NC500 - The Valley of the Water God

First of all, apologies for late updates.  I need both Wifi and mobile signals to be able to log on to the blog cos of the mixture of passwords and security texts to do so.  Mostly I have neither.  Sometimes one, rarely both.  Sorry for the delay.

I’m in a lovely cosy wigwam having a pow wow with the Cherokees smoking a peace pipe cos for sure the last two days have been tough.  London Alan feels like he’s got no wheels on his wagon and that he’s been scalped.  I do not mean just his head.  Every single goddam bit of what is normal for riding a bike has been brutally lopped off.  I see it in his face, in his actions, I hear it in his tone.  LEJOG was tough, mainly cos this fat prat put 90 mile days in the equation.  This is harder for two main reasons:

1. The hills.  Irrespective of the low mileage planned for the day it’s the ascents that are murderously hard on the aged lungs and legs.  30 miles is a bloody long way at 3mph on hard pushed thighs.

2. The rain.

I have never in my life heard London Alan let out any swear words and expletives before this week.  Right now he’s positively exploding with them in between the long tiring dogged grind grind grind of it all.  For London Alan, it’s the hills and the fact that his bike is short of a cog or 3 in its low range box that’s making this journey his personal hell.  Yesterday, the road to Gairlock climbed by 500ft at a fairly constant 5%.  He sees the hill and the bend in the distance and presses on.  Around that bend there is a straight so long it seems to disappear into a vanishing point.  Still at 5%. With hard rain.  Into a cold headwind.  London Alan looks up and positively yelps at the sight of it.  I’m sorry Alan.  No way did I want to inflict this on you.  No way on my travels do I recall any of it being this hard.  I’m sorry my friend.

He’s now questioning his sanity, of the day he thought riding a bike with Wayne in Scotland on the North West 500 was a ‘jolly good idea’.  I am no high mileage tourist and yes it’s tough going for me too but I should have known it would be hard.  I have ridden these roads on the motorbike several times but let me tell you, we may as well be in another part of this world for the difference it makes on a bike without a motor.

For example.  To move on from Applecross, it was either a climb back up to the top of the Bealach Na Ba or to follow the coast road towards Torridon.  The weather was mizzly but we had a tail wind and even with an occasional steep bit the ride along the coast was OK with some outstanding views across the water towards Raasay and Skye.  No Sun though.  There’s the sound of Cookoo’s everywhere.  They’re not the only Cookoo’s out and about today, huh?.  

We bump in to some friendly racing grass snakes riding the other way round who warn us that the road ahead is a bit ‘lumpy’.  We have no choice. We press on.

Imagine this.  You’re at The Big One.  The big dipper at Blackpool has been repurposed as the Applecross to Torridon ride simulator.  You’re handed a pair of heavy bikes and encouraged to set off on it but the wrong way round.  There's long flowing rises and bends at first but soon you’re in the massiveness of it all.  Huge steep climbs. Drops over armco edges down into infinite rips in space time.  We somehow make it to Shieldag to Nanny’s cafe and take a very late lunch and our drinks intravenously.  Nanny looks after the pair of broken blokes.  A pod of jolly sailors who are travelling the west coast in a 36ft yacht tell us about their hardships and that they have to kneel to have a pee when at sea.  Both me and Alan kneel every morning at the altar to say a prayer to our cycling Gods and ask for divine support for the day ahead then find it almost impossible to stand up using our scalped knees. 

We make it up the final two climbs and along a hard rock track and eventually find the bothy.  No power, no running water.  No wifi, no mobile reception. The view across the loch is greyed out by the mists.  The mountains in the background are wrapped in blankets of cold moist air.  We have wood burners in our rooms.  Lovely.  We make our own dinner.  A huge pot of tea, soups and pasta for nourishment.  And away to bed whilst it is still light.  

I’m woken in a half light by the sound of rain on the tin roof.  Heavy thick stuff.  All night.  It abates a little in the morning but we dress for a wet day.  With warm rice pudding for breakfast in us we’re off.  We pause to look at the campsite in Torridon and I’m surprised to count 5 tents up for the night.  What a wet hell they must be suffering.  Perhaps not.  Two drowned rats are happily chatting away to each other as they roll up and squeeze out their waterbed.  

The road from Torridon is a relatively easy ride but it is raining.  A lot.  I am now wet to the bone.  The Scottish weather has made a mockery of my wet weather gear.  I clench my gloved fist and a cupful of water is squeezed out.  My Gortex boots are full of water and again I discover that Gortex is also very good at keeping the water in.  I squelch on every pedal rotation and step.  I’m developing trench foot.  My leather bike seat is making noises like it is gonna explode.  

We’re now in the valley of the Water God.  I have never in all my days seen so much water running off hillsides.  It’s a water hell.  Waterfalls everywhere.   The land is a giant sponge overflowing between God's fingers.  As though the land is haemorrhaging silver and white frothy blood from every nook crack and orifice.  The roar of running water deafens all else out.  It’s single track with passing places.  All vehicles today are giving way to the cycling heroes.  Including the French.  Perhaps they’re just fed up with all that lovely sunshine in the French Alps; or masochists.  It’s that bad I half expect one of them to stop and ask us if we are OK.  

The downhill ride is a wet magical water land.  We ride aside a huge cascading river fed from the loch above running through deep puddles spraying ourselves with water.  Cold power shower heads at full tilt everywhere including underneath.  I could not be any wetter if I’d taken my bike to Yearsley swimming pool and thrown us both into the deep end and ridden it around the pool like a sunken pedallo.  

I look back now to the day when London Alan asked if he could join me on the ride.  I was so happy to have him with me and so I feel very responsible for the experience of it all right now.  There are good bits, stunning bits but a lot of pain to find them.  I’m unsure if he will stay the course.  I do not tell him he must.  He can quite adequately weigh things up.  Ullapool is the decision point in 2 days time.

Right now the sun is cascading its warmth through the wigwam cabin window which is now full of warm soothing airs.  The Cherokees have laid down their peace pipe, are now content and with a ‘Hmm, have a good day Kimosabe’, have gone to bed.  

Ciao for now.