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.