Arran Jura Islay Mull - 1 man, 10 ferries, 6 days. It's all about the bike

The week before last my head nearly exploded. In fact something in there might have, but without a full head scan I can't tell.  It happened just after I'd spent an hour and a half trying and failing to get my estate agent to care about my house sale.  After I came off the phone, something just blew. And it wasn't just a little bang. It was as if someone had put a crash helmet on me and then let off an atom bomb underneath. Nothing in the outside world was damaged, but the inside of my head was completely destroyed.

My First Ferry of the week

Anyway, it was on a Tuesday when my head blew up, and the next day I took a rare sick day.  I'd spent 5 months fighting with my secondment as an assessor if it was an alligator with toothache.  Maybe my head blowing up was a sign I shouldn't be doing that anymore.  

On Wednesday I went for a massage and the massager woman (not sure of the correct term for a female massager) said it was like massaging an ironing board. By Thursday I was backing away from my secondment as if it was a stick covered in dog poo. The only saving grace was that from Friday I was on holiday for 10 days. If anyone needed a holiday it was me.

This is me needing a holiday

One of the things I've missed while I've been living on my own has been good conversations, so it was nice to meet up with my old boss Damaris on Friday to have a good long talk, mostly about technology and how things were better in the olden days (that's pretty much all I talk about with anyone who'll listen). Then on Saturday I went to Leeds with my brother for Cassette Store Day, and because we were hours early and there was no queue, we got to have a good talk too. More than we have in years.

I'd originally booked the week off, thinking I might go to Canada with Ruth, but when that didn't happen I was left wondering what to do instead. Weeks ago when I thought my house sale might have been through, I imagined all kinds of fancy trips I might go on. New York, Berlin etc. But then the house money didn't come through, so what to do?

The Islay Ferry - small or far away?

I decided whatever happened, I needed to get away. So I set myself the target that I would be gone by Sunday.

For reasons best not explained, I had to make a desk out of a camping chair and the parcel shelf from my car, so I could use my computer at my house on Saturday night, to book some accommodation before I left. This was something to do with having two homes, but one with no internet, and the other having nothing in it but the internet.

By 9 pm Saturday I was done, so I bundled the computer into a bag, wrapped up the camping chairs, put the car back together and went from my house back to my flat, where I don't have the internet. It was at this point I was thinking what a bloody dope I was, for not just getting the bloody internet in the flat in the first place.  It would have made life so much easier.  

Me and my bike - during the difficult early part of our relationship

Ruth bought me two bikes before we split up. One of them got stolen a couple of weeks ago, and the other one was a death trap when I got it (on reflection this may have been deliberate), but I recently got it working so I could actually use it. Apart from an aborted attempt at a ride with friends in July, I haven't used it. It's just been stuck in the bedroom.  Keeping it in the bedroom has its drawbacks, especially when my Ipod headphones get tangled up in the rear derailleur but that's another story.

Anyway, I've got a week off, and a bike I haven't used.  This is it, I thought, time to get out there on it.

Bike or Death Trap?  You decide

To be honest, I've pretty much hated cycling for the last year and a half. Mostly because of last year's Coast to Coast, when both the training and the ride itself belonged more to the Japanese Game Show Endurance than to any kind of pleasurable recreational activity.

Anyway, I decided. I'm going to see some Scottish Islands, and I'm going to take the death trap, not because I especially wanted to ride it, but because it's the most simple and economical way of getting round up there. Much cheaper than trying to get the car on and off the islands. But whatever happens, I decided, it's not about the bike. Or the cycling. I'm going to do as little of that as possible. Just enough to get from ferry to ferry.

Due to the camping chair / parcel shelf / internet / being in Leeds till late on Saturday scenario, I only had time to book my first two nights away. So I booked a night at Brodick on the Isle of Arran followed by a night on the Isle of Jura (I wanted two but they were full). I would have liked to plan the whole thing, so as not to have to worry about doing things on the hoof, but it was the best I could do.

 This is what happened:

Sunday 8^th September

By the time I'd got in on Saturday night I had no time to prepare for going away, so I got up at 5 on Sunday morning instead.

I strapped the bike to the roof of the car and off I went. 203 miles to the ferry at Ardrossan it was. I booked a B&B near the ferry so Sunday could be a rest day. Good thing too, cos my head was still pounding when I rolled off the ferry with my bike.

The 1.93 miles I did on the bike riding around Brodick getting lost trying to find my B&B it felt like the bike and I were strangers from different planets who'd just met, and were having trouble finding any kind of common ground. It was more Mars Attacks than ET.

Here are my feet in a B&B

Eventually I found the B&B. It was up a hill. I suppose there was nothing wrong with it, I just appeared to be out of sync with it. I found out my room had a bath, but the hot water was only on at certain times, mostly times when I did not want a bath. So rather than requesting they fire up the boiler for a single bathful, I had a shower. Also, for some reason, porridge required 24 hours notice, although a full Scottish didn't. A full Scottish is exactly the same as a full English, except served with a pancake made out of potato, which may be one of the most pointless and unnecessary things ever invented. The next day I needed to catch the 1045 ferry from Lochranza, so I enquired if I might get breakfast before the scheduled normal kick-off of 8.30. We'll do it at 8.20 they said. Thanks, I said, that'll make all the difference. Not!

Because my plans were thrown together at the last minute as usual, I hadn't had time to get The Rough Guide to Scotland out of the library. I've hired the same copy about 6 times for all our recent trips to Scotland, and I can even recognise the stains on it from our various trips. No matter, I thought, Brodick's a big place, I'll finally buy a copy. There's even a bookshop in Brodick. No problemo!

Except there was, because the bookshop had about a million books on Scotland, but they were all absolute shite. They were all things like '150 years of Scottish boat painting styles'. Or 'Tartans throughout the ages' , or '365 Whiskies throughout the year', or 'A guide to where to play golf in Scotland' or 'Knit your own Arran sweater/.. No actual proper guide books at all. And this was the same in almost every shop. Fucking hell, I thought, surely I'm not the only person in the world who has ever come to the Isle of Arran without pre-purchasing a guide book. No I don't want to learn how to knit my own tartan, I just want to know where the fuck I am? In one shop, there was a conversation going on between what sounded like Lorraine Kelly and Jimmy Krankie. And to be honest, although I love Scotland, I was stood in there, with my head pounding away, surrounded by books on tartan and whisky and castles, wondering what the hell I was even doing here.

The Paps of Jura - don't look at me, I didn't name them!

Thankfully a lot of the places I wanted to go, I've been before, so I had to use my memories as a guide, although some of these turned out to be unreliable.

My exploding headache hadn't got any better so I went to bed about 5 pm, and stayed there till the following morning.

Monday 9^th September

I don't know why the bloody hell I ordered a massive steaming pile of bacon, sausage and eggs for breakfast when I had to cycle 15 miles up the mountain road to Lochranza immediately after it, but there you go. I got to the ferry with about 20 mins to spare.

Once off the other end, I had two hours to cycle the 5 miles to the next ferry to Kennacraig. Even I can't miss that, I thought. I had a nice surprise when I got to Kennacraig as I met some friends Tony and Gill there. I knew from Facebook that they were in the area, but they didn't know I was, so their surprise was probably greater.

We had a good chat on the ferry, then they headed off to Port Charlotte on Islay, while I caught the 5 minute ferry to Jura. I went to Islay last year, and was disappointed not to get to Jura then, so as much as anything, this trip was to put that right.

Here I am on Jura at last

Once off the ferry at Feolin, I waited for the 3 cars who'd also been on the ferry to set off, and then I set off too, to do the 8 miles to the Jura Hotel. I pretty much had the road completely to myself. Even though Jura is famous for them, I managed to not see one single deer while I was there.

The morning had been cloudy but during the 2 hour ferry journey from Kennacraig it had turned into an absolutely beautiful day. I still had the shadow of yesterday's headache, but I felt blessed to see Jura at its best.

Brodick on Sunday had been full of weekenders making their way home, kids with football medals round their necks and family groups, but no-one you could really talk to.  The thing about being on Jura is that every other person you see is an event. I stopped to chat to an old couple who were parked at the roadside, the lady was picking heather for a friend, and the next day I had a chat to some cyclists.  When you're somewhere so remote, not speaking to people you pass on the road seems plain rude.

Arriving in Craighouse

I loved the ride to Craighouse, and I loved the Jura Hotel too. As soon as I walked in I felt at home. Where can I leave my bike I asked? Wherever you want, the receptionist said. I don't suppose theft is much of a problem round here, I said. No, not really, she said.

My room in the Jura Hotel

I loved my room too. Whereas the B&B the day before with it's timings all out of sync with mine looked like it had been built by Laura Ashley, my room at the Jura Hotel was basic, but perfect.

Sunlight was flooding into the room through the bedroom window, and I made myself a coffee and then went for the bath that I'd wanted a day earlier. This time there was hot water. The bathroom suite was that rubbish avocado green that used to be fashionable years ago, but I didn't care.

Bike Theft - not a big problem on Jura

The hotel also had a copy of the Rough Guide I'd really wanted to bring with me, so I read up on a few things for later in the week, went for a walk and then arrived for dinner around 7 pm. For some reason it seemed important to arrive on the hour.

It was worth coming to Jura, just for this view

The dining room had beautiful views of the bay and this helped somewhat to combat the strangeness I felt at eating alone. There were only six other diners. An elderly couple, and 4 people who appeared to be from a walking holiday who'd only just met each other.

Craighouse Bay - if this isn't nice, I don't know what is

The food was okay. I had cullen skink and gammon. The waitress was lovely, and also Scottish, which turned out to be a novelty as most of the people who I met in shops and pubs and cafes and restaurants for the rest of the week, were English. It would have been a good week to invade England, as there can't have been many people left there.

The elderly couple sitting behind me seemed to be one of those couples who've got nothing left to say to each other, but like the pilots on Airplane, the old guy had had the fish. I know this because at approximately 15 minute intervals he mentioned this, and each time the fish got better. 'Well, that fish was absolutely delicious. Well, that fish couldn't have been better. Well, that fish was the best fish I've ever tasted in my entire life'.

The walking group sounded like they'd just met, and they were having the type of safe conversation that you sometimes have with people that you've just met. Someone thought that Waitrose's Organic Range had gone downhill, and then when the waitress came over to take their packed lunch orders, well I've been to shorter plays. Someone wanted an apple instead of an orange, someone only wanted tomato with their tuna if the tuna didn't come with mayonnaise. It took ages for someone to decide how many sandwiches were in a round etc.

After I'd been sat there about an hour, an Irish lady called Stella came in who I'd seen on the Ferry, and sat at the table next to me. Somehow we got chatting, and I forgot all about the other conversations or non-conversations that were going on, and got immersed in one of my own. One of the dangers of travelling is that you can get buttonholed by some monologuer who wants to use you as a sounding board to unload a pre-prepared speech, and in those situations you could just as well be replaced by a cardboard cut-out. But this was an actual proper conversation. If either of us was a nutter unloading a monologue I wasn't aware of it. Although I did wonder by the end of the evening if I'd have anything left to say if we met again at breakfast, as I somehow seemed to have gone through pretty much my whole life story.

In the week or two before I went away, I'd been reading a lot about the Moon Landings, and one thing I found fascinating was the descriptions of the Command Module pilots such as Michael Collins of the experience of being on the far side of the moon and out of radio contact with the entire Planet Earth. Some of them found this extreme solitude exhilarating. I'm not saying that being round the back of the Paps of Jura is anything like being on the dark side of the moon, but after weeks of waiting for my phone to ring about my house sale, and it not doing, I found the lack of mobile phone signal there strangely comforting.

Tuesday 10^th September

I did meet Stella again at breakfast, and I did find some more stuff to say. Turned out Stella was heading to Port Charlotte on Islay the next day.

Trying to beat the rain out of Craighouse

I'd also decided to head to Islay, but I didn't want to end up at Port Charlotte. I wanted to head to Colonsay on Wednesday and so I wanted to find somewhere quite close to the ferry for Wednesday morning. But Islay was much busier than I expected.

Bruichladdich Mini Market - a very cycle friendly place

I figured I'd stay somewhere near Bridgend, which is central for the whole island, but there was no room at the inn.  I stopped at the tourist information in Bowmore but the lady in there said I'd be lucky to get anything. Apparently there was one bed left in a shared dorm at the Youth Hostel in Port Charlotte, but I didn't fancy that, although I did like the idea of seeing Lorna the manager again. I first met Lorna in Rishikesh in India last year, but she wouldn't shake my hand at the time because she was picking up garbage out of the streets, but during our conversation I found out she was the Youth Hostel Manager at Port Charlotte, so I went there last April, to get my handshake.

Anyway, after a few further unsuccessful attempts to find a B&B I eventually rolled up in Port Charlotte at 3.30 pm and met Tony and Gill again at the corner shop.

Waiting for the Youth Hostel to open

When the youth hostel opened at 5 I booked their last remaining bed, a top bunk in a room full of Yorkshiremen, and it must have been meant to be, because it was Lorna's last night before a 10 day holiday so if it hadn't been then, I would have missed her.

I also met Stella at Reception, and after a day on a bus she was keen to get a bike ride in, and had managed to hire one from over the road from the hostel.

Having recommended it to her, I decided to ride down to Portnahaven with her, to see the seals. There were only around 4, and Len the sheepdog was there too, although there were no seals on his rocks tonight, so he didn't have to do too much. It was after 7 when we got there, and we were hungry so we had a meal at the very small pub, run by some bloke from Berkshire.  I had a pizza.

On the Atlantic Coast at Portnahaven

On the way back I was telling Stella how pleased I was that we'd met in the restaurant the night before, as there was pretty much only the man with the fish to keep me amused, and after I told her about the old guy with the fish, she spent the next 10 minutes imitating him, but substituting the word Alpaca for the word fish. This was because we were passing a field full of Alpacas at the time. She was saying things like 'That's the best Alpaca I've ever seen'. That kind of thing. You probably had to be there.

On the ride from Port Askaig to Port Charlotte during the day, and into the wind, I still hadn't felt at peace with the bike, but on the evening ride to Portnahaven, I really started to grow into it. The ride back was especially good, because it was much easier than I imagined it would be.

In fact it was at this point, that the whole holiday started to become about the bike. I remembered Islay and Mull last year, and the problems I'd had on those holidays with other bikes creaking, and things falling off them. And I remembered the casual remark I'd made about getting a drop-barred tourer that had indirectly led to me getting this bike that I was now on, that had started off as such an abortion. And the irony was that now I was back in the same place I'd made the remark, but with a perfectly working tourer. Nothing needed tightening, and nothing needed fixing. I couldn't have gone on a much more convoluted route to get there, but there I was all the same.

Because I was on my own for the week, and therefore only able to stretch far enough away to take close up pictures of my own head, which blocked out most of the scenery (I could have used the timer but couldn't be bothered) I started taking pictures of the bike. And as I started taking more and more photographs of the bike, it started to feel less like It's NOT about the bike, and more it's ALL about the bike.

The bike in one of its earlier incarnations at Fountains Abbey

The whole coming to own that bike was a horrendous botch job, and symptomatic of mine and Ruth's  poor communication at times, but actually getting out there on the bike, after months of false starts, felt like salvaging something from the wreckage.

Going cycle touring at all, starting with that trip from Newcastle to Edinburgh 8 years ago, was so out of comfort zone, so different to anything I'd ever have thought up to do myself, and yet here I am I thought, out here doing it by myself.

Another thing about the ride to Portnahaven, it started to relax me. After a day of searching fruitlessly for accommodation, it was nice to have a bed, and dump my stuff and get out there. What wasn't quite so relaxing was sleeping in a room with 13 snoring farting Yorkshiremen, who all rolled in from the pub well after my bed time.  It was like sharing a room with a really terrible smelly orchestra, and I was glad when it got to 6 am and I could grab my stuff and get the hell out of there.

The nice thing was that before I went to bed, and even though she was going away in the morning, Lorna took the time to come and talk to me, and so I filled her in on most of the details about how my life had turned into a giant dog's breakfast over the last few months. At first I promised to let her know when I'd got it all sorted, but I figured that could be never, so I said I'd let her know if I got any single aspect of it sorted instead. That made the communication that much likelier.

Wednesday 11^th September

By 7 am on Wednesday morning pretty much every cyclist in the youth hostel was up and having breakfast ready for the 16 mile journey to the ferry. The consensus was that we'd all set off around 7.30 and that was also the time Gill and Tony were planning to leave the campsite. There was one Irish guy who was determined to leave at 6.30, but that seemed seriously pessimistic to me.

Lorna's pile of stones outside the Youth Hostel - getting them to balance on the bench is the really hard part

About halfway to the ferry, it started raining and as the rain got heavier I passed a teenage girl waiting at the bus stop for the school bus. She didn't have a coat on, but was huddled inside her blazer to keep warm, with her back to the rain. If one thing summed Islay up for me, it was that despite the cold and wet, as soon as she spotted me, she gave me a wave a a cheery greeting. To be honest I've no idea what the greeting was, it could have been in Gaelic, but whatever it was, unless she was very good at faking positive body language, she was wishing me well. Where else would you get that? Especially in the rain.

The cyclists from the hostel all gathered back together at the Port Askaig Ferry Terminal, including Gill and Tony, who'd decided to skip Colonsay and stay on the ferry all the way to Oban. The forecast was pretty bad, and I too decided that being stuck on Colonsay in the rain with no visibility for 7 hours didn't sound like much fun. I decided instead to head back to Mull, and maybe stay at the Craignure Inn.

No room at the Inn - but they did have food

The ferry journey was around 4 hours in total. I spent the first hour or so trying to fathom the Krypton Factor like puzzle of the ferry timetable and it was one big frustration of the trip that it's difficult to be spontaneous when using the ferries, because they tend to dictate when and where you can travel. I gave up eventually and read a book instead.

I said bye to Gill and Tony at Oban, and then caught another ferry to Mull. The Craignure Inn was full and after ringing round a couple of far too expensive hotels, I ended up hiring a six berth Shieling at the campsite Ruth and I stayed at last year. They even hired me some bedding. To be honest, it was overkill to hire a massive six berth tent to myself, but after the night before with the farting Yorkshiremen, I was happy to do it. The minimum hire was for 2 nights as well so that solved the problem of where to go tomorrow. I wasn't going anywhere.

Not sure if this tent is big enough

I went for tea at the Craignure Inn (cullen skink and sausage and mash). Instead of last year's table service, it was now order at the bar, and my order was taken by the most Australian Australian since Crocodile Dundee, who had a tiny little moustache and insisted on ending every sentence with 'Alright Matey'. I talked to a family from Cumbria at the next table for a bit, but I didn't want to be the buttonholing type, so after a few pleasantries I let them get on with it, and just ate my food.

Wednesday night I had my best night's sleep of the trip, wrapped up lovely and warm in my borrowed bedding, and with no-one snoring to bother me.

Ah that's better!  No snoring Yorkshiremen tonight

Thursday 12^th September

Having a full day to myself on Thursday and with my accommodation for the night already sorted, I decided to have a ferry free day and to ride the scenic route round the back of the island from Salen to Pennyghael. I had a full breakfast at Arlene's coffee shop at Craignure before departing and then I stopped again at the coffee shop in Salen. Even though I wasn't really hungry I wanted to stop there cos I'd enjoyed it so much last year, and I managed to force down a jam and cream scone on top of the full breakfast. Probably as well I got some calories on board for what was to come.

Salen - Unnecessary Coffee Stop

The first bit after Salen was perfect. In the same way that being behind the Paps of Jura had that far side of the moon feel to it, so did this back road to Pennyghael. I remembered the end of Pushing Tin where Billy Bob Thornton is trying to get John Cusack to jump in a river, and he says 'You can't jump in the same river twice', and it occurred to me that you can't ride the same road twice either.

It doesn't get any better than this, but it was about to get a lot worse

Not only was I riding round the island the opposite way to last year's ride with Ruth, this time I was alone, instead of sun there was mist and cloud and despite the familiarity, it all felt brand new.

Enjoying those last few moments of being dry

Once I got far enough away from Salen that turning back wasn't an option, it started absolutely bucketing down. And the wind got up too. I was soon soaked to the skin, with hard rain whipping my face. Luckily it wasn't particularly cold, otherwise I would have been in trouble. Although it was quite a few miles away, I knew the shop at Pennyghael would have hot coffee, so I wasn't too concerned about the wet.

This picture doesn't even begin to show how heavy the rain was

I couldn't remember exactly how far it was back to Craignure from Pennyghael but I'd decided it was around 12, so I was a bit concerned when I got to Pennyghael and discovered that I had another 20 miles to do, through the mountains, to get back to Craignure. I did think there was a small chance I might die of hypothermia, but a lack of alternative transport options, just meant I had to go for it.

It is indeed very wet

As it turned out, the ride back to Craignure was much easier than the ride going the opposite way with Ruth had been last year, and finding it so made me feel a whole lot better about finding it so gruelling and frustrating going the other way.

I'm sure there's a view out there somewhere

After getting back to my massive tent, I managed to get all my clothes dry in one of the industrial size campsite driers, so I didn't have to pack them wet, all except for my wet shoes, which I threw away. They were knackered anyway. Luckily, for once I'd the luxury of a spare pair of shoes, something I rarely have on tour.

Thursday evening I decided not to go back to the pub for tea, and so I wouldn't have to go out again after getting back, I'd just picked up some pork pies and cooked meats from the Spar, on the way back from Pennyghael. This turned out to be a good idea, as with all my warm clothes in the drier all at once anyway, my going out options were limited. It was blowing a bloody gale, and I wasn't walking to the pub in a T-shirt. No sirree!

Around 8 pm on Thursday night I got a text from Stephen reminding me it was Graeme's Keep to the Roads Audax on Saturday, which I'd really wanted to support, but I realised I'd totally messed up on the date, thinking it was the week after. Could I get back I wondered? I'd have to catch 3 ferries, cycle about 65 miles and drive home from Ardrossan all in one day. Could I do it?

I decided to try. I still didn't have a map or guidebook, so all the distances I'd calculated in my head were purely from memory. I estimated it was around 55 miles from Oban to the next ferry at Claonaig, and that was going to be the hard bit, because if I didn't catch the 4.20 from Claonaig, I couldn't catch the 720 from Brodick, and that would be the end of that.

On Thursday night I didn't sleep as well as the night before. It was a lot colder for a start. Also, I had a dream that I chose to call an Inverse Bobby Ewing. I dreamt all about the last few months, and how I'd split up with Ruth, and taken the nightmare job as an assessor, and I dreamt about how I now live alone, and about how my house won't sell, and how I'm facing financial meltdown if something doesn't give soon. And for a moment when I woke up, I thought it was all a dream, like a whole series and a half of Dallas. But then I realised, Oh fuck. It's not a dream, that's my life. And as I reflected on the last few months and years, I tried to identify the tipping point, the place where things had started to go wrong, but I couldn't. 

I reflected that unless you're very lucky, life is never so simple that every aspect of it is going well all at once.  It's more of a case that while some things are going wrong, other things are going right. Sort of co-existing.  Hopefully balancing each other out.  But then from an unknown point that I couldn't identify, maybe this year, maybe last year, maybe the year before, maybe 5 years ago, maybe longer, things had started to unravel, and somewhere along the line the balance had gone out of the system, and the equilibrium had got lost.  

And now here I am, on my own in a 6 person tent on the Isle of Mull, with a job I can't understand,  with no wife and with an unsold house, and I'm a long, long way from home.  

I tried to think back to time I would go back to if I could, where everything was just right, and running along smoothly.  And I couldn't.  Because that place doesn't exist.  In life, as in cycle touring, all you can hope for are moments.  And sometimes the moment where you feel the most at peace, is the one just before the heavens open on the road to Pennyghael.  But then sometimes it's the reverse too.

Here comes the rain!

I also wondered whether I've got worse at dealing with things, whether I've become more prone to getting overwhelmed, or whether I've always been like that, but it's only recently that I've started to notice it.  Maybe it's just the accumulated effects of a lifetime of being alive, that means I'm easier to knock off course than I used to be.  Who knows?   

Anyway, I didn't have time to ponder existential dilemmas any longer. I had to get my ass in gear for the ride of my life.

It's a long way home from here

Friday 13^th September

I was packed and ready to go by 8 am on Friday morning, and the first ferry was at 8.45. I didn't get off to a good start after landing at Oban. I got immediately lost, and wasted half an hour going in the wrong direction on the A85 to Fort William. Eventually about 10.15 I was heading in the right direction. I stopped a mile or so outside Oban at the top of a bloody big hill, ate some cooked meat and chocolate, and kept going. I've cycled between Claonaig and Oban before, but that was in the opposite direction on the incredilby hilly and winding Route 78 last year. I knew the main road would be shorter, I was hoping for easier too, but I'm not sure it was. It was still bloody hilly in places, although there were lots of views out to sea, and it was a gorgeous day to be on a bike.

All the villages I passed through between Oban and Lochgilphead had Kil in the title. Kimartin, Kilmore etc. I stopped at local shops in two of the Kils and bought chocolate and energy drinks. In one I was going to get a pie or a sandwich, but they didn't have any ready, and I decided I didn't have the time to wait, while they made one. The first one advertised home made pies. Where are they I said? Oh, they're frozen, the woman said, you can take them home and cook them. I'm on a fucking bike I didn't say, I don't need a pie in the future, I need one now.

My leg's so sweaty my camera's steaming up

I got a shock when I arrived in Lochgilphead, because I saw a sign post that said it was not only 15 miles to Tarbert instead of 10, but it was also 26 miles to Claonaig, instead of 15. Holy crap I thought, I'm going to have my work cut out catching that ferry.

I stopped a little further on at Ardrishaig, drank some Lucozade and ate some chocolate, and wondered what to do. I took some pictures which turned out, along with all the others I took that day, to be completely misted up. I don't often sweat on a bike, mostly because I don't try hard enough, but I'd really been going for it today, and having the camera in the pocket next to my sweaty leg, must have misted up the lens. It didn't demist until later on the ferry, when it had a chance to warm up.

It was nearly 2.20 in Ardrishaig and I probably had about 23 miles to go. It was going to be tough. By 3.15 I'd reached Tarbert but I still had about 11 miles to do in an hour, and that included the hilly 5 miles over from Kennacraig to Claonaig. I seriously thought at that point of just abandoning the day's activities and getting a B&B in Tarbert, by the lovely harbour, but then I thought, oh let's keep going.

This is a picture of Tarbert from last year.  This year's picture was all misty

I made it to Claonaig with about 3 minutes to spare. After cycling for virtually six hours straight, I was quite surprised to find when I dismounted the bike on the ferry that my legs had turned to jelly, and I had trouble climbing from the car deck to the seating area. I ate some more chocolate, and was pleased to see the familiar shape of the mountains of Arran come closer. They looked particularly impressive in the early evening light, but the camera was crocked, so I couldn't get any pictures of them.

When I got off the ferry at Lochranza I felt positively light headed at the prospect of having a whole 2 hours to do the 15 miles back to Brodick. Compared to what I'd already done, this seemed like walking pace. I stopped at the Distillery to top up on fizzy pop and biscuits and then I had a wonderful solitary ride through the stillness of the early evening through the mountains and down the other side and back to Brodick. I made it with about 15 minutes to spare, which seemed like ages.

I had a chicken curry on the ferry, and I really hoped I didn't get food poisoning before Graeme's Audax after working so hard to get this far. It over 12 hours since I'd left Mull and dark by the time I rolled off the ferry at Ardrossan. I found my car and loaded the bike onto the roof, and as I did so, I said 'Thank you'. It's maybe a silly thing to thank a bike, but it seemed appropriate. The longer the week had gone on, the more it had become part of me, and the more natural it felt, each time I climbed back on. And that last day, the ride back to Brodick. Well, for me it felt like one of my greatest cycling efforts ever.

But then as I sat there in the dark car, I realised I wasn't even nearly home yet. I still had 203 miles to go. I managed to navigate from memory to and beyond Glasgow and then once I was back on the M74 I stopped to get a bucket of coffee at the services. I don't like driving in the dark and I think I felt more scared and alone on the drive home than I'd been at any point that week. It's a lot easier to feel lonely in a car because you're boxed in. On a bike, you're connected to the rest of the world. You can feel everything. Maybe it was that feeling I'd lost after my Coast to Coast exertions, and so it had been good to find it again this week.  

I got caught in about 6 lots of roadworks between Glasgow and home, and some of them involved following an escort vehicle at 10 mph to get through them. I stopped once more to buy some Red Bull, but the last 2 hours or so seemed to go on for ever, as I was getting increasingly sleepy.

I fell into bed around 2.20 am, and I set the alarm for 6 to get ready for Graeme's ride.

Saturday 14^th September

Although I was probably nuts to agree to it, Stephen had suggested to me that I do the 100K ride, when I could have easily done the 50K, and for reasons I still don't understand about Stephen's suggestions, I went along with it. I wasn't too worried about finishing. Just to get to the start felt like a triumph.

What had driven me on the day before was to be there and show my support for Graeme and his event, but I needn't have worried, since there were about a million cyclists milling around at the start when I got there. Just think what response you could have got if you'd only publicised the thing, I said to Graeme. I don't think he noticed. He was too busy issuing Brevet Cards to all the hundreds of riders.

I was quite surprised that my legs worked at all on Saturday, although they did feel kind of bruised from the efforts of Friday. I insisted on riding the Hewitt, the bike I'd got to know on my travels, and as usual I packed loads of stuff so I probably slowed myself down unnecessarily, but overall I was pleased to have as much energy as I did, especially considering the fact that the 100K is one hilly ride.

Pretty much from the outset, I lost touch with all the other riders, and if I'd done the whole route I would have been out of time, so I chopped about 15K off and chose to get back, before the hall got packed away Also, by the time I got to the Lion Inn I seriously needed some hot food, so I stopped there for about half an hour or more.

The Lion Inn - if I hadn't stop to take so many pictures I might have finished the ride

I wasn't all that disappointed when Graeme tore my Brevet Card to shreds in front of me and chucked it into the bin when I told him I hadn't quite managed the whole course. Frankly I was pretty amazed I'd managed to do 52 miles. Between Thursday and Sunday I'd cycled 186 very hilly miles, most of it with a fully loaded tourer. I'd cycled through the mountains of Mull and Arran and a big chunk of the Kintyre Peninsula and also some pretty big hills in the North York Moors. So what if I hadn't done any of it very fast? Going slow has its advantages. The speed I go I often get to appreciate every contour on the faces of the sheep that I pass along the way. Speed isn't everything.

Why oh why didn't I do the 50k?

I ended the week feeling much better than I begun it. There's something about the big open spaces, the mountains and the sea, particularly those bits that are on the far side of mountains and away from civilisation, where problems don't seem as big.  

I caught 10 ferries in 6 days and cycled around 280 miles including the Audax.

Big open spaces - good for combatting stress

Another thing that made the problems not seem so big was that some of them were about to be solved. Within a week of getting back, my house sale went through, and I went back to my old job, the one I can actually do. 

It's not quite the whole Bobby Ewing effect, because I still have a few things which need sorting out, and I'm still prone to being overwhelmed at the slightest provocation.  But the good thing is, my head no longer feels like a bomb's just gone off inside it, and that's got to be a good start.

Turning black into white on the Northern Rock Cyclone

Shakespeare said that there's nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so.  Like most of his ideas, he probably copied it off someone else.  I mean the Buddha said something similar and he was born ages before Shakespeare, but as it's virtually impossible to come up with anything completely new these days, and as he did say it rather concisely let's not give the guy a hard time.  He's had plenty of stick already this year, with people claiming he didn't even write his own plays.

I don't think Shakespeare was much of a cyclist, but if he had been and if he'd been into Sportives, he might have given the Northern Rock Cyclone a go.  I've done it twice and that's enough times to know that thinking really does make things so.  It was virtually the same event both times, but one time I thought it was the best thing since sliced bread, and the other time I wanted to slice my own head off with despair. 

For anyone who doesn't know, it's basically a bike ride round Newcastle and the surrounding area.  You can either do a Fun Ride of 30 miles, a Medium Ride of 60 or if you're really fit, a Long Ride of 100.  Completely logically, they let the 100 milers set off first, then the 60s, then lastly, they let the fun riders go.  They let them go last, so they don't wipe anybody out with the baguettes they're carrying in their shopping baskets.  It costs £20 to enter, but for that you get a timing chip and a T-shirt and there's an arrow on every bush telling you which way to go, so there's no thinking to do, just riding.  They also give you a bag of other assorted crap at the end, leaflets and stuff, and a bar of chocolate, although I could do with that at the beginning. 

Anyway, when I did it in 2009, I got a lift off Graeme, got there really early, got parked at the stadium, registered early and then set off with Carol and Suzanne as soon as we were able, which was with the last of the 100 mile riders.  Although I felt pretty crappy from a lack of cycling that year, it was pretty much 5 hours of being overtaken by faster riders, then when all 3 routes converged at Stamfordham 11 miles from the end, I got pumped full of pink Powerade and bananas at the feed station and then spent about 40 minutes overtaking fat blokes on mountain bikes, old ladies on shoppers, and other assorted people who were slower than me.  I felt like I was some kind of Superhero as I was tearing past them all.  Then I got back to the stadium and I got clapped and cheered in by a family of 3.  They were actually cheering someone who was riding near me, but I didn't care.  And then I drank some cider in the sun and I felt absolutely brilliant.  

Here's a picture of me feeling absolutely brilliant!

So I told people how great it was, and I rounded some other people up (Ruth and Mark) and I did it again the following year.  And it was bloody awful!  All the things that went right one year went wrong the next.  

I drove there myself instead of getting a lift, I got there quite late and had to park about 3 miles from the stadium.  Then when I got to the stadium, I had to walk for miles and then queue up for ages to register, and then after all that went wrong, I started the ride and that didn't go much better.

At the start we lost Suzanne because she couldn't clip in with her posh shoes, then Mark lost his kagoul and we had to stop, then Ruth chucked her water bottle on the floor and had to wait ages for all the riders to go past before she could pick it up.  

Because we'd got there so late and taken so long to register, instead of being in the way of faster people who had to spend all day overtaking us like the year before, we were in the middle of the fun riders and people doing it as a challenge for charity, and we had to spend all day swerving round them as they rode four abreast and were stopped on the grass verges having picnics and a generally lovely time. 

And the feed stations had all been decimated and there were just empty bottles and banana skins everywhere and I didn't get to neck Powerade and at the end where I'd felt like Superman the year before I was now getting left for dead by the 100 milers who were steaming past me.  And now I felt like I was the one with the knobbly tyres and the baguettes, and a dog in the picnic basket on the front because all the people I could have steamed past and felt superior to had all gone home ages ago.

And when I got to the finish, nobody cheered because I didn't finish at the same time as that bloke who had his family there this time, and when I handed my timing chip in they gave me a bag of rubbish and in it was a white T-shirt that was miles too big.  And that just emphasised how upside down the whole experience was because last year they gave me a black T-shirt that was too small, with a neck so tight that it made my eyes bulge.  And the white one's so loose I could stick tent poles up it and sleep under it.

So is it a good event?  Of course it is.  It's a brilliant ride, but if anything it's a victim of its own success.  It's so massively popular that millions of people all turn up at once, and if you get there quite late there's only distant parking and the skins of bananas. 

And when you go for the first time, with someone who think it's great and who does all the organising, you are free to enjoy it, because it wasn't your idea, but when you've recommended it to people, and then things go wrong, you feel responsible for their enjoyment as well as your own. 

Also, in the year between doing it one time and the next, I'd done a lot of Audaxes, which are very small-scale and cheap, and if you're always a last minute Charlie like me, it's not such a big deal if you get there late.  Although, having said that, if you're late enough to miss the start and if you haven't got a clue where you're going, they can end up being just as disastrous.  Especially if you're me.

Come in Mr Kafka your time is up - How not to do a 200k Audax

Graeme was round here yesterday, asking me what my cycling goals are for next year.

Well, I don't really have any, but I wouldn't mind completing a 200k Audax.  I did a pretend one with Ruth last October on a route I designed myself and then in April this year I had an aborted attempt at the Wiggy 200 which starts and finishes in York.  I couldn't have got it more wrong that day if I'd programmed my behaviour into an electrified cock-up generator before I set off.  And my mood was so dark most of the day I thought I was in a Kafka novel.

The day didn't get off to the best start when the alarm went off at 4.30 am.  I needed to catch the 6 am train to York to get to the start for 8 am.  Helpfully all the burglar alarms in the street had been going off all night anyway so that helped me wake up.  I usually like the early train because it's easy to get your bike on and it's quiet, but oh no, not this day. 

There was an annoying bloke sitting near me who was on his way to Manchester airport and he kept droning on about a total load of bollocks and talking in baby talk to a small child on the other end of the phone and I really wanted to take his phone and shove it down the chemical toilet at the end of the carriage.

After the completely unrelaxing train journey I then met Mr Misnomer Adam the Slowcoach at 7 am in York station and we rode to Wigginton together.  I was trying to take it easy, but as usual I struggled to keep up with him, so I was pretty knackered before I even got to Wigginton.  

For a 200k the Brevet cards are red instead of blue, and instead of the odd assortment of old blokes in beards and fun riders I've seen at the 100ks I've done, the place was heaving with lean sinewy types who looked like they'd never even seen a pork pie, and who could probably ride to Outer Mongolia on the vapour from a banana.  I felt like a Sumo wrestler who'd taken a wrong turn and turned up by accident at the start of the Tour de France,

If I wasn't having a bad enough day already, then the bloody ride started.  I had researched the route beforehand but I wasn’t all that confident on the first section so I wanted to stick with one of the bunches. I got in a group with Ann Benton.  I thought she must know where she’s going, as she’s married to the organiser. I am led to believe she’s over 70 but even so I was having trouble sticking with her. Right from the start I had a pain down the back of my right leg which was worrying me and as it got a bit hilly around Coneysthorpe I was really struggling. One time I had real trouble getting my breathing back to normal even going downhill. Twice Slowcoach had to wait for me at the top of hills and I thought we can’t go on like this. 

It’s a bloody long day if you’re waiting for somebody all the time so I asked him not to wait for me any more, as I felt crap and I might not finish anyway, so no point wasting his time too. After he went off, I stopped for some chocolate, a diclofenac and a caffeine tablet in the shade of a big building and I wondered what the bloody hell I was doing here. Then I noticed it was only twenty past 9. I’d already done 30k so I thought maybe I should just set off at my own pace and see what happens. After all I still had 12 hours of time left. 

It went ok for a bit. I managed to follow the route sheet for about 15k and then I ended up in two minds about where to go at a Byways signpost. I chose wrong and ended up on top of a hill I wasn’t supposed to go up in Great Edstone. I couldn’t face doubling back so I carried on until I reached the A170 but then I was faced with 7 miles of Bank Holiday traffic on the main road before Helmsley. After about 3 miles I’d had enough and turned off at Wombleton I think and found my way to Helmsley via Harome. 

I got to the BATA service station at 11.  I went in to get my card stamped and the bloke behind the counter said to me ‘Blimey, you’re a bit off the pace, aren’t you?’. I said ‘Yeah, I’m off home, it’s as close to there as it is back to the start'.  

With hindsight I realise a lot of the problem with me that day was psychological.  All the places I had to go on the ride: Helmsley, Stokesley, Bedale, Knaresborough, Ripon, Masham etc, I know where they all are, and I know how far apart they all are, and it just seemed like a massive obstacle to get over, to go to all those places in one day, on a bike.  And so I failed the mental challenge, even before I discovered that my legs didn't work.

I carried on to the main square in Helmsley and it was heaving. I bought a coffee and a cookie and watched lots of families trying to eat ice cream before it melted in the scorching sun.  My knees were looking pretty red so I went to the Co-op to buy some sun cream but they’d bloody sold out.  I phoned Ruth and told her I was likely to be bailing out and asked her to be on standby to give me a lift, but I decided to press on to Coxwold. 

When I got there I sat in the shade and ate some melted chocolate and considered my options. I’d missed the info control at Oswaldkirk so I wasn’t likely to be getting a medal even if I finished, so I decided I had two options: Ride towards home or ride back to York. I remembered that it’s quite a long fast descent to Easingwold from Husthwaite so I thought I’d go back to Wiggy, hand in my uncompleted Brevet Card and go home. So that’s what I did. I rode back via Huby, Sutton and Strensall and I got back to Wiggy 5 minutes before the control opened for the early finishers.  I'd forgotten my sunglasses and my eyes had all dried out from squinting by then, and the sun was blinding me so I pretty much rode the last 20k on glued together eyes.

I walked into the hall back at Wiggy and Gerry didn’t take much convincing that I hadn’t completed the whole route. In fact, including wrong turns I did 110k plus about another 12k to and from the train station before that. 

It turned out it was the hottest April day since 1949. No wonder I was overheating. You could have fried an egg on my head by the end. Ruth came to pick me up and I pretty much passed out after that.  I was woken at about 6.30pm by a text from Slowcoach telling me he’d just finished. It’s a good job he hadn’t been riding with me for long. He’d have still been out there on Easter Monday.  I felt like crap all day, both mentally and physically and I was glad to get it over with. But as Ruth pointed out, if I hadn’t attempted it, I’d have just stayed at home and picked a fight with her and said ‘I wish I’d gone on that ride!’, so at least I knew it wasn’t meant to be. 

Even now I don't really know entirely what went wrong.  Apart from being blinded by the sun, havng a hotplate for a head, going off far too fast with totally the wrong people, weighing about two stone too much, being unable to follow the route sheet and trying to cycle on legs that were full of jelly, it's a complete mystery why I did so badly.

But this kind of thing has happened to me before.  I did the Swaledale Marathon (a 24 mile walk) one year and I was absolutely crippled and blistered all to hell by the end, and I made just about every first timer's mistake there is.  And for about 3 hours I said never again, and then I spent a whole year preparing myself to go and do it right, and I did, and when I had, I felt okay about not doing it again, because I'd finished it right once.  And that's why I'd like to have another go at a 200.