Part 3: Joy and despair riding South

Photo: Karl Booth

I woke up on the floor of the public toilet. Such a glamorous sport.

I’d slept really well and I started my day holding my socks under the hand dryer. I wasn’t prepared for what greeted me when I opened the door. It was a beautiful morning; the sun was rising across the water and some warmth was beginning to seep into the day. The race route also provided a pleasant early surprise: tarmac. This was part of the North Coast 500, a classic touring route for bicycles and motorbikes. What a wonderful start to the day.

Normal service soon resumed as I spent the next four hours on the Leadmore Traverse; 19 km of pushing, carrying and walking with occasional ‘sort of cycling’. The sunny morning turned to a rainy afternoon as I raced along on my own. There was a truly unpleasant section with a single track along the edge of (what seemed) a 200 m steep drop. The reverse camber didn’t help, it was slippery and I was feeling tired. It seemed to take me forever but eventually, after a long boggy section, I started the long descent into Ullapool.

When racing, I try to treat descents with caution. Off-road, with high-speed impacts between rock and tyre, it’s easy to get a puncture or break a rim. Of course, I just went flying down this track. I was hungry and wanted to get to Ullapool. Bang! I had jumped a little stream and hit a (sort of) line of rocks across the track. I knew it. My tubeless tyre went down, with barely a whimper from the sealant, a good sized tear.

I was nearly at the bottom, where I stopped to start the repair. It seemed okay as I went to take off my pump but the valve had become stuck inside. Long story short, with the help of my pliers I sheared off that valve. Absolute disaster. I wheeled my bike to the Tesco supermarket, the only shop still open. I fantasised that they would have a small range for cyclists including pumps. I’d buy a new pump, stock up on some food and I’ll be racing again! Obviously, no pump.

Some Dutch holidaymakers appeared. I can use their pump! No good though because my tubeless dream is over and future pinch flats are certain. There’s a long way still to go. I can’t head into the wilderness without my own pump. Not only that, my brake pads were down to the metal.

Any challenge for the podium was finished. I decided to stay the night and if necessary, go to Inverness by bus in the morning for the parts. I found a BnB, settled down for the night and demolished an enormous cooked breakfast the next morning. In the bike shop they had a pump and brake pads, but; Oh dear! The pads didn’t fit. I’m sitting outside a shop on the pavement, with my bicycle in bits.

A stranger appears and asks if he can help. He’s called Alan and, unasked, he tells me that he has the same brake pads on his own bike. He disappears for 10 minutes and came back with a precious gift. I want to point out that he had no idea about the race or who I was. My spot tracker was turned off so he couldn’t have tracked me down as a dotwatcher. In unsupported racing there can be a grey area about getting assistance. In this case, for me, it was pure luck. I’ve also lost 16 hours , which is a kind of self-penalty for breaking my pump and carrying insufficient spares. Anyway, I am back in the race. We shook hands: Alan –  thank you so much!

Soon I was on my way pushing my bike up the well-known climb out of Ullapool called ‘The Coffin Road.’ It was a lovely morning, I was rested, well fed and feeling strong. I caught up with Marcus Stitz. Then I saw the photographer James Robertson, who I already knew well from the Transcontinental. Of course, James was there to photograph riders tackling something really difficult, the renowned river crossing at Fisherfields Forest. I stopped in the bothy to build up some energy and had a great chat with Karl Booth before we headed off to look at the loch. Wow! Around 60 m to cross with no indication of depth. I knew that other racers had already got through and that the loch bed would be flat, we were crossing right at the mouth. I hoisted my bike above my head and waded in. The water was waist deep but slow flowing and soon I was on the other side. This crossing had been built up as the most difficult but I found it quite straightforward, compared with some previous.

A long climb followed, with plenty of walking. At the top, the view was totally spectacular. Huge, bleak, wild, lonely. This was one of my great moments of the race. The difficult and technical Postman’s Path followed as night fell. The track was just a tyre’s width within an unhelpful camber. I would get off and walk but it was too narrow, so I would get back on and pedal but it was too slippery. It seemed to go on and on but eventually I arrived in a small town at around 2230. Somehow, in the company of Karl and John White, I managed to get some Coca-Cola, short bread and cakes from Scotland’s most unhelpful barman (who, while confronted by three ravenous ultra bike racers said: ‘I’ve already cashed-up!’).

Full of sugar, that night I did Torridon, a mtb single track climb, mended a puncture then mostly walked down a big descent. By 0300 I was in my bivvy bag and fast asleep. Three hours later, after a really deep sleep, my alarm woke me and I quickly dressed and got back on my bike. It was -7 degrees C!

The morning was a long slog on very testing terrain, which I’ve mostly selectively forgotten. In the afternoon I arrived at Glen Affric Way for some more ‘hike a bike’. Three enduro riders on full suspension bikes came past me. WTF? I was walking, they were riding? Then another came past, on his own. He knew I was in the race and stopped to give me some unexpected encouragement. He shook my hand then pedalled off, leaving me feeling cheerful, though still pushing and carrying my bike.

Again, I reached the top for an enormous view. I jumped back on the bike and started to ride fast on rolling single and double track paths. This became the moment when it made sense. Everything seemed to just click and I felt not only that I knew what I was doing but also that I was enjoying it. I was riding this track, jumping over the drainage channels, sliding past the rocks. I had never ridden like this before, I was having the time of my life.

I arrived back in Fort Augustus and stopped again for a meal at the fish and chip shop, stocked up on food at the petrol station and then headed off down the canal with enough food to get me through the night. My plan was to ride from here straight to the finish, which I thought would be around nine the next morning. What could go wrong?

I was still riding by the canal. Another puncture, my third since Ullapool. The pump I’d bought was pretty terrible and I couldn’t get enough pressure in the tyre to stop it pinch flatting. Then another within 10 minutes, because I hadn’t fixed it very well. Fixed it again. This time it held. Within 20 m, the gear shifter fails. I’m so used to electronic, it just works, but for this race I have mechanical. The cable seems to have stretched. I try to adjust it, but it still doesn’t work. I decided to replace the cable. This took me an hour thanks to internal cable routing, dodgy hands, and general tiredness. I don’t know what I did wrong, but it just wasn’t working and I had cut also it off too short. To add to the general fun, it was now dark and raining. Many thousand Scottish midges had also decided to support the impromptu bike rebuild session. I fitted my second spare cable. I’d lost two hours and two race positions as both Karl and John had passed me. Frankly, I can say my patience had never been tested as severely. I learnt a whole new level of zen and patience. Sadly I’ve not been able to repeat this since!

Within 20 minutes of getting started again, the rain really set in for the night. I knew the Ben Nevis range was the final challenge and I was apprehensive. I decided to stop and bivvy for a couple of hours so I could tackle it in the light, I was nervous with my lack of route knowledge and skill.

I was back on the bike by 0430 and was soon coming into Fort William where I spotted a slight sleeping figure propped up by the bike shop, waiting for opening time. It was Karl. I left him sleeping.

The West Highland Way was quite busy with walkers at this point as it is so near the road. To my surprise I actually met someone I know, my friend Nick and his girlfriend, who were walking the this section. Soon I was coming down a well-known trail, the Devil’s Staircase. There were plenty of walkers. Some of them stepped aside so the trail can be shared. Some of them just carried on walking, literally blocking the trail. In the interest of openness, I admit that I may have shouted at some people! I was on a mission and not stopping for anything, or one.

I mended another puncture. I went up (what I thought) was the final climb and came down (what I thought) was the final descent. I found myself going too quickly (enjoying myself) and of course crashing on some slippery mud, sliding off into some grass and bushes. Then it was really the last climb and descent with a fast finishing double track, which I absolutely tore down.

There they were, waiting for me, race organisers Alan and Sarah. I got my handshake, that’s why I do this. Then I was in the café where Ben, John and Javier were sitting together. More handshakes and that was that.

Alan told me afterwards that it had been the toughest edition ever. The brutal weather, a combination of rain, cold and wind, meant only a third of the starters made it to the finish, 20/60. I had been tested physically and emotionally. I was more than happy just to finish.