I ploughed along the A85 to Crianlarich into a relentless headwind and some persistent rain, which wasn't the most inspiriting ten miles I'll ever cycle. I had a late breakfast of sausages, eggs, beans and bacon at the Crianlarich station tea room and was slightly relieved to see that there were no trains going to Fort William until much later in the day. At least I resisted that temptation.
At that point I rode onto the A82 the West Highland motorway, which always guarantees interest. The rain held off for a while as I passed through tacky Tyndrum, where I picked up a tailwind (hurrah!), with a few additional sidewards gusts as I rode through Bridge of Orchy. This heralded a huge squally shower. I paused to take a photo once it was past.
Here's how I was actually riding along. Full guerilla mode - head down, glasses on, buff up, earphones in, cap on, peak down.
Past Black Mount, there's a slight incline as Rannoch Moor opens up to the right and the road turns more north-westerly. Here, the wind became a sidewind. Damn. My first hint of how bad it was going to be was when the wind caught me so viciously that I was forced across the road and nearly into the oncoming traffic before I managed to wrench the bike back onto course. Low-riders and sidewinds are an evil combination. A fellow Peugeot (car) coming the other way had the sense to slow down, which is more than some drivers did.
A tandem caught me up around here - a pair of lads who were riding End to End. Chapeau! Possibly it wasn’t the best time of year to set off on such a trip, but we agreed they had been lucky with the weather up until then. It lifted my spirits at such a grim, frightening point to ride with them for a couple of miles until they dropped me (they were fortunate enough to have a support van carrying their kit from place to place, so they didn't have any luggage to carry, unlike me), and the stoker made me laugh by letting out the most hilarious yelps as they tacked across the road with the winds. I didn’t envy him that seat - the poor sod can't have known whether he was going north, south, east or west. I watched them press on, with another 30 miles to travel to Fort William, and decided that I would stop at Glencoe. It was one of the few occasions in my life when I've thought that being on a bike was such a ridiculous, dangerous place to be. A couple of times when the wind caught me and pushed me across the road, I thought of what would happen if I did that at the same time a car was hooning past me at 100 mph, and shuddered. At least I'd been along the road before and knew that it was just a few more miles to the turning and the fine beer at the Clachaig Inn. The poor sods on the tandem were pushing into the unknown, and going much further.
There's no shelter at all along most of this road, and the rain and wind were howling in, so even the nearest peaks appeared as only dim shapes, vague giants behind the mist and murk. A huge gust blew directly into my face and I lost my balance, toppling into the verge. No damage done to me or my bike, but my nerves were shot, and I took shelter at the only available place, behind the bulk of a JCB, to gather myself.
I felt better after that, and I caught up with the tandem lads, who had taken shelter inside a passing 4x4 (I don't know whether it was a support vehicle or a good samaritan). I'll admit to the slightly shameful truth that it heartened me to see that they'd stopped, while I was toughing it out... I hope they saw me wave as I passed, because that was the only instance where I took a hand off my bars. Neither of the pairs of gloves I had with me were quite as warm or waterproof as I had hoped, so my hands were numb with cold, and moulded by the wind and rain into the shape of claws gripping my handlebars. I did have doubts about the state of my hands and my ability to brake, steer, hold a pint of beer...
Going down the pass, the traffic improved - the wind didn't, but at least it was a headwind - and I rode carefully until I reached the side road to Glencoe village. At the Clachaig Inn, the beer did wonders for my recovery, as did the prospect of spending the night in a hostel and drying out.
The Clachaig is also a hotel, so I asked at reception if they had any rooms available, thinking that I might be able to haggle them down to twenty quid on an inclement night in March when they were unlikely to get any more custom. The receptionist's opening gambit to a bedraggled cyclist was £62, so I decided they didn’t want the likes of me, and didn't bother to take the negotiations any further. The youth hostel had secure bike parking (well, a shed), cheery staff, the best drying room I have ever used, and a pleasant three-quarters of a mile walk back to the Clachaig. Nor was it much more expensive than the nearby campsite (the sign saying “metered showers” on top of pitch fees put me right off).
After a meal, some more beer, some pool, some chat with the other customers, and updating my diary, I strolled back to the hostel by starlight. I remember waking in the night and hearing the wind howl against the glass. I smiled in the darkness, and I was glad that I was indoors and dry, and would be dressing in dry kit in the morning. That thought made the coughing snorts and snores of the bloke in the adjoining bunk much more bearable. I slept well.
53.5 miles at an average (moving) speed of 9.9 mph, which tells its own story. It was wild. But I had a sense of accomplishment, and a strange feeling of wonder at the simple joys of a hot shower, cold beer and dry clothes.
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