Kilberry Stones loop from Tarbet

I had effortlessly ridden 30 out of 40 miles of the Sportive when my chain came off, Having struggled to get it back on I was probably pushing myself a bit when I came off at 32 miles. Most frustratingly, I lost it on the gravel going downhill round a corner that I ride round 3 times a week! Bruised, bloody and badly grazed knees, elbows, shoulders and hips but it could've been a lot worse. Damage to my head was prevented by my helmet, which will need replacing. I've yet to assess damage to my bike 😦

Warning: this is a long comment with too much detail. This was day two of my solo ride from Oban to the isle of Arran. Like a lot of people living patiently through lockdown, I had been planning this ride for months. Since losing my dad in August of 2020, I'd felt a constant pull to go somewhere remote and lose my sense of self for a few days. I thought that being alone was important, I hoped that I would be able to work through some of the grief and claustrophobia of the last year by sweating it out on my bike. I thought about it before I went to sleep every night. Eventually the fantasy overtook the reality, as these things do. I started day two in my bivvy having barely slept, and sore from overdoing it the day before. By the time I had completed eighty unexpectedly hilly kilometres from Oban to Ardrishaig on day one, I had decided to just try and find a spot to stealthily camp on the hill overlooking the town. I had a great view over Loch Gilp while I ate my porridge, feeling like I was doing something clandestine by tucking myself amongst the trees. It did a lot to bring me back to the excitement of the tour. I broke camp around nine and gingerly descended a little track into Ardrishaig for supplies. I was following the Caledonia Way southwards, which is mostly made up of blissful remote single-lane country roads: hardly any cars and decent surfaces. Every now and then though, you got stretches like the one out of Ardrishaig, where you were on two lane main roads, the kind with scratched barriers in the corners where cars have come off the road. I’m used to cycling on country roads, but between my overloaded bike, and the rush-hour traffic this stretch made me nervous. Thankfully, it was only a couple of miles, and then I turned up towards the hills. This stretch was great: I had the climb to myself, my legs felt strong, I had Neil Young on my speaker. Just what I needed. The descent was even better. One of the many reasons that I love my bike is that is a blast to descend on: it has a wide backend, a slack front end and beefy tyres for a road bike, and of course it’s steel. It’s like flying downhill on a couch, in a good way. Coming over to the other side of the peninsula was incredible. From the top of the hill, there was a glorious view over Loch Caolisport right as the sun cracked the clouds open and shone onto Jura in the distance. There was a perfect little beach at the bottom of the hill with a hut on stilts, and a boat gently bobbing in the water. I took a picture with my phone, but it’s terrible. The real picture is in my memory, and I hope I never lose it. The whole trip was worth that moment. I went on a little further and stopped for a coffee at a campsite that I had hoped to sleep at, but it was too early to stop for the day. The skies started turning grey, and the next couple of hours were spent slowly working my way around the coast towards Tarbert over gently rolling terrain. I had burnt my legs out too early on day one, and now I was paying for it. If I managed to get into the big ring, it only took the tiniest slope to remind me that I was sore and carrying too much and it was back down to the granny gears. I was reminded about how I had considered planning for one-hundred kilometre days, but cut down to my current plan because I wanted to “take it easy”. Here I was feeling terrible, just trying to feebly tap out sixty kilometres, suddenly aware of my small body in a big landscape, feeble against the Scottish weather and speeding cars, and the fucking midges which kept flying into my mouth. I thought that I had wanted to be alone, but I missed my fiancé and my cat, and the thought of spending another night alone in a bivvy was too much to bear. I decided to stop in Tarbert and find a hostel, or maybe just take the ferry straight to Arran and get as close to home as I could. Arriving in Tarbert around four, the town almost looked shut. I asked around for the ferry, but the map was wrong, the only ferry to Arran was around fifteen kilometres south, on the other side of a climb that I didn’t have it in me to tackle. I was relieved to have an excuse to stop and find somewhere to stay instead. The ferry was tomorrow’s problem. The tourist season hadn’t really started yet, so a lot of places weren’t open, but I managed to find a BnB owned by a sweet couple who had just bought it as their retirement plan. The husband had covered the place in Yes album artwork and their big record collection was visible behind the front desk. I was so happy to have found it and took the room right away on the condition that I could keep my bike inside; I was paranoid about losing my only way home. During the greatest shower of my life, I discovered why I had felt so bad all day: my legs were covered in around a dozen nymph ticks. Two trips to the local pharmacy later, once to get a tick removal tool and then again to get tweezers because the ticks were too small for the tools, I managed to remove them all with miraculously no breaks or bits left over. I got dressed and ended my 12 hours with a glorious fish supper and an Irn-Bru as the sun began to set over Tarbert harbour. Although I had spent a good chunk of the day feeling sick and tired, I had a moment of total gratitude sitting in the harbour. I was grateful that I had survived the last year, grateful for my dad who taught me to camp and how to ride a bike, grateful that I could once again be in a place as beautiful as Tarbert after being confined to Glasgow for months. I spoke to my mum on the phone, we talked about Arran, and I went to bed early knowing that day three would be the best day of the trip.

The weather was a bit mixed. We boarded the ferry in the dry, cycled down in drizzle, and set off in full rain gear. There was a shorter Plan B, but that would have involved taking the main road. These roads aren't comparable to ours in terms of traffic, but every now and then a car or truck still whizzes past. By the time we reached the crossroads of decision, the sky was already brightening again. We opted for the lonely, long, and hilly route. It was a good decision. Hardly any cars on the road and the landscape was green with the occasional glimpse of the sea. By the time we were over the last mountain and it was all downhill, rain clouds were gathering again. We just made it to the hotel.

Fine last day of the Westravaganza Super sunshine and a fine knapdale ride with stunning coastal and Island views of Arran, Gigha, Islay and Jura Distant view of Ireland's top end

Overconfident from the last few days, I ignore the smart watch's suggestion to take a rest day and put on the sunglasses again after a week. But it won't be me that's the problem, it's the bike... First we set off in the sunshine, over breakfast I watch with fascination the way the old lock is operated, and to my own surprise I manage the impressive climb after ten kilometers in one go and not even that slowly. On the way down, I don't like the brakes at all and I try to adjust them a bit, which lasts for a while. But when they start to get weaker again (even though the pads were replaced and adjusted two weeks ago!), I turn to the Internet and want to test a different screw. Only: the zipper on the saddle bag isn't completely closed and the multi-tool - gone. So stupid! Internet again, and luckily there's a tool shop 15km away.