Where Our Narrator Wonders If This Is All A Good Idea, And His Partner In Crime Has A Sense Of Humour Failure.There is something nice about waking up in a large bed amongst clean sheets, and stretching without a care in the world, before getting up and starting one’s day. For Hannah, Day 2 started just like this.
For me, I gingerly rolled out of bed, wincing, and tried to get my legs working again. I kept telling myself that I had done this before, that our previous back-to-back cycle to and from Kent had been just as hard, and that this was in no way new territory for me. I decided that it would all look fine after 10 miles or so, when everything was warmed up.
Breakfast in Blar Mhor was served in a sunny dining area cum kitchen, and the cheery Elaine was soon swooping in with laden plates. It was here that I found to my horror that I actually struggle to eat anything before 09:00 in the morning, and so I forced myself to eat cereal and a cooked breakfast, determined to get my calories on board before the day began. My onboard computer from Garmin told me that I had burned 5,500 calories the previous day, and so I desperately needed to get the old glycogen levels back up to a decent level (according a book that I had purchased many months previously).
I was pleasantly surprised to see that the weather of Day 1 had rolled away, giving glorious sunshine and a deep blue sky, and that in spite of this it was pleasantly cool. Ray joined us and tucked into a massive 3 course breakfast, and then we forced ourselves up the stairs, stopping to pick up our fresh smelling cycle clothes from Elaine’s drying room.
Outside, we inspected our bikes, and the Manly Steed almost bristled at the merest suggestion that it might use a touch of oil on its chainset. We packed our panniers, fitted them onto the frame (carrying waterproofs, and plenty of food today – no repeat of yesterday’s roadside bonking thank you!!) and gingerly I stepped into the saddle.
“Are you fit?” asked Ray, perched lightly on his steed, pulling on his gloves.
“Absolutely not.” I replied, slumped on mine. “Shall we go anyway?”
We waved goodbye to Eileen, and turned right out of her drive onto the A9, and continued on our way south with the sea on our right. We started slowly to give our legs ample opportunity to warm up, and found the first 40 miles to be very pleasantly rolling, cycling along well maintained roads past golden fields of barley. We stopped after 10 miles or so to get some Lucozade Sport, and I mixed it with the water in my Camelpak to create what I started referring to as ‘GoGo Juice’. Thus equipped, and after a cheeky Snickers bar, I got back onto the Manly Steed and we continued on our way through pine forests and past meadows, passing a few cyclists coming North.
It was becoming increasingly easy to spot LEJOGers as they had a certain weary resignation to their pedalling, but to a person they always waved and smiled. This is a phenomenon which does not exist within London: out in the country (and I had noticed this on our trips to Brighton and Kent) people smile and acknowledge you as they pass, and you do so in return, perhaps calling out a good natured greeting such as “Hello!! Lovely Weather!!” or “Broken Glass Ahead!! Watch Out!!” but never “Huge Hill Coming Up!! We Just Came Down It!! AAAAAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!
In London this just does not happen. Rarely do you get a nod of acknowledgement, and whilst training pre-JOGLE in Richmond Park of an evening if you weren’t in a club uniform and pedalling like crazy in a pack, then you were almost ‘tutted’ out of the way.
Why, people?? Why can’t we be a little more civil – after all, we all have the same passion!! Think on London, think on!!!
Whilst free-wheeling through some lovely pines down a particularly long hill, the world suddenly opened up around us as we came down to the Dornoch Firth, which is a long stretch of road with open water on both sides, and the whole thing is quite stunning. We stopped to take some photos halfway across, and then it was back onto the Manly Steed and ever onwards. The Garmin kept us pointing in the right direction, but it was becoming difficult to read it as there seemed to be some problems with the routing software – apparently we were pedalling through the water twelve feet to the left of us, rather than being on the road.
We passed the Glen Morangie distillery not long after, and saw Han and Mike waving to us. We pulled over and they had once more had bad luck in the tourist stakes as it was shut for the day. No llamas and no whiskey – and later on the ‘Dolphin Sanctuary’ turned into a lookout point where people ‘had seen dolphins’.
Passing Tain we headed for the Cromarty Firth and passed Invergordon and then Dalmore, and were nearly 40 miles down for the day. Even though I had been (as I put it) ‘snacking like a bastard’ I was still getting tired and hungry so we joined the A862 just after Dalmore (leaving the sea behind us, which we would not see again until reaching Bude in Cornwall), called Han and Mike and got them to meet us in Dingwall for lunch in the Tesco cafe.
After lunch, and having been shocked by the sight of 8 year olds drinking pints of caffeine and energy drinks (basically Red Bull in a 500ml can) I realised that I had become a prude in my old age. But really – 8 year olds drinking Red Bull? You see, that’s what happens when you take the ‘E’ numbers and colourings out of everything – it’s like kiddy-crack: they’ve just gotta have it, and if they can’t then they’ll take the next best thing to get that legal high!!!
I digress. Cycling – yes – that’s what we were talking about.
We followed the A862 through Conon Bridge and Muir of Ord, and then picked up the A833 just after Beauly, with the weather teasing us by soaking us and then broiling us in bright sunshine – never wet enough to stay in waterproofs, never dry enough not to wear them. This was fascinating country as it was by turn’s bleak moorlands and then lushly forested and we cycled past a number of estates with country houses. We had to stop in Beauly and rest as Ray’s thigh just above the knee was causing him some considerable pain, and applied Ibulieve gel and a tubigrip support. After that, we decided that he should try not to put too much strain on it for a while and so he was always in the lightest gear possible for the rest of the day. This caused him to swear somewhat more often than usual...
The A833 became more hilly and bleak as we went, as we rested fairly frequently. Our old friend the Stinger gel came out towards the end of the day as I was having some issues with my energy levels, and Ray could be heard swearing his way up a particularly long climb from several counties over, I have no doubt. We stopped to take some photos of a Highland Cow, and then headed into the last 5 miles towards Milton and Drumnadrochit.
The map shows the A833 joining with the A831 just before Milton, which then joins the A82. What it does not show is a view of me screaming like a frightened child as, in the pouring rain with poor visibility, I freewheeled down what must have been a 15% gradiented hill, desperately applying the brakes as hard as I could and staring disbelievingly at the speedo which told me that I was doing 36 miles per hour. Whilst braking as hard as possible. And trying to get around the hairpin bends in the road in the pouring rain. At 36 mph.
Glad to be alive upon reaching the bottom, the Manly Steed and I breathed a sigh of relief that we had nothing dented but our pride, and we stopped outside the Loch Ness Monster visitor centre for a couple of photos and then made our way to the Loch Ness Backpacker Hostel, whereupon we were met by Mike and Hannah, and checked into our family room.
Mike cooked a sumptuous dish of Pasta a la Mickey, and then we headed out to one of the local pubs for a drink. I managed a pint and a half of ale washed down with a single malt (well, when in Rome...) before my body started shutting down and calling for bed.
Back in the room, I was aghast to find that I had left the heater on and so it was very much like a sauna smelling strongly of the wet clothes which we had washed in the showers and were trying to dry. The effect of a locker room was further added to by Mike massaging Ray’s wounded thigh with a mixture of oil and Deep Heat (relax readers, this is nothing raunchy or risqué, although time on the road, it changes a man... That aside, Mike is a trained sports massage person.)
It had been a better day than Day 1, and needless to say I was glad that it was over. The last 20 miles had been challenging, but we were through it and I was looking forward in particular to the next couple of days as we would be getting down to Fort William and Glencoe, my old stamping ground from when I was a younger, fitter lad.
The Manly Steed was tethered to a post in a shed along with its smaller counterpart, and through the pattering of the rain on the roof above I could almost hear them swapping stories about who had done what that day.
The room was like an oven, and a large contingent of very loud and drunk French students took up position outside our door, no doubt to taunt the exhausted ‘ros bifs’. It didn’t work, and I dropped into slumber beside my gorgeous wife, still not 100% sure that I was comfortable sharing a room with my gorgeous wife and two other blokes.
Just as unconsciousness beckoned, I realised that I was still having fun.
The alarm went off at 07:00am, I vaguely remember thinking “Sod it!” and I went back to sleep for another hour.Day 3 was here, it was still raining, and we were running later than planned.
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