NC500 - Survival of the fittest

We're both stood at the window staring at a heavy sky.  Rain is pit pattering on the flat roof of the hotel and water is gushing from a badly fit drainpipe.  We're both scanning every weather site that exists with hope that one of them will show fewer black rain clouds to give us hope.  London Alan says the BEEB shows light rain and sunshine.  Even though we know that the BBC weather forecasts are now crap we both wobble off to breakfast atop tired legs with some hope..

I can't describe the look of London Alan's face but it worried me.  ‘How would you describe today’ I asked or something like it.  London Alan looked me square in the face and said ’Survival’. Not a word more.  We keep peeking out the window looking for a ray of hope.  I see some brightness on the horizon.  I suggest it might be clearing.  The BEEB might just be right?  We have a world full of other web sites trying to counter that forecast but we cling tightly to the hope.

Breakfast is done.  I've eaten anything and everything that is not bolted down.  When at work we often talked about huge IT problems and of trying not to deal with the elephant in the room, I.e., a problem that is just too big. 'Not only have you seen the bread elephant' he says to me 'you’ve already scoffed most of it’. True.  Over the last 10 days I’ve eaten as much of the bread stuff that I could shove down my throat without baulking.  London Alan is more civilised and has scrambled eggs on a bit of toast.  I just don’t know where he’s finding the energy from.  We're using somewhere about 4000 calories more than normal every day.  However, after 10 days strapped to the World's hardest cycling torture rack I’m sure that London Alan is a little more svelte.  I catch a glimpse of him exiting the bathroom all backlit into a dark room and I’d swear he was a thinner man..  London Alan agrees but he thinks he’s only loosing weight from his arms..  'I’m getting cyclist arms’ he says with a bit of an 'aw feck' in his voice.  No man wants cyclists arms.

The brightness in the sky abates.  It darkens again into a horrible grey soup and the rain starts to fall.  London Alan has crawled into his 20,000 mm waterproof cycling bomb shelter and trousers topped off by rubber cycling gloves and shoe covers.  The drawstring is pulled tight on his hood.  Personally I’ve given up on my waterproof coat.  Its no match for the Scottish weather.  It does a good job of a sponge which just gives me weight to carry when wet.  But I’m OK.  I can only assume that as a kid I wet the bed, a lot, cos I have no problems wearing wet clothes.  Proper wring out wetness by the time we were 10 miles in.  I’m still wearing shorts which are water glued to my thighs.  The bike’s leather saddle is starting to make budgie noises again being that its had a freshly showered hairy melon parked on it for the last few hours and is starting to stretch.  I don’t really feel the cold in my wet legs.  I’m wearing three layers, the base being a M&S merino wool jumper which even when drowning is doing a grand job of keeping the heat in.  I wouldn’t say that I’m warm.  Just not cold.  However I watch with envy as the rain droplets bead up and run off London Alan’s back like I’m again looking at the distant waterfalls in Glen Torridon.

Cars and bikes come and go.  Again the roads here are single track with passing places.  Most drivers are courteous and wait patiently for us to crawl past.  Then there’s a Morgan.  Without a hood. I can only think the couple of pillocks in it have decided not to stop for anything in case the car fills up like a watery bathtub.  They zoom past in the tightest of stretches.  London Alan is forced into the gutter. And he explodes.  I’ve never seen anything like it from him in my life.  I’m 40 yards behind and I hear him shout.  Expletives.  Proper harshness.  Arms flaying with V signs like a demented windmill.  Proper angry.  Theres no way those idiots were gonna stop but if they had I’m sure their caddy would have been scrapped.  I’m thoroughly pissed off too but now want to settle London Alan down.  I think, nay hope, that such encounters will just help him in their own macabre way to forget the rain and get both of us through this dire long uphill plugging slow slow slow grind of a day.  

We finally get to Durness.  A windswept and miserable place today.  The first coffee stop we find is taking in goods from the back of a delivery truck.  Are you open?  No is the sharp reply.  I try to give some hope to London Alan in that the crap nav says there another place a mile or so of hard cycling up the road.  And thank God there is.  We arrive at the cafe.  It’s old and tired not having had a lick of paint nor TLC since the 50’s.  There's an old cash register still in use.  The place is packed.  We expected that as it's wall to wall 1950 American muscle cars outside.  Standing room only.  

Whilst ordering hot chocolate and tuna sarnies I chat to some of the guy’s and gals.  A mix of Belgian, Scots and Americans.  One boy of perhaps my generation is stood next to the fan heater.  'I was splashed by a passing car from a puddle' he says.  ‘Oh dear’ says I whilst stood at the side of him, chipper yet drenched, in my personal bath sized puddle like a big bladdered puppy with a major house training problem.  And they’re gone.  Just me and London Alan remain with permission from the old lady running the joint to sit on her wooden chairs.  I stare out of the steamy windows and think it’s getting brighter perhaps...

We round the corner into loch Eriboll.  A huge deep sea loch with a narrow entrance once upon a time used as a safe harbour for the Royal Navy.  The rain has stopped.  The land is no longer covered by grey mists and can again be seen.  Like the weather London Alan's spirits rise from the ashes.  He’s a different man.  We stop somewhere half way up the side of the loch.  London Alan ventures out of his non swim suit bunker into fresh air.  He apologises for all the swearing and gesticulating earlier in the day.  He’s such a gentle kind and considerate man normally I think he’s shocked at how he was.  ’Not a problem’ says I.  I think it good that people let the demons fly rather than internalise them to a later date.   We spy the steep climb ahead.  Another thin tarmac ribbon draped up the side of the lock.  

’That looks bloody steep’ says I.  ‘You ready for it?’.  And up we go.  Greater than 1 in 7 stuff going by the chevrons on the map.  Not a problem.  Even in 3rd gear.  Thigh strength for both of us is now massive.  No wrenching for breath we climb our way to the top.  The ride down from the top of the glen is a smooth and long 30mph glide from 800ft to sea level onto the causeway just outside of tongue.  The wind and rain rip at my jacket and legs.  I shout profanities back at it.  I AM ALIVE.  I think about Tony and Barry and suppress the tears that would surely be lost in the rain.  

We find the hotel atop another climb.  We crash land in the restaurant.  I’m again in socks as my boots are trying to dry atop the room radiator.  I’ve had a hot bath and Crocodile Dundee style I’ve washed my smalls at the same time (no, my socks and other unmentionables you prat) before handing a basket full of other rain washed garments to the hotel staff to go in their dryer.  I ask London Alan for his thoughts.  We’re getting close to the end with 2 days to go.  Without hesitation he says ‘I would do this again.  Next time with lower gearing but yes the WT500 has been great’.  I’m so pleased. 

It’s 3.30 am.  I’m up cos I was out for the count before 9pm.  3 beers with dinner and the bread elephant's toenails have been more effective at putting me to sleep than any anaethetist.  I send Howard an early Happy Birthday you prat message a day early at 4am just to annoy him.  It's wild and windy outside.  I decide to have coffee.  The bathroom tap screeches like a wailing banshee.  

I say good morning to the now awoken hotel and prepare for another glorious day.