Five hours later I woke, ate more cheese and mounted my bike while watching the sun rise. The last day but one; no bikewalking please, we needed to tick off at least 100 miles. As we rode, the feeling of being on a bike had become normal, something that we just did, no longer a chore. Sure, it hurt, but that was not something that I was consciously aware of, just a dull noise in the background.
All smiles. It won't last.All smiles. It won’t last.
The trail skirting Loch Maree covers a distance much further than a map can impress upon your brain. We ride and notice the familiar tracks of Dan. As we rode, we followed tyre tracks, wet and recent. Smiling, we knew that Dan had either bivvied nearby or slept in the hotel in Poolewe and after a few more kilometres a new set of tracks appeared, tyres that were different, Continental in more ways than one. It could be only one person: Arno.
Say cheese (and ice cream, and bacon, and more cheese...)!Say cheese (and ice cream, and bacon, and more cheese…)
Arno the German came to tour the Highland Trail with eight days as his target. Somehow, he managed to ride easy for the first few days before catching and passing us in the middle of the night. After our initial disbelief at his reappearance had passed, we rolled on looking for him over every hillock. We wanted to talk to him, find out how he was. The idea of talking to another person was filling us with glee as we rode harder. But no sign of Arno.
Porridge, eggs, salmon, ginger beer, coffees and toast.
Kinlochewe served up some of the best porridge, eggs, salmon, ginger beer, coffees and toast I have ever eaten in my life. We had passed the point where we cared about what we smelled like and instead were just happy to consume whatever food a shop would provide us with to be rid of us. Taking the opportunity for a quick trip to the porcelain throne I left the café to see a new face; Arno had rolled up and was stunned to see us.
Riding solo for two days, only seeing people in the shops he bought food in, stopping to bivvy when he was tired, riding when he was fresh; we were the first people he’d talked to properly in two days, and he was in a chatty mood. Despite this we still managed to lose him on the ensuing road section, where his singlespeed gearing was slower. Arriving at the start of the Torridon traverse we stopped, looked at each other and agreed to wait; the idea of having another rider to talk with, to share stories with was appealing. Also, we felt bad for riding away from him for three days.
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With Arno added to the group once more, we started up and over Torridon. The climb on the trail was enthralling. I love a technically challenging climb and revelled on this terrain where all I had to do was ride and push myself to my limit uphill. I felt the best I had for the entire race, with the knowledge that what was to come would be more than worth the effort.
Ticking this descent with rigid single-speeds and race-ready 29in bikes as others were mincing down on long-travel mountain sofas, never felt so good.
Torridon has been somewhere I’ve always wanted to ride but never made it to. Before heading to the Highland Trail I had been told that this section would be one of the highlights of the trip by a very trusted friend. The initial steep sections took some mental focus before the trail opened up and I could ride well. Water bars hopped, babyhead-filled gullies ridden, slabs popped off. The trail had it all, including other mountain bikers who looked bemused as we approached from behind and then passed some of them on our laden bikes and with minimal body armour. Ticking this descent with rigid single-speeds and race-ready 29in bikes as others were mincing down on long-travel mountain sofas, never felt so good. At this point we had become what Flann O’Brien had referred to as ‘part man, part bike’; at perfect balance with our machines, riding terrain we would have baulked at in the days before the race.
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As we rode into the town of Strathcarron we were elated. Elated, but tired. Bodies and bikes alike were suffering badly at this stage. I had major issues walking, with my feet developing the onset of trench foot. Others needed to replace brake pads and some had issues that they were not yet voicing. Prior to the race I had declared Strathcarron as my pull out point. If I had crossed Fisherfield and didn’t feel up to it any more, I was still committed to riding Torridon before pulling the plug here, getting on the train and going home.
As I sat I realised that was not going to happen. I was happy to be here, loving it, wanting more for some reason. Normally I’d have taken the first chance to rest, to take a breather, to pull out due to injury, but it wasn’t even occurring to me to do so. Something had changed in me; something previously broken had fixed itself.
Snow in May? We're not in Cheshire any more, Toto.Snow in May? We’re not in Cheshire any more, Toto.
All that dust is heavy you know.All that dust is heavy you know.
We rode out of Strathcarron and along the road chatting away, enjoying the sunshine that had come back to greet us, when it happened. A quick metallic retort from nowhere. As James pulled over we knew something was wrong. He’d broken a spoke. No bother; the spokes surrounding the gap were re-tensioned and off we pedalled again. Then there was another retort; another spoke, from the same wheel. Bad news.
You may as well have taken my puppy and shot it directly in front of me.
As James sat trying to fix his bike by the side of the road I backed away. The fragility of the race had become apparent to me again and I was worried. I busied myself around my bike ten metres up the road. Fixing my gears, checking spoke tension, anything to not be part of what was happening; the bike racer’s version of sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting ‘I CAN’T HEAR YOU’ as loudly as possible. I could not deal with this. I had to retreat a little. Looking back on it I couldn’t have helped physically; I could have helped verbally, convinced and cajoled him into going on, but at the time the fragility of my own race had become apparent and I did not want to confront it.
It became obvious that James could not continue. Thoughts of riding into Glen Affric on a wheel that might not make it out again were not to be taken lightly. We were running low on supplies; to get into the Glen, with limited food and then having to walk out was a risk too far. We bid farewell to James and rode on to Dornie. I pushed a harder gear than I should have, rode at the front or back, anywhere I didn’t have to talk to Tom and Arno. I just wanted to be alone. The friend I had spent the entirety of the race with was gone. You may as well have taken my puppy and shot it directly in front of me. I was not taking this setback well.
Might be useful. But not as useful as a puppy.Might be useful. But not as useful as a puppy.
We arrived in Dornie to see Castle Arrrrggghhhhhhgggg (also known as Eilean Donan Castle to those not well schooled in the Python back catalogue) and were charged unbelievable prices for dinner and take-away sandwiches from the hotel. With no other option but to submit to this daylight robbery, I stole electricity to charge my phone. Though I’d not bothered with a charger, Arno was out on a tour so why not pack a phone charger, a stove, an extra fleece and a Kindle… Yes, a Kindle. I was stressing about bringing extra gels and Arno was carrying a library of books.
The trail got steeper, wetter and darker than any we had been on before.
We rode into Glen Affric quizzing Arno about what else he had hidden in his bag. Spare spokes would have been the obviously useful thing but no such luck. As we climbed we talked about that night; we knew it was going to have to be the bothy, there was no other place to stay. Arriving to the base of the climb we had five kilometres to go. It was 21.30 and there were still two hours of bikewalking to get us there. Cue the first night of darkness on – or rather beside – the bike.
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As we climbed, the trail got steeper, wetter and darker than any we had been on before. The Fisherfield traverse may have been hard, but at least it was during daylight. Here one step the wrong way would end not in tears but on the rocks some 200 metres below us. Covering this path at night was our only option and not something I would do again. On arriving at the bothy we found that fellow racer Mark Goldie had arrived the night before with broken ribs before bowing out of the race.
We’d assumed that the bivvy-less and sleeping bag-less American Dan would be at the bothy too, as there was nowhere else he could be. We’d been looking forward to hearing about what he had been doing to survive. We later learned that he’d spent his last night on the trail shivering under a rock on top of the mountain, while we spent it in the bothy shivering only a little less. It was 2°c in the bothy, and my lightweight sleeping gear only just kept me comfortable; I can only imagine how cold it was for Dan.
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Day four: relentless forward progress.
Waking at 04.30 I was happy to get on the road for the final time. With 182km of the route left to ride and at least one push, no sleep ’til midnight was an optimistic view to take. As we rolled out of bed, Arno spoke up: “I will not be riding with you today”. At first I assumed we had done something wrong, something to insult him, and I instantly questioned why. “I think I have torn my Achilles…” was the response. I couldn’t react; two companions down in less than 24 hours. We stopped packing, focused on Arno and begged him to reconsider scratching. The position he was in was not a good one. Not much food, little water and very exposed terrain. We figured he could make it to the hostel below, recover there, take the day off then ride on tomorrow. We could not let him scratch.
Arno promised us he would ride on after us, to the hostel at least and get out of the exposed weather up high. Tom and I packed, said our goodbyes and left. We rode the wonderful descent into the glen as best we could in a sombre mood. As the sun warmed us we spoke of the things that were troubling us and how they had affected us. I spoke of the recent loss of my father and how this was a memorial ride for me. How he would have wanted me to do this final day in the style that I wanted; one push, start to finish. Relentless forward progress.
Push, shove, push.Push, shove, push.
We rode through glens, down fire-roads, along roads and tow paths. The day flew by and as we reached Fort Augustus on the return leg we knew that we were not going to spend a fifth night sleeping. We filled bellies and bags and took to the Caledonian Canal path, itching the scratch to go fast along the flat and easy trail. A mental and physical tail wind blew us into Fort William an hour ahead of schedule. Another tail wind pushed us as far as the start of the Nevis range and a climb we knew would be brutal.
No walkers. No stopping. Riding a clean trail by natural light.
The sun shone and burnt us to a crisp on the final major climb. We knew once we had crested it we could descend to Kinlocheven, where we would refuel for the attack on the Devils Staircase. The final descent into Kinlocheven was utterly brutal. Technically demanding riding with a tired mind and an empty belly saw me walking more than I’d have liked. It was 15 hours since we’d left the bothy that morning and it was starting to show. We arrived to the local pub under darkening skies and opted to take an hour out, refuel and recoup before the final six-hour push on to the finish. Our ETA in Tyndrum: 03:00.
With our bags filled with enough food for the final push and no more, I took the opportunity to drop some excess weight off. Emerging from the bathroom I found Tom gesticulating wildly at me and beaming a massive smile – hidden behind him drinking a Coke was Arno. The giddy greetings between the three of us must have been a sight for the punters in the pub, who had no idea what was happening. The lack of bikewalking on the last day had allowed Arno to ride on at his pace without straining his Achilles further and we were three again. We were staying this way now, no matter what.
Baaaaaaar buddy.Baaaaaaar buddy.
The predicted hell of the ride over the Devils Staircase was smoothed by the arrival of Arno, the food and caffeine intake of the past hour, and a glorious sunset. We arrived to the top at 10:30pm as the light had all but faded. A nearly full moon and cloud-free sky allowed us to descend into Altnafeadh with no need for lights; an amazing descent, and one that I am never likely to experience in the same way again. No walkers. No stopping. Riding a clean trail by natural light. At the bottom of the hill Arno sheepishly told us that he would not race us to the end as we had waited for him earlier. We laughed and told him to cop on, we were not racing each other…. unless he wanted to. He smiled and we rode off as darkness fully descended.
Only one memory survives: testicular pain of unimaginable proportions.
The final two hours of the Highland Trail are a blur to me. Only one memory survives: testicular pain of unimaginable proportions. After 20 hours in the saddle following four consecutive 16-hour days, my genitalia finally gave way. If you’ve never felt your testicles and penis cramp, you cannot imagine what it feels like and I do not recommend it.
There are snippets of memory that made it in between the pain. The drunken man singing at us in the middle of a field. The bouncing of my toy sheep’s headlight as he helped me home. Deer running out in front of us while we descended to Bridge of Orchy. Hoping that Arno would react in time to any potholes ahead of us, having the only light that could see farther than five metres ahead; not ideal when descending at full speed… As we crossed the train tracks onto the final few kilometres of the West Highland Way we all fell silent. No one talked as each one of us considered what was about to happen; the end of the race.
We crossed the line in Tyndrum as a trio without a word spoken. We shook hands and placed bikes on the ground. It was done and we were done. Handed beers and food by Tom’s partner, we were reunited with the slightly hungover final member of the team, James. He’d spent the night before on the Isle of Skye, sleeping in a hay loft after drinking most of the island’s beer and whisky. A perfect coping strategy with the way his race had ended.
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We finished at 01.51, an hour earlier than planned, and we ate, talked, drank and laughed into the wee small hours. Later, I woke naturally at 06.00 with the feeling that I needed to do something. Confused, I realised that I could stop riding my bike. I may not have been able to get back to sleep again, though – I was too hungry to do that.
Greg, Tom and Arno finished the 2013 Highland Trail in 4 days, 15 hours and 50 minutes. The winner, Aidan Harding, set a time of 3 days, 2 hours and 15 minutes. Next year’s race starts on Saturday, May 24th 2014.
www.highlandtrail.net
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