A colleague once asked me if I can drive. I could only reply: “Well, I’ve got a license…” So when Mrs Fat Lad and I head north (Nearly ten hours of Mrs Fat Lad’s Doppler shifting driving) the only petrol head in our relationship does the motoring.
Even being on holiday certain traditions must be upheld and so with my bottom lip out and foot well and truly stamped I insisted we ride Tuesday. Arriving at our starting point; amidst the breathtaking glens and soul dwarfing munroes I could be heard muttering: “It’s no Leeds Pootle but it will have to do…” I unloaded the bikes and after much swearing and sore finger tips I gave up hope on fitting Mrs Fat Lad’s front mudguard and turned my goldfish like attention to my own bike. With a very surprising amount needing doing we were suited up and heading out in record time. It would appear that we need to bring my always brilliant wife to the Pootles, maybe we might set off on time in future.
Through the gate and heading coastwards the trail gently climbed away in front of us. Mrs Fat Lad pedalled steadily away in front of me as I hung back happy to let her set the pace. Much much further than I could have hoped for Mrs Fat Lad pulled up for a breather. Moving again the synapse s finally started to fire and the scenery started to become familiar as we forded the stream that entered the first loch. When the contours allowed the wind to whisper away you could almost mistake it for June.
The gentle first ascent soon paid us back and testosterone over took me as I flew past Mrs Fat Lad on the first decline of the day. Memory warned me of the technical rock field ahead and as I plowed through the rocky section I wondered to my self: “I wonder if my technical abilities are better now too…” Turning the corner into the path my mind actually knew and it was there it was to be wary. Doing well the front wheel dipped over a large rock and sunk into soft peat all but pitching me over the bars. Discretion the better part of valor and not wanting the shame of calling for first aid so close to the trail head I walked the remaining few yards of collar bone shattering magnets.
The terrain varies wildly round here and the pedalling was over for a short while as we pushed the bikes on around the next loch. Clambering up from the shore and far too confident of my footing I put my right foot down onto emptiness and plummeted over to my right. Mrs Fat Lad’s first instinct?
Exhibit A:
Back upright, dignity lost but with a well and truly stretched groin we cracked on. To add insult to injury my right foot was now doing the backstroke in my not-at-all-waterproof boots. In distance of a few pedal strokes to a few yards the trail switched between riding to hiking. Nearing the last of the riding outward bound the trail headed up steeply. I backed off the cadence as Mrs Fat Lad headed towards a climb of note. Fairly technical, long enough to notice and steep enough to know about it. I backed off, not for preparation, but to leave a gap for me to ride it selfishly when Mrs Fat Lad would have to get off and push. I lifted my jaw, stamped on the pedals to catch up as my better half disappeared riding over the summit.
As I followed over the top the view reinforced exactly why it was worth a very wet foot and the chance of not ever having children. Rolling down towards the dunes progress was only halted by the farmer bringing his sheep back up the path.
Hitting the dunes the deep soft silica was unrideable and as we plodded through I envied Mrs Fat Lad’s walking boots. On the beach the roar of the waves made our ears ring with joy. The photographer I married kicked into overdrive clicking away to her hearts content.
Propping her bike up in the sand waves lapping over the tyres I had a mechanics heart attack as her bike crashed over completely submerged in the Atlantic Ocean. With a certain photo recreated we wandered onto the rocks. A few near death by drowning experiences later due to my slippy soled riding shoes we stood in silence soaking up the spray into clothes and the scenery somewhere much deeper.
The horror of climbing back out of the dunes with bikes on backs still couldn’t dampen my refreshed being and we traveled back the way we came pedalling where possible. Back at the second loch I rode through the gentle waves as the water washed over my rims and I wondered how many times in life I would get to be this content. Or wet.
Back on the rideable parts of the trail Sarah got her soul stealing groove on once more:
And soggily we were on the final leg back to the car. My buff kept falling into my eyes and I stopped for the briefest of moments to unblind myself. With the promise of warm clothes and a slight decline to aid her my wife rocketed rapidly out of site. Hammering the cranks to catch up I did with only a few yards to go and with only a few miles covered I was ready for one of the world’s best pies.
Fat Lad
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