Scotland 2025 Day 9 - The Countess and the Dog
Food. An important consumable when doing these tour bike rides. The mad mileage and mad feet climbed places a very heavy load on ones legs and arse and testicles and perineum and knees and lungs and heart and.. well every damn part of ones body. So it has to be fuelled.
One never finds a Scot on a bike. That is unless they’ve got good teeth. Like the young uns. One needs to masticate a lot to get the calories in. Down the chute it goes to a vorant Audrey II who is quite into the cycle tour routine again. Pressing the buzzer repeatedly most mornings demanding something calorific down the chute to feed the furnace. And having loaded her old greek airport baggage carousel with the remains of yesterday she also hovers her hand over the green start button ready to hit it any time I might pass the entrance to a toilet.
Not only has she fit a new double the horsepower electric motor to really get things shifting shes also greased the bomb bay doors and rails and fit a new datalink to Brian in the control room upstairs with which she can make him do this 😳 when she sticks her finger in the plug hole 😬
An important item to carry on every bike ride is a bag of Jelly Babies. An instant and effective sugary hit to be consumed from ones handlebar bag as soon as one feels the ebb of the energy tide turn whilst on a particularly steep n gnarly climb.
Just whilst thinking about that well it was the day before yesterday or so (im losing count) and we’re on the stupendous hill climb out of Ullapool when me and the Giant came to the rescue of 4 retired ladies in an absolute downpour on the ‘practice’ hill.
One gal had somehow managed to jump her bike chain off her cogs and wrap it tight around her crank. Thats the adventurous type I’d like to meet one day but not on a mad wet hill climb. No, perhaps that is the right place to meet especially if shes taller than me with big boobies. Sorry my mind wanders…
Anyway we somehow managed to disentangle her chain which was wrapped hard around her crank. For sure she was trying hard….
Ooops gotta stop. Some naughty tinker has just pressed the green button.
(Playing some lite ‘on hold’ music here…)
I’m back!
….on the practice climb. Its a busy road too. The one and only link from Ullapool and the very north west of Scotland so is loaded with port traffic and locals trying to go to the one and only city in these parts - and tourists. Very busy. Unlike the mad folk in the Outer Hebrides the folk on this side of the water are impatient and in a mad rush to get out of the rain like their lives depended on it.
I have the paint scraped off my panniers by one mad motorhome driver furiously shaking my fist at them with the lady in the car behind even opening her window in the downpour and calling out to me ‘THAT WAS CLOSE!’ No shit Sherlock. You should have seen it through my eyes! Compounded by the mega hillclimb to 1300 foot straight up and the twists and turns through the cutting with no shoulder to lean on - this is a dangerous road for cyclists. Of course about 20 of us are on this road all at about the same time. I’m sure the locals hate the arrival of the ferry…
We again pass one another at the foot of the monster climb section of this alpine trek. The gals had sought shelter in a lay-by under some big trees. I call across see ya at the top!
You fecking idiot Wayne. You could see by the way the road had become a wall in front of you this was gonna be a very difficult section. I did have the momentary thought of riding behind them with my bright flashy light on its ultra high setting but I did not. We knew that our destination was the same - Garve Station - at which point David the Gentle Giant was going to exit our little party.
We fought our way up the pass onto the top in terrible rain. We are all soaked to the core. We must not stop as whilst converting fuel into energy we are generating heat and so are not cold. To stop for any length of time is hypothermia for sure.
Some 30 minutes or so later I spy in the distance a set of bright white and blue flashy lights whizzing through the murk towards us. A high speed police car in a shroud of ice cold spray whizzed past in that I’ve gotta get there pronto kind of way. Aw FUCK IT! Why didn’t I stay with them. FUCK FUCK FUCK!
We arrived at Garve station some 2 hours early so set about changing into dry clothes in the small shed on the small platform. And waited. And waited.
The train arrived. The girls didn’t 😢
I am a worrit. I truly deeply hope they are all ok. Most folk we have met on this ride are retirees living life to the full. Good for every single one of them because doing this kinda thing is about living your life with all the huge attendant emotions. It makes for a better person 🙏
Theres no bad news in the local news 🙏🙏🙏
Oh yes, the countess! Almost forgot.
Were on the train from Glasgow to Fort William. Over a week ago now. Wow! A mad rock scramble of a job going by how hard it was to get the bikes on the train and find a seat.
The only 2 seats left were opposite a couple of elderly ladies. French I thought going by their whispers. But as I normally might do a small conversation is struck up.
One gal is fair, probably a strawberry blond in her non grey days. Petite is the classic French word for her. The other sits directly opposite me. Mannish is the non- French word I would use for her. Obviously a lady - I think - confirmed more-so when this gentle yet proper posh French voice speaks to me in rather good English. Only started to learn the language recently she says and such journeys are great for practice. We end up chatting politely for the whole journey.
They’re both from Switzerland. Both have houses that back onto lake Geneva. Until recently and for the last 30 years they have both taken their daily swim in the glacial lake water. Friends for many years now spending their retirement exploring the world.
Theyve been everywhere. Spending time with the Mongolian nomads. Living wild in Greenland. Out on the pampas near the meat packing town of Fray Bentos where she learnt to hate canned meat pie.
She tells me her husband died some 10 years ago. A Monsieur Chanel. A man from west Africa I assume cos she lovingly referred to him as her little Coco. Well I don’t have a Crystal ball in this life but I bet this lass does going by the size of the beautifully translucent white pearls in her ears. I suspect shes a rich countess cos theres no way anyone lives in Switzerland on lake Geneva with private frontage (snigger) and pearls the size of them suckers.
We talk a lot about cycling. It is now that I introduce her to Jelly Babies as a concept for dealing with lack of energy. How wonderfully tasty they are. I show her this video of balloon dog chomping on one..
One never finds a Scot on a bike. That is unless they’ve got good teeth. Like the young uns. One needs to masticate a lot to get the calories in. Down the chute it goes to a vorant Audrey II who is quite into the cycle tour routine again. Pressing the buzzer repeatedly most mornings demanding something calorific down the chute to feed the furnace. And having loaded her old greek airport baggage carousel with the remains of yesterday she also hovers her hand over the green start button ready to hit it any time I might pass the entrance to a toilet.
Not only has she fit a new double the horsepower electric motor to really get things shifting shes also greased the bomb bay doors and rails and fit a new datalink to Brian in the control room upstairs with which she can make him do this 😳 when she sticks her finger in the plug hole 😬
An important item to carry on every bike ride is a bag of Jelly Babies. An instant and effective sugary hit to be consumed from ones handlebar bag as soon as one feels the ebb of the energy tide turn whilst on a particularly steep n gnarly climb.
Just whilst thinking about that well it was the day before yesterday or so (im losing count) and we’re on the stupendous hill climb out of Ullapool when me and the Giant came to the rescue of 4 retired ladies in an absolute downpour on the ‘practice’ hill.
One gal had somehow managed to jump her bike chain off her cogs and wrap it tight around her crank. Thats the adventurous type I’d like to meet one day but not on a mad wet hill climb. No, perhaps that is the right place to meet especially if shes taller than me with big boobies. Sorry my mind wanders…
Anyway we somehow managed to disentangle her chain which was wrapped hard around her crank. For sure she was trying hard….
Ooops gotta stop. Some naughty tinker has just pressed the green button.
(Playing some lite ‘on hold’ music here…)
I’m back!
….on the practice climb. Its a busy road too. The one and only link from Ullapool and the very north west of Scotland so is loaded with port traffic and locals trying to go to the one and only city in these parts - and tourists. Very busy. Unlike the mad folk in the Outer Hebrides the folk on this side of the water are impatient and in a mad rush to get out of the rain like their lives depended on it.
I have the paint scraped off my panniers by one mad motorhome driver furiously shaking my fist at them with the lady in the car behind even opening her window in the downpour and calling out to me ‘THAT WAS CLOSE!’ No shit Sherlock. You should have seen it through my eyes! Compounded by the mega hillclimb to 1300 foot straight up and the twists and turns through the cutting with no shoulder to lean on - this is a dangerous road for cyclists. Of course about 20 of us are on this road all at about the same time. I’m sure the locals hate the arrival of the ferry…
We again pass one another at the foot of the monster climb section of this alpine trek. The gals had sought shelter in a lay-by under some big trees. I call across see ya at the top!
You fecking idiot Wayne. You could see by the way the road had become a wall in front of you this was gonna be a very difficult section. I did have the momentary thought of riding behind them with my bright flashy light on its ultra high setting but I did not. We knew that our destination was the same - Garve Station - at which point David the Gentle Giant was going to exit our little party.
We fought our way up the pass onto the top in terrible rain. We are all soaked to the core. We must not stop as whilst converting fuel into energy we are generating heat and so are not cold. To stop for any length of time is hypothermia for sure.
Some 30 minutes or so later I spy in the distance a set of bright white and blue flashy lights whizzing through the murk towards us. A high speed police car in a shroud of ice cold spray whizzed past in that I’ve gotta get there pronto kind of way. Aw FUCK IT! Why didn’t I stay with them. FUCK FUCK FUCK!
We arrived at Garve station some 2 hours early so set about changing into dry clothes in the small shed on the small platform. And waited. And waited.
The train arrived. The girls didn’t 😢
I am a worrit. I truly deeply hope they are all ok. Most folk we have met on this ride are retirees living life to the full. Good for every single one of them because doing this kinda thing is about living your life with all the huge attendant emotions. It makes for a better person 🙏
Theres no bad news in the local news 🙏🙏🙏
Oh yes, the countess! Almost forgot.
Were on the train from Glasgow to Fort William. Over a week ago now. Wow! A mad rock scramble of a job going by how hard it was to get the bikes on the train and find a seat.
The only 2 seats left were opposite a couple of elderly ladies. French I thought going by their whispers. But as I normally might do a small conversation is struck up.
One gal is fair, probably a strawberry blond in her non grey days. Petite is the classic French word for her. The other sits directly opposite me. Mannish is the non- French word I would use for her. Obviously a lady - I think - confirmed more-so when this gentle yet proper posh French voice speaks to me in rather good English. Only started to learn the language recently she says and such journeys are great for practice. We end up chatting politely for the whole journey.
They’re both from Switzerland. Both have houses that back onto lake Geneva. Until recently and for the last 30 years they have both taken their daily swim in the glacial lake water. Friends for many years now spending their retirement exploring the world.
Theyve been everywhere. Spending time with the Mongolian nomads. Living wild in Greenland. Out on the pampas near the meat packing town of Fray Bentos where she learnt to hate canned meat pie.
She tells me her husband died some 10 years ago. A Monsieur Chanel. A man from west Africa I assume cos she lovingly referred to him as her little Coco. Well I don’t have a Crystal ball in this life but I bet this lass does going by the size of the beautifully translucent white pearls in her ears. I suspect shes a rich countess cos theres no way anyone lives in Switzerland on lake Geneva with private frontage (snigger) and pearls the size of them suckers.
We talk a lot about cycling. It is now that I introduce her to Jelly Babies as a concept for dealing with lack of energy. How wonderfully tasty they are. I show her this video of balloon dog chomping on one..
Don’t worry. It’s quite normal for girls to laugh at balloon dog I tell her. Doesn’t bother me any more. Honest.
I’m struck by how eloquent with English she is. we’re getting along like a Maison en feu! So I decide to add a new word to her vocabulary.
I open my packet - look her square in her bright eyes and say - perhaps you would like to masticate my jelly, baby?
!!!KA-POW!!!
Yes mannish. Hands like shovels. How difficult is it to recover one’s eyeballs and bent nose off of the floor of a rickety old train? Very.
What did I do? Perhaps it was my grammar and the incorrect placement of a comma? And perhaps she was just using a Swiss technique to correct my English??
That, or perhaps it was my other offer - just moments before the jellybean cock up - to give her a pearl necklace to match her ear rings…
Au-revoire for now baby!
I’m struck by how eloquent with English she is. we’re getting along like a Maison en feu! So I decide to add a new word to her vocabulary.
I open my packet - look her square in her bright eyes and say - perhaps you would like to masticate my jelly, baby?
!!!KA-POW!!!
Yes mannish. Hands like shovels. How difficult is it to recover one’s eyeballs and bent nose off of the floor of a rickety old train? Very.
What did I do? Perhaps it was my grammar and the incorrect placement of a comma? And perhaps she was just using a Swiss technique to correct my English??
That, or perhaps it was my other offer - just moments before the jellybean cock up - to give her a pearl necklace to match her ear rings…
Au-revoire for now baby!
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