andygates

We did it! Conditions were perfect for the third attempt at our 115-mile coast-to-coast ride from Dumbarton Castle on the West Coast to St Andrews on the East. The last two rides were thwarted by weather, but fear not, Scotland still had something for us: this was the Year of the Midge and we all got nibbled on. My legs are a picture...

We opened at a decent pace, the usual suspects (Erron sans beard, Will avec mohawk) plus one, Mister 86 (that's a huge gear). Tom's the only one clever enough to have brought gears, the rest of us are fixie recidivists all riding around 70"; 69" jokes are made.  Bowling along, we made Merkins Farm in daylight, then pressed through the pretty West coast lumpy stuff (ie, hills) to the Kirkhouse Inn in Strathblane at lighting-up time (about 10). One lamp was sacrificed to the eaty-kit godlings of potholes and rough stuff. Weirdly, some of this route had been resurfaced, so it was a random selection of crazy agricultural potholes and slick tarmac.

Leaving the pub we fired up the photonic drives and dove into the industrial heartland in the middle of the ride; we counted the Roundabouts of Cumbernauld (I'm not telling, that'd jinx it) and I coasted into the services bellowing "I have counted the Roundabouts of Cumbernauld!" just as half a million Take That fans were waiting there for the only 24-hour services in town.  Whoops! 

Pace was still high, so we tried to throttle it down a bit, but it seems our legs weren't having any of it.  The whisky-and-jerky stop outside Linlithgow was more ritual than necessity (last year it was a desperate refuge), and then Mr 86 blew a spoke, so there was bodge-fettling to make the bike rideable and much debate about boutique wheelbuilders and whether or not they're worth it. 

And so to the Bridge approach, whch was just utterly glorious.  The Forth was flat and shiny, dawn was putting a bright metallic edge on the clouds; the land was scattered black speckled with streetlamps, and the Bridges strings of jewels over the water.  Insert purple prose here: it really was worth the ticket just for this bit (and, as always, to have earned it made it better, like a cup of tea after a hike).  Up and over the Bridge, then, with mandatory photo op and jelly babies, and on to Dalgety Bay for fresh tea, coffee and croissants straight from the oven.

As Stephen Fry might say, "blissikins!"

Now it gets hazy.  Arses are beginning to ache and bodies trying to shut down, and the pace naturally drops.  Erron and 86 are going strong; Will's pace is like his hair, going a bit floppy; Tom and I are making "ooh, me arse" noises and RB's doing her buff ninja thang.  The conditions are a gift: nobody's going to be packing now we're over the Bridge, not unless bits drop off.

From Dalgety Bay we press across to Kirkcaldy, and stop briefly at the point we were rained out the first year.  Yah-boo-glory gets rolled up into argh-hill-crikey and alas, for your correspondent, it starts to blur here as I begin bonking.  It all gets a bit shigata ga nai - there's only one way this ends, so what's to be done? Ride! We hack across country via Leven towards Crail, then take the main road to St Andrews in beautiful bright sunlight and a literal mirror sea, but I've bonked so badly that the others are taking spells shadowing my wobbly ride and I'm a grumpy arse (sorry chaps).  And then the beach.  And then the grass.  And then the coffee.

Done!