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.
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