Day Two (b)

Emerging from the hotel into the bright and, by then, scorching sunshine presented an entirely different landscape to the one from which we had sought refuge before lunch.  We looked across to Achnasheen and the place seemed downright pastoral and, to a point, appealing, when we know that in an hour it might well be bleak and forbidding again.

Back to the roundabout, and turning left, we were now on the road to Torridon.  This section fell into different chapters: a long straightish stretch along the valley floor, into a strengthening headwind, for about 5 miles; a turn up into the hills, climbing to the top where we would see Loch Maree laid out at the foot; an extended downhill into Kinlochewe; and a final haul to Torridon.

Last time we did this, one of our number reached his limit on the climb, threw his bike away and requested a quiet demise.  After a hard push along the valley, accompanied by constantly changing light but with a relentless wind pressing back at us, we turned with sinking hearts to face the climb. We started to climb when my mobile phone, in my waterproof pocket, started to ring.  I ignored it, assuming, perhaps naively, that it was either just Orange with another offer or my mother wondering where I was.  When we reached a suitable stopping point on the way up, I checked the voicemail.  It was Emma, with a detectable strain in her voice, pointing out that while it was lovely to hear from me, it was unnecessary to have sent 16 blank texts messages to her in quick succession.  I switched off after that.  A metaphor, perhaps, for my life: many communications, no content.

And, rather surprisingly, we met a new road, which, though it took us to the top of the same hill, had improved very considerably on the old single track, and was unquestionably afflicted by a lower gradient.  We pedalled long and hard but by the time we reached the top we turned to each other and asked - this isn't it yet, is it? However, the evidence was clear:

That's Loch Maree.  What a sight. 

Reaching the top of any hill can never be described as an anticlimax, and we know far better than to express the thought which appeared to be crossing both our minds simultaneously - that was easy - but it was mildly disconcerting to be there, 29 years on, and on the same day as we had passed through the sunny lowlands of Conon Bridge.

Adrian Mole once went on a Scottish holiday and in his diary he eventually took to describing every sight he saw as "majestic".  It's an understandable temptation and in this case, Kinlochewe, Torridon and the surroundings are majestic, but they are also mildly threatening, and with the cloud down and the prospect of rain and wind before us, the relief didn't last.

We released the bikes down the immense decline.  Now that's an expression of joy.  Until two thirds of the way down when a gusting cross wind nearly knocked both of us off into the majestic hillside adjacent to the road.  It came out of nowhere, like a goal for Scotland, and felt alarmingly personal.  We cruised to the foot of the hill and into Kinlochewe feeling slightly shaken.

Going fast down a hill presents a difficulty or two for the bespectacled cyclist.  Never the best fit, my current pair of glasses no longer sit in the position intended.  I believe there are two reasons for this: firstly, I have asymmetric jaws, a piece of good news delivered to me by my optician when I first needed visual aids at 18, and so one ear is slightly higher than the other. I had always suspected that there was something wrong with my face.  Now I had scientific proof.  Not only does it affect ear positioning and general grotesqueness, but it also means that one side of my face is shorter than the other.  As a result, I am left with a Geoffrey Boycott smile, which ranks some way below Bette Davis eyes or Pippa Middleton figure in the beauty stakes.  It does explain why my nose was left in a somewhat precipitous position, looking over the ledge.  It had no solid foundation from which to grow.  Given that I had no chin when I was 18 - I went straight from none to two - it's a wonder I ever ventured out of the house without the neighbours approaching with pitchforks.

So screaming down a hill means that every so often it is necessary to take one hand off the bars and restore the floating frames to their original position, and on highland roads at high speed you can't really afford not to cling on for dear life, with every sinew stretched with the effort.  A second impediment is that the wind, already robust, become intolerably severe, so that even if my glasses were remotely in front of my eyes, there's so much water in my eyes that I can't see a thing through them.  Closing the eyes would probably be a better option.

When we reached Kinlochewe, I was feeling a bit sensitive to every loose chipping under the back tyre, and it was apparent that I had a slow puncture going on.  We stopped for coffee, and put some air in the tyre, but within a mile of leaving for Torridon, we had to concede the point and change the inner tube.  Thankfully, Norman had brought two spares to accompany my having brought none.  A quiet and efficient procedure later and we were under sail again, though a significant amount of oil had departed from the chains and decorated our legs, hands and fluourescent jackets.

That last stretch to Torridon is amazingly wild and beautiful, but remote and moderately frightening.  It is also characterised by short downhills and sharp little uphills.  These are the worst kinds of uphills.  With a long hill, you can steel yourself, get in a low gear and surrender to the inevitable slow haul; with a short hill, you retain the hope that your momentum will take you most of the way, so you go downhill in top gear pedalling furiously, only to reach a point halfway up the hill when you have to go down two cogs immediately and, agonisingly, up the pedalling rate instantly to get you to the top.  It's like fast bowling (isn't everything in life like fast bowling?): face a quick bowler with a long run up, and you're set by the time he gets into his delivery stride; face a quick bowler off a short run and he's on you before you know it.  The last thing you want on a day like we had just had was a lot of short sharp ascents. 

I know it's a bit odd to be using a cricketing metaphor, but as Harold Pinter once put it: "It's not so much that cricket is a metaphor for life, but that life is a metaphor for cricket".  Now that's majestic.

I didn't manage to take many photos on that part of the road but here's a couple of snapshots of the surroundings:

We came to the Torridon Inn about 6.30pm.  Naturally, I went to the wrong place initially, the Torridon Hotel.  You wouldn't think a place like that would be overburdened with hotels but I went into this rather grand reception in the hotel, not, perhaps, at my best - wet, knackered, covered in the produce of numerous highland puddles (one of the perils of slipstreaming, by the way) - only to be told that I was in the wrong place and should go next door.

Not the right season for this "no room at the inn" approach but thankfully the Inn turned out not to be a barn but what seemed to me to be a new building around a courtyard which could once have housed stables.  A chalkboard at reception intimated "Muddy Wellies Welcome", which might give a false impression of the kind of place it was: no youth hostel, this, but a very comfortable, relaxed and welcoming place, where we had our own large room in the stable yard building, with massive space which even accommodated the bikes as we didn't want to leave them outside exposed to the elements.

After getting a wash we sought out dinner, but I was so wiped out I could hardly face it, though my energy was in urgent need of replenishment.  Still, a well-stocked bar gave us a rich selection of malt whiskies with which to end the day, and I chose the Balvenie Double Wood, taken in a warm and giving leather sofa in the corner.  Magnificent.

As we headed back to the room, the thought returned to me, from all those years ago.

It's going to be just as bad tomorrow.

Day Two (a)

Bearing in mind the troubles we encountered when we cycled to Torridon in 1982 - ref http://www.bbc.co.uk/radioscotland/dayslikethis/stories/the_achnasheen_desolation.shtml - the prospect of heading into the great wide open did not horrify as much as it might have when we rose on 21 August, day two, ready to head west and north.  Having a very poor memory may have contributed to this.  The morning opened up bright and calm - as, consequently, did we - and matters improved quickly as our landlady arrived from the main part of the house bearing two heaped plates with bacon, eggs, sausages and all the fixings.  The kitchen only contained Tetley tea bags and instant coffee.  I don't know about you, but I feel that Tetley are excellent at making adverts but their tea bags taste suspiciously like tea confused with sweepings from the factory floor: bitter, metallic and gritty.  Following some gentle hinting, a steaming pot of coffee arrived.   The day was set up.

We resumed our saddles with slight tenderness but set off in excellent spirits.  Conon Bridge, Contin and Garve all fell under our spell quickly.  One long climb after the roundabout at Brahan was mildly testing but these hills were no match for the Macleodine physique, and we pressed up on the middle cog.  We were flying, though noted with a moment's tremor that we had a headwind to deal with.  A slight catch in the breath when we saw the sign coming out of Contin - "Last Shop Till Ullapool" - but no mind, we were still in top form.

A word about kit.  I have developed a very comfortable ensemble for long distance cycling (he said like it's a common activity).  An improvement on the 1983 collection, which certainly caused more problems than it solved, it comprises from low to high: the well-fitting Reebok running shoe; the snug white sports sockage; the bare but unshaved leg; the lycra cycling short, overdraped by capacious swimming or adidas short; the cotton or otherwise breathable comfy shirt; the ubiquitous fleece (I am aware of the limitations in my wardrobe and this is perhaps the most obvious and vulnerable to critical comment); the fluourescent yellow cycling jacket, in slightly disgraceful state but still effective and absolutely essential in the absence of any bike lights: the Melbourne Cricket Ground cap brought home to me by my parents in law from their antipodean visit, intended as an act of kindness but merely a constant reminder that they had been to the MCG and I haven't; and the brain-encapsulating, skull-protecting cycling helmet.

Now let me be honest.  This does not a good look achieve.  I have, if I'm honest, never seen anyone wearing a cap under a helmet, but I started doing it in Israel when the sun would get under the inadequate peakage of the helmet but over the top of the inadequate shades.  A peaked cap is crucial on a bright day for me, much more important than dark glasses.  And, as may be apparent to the casual observer, I really don't care what I look like.  The cap stays.  It's also good to wear a tangible reminder of Australia 98 all out England 157 for none, my second favourite scoreboard of the last 25 years (the first being 517 for one, and if you don't know that one, just ask...)

Norman's apparel was much simpler but achieved the same general effect of being warm and comfortable enough to take the mind of clothing and on to the important stuff, like how do we get to lunch.

We stopped at the Garve Hotel, shortly before the rain began.  I'm not sure I've ever been in Garve when the rain isn't on.  We enjoyed a cup of tea in somewhat incongruous surroundings.  I mean, we were the incongruous ones, not the surroundings.

I was surprised they didn't come along and put a newspaper under us to prevent the unpleasant sweatage transferring to the soft and giving surface of armchair

This table was extraordinary.  A glass top perched over the fur of something which must have been enormous but which doesn't normally find itself on a table top - Beethoven (the dog, not the composer) came to mind.

It will be apparent, though, that we were in grand form when we departed Garve, looking forward to an interesting reunion with Strath Bran, the wilderness which takes you to Achnasheen:

I recognise that this look does nothing for me. Hapless codger rather sums it up.

We left behind the sleepy aristocrats and the dead game - or dead aristocrats and sleepy game, it was hard to tell which - and at that point it really hit home that we were now in the wild.  We had to stop briefly to check which was the Ullapool road and which the right way, but the recently-acquired map of Scotland turned out to be useful: first left it was.

The thing about this journey was not to try and reclaim lost youth, nor to prove something to myself about my capabilities now as compared to 18; it was, fundamentally, to see parts of Scotland that we normally don't see in a powerful and vivid way, absorbing the surroundings without the mediating sealed-off blandness of a car.  We knew it would be hard, and that there would be times, as before, when someone wanted to give up.  Last time it was Andrew surrendering to the instinct to curl up and die; this time, somewhere near Achanalt, about halfway to Achnasheen, it was, unquestionably, me.

I did not throw my bike away nor truly give up - though nor, to be fair, did Andrew - but after 9 miles or so of relentless headwind in fine rain, the kind that Peter Kay says "soaks you right through", I was cold, exhausted and feeling not a little foolish for thinking, less than an hour before, that I had this cycling lark all down and all that stuff about training in advance was just new age nonsense.  Apparently I was wrong.  Had it not been for the Chunky Kit Kats which Norman was carrying with him, no further would I have gone.  There would have been an embarrassing scene at the gates of the large property sat at the side of the road where we took shelter, involving a certain amount of wailing and beating on the fence.

To paraphrase Bertie Wooster, if ever I marry and have a son (or in my case another son), his name will be Chunky Kit Kat Macleod in honour of the day his father's life was saved in Wester Ross.

And yet, in a symbol of the journey to come, within half an hour, we were freewheeling into Achnasheen with the sun burning on our backs.  The cafe which we thought would provide us with lunch was closed, dismayingly, but a well-signposted Ledgowan Lodge Hotel was just over the roundabout through the village, and happily supplied us with substantial provender, including this cherry pie and custard, a boon to an exhausted traveller (as is apparent from the photograph):

Achnasheen in sunshine - never seen that before.

Fine pudding. Still thought I was done for the day.

It's a strange feeling, sitting in delightful but wildly remote surroundings, comfortable but knowing that the next stage is going to be just as hard as the pre-lunch sessions.  The comforts of pudding insulated us from that foreboding.  The knowledge which rather dented the good mood was that about 5 miles on was the layby where Andrew proclaimed his desire to end it all, and that right soon, and there was a good reason for that.  The landscape was changing again.

Day One

After months of planning and anticipation, and a great deal of advance blather by me, Norman and I at last set off on our cycling trip last Saturday, travelling from Inverness to Harris, then back to Kyle of Lochalsh.  I have many - perhaps too many - impressions of the few days of the trip still floating around my head undigested, and I will have to spend some time reflecting on the last few days.

This is how it unfolded.  This will be split into manageable parts.  After all, even my fingers are still stiff.

Day One

The last piece of the planning jigsaw to fall into place was how we were going to secure the bikes to the car.  I have an old bike frame which used to fit on my old Volvo saloon, but it's not in particularly good nick.  My good friend James Saville, a keen cyclist who is, as I type, in France with a group cycling east to west across the country, lent me his Thule bars from the top of his Ford Estate, as soon as he became aware that there was a need.  Norman then supplied the rails on which the bikes were to be fitted.  I have previously adverted to my lack of practical interest in and knowledge of how the world works, but even to my clueless eyes these rails are a mechanical and ergonomic marvel.  They are beautifully designed and it is immensely satisfying to see them click smoothly into place and know that they will hold the bikes in place for hours in high winds and at high speeds.

On Saturday morning, I rose at 6, prepared briefly for the day, said goodbye to Emma and two beautiful sleepy boys still in their beds - it's not fair to say they are at their best when they're asleep but it may be true - and drove to Norman's to collect him.

6.30am Saturday 20 August

Evidence, if needed, that the bikes looked perfect on top of the car; and that we were standing by the car when we had our picture taken.  For the uninitiated, Norman is standing to my left, and does not appear to be wearing baggy long johns.

We drove to Kyle of Lochalsh, arriving about 1pm, and found a suitable place to leave the car for 6 days.  We then looked for lunch before boarding the 2.35 train to Inverness.  Kyle is not a culinary hotspot.  Having found nothing very inspiring, we entered Hector's Bothy, located in a car park.  The food was plain and hot, and actually did us fine.  The memory did not warm us, however, and when we were heading back to Kyle on two further occasions, the prospect of returning there did not appeal.  Indeed, Norman inadvertently but tellingly referred to it as Henry's Hovel, and from henceforth that is how I will know it.

The weather was poor in Kyle, squally showers predominating, but we met improving weather as we approached Inverness and by the time we disembarked we were bathed in late summer sunshine for our first leg to Muir of Ord.  Travelling that line meant we passed Achnasheen under lowering skies, a haunting reminder of what had been before, and an ominous foreboding of what was to come.

There are two ways to Muir of Ord: either go over the Kessock Bridge on the main A9 and turn left, or, if you're on a bike, leave Inverness through Clachnacuddin, over the Caledonian Canal and ride along the Beauly Firth.  No contest.  Although we faced a headwind, it was a wonderful start to the journey, in early evening sunshine and through glorious country, with sun-dappled fields to the left and the Firth stretched out to the right.  We quickly settled into the rhythm of one leading, one tucked in the slipstream, and were downright lively on the pedal, so that we reached M of O, a distance of 13 miles or so, within just over an hour.  At one point, we entered the city boundaries of Beauly where an electronic sign beamed a smiley face and informed us that we were doing 19mph.  Strange how even a speed sign can be patronising.

The B & B looks nothing on the website.  Hillview, they call it, though JCB Plant Hire Factory view would be equally accurate.  Still, we got a very warm welcome at the door by our landlady, and, expecting to be ushered in, were slightly taken aback to be directed next door to the granny flat, complete with our own kitchen and living room.  As it dawned on us that we would have time to find dinner and still come back in time for Match of the Day, joy was unconfined.

Norman ready to roll

In Inverness about to leave for Muir of Ord

The Hillview B & B, Muir of Ord

Dinner in the Ord Arms was unexceptional but the food was hot and we spent a companionable hour there before cycling back through the village and slowly wound down from the long day.  While dining, we talked over our respective sporting careers.  Norman has a distinguished record as a Grade 1 hockey player for many years for Grange, winning Scottish Championships, Cups and a place in Europe more than once.  He now plays for Scotland over 40s and over 45s.  He hinted at regret that his school hockey career prevented him reaching representative age group levels and that did not help him in his quest for a full cap.  As for me, I once hit a four at Fochabers and received the Highland Cricket Club Duck of the Year award in 1983.  When I moved to London Road CC in Edinburgh I was rewarded with Most Improved Player in 1986.  Two points arise: firstly they had no idea what I was like before then, so how could they know whether I had improved or not? Secondly, in order to improve, all I had to do was score five or more runs and hold a catch.  Not a distinguished career.  And now all my friends who have the privilege of playing church matches with me think that my scoring a single run ranks with sightings of the fabled Bigfoot in North America, of the Yeti in the Himalayas and of a Conservative MP in Scotland.

A short word about food, a subject of importance in these ramblings.  The rules went out, and will remain out, the window until the end of the journey.  When food is fuel, everything is permitted.  Sticky toffee pudding, once my ambrosia but of late taboo, came to me whole and left the plate fast.  And reminded me that I had foresworn it not only because of the damage it was doing to my shape but also because, frankly, all but two sticky toffee puddings I have ever had have been a disappointment, the, if you will, Mark Ramprakash of puddings.  Attractive and apparently gloriously fulfilling but often stodgy and mediocre.  Norman relished his but, as I was to come to remember over the next few days, his appetite for STP and carrot cake is apparently inexhaustible.  You would think he was a government tester or something.

Still, the no puddings rule has gone for the time being.  And not just because I fancy something sweet with my meals.  To quote Tom's first completed sentence, delivered with some determination from his high chair as I prepared his morning porridge: I need CAKE.

Apparently We're On

I understand that tomorrow's the day we head north to start the cycle trip.  This seems unlikely, since it can't be mid August already.  However, on the assumption that that is right, it is perhaps right to carry out an audit of readiness for the trip.

We have rails and bars fitted to the roof of my car, ready to receive the bikes.  These Thule efforts are designed in a remarkably efficient way by visionaries who understand how things work.  Some might find such functional items mundane.  To me, they are a symbol of the wonder of mankind just as much as the combustion engine, the iPod, the space shuttle and David Gower's cover drive.

We also have bikes, ready and primed to go.  I have had mine serviced at the Bike Co-operative in Bruntsfield, to the effect that I now have three working rear cogs and a new chain.  Irritatingly when I retrieved my bike from the workshop, the seat had been lowered a couple of inches from the position it was fixed into when I bought the bike about 13 years ago.  I didn't realise that for some time because I went by car to collect the bike and shoved it in the boot with the back seats down. 

We have accommodation, maps, a clear route and even eating places en route mapped out ahead.  Norman's Mum, amazingly, has gone to Harris to await our arrival and to provide some of her wonderful home cooking to tend to our weary spirits.  We have planned our ferry times, and on Thursday when we leave Harris we have plenty time to get up and packed, and cycle across to Tarbert, probably taking about an hour, and then cycle back across Skye to pick up the car in Kyle and drive home.  Given that the ferry arrives in Uig about 1.30, and we will take a full day to get to Kyle, I imagine that we won't be home until Friday is well under way.  Norman told me he's going to work on Friday.  Well, only part of him will be there with him.  A substantial portion will still be asleep somewhere.

So, we're ready.  Except by one significant measure.  I have done so little training it's almost unbelievable that I have the temerity to set off on this trip in the first place.  I have done, by my calculation, something like 87 miles of cycling, spread liberally across a 10 month period or so, in training for a trip that will take at least three times that mileage.

What am I thinking?  What on earth have I been doing?

I can only think that it is a natural combination of complacency, laziness and blind optimism - not otherwise a feature of my personality - which has led to this state of affairs.  In my head, I am still 18.  I was not strong or resilient when I was 18, but at least I had one advantage over my current self: I had the body and energy of an 18 year old.  I could recover very quickly from a long day's cycling, and though it was a tough trip, we all survived it with energy to spare.

I am not pessimistic about my chances of reaching Harris without having to call for a courier firm to come and package me up and deliver me recorded delivery to Quidinish.  I am pessimistic that I will make it to Harris without being reduced to a howling mass of agony.  John, Andrew and Callum, with other friends, did a trip last week from Barra up to Harris, then across Skye and home.  When they landed at Leverburgh, the weather was so appalling that they called a cab - a cab! - to come and pick them up and take them to Tarbert.  This news gave me pause when I heard it.  After all, one of them is a 6ft 1in 17 year old chap with boundless energy, and another has just finished his third Ironman triathlon in Lake Placid.  Look at it this way: John managed a 12 mile swim, a 150 mile cycle and a marathon, and yet a couple of weeks later, when he felt the South Harris wind in his face, he CALLED A CAB.

Mind you, there's some intriguing thought processes that go into that.  You get off the ferry; you are about to clamber on to the old frame when the wind howls in derision in your face; you're on a remote island with limited facilities, where I've never seen or even heard of a taxi firm; and your first thought is "I know, we'll call for a cab, and not just one of those black cabs they have in big cities, but a specialist cab designed to carry four large persons and their bikes".  The very definition of optimism is the man in such a situation even conceiving of the possibility that such a cab might be available.  Like my sister Mairi, however, John is not hindered by the restrictions of logic.  I've seen Mairi standing at Waverley Station calling for a porter, and before my mocking scepticism had died on my lips, being surrounded by a team of crack operatives ready to lift every bag and convey her to her destination on clouds of glory.  So it was with John.  Not only did he think of it, expect it, call for it and wait confidently, such a cab did arrive and took them all with ultimate dispatch to Tarbert.

I mean, he called it a cab.  It may have been Knockie from Quidinish with his bogey but I'm sticking with John's story.

The point is, the ironman was fine until he hit some proper highland weather.  Then he called a cab.  Such an option is not open to me.  I have Norman with me.  He won't let me.

Anyway, I sit here anticipating the journey, visualising it ahead of time, and I fear for my calves.  I was asked this week, have you done much training? It was a casual question but it was a lance to the chest.  I'm well rested, I replied; I've not done as much as I might have.  Been busy, you know. Light laugh.

But it's okay.  I've now worked it out and I can reassure my people that all will be well.

I've left all the mileage in my legs.