GBDURO22 Stage Three.

Samuel Thompson

Oct 18, 202213 min read

Firstly, a word on the checkpoints:

The checkpoints formed a major part of the experience of this race for me. They were initially one of that draws of the event, primarily through the opportunity they provide to spend time off the bike with fellow riders. Each of the first three stages had a cut-off time of 72 hours, with the next starting immediately after. This meant that the sooner one arrived at the CP, the longer they had to recover and prepare for the subsequent challenges. I saw this as an additional incentive to keep stopped/sleep time to a minimum during the stages, in order to bank time for proper recovery at the CPs. A full night’s sleep in my tent would serve me far better in the grand scheme than the odd hour snoozing in a bush. Still, the CPs did not offer a complete sanctuary - although there was indoors space at CP2 and communal gazebos etc. at CP1 & CP3 (both campsites), we were still obliged to sleep outdoors at each CP and not make use of man-made shelter. I was thus grateful for carrying my (extremely lightweight and packable) tent which became a sanctuary from the rain and midges and afforded me good quality sleep.

What really struck me about the CPs was how well they were run and provisioned, crewed cheerfully by volunteers who exhibited such enthusiasm, helpfulness and empathy with the participants. The food on offer was seemingly endless and precisely what we craved before and after long hours on the bike – hearty, healthy fare to contrast the often sugary, snack-heavy diet on the bike. Arriving early allowed me to really make the most of this and I found myself forming a routine during this downtime. Eating and sleeping were prioritised, and all took place within a friendly, communal environment where tales of the previous stage were exchanged and shared experiences discussed. This isn’t something which really happens during a single-stage event, where the only opportunity to properly mingle with fellow riders is in the aftermath. I fitted in a short ‘recovery’ ride of 30-45 mins on the full day I had off from racing, each time in the direction of the nearest shop to re-supply for the next stage so I didn’t have to stop early once the clock re-started. I would like to thank everyone who volunteered at the CPs. Their unwaveringly positive contribution to the event was invaluable and has inspired me to endeavour to put myself forward more for this sort of role. It certainly seemed that they found it a rewarding endeavour, despite working all hours to cater for those arriving through the night.

Stage Three:

I had heard it said that Stages 3 and 4 were the reward for making it through the first two. The off-road sections were purportedly much more rideable and the scenery through Scotland promised to be spectacular. The first third of Stage 3 encountered little in the way of civilisation, a large stretch traversing Kielder Forest, so I ensured that I was fully stocked to get to Biggar at the 200k mark for a first stop, before eyeing a subsequent re-supply at Stirling which may have had to see me through the night and to CP3 at Fort Augustus. There were not many other resupply points thereafter, on the route at least, which would be open when I was due to pass. As for a sleep strategy, I embarked upon each stage with the same attitude – if I needed to sleep, I would. Otherwise, I would keep pedalling (or pushing). Nevertheless, as with all non-moving time, sleep would ideally be as brief as safely possible.

As with the previous leg, this was another tale of two distinct parts. I started a minute or two behind the group due to last minute faffing (also blaming this on the slightly slow clock in the village hall), so found myself gradually passing people during the morning. The repercussions of my crash during Stage 2 were making themselves felt, more so off the bike than on it. I’m still not sure if the impact occurred around the front side of my shoulder, where I picked up an impressive bruise, or the rear of my ribcage where the main pain was noticeable. Raising myself from a lying position in my tent was rather strenuous and I felt constricted by my ribcage when inhaling deeply and expanding my lungs. I was very aware of this impingement to my upper body movements when early in Stage 3 there was the challenge of descending and then re-ascending a staircase at the dam just before Haltwhistle. Fortunately, I had no real discomfort when riding the bicycle, whether in or out of the saddle. My physical sensations were otherwise encouraging. As with Stage 2, I felt as if I had recovered effectively at the CP and my legs were present to every challenge the terrain would pose.

Staircases aside, the opening ~100km of the stage presented a long-awaited return to the sensation of making reasonably swift progress. Kielder Forest comprised surfaces more akin to the accepted definition of ‘gravel’ and this continued as far as the Scotland border. Starting slightly late worked out nicely in a way as I spent much of the day riding close to or alongside others, even practicing a bit of my French with Simon (ces paysages ici sont belles, n'est-ce pas?!). Charles, George and Bryn were also never far, the order to-ing and fro-ing constantly. The Scottish Borders were a delight, introducing rolling terrain without the 20% plus gradients I had grown reluctantly accustomed to in the Southwest, Wales and Yorkshire. The day had started bright and mild, but a brisk south-westerly wind brought changeable conditions with brief showers during the day making this a jacket-on/jacket-off situation. The main thing irking me was however my misbehaving shifting. In the upper ranges (easiest gears) there was little issue but when changing down through the gears the chain was often jumping between two cogs and taking numerous adjustments to settle. I didn’t deem it a serious enough issue to justify a major diversion to seek attention for, but if a magic bike shop should appear on the route I resolved to call by and seek a second opinion.

It was becoming clear by now that the rigours of the parcours was turning this race in to a war of attrition - bodies and bicycles being worn down by the task. This included, unfortunately, Christoph who we passed having had his electronic shifting fail in a spot where repairing/replacing was not going to be quick or easy. As with Alex on the previous stage, overtaking a competitor due to misfortune is not the way I want to move up the leaderboard. Simply getting oneself and bicycle to the finish is a major part of this challenge and this includes overcoming setbacks, but major unforeseen and irreparable mechanical issues are not wished upon anyone. One could question the wisdom of using a bicycle with electronic shifting for such a rigorous event (not that I am – another of my steeds which I am riding for my next race has electronic shifting) but, equally, mechanical brake cables can snap…

My day, pleasant enough until this point, became more complicated at around the 150km mark as I contrived to hit the deck three times in the course of two off-road descents. I attribute this mostly due to losing my nerve and not trusting myself to let the wheels roll. An overly cautious approach to some of these sections can be counter-productive when this leads to bumping against larger rocks at lower speeds, upsetting the rider’s balance. The outcome was more scratches and bruises to my legs, a knock to my knee and another impact to my embattled left back/side. I felt frustrated - again berating myself for not exercising more caution. Embarrassment flushed through me at the thought that one of the others would recognise the ineptitude of my mal-coordinated gangly frame on these technical sections.

I could soon sniff the promise of a good feed and aisle-raid at Biggar when, around 8km from the town, the road pointed directly at an ominously grey backdrop and the heavens opened for a brief 10 minutes. But a 10-minute period where it felt as if a month’s worth of rain was dumped without restraint. My jacket kept my torso dry and my largely waterproof bags kept their contents safe from wetness but everything else was immediately soaked. I rolled up to the Spar and found a miserable looking Bryn and George hovering outside, Bryn visible shaking and keen to press on to keep warm. I tried to see the humour in the situation but the timing was pretty rotten. I didn’t want to hang around for fear of the cold setting in so mindlessly grabbed a couple of less optimal items from the limited selection. Ice cream certainly wasn’t on the menu. I did though inadvertently strike gastronomic gold with my savoury option. The only non-meaty fare in the fridge was labelled ‘macaroni pie’. Likely distracted and irritated by my sodden feet at the time, I just grabbed the package, paid up and set above applying the contents to my face in a revoltingly efficient fashion. Little did I know what a revelation this foodstuff would become and how sought after it would become with fellow riders. Macaroni cheese in an open-topped pie. Double carbohydrate bound together by cheese. This was endurance-food perfection. Campsite chat at CP3 was dominated by this golden wonder.

I had concerns about how this unwelcome drenching would impact on my comfort heading to the imminent evening and night, particularly as I can be quite sensitive to the cold and often find it difficult to warm up once my core temperature has fallen. I wasn’t about to start feeling sorry for myself though and pressed on, trusting that the outlook, and my attitude toward it, would only improve. Fortuitously the sun re-emerged almost as quickly as the rain had arrived and I was treated to the mixed blessing of a clear sky for the last hour of daylight. This permitted some drying-off but also presaged a chilly night as the day’s heat fled through the cloudless atmosphere. My socks and shoes were still soaked and remained so as the temperature dropped significantly. As darkness set in I took a moment under a streetlamp to change socks and put on my Velotoze rubber overshoes. This helped somewhat in feeling slightly more comfortable but soon this pair was also sodden from the water retained within my shoes.

I was now dissecting Scotland’s central belt, mainly following flatter roads in a mostly urban setting but with, naturally, the customary occasional convoluted off-road diversion. My next stop was a midnight rendezvous at the 24-hour Spar garage in Stirling (Spar again the garage of choice as the doors were open to get inside). The temperature was now showing as 7°C which I was starting to feel penetrate. Along with refuelling and stocking up with what I thought should get me through the remaining 230km I tried to dry out my feet by stuffing tissues in my shoes and hairdrying my socks. I then donned my base layer and thicker gloves in preparation to head back out in to the night. The stop was longer than I would have liked but probably necessary given the circumstances.

I recommenced feeling markedly more snug but was soon dealing with pangs of doziness, not helped by the lack of stimulation presented by non-descript flat roads. A sure sign that this state was not sustainable manifested itself through my repeated yawning. Even a brief sharp hill did not help perk me up so soon before 2:00am when I spotted an open gate, I wheeled in for a nap. Alarm set for 25 minutes later I collapsed on a hay-like dense border to the field which proved incredibly cosy. So much so that I hit snooze twice before finally rising around 45 minutes later. I hadn’t felt the need to add to my clothing before the snooze but the nip in the air was starting to permeate, adding to the incentive to hit the road. Coffee sachets having been applied to milk at Stirling in advance, I began sipping on the resulting potion to enhance my alertness. Without this, I may well have needed another lie-down as the route subsequently stuck to a long, gently rising cycle path with high hedges either side, affording little in the way of variation or scenery. I had pictured marvelling at the sight of overbearing mountains and the shimmering reflection of lochs during this gateway to the Highlands but all I was treated to was the sensation of passing through a dark tunnel for the remainder of the night.

As the night wore on, I perceived a slight rise in the temperature - the clear, twinkling starlit sky giving way to a sombre and ominous murkiness. A shielded sun began to illuminate the now mountainous setting and the first of many drops of rain liberated themselves from their heavenly holding pens. I had seen the forecast and was braced - the worst of the rainfall was due for the dawn hours before then easing. ‘It will soon pass’ I convinced myself as sunrise only highlighted the presence of low, grey clouds from horizon to horizon. The rain became consistent and penetrating, driven by an intensifying south-westerly wind, while on the road a series of climbs presented themselves. The route wound its way up and down valleys, alongside rivers or lochs, with steep road or trail mountain passes linking one to the next. The first of these was on tarmac, a challenging ascent aiding the generation of internal heat. My legs still felt strong and willing to push on. The decent was a fast, tailwind assisted affair and consequently less pleasant thanks to the cooling down associated with wind-chill and a lack of power output. On the next downslope valley road a man carrying a large fishing rod dressed head-to-toe in waterproofs acknowledged me in a form of mutual acknowledgement that confronting these conditions was somewhat both brave and foolish.

I was feeling the chill as I progressively became saturated again but in my mind there wasn’t much option than to press on, it being 6:00am in the Highlands. At 7:00am I came across a tea room at Glenlyon, signposted as opening at 9:00am. I relented my speed slightly, considering whether there was anyone already inside and if I knocked on the door they would take pity on me and offer a nice warm cup of coffee and bowl of porridge. Alas, there was no sign of life within so I continued over the rocky trail to Rannoch Loch, made trickier to navigate and remain upright by the slippery surfaces. I was regularly glaring at the sky, eyes peeled for the slightest sign of lightness or a break in the clouds. This would take a while to come, but a blue patch appeared above as I rolled alongside the loch. The azure spread relatively rapidly as rainfall gave way to a welcome intense sun shining directly on to my back.

The road to Rannoch Moor indicated the sanctuary of Rannoch Tearoom six miles ahead. This was situated at the railway station, around 1.5km off the mandatory route at a dead end but, with no other opportunity for use of indoor facilities in the next 100km to CP3, I elected to make the diversion. Installed within, I polished off a bowl of porridge, gradually adding more and more of the side jug of cream until the entirety was dumped on, a tea cake and warm coffee. As I awaited service, I wrung out my socks, gloves and mitts before placing them on the radiator (which of course was on - this is August in Scotland after all). This was the first time in 4 years that I have taken a sit-down meal during a race but even in reflection was again the right call. The sky had now cleared up somewhat, making way for a sunny interval so around 45 minutes after arriving I was a lot more comfortable when setting out to tackle the final stretch.

The remaining 100km was largely off road and mostly rideable but started with some slow bumpy progress and stream-hopping on the Road to the Isles through Rannoch and Corrour Moors. The setting was spectacular, remote and enchantingly bleak, but I wasn’t able to fully absorb the beauty – too engrossed on picking my line through the trail ahead or fretting over the ever-changing meteorological conditions. The weather from here on couldn’t make its mind up. Either the sun was shining and it was slightly too warm or the clouds swept in again for extended showery periods. The wind had a real chill to it and there was a noticeable difference having it as a hindering cross/headwind when heading west or a handy tailwind when pointed north or east.

The concluding, overbearing obstacle was the Corrieyairack Pass. At 770m, this signified the highest point in elevation terms of the entire route. This military road is unsurfaced for the final 6km of the ascent and the whole of the 12km descent, with an iconic series of tight switchbacks close to the summit. The images are spectacular, but I braced myself for a slow, bumpy ride to negotiate both slopes of this intimidating brute. The task quickly grew more complicated on the valley leading to the pass when my derailleur decided that it was not going to offer me use of my easiest gear - the only gear I’d likely be using for this climb! As soon as tarmac gave way to stony track, I managed to manually place the chain on to the biggest cog and kept it here for the 4-5km of the lower slopes. The gradient there was no problem to overcome but the trail was unfailingly intersected every 20 to 50 metres by large blocks of stone bordering streams running perpendicularly across. I could navigate my way through gaps for some of these obstacles and pass through the stream but was forced to dismount for countless others, making for disjointed progress. The last 2km were impossibly steep and rocky (for me at least!) so my feet did much of the work. Summiting in a westerly direction had me facing the robust wind almost head-on but I felt fortunate that the rain was holding off as this would have made things rather unpleasant at such an exposed, high up spot.

The most exasperating aspect however was the descent. I was sure I had heard it described as a ‘flowing, fast 12km gravel descent’ but this was far from my experience. The surface was uncomfortably rocky, always requiring a firm grip of the brakes which wore at my wrists after a while. I promised myself not to take another tumble so descended cautiously and tried to accept that it may take longer than anticipated to reach the base. An added frustration were the numerous kickers which I was having to strain to get over without the use of my easiest gear. Apparently this ‘descent’ included 300 metres of climbing – a figure I’m not totally convinced is accurate, but there was enough of it to wear me down, both mentally and physically. All I wanted to do was descend unimpeded towards the finish. To add to the fun I even managed a fourth, rather comedic, fall on a tame grassy downhill section once off the pass and on the run-in to Fort Augustus.

The checkpoint was a few kilometres north of Fort Augustus, so there was of course still opportunity to divert from the nice, flat, direct road alongside Loch Ness to take in a couple of gratuitous hills along the slopes above. By this point I just wanted it to be over. I may not have eaten enough during the 3.5 hours it took to traverse the Corrieyairack Pass and a slight brain-fog swept over me as I lumbered through the rolling woodland leading to the checkpoint. The campsite acting as CP3 was a rather welcome sight. My selfie taken at this moment tells you all you need to know about my immediate reflection of this stage.