Bealach-na-Ba - Tour of NW Scotland Day 2

I have a good friend that I cycle with called Manuel. He is a GP and originally from Barcelona. 

Like his Faulty Towers namesake, Manuel sometimes struggles with certain English words. 

He actually speaks and understands English far better than most people I know, but is linguistically ambitious, always looking to enhance his vocabulary. 

One day we were out cycling when I became detached from the main group. We were climbing some lung busting accent that I had never encountered before. Manuel, sensing I was in trouble dropped back to join me and asked if I was ok. 

I told him not to worry that I was 'pacing' myself because I did not know what lay ahead of us.

'Peeeeeeecing' he said 'I like that idea'.

A few weeks later we were out again climbing out of one of the valleys in the East Yorkshire wolds. I had adopted my usual 'Lantern Rouge' position now joined by my new able domestique from Barcelona. As we rode, we were caught up by two female cyclists with whom we passed the time of day with.

Manuel urged them to pass, exclaiming that he and I, were currently engaged in the art of 'Peeeeeeecing'. Scornfully they accepted Manuel invitation and rode on - not daring to look back. Before they got out of sight I shouted 'Don't worry....he's from Barcelona'.

Whenever I encounter a new vertical challenge 'Peeeeecing' is always my default position, which was something that I had in mind when I looked at the second day of our Scottish Tour.

Starting from sea level at Tornapress, we headed along the northern shore of Loch Kishorn. The single track road ascended steadily, like a strand of Spaghetti randomly dropped from the plate of some Celtic deity - Epona perhaps who liked to protect her equine creatures.....especially Mules.

 Not unlike the previous day, the weather was perfect with warm spring sunshine and little wind. 

The visibility was clear.......Horribly so!

There was nothing hidden or masked in anyway, no subtlety at all - you could see everything.

To the south west over the shimmering waters of Loch Carron and into the inners seas. There was Scalpay, Raasay and the mountains on the Isle of Skye.

To the north west there was Bealach-na-Ba.

I have to point out that I am always a bit suspicious about the use of hypons.

People sometimes use them in their surnames to create an image of someone greater, more important or of a different class. 

Bealach-Na-Ba had two hypons, but needs no introduction. It's identity has been confirmed by many  a distressed cyclists over the years.

Everything around us was dwarfed by this huge cliff face.
I decided that this was definitely a climb for 'Peeeeecing'!!!!!!

Simon Warren who put together Britains 100 greatest climbs described it as:- 'The Holy Grail, the toughest and wildest climb in Britain'

He goes on to say 'Anything you have read or been told about this amazing road is likely to be true. For once you can believe the hype'.

Being in this isolated, barren landscape it is intimidating enough before you even  turn your pedals.
The nearest emergency Hospital is hours away and if the weather turns, the same could be said about the nearest shelter.

Unlike any other British climb that I have encountered the scale of this beast is in a different league.
It is the third highest road in Scotland, and its 9.27 km takes you way out of your comfort zone for what seems an eternity.
Although shorter than your average Alpine climbs, what is given up in length, is made up for in gradient. Climbing 626 meters (2,054ft) in one go, it has an average of 9.9% which tops out at 24.7%.

The narrow, twisty road is uncompromising. There is little room for cars to overtake and you have to negotiate the use the infrequent passing places to ensure progress. If you don't judge it right and have to unclip - you have got problems.

The road is far too narrow to traverse and mostly too steep to re-engage your pedals.
I thought that SPD cleats might be a good option for greater flexibility. I'll try and remember  for next time.

At one point I had three cars behind me. I felt anxious at their proximity, intimidated by their impatience and nauseous at their burning clutches.

Unable to slip in and out the short piece of tarmac before they had passed, I was forced to unclip.  The only way I got going again was to descend to the previous passing place, and execute a U turn.
With a rock face on one side and a 30 foot drop the other, it was a bit perilous.
A much better option than going back to the bottom, I recklessly thought.

The further up the climb, it became more demanding. 

The road narrowed, its surface became more weathered, and it ramped up. 

An unholy trinity of challenges, conspiring to maximise my suffering. 

Whoever I cycle with must be reassured to know they will always be able to get a rest at the top of every climb. I am always last up and have perfected the art of 'Peeeeecing' so much, that I no longer think - 'I won't make it' 

Usually I am more concerned about things like 'will all the cake have been eaten at the cafe' or 'will the pub be closed' - Things that I consider to be equally important on all cycling adventures. 

On this particular day I was rest assured that there was no pub or cafe at the summit so I was more concerned that my companions might have fallen asleep or got bored waiting.

With no crowds of supporters handing out sheets of of L'Equipe to shove down my Jersey, I elected for a Gilet on the cool descent down into Applecross. There we found an oasis within a walled garden and some fine fare on offer.

Believing I had completed most of the hard work, I allowed myself a much larger than normal lunch, washed down with some local Skye Gold. The sun was now reaching its Zenith and providing some extra warmth within this enclosure. 

All was right with the world I thought as I tugged on my bottle of straw coloured ale.

On leaving the lunch stop we spied an old rickshaw discarded in the grass. 

I would have been happy to do the same if I had been allowed. 

Instead we pressed on staying close to the sea around the peninsular. 

It usually takes me about half an hour to get going again after a cafe/lunch stop but after 50 minutes I was somewhat perplexed. It suddenly dawned on me that my listless legs were not 'Cafe legs' but ones engaged in real industrial action. 

Our nominated navigator Tony reassured me that there was only 3 more climbs left at Camas-an-Eillean, Applecross Forrest and Loch Shielding.

I did not particularly enjoy the previous climb with the 'double hyphened' name, so I doubted that the next one would fill me with joy. 

By now I was struggling to keep up with my fellow adventurers who had not yet acquainted themselves with the joys of 'Peeeeeecing'. 

Although the surrounding countryside and coast were spectacular in every sense, my head was dropping and my focus was becoming increasingly one dimensional  - upon the road ahead.

Thankfully with my wits about me, I was still able to keep track of our progress.

After about another 10 weary miles, I worked out that I must have been summiting the final climb at Loch Shielding.

 I only spotted one of our group yawning as I stopped at the top to congratulate myself, at closing the ride out. I smiled and reached out my hand to the others.

Tony looked at me quizzically asking what I meant.

When he explained that we had not even done the first of the remaining climbs I was close to tears.....really I was. 

I was also way past any extreme form of turrets, with a tirade of expletives erupting from me

'What the xxxx have we been cycling on then for the past ten miles! They are hardly xxxxxxx speed bumps. If they are not xxxxxxx significant climbs what the xxxx are they going to be like when we xxxxxxx get to them.'

Tony tried to reassure me that the first climb was at the bottom of this next descent and that they pretty much followed one after another. 

'For  xxxx sake'  the turrets continued 

Suddenly I was no longer in the Scottish wilderness but with my head on a block during the French revolution. The executioner was telling me that I should not worry as they had just changed the blade  on the guillotine.

 'At least the pain will all come together' I thought.

The next hour was probably the hardest time I have ever had on a bike. I was in an acute state of melancholia. I kept on telling the guys to ride on and leave me, that I would either see them at the finish or that they could visit me in the morgue.

I asked them to each choose one of my bikes for themselves and to consider arranging a commemorative Sportive for over weight cyclists after my passing.
They laughed, not realising that I was being serious.

When the final summit did come there was a long shallow descent and a wind assisted flat for about 8 miles back to Tornapress. By the time we hit the flat, I was re-engaging with the surroundings again and smiling. It wasn't so bad after all. Is it ever?

That night we spoke of the days ride and of the following day on the Isle of Skye. We smiled heartily  and made various toasts as the Scotch ignited  our own spirits.

I raised my glass in special toast 'Let the Peeeeecers of the world unite'