On the high road to Inverness

PEOPLE ASK ME why I’m not interested in doing the Paris-Brest-Paris. My response is that there’s still so much of this country I’ve yet to explore by bike. I’ve also enjoyed the rides that Andy Corless has organised in the past couple of years and was ready for another challenge ride.

I’m a fan of there-and-back-again rides too, which lends a certain purpose in coming back to where you began, whether in a loop or straight line. The Inverness 1200 proved to be a combination of both formats.

There was the usual flap, getting away from work at the end of the day, and on to the train in time. All went well until I reached Euston, where I hung about near my anticipated platform, waiting for departure information of my delayed train. Finally I returned to the departure board to look for an update and saw to my horror that it was about to depart from the other end of the station. No announcement of course. I dashed across the concourse and along the length of the train where I then had to wait for the guard who nonchalantly strolled up to allow me to load my bike.

My reserved seat had been taken so I plumped down next to a dapper chap who had a spare seat next to him and got talking. He turned out to be a professional puppeteer, none other than the owner of a famous TV dog called Hacker. We spent a very pleasant journey – and Hacker came out of his hold-all for photos.

A trouble-free connection to St Anne’s followed and an overnight stop in a quiet Travelodge. The ride began next morning from a nearby scout hut. We ambled along pleasant lanes with views over to Heysham nuclear power station.

I recalled at about this point that the reason my puncture repair kit had seemed so empty when I looked in it before the ride was that the tyre levers were missing. Probably. I couldn’t be sure. I could go the whole ride thinking I had no tyre levers and then find at the end that I actually had them all along. It became a gnawing paranoia. I later tested my luck by passing at least two bike shops without stopping to buy any. I placed my fate in the hands of the gods of improvisation.

Before departing I’d discussed the ride with some colleagues in Preston and confidently told them I didn’t imagine I’d see many hills between Blackpool and Glasgow, as we were avoiding the Lake District on this occasion.

Perhaps my collection of OS maps doesn’t cover Shap Fell, so I had a bit of an awakening as we began to head north from Kendal. A long but impressive haul, but still no need to resort to the granny gear just yet.

The sequence of the towns en-route still eludes me, even which are in Scotland and which in England. I always remember Gretna though. The sense of frontier and change lies on it; the style of houses and other less tangible attributes seem to occur quite suddenly as you ride through. Monsters and mental struggles on the high road to The Inverness 1200 is an event which follows a strenuous route from the Lancashire coast at Lytham St Annes 1,206km to Britain’s most northerly city. Rich Chew found the going tough, both physically and mentally – to the point where he found himself seeing imaginary monsters. Or were they imaginary? Here he describes the emotional battles sometimes faced by long-distance cyclists. on the high road toInverness Arrivée summer/autumn 2019 WORDS AND PICTURES RICHARD CHEW

Inverness

❝… He turned out to be a professional puppeteer, none other than the owner of a famous TV dog called Hacker. We spent a very pleasant journey – and Hacker came out of his hold-all for photos

❞

❝… I did 90 per cent of the ride alone and that must have added to the psychological demand of keeping positive

❞

52 In some quiet town, perhaps Lesmahagow, on the main road a football bounced out in front of me and I paused to hoof it back to the boys who were playing on the parallel residential street. Memories of home can suddenly take over your immediate thoughts and the overwhelming desire to be back in familiar surroundings again can take hold, either reinforcing your desire to finish or to abandon entirely, depending on your state of mind. These two states of mind were in constant conflict in my head for much of the ride.

The approach to Paisley seemed to be a stop-start race between the traffic lights, very wearing after a long day. Having finally found the control successfully in the dark it was time to refuel and get my head down.

Feeling fresh the next morning, I set out alone around the airport’s perimeter and headed for Loch Lomond via the Erskine Bridge. A

lovely tranquil morning to be heading off to the Highlands. The views over Loch Lomond were delightful and I passed a hotel I stayed at many years ago on the way to the Isle of Skye. A tunnel passes under the main road to reach the loch side chalets, a really delightful spot.

I paused briefly and was attacked by the famous midges, the only time on the ride that they really mithered me but had the positive effect of urging me to get back on the bike and continue, through Glencoe to the aptly-named viewpoint at Rest and Be Thankful.

I probably did 90 per cent of the ride alone and that must have added to the psychological demand of keeping positive. With a relatively small field, the opportunities to join groups over the course of the ride diminished, and we were soon well spread out. The fact that there were two ride options also meant that some folk were turning round for home at Fort William and others going on to Inverness.

Although I had begun the ride with a clubmate we unfortunately split, due to differing choices of rest points and pace up the hills. It can’t always be helped, and while a chain gang can make a huge difference on flat roads into the wind, with lumpy terrain it doesn’t matter so much from the point of view of physical exertion. However, from a psychological resilience perspective, having someone to chat with can have a great impact.

Inveraray lies on Loch Fyne like a glittering jewel and the approach, over a graceful bridge, adds to its charm. You can keep your fancy oyster restaurants on the shores; for me, a bacon sandwich, freshly cooked in the Londis just topped it all. A friendly window cleaner put me on the right road out to Oban – the steep one. A couple of pallets next to the Dunbeg petrol station’s bin store provided a most satisfactory lunchtime restaurant at the next

control, and much easier than getting up off the ground. From here, a little backtracking before going over the Connel Bridge and along the Argyll Coastal Road to Fort William.

I thought several times along the way about a questionnaire I’d recently completed for Sustrans on the National Cycle Network and factors to encourage its use. There was a mixed bag of cycle routes available on this ride to use if you desired and were quick enough to hop on to them before you missed them. There were also some good verges and hard shoulders, some marked as cycle paths, some not, and sometimes possessing a better surface than the road itself.

At one point on the way to Fort William, a passing motorist strongly advised me to use the cycle path on the other side of the road by hooting and gesturing vigorously; impossible to get to safely and with no drop kerb I wondered if he had ever used a bike. Immediately we ran into a standing queue of traffic and I took his advice, carefully crossing the road on foot, to join the path from where I breezed

past the long line of cars.

A car accident further along meant the flow of traffic was being controlled by the police. They advised me to watch the spilt oil, then I carried on riding. I then got abuse from someone in the other lane who said I was holding up the traffic behind me, the standing queue meant no one could get by. When I did pull over to let them past, there was such a backlog that it was hard then for me re-join and carry on.

All this kerfuffle on the road made me eager to crack on and get clear of all the trouble, so reaching Fort William, I hastened on to Inverness. A string of beautiful lochs followed but the view became monotonous and I began a regime of awarding myself with a jelly baby every 10km. This worked for a while and the game of guess the colour of the next one amused the mind, but all that sugar in place of a good meal began to take ill effect. What were those strange murky flats upon the waters of Loch Ness? What was the dull sloshing against the shore? Could it be that Nessie was no more than the figment of confectionery hallucination?

Meeting riders on the road on their way back from Inverness already was disheartening. I wondered where they were heading for that evening. Perhaps heading back to Fort William before the late darkness descended.

About 30km from Inverness I put a stop to all this nonsense and paused to eat all my remaining rations. Proper solid starchy and fatty rations, in the shape of a sausage roll.

Here was my “taxi home, sir?” moment, when I would have leapt at the chance, had that limo pulled alongside me with a change of clothes and beer fridge inside.

I felt pretty rough when I at last arrived in Inverness, having negotiated a business park to find the Travelodge; my Achilles tendon had begun to hurt again. I arrived chilled and disconsolate that there was nowhere within walking distance (in cleats) to find food. I had no desire to get back on the bike, ever.

Taking a bath I began to nod off; time to get out before I began doing Nessie impersonations I thought. I was still cold, and in the absence of a

❝… A string of beautiful lochs followed but the view became monotonous and I began a regime of awarding myself with a jelly baby every 10km

❞

54 blanket I piled pillows on myself and was a text message away from packing it in, but decided to sleep on it - for seven blissful hours!

The following morning I didn’t feel like continuing, but I didn’t feel like staying in bed either. The absence of a decent breakfast was mortally depressing. This had been one of my most expensive Travelodge bookings of all time; appropriate feedback has been sent.

Suddenly noticing the advertising reminder that I could get a breakfast box to go, I hobbled to reception and splashed out on this luxury item. No, not cheap but the effect was miraculous; chilled milk on a small bowl of cornflakes, cold orange juice and a zesty muffin washed down with a coffee had life-affirming effects and I decided to try to continue. I knew there’d be a station in Fort William 100km away if I needed one. Moreover, I reviewed the route sheets and realised today was actually

the shortest day, and after the first slog, there would be two scenic sections to look forward to.

The traffic was light on the A82 and I made faster progress on the return leg. My next carrot was the prospect of seeing the spectacular Glencoe pass and I was feeling buoyant by then. After a drizzly start it brightened into a glorious day. The monster was banished back to the loch.

The pass of Glencoe was beyond expectations, on a grander scale than the Lake District’s passes, with bigger roads and more traffic, easier on the climbing legs, with one landscape unfolding after another. The craggy heights giving way to the grandeur of Rannoch Moor with its twinkling chain of connected lochans.

On the return leg the tea time control was at Crianlarich. It lacked the charms of Inveraray but I found a good level bench on a steep street for a pause before heading back to Glasgow. I was expecting a quiet evening meander alongside Loch Lomond, but it was still busy with returning day trippers on Sunday afternoon. The 70mph limited dual carriageway on the approach to the Erskine Bridge was horrendous, unexpectedly manic compared to the tranquillity of the previous crossing early on Saturday morning.

In all a great day, and I was back with plenty of time to tinker with my front derailleur in good daylight in Paisley, thanks to a kind daily distance under 300km. The benefits and effects of that adjustment paid dividends the following day and helped my mood no end.

I passed a slightly warmer night but my air-bed had begun to go flat. Not much sleep and up early in anticipation of a long last day. A cold draught blew into the breakfast room and I put on some layers. “I can’t decide whether to put my long legs on,” I remarked.

❝… The pass of Glencoe was beyond expectations, on a grander scale than the Lake District’s passes, with bigger roads and more traffic, easier on the climbing legs, with one landscape unfolding after another. The craggy heights giving way to the grandeur of Rannoch Moor with its twinkling chain of connected lochans

❞

“Never start a ride cold,” said someone wisely and I went along with that. I was already looking forward to the warm controls and planning my menu.

Eating aside, there can be few pleasures greater than washing your hands at a control. Tired by numbness due to cold or hours in the same posture, the feeling of rubbing warm soapy water into them is heavenly. If the soap is particularly pleasant smelling, and not that frothy foam, then my ecstasy is complete. It’s well worth the hassle of removing your fingerless gloves to do it, not to mention reasons of hygiene. I took several pairs of gloves some of which dug in between the fingers, so it was good to have a change every day. When cold I even used my thin liner gloves with an extra pair on top, it really was chilly leaving Paisley at dawn and it was a long time before I removed those layers at Abington despite climbing out of Glasgow. A wise sage recently reminded me that there are three parts to a ride. There’s the bit where you talk with anticipation about the ride you are planning, then secondly comes the ride itself, and finally there’s the third part afterwards where you reminisce about the completed ride and bask in the glory of finishing. Often parts one and three are the most enjoyable. This held true for the endless roller coaster to Penrith which felt so close to home and yet due to the almost complete absence of distance signs, felt eternal. Alternative routes are available.

Carnforth services came at last and the overflowing bins told the story of others passing through. The last leg, and with enough daylight remaining to see quite clearly, I watched enchanted as barn owls hunted over the stubbly fields alongside the road.

Maybe I was enjoying the wildlife too much as, not for the first time in my life, I found myself becoming a

little lost at Out Rawcliffe. Reverting to Google maps I ploughed on and found the friendly tolled river crossing at Cartford then pushed on into Blackpool and then confidently got on to the right B-road to take me to the arrivee.

I found the control in the darkness and quickly tendered my receipts over a cuppa before racing off to St Anne’s on Sea station for the last train to Preston. It was the last thing my legs needed but at least the train was on time.

At the Travelodge in Preston the receptionist asked if I’d stayed in a Travelodge before. Three in the last five days, as it happened. This one offered a proper breakfast buffet too, which I launched into with great gusto on Tuesday morning. I was both thrilled and finally satiated.

Home and back to normality, straight from the station to the school to do the afternoon pickup, but it was exactly what I wanted.