I tippy-toed out of the ferry terminal toilet and, clad in fresh smelling lycra, scampered in stocking feet past the family eating lunch, past the pasty white tattooed bloke in full Adidas regalia and out to my bike. I had made the decision not to wear modesty shorts for the sake of comfort and quick drying but my mountain biker soul means I never feel comfortable wearing lycra in public until I am sat on my bike. Together we have an identity, an excuse, and it becomes clear that I am not a self-conscious Russian gymnast who has fallen from the rings and can’t find the changing room.
The crossing to Arran was serene – the Firth of Clyde was a millpond, the sun radiated a big golden grin and soaked me with enthusiasm. Soon I was beaming like an idiot…a big stupid grin, one that comes from your stomach and doesn’t have a start or a finish. A pint of Stella on the crossing only served to encourage this euphoria and by the time I got to Brodick I simply couldn’t wait to stamp on those pedals. I wanted the wind in my hair and sweat on my back.
The night before I had panicked about my gear ratios and decided I needed something more favorable on the hills than a compact chainring with a 28t cassette so I pinched the 34t cassette from my mtb. This in turn required me to also pinch the long cage XT derailleur – all set. Until I remember the new cassette is 9 speed and I have a 10 speed shifter. Off with the bar tape which I had freshly applied after changing all the brake and gear cables and on with a 9 speed shifter from my road bike. Finally, with bits from each of my bikes, the tourer was working a dream and I was left with 5 hours to get some sleep.
Ting-slap – my chain slipped pleasingly into gear with a clunk. The hours of last minute faffing paying off with every precise gear change. Good gear shifting is so important when carrying weight, minimising the loss of power and momentum when grinding slowly up the hills. Wearing my Flanders jersey I picked up at the Tour of Flanders a few weeks earlier I powered away from Brodick like I was in a race – and damn near kept it up all the way round the island. I felt epic. The sun was shining and I could do what the hell I wanted for 10 whole days. My new gear ratio was tested on the 15% climb out of Kildonan and seemed to cope just fine, not exactly spinning but I didn’t want it to be easy 😉
With the sun on my face, the wind on my back and exuberance bursting from my thighs I made swift progress up the west coast averaging 17mph between Blackwaterfoot and Lochranza. The west of Arran looks over the Kintyre peninsular and has a long beautiful shore of smooth boulders. With lungs enriched with fresh air and a heart singing with freedom I wrote a poem:
“Blisters burst on my bald back tyre
mist lifts from the Mull of Kintyre
swollen landscapes and heaving breast
remember the desk is where the gun is kept”
A reminder to myself as much as anything to break the status quo, to shake up my normal life and do something different. Sometimes you really don’t know how much you need it until you go. After a few months of significant changes in my life I felt the freedom of having the whole sky above me, humbled by feeling infinitesimally small and insignificant – how liberating to be a daft little spec with silly human problems.
I had screenshots of all the ferry timetables I might need, one paper road map of Scotland (1:300,000) and OS maps of the Hebridean islands on my phone. Along with my camping gear and a multitude of warm clothing I also had enough food and fuel to survive for a week. I planned to have all the base ingredients and pick up more interesting/weighty things along the way.
Days on the bike are sometimes defined, or at least enhanced, by the camping spot at the end of them. This was a good day. I followed a track round to the east of Lochranza bay which turned into a footpath and led past Nelson’s Point. I swooshed past a canoodling couple and stumbled on the perfect camping spot. Scotland’s right to roam laws make wild camping a wholly more enjoyable experience than in England, never looking over your shoulder or feeling unwanted. I made camp in the blissful evening sun, a blanket of sequins stretched to Kintyre and I prepared dinner by a small fire.
I cooked cheesy brown pasta with chorizo on my uncle Mart’s old stove, and as the sun went to bed I could just picture my late Grandpa walking hand in hand with my Grandma past this very spot as they were sure to have done. Indeed, I would be retracing many places they visited on their adventures round Scotland and I had promised my Grandma I would take some pictures of Applecross for her.
My plan for the next 10 days was deliberately loose. The only goals were to start on Arran, cycle the length of the Outer Hebrides, get to Applecross and ride the Bealach Na Ba pass. After such a fantastic day I honestly felt I could go home tomorrow and the trip would have been worth it. But go home I wouldn’t…tomorrow I would ride for Oban.
Freewheel Musing 