I woke up with a jolt. I fumbled for my phone, the only means I had of telling the time with my GPS switched off. It was 5:15 am and very light. I got up quickly to see if Mark’s bike was still in the bothy, and it was. I gathered my kit together in a matter of minutes and was on my way by 5:25 am.

I took off down the trail, ricocheting off one rock and then another. I needed to calm myself down. Deep breaths. I tried to assess the situation as I made my way down the valley. I was in 2nd place. The man I was racing was still asleep, but as far as I was concerned that was irrelevant in the world of self-supported racing. Knowing that Mark was a stronger and faster rider than me, I knew that I needed to get a few miles down the road to give myself a cushion for the rest of the race. The only reason I was in this position was because I’d slept less than he had. I’ve just done three of the hardest days riding of my life, covering 530 km, and I now had to race another 160 km to the finish. And I’ve just had 1.5 hours sleep. No pressure.

Glen Affric was massive. I rode and rode and rode some more. I was still in Glen Affric. It was a two hour ride to get out of the glen. Beautiful though it was, with its natural birch woods and huge areas of undisturbed native pinewoods, I was glad to put it behind me. Once out, I was faced with a long climb along a powerline service road over to Glen Moriston, another 380 metres of ascent. As I rode up the climb I kept seeing two sets of tyre tracks. Aidan’s Ikons were there, but also another set I didn’t recognise. I started to doubt my position. Were the other set Alan’s? I was sure Alan had Crossmarks, but the more I thought about the more I wasn’t sure. Who else would want to follow this exact route, if not to do the Highland Trail Race?

I had another distraction though. In my haste to get out of Glen Affric I hadn’t paid too much attention to my water bottle, or hydration generally. My bottle had the dregs of a recovery drink in it, and on top of the food I’d already eaten, I was starting to get stomach ache – a classic case of too high a carb content in my stomach. Opportunities to fill up had generally been frequent, but now I really needed some all the water courses looked fairly grotty. I struggled over the top of the powerline road and down into Glen Moriston. Up through the next section of woodland I finally came across a watercourse that looked clean. Once I’d had a drink I immediately felt better and pressed on up the climb, onto General Wade’s Military Road and finally over the top into Fort Augustus.

Rolling into Fort Augustus, I spotted a cafe that did takeway food; Scot’s Kitchen. I went straight in and ordered two bacon rolls to go, and gave the girl behind the counter my water bottle and asked her to fill it with coffee. She looked at me rather oddly. I had a couple of messages on my phone from Beth; Mark had quit in Glen Affric with a broken rib sustained on Monday, and was heading out north of the loch toward Cannich. There was some momentary relief, followed by disappoint for him not finishing; he’d ridden very strongly up to that point. Then was the news that Alan Sheldon was less than an hour behind me, apparently working his way up the Military Road just the other side of the hill. I grabbed my two bacon rolls, bottle of coffee and sped off down the Great Glen.

While a long flat section of trail might seem like a good thing at this point, when you’re trying to maintain a gap against someone on a geared bike, its not so good. I span the pedals as fast as I could, while chomping on a bacon roll, sipping coffee and trying not to get indigestion. There were a few gates that I needed to dismount for, and when I did I realised how painful my feet were. The first couple of footsteps went down gingerly until I found a position where the pain was least. Heaven knows what they looked like inside.

When I got to Fort William I decided to find out. The Great Glen had taken me 3 hours to complete, and it was now early-afternoon. The whole thing wasn’t as flat as I expected, and in places I was reduced to a push which served to reinforce the issue with my feet. I was on my spare pair of socks and the others I had were wet too. The next section after Fort William would not only be painfully slow, but down-right painful unless I could get these feet sorted. I nipped into town, and straight to the first outdoor shop I could find. I hobbled through the door and headed straight for the sock stand.

Back outside, I peeled my wet socks off to reveal two huge sore patches on the top of my feet. I applied a plaster to each to reduce rubbing and put my new, clean, dry socks on. New socks never felt so good.

Plasters and new socks required

It was about 70 km to the finish from here, following the West Highland Way. The starting climb up through the forest was bathed in the afternoon sunshine, and from somewhere, heaven knows where, I managed to summon the strength to ride up it. Some blisteringly fast singletrack followed before I arrived at a set of wooden steps. They were steep, a bit narrow and with my upper body strength failing me, it was a struggle to man-handle my bike to the top.

The route continues along more of the old military road; its loose surface a challenge to ride at times, but generally the gradient was favourable, even in my increasingly tired state. The descent into Kinlochleven was technical and punishing. While I still had some strength in my legs, my neck and shoulders screamed at me in pain.

Kinlochleven was the point that we rejoined the outward route, and where I was reunited with The Devils Staircase. The push up the steep gravel track took nearly an hour. Bits after that were rideable for a while, but there was a small sting in the tail before I finally reached the summit. What took me and hour and a half to climb took less than 15 minutes to descend.

At King’s House, my GPS was calling for new batteries. I stopped for some more to eat; a bounty, some peanuts and the last of my jelly babies. So very nearly done, but I was nearly done mentally and physically too. All thoughts had gone as to where Alan was – I just wanted to finish. The hallucinations where back too. What I thought were sheep frequently turned out to be rocks. Another looked like a man struggling to put a wet suit on and a third like a bike rider waiting to ride with me to the finish. Further along the trail I passed a couple standing by their tent beside the trail eating out of bowls. He was in his underpants and she was in a nightie. They said good evening and I grunted something back. I was pretty sure they were real, but it definitely wasn’t helping my mental state.

The climb from the ski station went on and on. I gave all I had to get up it and still it went on. I stopped and shouted at it. It didn’t help. I shouted at myself too. That didn’t really help either. When was this ride going to end? The top came eventually, and the long fast cobbled descent opened out before me. Boy, it was fast. I rattled over the cobbles trying my best to enjoy the reward for my efforts on the other side, but my body was hurting so much. The pain in my shoulders was nearly unbearable.

There on the left of the trail was a smooth line. Peat gently trodden down by walkers. It was a bit wiggly, but it was so smooth and it eased my pain for a moment. In places grass had grown between the narrow path and the cobbles. Have to be careful I don’t catch a tyre on the edge of one of those.

BANG. I hit the floor hard and slid across the cobbles. Hip, elbow and ribs all making contact with the ground first. I was late turning into one of the peaty sections, and with my weight in the wrong place came out too soon and clipped the grass lip. It all happened too quick, or I was just too slow to put a foot down to break my fall. I did a quick bodily check. Nothing broken, which frankly, I thought was a miracle. I was angry with myself for being so stupid. I’ve been awake for so long, ridden so far and was so close to the finish, what was I thinking of?

Bridge of Orchy followed, and with it the onset of darkness, and with that the onset of tiredness. The last 10 miles were a blur of which I remember very little, until the final gate. Lights of Tyndrum down the hill below me. One last descent to make. Don’t fall off. A small flashing light marked the finishing line. Steve Heading was there to see me in at 11:22 pm.

I’d ridden the last 200 miles of the route in just under 41 hours, and only with 1.5 hours sleep. Even now I can’t properly describe how I felt. Every ounce of physical strength from every part of my body had been used getting here, and every shred of mental substance I had was totally exhausted.

But it was done. The Highland Trail Race completed in 3 days, 13 hours and 22 minutes. I was second. Second to Aidan Harding no less. I couldn’t have been happier with that.

At the Finish

I opened my eyes just enough to assess that it was now daylight and closed them again. The rain pounded on the tin roof of the emergency shelter. I was still on my own, so whoever it was out on the mountain last night, they either stayed in Shenavall or stopped somewhere else. It was 6.30 am. I got up and put my damp cycling clothes back on, and then put my goretex jacket and shorts over the top. My legs weren’t feeling brilliant, but then yesterday was a 194 km day. Maybe they’d loosen up.

I was moving again by 6:50 am. The narrow trail ran upstream very close to the river; it was running full and fast with the nights rain. I rode every ridable looking piece of the trail I was faced with, but all too frequently I would need to dismount to pass over a boggy section or cross through a gully or tributary. The path continued to wind its way out of the valley until it was eventually too steep to ride. The rain had eased at this point, but the clouds still lingered around the tops of the surrounding hills. The valley wasn’t very wide, but the sides rose steeply and gave few clues as to which way I would find my way out of this place. Having made my descent into Fisherfield last night, I was now faced with the challenge of escaping from it.

Escape from Fisherfield

After an hour of pushing, I reached the top and I looked back down the valley. My last view of it before and undulating trail leading to the descent to Carnmore. At last, a descent I could ride. It was steep and loose in places, and I could see someone’s fresh tyre marks on the sharper bends. Part way down the Carnmore descent, I glanced down towards my stem to see my GPS was gone. I heaved on the brakes and stopped. Panic beginning to set in. When did I last have it on my bike? I’d been going quite quickly, what were the chances of seeing it again? I had paper maps with me so all was not lost, but it would be a big irritation to loose my GPS. I turned the bike around and started to push back up hill. I tried to think of all the places it might have come off. I remember feeling a rock had bounced off my shoe. Was that my GPS? Had it come off when I dismounted for the last stream crossing? Suddenly, after 100 yards or pushing, there is was face down at the edge of the track. Relief.

Fisherfield Valley

The descent took me down to Fionn Loch, across a causeway and along the shore before rising again out of the valley, ultimately toward Poolewe. I looked back across the loch – to the right I could see the saddle where the Carnmore descent began. The sheer scale of the place seemed to exert a kind of pressure on me. Everything was further than it looked. How much longer could I keep this up? I sat down for some food.

Fionn Loch & Beinn a Chaisgein Mor

In the distance I could see some walkers. I rode on and caught them up. I stopped and asked the first one if he’d seen any other riders. He said one had stayed in Carnmore Bothy last night, so he knew all about the race (and thought I was mad as well). He gave me a description that fitted Mark Goldie, and told me Mark said he’d slept longer than he should have done. I was encouraged that that I might be closing the gap. Up until this point, I wasn’t sure of my position. I think I was still 4th, and I would get the odd indication of tyre marks through mud that seemed to support this. Occasionally I would see a wet tyre mark over a rock and think I couldn’t be more than an hour behind someone.

Eventually, Fisherfield relented and give me a good few kilometers of beautiful singletrack. A sinuous line weaved amongst the heather and small rocks, punctuated by the odd drop or little rocky chute. I rolled into Poolewe at 11:50 am and quickly located the village shop. No pies (damn it), but they did do pasties and a microwave with which to warm it up. Another can of coke, box of Tunnocks and packet of crisps was a nice change from flapjack, peanuts, pepperami and chicken pieces that I had in my bag. The lady in the shop confirmed that another rider had been through not more than an hour ago.

Out of Poolewe the road climbs steeply. I pushed. Where it turned off onto the next trail, the pushing continued. Too steep and too rocky to ride. My feet were starting to hurt. The straps around my winter boots were beginning to rub. The fact that my shoes were soaking wet wasn’t helping. It was probably only a 2 km push, but I was getting weary and progress seemed slow. The descent down the otherside was a disappointment. Very rocky, with large exposed sections of wet rock made line choice difficult. Frequently I would choose a line only to have it run out in 20 yards and have to dismount and pick another. It seemed as difficult to get down as it was to get up.

The trail joined the A892 at Slatterdale, which marked the beginning of a 20 mile road section. 10 miles in was the small village of Kinlochewe. It had a general stores, which I went in to hopeful of a pie. The only other day of the week you can’t get pies in the Highlands of Scotland is Bank Holiday Monday, but the lady did tell me there was a cafe around the corner that did hot food. The Whistle Stop Cafe might not have done pies either, but warm food was warm food. I ordered a large bacon bap and a pot of tea. While I ate the bacon bap, I also had a large ham and cheese toasty on eggy bread on order, which turned out to be magnificent.

I took the opportunity to take stock of the situation. It was about 3:30 pm, I’d been going for over 8 hours and covered only 56 km.  My plan to finish in under 4 days was looking in tatters. The plan was to get over into Glen Affric and as far an toward Fort Augustus as possible, which would have been 200 km. I flipped through my paper maps; pages and pages of the route lay strewn across the table. I still had an awfully long to go. I got a few texts from Beth to update me on my position. Phil Simcock had scratched due to a broken rear mech. I was still 4th, but Alan Sheldon had passed me early in the morning in Fisherfield. This was becoming a recurring problem – I would ride longer than Alan each day, but then have to play catch up as he started earlier than I did. The only way around this that I could see was to ride right through the night. Could I even do that?

The road down to Torridon was a fairly easy spin and gave me a good opportunity to consider my strategy. I felt considerably better with a stomach full of food and over the next 10 miles, convinced myself that if I was going to finish in under 4 days that a) I needed to get a move on and b) I had cut any stoppages to a minimum. It seemed OK in principle.

The climb from Torridon (Annat) to Strathcarron was my first test; 10 km of more rocky singletrack that I hoped would be more rideable than the terrain I’d struggled over earlier in the day. Thankfully it was. Fuelled with eggy bread, cheese, ham and tea, my legs felt new again as I powered myself up and over huge slabs of rock and around the tight rocky singletrack lines. The descent was as enjoyable; a steep dive into the valley the other side by tight rocky switchbacks and flowing loose singletrack. Beyond Strathcarron the trail climbed again to link Attadale with Glen Ling. The descent into Glen Ling was bland in comparison with the last one, but progress was being made. I kept seeing the now familiar tyre tracks of those in front of me. Maxxis Ikon’s I thought were Aidan and Mark, and Crossmark’s were Alan’s. It was getting on for 10.30 pm, and the last of the light was fading as I fought me way out of the bottom of Glen Ling. This was another Glen that didn’t want to let go, and felt like it took longer to find my way out that I expected. I stopped for some more food. Now was a good time to have some Pro Plus. I needed something to try and keep me awake – sheer will-power wasn’t going to be enough.

When I’ve had Pro Plus in the past, I’ve experienced the sensation akin to switching a light on, usually after about 15 minutes. As I cruised down the road toward Dornie tiredness began to grab hold. I was sure 15 minutes had elapsed since the first tablet, so I stopped to take another. I chewed this one to try and absorb it more quickly. I got a strange feeling, a bit like the lightbulb coming on but quickly followed by a fizzle and it going out again.

I carried on down the road anyway. It was here that the hallucinations started. Small black spots on the road would appear to scatter as I rode toward them. The lights of Dornie in the distance appeared to morph with a nearby Passing Place sign to reveal a phone box. I joined the A87 and turned left toward Dornie. The road lead down the hill and across the bridge over the end of the loch, Eilean Donan Castle lay flood-lit just beyond it. My head nodded and I had a major wobble on the bike which jolted me awake. Boy, did I need some sleep. I saw a sign for a car park, and turned in to find somewhere to bivvy down for a couple of hours. While scouting for a suitable spot, I saw a van drive over the bridge out of Dornie, signal to turn into the car park and drive across towards me. I was just getting ready to say leave me alone, I’m just trying to get some sleep, when the passager got out and said “Is that Ian?”. I was confused. How did you know my name?

It was Steve and Andy Heading. Out for the night watching the lead riders go through. I was the last one of four they were  expecting to come through that night, but giving me a chair to sit on, told me they’d seen Mark and Alan already and roughly how far ahead they were. I ate some food and had a good drink and told them about my plan. A bit of social interaction really woke me up. As I talked, my plan seemed to consolidate in my head. I could still do this. I would ride over the top from Glen Lichd to the Camban bothy at the top of Glen Affric. My motivation for this section was to see it through to dawn. I figured if I could stay awake and in one piece until it got light again, my body would go through its normal restart cycle and I’d be OK.

I left Steve and Andy at midnight. The next chunk was road, and that was straight forward even if it was uphill initially. Beyond Morvich, the tarmac ended and a stone track followed its way up Glen Lichd. At the lodge, the rideable trail ended and the push began. Up and up the trail climbed, and as pushes go, this one wasn’t too difficult. There was enough light in the sky for me to be able to see the skyline around me. I reached a point where the trail levelled out and turned a sharp corner.

I stopped in my tracks. I found myself surrounded by towering hills. Their sharp ridges crisp against the dark blue of the night sky. All around this great amphitheater the faces of the hills were near black, rising up above me as if to form an impenetrable fortress. The skyline seemed so high above me, it seemed impossible that the path I was on would exit somewhere along the ridge. The whole atmosphere in this place felt very  intimidating. I edged my way round until I met a large waterfall. I peered over the edge; the tumbling water briefly illuminated in my lights before seeming to disappear into an abyss.

I continued to follow the line on the GPS, all the while carefully trying to observe that subtle change in the light that indicated that dawn was on the way. I arrived at Camban at 3:40 am, nearly 21 hours since starting out from Fisherfield. I looked through the window of the bothy and saw Mark’s bike. I’d caught 2nd place. My mind raced. What do I do now?

I’m so tired. I should sleep. Two hours should do it. Rather than wake Mark up and risk him packing up and riding out there and then, I elected to bivvy outside. I unrolled my sleeping mat, though didn’t inflate it and got my bivvy bag out. I lay across the trail. If Mark or Alan were going to get an early start, they was going to have to wake me up doing it. I lay in my sleeping bag, my mind racing for a few minutes battling with the thought of riding on. It had been such an epic day. Then I fell asleep.

I think it got light before 4:00 am, but it wasn’t until 6.30 am that I hauled myself out of my sleeping bag and got my kit back together. It was a tidy bothy, one I’d be given the details of by a friend via the Bear Bones Bikepacking forum. It was worth having ridden the extra distance to and I felt fairly refreshed even if by only 4 hours sleep. I’d saved a couple of pieces of pizza from the night before, one of which served nicely as breakfast.

Chew’s Hut

The start of the day was easy, and on paper today would an easy day. The plan was to ride into the Fisherfield area south of Ullapool and negotiate the river crossing, before overnighting again at a bothy just the other side of the river. I expected to cover a similar distance to that which I’d done on Day 1, but hopefully finish a bit earlier than 2.00 am.

Cannich came fairly quickly, and an easy spin along the quiet roads of Strathglass finally brought me to Erchless Castle. A long haul out of the valley and over the top on reasonable quality stone track brought me to Orrin Reservoir, before its tarmac service road led me down eventually to Contin. A stronger headwind than yesterday showed its hand whenever the track turned vaguely westwards, and this would no doubt be an issue for the final section over to Ullapool.

I arrived at Contin at about 10:40 am. For reference, the lead group of Aidan, Mark and Phil S got to this point the previous night. I learnt that they’d resumed riding at 7:15 am, so I was about 3.5 hours behind.

Hot pies! They do HOT PIES!

I burst through the door and looked around the shop anxiously for the Hot Pie stand. There was no aroma of hot pies, which struck me as odd initially. Eventually, in the corner, I found the cold and empty Hot Pie stand. I asked tentatively if they had any Hot Pies, but the girl said, “ah, we dinnae ha-enny on Sundaes”. I ventured towards the fridge, found a tuna pasta salad that looked more appetising than the white bread sandwiches, got a cup of hot chocolate from the machine, some crisps and a chocolate bar, and a Coke and some water. Turned out that the pasta was revolting, but I ate as much as I could stomach. Just as I was finishing up, Rob Wixey rolled into view. Turns out that I’d past him on my push up through the woods from Invermoriston the night before. He’d had a hard a day as me yesterday, and was definitely looking in need of food. Thankfully, I’d had the only tuna pasta salad, so he was at least spared of that.

The route continued northwards mainly on forest tracks before climbing out of Strath Rannoch over into Strath Vaich. The track past alongside Loch Vaich before climbing out of the top of the valley and descending into Gleann Mor and on towards Amat Forest. The transition in the landscape between lowland woodland through to high level moorland and back down again was a nice mental distraction. Amat Forest itself was lovely, with sections of native pinewood and birch  trees lining the road.

Loch Vaich

Just beyond Amat lay the start of the road to Ullapool. The gate also signified Checkpoint 2, which was one of five points marked on the Trackleaders page that reported the position of each rider on the course, based on the points transmitted by their SPOT satellite tracking units. Analysing the checkpoint splits after the event revealed I was in 6th place at this point. Alan Sheldon had passed me earlier in the morning while I was sleeping in the bothy to gain a two hour lead and 4th place. Phil Richmond wasn’t far in front of me in 5th, perhaps an hour.

Checkpoint 2 – 30 miles to the next meal

The road to Ullapool started reasonably enough, following the valley bottom up Strath Cuileannach, before steepening where it turned up Strath Mulzie and making an exit out of the top of the valley. Here the road seemed to loose its definition, becoming a piece of winding singletrack through the heather and becoming quite challenging in parts as it cut across the hillside and into Glen Achall. The major difficulties were over with at this point, and I began a long undulating descent into Ullapool, arriving at 6:50 pm, just under 4 hours after leaving Checkpoint 2.

Road to Ullapool

In my conversations with Greg May on Day 1, I’d learnt there was a chip shop down by the pier, which is where I headed as soon as I arrived. I’d had my heart set on chips and a chicken and mushroom pie, but it seems Hot Pies are hard to come by in Scotland, especially on Sunday’s, so I settled for a cheeseburger, chips and another can of Coke.

Ullapool Harbour

This was the halfway point of the race, and all things considered it wasn’t going to badly. I’d ridden a good distance so far today, and there was still the best part of 3.5 hours light left for me to make it into Fisherfield. I set off down the road to the end of the Loch Broom. The elevation profile of the route appeared to have a massive spike in it at this point. The route climbs very steeply to pass between the summits of Meall Glac and Meall a’ Chairn, a climb of 400 metres ascent. The initial climb was steep, awkward, partially overgrown with gorse and bramble. It was getting dark, heavy clouds had gathered and rain was a certainty at some point soon. I nearly had my first sense of humour failure here, but just managed to hold it together long enough to get above the thicker vegetation and find more predictable moorland path through which to push my bike. In all it took almost until 10.00 pm to get up to the saddle between the two summits where I could begin to make my descent.

Towards An Teallach

The descent was tricky. I found myself in a half-light between light and dark. Low contrast made it difficult to judge obstacles but my lights did little to illuminate things enough to ride at a more normal speed. I edged my way down the trail carefully; these were the perfect conditions to have an accident – tired and with darkness descending. Thankfully, I arrived down at the road in one piece, having kept it rubber side down all the way.

A short section of tarmac provided a link to the beginning of the off road that leads into Fisherfield. This was the crux of the whole route. The main feature, we were told, was a river crossing where the Abhainn Srath na Sealga flows into Loch na Sealga. I specifically wanted to clear this today as heavy rain was forecast overnight that would surely make the crossing more diffcult in the morning. I began the climb into Fisherfield at around 11:00 pm, some 15 hours since setting off in the morning. The climb began on a stone track, partly rideable under tired legs and one gear. I pushed bits and rode bits until the track deteriorated to a narrow rough and loose surface. On the way up, I passed Alan Sheldon, bivvied up under a fallen tree. He told me that Phil Richmond had gone wrong on the previous hill and was stopped lower down. We talked about the river crossing, and my intention to cross tonight instead of tomorrow. I rode on. I was now in 4th.

The Fisherfield track became very tough and slow. Long difficult sections pushing the bike between, around and over rocks, each foot placement requiring thought and attention. Eventually, the descent towards the loch began. I found my lights able to illuminate each side of a narrow rocky ravine, and I struggled to man-handle my bike over the rocks, the physical exertions of the day caught up with a long time earlier. Frequently I would catch my leg on one of the pedals, until eventually the bike overbalanced, the rear spun around and the chainring smacked into the back of my right calf. I screamed out in anger and frustration. This was not a place intended for bikes. It’s way past late, I’m tired, its raining. What the hell am I doing this for anyway? But, here I was in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. Back tracking would take as long as carrying on, so carry on I did.

Eventually, the flat ground returned. Rocks gave way to bog and I trudged along the soggy ground toward the shore of the loch, before turning 90 degrees to the south west to head for the inlet to the loch. I reached the edge of the river and shone my light across to the other side. It looked a lot bigger than it did in the catalogue. My light just illuminated the far shore, in between was a black rippling vastness of indeterminable depth. The rain continued to fall.

It was 2:00 am. I had two options. I could back track through the bog to the Shenavall bothy. That’d probably take me half an hour, and I’d only have to come back in the morning, and who knows I might like the look of the crossing even less in the daylight. Without wanting to dither too long and risk getting colder and wetter, I strode into the water. In a few steps the water rose to my knees. I quickly backtracked. I took my waterproof shorts off and hitched the legs of my cycling shorts up as far as they would go and went back in. The water rose above my knees and nearly to the top of my thighs, stopping just short of getting my shorts wet. Thankfully the current wasn’t strong and the passage was easy enough, even if it did look very daunting. I looked back briefly to see another light descending down the hillside the way I had come. Had Alan had a change of heart and abandoned his bivvy after our conversation?

About a mile further on was another bothy, Larachantivore. My lights caught the edge of a building in the distance and I was drawn towards it. I circled the sizeable building looking for the entrance. I found several doors, but each was locked. I couldn’t believe it. What I thought was a bothy was in fact a private lodge, and a well appointed one at that. I was dismayed. I’d ridden for 19 hours for this. I was beyond tired, it was raining and I hadn’t prepared myself mentally for the prospect of putting up my tarp. I spun around to see if I could find some cover from the wind somewhere, and as I did so, my lights caught another small building – an emergency shelter for walkers and climbers, so it said on the door. That would do. As far as I was concerned this was an emergency.

The internal space was about 10′ by 6′. Enough for two people to lie down and store their gear. I retrieved what I needed from my bike and got inside, out of my damp clothes and into my sleeping bag. I cleared enough space beside me so that Alan, if it was him behind me, would have some room also. It was 2:30 am. If I’d thought Day 1 was hard, then Day 2 was definitely harder.

This is the beginning of a series of posts about my experience on the Highland Trail Race. In simple terms, it was a 430 mile off road self supported bike race around a predetermined route. No entry fee, no prize and certainly no support. If you’re wondering why it will be spread over so many posts, its because it was singularly the most difficult thing I have ever done on a bike. This bland statement does little to conjure up an image of what the race delivered. The fact is, half the field didn’t finish at all. Those that did endured an almost unbelievable level of physical exertion and mental pressure simply to complete the route. At this stage, I’m not even sure how I’ll tell my story, but for now lets start a week last Friday.

I arrived in Tyndrum on Friday evening, 24 May, less than 18 hours away from the biggest, longest and potentially most dangerous race of my life. The following morning marked the start of the Highland Trail Race, the UK’s first proper multiday bikepacking event. Such events are more common in the US, such as the Colorado Trail Race (CTR), Tour Divide (TD) and so on. In fact this route was born out of one man’s desire to create a training route for the CTR: Alan Goldsmith, a veteran at the ultra endurance races and successful finisher to some of the big US races. Alan rode the route last year as a reconnaissance tour in 5 days, 4 hours 20 minutes. They rode only in the daylight hours, and that alone gave an indication of the relative difficulty in covering the ground in substantially less time than that. The route took in some of the finest terrain of the highlands, and offered 28 competitors 430 miles ( 700 km) of riding and 12,000 metres of climbing.

Highland Trail Race Route Map

My whole year had been geared towards the event; repeated long rides of 100 miles or more. Hills? The more the better, and by way of final preparation, the first passage of the Trans Cambrian Way Double. Off the bike, hours and hours had been spent studying maps, planning daily riding schedules, resupply points and working out what gear to take, how to pack it and when to use it. I tested myself earlier in the year on some deliberately difficult overnight trips in harsh conditions to ensure my skills were suitably honed for the event.

On the journey up north, which was nearly as far to drive from Brecon, as it was to race the Highland Trail, I felt apprehensive despite the thorough preparation and usual my attention to detail. Upon my first sight of the area around Tyndrum, it all seemed rather big. The hills were steeper, higher and more frequent than the Brecon Beacons, which for themselves aren’t known for their gentle gradients. I had a sense akin to buying a piece of furniture out of a catalogue. You’d studied the pictures, checked all the dimensions and were content you knew what to expect. But when you got it in your living room, it was a lot bigger than you thought it would be.

Saturday morning saw the gathering of 28 riders at the Real Food Cafe in Tyndrum. There was a friendly atmosphere, with an underlying sense of apprehension from other riders too. This was going to be a serious undertaking. The distance was long, the terrain committing and resupply points infrequent. It was therefore an interesting, although desperately late, opportunity to size up everyone else and see how much they’d packed for the event. A few minutes before 10:00 am, we rolled up the road, past the Green Welly Stop, to the start of the route. I had the opportunity to have a quick word with Aidan Harding, the undoubted favourite in my mind, but who might see some competition from Phil Simcock. I commented on Aidan’s gear as he seemed to be carrying a bit more than I was, which was both surprising and a little worrying. Aidan replied “The overnight temperatures are going down to well below freezing”. A feeling of unpreparedness came over me, and there seemed to be a pause where the unspoken words

You’re going to die

would have easily fitted in. Thankfully, Alan Goldsmith called a 1 minute warning for the start and I didn’t have any longer to consider my fate in the days ahead. For now at least, it was beautifully sunny, and I was prepared for that.