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.
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| 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.
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| Norman ready to roll |
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| In Inverness about to leave for Muir of Ord |
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| 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.
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