn and held between my teeth then sat (alone thankfully) on the bridge in pre-dawn light eating a Mars bar.  Once I'd calmed down I opted to continue with my reccee rather than run away down the road.  I'm so glad I did.

The burning pink sunrise over Rannoch and the Black Mountain made everything worthwhile.  The trail was empty as tens of hikers camped along the side of the Way slumbered in their tents.  Deer scattered across my path.  Pushing over the “big” climb after Inveroran hotel I got very hungry very soon.  It didn’t matter that the Bridge of Orchy hotel was the other side, I had run out of energy.  I brewed up water and made porridge and coffee in a mild breeze to keep midges off, with a view looking out over posh Castle-dwellers' houses.  Deer barked at me, disgruntled by me sitting on their trail.  When I looked up they backed away to wait for another moment to cough at me rudely.

The breakfast got me moving again and I dropped my bike in the heather whilst I walked to the summit cairn, looking across the Black Mount to the tourist trap that is the A84, already heaving with motorists and HGVs.  I could almost hear the piper on piper’s corner but it was too early for him to be working.

Timing couldn’t have been better.  The Bridge of Orchy Hotel had just started serving and the staff seemed delighted that I wanted to hide my sweaty bedraggled self in the corner of the bar with a direct view of my bike.  2 Irish hikers joined me and we talked midges.  I left them with some midge coil to burn in their tent on the last night of their trip. 

The last run at the trail was a little sad.  I was riding relatively well and couldn’t help wonder if earlier carelessness and pain was down to my wheels being all over the place.  My improved performance being brought on by solid wheels.  Just as quickly, thoughts turned to a comfy bed as my right knee folded with every step and my coccyx rattled with every pebble I rode over.  3 hours sleep and early morning paranoia were never going to be a great motivator. 

Back in Tyndrum I booked a camp spot early then, whilst I waited for them to do their cleaning rounds, I took to the big comfy camp chair at the back of my van and fell asleep in the mid day sun, getting sunburn for the first time on the ride.

I spent the next 2 days catching up on sleep, walking, running and welcoming some of the other riders home, including Dusty (winner) and John – one of the most lovely people I’ve met in this game – unexpectedly since he’d left his tracker off for about 5 hours.  I set a 5:20am alarm to meet Javi but he sneaked in at 4:50.  Joint 2^nd place riders also finished in darkness.

John at the bottom of the last climb.

Of course my emotions are still mixed and on balance I regret my scratch.  It may have come later anyway due to continuing on an injured body but I do regret stopping where I did.  I could have camped out at Fort Augustus or anywhere on the Cannich trail for half a day to let the water levels subside.  I probably did have the time.

When I quit I was worried about my head – which is sensible really.  Of the women who kept going beyond day 2, Jenny graham scratched from a frustrating attack by the puncture fairy which she largely tackled in pouring rain.  There’s only 1 woman left on the course who, when I scratched, was around 5 hours behind me.  It could have resulted in an interesting (potentially out-of-time) race, had my body held up.  Update: Michelle has now scratched too after the official Completion time passed.

I’ve teased my brain with ideas of returning to do an ITT this year all on my own but the idea of starting out on the Southern loop AGAIN this year and potentially not getting any further AGAIN is too much to bear.  Instead I have decided to do something more constructive and reccee the Northern loops (one or both) over time.  I got so much benefit on race day from knowing the Southern route and would have been so much more comfortable knowing the terrain.  For all that people painted me verbal descriptive pictures of life beyond Fort Augustus, it’s not the same as seeing it for myself.  So therein lays one of my targets for the rest of the year.

First finisher with a flourish

Despite the occasional dark moment, I loved the ride every much as I expected to – even the wet bits.  Obviously the crash was shit but getting up again was nothing short of a massive feeling of getting-away-with-it.  With less layers on, I’d probably have been a darker shade of red.   

The feeling of being dot-watched added-to and strained the experience in equal measure.  If I’d been alone I’d have carried on into potentially worse situations but then, my "If only I had..." solution - to stop in Fort Augustus - wasn't, in retrospect very feasible  Isla had the same thought, but really? Could I / Would I have stopped at 3pm?

Next year I need to go into it with more and less behind me – more training, more belief, probably not so much food… or kit.  One thing's for sure, if I get in, I’ll look forward to it – now more than ever before.  Probability says it’ll be drier right?

Pre HT Belly-button gazing

Last night nothing felt right.  Dinner sat in my belly like a stone and I had to excuse myself from the social group and go for a walk to straighten out my gut.

In a myriad of men talking about how little gear they are taking I felt self concious to even get my bike out of the van.

It's time to let the world see me fail and I felt sick. Sick from the nerves? Or nervous because of the sickness. I wasn't sure.

We talked about 'slumming it' in our huts to get ready for the harshness of the trail, yet I was here for 2 good nights sleep before the race. I knew I Wasn't going to turn the heater on but I did go and get my 4 seasons bag out of the van to be sure of that good nights sleep.

It was restless, though I was neither cold nor uncomfortable.

In the morning I lay in, not wanting to get out into the cold but then I found it wasn't cold. Nor was I hungry. I chatted to new mates as I walked about the campsite and they asked me to ride with them today.

Having been reassured we weren't on a a fast ride I rushed into my kit and set out on the most pleasurable group ride ever. Even the majority of WHW walkers were jolly in the sun… and we met a centurion.

We had lunch in the Crianlarich cafe and dreamed that the next 5 (or 8 in my case) days were gojng to be this way.

They said nice things - gave me hope - weighed up my well loaded bike and were kind enough to intimate that it was deceptively light. All the while I was reminding myself that I'll be out 4-5 days longer than them. In the most extreme case twice as long… or maybe I will surprise everyone - not least myself.

That would be nice.

Back at base we smiled and sat in the sun. There was banter, tea and cookies.  We all know tomorrow and Sunday won't be like this. Today was a great day to spend riding with mates - not against them.

They've gone to the social. I've stuck to my own food and my own schedule and dinner was deliciously digestible. The dishes are always more cathartic on a camp site.  

Tomorrow we race. At least today I feel more relaxed about that.

Highland Trail Recce

We left work on Wednesday evening of Easter weekend to hot foot to Glasgow (Dumbarton Travelodge) to get a head-start on the rush.

This got me to Tyndrum for Thursday 0900 but with faffing, breakfasting and a bit of shopping to do, was by no means a race-time start.  Chats in the carpark with friendly locals who winced at my enthusiasm to do the whole route one day, didn't fill me with confidence.  Still, I pumped up the new tyres (first trial) and headed out the carpark about 10:30.

By 11 I was stripping off layers, sat next to the trail on an ancient railway sleeper.  In my flippancy of this not being a race I was carrying substantial extra kit - a winter sleeping bag, leggings, gloves and - it seemed - 6 different jerseys / jackets.

Initial trials of the new tyres and new fitter me, went well over the rocky sections of the trail then I whooshed down into the bottom of the Glen, dinging my bell at some walkers I passed - seemingly out-of-context in the mountain environment.

The turn onto Glen Lyon was messy.  A barred gate and signs indicating no access to the West Highland Way were placed there to turn away wandering walkers who were lost, not to keep people out but I mistook the markings, crossed the river bridge and cycled through a field before spotting some walkers, realising I really should have been on the other side and taking a mini paddle through the stream before rejoining my route.  The sun was shining, I had wet feet and I was suddenly alone.  Life couldn't be better.

Some moments in the forest were a little weird.  Just after this I found a handbag in the forest.  Thinking it might make me rich (or a hero if I returned someone's purse), I investigated.  It contained a rucsac, inside which was some "rock tape" and... a large rock.  In fact, an attempted theft of a rather nice piece of quartz limestone from mother nature.

Part way along the Glen I saw 1 walker - a guy who looked like he'd been in the hills for days.  I took that as a cue to sit on a rock and eat my sandwiches then carried on to the Loch.  Multiple river crossings later - some ridden, some on foot - I started towards civilisation again.  First a pair of kayakers, then a few parked cars for fishermen then the valley road which meanders to Bridge of Balgie and its cafe and another human to talk to.  I ate second lunch whilst talking cycling with a bloke from Manchester.

Next it's Rannoch. A beautiful trail that stretches out across the moor and a view that stretches back to where you've come from - Loch Linne on the West side of the country. 

I cut through Rannoch village - a little more pleasant than I expected it to be.  Then back out on to the moorland.  So much possibility here.  Then the trail just stops.  It's a common feature to the Highland Trail - I know that now.

I did a bit of bouncing over rocks and a bit of pushing.  The tussocks weren't as bad as I was expecting and the bogs were relatively dry.  I gradually got more tired and more hungry and eventually the evening sun dipped below the hills across the valley and a stiff breeze blew across Lock Erricht.  I set my bike down and leant against a tree out of the wind to eat something and put on my knee warmers and a windproof jacket.  I could've slept right there, such was the peace and beauty of the place but for that blasted wind.  I had a chat with the tree, thanking it for being lovely and explaining that it just wasn't big enough for me to sleep behind.

We pushed on into the evening, away from the tree and inland to some of its buddies.  This WOULD have been a lovely place to camp but I now had Ben Alder Cottage in my sights.  If it was empty I would stop.  If it wasn't empty, I'd eat there and then press on.  I was a little disheartened to smell wood smoke drifting across the hillside and didn't relish the idea of walking in on someone else's cosy community but I was a bit tired and drained by now so I ventured across the bridge.

The bridge is its own little challenge - a 4 ft high step up with a mountain bike I can hardly lift on to a structure that isn't really wide enough for my handlebars. I contemplated taking the stream.

My nervousness was quashed by a friendly face waving from the bothy "garden" and so I de-bagged and set up my stove.  The fire the guys had going in the grate was awesome I and set about drying my socks and shoes.  I ate dinner and before I knew it my sleeping bag was stretched out.  This was a holiday after all.

A little bit of me resented my desire to sleep inside.  When I went out to the loo, the moon was full over the loch and it really wasn't that cold.

Over dessicated food and sparking flames I talked life with a couple of hiker guys and occasional engagement with the couple next door.  I left the door of the room open to allow heat from the fire to dissipate next door to the guys room as they didn't want to sleep on the hard stone floor and that was fine by me.

I slept fitfully until midnight when the snoring from next door was unlikely to allow further rest.  What's more, I felt recovered and ready to go so I did, hiking up the side of Ben Alder until I felt the need to sleep again which coincided nicely with a patch of moss baked-dry by the day's sunlight.

Mistake No 2 was pitching my tent to see the sunrise which actually directed it towards the flush of cold air descending off the neighbouring snow patches.  Still, I got 3 hours reasonable sleep before topping off the climb and descending the other side.

The Ben Alder path is uncomfortable due to a proliferation of drainage ditches.  Granted, these well manicured drains probably make for a better path over all but I got some hellish kind of a work out drying to bunny hop the hoppable ones and pushing over the biggies that threatened to take a tyre, a rim and my life with them.

The descent was no different.  I passed another tent high up and two on the opposite side of the mountain, near the "other" closed Bothy.  I made a mental note.  On race day I'll be travelling lighter and earlier but you never know...  I might want to stop here

The descent breaks did seem to give me the opportunity to look at the view a lot though.  I'm imagining much of the snow will be gone by the end of next month.

After descending into sunshine and finally finding a river bed where I could get out of the breeze, I brewed up some porridge and coffee - this is a holiday after all.  It tasted of success, happiness and sunshine although I did get the estate ghilly driving past in his land rover to make sure I wasn't poaching.  Poachers don't tend to dress in bright blue down coats and orange helmets though right?

Out on to the road and I was lulled into the Cakes and Jam box by the side of the road, leaving a few quid and waving to the baker/farmlady as I set off down the road, only to find myself at the Wolftrax cafe.  Oh well, stocked up for later.

Despite having eaten a flapjack, I downed an early lunch of nachos with all the trimmings then sat outtide to eat icecream.

Just as I was leaving I had a chat with a fully loaded (yes more than me!) German who complimented me saying I was "travelling light".  Ha!  He had come to ride HT over 14 days and that was his tent I saw on the climb this morning.

Soon back onto fire roads and a bit of a faff to get bottom gear - finally the cables have stretched!  Faff over, I cheered on a family out for a day ride.  It was time to learn about General Wade and his military road.

Starting off as a present day road, it's easy at first although the sun and low sleep levels were getting to me.  I stopped near the bothy at Melgarve to rest my bum and back against a rock and fell asleep for a few moments.  I was tempted to get my bag out but didn't want to be woken by a stream of concerned motorists... stream of! Ha!  One car passed the whole time I was there.

Most of General Wade's bridges are still standing, temptingly so.  But I rode over their modern-day counterparts, the Fords also looking tempting in the heat.  Eventually the road does a Jazz.  The only way is up, baby.  Pushing up the switchbacks was tough.  Constant crunching of gravel under foot.  I stopped with two to go, hidden from the wind by a boulder and chomped my way through an entire pack of dried apricots.

As I departed, I waved to the German who was just arriving at the bottom of the climb.  It was as close as I have been to Torino Nice Rally in the UK.

At the top of the switchbacks, the suspension mounts - what will the view from the top be like?  Well, it plateaus and there's nothing to see but more track, the cables on the pylons you've been walking under for the last hour and a little weather station.  It's a bit other-worldly.

There was also some snow to play on and I left tracks for the German to cross.  Further around the hill, I stepped across the rocks - not ready to trust the ice-bridge across the snow-melt stream with my own body weight but I was surprised it held the 21kg of bike weight.  As I descended away, I hoped the German took the same precaution and didn't just follow my wheel tracks over the inch thick ice - maybe they would have made it?

Time to enjoy the landing - a sweeping descent of the mountain on fading light.  Downhill all the way to Fort Augustus.  My first full mountain day on the bike and already I was struggling with the culture shock of the town.  I locked up the bike, prioritising buying the next night's food before the shop closed then bought crisps and a cold coffee drink then sat against the railings by the river and sagged.  I have to admit I was a bit flummoxed as to how people do this passage in one day.  It was 3pm and had taken me the best part of 2 days to get here.

As the food and coffee soaked in, I reminded myself that I did a hard run on Wednesday so this was, effectively, my day 3.  I reminded myself of all the extra weight I was carrying (all those jumpers!).  I had certainly learned a lot in 2 days.

When you're ready to quit, all it takes is some food and a sit down.  I ordered chips and locked my bike on the railings then got my phone out to report my progress.  I hid from the guy checking out my bike - to be honest, I couldn't remember the names of most of the places I'd been and just wanted to eat my chips then I threw half of them away.  Consumerist appetites were not working for me.

From here I had two options for Easter weekend: get on the Caledonian Canal and start heading back to Tyndrum - effectively doing the Southern-most loop of the ride; or, continue up to Cannich then cut across the Tomich and return back to Fort Augustus tomorrow to do the southern most loop plus an extra bit with a few kms road ride in between Cannich and Tomich.

It was only Friday.  I still had 3 whole days of Easter left to go.  No matter how tired I was, I wasn't ready to get on the Caledonian Canal just yet.  That would be an easy bimble kind of a day.  The weather was shaping up to be fantastic.  I didn't really want to spend a "good body day" sitting on the flat in the valley.

Setting my fatigue to one side, I decided to see what the trail to Cannich was like.

I enjoyed the Great Glen Way in my fatigue, a beautiful push up through the park.  The water works which had previously closed the track earlier in the year were well progressed and the trail was open.  It didn't make for any tempting bivi spots and I passed a "site" works en route with generator running and full lights on.  Whilst they weren't working Friday, I didn't particularly want to be woken up by security on Saturday morning - at any of the sites.

I pushed on for Invermoriston, agreeing to let myself sleep just outside of town before I got too high again.

At Invermoriston I met a couple from Birmingham who'd been driving for 10 hours and had gone out to stretch their legs.  They were lovely but I then felt I didn't want to camp too close to town.  By the time I'd got ready to sleep, the hill was too steep and there was too much forest detritus everywhere.  It didn't seem to deter the deer whose eyes blinked back at me as I slowly crunched up the climbs.  Damn those crusty tracks again.  The noise offended me more than the pain in my shoes.  By the time I was really ready to stop I could smell woodsmoke.

I'm not sure if it's because I've lived in Canada but the smell of a forest fire strikes the fear of God into me and I just kept riding.  For a while I had to ride further INTO the smoke before the trail skirted around the source of the fire and headed away.  I ... just... kept... riding.  I hoped that the large bonfire that was raging was in a garden and all under control... but I couldn't sleep there.

A quick check of the map told me I had a little bit of up to do, over a lump and then I'd be on the descent to Cannich.  It seemed like a good logic choice to get away from the breeze and the smoke and get closer to my final destination.  I didn't expect the track to run out at the reservoir at the top.

I'd had no water for some time and now I was at the reservoir I didn't want to take any from the river in case it had been through a generator turbine.  I grabbed some from upstream and vowed to boil it before I drank it.  And so began the slow hike along the reservoir shore.  It was, from the light of my torch, rocky and unrideable so I pushed and pushed.

Eventually I found some tyre tracks in sand and in a moment of hope, hopped on my bike and started to pedal.  Undeterred by more rocks ahead (with sand beyond) I mashed across the rocks, hoping to attain riding conditions on the other side.  Instead, my front wheel bounced to a halt and so did my back.  My feet went down and I started to scoot over but something was wrong.  The back wheel wasn't turning.

I looked back.  My derailleur was somewhere inside my wheel and definitely at a jaunty angle.  With 10k to go on this bloody reservoir this wasn't what I needed.  All kinds of thoughts were spinning through my head but thankfully, they started with, "get out of the wind and get some layers on".

Then I thought about what to do.  I could fixie the wheel and ride down but soon realised that, with little damage done to the wheel and just a bend in the derailleur, changing into the top gears would give me enough drive to get off the hill.  So we continued to walk, pushing in a big gear to allow the bike to move.  I organised a pick-up the next day but had no reception.  I sent the text anyway, even though I knew TSK would be in bed by then.  I was miserable.  I didn't know what was going to happen but one thing was for sure, I wasn't doing this bloody hike again, the Highland Trail was off for me.

After about 30 minutes hiking, I checked the map - a big island with a building on it came into view.  I thought about a bivi in the building but as I looked across the causeway at the building, something horrified me.  It was probably the reflection of my head torch on a broken pane of glass or the remnants of a torn curtain hanging in the window but, in my exhausted state, I saw a figure pressed at the window, hands up in the air in longing, a kind of incarcerated "Scream".  I looked back once more - it was still there - but at least it wasn't moving.  I stared forward again - at where I was going - I have never stared forwards so hard in my life.  Forwards. Forwards. Forwards.  I carried on walking - a little faster now.

Off the reservoir the trail would have been enjoyable, given gears.  It was a trail but an old and bumpy one with the full compliment of rough terrain, bogs, puddles and hard-pack.  With three top gears that clattered in the night and a large bag of paranoia, it was less enjoyable but still allowed me to make reasonable progress.

Eventually the track turned into another fire road and great cattle gates barred the road.  At 1am I couldn't deal with them so instead, lifted the bike over then climbed the sturdy fences at the side.  Eventually I left the stripped forest behind and the land turned decidedly farm-like with warnings of cattle (leaving me not wanting to camp and be trampled to death in a herd).  Finally one of the cattle gates had a tiny pedestrian side gate.  I pushed the bike through, reading "RSPB Reserve" on the sign on the opposite side and set up my tent.  I tried to ignore the fear that I would be on an "Eagle-cam" somewhere as the terrible woman who camped in a bird reserve and frightened all the eagles away.

Funnily enough, once I'd determined that I still wasn't doing the Highland Trail race, I slept very easily, only being woken by the farmer beeping his truck horn to move the cattle along.  It was 8:30am.  I soon realised that, as the sign was on my side of the gate, it was indicating the RSPB reserve was back up the hill at the reservoir I had just come from.  I'm sure there was plenty to see up there, it's just at 1am, I didn't get any of it.  Still, I wasn't going to be wildlife-shamed on Eagle-Watch and I packed up my stuff, a little more relaxed.

Just as I sat down to boil up my bitty water from the reservoir, a text came in from TSK to indicate his position.  He'd checked up on my spot and got as close as possible.  I checked the Garmin.  He was only 700m away.  The water with crispy bits in could wait.

The day disappeared into a fugg of eating and resting.  I lay in the park in Dingwall on a camp mat and wrote down a long list of things I could change or ditch.  It was very productive.  Then we found the bike shop and the great guys inside said they'd try and find me a derailleur hangar.  Suddenly, my enthusiasm to do the Highland Trail Race was back on again.

Sadly, my bike is a bit old and any hangar they might have had in stock has since been used up on someone else's frame.  They did however, smack the old one into the right shape, bend the derailleur back a bit and get me my full compliment of gears back, whilst cautioning to replace them later, of course.

I had a lovely dinner with my husband and a sound night's sleep and got up the next day, raring to go.

I should have got a lift to Inverness with TSK but instead, I rode it, taking the excuse to ride the back roads and gently test out the gears (and some of the mountain bike paths along the way).  I didn't leave till late, had early lunch and then by 3pm I'd done with trying to take trails and had hit the road and then ended up in a pub.  I didn't have a drink though and instead, used my pasta to forge a wonderful forest trail across the hills to rejoin the Great Glen Way above a town called Dochgarroch.  It was so pleasant using the 810 to navigate on OS maps again, it made me nostalgic for the days when mountain bike rides had lots of "map stops" in them.

My 3pm lunch/early dinner lasted me all the way into Drumnadrochit - more sensory overload / more people than I could cope with.  Drumnadrochit had clearly been a party town all day with the pub right across the road from the Youth Hostel and all of the bins full to the brim.  I was the second-to-last customer of the shop - with some good sandwiches, trimmings and icecream to get me through the rest of the ride.

I took on the rest of the Great Glen Way on the high route.  Lots of pushing up 30% slopes followed by equally taxing descents.  For a while it was a novelty and gave me a great opportunity to practice my bike skills some more.  Then I got bored of pushing my bike up only to descend back down again - and repeat.  Great for a day out on an unloaded full suss enduro bike.  Less fun for a fully loaded hard tail trying to get somewhere.  It also took me substantially out of my way and the wood smoke started again.  I have to accept that what the Scotts tourists do on a fine bank holiday weekend is burn shit but it still scares me, so I dropped onto a B&B access trail and hopped out onto the road at Invermoriston from where I rode along the road for 30 minutes to get to Fort Augustus where TSK had already pitched a tent.

I went to the loo, couldn't resist a shower although I'd left my stuff on the bike.  I carried as much soap as I could out of the dispenser and washed the sweat and suncream off me (well, most of it).  Dried myself with my wool socks and then went to sleep in the plush luxury of a car-camping tent.

Easter Monday
Well, for someone who didn't want to spend a glorious sunny bank holiday weekend doing flat rides along the canal, I kinda messed up.  My body was a bit of a mess, my feet hurt and I was tired.  Still, I decided to give the end of the Southern Loop a go.  I was a day-down from my Dingwall excursion but still, I could try - I mean the bimble along the Caledonian Canal is easy and could be dispensed of in no time right?

As I came back from the washrooms I remembered my earlier plan - to get a lift through the Canal section with the van and ride the hard bit to recce it.  Unfortunately, it was too late - TSK had got my bike out of the van and loaded up stuff in its place.  Oh well, the Canal is easy, it won't take me any time.

It was a late start - 10am.  The sun was already beating down - and back up again - as the canal towpath surface is white stone.

The last time I rode here, they'd just laid new stone and the ride was horrible - bumpy, slippery, gravelly.  This time it was a pleasure.  I waved at yachtsmen on the river and watched the big boats come and go.  I reccied a few bivi spots and stopped at the Eagle Barge where TSK showed up on his ride, catching me for lunch.  We had 30 minutes to kill (with bad coffee) before they started serving food.  It's a holiday right?

After TSK went, I decided to true my bent rear wheel which had been bumping along for the lst 15km.  I re-rounded it and then tried to straighten it as best I could.  I'm not sure if I made it worse - but it did ride round instead of having a flat spot on it.

By the other end of Laggan I was tired again.  I sat in the shade of the toilet block (closed due to a water failure) and watched Ben Nevis, in full sun.  So rare.  I took a picture of the Fitz boat for Ian and then carried on to Neptune's staircase where I was already thinking about my first good coffee since breakfast and - to be honest - quitting.

By the time I found my way into Fort William it was 5pm.  It had taken me 7 hours to do a flat 55km and I still had 68 to go.  I pretty much decided to call it then and there.  TSK was still in Fort William and up for picking me up again.

Most of my particles told me to carry on - to see the rest of the route over behind the Mammores in the setting sun and perfect conditions.  I had everything I needed with me for a night out, could eat in Fort Bill, had breakfast on board already.  On the flip side, it would have taken me all night, left me exhausted for the journey home and I might have broken the bike - or worse me.  This wasn't a race, this was a family holiday.  I was ready to stop.  I was ready for a pint in the pub.

We had coffee in town - a place neither of us had been before and we were the last customers of the day - not through lack of people but through the staff wanting to go home and desperately trying to stop people coming in.  I asked to sit inside after my day in the glaring sun.

We drove up to the glen Nevis site and I booked us in.  I now know the best spots on site to camp if I have to come here on my journey... and it's not near the pumping station that chugs into the night.

The dribbles of soap left in my own bottle still weren't quite enough to wash off the grime and suncream.

I woke up in the morning relieved I hadn't been over the Mammores path - because I was also furious I hadn't done it... this left me hungry for it - and I'm glad I'm hungry for it.  If I'd done it this weekend I might have broken my bike, I might have broken my body and there's every risk that I might have broken my resolve to do the race.

Doing this stuff over a weekend, knowing I have to go back to work on Monday (or Tuesday) makes me play cautious and I've accepted, now, that is fine.  I got to help with the driving home.  I went back to a "balanced" life.  I had a week of responsible recovery.  Doing it for real, without deadlines other than a finishing completion time - that makes me excited.  "Risks" become acceptable in those situations.

Sure, I'm pissed off I missed an amazing night in the mountains but they'll still be there in May and hopefully in May I'll get to ride them in the daylight with a bag full of enthusiasm and a completion under my belt.  That, I'll be very happy with.

Pep talk

I am so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open so I have to write this down before I forget it... and I probably will.

When I was last living in Sheffield and "into" mountain biking I was a 21yr old stoodent.  OK, OK, we all rode hardtails with tiny wheels and smaller handlebars and mostly named our rides, "Collosus" or "the little tank" but me and Dan Loftus, my buddy, used to drive to Edale to do one third of the ride I did today.

Today I chose paths that took me to the top of Win hill, rode down the other side to go to the caf then rode back up again so I could ride to the Mam Tor trail without going all the way there on the road.  Today I followed different trails up because back then they seemed so "far out". Today I followed different trails down because back then I wouldn't have dreamt of riding them. Today I rode them on a 20kg loaded bike with blokes looking-on.

For all that I have not done as much as I would like to have done with training, the HT has changed my outlook on what's possible on my mountain bike and taken me great places at wonderful times of day.  I can rest assured that no one day on the HT is as tough as this, though I know that cumulatively plenty will be.

I am thoroughly looking forwards to finding out what comes out when I try to do this all the time - day in / day out - but most of all I am looking forward to taking Emvee to the Fisherfield forest and all of the other great experiences my legs and that bike will have along the way.