Up The Lecht!
109.3 Miles, 6,735 ft of Elevation / 175.9 Km, 2,053 m of Elevation
Start: 07:23 Finish: 16:19 Moving Time: 7hrs 53 mins
Ride Across Britain: 89% Complete
After waking during the night as rain lashed the campsite, I was not at the races in the morning, and we didn’t leave until nearly 7.30am, when few bikes were left in the racks.
The main event came after less than an hour. It was the stupendously hard climb of ‘The Lecht’.
We rounded a corner and saw the first 20% ramp. Half the cyclists were walking up, the others zig-zagging across the road.
We joined them and tried not to go too hard too quickly. In reality all we could do was stand up, grip the handlebars hard and stamp on the pedals.
We barely passed the walking cyclists, so slow was our progress. After the first ramp was merely a very steep hill, then the rest of the climb revealed itself: a short descent followed by more fearsome ramps to the summit.
Hearts pounding and legs screaming, we turned the pedals right on our limits, desperately trying not too go too far into the red.
This time Ed couldn’t surge past me and I waited for him at the first summit for a moment as supporters cheered and rang cowbells.
We climbed together up to the ski station, then hurtled down the descent to Tomintoul. A road sign to our first pit stop at Grantown-on-Spey said ‘14 miles’ (23km) – nearly there, we thought.
The unforgiving Scottish landscape had other ideas.
The route sent us up into barren moorland with strong winds and cold rain. As we were battered by the elements we made slow progress, barely able to see, water spraying up in plumes off rear wheels into the faces of riders behind.
It took well over an hour to roll into the pit stop, where fortunately the rain had abated. Cold, damp, riders peeled off gloves and joked with each other. A couple hugged for warmth.
From there, a sharp turn off the main road took us onto a long, narrow and winding trail through pine trees and gorse bushes. Gravel in the middle of the trail and many blind bends demanded full concentration, for another hour or more.
With little warning, we rounded a corner and could see down to the huge expanse of the Moray Firth, the town of Inverness to the West, the great inlet from the sea, the hills and mountains beyond.
In Scotland, where we would spend almost half our ride, incredible views like this were often reward for our long toil uphill.
It was a steep descent to Inverness and we passed quickly into the docks. The passenger in a car, held back by our peloton, leaned out of the window and shouted unintelligible profanities as he shot past. The smell of wood chips drifted from a colossal storage depot, the contents spilling from behind barriers.
High above, the Kessock Bridge carried the A9 road North across the Firth. We picked up a cycle path which rose to the bridge and crossed it separately from the cars.
A gale-force crosswind battered us from the left and made it hard to stay upright and pedal. Powerful currents shifted below as the sea entered the land, stretching further than the eye could see. We felt like insignificant specks compared with the scale and power of nature on display.
The process somewhat repeated at the Cromarty and Dornoch Firths. As we moved North we climbed upwards into cold, rainy moorland, saw the sea entering the land and dropped down to cross it.
By the time we crossed at Bonar Bridge, we were cold, tired and spent, after another eight hours in the saddle, the last two of which were spent dreaming of hot showers.
It was the last night of Base Camp and after another enormous meal, the thousand-plus riders and crew crowded into the marquee to hear closing speeches from the organisers.
Wet clothing hung in the drying tent. Guards watched the bikes. Drizzle fell and wind buffeted the empty tents. The queues for physio, medical and showers temporarily disappeared.
One stage remaining. 105 miles (167km) to the very North of mainland Scotland. Colder and darker than the ride so far, but with the end in sight.
The Cycling Eagle 