So left to my own
devices after departing the company of Alan & Lilian, I did what
every rational person would do … and followed the weather.
Actually the weather forecast was appalling for pretty much
everywhere, but I did my best.
Sunday night I headed
north, surprised as I was to find there was much north left in the
UK. But yes there was and I parked up in a layby somewhere near to
the Kyle of Sutherland mountain bike trails. Unsurprisingly then,
the Monday morning saw me keen and early out on the trails, well,
after a now obligatory amount of faff. In a fit of brave, because
somehow I really do want to improve on the bike, I went for the black
run. It wasn't an ill informed decision, reading up on the topic had
revealed some experienced folk felt it was somewhere between black
and red. Excellent. Do-able. The track had some uphill, but
frankly since the Pyrenees, no amount of up feels either steep or
lengthy right now, but it was also a slabby bouldery mecca. For
those who like that kind of thing. Which possibly isn't quite me.
Anyway, I did a lap of the black and I didn't die, even though I
walked maybe 30% of it, and repeated several sections. Most of the
trouble I had was picking the right line across the boulders, and
keeping enough momentum so that when large gaps appeared between
rocks the wheels went over it instead of grinding to a rather sudden
and in my view unnecessary stop. I was encouraged enough that I did
the trail a second time and fared much much better on how much of it
I actually rode. Still feel that somehow I didn't do enough riding,
and sadly I won't be on the bike again for a bit. I miss not being
on the bike, and also I worry that when I do get back on I will have
lost all fitness and ability. I really am desperate to make the
cycling work for me, mostly because I am so fed up with being at the
back of groups panting like a steam train when others haven't even
had to open their mouths or build up a sweat. I resent time not on
the bike in an odd way, yet lack the discipline to do more.
Monday night I drove
into the Assynt area, and was stopped in my tracks by the sight of
the hills. An evening read up told me the hills which were singing
to me so loudly were Stac Pollaidh and Suilven. Both looked
intimidatingly huge and steep and unachievable, and both terrified me
with the thought of walking up them, particularly alone. I guess it
is a year of being brave for me. I really am so scared sometimes of
the prospect of things like this that maybe I should be at home
knitting and drinking cocoa and stop trying to pretend to be
something I'm not. Or am I? I really don't know why I do what I do
because I spend so much of the time in fear that it's hard to see how
sometimes it qualifies as fun. I'm guessing it's more about keeping
the endorphins high and holding at bay the horrible feeling I live
with when I don't exercise.
So Tuesday in the
interest of facing my fears I walked Stac Pollaidh. It was
ridiculously easy, particularly in route finding terms. The path
pretty much a “tourist” trail, upgraded with slabby rocks and
impossible to lose your way on. There's a massive discouragement to
straying from the path too as the mountain has unbelievably
(believably) become damaged by the footfall and it's there to protect
it. Bless it. Two and a half hours I was back at the van thinking
“is that it?” along with “what do I do with the rest of the
day?”. Somehow the answer was prepare for the next day.
Wednesday morning then
saw me prepared and ready. I had a map, I knew the route and had
packed the 50litre rucksack with as little as I thought I needed. It
had sleeping bag, thermarest, tent, water, a filtration bottle,
stove, saucepan, carefully measured pasta, one person pasta sauce pouch, mug,
spoon, gas bottle, toothbrush and toothpaste, first aid kit, and dry
layers too. I was climbing Suilven, oh yes, that's what I was about
to do ...
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