BELONGING

I keep revisiting a conversation in the Real Food Café the night before the Highland Trail started.  My friend Ric, a HT veteran who wasn’t riding this year but stopped by to impart some wisdom and good vibes, was recounting his approach to Fisherfield in 2022.  He described the level of intimidation he felt, an imposter craving company and moral support, actually slowing down to ride into this apparently hostile environment with another rider.

What struck me is that I’ve never felt like this about Scotland’s mountains and wild places, and maybe this makes me a bit… unusual.  It’s not that I’m “braver” than Ric and I’m certainly not more capable on a bike than him, but for me these environments elicit a sense of calm and a quiet mind.  I often crave the solace that comes from long rides in solitude - the inward focus on my immediate needs - a tonic for an otherwise all-too-chaotic existence.  What’s more, the more challenging the ride and conditions, the greater the opportunity for indulging this primal, selfish, comforting introspection.

I know I’m not alone in this mindset, but it often seems at odds with much of the prevailing bikepacking vernacular.  I feel numb to this seemingly macho, commercially-driven scene of suffering and bravery and gnarly-ultra-epicness.  I just don’t subscribe to that… Don’t get me wrong, these places can certainly harm those who enter without the requisite respect and equipment, but there’s something so human-centric and extractive about thinking these places exist to challenge us, as fodder for our stories of suffering and collateral for our commercial interests.

HOW DID I GET HERE?

In stubbornly resilient folks, nothing focuses the mind like rejection.  

I had applied to ride the 2022 Highland Trail and been rightly rejected.  Whilst I thought I was capable of it; at the time I simply didn’t have the evidence to convince Alan I was worthy of a place in a heavily oversubscribed year.  Thus began a slow but steady build towards May 2024, over two years where the Highland Trail was the ultimate goal.  I built up a bike specifically with this event in mind, I tested kit and even had items custom made.  To guarantee my entry I rattled off a series of big rides on established routes and some credible results in other Scottish races.  With six months to go and my place confirmed, I was thinking about the Highland Trail at least once every day.  I was optimising my physiology, lifting weights for the first time since parenthood dropped that off the priority list, putting in long slow rides to boost endurance, swapping evening socialising for pre-dawn yoga and turbo sessions.  

At times the Highland Trail could feel like the most important thing in my life, but it obviously wasn’t – I’m a present dad, an enabling partner, a small business owner, a part-time student, the keeper of a manic collie dog… I couldn’t and wouldn’t let a bike ride compromise these other, vastly more real priorities and my commitment to them.  For months I managed to exist in some kind of “life-priority flow state”, no time wasted, no values or commitments compromised.  Helpfully, rather than resent it and the impact on her own athletic and social ambitions, my partner Rach engaged fully too – she’s probably more knowledgeable and passionate about the Highland Trail than some people who have ridden it.

As the event neared, I spent every spare minute researching – reading blogs, watching YouTube videos, looking at maps and absorbing every bit of knowledge I could get hold of.  Some people can wing these things, but for me knowledge is power.  Huw Oliver, Annie Lloyd-Evans, Lee Craigie, Angus Young – I don’t actually know these people but I’m indebted to them all the same.  People blessed with both the capacity to achieve inspiring athletic feats and the generosity to share their experiences so eloquently and honestly with others.  

From this research a goal began to emerge and quickly crystalised itself at the forefront of my planning – sub-4-days.  Not many people have managed this – an average of four or so each year in recent events.  I don’t know whether it was humility or the sense that I might be perceived as arrogant that stopped me from sharing this, but right up to the start line it was a goal shared only between me and the meticulously prepared route cards in my pocket.  Deep down I know the sub-4-day target isn’t just ambitious guesswork - it’s a pragmatic goal based on an acute understanding of my own capabilities in this environment. 

In Fort Augustus some of the fast folks are packing up as I arrive.  I don’t rush though, I’m up on schedule.  The Londis is horrendous – an absolute shit-show of crap food and queueing tourists.  But I source what I need to get me to Ullapool (at least 40 hours away) and enjoy some chips (some whilst packing, the rest eaten from my shorts pocket over the next couple of hours… hygiene is overrated).

There’s something slightly bizarre about the road climb that drags you out of Glen Cassley.  It’s consistent and pristinely surfaced, but somehow seems unnecessarily… big and difficult.  As I climb it, I’m joined by a local cyclist, slightly aloof at first but quickly fully engaged in what I’m up to and where I’m from.  He’s still reeling from the shock of how quickly he’d been overtaken by a “woman on a mission” earlier that day.  The Highland Trail opening his mind to accommodate the idea that women can ride bicycles quickly.  He does his best to help me through a gate and then I’m almost relieved to be on my own again, heading towards Bealach Horn.

I’ll whisper it quietly, but I don’t think this bit is that hard.  It’s a gentle meander to the top of Glen Golly, from where it’s merely a 10km scenic-mystery-bog-tour until you’re out the other side.  It is however bloody incredible, otherworldly even, and the sense of scale makes you feel much higher than 400 metres up.  It was genuinely over all-too-quickly, and as the mist blurs the trail, I set out towards what I assume must be another hike-a-bike climb.  Instead I find myself already on the rocky, steep descent away from Bealach Horn.  It’s so unexpected that I sort of crash the bike into the side of the trail to stop, bending the front brake lever in the process.  It still works, but could easily have ended my ride. I admonish myself for disobeying my mantras of efficiency and care, now expanded to include “the Highland Trail starts in Ullapool”.

Suileag bothy, what a gift.  I squeeze into the front room behind Marcus and don’t immediately see any space on the bed platforms, but I do see a Niall-sized space right beside the embers of a dying fire – the perfect spot for drying kit and sleeping with my damp feet out in the open.  It’s roasting but it’s idyllic.  In the morning I realise the second room was all but empty, but I have no regrets after my crowded fireside slumber.

I’d brought two massive freezer bag portions of oats, protein powder and mixed fruit/nuts.  Add water for 800 or so calories of what felt like rocket fuel at 4 in the morning.  I feel euphoric starting the Ledmore traverse on another good sleep, a full stomach and still fresh legs.  Everyone tells you this bit is hard – I think it’s Lee Craigie who says “there is no reason to ever be in this place on a bike”.  But no-one had told me that there’s actually some great riding in there too – some really fun descents scattered amongst the bog and rock.  I love this kind of low exposure but ultra-technical, fiddly, patient riding.  Loch ma Stac on the first night was the same – more rideable than it looks if you take your time, trust your skills and keep your body relaxed and balanced.

The Coffin Road.  Fucking beautiful.  I stayed in a cabin on the South side of Loch Broom years ago and looked up at the trail wondering what it would be like to “ride”.  My brain is a network of trails I’ve ridden and those I’m yet to explore and I’m delighted to finally get up this one, even if it’s all walking.  I pass Marcus on the climb but barely exchange a word.  Something about his body language tells me that’s the last time I’ll see him until the finish.  I couldn’t have known then that it’s the last time I’ll see any rider until Tyndrum. 

Fisherfield – YES!!  I’ve been dreaming of this section ever since I first thought of riding this route.  But my early enthusiasm is tempered by a viscerally upsetting scene of cattle being violently walloped and abused by a couple of sturdy local farmers.  It seems excessive but maybe it was just relative to my sense of calm.  What do I know.  I pass a few walkers on the steady climb up – they’re fresh-faced and happy as they exit this wilderness cauldron, so how bad can it be.

And so it does pass – I note the turnoff to Carnmore Bothy – I’ve never been but I know it’s a low point in life when you need to use that one.  If you haven’t watched Matthew Fairbrother’s HT550 attempt spectacularly unravel at this point I’d recommend looking it up (I didn’t share that one with Rach until after I had ridden it).  

The causeway at Dubh Loch.  I’m probably meant to stop and take a picture here but I just don’t want to – movement keeps the cold at bay and anyway, I have a date with the Tollie Path.  My friend Mike Dennison, a two-time HT550 finisher tells me this bit is a drag, good to do “when you’re tired or in the dark” – a big tick beside both of these as the sun slowly sets behind me and I feel the fatigue of the first “real” day on the trail.  A wise person once shared the quote with me “your body won’t go where your mind hasn’t been before it” and I’ve already walked this path in my head – it’s another one that’s less than 10km so don’t let it dominate your thoughts too much.  It’s slippy, rocky, overgrown, physical and then it's done.  Between intense bouts of focus I loved watching the last of the sun setting on all of Loch Maree’s little islands, and then the dark solitude where the only artificial light is my own. 

I assume Kerry and Andrew (who I have adopted as a new reference point) can’t be too far ahead but I don’t see any evidence of them in the expanse below.  I’m not prone to loneliness but towards the end of day three I start to feel it – even the A832, gateway to the North West and part of the immense traffic-funnel that is the North Coast 500 is silent at 1am.  Again, I have three bivvy options earmarked, and again I settle for the middle one – a shelter in the Beinn Eighe carpark.  The campervans scattered nearby give some sense of company even if there’s no signs of life.

THE LAST DAY (AND A BIT)

I wake up cold and earlier than intended, chilled by the breeze coming off Loch Maree.  Best way to warm up is to start riding and I’m on the move by 4:13am – the earliest I’ve managed yet.

Torridon at sunrise is perfect.  The eastern faces of the Torridon Munros literally glow bright red as the first sun hits them.  There’s at least a couple of “red” hills or Beinn Deargs in the area, maybe that’s why.  Torridon is another area revered for its spectacular scenery and probably the most demanding, technical riding on the trail, but I’m far from intimidated given a previous encounter with this place.  In what was in hindsight an act of pure stupidity, a friend and I embarked on this very section from Loch Clair on road bikes in the middle of winter.  I have no idea why, but inevitably it was a puncture-fest and resulted in us walking out and along the road from Achnashellach to Lochcarron knocking on doors and asking for a puncture repair kit.  

I efficiently clear the section this morning with significantly less drama than that day, and smile as I pass the house that eventually welcomed us in, gave us a repair kit and filled us with home-baking and coffee whilst we fixed tubes in their conservatory.  I wonder if they would be as hospitable if I knocked now, before 7am, but I resist the temptation.

Up through Attadale and down through Glen Ling passes slowly but without incident.  I pick up a pair of discarded cycling sunglasses – thinking maybe I’ll catch up with the owner later and can give them back.  Or maybe that’s cheating too – I hate these rules about not helping each other but it’s a moot point given I don’t see anyone anyway. 

Down to Dornie and there’s some fighter jets doing flybys.  I’m not as into it as the people who seem to have set up camp for the day to watch, but it’s quite spectacular as they shake the world around me.  Nowhere near as spectacular as the microwaved Scotch pie from Inverinate Petrol Station – the first warm food I’ve had in almost three days.  I caught a glimpse of a rider, I assume Kerry, leaving here as I was descending from the Eilean Donan lookout point, but again I take my time topping up my calories.  I’m sure the top riders are more clinical with their stops but they can’t possibly get as much restorative pleasure from eating their food on the go as I am from sitting on the cold, concrete forecourt with a pie and an ice cream.

It bloody worked too – I loved the next section and even relished the huge Pylon Climb up from Tomich.  The trail over from Glen Moriston was sublime and I was buzzing as I headed towards the close of the middle loop.  As if trying to atone for its earlier misdemeanours, my mind orchestrates the smartest, most pro thing I've ever done - I phone ahead from the top of the hill outside Fort Augustus to order a Chinese - "could I have that beef noodle thing that's really salty, yep, 30 minutes".  I raid the Londis again just before closing, collect and smugly inhale my Chinese and I’m back on the road in less than 15 minutes.  I'd phoned Rach too, only to find I'd forgotten how to speak when she answered.  I mumbled something about noodles and 4 days and hung up - my attempt to reassure more likely to have raised her concern.  I already know in the back of my mind that after 16 hours of riding so far today, I’ll be riding through the night. 

I roll smoothly along the Great Glen Way, at about 10pm I suddenly think I better check my Wahoo battery. 1%. Fuck. Idiot. I save the ride so far whilst I faff with a battery pack. The rest of the ride is a mismatch of recordings across phone and Wahoo - Alan may choose to just disqualify me rather than try and decipher it. 

With darkness comes seriously unknown territory for mind and body – now approaching 20 hours into the 4th day of riding with a cumulative total of less than eight hours sleep.  Having tethered my mind in Glen Affric it was time to set it free again, and it concocted the most incredible scenes.  

For a while I rode as a family and I was different members of the family at different points – sometimes the mother or father, shepherding the others and confidently leading the way, sometimes one of the children merely following blindly with total, meek trust in the vision of the adult ahead.  I spent a lot of time riding just with one other person, but the person seemed to constantly morph between different friends, riding pals and family members.  Sometimes I was one of those loved ones, riding along looking at Niall, willing him forwards.  In my more lucid moments I would reflect on the sections we had just ridden, then catch myself… I’m the only one here.  

I wondered if this was a construction or manifestation of everyone who supported me, cared about me or who had been texting, watching my dot and willing me on.  Or just insanity.  Either way, these experiences were far from traumatic or unnerving – they were comforting and made me feel safe and content despite clearly being in a vulnerable state. 

I thought about my daughter a lot. I remembered when we first brought her home and she would only sleep on one of our chests - we'd do shifts, two hours each. It felt like the most important job in the world to stay awake when it was my turn. I could feel her on me as I was riding, keeping me awake.  Later, I was annoyed with a woman who wouldn’t leave me alone. I don't know who she was but she designed the West Highland Way to be all uphill and bumpy and was revelling in my inability to ride it, ridiculing me. 

Back to Alan, he called me "a dark horse", then apologised if that suggested he had underestimated me.  It summed up why this race has captivated me - it's the humble masterpiece of a man with an infectious passion for biking in Scotland.  No egos, no brands.  It's the recognition that anyone can turn up and put down a ride on this but at the same time, the best riders in the world are just happy to finish.  Just look to Miron Golfman's collapse with 10 miles to go to see how hard they push.  

Andrew returned to the finish area shortly after, two hours into his reintegration to reality and looking as fresh as the day he started after a shower and change of clothes; he’d been slower than his previous efforts but exuded a deep contentedness nonetheless.  Third time is a charm, clearly.

Your body, like your mind, begins to unravel in these events.  I finish with swollen feet, horrendous cankles, weird big knobbly knees, a painfully ulcered mouth and I can’t feel most of my fingers.  My face is bloated and one eye seems to be infected (not helped by the presence of a contact lens I thought I had removed two nights prior).  To steal a quote from a friend that made me smile a few times on the trail, by the finish your undercarriage may resemble a chorizo omelette (boke). 

A final, self-indulgent nod to the chip on my shoulder.  As a keen reader I’m often drawn to stories of historical hardship, overcoming adversity and the incredible human capacity for endurance and survival.  But this is so far from those stories that it’s almost offensive to share the same terminology.  This isn’t suffering, I chose to do this to myself.  It’s the absolute pinnacle of privilege to engage with something difficult, safe in the knowledge that you either complete it or choose to give up and just return to your regular, happy life either way.  We spend thousands of pounds on equipment and thousands of leisure-hours practicing our hobby so that we can engage in this folly and it’s all, ultimately, just biking, camping and eating a lot.  People have asked me if it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, but it can’t be, because at no point in those four days did I wish to be doing anything other than riding the Highland Trail.  For me, turning up to a job you hate, or a social event you’re dreading, or even putting the bins out when you’re totally knackered are all vastly more difficult than the Highland Trail.

Still, what a journey it was, the (mostly) calm, understated execution of an ambitious plan.

I’m fucking stoked.