Isle of Skye - NW Scotland Tour Day 3

During my informative years I lived on the Isle of Wight next door to a celtic family called the 'McKays'. Geographically Donald and Adaire were as far removed from any tartan or blooming heather that you could possibly get, but you would never think so. 

Every Christmas Donald would loose his trousers, hastily replaced by a kilt. He would insist that anybody crossing his homely threshold would join him in the consumption of Mould wine or Whiskey. Every New Years Eve he would throw a lavish party and insist that there were no shirkers when it came to joining arms and singing 'Auld lang syne'. 

One particular year 'Mull of Kintyre' was topping the record charts which prompted multiple plays. As the whiskey bottles emptied there was an increased harmony between  Makay and Macartney until the pipers entered the song .............'as the mist rolled in from the sea'. 

By the time people came to leave Donald would sometimes have a tear in his eye, through happiness or sadness I never really knew, but I know he missed his homeland.

From that moment on, I felt that I had come under some strange celtic spell. I immersed myself in celtic music, literature and history. I even scoured my family tree to try and find some celtic connection - alas there were no McShrimptons. 

Back then I never owned a cycle and my numerous excursions across the border were always motorised.

When I eventually decided to undertake a cycling tour my first two days were always going to be about challenges but the third set aside. 

It was reserved, to satisfy some deep yearning inside me.

After having already explored the Cities, Borders and the Highlands, the Islands were always there in the background. Like a delicious desert shouting out from the menu at an upmarket restaurant. 

Where you tell the waiter that you 'need some time' before its delivered.

To separate it from the rest of the meal, yet still make it part of the experience if you know what I mean.

When it comes to choosing which Island the choice was obvious - The Isle of Skye

Skye is the fourth largest island of the British Isles and the largest Island in the Inner Hebrides archipelago. Famed for its rugged landscape, picturesque fishing villages and medieval castles.

I needed no ice-cream to enhance this particular treat.

Starting from Portree we headed north along the A855 coast road with almost a cloudless sky.

To the East 'The sound of Rassay' lay between us and the island itself, with Rona and the Applecross peninsula beyond.

The conditions were so calm that the mountains became inverted within the mirrored reflection.

Arm warmers and gilets were soon discarded as the temperature rocketed up to 20 degrees, nature seemingly forgetting that it was still May. 

Knowing that this data would be disputed in years, I decided that I must capture the evidence on film and laid on the cool grass of the cliff-top. Whilst I was there I spied a four leaf clover, a unicorn and saw Nessie playing with a discarded empty coke bottle. It was magical.

With rain on 223 days a year and an average temperature of 14 degrees we constantly  had to question our true location which took on a dreamlike quality.

 Our good fortune continued as the road was wide and fast, surprisingly devoid of vehicles, or potholes, but we were not complaining. Its undulating terrain provided fast descents and shallow climbs assisted by the inertia gained. Inland to the west are the mountains with the old Man of Storr and further north the Famous 'Quiraing' 

You approach The 'Quiraing' from the curiously named Brogaig with an unnecessary ramp that reminds you of your mortality. Leaving the semblance of civilisation behind you, you are greeted by an isolated graveyard.

By this time my eyesight had become compromised by sweat from the 'Heat of this spring day'

Instead of tombstones it appeared to me as if the graves were marked by half buried cycle wheels and bidons stood beside them containing wilting 'White Roses'. 

Was it a sign? I asked myself,  as this unique geological amphitheatre reared up in front of me. 

The Quiraing climb lasts about 4km and rises to 15% in gradient. It's not the toughest climb, nor the longest, but as far as grandeur is concerned there are few that compete with this.

It was already clear from the previous signs that day, that the climb would be fine, and so it was.

Despite the vertical challenge there would be no suffering this day. I soon reached the top singing to myself.................oh the summer time is coming, and the trees are sweetly blooming, and the wild mountain thyme grows around the blooming heather, will you go lassie go

By the time we set off back to Portree the wind had picked up............A tail wind of course - to push us home...........spooky.

The drive back from Portree to our hotel at Broadford was almost a solemn affair in the knowledge that we had just had just finished three incredible days of cycling.

We would be leaving the following day.

In 1947 Broadway hosted a new musical called 'Brigadoon'. Its was about a magical place  that rises out of the Scottish Mist every 100 years and becomes accessible to outsiders for just one day.

We set off early the next day again to warm sunshine and a cloudless sky.
As we crossed over the Skye Bridge to the mainland I could see the mist fill in behind me through my wing mirror. With in minutes the Island had disappeared.
'Wheres my coat' Matt I asked 'it's getting chilly'

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'

Cycling in Gran Canaria

When it comes to holiday time its a tricky time for cyclists.
Our cycle widows insist that they have some quality time without the inclusion of bidons, gels and lollypop pedals.
Having scarified at least one of the 'S' days each week for the whole calendar year they may have a point.
We however think its a time to further our boundaries increase our challenges and seek roads bathed in sunshine.

What is required is great skill and bravery, the type one might require catching up the peleton on a high alpine.
Risks have to be taken and the cost is sometime debilitating

As I pull back the curtains I could see the Mountain range on the horizon
Negotiations with Joanne had gone quite well and I was pleased with my position.
She had got a 5* hotel with latin waiters, fit pool attendants and an unlimited tab plus the promise of a new handbag.
I got two full days in the mountains.
Result!

The quality did not stop at the hotel steps as I was able to hire any of a full range of high end Carbon Bikes from Free Motion a local cycle shop within a few minutes walk of the hotel.
They also offered a number of tours for those who liked the company, competition or could not read maps.

I elected for a Cannondale Synapse with a 32 serving dish on the rear having been warned about some of the climbs.

As a bit of a lardy, climbing has always been tough for me so you would imagine that I would seek cycling trips to Holland or Texas but I actually love climbing. It just does not share the same love with me.

I have had relationships with Mow Cop, The Cat and the Fiddle, and Winatts Pass and am a quarter of the way through ticking off the UKs toughest climbs.   

Later in the year I seek to conquer Mount Evans in Colorado before completing the Tour de Moon in National Monument.

Up until this moment in time I had only climbed one 'proper' Mountain that of Mount Tamalpais in California which included some Category 3 segments 

I purchased a map from the cycle shop and asked for guidance on a route that would take me up to the top of the Island.
The attendant who looked like a cyclist and climber to boot, was not subtle when he focussed on my protruding girth and suggested that I try the coast road from Maspalomas to Faro de Morgan which he said was a bit lumpy.
On seeing me frown, he added that if I felt fine I could head North towards Risco Grande at over 3,000 feet. I could then turn back to Maspalomas.

It all sounded good to me, so I set off.
The coast road was lumpy but cooled by the onshore breeze.
With my I pod playing and the sun on my back I was in cycle heaven.
By the time I got to Faro de Mogan and headed inland it was close to mid day and the wind ceased, replaced by precipitation from my forehead.
My Garmin said 30 degrees which increased to 38 as I climbed.
I decided to count the number of switchbacks to hold my concentration but I soon ran out of fingers and toes.

It was never too steep but and endless grind of beauty, terror and panting.
with very few barriers I soon worked out that any mistake would mean instant death on falling sometimes 1,000's of feet below.
I did not think I suffered from Vertigo but found myself riding in the middle of the road and was anxious every time I got my Camera out.

On reaching the top of the Mountain in one piece and receiving some ernest applause from some german tourists who had travelled up my car I felt quite proud of myself.
Realising I only had the descent to complete I finished off my water second bottle.
In this part of the Island there are no shops, houses, very few cars but a real sense of isolation.
This became particularly marked when the route I wanted to take apparently was no longer available for cyclists. What!
I suddenly felt sick and very thirsty.
On reviewing my map I could either retrace my steps about 40 miles or head further into the mountains and take a route back via San Bartolome another 27 miles
I chose the later..........

It was the wrong choice..........No water and lots more climbing.
I eventually got back in one piece, hot and bothered and in need of beer.
My mood was lifted with this reinactment of 'Ice Cold in Alex' especially when I saw the result of my Garmin download.
There were a few Cat 4 climbs, a few 3's too but to see a smattering of 2,1 and the big daddy Catogory HC all the pain subsided.

On recounting my trip in the bike store the guys held their bellies and laughed loudly.
Before I raised my fists they explained that the sign that I had seen had only signified the end of the cycle route and not the end of the road.
They also said Chapeaux........acknowledging that I had dragged my lardy arse over two more mountain passes

A few days later I took a shorter trip up to Soria.
Despite the million and one switchbacks and 9km of climbing it was a comparative breeze.
Going up and back down even I could understand.

All I all Gran Canaria was a massive hit for me and I will return

I know I need to loose a lot more weight to tackle the rockies but with HC under my belt and hours of continuous climbing I think I am on the right route.