Ok. Things are starting to unravel. The stress and fatigue are starting to get to us all. Sometimes you feel euphoric and full of energy and in the next moment you feel despondency and exhaustion hit you like a wave. Welcome to the penultimate day of a bikepacking race, or week 7 on lockdown!
Words by Lee, images by James Robertson
"I arrived in Dornie in quite a state. Dropping my bike on some grass and weaving into the tiny local shop, I stood swaying slightly while looking cross-eyed at all the things I could buy. Paralyzed by choice and indecision I made myself pick things up: some sandwiches, custard, cupcakes, milk, coke and sardines (sardines?). I then staggered outside, where I emptied my framebag onto the grass to find something (I can’t remember what) and buried myself in calories. When I emerged from my calorie coma a few minutes later I stood up to survey the scene and I was shocked at the carnage I had created. The quiet village green with its newly cut grass and neat rows of flowers was strewn with wrappers, tools, clothing and half-eaten cans of fish. I had grass in my teeth and hair and was giggling uncontrollably. A local man was standing outside his house, keeping a safe distance but obviously curious. I raised a hand in salutation and he turned quickly and went back inside. I returned to the shop in a slightly more composed state to buy food for my onward journey. The kind woman behind the counter pretended to ignore the grass and the memory of the wild beast that had visited her just moments before. I behaved impeccably this time, but still felt a bit like a drunk teenager trying to buy her second bottle of Thunderbird.
Now significantly revived, I checked my map and headed out of town again towards the beginning of the next long hill section. I was on the west coast but about to start my journey inland through Glen Affric. Tis glen, with its mature native Scots Pine and loch-filled valley floor, is beautiful and tonight it was especially so. I took another moment to stop and appreciate it before getting stuck into the long jeep track that would eventually deliver me to Tomich.
I rode along completely content in my own skin and company and allowed myself for the first time to entertain the fantasy of what it would be like to finish. I imagined being in the arms of someone who loved me and instantly began to cry. Not a quiet demure wee tear but a breath-catching, heaving, deep-down sob of a cry. It shook me to my core and I realised that although I might feel ok physically (pretty good in fact) I was on the edge of an emotional trough.
I knew from our chat a lifetime ago at the Whistle Stop Café that the lead riders were planning to push through the night for Tyndrum and that they were all ahead of me. I didn’t feel sleepy but I was moving slowly. It was 11.30pm and I couldn’t think straight to make a plan. Somewhere from the survival part of my brain came the reasoned argument that if I couldn’t think straight I should probably stop and hit reset. Yes, it meant the others would get further away but the risky alternative was to try and push through the fatigue into uncharted territory. I’d carried on through the night before but not after four days of intense, sleep-deprived riding, and it didn’t feel like a great time to experiment. I rolled out my bivvy on a patch of grass by the roadside in Glen Moriston, took my shorts and socks off and clambered into my sleeping bag. I’m not sure I even slept that night but for two hours I remained horizontal and let my body and mind shake down."
