AN TÉ A BHÍÓNN SIÚLACH, BÍONN SCÉALACH
~ We Who Travel Have Stories To Tell ~
And in the run-up to the Panceltic Ultra, or PCR for short, I couldn’t have imagined how much there would be to tell again …
Panceltic Ultra Race in a nutshell:
An approximately 2400 kilometre long cycling route with a start and time trial on the Isle of Man, then cycling along the Scottish coast with the Isle of Mull and Isle of Sky to the finish in Inverness. Panceltic website
My video:
Kick-off: Time trial on the Isle of Man:
The island is famous for the notorious TT, the Tourist Trophy, in which motorcyclists have to complete a lap of around 60 kilometres 6 times. The fastest lap time is an incredible 17 minutes. A sad record of over 250 fatal accidents to date. We cyclists take a more leisurely approach.
For me, it’s already exciting in the run-up to the race. The outward flight: will my bike arrive on time or will it even be taken on board with the lithium battery in the seat post … (I’m a burnt child from my GBDuro journey home)
Will I even be able to communicate with my host family Jaqui and Richard with my meagre knowledge of English? Then the shock when putting the bike together: the gears don’t work, the Shimano DI2 is ‘dead’. Richard drives me across the island to the mechanic and the race can begin! The excitement grows … A thousand thanks to Jaqui and Richard for the warm welcome, the taxi service and so on … here’s to revenge!!!!
Night one: 157 km/ 2900 m: via the Isle of Man
Saturday, 6 July is the day. The participants gather at Douglas. Registration and a chat here and there. My excitement grows. But it’s over when it finally starts. After a briefing (in which I honestly don’t understand everything), we are sent out onto the course in groups. Luckily I’m allowed to start in one of the first groups, I have to have completed the 157 kilometre route by half past seven the next morning at the latest, because that’s when everyone meets up again on the mainland ferry.
Even on the first few kilometres, I get a taste of what awaits me over the next few days: the steepest climbs. Oh dear, a challenge with my 20kg bike and luggage. The scenery on the island and meeting like-minded people makes me forget that and my legs are still fresh. Halfway up a mountain about 400 metres high. The weather is not as forecast, here on the north side of the island it starts to rain; I put on my rain gear and cycle on.
At the highest point, it’s pouring with rain and, as it’s treeless and unprotected here, the wind is also blowing hard, it’s freezing cold – no more than 5°C, and I’m shaking like a leaf. I can hardly see anything on the steep descent and the handlebars transfer my shivering to the bike. I lurch carefully downhill. I only feel warm again when I reach the sea level and the next climbs await. My Garmin device thinks it has to challenge my brain again.
And another thing: the map with the route is once again in a northerly direction. This means that every time I change direction, I have to think about where I have to turn off to, which is not easy, as I’m already very challenged by the left-hand traffic on the first few days. I get lost several times. But I make good time and can enjoy the start of the day at around 3.30am. The view from the coastal road is brilliant. I reach my destination at around 5am. Dry my clothes, have breakfast, then board the ferry. I can relax for 4 ½ hours on the ferry, but unfortunately there’s no chance of getting much sleep in the children’s play area. I also set my alarm much too early, as the ferry had left late and so my arrival was delayed.
Day one (128 km/ 1800 m): Heysham – Ambleside
On the mainland, there is another assembly of all participants and then the eagerly awaited speech by the ‘clan boss’ Mally. And finally we were allowed to start, separated by MO (Magnum Opus riders had already completed a challenging competition in advance and had to be at the start on time, riders who had finished at least two PCRs were eligible), and then it was the turn of the riders on the short and long routes, the Short Route (1736 km/ 19,546 metres) and Full Route (2393 km/ 26,931 metres).
Finally the race starts. It’s almost 3 p.m. and I had already surmised beforehand that I wouldn’t get very far on this first day of the race. However, my plan was that I wanted to get over the Hardknott Pass and then take a break to sleep. So my plan was already disrupted here on the first day. One night of travelling was enough for me, so I changed my plans and decided to stay in a hotel and make the booking on the way. That’s one of the PCR rules: you’re not allowed to book accommodation in advance and you can’t accept help from others that isn’t available to all the other participants. My destination for the day was Ambleside, a town in the beautiful Lake District in the north of England. The 130 kilometres or so are not easy, as there is a strong breeze blowing against me.
I check in in Ambleside, leave my tent and provisions in the back, which is forbidden, and set off on the 18-kilometre loop. The 440 metres in altitude take me into a very beautiful area, which is almost alpine and resembles our mountain pasture regions. The steepness of the climbs really hurts. Back in the village, I stock up on supplies at the supermarket. Fortunately, supermarkets in the UK are open from early in the morning until 11pm most days, seven days a week.
Day two: 241 km/ 3400 m: Ambleside – CP 1 Kirkpatrick
I wake up shortly before the alarm clock at 3.00 a.m., pack, eat a snack and am soon back in the saddle. Wrynose Pass and Hardknott are on the agenda. The headache of having a morning mountain tour ahead of me turns out to be true: the road up Wrynose Pass is one of the steepest in England, with a gradient of up to 30 per cent. The steepness forces me off my bike at more than one point. And at the steepest point – hard to believe – I can hardly get up even on foot, my MTB shoes keep slipping on the smooth tarmac. I’d never experienced anything like it before. A wonderful sunrise at the highest point. The same applies to the Hardknott Pass: hiking is the order of the day here too. I hold my handlebars very tightly on the very steep descents. Relief at the foot of the mountain, my motivation rises again. Even more so when I get a latte macchiato and freshly squeezed orange juice in a small supermarket a little later. Every now and then I have a little chat with other well-packed cyclists. Not everyone thinks they understand me or really doesn’t understand me: I probably talk a lot of rubbish from time to time, but it’s always easier to ‘Germanise’ me, er ‘Englishise’ me – is there such a thing?
I have 230 kilometres ahead of me, I plan to sleep for a few hours at the checkpoint, it’s unexpectedly cold outside, only 3-4°C in places.
If the gradients are over 15-16%, something on my bike creaks terribly. What is it? Is it the crank? Maybe the bottom bracket is broken? Will I even make it to Inverness? There are only a few bike shops along the route. If my legs were creaking like this, it would be quite a concert. The gradient information on my sat nav is sometimes frightening: my legs are happy when the colour shown is only a medium-dark red and not a dark-dark red. Always a few metres on foot. Nobody gives me any favours when I’m struggling uphill in the saddle. I’m glad I have my MTB shoes. During the course of the race, I see completely ruined road bike shoe treads on some of the participants.
After a few ups and downs, I reach Braithwaite. From here, there is another loop through the mountains. I meet riders in the village. The lucky ones have probably already completed the loop. There should be two high mountains. At the first, the Newlands Pass, I can see from a distance that people are hiking up there. Oh dear! And this was supposed to be the kinder pass. I had been afraid of Wrynose and Hardknott, but I hadn’t really had these two on my radar.
The upcoming Honister Pass also has a gradient of over 25% and I have to hike up for over 2 kilometres. I’m all for climbs, but when they’re so steep that you slip back while pushing and have to clutch the brakes convulsively to stop the bike being pulled along, it’s not so much fun. But the descent is fantastic and a few hours later I’m back in Braithwaite and now I’m the one looking pityingly at the cyclists arriving who still have the loop ahead of them. In the shop, which is run by very nice women, there is some delicious food and I treat myself to a few things. Apparently the ladies think I’m ordering for two, because I’m served two place settings and two plates piled high with delicious garnishes. To finish, I have a dessert and a latte, which is what a latte macchiato is called here – with twice the sugar, of course, as always.
I continue over a few hills, again and again the steepness forces me off my bike, then it becomes almost flat, for many kilometres, the route leads along the National England Coast Path, sometimes overgrown right up to the middle and I have to plough through the grass. Tiredness overcomes me and I take a short power nap on a park bench. In the distance, I can hear the sound of donner rollers. It was probably a good choice to get up so early, because dark clouds are looming over the mountains I’ve just left behind me. Those who have to go up there now are probably travelling in a thunderstorm. It starts to drizzle and so I set off again without a nap.
The cycle path now leads along the sea, then turns inland again. It goes through agricultural land. I keep bumping into the same three cyclists. At some point, nothing works, we are all stuck in a traffic jam for 20 minutes. In front of us is an open gate and countless cows leisurely make their way from the pasture towards the barn. Time and time again, we come to a standstill as the cows following behind have to stop and see who is standing there, namely us cyclists. Finally the end is reached, a tractor drives the last of them along. Now we get going again. However, the ground is totally filthy. My wheels are covered in cow poo and I don’t even want to know where the sauce has splattered. Oh dear!
The almost one hundred kilometres go quite quickly and I reach the Scottish border. Well, I thought I was already in Scotland. The border town, Gretna Green, is famous. For over 200 years, underage couples from England, and soon also from parts of the rest of Europe, travelled here to get married because they could do so without the permission of their legal guardians.
A quick stop at a petrol station, who knows when I’ll get the chance to resupply the next day … according to my plans, remote areas are on the agenda …
I meet Caudia Gugole, a cycling friend from Italy who is riding the short route, and together we roll into CP1 in the Kirkpatrick-Fleming village community centre. After the exhausting day and the two days without many people around me, the ‘hustle and bustle’ at the checkpoint is somehow too much for me. I probably make a somewhat confused impression and at first I think I only know how to answer nonsense in a foreign language. Oh dear, oh dear! I eat and drink something, wash up and look around the gym where I can set up my sleeping camp. As expected, it’s not quiet there, snoring, sliding around on mats, … it’s terribly loud for me sleep-sensitive people. I’ve always had a dysfunctional relationship with my earplugs, they always pop out of my ears again and, annoyed, I get up again after no more than 2 hours of rest and pack my things. Why I always lose so much time in the process is a mystery to me, but it’s important to me to stow all my things in their designated place so that I can find them again quickly at any time.
A little discourse on the subject of luggage: sleeping bag, tent, groundsheet, mat and pillow go in the handlebar roll, tent poles, sleeping gear, food and rain gear in the side bag (Tailfin Pannier). In my Tailfin Top Bag on the carbon rack behind my saddle go all the things I don’t need regularly, such as tools, first-aid kit, a change of clothes, an iron reserve of food (which I will bring back home untouched, 2 freeze-dried meals, some gels and bars). That’s another thing – I’m hoarding: I carry enough food and water with me over the mountains and use it up just before I can stock up on more, which means, for example, that I have two bottles of water, one large one-litre bottle and a smaller one on my bike. I always drink the smaller one, but I usually pour out a large part of the second bottle when I get new water. Isn’t that sick?
Now you can understand why my bike with luggage weighs over 20 kilograms, I want to be prepared for all eventualities. But I can’t get over the mountains quickly. My smartphone, lock and various cables are stowed in my food bag dangling from the handlebars. All sorts of bits and bobs are stowed in my down tube bag and in the top tube bag I have quickly accessible food, such as trail mix, and a few biscuits are always to hand (I’ll find out on the way that biscuits with ginger taste great and are easy to digest).
A quick coffee and a toast with peanut cream and orange marmalade, goodbye to the lovely helpers and off we go after the packing orgy into day three … I’m warned that it’s going to rain today. From 8.00 am. Zzzz, how is that supposed to work, predicting it to the minute?
Day three: 266 km/ 2000 m: Kirkpatrick (CP1) – Port Patrick
It’s just dawn, three o’clock has just passed. I’m 70 kilometres behind my plan, I probably won’t be able to catch up … Will I be able to finish on time? My flight home is booked, I can’t be late.
My ride is going super fast, that’s how I like it: a bit up and down and no mega steep climbs like yesterday. Anyway, the last 100 kilometres yesterday were flat, you just get ‘fat legs’, always the same muscles in motion, nothing for me. After 30 kilometres, the first car overtakes me. Great, so lonely! Sunrise, the air is somehow strange, so damp and cold, rain must be on the way. A quick glance at the clock, oh yes, we’re due to set off in an hour and a half. Of course, nothing is open in Dumfries yet and my wish for a latte will probably not be fulfilled. Never think ‘never!’, because at the end of the village I find a kind of tobacconist’s and the lady there really does make me a coffee in her back room. Wonderful!
Motivated, I drive on. Now I head into the hinterland. Hills. Not very strenuous, I have time to think, for example a lot of rubbish: did you know that the currency in the villages here is not pounds, but salt? On every fifth house it says ‘for sale’ – for salt … How nice it would be to have a nice cottage like this now, to sleep in front of the open fire wrapped in a lambskin, to read … and I have to drive around here. It doesn’t make much sense to let your eyes wander over the landscape here without focussing, as there are regularly knee-deep potholes in the road. Driving into one of these would probably put an abrupt end to the race. Better to keep your eyes on the road!
The hills are brilliant today. Up, then down – let your legs dangle. The smartphone charges quickly today with the hub dynamo. It needs a lot of ‘juice’ for my photography. The first raindrop hits my nose. A quick glance at the clock: one minute to half past seven: that’s not going to work. A sour look on my part and no more drops follow, but the clouds are hanging low.
The traffic lights here are interesting. They are red, but as soon as I slow down, they turn green.
You should probably have a look at the elevation profiles and the scale before you set off. There are countless mountains on my profile today. It turns out that one such mountain is only 40-50 metres high. On the speedometer, the kilometres fly by in a flash, half of a quarter is already over, and soon another 10 kilometres are in the bag.
I shouldn’t get cocky. 6 minutes to eight. Cars approach with windscreen wipers. That probably doesn’t bode well. In 8 kilometres, I’ll have done a hundred in just four hours. I must have a tailwind. Just after eight … what’s with the rain? Delay? No, it’s starting to drizzle. I rush past the last bus stop to put on rain gear. Drizzle. Is that what the lady from the last coffee stop meant by ‘showery’ in terms of rain today? The road is still dry, I don’t think I need to put anything on yet.
Shortly before Kircudbright, it’s time to get out the rain gear. In town, I have my third breakfast at the petrol station with a delicious latte and brownies.
Around midday, the fourth breakfast in Gatehouse of Fleet in a nice little bistro. This time it was great with pancakes, avocado, baked beans and other tasty things, plus a pot of English breakfast tea. Super good! Before that, small hills and then another gravel section and a cycle path through the pampas, then through the Cally Paark. There are also steeper climbs again, and on one of them I notice a grinding noise on my bike. I wonder what it is? The crank? Maybe the ball bearing is broken?
Now comes a mountain and solitude. Interesting, you only need to go up about 200 metres somewhere and the vegetation changes and presents itself in a similar way to us above the tree line.
As the day progresses, it starts to rain more and more and I need my long rain trousers, heavier jacket and helmet protection. The tailwind pushes me further along the coast for kilometres, the rain doesn’t bother me that much.
I stop at a supermarket in a tiny town, Port Willam, and as soon as I stop, I’m freezing. It’s late afternoon and I’m starting to think about where I could sleep. The next bigger town is Stranraer. According to Booking.com, everything is fully booked. Sleeping outside? Unthinkable. Everything is wet. I could pitch the tent in the rain, but where to put all my wet clothes? My shoes and socks are soaking wet, the overshoes had soon given up the ghost. The nice lady in the Spar shop said there was another small town beforehand. Bingo, I find what I’m looking for in Port Patrick and book a room straight away. I still have about 40 kilometres to go. I bump into Janine, we have a quick chat and complain to each other. We overtake each other twice more today.
In the day-long rain, the horror thought occurs to me: what if this goes on for days? The prospects are not the best.
Well, just think until the next stop, my hotel in Port Patrick. Another 10 kilometres to go. Somehow my bike is suddenly difficult to steer. I have a bad feeling. One look down is enough, my front tyre is almost flat. I quickly get off my bike and pull out the air pump from the bottom of my bag. I lean my bike against a fence, the ground, wet and muddy, is not ideal for the floor pump. I get some air into the tyre before it jumps off the rim. That’s the disadvantage of riding tubeless. I don’t want to have to insert an inner tube when it rains. When unscrewing the pump, the upper part of the valve unscrews as well. Crap, because now all the air suddenly escapes from the tyre. Help! Luckily, the tyre stays on the rim, I screw the thing back on as tightly as I can and start a second inflation attempt. It fits! I drive on with not quite enough air. Everything else has to wait for the hotel. I keep looking down suspiciously.
In the hotel, I first spread out all my soaked clothes on the hot radiators. They’re so hot that I’m afraid I’ll burn holes in them. I also get something to eat. Tomato soup and haggis, the Scottish national dish made from sheep’s innards. Delicious! Even though many people say they never eat it in their lives …
Afterwards, I spend a lot of time spreading things out, ‘maintaining’ the tyres, … unfortunately this takes away from my sleeping time. I get up again at night to check whether the air remains in the tyre … It does! The sealant has probably done its job and sealed a hole. I should at least get through the race with my tyres intact.
Tag four: 221 km/ 2000 Hm: Port Patrick – Kilmacolm
I set off again at four o’clock after almost an hour of packing and a quick breakfast. Oh dear! What am I doing wrong?
It’s not raining at the moment. I wonder when it will start again?
My crank continues to creak. It makes noise even on less steep climbs.
After Stranraer, I drive onto a kind of plateau. After getting lost and having to backtrack two kilometres, the route now takes me along a muddy path through private land. My bike and shoes are dirty in no time. I could easily have continued along the road, but a compulsory route is a compulsory route and the park is definitely beautiful.
It starts to rain again. It’s time to get dressed. Around 80 kilometres of wasteland lie ahead of me.
A large lorry comes towards me on the narrow mountain road. Next to a huge puddle, I try to avoid it. He drives past slowly so as not to splash me and as I start to drive off, I lose my balance, can’t get off the right pedal and fall over in slow motion. I get stuck, kneel in the puddle and sink ankle-deep into the water with both shoes when I get up, luckily the bike is in one piece.
It’s uphill, at least I’m getting warm. But it’s demotivating to see what rubbish my sat nav is making: it’s uphill, steep and the device is showing minus 4% and the like. The altitude profile is also incorrect. Trouble! I don’t want to restart before the end of the day.
My legs are like rubber today. I need a break. Since yesterday I’ve been carrying a slice of fruit cake and a bottle of Frappuccino with me and I could do with a bite to eat before the next mountain. Maybe that will boost my motivation. I feel like I’m only making slow progress today. As soon as I stop, the mini pests, the midges, immediately spot me and pounce on me by the hundreds. I can’t enjoy my cake and coffee like this, so on I go! I lose half the crumbly cake during the journey. Tip: You shouldn’t shake a Frappuccino bottle if the lid isn’t fully screwed on. Conclusion: Me and my bike are splattered from top to bottom.
Today is the day of unintentional dawdling. Over the last 60 kilometres, I’ve got off my bike countless times: put it on once, take it off once, swap the short rain trousers for the long ones, then take the long trousers off again, take photos, cycle back to collect the rubbish I’ve lost (i.e. Frappuccino bottle, fruit slice packaging, …), take photos again,
Motivation boost: the Panceltic logo is sprayed in blue on the tarmac. Then, after almost 100 kilometres, two participants pass me alone. We see each other again and again. My bike is making more and more noise. I’m riding over a few more serious hills now, I don’t need a bell, the crunching of my bike is louder. Once again I see the two cyclists in the distance. I hurry to catch up with them before the next hill, but too late and they are gone again. It’s 150 metres uphill, which feels like 1500m for us. At the highest point, the two cyclists, I think Rupert and Jack, put on some clothes before the descent. My chance seems to have come. Breathless, I reach them. I ask them what they think about the noises on my bike. Well, it doesn’t sound good, we’ll soon be back in busier areas and maybe there’s a mechanic there. They ride on. I cycle on too and when I have reception again, I consult my internet. There is actually a bike shop in Ayr that is even open over lunchtime.
After a few steep climbs, I reach the village and immediately look for the bike shop. They are very nice at Carrick Cycles. I’m sorry to bring such a dirty bike. I can leave my bike there and go for a bite to eat. In the meantime, the ball bearing is taken apart and greased a little, they say it was fine, the worst of the dirt is gone, the brake shoes checked, the chain lubricated and even my electronic gears recharged. Relieved, I set off, but before I reach the shop I have a mishap: my bag tips backwards because I didn’t attach it properly to the seat post. Typical Gabi! A voice, Janine, I insist that nothing else has happened. But if that had happened at full speed, oh dear! We have a quick chat and then she rides on. I won’t meet her again afterwards, she’ll probably pull out of the race before the crossing to the Isle of Mull. A lot of riders suffer the same fate, they finish the race at some point or some switch to the short route. 100 out of 165 riders on the full route will finish, out of 300 starters in total not quite two thirds.
Now the route leads along the coast towards Glasgow. It is almost flat, but very unrhythmic, the cycle path criss-crosses, stop & go is the order of the day due to the sharp changes of direction and through busier residential areas, shady wet moss-covered passages do not allow a higher speed either. The surface is often bumpy, cyclists come from the opposite direction, tight bends, oncoming traffic, pedestrians. Fast is something else. Somewhere I find an ice cream van. I need something sweet.
I roll into Largs with mixed feelings. I have no idea what to expect here. But that’s another story. I sit down on a bench near the harbour, a little lost. A passenger stops next to me and asks me a question. Lost in thought, I look at my smartphone and see that Rory has written to me asking if I would like to go for an ice cream. I write back. Rory arrives and we decide to go out for something to eat together. At Nardinis. The founders of the restaurant came from Italy almost 90 years ago. Shannon joins us and leads the conversation. Good, so we don’t have to talk about personal things. But that really is another story. The food is delicious, and after a soup I treat myself to a large plate of salad. That’s what I miss most when I’m travelling: Fruit and vegetables. Then I have an Italian ice cream sundae. Delicious! And then it’s time to leave. Farewell. I bump into Shannon a few more times. He was worried whether he would make it to Inverness before his return flight. I’ll eventually see on the track app that he’s one of the many switching to the short route. Fortunately, I’m not worrying too much, but I hope that I don’t fall any further behind in my planned pace. I still have a buffer of almost a day to my departure date.
I actually wanted to get a bit further today, but I decide to ride to the end of my track and then look for a suitable place to sleep. But things always turn out differently than you think, at the end of my track split I’m in the middle of a climb. I realise that I still have to get to the highest point, then a few kilometres over a plateau and then roll down to Kilmacolm. I have no idea what awaits me there, the sun is setting and dusk is coming. I roll slowly through the village, no idea where I can pitch my tent here. There’s a church … let’s see. I push my bike through the entrance gate into the well-kept churchyard. There’s plenty of space on the trimmed lawn, but I’m at the mercy of the views from the neighbouring houses … I leave my bike and set off on foot around the church. At the back, I find a parish hall … and … it’s already occupied. Three bikes are leaning against the wall, snoring noises can be heard from the entrance area. I quietly sneak past and around the next corner is my dream spot: a well-kept lawn in front of a high wall, sheltered from view. I pick up my bike and set up camp for the night. Dogs bark and a master and his pet stroll through the churchyard. Oh, this is awkward. I go to the man and stammer if he thinks I can sleep here and then leave again early in the morning. He looks a little annoyed and says he has no problem. After two hours of sleep, I jolt awake and put on everything I have.
Day five: 230 km/ 2160 m: Kilmacolm – Campbeltown
I get up early, my sleeping neighbours are already gone. It’s cold, I need my Primaloft jacket. I probably won’t make up the 50 kilometres that I’m behind schedule.
Riding into the dawn without rain and without big climbs is fine. I have a few words with a Frenchman. We also ride together for a while with participants on the short route, so there’s more going on around me. It’s nice not to be completely alone.
At the height of Glasgow, the specified route turns onto a cycle path. After a few metres, the cycle path is closed. I can see from the well-worn tracks in the grass that a lot of people have crossed the barrier and squeezed past. I do the same. But after 100 metres of pushing, it’s finally over. The path meets a carriageway. A high fence prevents me from going any further and impenetrable undergrowth grows along the road. It must have been impossible to pass through here for some time. So back to the road closure sign. I stand there a little lost. Out of the corner of my eye, I recognise three cyclists talking to a pedestrian. I go quickly. They tell me that we can follow a cycle path on the other side of the road. I do just that. After a short climb, I realise that we have to cross the wide River Clyde on a high bridge. Once I reach the other bank, I get back on the right track. Saved!
The following kilometres follow a very idyllic route along a river, the River Leven. I’m longing for breakfast. It’s still very early, just six o’clock, but I find what I’m looking for via Google Maps. I’m less than 100 metres from my track and find myself in front of a fishing equipment shop that is already open and has coffee and something to eat. Brilliant!
Strengthened, the next few kilometres are easy and I’m no longer so cold.
I now cycle 30 kilometres along the arms of the sea, first along Gare Loch, then Loch Long – how appropriate the name. The village of Arrochar seems to be at the end of the world. I had actually wanted to sleep here the night before. Here I turn into a busy road, so Arrochar is not at the end of the world after all. And the traffic is awful. Lorries rumble past. I’m scared. Now there’s another pass ahead of me, the Rest and Be Thankful, which really does translate as Raste und sei dankbar, or The Rest for short, Bealach an Easain Duibh in Scottish. I don’t like driving up in the middle of the busy traffic. Rescue is at hand, my lane turns off onto the Old Military Road after a few kilometres. It’s quiet here. The part that has been making such a racket over the last few days is now making itself heard again, and now with every turn of the crank. Will I be able to reach my destination like this or will my bike give up at some point?
I’m just thinking about my onward journey when Shannon and another rider (Andrew?) overtake me. A little further on, I watch them lift their bikes over a cattle grid. Surely that’s not …? Memories of the GBDuro come flooding back to me, I had a dozen obstacles like that there. I quickly follow the two of them. And I get four helping hands. How grateful I am, because I couldn’t have got my bike over it on my own. Two forestry officers or something similar see us and think that’s not the only fence. Oh dear! I have to make sure I’m not left behind alone. But that’s not so easy, because it’s so steep again that I have to push. At the last gate, the farmer unlocks it himself because he wants to take the car to his animals. Lucky me!
After a rapid descent, my journey takes me along the Old Military Road along the coast to Inveraray. Here I realise that I’ve completed half of the Panceltic Ultra in a little while. That needs to be celebrated. Luckily there’s no room in the fast food shop, so I stop off at a more upmarket restaurant. I have tomato soup and a wonderful Caesar salad. We’ve had this before …
Strengthened, I continue. I get tired soon after eating. The lack of sleep must be taking its toll. A park bench comes in handy. As soon as I lie down, I am surrounded by countless bloodthirsty midges. So no power nap, but quickly onwards.
I was planning to ride the long peninsula to Campbeltown, sleep in a hotel and, if possible, ride the 45 kilometre loop across the south of the peninsula on the same day. If I could manage that, then I would be 50 kilometres behind schedule, otherwise 90 kilometres. I was starting to worry, because I probably wouldn’t be able to tackle the loop that day and that would turn out to be the case.
From Lochgilphead, I top up my reserves in the supermarket and carry far too much with me, because you never know when you’ll get something until the next supermarket.
Fortunately, we have a good tailwind and so only countless short, inhumanly steep push climbs slow me down in my forward momentum to the hotel in Campbeltown, which I have now booked. Every now and then I let off steam and swear loudly at the road planners. Or is my bike just too heavy and my legs too weak?
I reach my hotel around half past eight. Due to a misunderstanding that the kitchen is open late, I don’t hurry to check into my room and take a shower. Then, unfortunately, there is nothing left and I buy something in the nearby shop. I’m kindly given a few breakfast things to take back to my room and prepare myself some breakfast cereals, cornflakes, bread, cheese (I’ve been carrying cheddar with me since the day before, delicious!), Snickers, apple, orange. I save two mugs of Müller rice pudding for the next day.
Before going to bed, my brain is racing at full speed. The last ferry in Oban to the Isle of Mull departs at 21:45. I absolutely had to make it. 240 kilometres and more than 3200 metres in altitude lay between me and the ferry. Was it doable? I suppose ‘yes’, but … I just had to get up early enough. At 2 o’clock!
Day six: 271 km/ 3450 m: Campbeltown – Port nan Gael on the Isle of Mull (CP2)
I thought I’d just fallen asleep when the alarm goes off. 2 o’clock!
I leave my tent and breakfast at the hotel and set off in the pitch black. I immediately get lost, because my sat nav has once again decided to display the map in the wrong direction, with all the aforementioned thinking problems for the user Gabi, and that so early in the morning, or was it still night?
The area is very lonely and at Heller-Werden I can’t get enough of the natural beauty. And on the seashore I can recognise something thick like a sausage on a rock. As I approach, the sausage disappears into the water and shortly afterwards black beady eyes scrutinise me with curiosity and suspicion. A seal. How beautiful!
Back at the hotel, I get my bike ready to ride and have breakfast on the side. The question is whether it wouldn’t be quicker to do things one after the other.
The following tens of kilometres lead north along a country road. On the peninsula that I travelled southwards the day before, I now head northwards on the opposite side, with a bit of a headwind. Tiredness overtakes me, as I’ve been up since 2 a.m., but I’m not allowed a short rest on a car park bench with a view over the sea. Even now in the early morning, the mini mosquitoes are swarming around, crawling into my nostrils, ears and eyes to quench their thirst for blood. Onwards! I pull out my headphones for the first time and distract myself with Two Steps from Hell. After a coffee stop at the only option far and wide, a petrol station, the trail heads off to the coast. Beautiful and very lonely. It’s almost lunchtime and I have about 160 kilometres behind me when I pass Lochgilphead again. On the short two-way section of our route, I meet a few people who still have to drive down the long peninsula. Poor things! I’m not actually gloating, but it’s good not to be the last one.
At the petrol station, I want to stock up on hot food at a food counter. With a big head, I order a large portion of tomato soup and a normal portion of macaroni and cheese sauce or whatever it is. I manage the soup, but then I can’t take any more. The pasta has to go. I will carry them and some things I had already bought the day before with me over many mountains for almost a hundred kilometres until I ‘enjoy’ them after the next supermarket visit. I’ll probably have to change my catering tactics.
First I follow a canal that connects Loch Gilp with Loch Fyne. Here I watch a few boats drifting leisurely from one lock to the next. They have it good. I wait a few minutes at a swing bridge and, when it’s ready for me to cross, I realise that I don’t have to cross at all, but have to stay on my side of the river. Typical!
After a few flat kilometres that make my heart skip a beat, so beautiful and fine today … here comes the hammer: three or four hills, each a few hundred metres long, leading steeply upwards, then very steeply downwards on the other side, it sucks. One after the other until I’m exhausted. But at some point, all misery comes to an end. I look at my watch, I’m well on time, I’ll definitely reach Oban before a quarter to ten. And with that, a punctual finish is within reach again. Relief.
I arrive in Oban shortly after six. I can even go shopping, because there won’t be any shops on the Isle of Mull. With a little hurry, I could even have made the six o’clock ferry, but without shopping. So I have enough time on the pier to dress warmly, as it’s quite chilly, and then finally eat my macaroni, which I’ve been carting around with me for half the day. They are wrapped in recyclable packaging, and the fork is just as recyclable. And the recycling process has obviously already started, the container was soggy and barely held up. The whole thing certainly didn’t look appetising. But I’m not bothered by the stares of the people waiting, I’m far too busy calculating the demands that await me. I have a whole bench to myself on the ferry. I don’t even wonder why nobody wants to sit next to me … I can even get some sleep. My main goal for today was to reach the ferry. Now I discover that I still have almost 30 kilometres to go to CP2 and a small pass to overcome.
When I reach the island, I cycle together with Seamus for a while. I don’t even need to tell him that there’s something wrong with my bike, the creaking can be heard for kilometres. But not even the deer at the side of the road are bothered by it, they don’t leave. The day before I had had a different idea about the origin of the noise and had moved the attachment of my rear bag to the seat post a little without success, so Seamus also says that he thinks the creaking is not due to the crank, but higher up. So it really is the seat post. Hopefully the clamp won’t give way and my saddle will drop.
I had hoped that CP2 would be set up again with sleeping facilities, but I was disappointed. There is a campsite here where pitches are reserved for us and there are sandwiches with peanut butter and jam, tea and coffee. After stamping my card, I quickly set up my sleeping place, surrounded by millions of pests. I realise that my mosquito net is not quite ideal. The holes are too big and the mini-mosquitoes skilfully swindle their way through to reach their destination. I don’t take a shower, as it would only wake me up and make me freeze again, and clean myself with my functional cloth, which I now use for myself and my bike.
I set the alarm for three hours later, which is very early, because there is another critical point: after the Isle of Mull, I have to get back to the mainland as early as possible and catch the ferry to the Isle of Skye after almost 100 kilometres. The last one on Saturday, yes, it’s already Saturday, how time flies, the last ferry leaves Mallaig at 16:10. If I don’t catch it, the next one doesn’t leave until half past nine on Sunday. Oh dear! Let’s say in advance that the half past nine ferry will be cancelled due to a technical fault. So I have to catch the earliest possible ferry from Mull to the mainland, then drive 100 kilometres to make it to Skye on time. The race is getting pretty stressful … A hotel in Mallaig, a leisurely breakfast and then the ferry would also be tempting … But would the flight home on Wednesday morning still be possible?
Day seven: 267 km/ 3500 m: Port nan Gael (CP2) – Isle of Skye
In the morning, I have a quick coffee at the Panceltic tent and make myself a toast with peanut butter and orange marmalade, which I want to eat during the journey. Flynn accompanies me for the first few kilometres and we exchange experiences. I let him go on the first few climbs, riding uphill and eating bread don’t mix so well.
The island is beautiful. Very lonely. On the last 10 kilometres before the ferry, I realise that I might be able to catch the nine-thirty ferry instead of the 11 a.m. one I’m aiming for if I continue at this pace. The two hills were no longer on my radar, it’s getting pretty close. I cycle quickly uphill, trying to forget my heavy luggage. I race down, then up again, then down again. Completely exhausted, I roll into the small harbour of Tobermory a few minutes before departure. I hadn’t booked the ferry yet, but I still had to. In the hectic rush, I can’t even remember the name of the arrival point on the mainland. But the app only shows one ferry connection anyway. If the ferry was already fully booked, I would have stressed myself out for nothing.
But I’m lucky, there’s still a bike space. The tricky thing about the ferries is that there are limited bike spaces. As a result, some of the riders book several ferry crossings early because they don’t know exactly which ones they can make. This means that the bike spaces are fully booked, even if they are not used. That’s pretty unfair. I now also book the ferry in Malleig, but the cycle spaces are already full. I’ll just have to take the ferry the next day. But it wouldn’t be nice to get exhausted now and be there on time and then not be allowed to go. But there’s no point in worrying about it now.
Thanks to the earlier mainland ferry, reaching the sky ferry is now within reach again. It was about 100 kilometres, for which I now had a good six hours. Sounds pretty generous, but it depends on the nature of the route. After a first high mountain, well, 200 metres high here … and a rapid descent, I cycle along the coast in constant ups and downs. Music drives me on, including Evergreen and other monumental pieces by Two Steps from Hell, Sirenia, Sonata Arctica, Hammerfall and especially Wardruna with Helvegen. The Road to the Isles continues at a brisk pace. We head inland, then back down to the sea.
Relief, it’s just after 3 pm and I’m almost there. There’s a Spar shop on the route. I want to make the most of this opportunity. A woman in front of the shop confirms that it’s only about 10 minutes to the ferry in Mallaig. After shopping, I ask the manager at the till for some water. He is kind enough to top up my bottles. To be on the safe side, I also ask him about the harbour. Yes, it’s another 11 kilometres. What? 11 kilometres! It’s a quarter past three. Still so far to go and checking my planning shows me a few more climbs. I’m never going to make it. I push off. Up over the first hill, race down, further and further. I race as if I were taking part in a short-distance race. I join a main road and miss the cycle path. But what had Mally, the organiser, said, we had to decide for ourselves whether to ride on the road or the cycle path based on our own sense of safety. I speed along the main road, already feeling a bit guilty.
I later learnt that many drivers had taken the road. This at least helped me to get to the ferry when the last cars were already on the deck. Burning, I realise that I don’t have a bike space and, out of breath, I try to explain this to the signaller. He just asks if I have a pedestrian ticket. Yes, I have one. Then I should go to his colleagues at the ramp. They just checked the QR code on my app and sent me into the hull. There’s coffee in the lounge upstairs.
I meet several other cyclists here and Mally and his crew are also there. I’m interviewed and, excited as I am, I talk a lot of rubbish in my broken English. I’m then sent a photo by Matt, which shows a flamboyant canary yellow woman. Oh dear! But I’m so relieved, I could hug the world. All the stress is gone, now I can really enjoy the race. In the morning in Tobermory I was still thinking that I didn’t want to experience time pressure like that again, luckily I didn’t realise what was still to come before Mallaig. But first of all, it was good that I was here, because the crossings were fully booked all Sunday.
When I arrived on the Isle of Skye it was still quite early in the day and I rolled on without any time pressure. Without time pressure? I stop off at a nice restaurant and treat myself to the soup of the day, a lentil soup and garlic bread. In the meantime, I think about what awaits me on the island. My pulse suddenly increases. There would be nothing cosy about it. I had 230 kilometres ahead of me to the mainland ferry to Glenelg. The last one would leave Skye at 19:00. That meant I’d have to hurry the next day too, otherwise I’d be stuck until 10am.
I decide to ride until it gets dark so that I don’t have so many kilometres to cover the next day and look for a place to pitch my tent. No idea where. More and more stuff has piled up in my bags. I’m carrying two rice puddings, a quarter of a kilo of cheddar cheese, soft waffles – the waffle/cheese combo is very tasty, by the way -, an apple, bottled cappuccino, two full bottles of water, ginger biscuits, chocolate, mixed nuts and so on. I can hardly get my bags closed. Is this due to sloppy packing? More likely the overloading. But it’s pretty heavy in the mountains. And unfortunately I have a strong, icy headwind. I cyclee comotically through the neighbourhood.
At the end of my planned route, I wanted to find a place to sleep. I probably hadn’t taken the map work very seriously on this penultimate stretch. At the end, I find myself in the middle of a mountain. I still have to climb it. It’s almost alpine here. It’s another 12 kilometres up and down a plateau. Sleep here? Too cold and too windy. The sun has already set. The road turns off onto gravel. That too! I slowly roll downhill off-road for a few more kilometres. Then a stroke of luck. A cattle grid, a cattle grid, and next to it, surrounded by fern fronds, a flat grassy area. Perfect for my tent. I can lean the bike against the fence and, just to be on the safe side, hook up the charger for the battery of my Di2 electronic gears to my power bank. There’s no Miges because of the strong wind. Soon I’m lying on my mat wrapped up in my sleeping bag, wearing all the clothes available, because it’s not very warm.
Day eight: 242 km/ 3400 m: via the Isle of Skye – Lochcarron
The alarm goes off at half past three. I’m so tired that I let the 10-minute timer run twice more. While there were no mosquitoes when I pitched the tent, they are all the more annoying now. I also accidentally spray mosquito repellent in my right eye. I eat the two cups of rice pudding on the side, then stow the empty cups and other rubbish in my side bag. I will probably dispose of it illegally somewhere in a private rubbish bin by the roadside.
Finally the start at five o’clock. I push up a few metres to get over the cattle grid with momentum. Then it’s a cheerful up and down over Skye. In the middle of nowhere, I spot a red letterbox, I should take a photo of one of these, they only exist here. I’ve already passed it and I don’t want to go back. If I knew … that I would be photographing this very postbox after all, the hairs on the back of my neck would probably stand up in shock.
I enjoy the ride, the climbs aren’t very long, then a gentle roll downhill again. At some point a house comes into view, a rubbish bin next to it out of sight. This was my opportunity. I’m going to throw the rubbish in here. I brake, get off the bike and reach into the side bag. Well, where is it? My brain starts to work. Horror spreads. I’ve lost my bag! A quick glance at the speedometer: I’ve already covered six kilometres of hilly terrain. I have to get back! But where is the bag? Has it been run over by a car or taken by a driver? The bag contains the tent poles and rain gear. All things I urgently need. I race back – all the way to my campsite. The bag is lying on the cattle grid. The first bump has catapulted it off the bike, I had forgotten to lock it to the frame. I can’t imagine if I had ridden many kilometres without stopping as usual, 30, 50 or more … and only then noticed that the pannier was missing. The thought makes me feel sick …
In any case, an extra hour’s sleep would have been better than this pointless driving back and forth.
The run of bad luck continues, I get lost twice, stop and drive back. My legs also feel heavy from time to time, I stop and eat something, then it gets better. A heavily laden cyclist comes towards me. Is he with us? Am I in the wrong lane or is he or is there oncoming traffic? I stop to check. There’s no real rhythm today and I’m not in the mood for music either.
After Dunvegan there is another mountain in the way. As almost everywhere, the road is single-lane, with a passing place every few metres to get out of the way. Most drivers take this very seriously, including cyclists. But not all of them. One of them just wanted to squeeze past me. I swerve to the side of the road, click off my left pedal, lose my balance and my left foot comes to nothing. I catch myself at the last moment. I swear after the driver.
Flynn overtakes me and tells me about his expensive overnight stay at the campsite. However, he wasn’t able to use it at all as he had spent the whole night in the sanitary facilities, in the light and heat, repairing his puncture. As a result, he is not well rested and his thigh is also very sore.
Together we reach the highest point, the Quiraing Viewpoint, where a magnificent view over the Quiraing mountain range with its rock towers down to the bay of Staffin and a snack trolley await us.
I treat myself to a latte and a muffin, buy some sweets and then plunge into the depths.
Skye is marvellous. Coastal stretches alternate with lochs and breathtaking mountain views. I drive through Portree, a town teeming with tourists with a picturesque backdrop of houses. I’m glad to be out of there again. Somewhere I come into the oncoming traffic area. There’s a large number of cyclists coming towards me. I wonder if they’ll make it to Inverness in time for the finisher’s party.
If I had a headwind yesterday, I have one again today – unfortunately, the wind has shifted. Back in Braedfort, I first stop at the supermarket, because according to my planning there is nothing for 150 kilometres from here. But that means I have to cart everything I buy over a higher mountain before the ferry and after the crossing, first over a high and several manageable mountains and then there was the Bealach na Bà pass on the programme. I meet Flynn again at the supermarket. He’s having problems with his tyre again, so my pump doesn’t help and unfortunately I can’t offer him my spare inner tube either. I stock up on rice pudding, cheese, tomatoes, a tuna sandwich biscuit, kefir, KitKat and water, because there’s nothing for the next 120 kilometres. I cycle on, feeling very sorry for my cycling colleague. I’ve come this far and now it’s over? There’s no mechanic on the island, the nearest one is no idea how far away.
I would easily make the last ferry at 19:00, no matter what steepness was in my way. And it got steep again. Almost at the top, I hear a noise behind me. Who’s coming? Yes, Flynn! Somehow he’s managed to repair his tyre. That makes me happy for him. From the highest point, the descent is extremely steep. I brake recklessly with one hand and film with the other. I’ll probably be thrown off my bike at some point. The ferry is already at anchor. It’s not even five o’clock in the afternoon.
The Glenelg-Skye Ferry is the last of its kind. A car ferry whose deck is turned – by hand, mind you. It crosses the sea between the Isle of Skye and the mainland. The currents are very strong when the tide changes between high and low tide, so the small car ferry ‘Glenachulish’ does a tremendous job here, taking around six cars at a time to the other side in just five minutes. And the dog helps diligently. The crossing is a very special experience. Flynn hands me the two and a half pounds as I only have one large note. I share my sandwich and tomatoes with him in return. I hope the organisers don’t read this. No support allowed!
I can’t get enough of the loading and unloading process and watch it again through my camera lens from the hillside. All the other cyclists have long gone. But nothing can stress me out now.
But now I have to set off too. On my sketch, the Ratagan Pass looms from the page in dark red colours. That doesn’t bode well. After a bit of pushing, I reach the highest point. Will it never end with the steep roads? While it was almost scorching hot on the sunny side, I now have to dress warmly in the shade on the descent. When I reach the coast, Loch Duich, I once again don’t know whether I’m on a lake or the sea. I’ll have to research that at home. A few houses and a small refreshment stop. I get very little soup for a lot of money. I top up my bottles so that I have plenty to carry and continue on my way.
Three more hills, with short steep pushes, as usual, and I can open my last planning sheet. And then I want to find my last or penultimate place to sleep. That will definitely happen before the dreaded Bealach na Bà pass, that’s for sure. I want to tackle the pass with as fresh legs as possible. Another surprise on the way. After the second mountain, I turn left by chance as I want to join a road and there it is, Eilean Donan Castle. I’ve been here before as part of the Celtman Triathlon. Memories!
Now we just need a place to sleep. Fortunately, it’s dry. Now I realise that it has never rained in the last few days. It’s now dusk and there’s nothing next to the road where I could pitch my tent. A little further on is a restaurant that is now closed. On the other side of the road is a lawn with a tent and a handwritten ‘pitch 10 pounds’ sign. I could drive back here if I don’t find anything soon. But once I’ve travelled a few kilometres, it hurts to go back. I had noted a church on my planning and googled it: it says closed, but I can’t find it either.
A little further on, Lochcarron appears in my field of vision and … a church of the Free Church of Scotland, everyone would be welcome there, that sounds good. Around the church is an acre of manicured lawn with countless stone gravestones. Should I be there…? I look left and right along the road, nobody there. There’s a sign on the large gate saying ‘No dogs allowed’, I resolutely tug at the locking mechanism and the lock opens with a loud squeak. A car next to the church with a ‘for sale’ notice on the windscreen looks quite mundane. So a small tent is probably not out of place either. It’s ideal behind two large thujas. Behind? Where is the back and the front? In any case, the site is not visible from the road. I quickly set everything up and head into the parlour. I saw a light somewhere between the trees, so don’t move around too much outside.
Tag neun: 260 km/ 3500 Hm: Lochcarron – Inverness
I sleep very well, it’s so wonderfully quiet. I get out of bed early and the packing goes faster and faster. The squeak of the gate and I’m off. They will probably have to add ‘No camping’ to the sign banning dogs. Luckily for me, there’s even a public toilet a few metres further on, which I’ve visited several times in the past for a minimum of personal hygiene and water. Digression regarding public toilets: You just can’t get locked in, as happened to Steve at the GBDuro two years ago. With just his clothes wet from washing, he was locked in for around 10 hours with his bike outside the door until the first customer freed him. Oh dear, a horror thought!
One last look in the mirror: a grey, fluffy-haired woman with a flowered headband looks back at me, still full of energy. Canary yellow cycling jersey. It’s a wonder it’s still so clean after more than eight days, probably due to the material. I’ll have a look at the equipment list when I get home. I check my seat leather: No problem after so many days in the saddle. Today I’m back in my triathlon shorts without seat padding and I’m riding well in them.
Enough dawdling, I already know why … Now it really is time for me to start the ascent of the last high pass, the dreaded Bealach na Bà.
It’s a notorious pass on the Applecross Peninsula with a winding single track road that climbs to 626 metres. It is one of the few roads in the Highlands that is laid out like our mountain passes in the Alps, with tight hairpin bends winding up the mountain with gradients of over 25 per cent in places.
And the passport really does feel like it does here at home. Except that there are no signs advising new drivers not to drive. And I don’t know what ‘gradients of 1 in 5’ on the warning sign means until I get home, but it doesn’t sound very reassuring. It means a gradient of 20%. And really, the 20% comes and means about half a kilometre of pushing for me, the rest is rideable, even if my thigh muscles are really burning.
On the way, I have time to think about the day ahead, as there is nothing else to distract me in the thick fog and I don’t feel like listening to music, the silence is too pleasant without even a car. Good to have started so early. But what lies ahead of me? There are still 260 kilometres to Inverness. Is that doable on this day? Or should I get a good night’s sleep somewhere? That remains to be seen as the day progresses.
Suddenly I emerge from the fog. Wonderful view of the surrounding peaks. On the pass, a group of caravans have set up camp for the night with a view. The sun rises, I meet another cyclist and we take photos of each other, as there are so few where I am photographed myself.
Then the descent. A long descent. It’s pretty cold and that keeps me from getting tired. Stopping to put on the Primaloft jacket is the best option.
Fortunately, I don’t know anything about Claudia on the descent. At the finish I find out that Claudia Gugole fell on this very descent. She can’t remember anything. I suspect it could have been a microsleep. Fortunately, she is not seriously injured, but has to abandon the race. And it’s not easy to get to Inverness from here, from the end of the world.
Back at sea level is Applecross. The campsite and restaurant are still in a deep sleep. Too bad, so no wake-up latte.
A deer lies behind a low wall. Has it been hit by a car? It lazily lifts its head, looks me in the eye, then dozes on. He’s fine! A little further on, a doe is feasting on vegetables in the garden right next to the house. Only noticed by me. I’m also starting to get hungry and stop to eat almost a whole packet (250g!) of cheddar. I have a small ciabatta and an apple on the side. I put some biscuits next to the trail mix in my top tube pocket. What comes next takes guts. But I don’t know that at the moment.
As the name suggests, the Applecross Coast Route runs along the coast. Wonderful views included, but lonely in terms of human tracks. On my planning sheet, the elevation profile looks flat. This is deceptive, because the last high pass distorts the picture, as I soon realise. The terrain is hilly, constantly going up and down. Once again, high here means constantly very steep and I often have to get off my bike for a few metres, but I can’t get up 16+% with the heavy load without suffering. And I don’t want to suffer, so I get off. It’s good for my muscles to experience a different load anyway. Wardruna with Helvegen in my ear isn’t helping at the moment either.
An attack of fatigue hits me on the way. I lie down briefly in the tall grass, the wind stops the midges from eating me alive. But I can’t sleep after all. My head is buzzing with the number of kilometres, it’s still 230 kilometres to Inverness. And if I continue as ‘quickly’, i.e. slowly, as here on the coast road, then I would probably be on the road until the finisher’s party. That gives me no peace, because the party would be the next day in the evening and I would have to be at the airport by 5am. I would probably have to pack the bike at night. I pick myself up and set off to make up the lost 7 minutes. A little later, the horde of wild Ferraris and the like, racing along the coast with their engines roaring, regardless of what happens. They probably think the passing places are only there for the others. This really is the last one, I hope, and the next one is already speeding round the bend. They’re crazy!
It’s already late morning and my mood suddenly brightens. I recognise a row of whitewashed houses in the distance. Shieldaig!!! Memories come flooding back: I had been here five years earlier, at the Celtman Extreme Triathlon. I remember the almost 4 km swim in 8° cold water with millions of jellyfish, the bike course across the Highlands and the final marathon over three peaks of the Beinn Eighe mountain massif. A great adventure, but a marathon time of almost 9 hours testifies to the toughness of the race, in which you wandered almost pathlessly over the mountains armed with a compass and map. Finally a shop in Shieldaig. Sitting in front of it is … Flynn. He raves to me about all the things he’s eaten, if I’m lucky there’ll be a tin of that delicious tuna salad with vegetables or something. The shop looks like it’s been plundered, there must have been many others before Flynn. But I get my usual fare: kefir, ginger biscuits, KitKat and there really is one tin of ready-made food left, the last one. There’s also a delicious coffee. What more could a woman want? In the meantime, Flynn finds out where the drinking water tap on Google Maps is. Then a quick stop at the end of the village at the public toilet. I recognise it when I see it: This was the bike change area, all the triathlon bikes strung out like pearls on the narrow road.
Ten kilometres further on is Torridon, my heart leaps. This was Celtman’s destination and I’ve already travelled the road I have to take now. It runs beautifully under the mountain peaks. I also pass the small wood, where the T2 changeover was during the run. I made it here 10 minutes before the cut-off and then had to go over the three peaks high above me instead of round the massif. Memories …
After everything I had already experienced today, the road is pleasant to drive on. Slight incline, plenty of passing places for the slowly increasing traffic. However, car drivers are very courteous towards cyclists. Looking back, I have to say that for almost all parts of England and Scotland. Almost.
I want to top up my water reserves in Kinlochewe. The public toilet is blocked by a building site fence. I ask the worker there if I can fill up with water anyway. He opens it. We chat a bit. Impressed by what I’m doing, he brings me a small bottle of water. I thank him politely and don’t dare say no, even though I know that I’m only going to finish my small bottle anyway, carry the big one and now the new small one over the hills. And really, I saved the small water bottle and drank it in one go before the airport security check. How sick is that … I need to work on that. As we set off, the man mumbles something about a mountain. I hadn’t recognised it from the distorted profile on my sheet. Shock!
I meet Flynn again at the start of the 200 metre climb. I won’t see him again until the next day at the finish, where he is greeted by his better half and his family-in-law. He is sensible and plans to spend the night in a guesthouse or similar, mainly because of his increasingly sore knee. On the way, I will think several times about how sensible this tactic would have been for me too.
What comes next is a blessing in terms of the profile. It’s a steady, gentle descent for almost 50 kilometres and I get on really quickly. The only downer is that we are travelling on a fairly busy main road. Another obligatory power nap on the way, during which, as usual, I don’t fall asleep, but resting with my eyes closed also helps. The traffic gets even heavier in the last few kilometres, but there would have been an optional gravel alternative route here. I thankfully decide against it and hope not to risk my life after so many kilometres. But then my sat nav suddenly sends me off to the right and I’m back on secondary roads until I reach my destination, again with a slightly more profiled surface, of course. You can’t treat yourself to anything else.
It goes round a lake in a wide arc. Very idyllic. But at every stop I’m surrounded by Bremen and the like. Better not to stop. As in the last few days, my bike is making a hell of a racket, I can’t even hear it any more and I’m no longer worried. What comes, comes …
It’s already late afternoon when I roll into Muir of Ort and make my way to the supermarket. The full programme here too: the most important thing is a latte (macchiato with two sugars!), kefir, cheese, tomatoes, sandwich, ginger biscuits and a one and a half litre bottle of water. As previously suspected, the large water bottle is still almost full and I use it to clean my bike a bit. Hhhahahhaaa!
I do the maths: It’s a mere 90 kilometres to the finish. That’s not much, just about the same as Brixen-Bozen-Brixen. If I set off now, I would easily reach the finish around half past nine. I wouldn’t have to put up and take down my tent again, which sounds tempting, so off I go! The first 30 kilometres go quite smoothly. Then there are three more mountains. And they threaten with steep inclines and a total of almost 1000 metres in altitude. Oh no!
Every now and then on the road, I look for a good reason to stop. A slow worm, the length of my forearm, in the middle of the road. If a car came along, it would be flattened. I try to shoo it away, but it has no grip on the smooth tarmac and meanders on the spot. I pick her up with a firm grab and throw her far away into the bushes. She was lucky again.
The first climb starts very steeply, then flattens out and I manage to stay in the saddle. So, not too bad. The second is partly a pushing section for me, between 15 and 20% gradient. Then it starts to get dark, which means 11 o’clock is over. So there’s no chance of finishing at half past nine. I have to push a long way up the third hill, because that would be one of those at home. There should be a gravel section somewhere on the plateau. But Hermann had informed me that most of them would be on the road. I ask the organiser and soon get an answer via email. And indeed, there is a large wooden sign at the turn-off telling Panceltic riders to stay on the tarmac cycle path. My sat nav goes crazy when I stray from the uploaded route and keeps trying to force me back to the original route. ‘No,’ I say out loud. It’s pretty cold up here. Or is that due to my tiredness? It’s overcoming me now and I think wistfully that my fellow cyclists are probably all asleep somewhere. I’m sure no-one does an all-nighter at the end of the race.
Then I’m back on the original track and close to Inverness. However, my sat nav has stopped working and sends me round several times at the last roundabout. I can’t find the right exit in the dark and so I lose a lot of time asking Google for directions to the nearby campsite, my destination. Eventually I get there, it’s just before 1am. A few people are sitting around a warming campfire waiting for the last arrivals of the day, or no: the new day has already begun, it’s just before one o’clock. The long journey is over in one fell swoop, you have to believe that …
I get something to eat and am offered the chance to sleep in the organisation’s large (horse) van instead of putting up my tent. After a shower, I wrap myself in my too-thin sleeping bag and freeze through the rest of the night, almost sleepless. That’s what happens when you talk about ‘travelling through the last night’. Nevertheless, I’m awake the next morning and can take my time dismantling my bike. Contrary to expectations, it held up well. When I pull off the seat tube and screw the clamp back on, it doesn’t work: the thread is broken. Was that the noise? What would have happened if the clamp had weakened en route? I wouldn’t have had a spare part with me. And with a saddle that might have slipped off completely and couldn’t be fixed, I would probably have had to end the race prematurely. Lucky me!
There’s a lot going on in the finish area all day, riders are constantly arriving, a chat here, a chat there. Later, I move into the hotel, use my meal voucher at the finisher’s party and finally have a Scottish beer. I amaze the barmaid by expressing my wish: half beer, half apple juice please – the best after-sport drink!!! I get to know a few people and say goodbye early because I really need a good night’s sleep. However, once again I’m not allowed to sleep for long: I have to be out of bed by four o’clock, the taxi to the airport is waiting.
Definition: An event like this is called a race, but for me it’s more of a ride together and yet not together with many like-minded people. The only thing that reminds me of a race is the specified finish time, which means that the days on the bike are a bit more intense for me and the nights are quite short so that I can make it to the finish in time.
To summarise: although my planning vanished into thin air after just one day and I always lagged behind my pace, in the end I only finished 4 ½ hours behind my plan. I am a little proud of my achievement.
Overall result:
I am 64th out of 165 on the full route – far from the last … because: a good 300 riders started, 101 out of 165 on the long route and 88 out of 139 on the short route finished. It should be mentioned that quite a few of the long distance riders switched to the short route on the way. I never felt this desire at all! The adventure of the full route of the Panceltic Ultra was too good … I enjoyed (almost) every kilometre.
Gabriele Winck, 111 in the Pan Celtic Race 2024 event – MAProgress
Comment on the video:
“Cracking video and photos – it does make it look all a bit easy doesn’t it! Or maybe that’s just me – no images of suffering – I’ve showed it to my wife to give her an insight into the stunning scenery we were privileged to see.” (Sean Case)
Me: Well, the pictures of suffering (did they even exist?), I probably didn’t have the strength for that …, but they are certainly somewhere between the pictures of beautiful landscapes …
Some pictures, colourfully mixed …
Schreibe einen Kommentar