It’s always darkest just before the dawn. It's 4.30am, 1st June 2016 on the banks of Loch Lochy.
I’ve ridden right through the night and now it’s early on the final day, dawn has broken and another stunning sunrise has erupted over my shoulder, chasing me down the Great Glen. Yesterday’s ride began 215km ago at Sheneval bothy in the heart of the wilds of Fisherfield and, so far, yesterday’s ride has lasted for 25 hours. Riding a bike is still ok. Surprisingly I still feel strong. But staying
awake at the same time is now impossible. I have tried everything I can think of - talking to myself, in my head and out loud, singing (badly), music, slapping myself. Really hard too. I have a word with myself. Still only 3 days and 20 hours on the race clock with 100km to go. So far ahead of where I’d even dreamed I might be at this stage. It’s stupid to risk that.
So a timed one hour sleep is administered. Crawl into the bivy, helmet still on, set a one hour countdown timer and asleep the moment my head touches the ground. Out. like. A. light...
What seems like seconds later the alarm sounds, a rhythmic noise that vibrates through the hard ground, to be echoed by the throbbing pain emerging from both feet and my still damp arse, all burning with a searing intensity that is still vivid in my mind now. Unlike the other stops I’ve made a bad error and forgotten to remove my damp socks and the sweat soaked bib shorts that had been on for those 25 hours I've ridden today.
Down in the Glen the cool morning air is still and midges swarm as I hurry to roll up my bivy. A crunch of gravel on the track to my left barely registers as a blur swooshes by in the furthest corner of my sight line. I'm not totally sure if this last part is a real memory or came later. But it's vivid enough.
The final bag clipped onto the bike and I know it's time to move again. But putting shoes on those battered feet is an ordeal and the first foot onto a pedal smarts, making me cry out in pain. Despite the early morning sunshine the world is a dark and unfriendly place today, a world of pain and uncertainty. For the first time I have doubts. Big doubts. How can I ride another day in this state?
Other leg swings over and meets equal horror as foot contacts metal. A weak-willed attempt at sitting on the saddle results in more howls of pain.
How can a bike be ridden when the saddle can't be sat on and the pedals can't be stood on?
There's still a long way to go to the the finish. A 100 kilometres I guess. That's a good day’s riding. And right now I am done. Everything had been going so unbelievably well to this point. Up to now, for four days, I'd been floating round the route in a bubble. It hadn't been effortless, far from it, but I'd been a joyous voyager in that bubble. An unimaginably simple time spent floating down glens. Up and over hills. Laughing over unrideable sections cruised on a fully laden bike.
But now things are different. Now that once magical bubble has been poisoned, gone toxic. In the last few days my bubble stretched to the far horizons, cocooning me and all I could see; now it has shrunk and tries to crush me. I can't focus beyond the front tyre, never mind 100km down the route to the finish where I need to be.
One of the many incredible things about riding these long days, pushing body and mind right up to the limit is that emotions swing so wildly. From utter ecstasy to sheer despair and back. The closer you push towards the edge, the quicker that transfer can happen. That’s the real contest in rides like this. With your own mind, body and mood. Not against the other riders.
Enough of this now. I need to move. I push off and start rolling. Pedal. 5 seconds standing, 5 seconds sitting. 10 seconds standing. Count them. They hurt. And they. Are. Long. Seconds. 10 seconds sitting. 20... Then 30. Then... Just shut up and get on with it. It's grim. But it is happening. Pedal and grimace. Soak up the punishment and the pain. It’s going to be a long, long day.
Then a few minutes late I am saved. I see another rider in the distance. Stand up and sprint, catch up and throw out crazed conversational tentacles hoping that something will stick and we can generate some sort of ‘other’; any alternative to the current reality. Within minutes, but without discussion, it’s obvious we will ride to the finish together, not racing anymore.
What followed was one of the best days riding I’ve ever had. Or really one of the best days I’ve ever had. The culmination of four already unbelievably perfect days, finally heading to the finish line after so much planning, dreaming, commitment and effort; a master-class in how real mountain bikers ride bikes, some comedy crashes trying to follow those lines that look so easy. Conversation, camaraderie and companionship that would provide an alternative but equally perfect end to the ride. Until then I’d enjoyed glorious solitude, a tiny speck alone in a huge and beautiful landscape. But at that moment there were only a handful of people on the entire planet who had been in the same bubble, lived these last few days in the same way. No-one else would fit in this situation. Sticking together at the stage meant we were a more powerful force greater than the sum of our parts.
Later, in the hot afternoon sun three of us roll across the finish line together. All of us changed by these last few days, by everything that’s been under our wheels, on our horizons and in our minds. Forced by those experiences to re-evaluate our own limits and what we thought possible.
On finishing I lie down, totally spent. Bike down, shoes off, laying in the scant shade of a small tree. Water is put in my hand and I drink bottle after bottle, 3 litres in 20 minutes. James Robertson, the photographer, is around trying to get the photos of people suffering that he seems to like so much.
There is suffering now but also incredible joy, satisfaction and pride bubbling up in me, all tempered by utter disbelief. I have no idea how I pulled that ride out of the bag. I didn’t even know it was in the bag. I've never, ever ridden a bike like that before, let alone for so long. Slowly things come back into focus. I notice Lee is asleep, just flaked out on her side on the tarmac."
Images by James Robertson