Bike to Kinlochewe

The first section of the bike race has a couple of undulating hills from Sheildaig to Torridon then a 10 mile stretch along the valley floor from Torridon to Kinlochewe. At this point there’s plenty of cars trying to get past as supporters leave Sheildaig and try to get in front of their athletes. However, as a large stretch of the valley is single track it just creates a convoy of bikes and cars from Torridon onwards. The cars cannot pass the bikes and the bikes cannot pass the cars. Everyone goes along at the near enough the same speed. It’s only after we reach Kinlochewe that the road clears and normal riding started.

At this stage, with everyone bunched up, it was impossible to avoid mini pelotons forming. There wasn’t enough space between cars and caravans to spread out. It felt like a fast start, but I tried to avoid looking at my computer as I didn’t want to fall into the trap of checking my time or speed or distance constantly as, with many hours ahead, I knew the result would always be “not far enough, not fast enough, and nowhere near finishing”. 

The only thing I would do was glance my watch and check the time to see if I needed to ear. I wanted to eat something every 20 – 30 minutes. I had a feedbag on my top bar filled with gels, jellies and flapjacks. My plan was to keep it stocked up by replacing everything every time I saw Iain. I started eating with the flapjacks. Half a bar. Then a gel. Then back to the flapjack. Repeat for the rest of the day. 

Kinlochewe to Gairloch

I met Iain just after Victoria Falls. Not the one in Africa. I wonder if Victoria even knew how many things were named after her and whether she ever said “wait a minute, we have one’s the world’s biggest waterfalls named after me, I don’t need a stream in Scotland.” I suspect the answer was never as today Victoria Falls is not just a waterfall in Africa. But with cultural awareness changing and bids to rename places with the original names, maybe one day Victoria Falls can revert to its original name of “That river with a bit of a drop”, which sounds better in it’s original Gaelic, where everything is named after what you can see. Big Hill? Ben (Mountain) More (Big). Say what you see geography. 

At this point, I’ve been switching regulalrly between TT bars and normal riding. I was feeling good and with long straight roads with little elevation, it felt natural to make the most of the riding. 

“Enjoy this,” I would tell myself, “you’ll never be here again on a bike!”

Which sounds fatalistic. Enjoy this and then you die. But I found it really useful to put the race into perspective. I had no intention of ever taking part in Celtman again. I know I won’t be back here on a bike so I should feel lucky to be here today on a day when the sun was shining and there was not a breath of wind. Every green hill was like an emerald. Every blue loch shimmered. Everywhere I looked was a spectacular view. How could I not enjoy it?

Gairloch to Poolewe

I could be climbing for a start. The first quarter of the race is relatively flat. Gairloch, a small coastal town is the point that the route turns back inland and, to remind you that land exists, there is a large wall of it as you leave the town. A steep climb followed by some shorter climbs from here to Poolewe, a central town with a nice descent leading to an old Victorian bridge and a nice flat section beside Loch Ewe. 

By this point I was looking for Iain again as I realised two things: first, my feedbag was too loose and swung left and right on my top bar. I constantly had to nudge it back to the centre with my knee. And, second, I’d lost my bike computer. Or, more accurately, I’d lost Iain’s bike computer. It must have come off my frame at some point the previous five miles but I’d not noticed when it happened. I switch my watch’s tracking on and started recording from here. I was annoyed to have lost the computer but as I was avoiding looking at it anyway, it made no real difference to my race. 

“As long as I don’t lose anything else,” I thought, remember the man who rode past about an hour ago and who then showered me in plastic fragments as parts of his bike exploded. I couldn’t work out what had broken, and either could he. He was still able to ride, but there was a shower of small plastic fragments thrown up in the air and no idea as to why it happened. 

“I don’t need my computer,” I thought. 

Poolewe to Gruinard Bay

“But I do need my water bottle!”

It disappeared somewhere close to the bay. Just like my computer I don’t know when it vanished. Maybe a phantom was taking it. A phantom who was now equipped to take on a long distance triathlon. Casper the Friendly Triathlete.

While the bike route is pretty spectacular most of the way round, this particular stretch is 90s boy band: another level.

The road curves back to the coast and hugs the spectacular west coast with crofts, machair, forests, hills, heather and beaches spread out before me. It also features the steepest descent of the day as a mile long descent from the viewpoint overlooking Gruinard Bay takes you back inland after teasing you with the finest views the NC500 can offer.

Luckilly, I met Iain just after Poolewe and he had a spare water bottle. As I put in my holder I reaslied the crash had caused more damage than just to my dignity. The holder was cracked and barely held the bottle securely. It rattled as I rode. I’ll need to keep an eye on it, I thought. Which I did, so I was able to see it shake itself loose and bounce down the road as I finished the descent from the bay. I stopped and turned round to pick it up. And promised to keep an even closer eye on it as the last thing I wanted to happen was to race the second half without any water.

Gruinard Bay to Corrieshalloch

In my mind, this was going to be the hardest section. It features two long climbs, one through trees and another across the moor before reaching Corrieshalloch Gorge, a narrow cleft in the landscape with a proper waterfall (Victoria, I’m looking at you).

By this point, mid-morning to lunchtime, I decided to swap to a short sleeved t-shirt. It was getting warmer, the wind couldn’t blow out a candle, and the sky was getting clearer.

I alternated resting on the tt bars with cycling normally. If flat or downhill I would use the bars. If uphill, I would cycle with my handlebars. The only downside of being on my TT bars was that I couldn’t see the long views over the moorland to the south. Everything was tarmac.

The first climb was around 3 miles and I just ground it out. With trees surrounding the road, it was hot and more suffocating. I stopped once with Iain to drink and told myself “get through this one and there’ll just be one more climb to go. Then it’s either flat or downhill to the end.”

At the top of the climb, the road opens to the moor and there’s a few long gradual descents to rest legs and get breath back. It was fast going, and I tried to enjoy it while knowing another climb was coming. 

Until it didn’t. I looked up. I was at the viewpoint for the gorge. Iain was parked and took a quick detour to see the view to the north, the gorge opening up and leading into Loch Broom and to Ullapool. Mountains turning to moorland turning to croft land turning to shore and sea. Grey, brown, green and blue. All of Scotland rolled out before me. 

I could see a car pass along a road on the hill across from me. 

“Is that not the A835?” I asked Iain.

“Yes.”

“What happened to the second climb?”

“What second climb? It’s flat or downhill from the top of the forest.”

I’d misremember the route. I was sure there was a second climb from the moor to the gorge but I was wrong. I was here. 45 miles to the finish. The climbing behind me and now a fantastic 20 mile stretch along the A835 to Garve.

Corrieshalloch to Garve

This is the section I’ve dreamt about. This is a road from home to the mainland. Every summer until I was 18 years old, we would get the boat from Stornoway and holiday for two weeks in Aberfeldy. This is the only road between Ullapool and Inverness so this meant that this road was the first time each year I would be on the mainland and free from the Isle of Lewis. Travelling south always felt like a release. So, when I thought about Celtman, I always thought of this road and the section beside Loch Glascarnoch, in particular. The loch ends is a reservoir and ends with a dam at it’s southmost point. The dam, to me, was immense. To me, it could have been the Hoover dam as it seemed to stretch across the loch and held back the Highlands. To cycle along it was to ride not just for Celtman but through childhood memories and the possibilities that escape felt like to a boy born on an island and always 11 months away from the bright lights of the mainland. 

This section was easy and fast and apart from arriving at the dam and finding Iain completely unprepared with his back turned, staring out at the loch, it went smoothly and to plan. While there are a few cars on the road, it only appears busy compared to the quiet roads around the coast. Most cars are supporters passing. At this time, a few hours before the ferry traffic starts, there’s not too many cars on the road. 

Instead, head down. On the TT bars. Downhill to Garve and remembering the past.

Garve to Achnasheen  

A right turn across traffic but there’s plenty of time to prepare and plenty of space to see what’s coming. 

There’s a quick climb and then a long straight line to Achnasheen. By this point, my legs were heavier and I wasn’t looking forward to another 20 miles. However, to help split it up, when driving along on Thursday, I’d marked points of the road in my head as target. Head to the loch. Pass the homes to the right. Into Achnasheen. Past the next loch. Descend to Kinlochewe.

I checked the miles on a road sign. 16 miles to Achnasheen. 

“Excellent, only four mile to Kinlochewe once I get there – and they’re all downhill.”

About 10 miles in, I stopped for a final ‘binge’ from Iain’s boot.

“I’ve got you a present,” he said, “chips and cheese!”

And he held out a plastic carton with a fork stuck out of it. Inside was glorious chips and cheese.

“Better than an energy gel!”

The cheese was perfect. After 7 hours of eating energy gels and flapjacks, it helps reset my taste buds to eat something salty and savoury. I only had a few bits, not wanting to test my stomach too much, but it was just enough to give a great to the finish… except…

Bang! There goes my water bottle. Bang! There goes the car wheel over it. And, after I turn round and pick it up, I lift it up and all the water leaks from the cracked top. 

“Oh well, at least it last 115 miles!” I thought.

Except it it hadn’t as, when I get to Achnasheen, a road sign says its another 10 miles to Kinlochewe. I’d managed to get my route wrong again. And this time I’ve added back the five miles I saved on the moor. 

Head down. Legs tired as they’re now being asked to do more than they expected and I start the last 10 miles to Kinlochewe.

For the first time, the wind has also picked up. It’s not strong but I can feel a headwind so that when I reach the summit above Kinlochewe and start to descend the valley, I can feel it push me back and I must cycle more than expected. 

The view around me is fanastic. A week of rain sees the valley sides glowing green and brown with heather and ferns. The road stetches two miles before me and Loch Maree glistens in the distance. 

“Nearly there,” I think. 

Kinlochewe

And a change to the transistion. It’s no longer in Kinlochewe but a few hundred metres past it.

Iain greets me at transistion. 

“How was it?”

“One done,” I said. 

Then remember. Oh, I’ve also been swimming today. After nearly eight hours on the bike, it may as well have happened on another day. 

“Two done!”