NC500 - The edge of things
Today was supposed to be an early start but again I find myself messing with all the technology I'm carrying. Transferring giga tons of video from the camera to the laptop, charging bike lights, crap navs and a selection of battery packs and remotes. I'm a mini one man recording studio.
After breakfast I dress quickly. I spy my cycling jacket standing on its own in the corner of the bedroom rigid with all the dried snot I've blown over it from the start of the ride. It's way past silvery sleeves. I put it on like I'm trying to wear an ironing board. I bend over to tie my shoelaces and with a sound akin to the cracking of a basket full of poppadoms a small snowstorm of yellow flakes drop to the bedroom floor. I've also noticed a rather horrid smell in the room. Not really noticeable when I was in it overnight but on returning to the room after breakfast, my God, something has died in here. I open the bedroom window to clear the smell out but cos of the arrangement of the internal doors and the direction of the wind today I end up fumigating the rest of the house. Sorry Green Cruachan (good BnB).
It's been a hard day today. Probably the hardest so far. Our route out of Stoer continues to take us along the coast road via Drumberg towards Unapool. This is a famous area of coast where geologists used to argue back in the day why rocks overlaid each other which can now be explained by plate tectonics and the plastic and sliding movement of rock over rock over time. All me and London Alan know is that it has resulted in a mad 3D world of mountains and hills, glens and lochs all at vertical right angles to one another. We've experienced nadgery roads and climbs like nothing ever seen before. I cannot believe it but I rode up a 25% gradient today; legs on fire, lungs hanging out of my mouth retching for breath, chin on handlebar stem and front wheel in the air looking like some mad fat lost clown on a unicycle. Tourists patiently wait for us in passing places atop steep climbs with thumbs out as we crest the rise. Many people are impressed with the intrepid exploits of us two wanna be 20 year olds again.
Except the French. Now I understand. Yesterday as we entered the road to Stoer, London Alan copped a sign, a triangular warning sign with a frog in it. No it's got northing to do with amphibian migrations. It's the fecking French drivers. I just don't get it. Everyone else will wait whilst we strain on a grade. Except the French. There I am on another lung buster on a narrow single track with a passing place not more than 10 meters (yards) in front of me into which we always move to let the occasional patient car driver behind us to pass. Except for him. A Frenchman in a diesel Citroen pushes past in the narrowest of places. I'm working hard to keep the bike straight and on the road yet he cuts in front of me and parks his sorry pile of crap in the passing place. What the ffff? Why could he not wait 10 seconds?
I've spent most of today coaching London Alan on how to open and close 5 bar gates and importantly how to keep himself on the road. There's a magnetic attraction which takes London Alan perilously close to the side of the road. And repeatedly he finds himself in the rough gutter or plant life with an oooer! ow! ow! ... I've shouted at him several times now to get away from the edge but he just cannot do it. I suspect he has off road tendencies and the wrong bike for it.
Yesterday a section of road had a drop off of several dozen feet as though the road edge had been cut vertically by a cake knife. NO armco. Nowt. Just a sheer drop. London Alan's following me up this particular steep section then he calls from behind. Oops I'm close to the edge. Feck! I have a minor heart attack imagining what one small flick of his handlebar will do to him. He laughs. Says he was fibbing. Oh yes, ha ha ha, grrr.
He continued to run off piste today at just under 3mph on every steep incline. I'm following and cannot breathe because I'm laughing so much. I'm shouting over my heavy breathing 'get away from the edge of the road!' I then imagine we're at the races with the famous Peter O'Sullevan doing the commentary of a two horse Grand National, something like this...
..'Welcome ladies and gentlemen to today's race. The two riders and lining themselves up approaching the start line at the top of the climb. London Alan is heads down with wobbly legs. Fat Man is close behind. They're ready to go .... Aaand.. he's off! London Alan is in the gutter. Fat Man has stalled and is rolling around on the floor laughing. He cannot breathe. The stewards have been called to administer oxygen and to get them both back to the start.
Here's the restart Ladies and Gentlemen. London Alan is again at the front. Fat Man is moving in close to his outside. They're ready to go... Aaaand.. he's off!
A short moment later and out of the blue as we ride up a slight incline London Alan who is now following tells me that he used to attend Yoga classes and that the mantra was to take things to the edge and then to push a little bit more. 'Really it's the same with cycling you know' says London Alan ' except with cycling when pushing hard the trick is to understand what your limit is and then back off a little'. Momentarily followed with a 'bugger' as he loses the front wheel into a small ditch in the apex of another tight bend. I cannot breathe for laughing!
The fact though is that both of us found our limit today. I found it hard work with knots developing in my thighs and for the first time an ache in my left buttock on each and every sharp climb. And they kept coming. This morning for sure was very hard work.
I know London Alan is suffering. I will no longer accept a 'no thank you ' from him as I press a handful of Jaffa cakes and Tunnock bars into his hands and demand that he eats them. I think he feels like he's pedalling with fresh air for legs. There's still 10 miles to go and 3 steep gradients ahead of us. Just set targets. Get to the top of the next hill. Pause. Refresh. Get to the top of the next hill. Stop. Refresh. Which we did until we arrived at the Rhiconich hotel into a stiff developing headwind. Ouch.
We're in the most North Westerly village in Scotland tonight. We have 40 miles to go to get around Durness and east towards Tongue. It's gonna rain so the forecasts say.
There's 3 days and 130 miles of cycling to go before we arrive back in Inverness at the end of the 500.
We're gonna make it.
Hopefully not without the laughs.
Ciao for now..
After breakfast I dress quickly. I spy my cycling jacket standing on its own in the corner of the bedroom rigid with all the dried snot I've blown over it from the start of the ride. It's way past silvery sleeves. I put it on like I'm trying to wear an ironing board. I bend over to tie my shoelaces and with a sound akin to the cracking of a basket full of poppadoms a small snowstorm of yellow flakes drop to the bedroom floor. I've also noticed a rather horrid smell in the room. Not really noticeable when I was in it overnight but on returning to the room after breakfast, my God, something has died in here. I open the bedroom window to clear the smell out but cos of the arrangement of the internal doors and the direction of the wind today I end up fumigating the rest of the house. Sorry Green Cruachan (good BnB).
It's been a hard day today. Probably the hardest so far. Our route out of Stoer continues to take us along the coast road via Drumberg towards Unapool. This is a famous area of coast where geologists used to argue back in the day why rocks overlaid each other which can now be explained by plate tectonics and the plastic and sliding movement of rock over rock over time. All me and London Alan know is that it has resulted in a mad 3D world of mountains and hills, glens and lochs all at vertical right angles to one another. We've experienced nadgery roads and climbs like nothing ever seen before. I cannot believe it but I rode up a 25% gradient today; legs on fire, lungs hanging out of my mouth retching for breath, chin on handlebar stem and front wheel in the air looking like some mad fat lost clown on a unicycle. Tourists patiently wait for us in passing places atop steep climbs with thumbs out as we crest the rise. Many people are impressed with the intrepid exploits of us two wanna be 20 year olds again.
Except the French. Now I understand. Yesterday as we entered the road to Stoer, London Alan copped a sign, a triangular warning sign with a frog in it. No it's got northing to do with amphibian migrations. It's the fecking French drivers. I just don't get it. Everyone else will wait whilst we strain on a grade. Except the French. There I am on another lung buster on a narrow single track with a passing place not more than 10 meters (yards) in front of me into which we always move to let the occasional patient car driver behind us to pass. Except for him. A Frenchman in a diesel Citroen pushes past in the narrowest of places. I'm working hard to keep the bike straight and on the road yet he cuts in front of me and parks his sorry pile of crap in the passing place. What the ffff? Why could he not wait 10 seconds?
I've spent most of today coaching London Alan on how to open and close 5 bar gates and importantly how to keep himself on the road. There's a magnetic attraction which takes London Alan perilously close to the side of the road. And repeatedly he finds himself in the rough gutter or plant life with an oooer! ow! ow! ... I've shouted at him several times now to get away from the edge but he just cannot do it. I suspect he has off road tendencies and the wrong bike for it.
Yesterday a section of road had a drop off of several dozen feet as though the road edge had been cut vertically by a cake knife. NO armco. Nowt. Just a sheer drop. London Alan's following me up this particular steep section then he calls from behind. Oops I'm close to the edge. Feck! I have a minor heart attack imagining what one small flick of his handlebar will do to him. He laughs. Says he was fibbing. Oh yes, ha ha ha, grrr.
He continued to run off piste today at just under 3mph on every steep incline. I'm following and cannot breathe because I'm laughing so much. I'm shouting over my heavy breathing 'get away from the edge of the road!' I then imagine we're at the races with the famous Peter O'Sullevan doing the commentary of a two horse Grand National, something like this...
..'Welcome ladies and gentlemen to today's race. The two riders and lining themselves up approaching the start line at the top of the climb. London Alan is heads down with wobbly legs. Fat Man is close behind. They're ready to go .... Aaand.. he's off! London Alan is in the gutter. Fat Man has stalled and is rolling around on the floor laughing. He cannot breathe. The stewards have been called to administer oxygen and to get them both back to the start.
Here's the restart Ladies and Gentlemen. London Alan is again at the front. Fat Man is moving in close to his outside. They're ready to go... Aaaand.. he's off!
A short moment later and out of the blue as we ride up a slight incline London Alan who is now following tells me that he used to attend Yoga classes and that the mantra was to take things to the edge and then to push a little bit more. 'Really it's the same with cycling you know' says London Alan ' except with cycling when pushing hard the trick is to understand what your limit is and then back off a little'. Momentarily followed with a 'bugger' as he loses the front wheel into a small ditch in the apex of another tight bend. I cannot breathe for laughing!
The fact though is that both of us found our limit today. I found it hard work with knots developing in my thighs and for the first time an ache in my left buttock on each and every sharp climb. And they kept coming. This morning for sure was very hard work.
I know London Alan is suffering. I will no longer accept a 'no thank you ' from him as I press a handful of Jaffa cakes and Tunnock bars into his hands and demand that he eats them. I think he feels like he's pedalling with fresh air for legs. There's still 10 miles to go and 3 steep gradients ahead of us. Just set targets. Get to the top of the next hill. Pause. Refresh. Get to the top of the next hill. Stop. Refresh. Which we did until we arrived at the Rhiconich hotel into a stiff developing headwind. Ouch.
We're in the most North Westerly village in Scotland tonight. We have 40 miles to go to get around Durness and east towards Tongue. It's gonna rain so the forecasts say.
There's 3 days and 130 miles of cycling to go before we arrive back in Inverness at the end of the 500.
We're gonna make it.
Hopefully not without the laughs.
Ciao for now..
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