Been There, Done That!

Lack of a connection yesterday means that I’m writing this as we wait for our flight from Inverness to Bristol, the day after.

Morning sunshine at Betty Hill.

A glorious sunrise greeted us as we woke and it was not until we ventured outside after breakfast, that we saw the gathering rain clouds to our east and felt the strengthening headwind we would be battling against for the final 51 miles of our journey. Even this couldn’t dampen our spirits, with over 1,000 miles behind us in conditions ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous over terrain and road surfaces that thrilled and terrified, we were ready for anything.

All smiles as we set out, though the sunshine wouldn't last long.

Even so, it seemed that fate had decided our final day should be amongst the most challenging we’d faced, as the headwind became more ferocious, steepening every climb, lengthening every flat and preposterously, forcing us to pedal down hill on occasion.

I claim this land as my own!

At one point I spotted a sign, ‘John O’Groats 37m’ and decided to take a photo. Unfortunately it was on an uphill section and Frank, head down, pedals spinning furiously battling the headwind, rode straight into the back of me. There followed a few expletives unprintable here and an even better photo opportunity with Frank, just in front of the sign, still on his bike but in a ditch. Sadly, I was laughing too hard and Frank was too upset, to allow the shot.

Grinding out the final few miles as the weather deteriorates.

It was with a sense of relief that we reached Thurso and took lunch in a Surfers Cafe, it’s warmth and shelter being as much appreciated as the excellent food. JB looked almost too relaxed lounging across his sofa and it wouldn’t have taken very much to convince us to stay on here a couple of hours longer and avoid the worst of the weather. However, climb back on the bikes we did to cycle on a surprisingly straight and flat 5 mile stretch of road which would have been pleasurable apart from that incessant headwind. Spots of rain began to fall and as we reached Gill’s Bay, the heavens opened and a heavy shower soaked us, ensuring we would arrive at John O’Groats a little damp.

The GPS shows less than two miles to go (top right of screen).

As the final few miles approached it was hard not to keep looking at the GPS unit and counting down the hundredth’s and tenth’s. The more I looked, the slower the numbers reduced and it was only once we were into the final mile, and talking about our formation across the finishing line, that the GPS was forgotten.

Line abreast, we crossed the line together (yes, there is an actual finish line) having completed 1,073 miles, climbing over 60,000 ft (twice the height of Mt Everest) in the process. Then we began our celebrations, which is another story altogether. It has been an epic adventure, quite testing at times and rewarding through every stage. I feel very privileged to have had the opportunity to make this trip and it was a pleasure to do it in such wonderful company. I’m sure it’s something we will always remember, particularly JB who’s proposal to Jane by ‘phone (coward!), moments after we’d finished, was joyfully accepted. Apparently sharing a room with Nigel for three weeks had convinced him his future lay elsewhere, and who can blame him?

Job done!

If you’ve enjoyed reading the blog, please look to the right of your screen where there is a link to my sponsorship page. It would be a very satisfying and fitting conclusion to the trip if we could raise just a little more money for the charity I’m supporting. Thank you all for your comments and support along the way, it’s been greatly appreciated.

Steve.

Betty Hill & Betty Swollocks

Our penultimate day and at breakfast there was a strange atmosphere of anticipation tinged with some sadness that it would soon all be over. After making a slightly better job of covering myself with Midge Repellent, I nearly choked myself to death yesterday, we set out on our short run to the north coast of Scotland and then east to Betty Hill and our hotel for the night.

Beautiful sky reflected in the still waters of Loch Loyal.

Almost immediately it became apparent that JB was cycling at a much faster pace than normal as he headed, with great excitement and anticipation, for Kylie’s Tongue. Sadly, he’d misread his itinerary and our coffee stop was not with the diminutive antipodean but at a place called the Kyle of Tongue. Unconsolable, and after a petty strop when he refused to continue until he’d at least seen a picture of Kylie, he decided against taking a detour with us around the Kyle of Tongue and across it’s causeway, and headed out on the planned route to Betty Hill alone.

Nigel calls for help, as John insists on going no further until he's benefited from Kylie's ministrations.

Nigel, Frank and I, having explored Kylie’s Estuary, set course for the hotel where we met up with JB in the bar and he seemed in much better spirits as we supped our beer whilst the jukebox played Ms Minogues ‘I Should Be So Lucky’ for the 23rd time.

Big day tomorrow then! Only 51 miles between us and the goal we set ourselves those 12 or so months ago. What could possibly go wrong?!

Nigel readies his camera for a glorious morning backdrop shot.

The last climb to Betty Hill, rounding Torrisdale Bay.

A Long Day In The Saddle

Our planned 69 mile route from Inverness to Crask Inn (which is not so much a place, as just an Inn at the side of the road), was extended to 78 miles, our longest day yet, as there’s no room at the Inn and the nearest B&B is 9 miles further North at Altnaharra on the edge of Loch Naver. Still, it means we’ve got an easier day tomorrow.

Leaving Inverness we crossed Beauly Firth via the Kessock Suspension Bridge and struck out for Dingwall, slightly disappointed at missing the native dolphins that are often seen playing in the swirling currents close to the bridge. After coffee at Dingwall Railway Station, which seems to concentrate more on it’s cafe business than on servicing the odd train that may happen by, we cycled through open countryside and gradually climbed around Beinn Tharsuin to reveal a breathtaking panorama overlooking the waters of Dornoch Firth toward our lunch stop at Bonar Bridge.

Although we’ve known for some time that the finish line is not too far way, it’s only now that people are beginning to whisper about crossing it. Even JB, who has avoided most of the trials and tribulations (Franks suffered a dog attack & associated puncture, Nigel & I have experienced two punctures each, a jumping gear and a broken chain), is beginning to believe he can avoid the fickle finger of fate and finish this thing relatively untouched.

This is Salmon country and we continued our journey up alongside the fast flowing and turbulent, River Shin where the fish can be seen leaping upstream to their spawning grounds in the highlands to the north. Here the Landscape began to change as we left the lush fertile hills, valleys & meadows behind us climbing up into heather covered moorland and rode the forestry trail through Lairg to the remote Crask Inn, where the mountains began to rise around us. Sutherland County is larger than Wales but only has 13,000 inhabitants, so if you want to get away from it all, this is the place. This stretch had seemed never-ending and we were lucky to have had good weather with only a slight headwind to bother us. Lairg to Crask Inn took us under an hour, however it can take two and a half hours when the wind really blows and the rain beats over this open moorland.

After a very quick beer we coaxed our legs back into the old routine and climbed the last 1/2 mile or so before beginning a long, slow downhill ride along Strath Vagastie to Altnaharra. Ben Kilbreck to our east looked stunning as the early evening sunlight brought the landscape around us into sharp relief and took my breath away. It was a memorable end to a long day in the saddle, just over 7 hours, to cover the 78 miles with odd stops here and there, climbing 3500ft in the process. The good news is we’ve burnt around 3,200 calories, so if Sticky Toffee Pudding is on the menu, we may have it served the Frank Di Claudio way, with ice-cream, fresh cream and custard.

A Hard Days Ride.

Firstly, sorry this is a little late. No wifi or phone signal in our Grantown-on-Spey Guest House last night.

I think I’m safe in stating that Monday’s ride was the hardest 60 miles any of us had ever ridden, climbing just under 5,000 feet in the process (although it felt like a lot more)! Knowing this was going to be tough, Nigel set off early, mentally set on overcoming the challenge at his own pace. The rest of us plodders began at a more conservative pace, determined to arrive sooner, or more likely later, at our destination.

Almost immediately we started a 4 mile climb which over it’s length gradually increased in gradient, until we negotiated a left hand bend which revealed and even steeper incline for the final 1/2 mile or so!

Our eventual reward was an exhilarating 7 mile sweep down the beautiful valley alongside Clunnie Water into Braemar. I’d accelerated away from Frank & JB as we sped downhill, though as I waited at the support van, taking onboard some much needed sustenance, I was a little concerned at the size of the gap I’d established. It turned out that Frank had experienced a catastrophic saddle malfunction on the way down and was lucky not to have skewered himself. Apparently the tears were caused by the slipstream rushing past him, although I think they were tears of relief! JB did say it was funny watching Frank cycle in the standing position with his unattached saddle clenched between his cheeks.

JB smiling as he enjoys a rare bit of level road, or has he just undone Franks saddle bolt?!

From Braemar, we cycled along the A93, a wonderfully flat, fast road that gave us a fleeting glimpse of Balmoral Castle before we turned right and started climbing hard again towards Gairnshiel Lodge. Once there, we had little respite before another long climb upped it’s spitefulness to become an almost impossible 20% gradient. Just as muscles, lungs and heart screamed ‘enough’, the crest appeared and waiting for us, the welcome sight of our support van and the defibrillator paddles. Here we learnt that we’d conquered the worrisome Devil’s Elbow much earlier in the day without noticing it. What finely tuned athlete’s we’ve all become!

Devils Elbow Circa 1938, though the new road must've smoothed it out a bit, because we didn't notice it!

After a light picnic lunch we rested our weary legs, freewheeling and cruising down to Corgarff Castle, admiring it’s white painted keep and protective walls before sweeping right and admiring the terrifying near vertical wall of tarmac blocking our route at Cock Bridge. It was an immense 22% climb that had lungs heaving, sweat pouring and my front wheel coming off the ground. No relief could be found either staying in the saddle or standing on the pedals but eventually, after two vicious hairpins the road began to flatten out. Hearts pounding, we took a rest and viewed the panorama around us. A chill went down my spine as, in the distance, at least a mile of road could be seen snaking up, around and over the even larger hill in front of us!

Frank, having thought he'd reached the top, surveys the top. Ouch!

This was getting beyond a joke. Still, we ground out every inch until reaching a Ski Lift Cabin where again we rested our aching legs before enjoying a long weaving descent, at one point hitting 45.5mph, which kept my heart rate well above 170bpm.

There were only 5 more miles to go and the end was in sight when all of a sudden it disappeared to be replaced with a heart stopping, blind 20% drop and an immediate reciprocal climb out. Just as the strain began to tell, my chain broke forcing me to stop. I shouted to JB just ahead of me, but the blood pounding through his ears must have deafened him and with no phone signal, I set about repairing the link with my little on bike tool kit. As luck would have it, Nigel in the support van turned up a minute or two later and turned his expert hand to the task.

He suggested I walk up the steep bit to give me a chance of getting my shoe cleats engaged with the pedals, but conscious that I’d never hear the last of it if Frank found out, I chose to turn the bike around and coast back down the hill before recovering the lost ground and finally making it to the top and onto Grantown on Spey.

Exhausted but happy that the worst of it is now over, we celebrated with an early night and some well earned shut eye.

Tuesday’s leg to Inverness was spoiled by the driving rain, low cloud and seemingly continuous headwind. It became a case of just getting from A to B as quickly as possible, sadly ignoring the battlefield at Colluden, which could have made for an interesting stop had the weather been more conducive.

So here we are in Inverness, preparing for tomorrows 69 mile trek to Altnaharra on the western edge of Loch Naver, daring to think about the finish on Friday, fingers crossed.

Sunshine after the rain.

A whole day in the sunshine, unbelievable! We cycled the back roads from Kinross, arriving in Perth as the sun burnt off the last of the morning mist. Perth is not somewhere I’d thought a lot about, the forgotten relation of Edinburgh, Glasgow & Aberdeen perhaps. But I have to say, the bits we went through were beautiful, particularly the bridge over the River Tay and it’s views of the architecture lining it’s banks. Definitely worth a longer visit at some time in the future.

Two idiots spoil a view of the River Tay at Perth.

Unspoilt view of the River Tay at Perth, well nearly.

We carried on to Blairgowrie and a spot if lunch before taking on the long, stepped climb to our base camp for tackling the Cairngorms tomorrow, the Spittal of Glenshee. The first part of the day had taken us through acres of productive arable farmland. Crops were being harvested, potato plants lined the hillsides, raspberries, black currants & strawberries were ripening in the sunshine and even ex-farmer Frank was amazed at the variety and abundance of crops prospering this far up country. North of Blairgowrie the landscape began to change as we followed the Black Water Valley past the Forest of Alyth and Mount Blair. The lush grassland and trees of the valley giving way to steeper inclines with barren rocky outcrops and hillsides covered in purple heather.

Cornering at speed, Frank & JB pick up some impetus for the next hill.

We all took it relatively easy today, conscious of the effort needed for tomorrows strenuous trek to Grantown on Spey with a climb of 5,000+ feet and the 1:3 Devils Elbow to negotiate. Taking it easy though, was harder work than we’d thought and some serious rest and recuperation is going to be needed before our early start tomorrow.

Hills and Flats.

Refreshed after our day off, Saturday began with us retracing our wheel tracks back to Traquair before heading north to a 9 mile incline that became progressively steeper, eventually cresting the ridge to be met with glorious views of Edinburgh, The Firth of Forth and a great deal of Scotland beyond. The sun had also begun to shine in contrast to the cold, incessant drizzle that had accompanied our long climb up and over the Moorfoot Hills. Frank’s long forecast warm front finally appeared to be with us.

Frank and Nigel descend on Edinburgh.

We dropped down to the outskirts of Edinburgh and then on straight through the centre which was already buzzing with Festival goers and street entertainers. For once, a group of middle aged men on bikes, wearing garish Lycra, didn’t seem out of place. Soon we were in the banks of the Forth, between the road and rail bridges, looking for somewhere to eat. As we discussed our options, there was a hiss from my back tyre as the inner tube that had carried me all the way from Cornwall expired, not with a bang but with a whimper. On close inspection the valve seat had parted from the rubber and a new tube was called for. Duly fitted we set off through the crowds, walking our bikes in places, eventually settling for a quick pie at a pub before climbing a short hill to join the Forth Road Bridge. There, another hiss was heard as the newly installed inner tube that had carried me all of 500 yards, terminating it’s brief employment in exactly the same manner as the first.

Frank, overjoyed at the sight of the Forth Rail Bridge

Riding over the Forth Bridge brought to mind our of crossing of the Severn just over a week ago. We are far more confident and capable tourers now and once on the northern bank we set out for Kinross in blazing sunshine. The Kirklands Hotel, our stay for the night, is a gem. Newly refurbished throughout and under very personable ownership, it has a relaxed and genial atmosphere. The food is of a very high quality and served by a great team, confident in their roles and not afraid to enter into a bit of banter if the chance arises. If you’re ever in the area, give the place a go, you won’t regret it. Looking forward to breakfast already!

On Sunday we head for the Spittal of Glenshee (in case you were wondering, Google informs me that a Spittal is a shelter from wolf attack), by which time we be 70+ miles north of Edinburgh having covered 784 miles, still with around a quarter our our journey to complete. The Highlands and the wolves await.

Week 2, Country 3.

The sunny start and flat 17 mile ride to the Scottish border gave us a great springboard into our 72 mile stage to Glentress, just outside Peebles. Fortunately, the fatigue felt during the latter stages of yesterdays ride didn’t bother me today, only the grumbling knee pain on the climbs gave me any cause for concern. Some horse pill sized Ibuprofen tablets, bought at our coffee stop in Langholme, provided almost immediate relief, aided by the Rhubarb Pie & Ice Cream and the billion calorie toffee-fudge-shortbread-flapjack thing with added pecan nuts that Frank bought us.

JB and Frank pose on the border.

Fuelled up but feeling slightly queasy, we continued our ride up into some spectacular border country. Lush meadows and hills interspersed with dense fir forests and area’s cleared by the logging operations that help pay for the tracks we were cycling on.

So far the rain had held off although the clouds did look ominous. If they released their load, we were to eat lunch at a Tibetan Monastery (you can’t miss a Tibetan Monastery out here), or if the sun was still shining, the support van and it’s picnic would be at the top of a pass, some 5 miles further on.

Nigel shouts expletives as he rides his uni-cycle to our lunch stop.

Nigel hadn’t heard the ’5 miles further on’ bit, and as we ground our way up a seemingly never ending incline into an incessant head wind, his patience finally ran out and a stream of expletives, never before heard by those in earshot (mostly sheep or cattle, it has to be said), rang out down the valley as he questioned the parentage of those that had driven the van so far away from us.

After eating, Nigels mood improved and we climbed further up into the hills, at one point being overtaken by an old Morgan open top sports car, a rather English scene which soon took on a Scottish flavour when, with hardly any warning the heavens opened with considerable force. Nigel and JB decided to don waterproofs but it was probably already too late. Then, inexplicably, JB decided this was a good time to add a sprinkling of his own to the countryside and I decided to make a run for the blue patch of sky in the distance. In the process overtaking a very soggy moggy who’s occupants were busy unwrapping bundles of car roofing canvas and trying to fit slot ‘A’ over toggle ‘B’ whilst the wind insisted on wrapping the flapping canvas around Fir Tree ‘C’.

JB tucks in and gets a tow.

Already wetter than a fish, I hurtled down a very long exhilerating descent, the hailstones stinging my face and arms, before gaining some respite as the rain ceased for the final big pull up the final big incline and another gloriously long fast descent into Traquair. Just into this drop, another torrential downpour soaked me to the skin but couldn’t dampen my spirits. I was 3 miles from home, had taken the worst that Scotland could throw at me and the sun was now out as I pootled through the flooded lanes to our hotel in a very happy and rather euphoric state (probably a Ibuprofen induced high). Once in the room I ditched my helmet & backpack and got into the shower fully clothed & shod and washed my kit out as I warmed up and got ready for a well deserved beer, or two.

On the road shot from earlier in the day whilst the sun shone.

We get our solitary rest day tomorrow, so no cycling and no blog. See you Saturday.