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.
We had seen beautiful scenery in beautiful conditions ever since the start of the ride, but we were now embarking on the best leg of all. Also the flattest. Well, slightly less humply, anyway. This ride is invariably run as close as possible to the Summer Solstice, and, being quite far north, the sun only drops below the horizon for three hours or so. It never really gets dark, hence, Daylight 600. Now as we threaded our way round the loch-strewn convolutions of the coast with the sun adopting some very unusual angles in the sky, I completely lost my bearings. Was that the sea on our left, and fresh water on our right? Was that the sea on both sides? Was that land over there an island or not? The water everywhere was smooth like glass under a cloudless sky. Now we were heading inland again, but the water didn't go away. Was that fresh water? Was that an island? We were approaching Fort William, so surely that must be sea water on our right. But the afterglow of the sunset was on our left. I fell to wondering how Helen Vecht had got on with the humply section. Famed more for her determination than for her climbing ability, this 600 would be a serious challenge for her, I thought. I was forgetting that I too am one of the worst climbers I know, so that in fact she was probably about to come charging past me any time now.
I've said I have a problem with Scottish catering. The food is invariably wholesome and substantial and good and satisfying, freshly and lovingly prepared with no effort spared. To my mind this shows a fundamental misunderstanding of the basic needs of the randonneur. I need food that is immediate, that can be consumed with no effort, that gives me a high-carbo jolt and leaves nothing behind. In short, I need Lucozade. On events such as the Daylight I skulk in and out of controls eating the bare minimum that politeness dictates and then live for the next 24-hour garage, where I can buy my kind of food. At Fort William, under the bulk of Ben Nevis, we found such a garage, and it was nearly midnight. We weren't desperate but we knew that in the remoteness of Scotland, there would not be another such. We pulled in and bought the necessary. Steve Abraham turned up and did the same. Now, Steve had already logged 16,000 kilometres just in events and permanent rides this season, an incredible achievement (on fixed wheel incidentally) which has some people fearing for his safety and many more for his sanity. If it works for him, it works for me. I bought another can of the necessary and we left him, Sheila giving the ritual farewell, "Go Carefully".
Soon, in the glimmering half-darkness that passes for night on this ride, we were passed by a crouched figure, rock-steady on the tri-bars, the fixed wheel almost silent in the stillness. He seemed to be doing twice our speed. Another 600km on the total. Who was that masked man?
More water, always on the right now as we moved from loch to loch down the coast. A disused railway viaduct crossed Loch Leven while we had to ride round the perimeter. I wondered, had Phil Cunningham, our local bog-trotting specialist, taken that inviting short cut? Perhaps wee Georgie Berwick, a fellow rough-stuffer who knows all of Scotland like the back of his hand, tipped him the wink. Phil too was on fixed but I hadn't seen him since, oh, 6.20 yesterday morning. Incredible in these hills.
The hall at Benderloch had that surreal air associated with controls that operate in the small hours. Tired bodies on autopilot go through all the motions learned over the years, Things That Must Be Done At A Control Point. A legendary figure appeared. He didn't, as I recall, walk in, he just materialised before my eyes. It was my first meeting with Jack Eason, who rode a successful first Paris-Brest-Paris in his 70th year, on a bike that can only be described as unfashionable. Elsewhere in the hall there was a strange, rhythmic rumbling sound. A room had been set aside for the fast riders, sleeping the best bit of the night away, they probably hadn't seen any darkness at all. We left, quietly, into the new day. We would see the fast guys again later. Briefly.
Water on the right, water on the left. We climbed. Water on the right. That must be fresh water. A breeze kept the dreaded Scottish midges away - usually at their worst around dawn. The hardest climb of the ride, into a strong funnelling headwind, brought us back to Crianlarich. We'd been here before, but I was totally disoriented now, completely lost. Scottish breakfast, freshly prepared to order, with some unusual ingredients. The trifle slipped down very well, it seemed to have no structure at all. I had a second bowl.
I have had some success over the years, as a slow plodder who never stops for long, the rules of randonnees were practically made for people like me. In recent years I have let my image slip a little, and tended to take slightly longer stops, without, unfortunately, increasing my speed to compensate. As I was downing my third bowl of trifle in walked a randonneur who can out-plod me any day. It was Jack again, looking ever so slightly windswept. As tends to happen this far into a long ride, the room was full of like-minded cyclists who have a lot more in common than not.
Rocco and the Marmite Queen burst in, fresh from a good night's sleep, with a cluster of slip-streamers in their wake acquired during the last windward leg, including the Terrible Trio Minus One. Time to give up one's seat gracefully, and leave.
Halfway to Lochearnhead I became terribly drowsy and we stopped at a roadside bench for a ten-minute nap. I was still a bit woozy when we came to a fast descent which, with quite a lot of traffic by now, I found rather difficult. Rocco and MQ went screeching past in close formation, pedalling flat out down a hill while I had my brakes on. I was reminded of Hinault and Lemond descending the Galibier to put the Tour out of reach of their rivals, but on that occasion Hinault was observed to be urinating, and it has never been established whether this was a voluntary act or not. Shortly after this we were joined by Ray Smith.
Now I have only ever met two people who have the unmitigated gall to ride randonnees in a polka-dot 'king of the mountains' jersey. Rikki Goode, as everyone knows, has the excuse of, er, extreme eccentricity (at least, whenever I've met him - he's probably sober as a judge when he's not cycling, for all I know). And in fact I have photos of Rikki riding up Long Mynd, possibly the most difficult climb in England. But Ray is a perfectly straightforward, honest, upright citizen, and a man of flesh and blood who has back and knee problems like anyone else. So for some reason that I can't quite explain, I find his choice of attire, well, strange.
Ray was convinced we had taken a wrong turn. He had me convinced, too. Fortunately, Sheila stuck to her guns, repeating at 200-yard intervals, "I remember this from last time". I knew she was lying through her teeth, 'last time' was five years ago and, let's face it, one loch looks much like another (water to the right, water to the left ...). However, as long as she stayed on the front, we just had to follow. Then we took to a track through some woods, and eventually came upon a bright sign saying 'AUK Control' and pointing at a bush. I was astounded. How did she do that? And where was the control point anyway?
We walked our bikes through the undergrowth, past a trail of abandoned machines - there was Geoff's Curley Hetchins, there was Rocco's Green Thing - and found a hut full of cyclists. Well, mainly it was full of the Marmite Queen and Rocco (it was only a very small hut) with Malcolm wandering around looking puzzled. Time for them to give up their seats gracefully and leave. Ray did a quick about-turn and scampered after them, and shortly afterwards, as I was assimilating a particularly large chunk of cake, Jack ghosted through without me noticing.
The last leg was totally different in character to the rest of the ride. We had left the mountains behind and the task was, basically, to find the least unpleasant way back through the lowlands. Strangely this involved crossing the River Forth three times. Navigation had become difficult for the first time in the entire ride and The Terrible Trio Minus One kept cropping up from unexpected directions. Geoff was suffering a bit and took to sharing Sheila's stick of total sun block. On a totally flat section we found Tom Hanley, who had left us for dead on the 'humplies', stopping to 'admire the view'. From his vantage point (approx. 1 metre above sea level) he had spotted Jack crossing the Kincardine Bridge and we set off in half-hearted pursuit. We reeled him and his two constant companions in, so in the end a sizeable group of us rode back across the Forth Bridge towards the finish. With a realisation that we might arrive just inside the hour if we hurried (how often that happens) there was an undisciplined sprint up the final hill, to the sound of Jack's voice trailing off in the background - "I drag you lot 300 miles round Scotland, then you ride off and leave me ..."
If it's any consolation Jack, we failed in our bid to get inside the hour. In any case, modesty and the Audax UK Regulations (no.61) prohibit me from relating which hour it was.
Francis Cooke