We had ridden it once before, in 1991 (when I was much fitter!) when we had superb calm sunny conditions and Scotland was seen at its best. My recollection was that it was not as hilly as you might expect and we rode round in not much over 30 hours.
This year we had a pleasant pub meal the night before, sitting out and studying a magnificent array of exotic motorcycles in the foreground, and the even more magnificent Forth Bridge in the background. Then we managed to get a good night's sleep (well, half a night) in the village hall which was the ride headquarters.
Soon after 06:00 the next morning we were on our way across the road bridge (the 'other' Forth Bridge), already it was warm and we were obviously in for a scorcher. As always when I cross the Forth Road Bridge, I remembered the occasion when a would-be End-to-End record breaker, Mick Coupe I think it was, arrived at this point in the route having ridden brilliantly for 600 miles to be over half-an-hour up on schedule. The bridge was fairly newly opened at that time, and offered a shortening of the route compared with previous Lands End to John O'Groats rides. Mick (if it was he) apparently stopped dead when faced with the cycleway over the bridge, which is cantilevered out so that if you look down you can see water on both sides, and was unable to move forward despite the cajoling and entreaties of his helpers. Physically and emotionally exhausted, he frittered away all his advantage and more before he eventally was able to set off along the narrow path. He went on to break the existing record by minutes, but it was only ten days before John Woodburn followed in his wheelmarks and took the record from him.
I too have a fear of high bridges, and, much affected by this story, when I prepared for my own first End-to-End ride I deliberately included several rides over similar bridges, such as the Severn and the Humber, so that I wouldn't be hit by the same problem.
No trouble this time, surrounded by the usual bunch of slightly crazy randonneurs, tandems, a tricycle or two, three people riding the mountains of Scotland on fixed wheel, for heaven's sake. And Sheila setting off in hot pursuit of the Marmite Queen and leaving me feeling decidedly unfit even before we reached the middle of the river, yes, there was far too much going on to worry about a touch of vertigo. I pointed to David Palfeyman's spotless freewheel spinning along in front of me and said "I was following that two weeks ago, and it was just as clean then. How do you do it?" "Oh, this is a new one" he replied. David works in a bike shop. The 600 was my high spot of the season, but for David, Geoff and Malcolm, the Terrible Trio, this was just a training ride for Boston-Montreal-Boston.
The first leg was the longest one and it took a couple of hours for my metabolism to settle so that I could start to enjoy the ride. By this time I had let the front bunch go (actually that happened after about 20 minutes), and passed Gleneagles golf course, where a green-keeper of that hallowed ground turned to salute me (literally) as I rode by. I was riding on my own up the steep streets of Crieff when I looked behind to see a middle-order bunch coming up fast. Good. Leaving the town I looked round again and they were gone. They'd spotted a bakery and stopped for a between-controls snack. The next two climbs, Sma' Glen and Glen Cochill, were both uncommonly pretty in the clear morning air, and I felt pretty good arriving at Aberfeldy knowing that the difficult long first leg was over.
The front runners were just leaving as I arrived. "Sheila's waiting for you", they chorused one after the other. How embarrassing. I'd been pottering along enjoying my own pace, now I would have to keep up with my much fitter partner. Why was she waiting? She'd probably overcooked herself dicing with the even fitter Marmite Queen. Malcolm was wandering around looking puzzled. David had gone on but Geoff was behind, punctured. The Terrible Trio separated, unheard-of.
The next leg turned west to run alongside Loch Tay and then climb to Crianlarich, the next control point. This was a village hall control where we had our first chance to sample the famous Audax Ecosse catering. There was delicious fresh-cooked food on offer, but we were not yet ready for a seriously long break or large meal. Malcolm was still wandering around looking puzzled. Brian Morris arrived, looking a little the worse for wear. I would have expected him to be a little ahead of me but apparently illness had forced a lay-off, meaning he had ridden nothing of note in the previous 6 weeks. I recommended the rhubarb crumble and we left him looking slightly aggrieved but stoking up like a man possessed. Geoff arrived as we left. He looked rough, too. It does me so much good to see other people looking bad.
Soon after this we were passed by the Terrible Trio Minus One, travelling at speed. The next leg included a road I love very much, the crossing of Rannoch Moor. It's a bit of a climb and the day was getting hotter. The traffic was awful, I'd never known it like this before. The road should be wild, windswept, bleak, grey, a road to oblivion. Not a day-tripper's short cut to the coast (which is what it is when you look at the map). Descending Glen Coe we met, as ever, a strong headwind. For the first time ever in my experience, it didn't rain. We had reached the west coast of Scotland and the weather was set fair. For anyone who knows Scotland I'll just repeat that last unusual sentence. We had reached the west coast of Scotland and the weather was set fair.
Shortly after the next control at Onich, there was to be a treat. A short ferry ride. The route sheet carried a warning that, although the Onich control was open until 19:10, the last ferry went at 19:00. Rules is rules on an Auk ride, control times change for no man. Since we were there around 4pm it wasn't an issue. Duncan Peet, Organiser, regaled in a pair of tents sewn together to act as shorts, supervised the catering personally. I have a problem with Scottish catering, but I'll come to that later. Never mind, the omelette cooked with Duncan's own fair hand was superb. Brian Morris arrived, looking terrible. I heard him ask Sheila if I was alright, as I was looking so bad. Someone asked when the next ferry was due to leave. No, no, I thought, it's not like that. You turn up, and if it's there, it takes you. If it's not, you wait. And are grateful for the enforced rest.
After the enforced rest a re-grouped bunchlet set out along the short and hellish leg to Acharacle. It was the sort of road that, if you were fresh, would present no problems, but with tired legs and a headwind the short switchback climbs soon had everyone on their hands and knees. Tom Hanley was urged by a fellow Scot to "gie it laldie" and straight away we were off the back. The Scots have coined a word for this kind of road - 'humply'. In fact they use the same word to describe the entire Daylight 600. A really masochistic rider can continue along this road for another 25 miles to the lighthouse at the tip of the Ardnamurchan peninsula, which is the westernmost point on the British mainland.
The pub at Acharachle was full of drunken Scotsmen. I mean, really drunk. And it was only 7 o'clock. We had heard at the last control that England had just beaten Scotland in the crucial European Championship football match. We sassenachs kept very, very quiet, and crept out again.
On to Daylight 600, part 2