Training Days are Over

Day: 25 (Pitlochry to Aviemore)

Average Speed: 13 mph 

Distance: 60.1 miles 

Distance Cycled Total: 1119.5 miles 

Feet climbed: 2467.2 ; 52,581.4 total

Difficulty level: Moderate

The Ever-so-Popular Bicycle as Planter

“Did someone shove a rocket up your arse?”

It was sunny for an hour or so!

Jamie Norton said this once after I zipped by him somewhere in Nevada. I heard those words in that Yorkshire accent over and over again today. I mean, I know a 13 mph pace is nothing to get all that excited about, but it's certainly my fastest of the trip and every bit of it felt great. It's only sixty miles, but I’m proud them, dammit.  

It felt like the rocket was in place. 

Or it could be the fact that I brought my tires up to their proper PSI, having been very under-inflated since I changed my last flat (RIP old pump). That probably makes more sense. 

I prefer to think that I'm finally warmed up. 

Artistic Cycle Path Marker

There’s this thing that happens… about three weeks into starting any beneficial activity- whether it’s dieting, or exercising, or (I assume) yoga- where it starts to actually feel good. I suppose for some, it’s gradual. But for me I can pinpoint it. I know exactly where I was in Missouri when climbing no longer fazed me, and the day after a long climb in Albania everything else was metaphorically downhill. 

“Why not just put yourself through that three weeks before a tour?” you might ask. And that’s a great question. But I have an answer. 1) Laziness. Reasons 2) and 3) and 4) and 5) are all other things that are eventually going to point back to 1), so I won’t enumerate them, but they’re there.

Today's Elevation Profile

The way I prepare for a tour is akin to a runner walking around a city block and stopping at every bar in preparation for a marathon. 

But the climbs felt great today, especially the Drumochter Pass in the Grampian Mountains. 

It’s difficult to differentiate between a mountain and a hill, but in my vernacular, mountains are typically enjoyable to climb whereas hills are often not. Mountains offer long ascents, and politely ask your respect. If they could speak, they’d have a refined British accent- like that of Henry Higgins- and you accept the challenge. “Hello, and welcome,” a mountain would say, “If there’s anything I can do to assist you in your endeavor, please don’t hesitate to ask.” Hills, on the other hand, are just plain bitchy. And if they could speak, they’d sound like Fran Drescher from The Nanny. “Smell this!” they’d say, wondering if their freshly Febreezed hot pants would past muster in the self checkout at Wal-Mart. It’s hard to love a hill. 

Nothing to see here... just another castle!

Mountains also provide rewards. You know what’s better than descending at a 3-4% gradient with the Scottish Highlands in the foreground for 20 miles while Ben Folds is providing the soundtrack on a (mostly) paved traffic-free path? Puppies. But that’s about it. Even Lennie Small would agree. 

Steep descents are thrilling, for sure, but they're over too quickly and you have to exercise more caution.  

The weather was certainly Scottish today- the gray rainy morning turned to bright warm sunshine, but just as I passed a sign warning cyclists that there would be no shelter for the next thirty kilometers a storm appeared in the distance. I estimated it to be about fifty miles away. I was off by about forty-nine (give or take). It was sudden and violent, and I assumed the lightning that was crashing down would find me as its target. Ya' know... because I was wearing bright yellow. If I were lightning, I'd be attracted to yellow. But two miles later, that was over. "If you don't like the weather in Scotland," a passing cyclist said, "just hang around for ten minutes." Still, it's difficult to look at a Scottish 10-day weather forecast and get excited:

It was a somewhat hilly ride into Aviemore after the long descent was over, but I was amped. Rather than downshifting as I approached them, I did the opposite, attacking each one with fresh strength and confidence. I had completely forgotten about my stupid virtual partner, Chad. As usual, my Garmin alerted me that I had once again lost the race to him. But this time, he only beat me by five miles. Baby steps. 

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I was bummed when the sixty miles was over. But the ride always ends at a pub, where I met a local named Gary who was happy to add to the tale of the haggis ("It can either be shot with a bow and arrow or clubbed... it's skin is completely impervious to bullets!). 

Perhaps I should've just kept riding on today. If it weren't for the fact that I'd secured bookings at sites for the rest of the tour, I probably would've. 

When this leg was over, I didn't think I had it in me to do another sixty. 

I knew I had it in me. 

P.S. 

Who knew 'Little Shop of Horrors' was actually an accurate prediction of the future?

Just Another Tourist

Day: 24 (Killin to Pitlochry)

Average Speed: 10 mph 

Distance: 39.6 miles 

Distance Cycled Total: 1059.4 miles 

Feet climbed: 2280.2 ; 50,114.2 total

Difficulty level: Medium Rare

Bicycle Graffiti outside a Cycle Shop

My latest start of the trip. 12:45 PM. That's the time that normal touring cyclists are often in

Scene from Today's Ride

the final third leg of the day's journey. Not me! 

It's not that I didn't wake up early enough. I opened my eyes at 7:30 AM in my tiny tent, listening to the rain pounding down, and thankful that I'd replaced my old paper-thin coffin-sized tent on Day 2. Maybe I'm not a "real camper," but I find it difficult to willingly step foot out into a driving cold rain moments after waking up. I allowed myself a good three hours of dryness, warmth, and self-contemplation while bathing in my own morning stench before I even reached to unzip the tent flap. 

I was also able to amuse the more adventurous passers-by, who were all getting a jump on the day for

Scene from Today's Ride

their morning hike. Apparently, I was not as camouflaged as I thought as I heard each of them make some sort of commentary about my set-up. I wonder if there's anybody in there? I heard one say. Look! A wild camper! from another. How many people do you think can fit in that tent?

I answered each of these queries with my loud morning trumpet sound effect. 

It's a sound that doesn't require vocal cords. 

But boy, it never fails to delight people who aren't within the immediate olfactory-affected area. 

They'd giggle. Applaud. Cheer. Thankful for the monosyllabic answer to their question. And then move on, happier than they were before. 

Just doin' what I can to improve a person's day. One fart at a time. 

At 10:30, I managed myself into the previous night's outfit, stuck a tentative foot onto the

Signage in Killin

wet ground, and ambled downtown for some breakfast, leaving all my gear behind and confident that my humble abode would retain its essence and fend off potential thieves. 

I'd tried a full English breakfast a couple of weeks ago to a less-than-ideal result. But I'd figure I'd give the Scottish version a go. I ate everything I could immediately identify and was left with black pudding and haggis, both of which skeeve me out. I think if they were named something different, it'd be fine. But the version of pudding I'm familiar with is devoid of blood as a key ingredient, and "haggis" sounds like a disease. 

Haggis (stock photo)

On a side note, native Scots love to try to trick tourists into thinking that "a haggis" is an actual animal that roams the countryside terrorizing people. Their eyes light up should you be the one to ask them if a haggis exists in that form, each one embellishing the legend of the dangerous creature with his own far-fetched details. The only consistency is that the haggis has two very short legs on its left side, and two longer legs on its right, enabling it to run around Scottish hill sides in one direction quickly and efficiently as it hunts down prey. It's even more fun if you play into it for a bit and let the tale teller keep adding to his descriptions. "Google it!" David Macdonald had told me, "You'll see!"

Sure enough! It's on the internet! It must be true! 

Anyway, haggis wasn't too terrible. Had just one tiny taste. Still can't tell you about black pudding though. 

I slowly and lazily packed just as I slowly and lazily cycled the 40 miles to Pitlochry, enjoying

Scene from Today's Ride

the ride along the entire eastern length of Loch Tay and noting the many spots where it would've been excellent to wild camp should I have moved on further the previous night. The rain had stopped, but it was another jacket-off / jacket-on / jacket-off type day as someone had turned the air conditioning back on and a mystical grayness hung in the sky. Waterfalls. Lochs. Woods. Repeat. It may seem redundant on the outset, but it's not at all. It's wonderful. And with all the curves in the road, there's always a bit of mystery to keep the mind engaged. 

A Crannog that I'm sure is worth touring...

At one point, I was passing a strange looking village of sorts. The sign out front read The Scottish Crannog Centre, and I was overcome with curiosity. I paid the steep £10 entry fee and poked around for a bit. It was full of craftsmen/women dressed in traditional garb celebrating Scottish ancestry and the Iron Age, each demonstrating a different trade. Ancient cooking, spoon carving, knife-making... and.. erm... other stuff. 

Knife-making demonstration

It reminded me of Museum Village in Monroe, New York... except it was interesting. Being the world's worst tourist, I skipped the tour of the actual crannog (an ancient loch dwelling), passed through the tiny museum portion, and snapped a few pics of the demonstrations. I figure that stop cost me approximately £1 per minute. 

Southern tip of Loch Tay

It was a solitary ride from there, circumnavigating the southern tip of Loch Tay and disappearing into the woods as I was introduced to the Highlands. Towns are noticably further apart, and the population is thinner. Though I was on the road for much of it, I encountered little traffic. I popped in my earbuds and let Apple Music's Americana playlist accompany me the rest of the way into Pitlochry, a trendy (surprisingly busy) Victorian Era village in the Tummel Valley. 



One thing that I've found disappointing since I've reached Scotland is that each of the towns

Musicians entertain the tourists

my guide has me staying in is heavily touristed. I suppose it's only natural, but it's becoming a frequently disappointing ending to each day. In small towns, it's easy to strike up conversations with locals and get a flavor of the area. In these? You're just another tourist. Thanks for stopping by. Show me your wallet. 

Had I known this ahead of time, I may have tried to stay overnight in some of the tiny in-between towns, but honestly... have you ever heard of Pitlochry? Callander? Killin? Balloch? Unless you've actually been on a similar tour or did some serious nerding-out while studying for the Geography Bee in middle school, I'm guessing not. They all sound like small towns to me.

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The rain had started back up with a vengeance as soon as I reached the night's accommodations, and I kept largely to myself, even though my bunkmate, Gerry, desperately wanted to discuss American gun violence after sharing the dreadful news of back-to-back shootings that I'd been blissfully unaware of. I skirted the topic, and instead enjoyed the sounds of a couple fiddlers and an accordion at the pub next door before calling it a night.

I figured there was plenty of time to talk with Gerry in the morning. 

No vocal cords necessary. 











P.S. 

You gotta love a town that's willing to poke fun at itself on its own government issued sign.

Yes. It lived up to its name. 

Killin Time

Day: 23 (Callander to Killin)

Average Speed: 9 mph 

Distance: 24.8 miles 

Distance Cycled Total: 1019.8 miles 

Feet climbed: 1361.5 ; 47,834.9 total

Difficulty level: Moderate

Skeleton on a Bicycle outside a Diner

About eight miles into today's short trip, I stopped at a bench to take in the stunning view of

Loch Lubnaig in the distance

Loch Lubnaig and its surrounding hills. Like yesterday, the climb was well worth it, and the bench was demanding some butt time. It was peaceful, but only for a moment or two. From a distance, I saw a lady quickly walking towards me. She looked nervous, and was cradling something that looked like a dirty white-haired dog. I thought for sure she needed veterinary assistance, and I was ready to break out a miniature roll of gauze and my set of Allen wrenches. That's pretty much all you need to fix anything. 

"Did you notice a group of people walk by?" she called. 

I told her I hadn't. I was still unable to determine what she was holding. 

She rushed over with large steps to where I was sitting and laid down her charge. 

Mushrooms. Lots of mushrooms. 

Babysitting mushrooms

She gingerly placed each one on the bench beside me in a perfect row. 

"Can you watch these for me while I go off into these woods?"

"Of course!" I agreed. I mean, how often does one get the chance to babysit fungi? I didn't know if she needed to take a squat or what she was doing... but she was scampering with fury through the forest behind me. 

For the next five minutes, I tried to come up with several different plans as to what my course of action would be should someone or something try to come between me and the mushrooms. I hadn't packed any pepper spray, and I was fresh out of battle axes. I decided I would just point an angry finger at the offender and loudly say "No! Those aren't your mushrooms!" 

She eventually returned to the bench with another armload of 'shrooms, looking utterly confused as to how to merge the two caches into one manageable mass. 

I suggested she use a bag. 

Scenery from today's ride

Her name was Lisa, and she was part of the Clyde and Argyle Fungi Group ("You can find us on Facebook!") whose mission (I think) is to identify growth zones for different types of fungi in the area. She gave me a super quick lesson on which ones were edible before advising me never to eat any of them. And then she was off, in search of the rest of her group who had the proper carrying vessels. 

I didn't have the heart to tell her she dropped a few in her haste. 

I also set off, and about a quarter mile later saw a group of people on the side of the road enjoying lunch. 

"Are you all by any chance collecting mushrooms?"

"Yes," one said. 

I knew it. They looked like mushroom people. 

Cycling along an old railway

"There's a lady named Lisa who just went that way with a gold mine!" Nobody moved, and I got the distinct feeling the group was trying to ditch Lisa, begging the question How strange does a person have to be in order to be shunned by a fungus forum? "I can cycle back and tell her you're over here."

"I'll get her," a man finally said with resignation. I was glad. I felt like a good babysitter. Lisa's mushrooms would be safe. 

The rest of the ride was nearly as stunning as yesterday's as I climbed along an old railway and eventually descended into the town of Killin, where families were splashing in the Dochart Falls and enjoying the rare sunny (and somewhat hot!) day. 

But a new problem arose for me. 

Boredom. 

I fully appreciate what my guide is doing: It's slowly taking cyclists through the best of what

The Dochart Falls

Scotland has to offer and encouraging them to stop and enjoy. But I'd only been a few hours on the bike, and was unsure of what to do after I cycled through the town and enjoyed the view of the falls. I mean, how many hours can one stare at the same thing?

I'm rarely bored on a bicycle. Maybe once or twice during the Trans America trip, and perhaps once on this year's ride into Abington, but that's it. Too much time off the bike is when boredom starts. 

With hours to kill before nightfall, I tried to figure out a way to be productive. So I sat in a pub and did something I've never done before: I planned the rest of the trip, securing stays at hostels and campsites, and buying the train tickets necessary to get to Edinburgh after finishing. I even tried to get the appropriate bicycle reservations for the train (no luck). That kept me busy for some time. But after it was done, the boredom crept back. 

I had no plans for the night other than to set up camp somewhere in the woods. 

"Wild Camping," as it's called, refers to camping on land that is not specifically designated for that purpose. Unlike England, it's legal in Scotland. The extremely vague law essentially reads Camp wherever you'd like... just don't be a dick about it. 

Wild Camping in Killin

Can you camp on someone's private property? Yes. Kind of. As long as it doesn't look like private property. And try to ask the owner's permission if you can find the owner. But if you can't, then go ahead anyway. 

Can you camp in parks? Sure. Just try to stay hidden. No one wants to see you camping. Pretend you're not there. If we both cover our eyes, we can't see one another.

Can you start a fire? We'd prefer you didn't. But if you must, then go ahead. But please don't. We're asking nicely. 

I didn't do it!

This law is somewhat controversial as people, of course, abuse it. The spot that I found just 500 feet out of town was perfect. Right beside a talkative stream and somewhat camouflaged under the tree cover. But someone else had been here before me, and had left a trove of beer bottles behind. 

It's like that one student who can't handle being trusted to have a cell phone out during class, so the teacher has to change the rule and demand everybody keep them in their backpacks. A handful of assholes ruin it for everybody. 

But for tonight? I'm good. 

David, Alison, and Me. Hard to take pics with candles in
the background. 

And I was still within walking distance of the pub, where I met David and Alison Macdonald (and their dog Roxy). We enjoyed one another's company while listening to the music of Scott Macdonald (the "MAC" section of Scotland's phone book must be intense). Though it was still early on a Saturday night, the crowd dwindled to a handful hours before closing time, and eventually Scott was singing to just four of us. A quiet night, but I was no longer bored. 

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Back to the campsite in the dark, using my phone's flashlight to find the tiny footpath to my tent.

And carefully sidestepping any mushrooms. 















P.S. 

"Honey! I'm going to drop Tommy off at the Killin Nursery!"

"Isn't that a bit drastic? I know he's in his terrible two stage, but have we explored other options?"

Keeping it Clean

Day: 21 (Glasgow to Balloch)  and Day: 22 (Balloch to Callander)

Average Speed: 11.5 mph (Day 21) / 9 mph (Day 22)

Distance: 35.6 miles (Day 21) / 37.6 miles (Day 22)

Distance Cycled Total: 995 miles 

Feet climbed: 1236.9 (Day 21) 2906.8 (Day 22) ; 46473.4 total

Difficulty level: Extremely Easy (Day 21) / Somewhat Challenging (Day 22)

A Purple Bicycle Fixed in Place in Front of Callander Cathedral

One of the stupidest books I’ve ever read is a true story called Round Ireland with a Fridge, by Tony Hawks. I don’t know where I came across a copy of it. I think someone left it behind on an airplane, or perhaps it was in a doctor’s waiting room. My only regret is that I read the whole thing (it was later made into an unwatchable movie). The title gives away most of the plot: on a drunken bet, the hero sets out to hitchhike around Ireland with a mini-fridge in tow. It was a £100 bet. And Hawks spent £130 on the fridge itself. While it has a quirky premise, it’s poorly written (and I read this way back when I thought the prose of James Patterson was sublime), devoid of meaningful content, and just plain dumb. 

I highly recommend it. 

My location

Hawks’ mission was only slightly more stupid than that of Pad, Jeremy, and Sean, an Irish trio that I met in the centre of Balloch after the day's ride.  Though, in my opinion, Balloch is not a town that deserves special attention, it’s at the southern tip of Loch Lomond, and naturally draws tourists setting out on all different types of exploration throughout Trossachs National Park. These three were certainly prepared for some sort of quest.

“What are the brooms for?” I asked. Each of the three hikers had his own newly purchased janitorial broom. One had a plastic fork behind his ear. And another carried a large blank canvas. 

They stared at me as if they’d never before heard the adage ‘There’s no such thing as a stupid question.’

“They’re for sweeping,” one finally said. Duh!

Pad, Jeremy, and Sean... on a mission of sorts.

I looked at them. They looked at me. Then the three burst into a haphazardly choreographed sweep session, clearing the clean sidewalk of, well… nothing. I waited until it was over. All three were beaming with pride. 

“No seriously, what are the brooms for?”

“They’re for sweeping!” another shouted. They repeated their dance. 

This went on for a few more minutes, and I found it remarkable that they were able to keep up the same routine every time I asked about the purpose of the brooms. Finally, I capitulated. The brooms were for sweeping. Their goal was to hike throughout Loch Lomond… and sweep the very well-maintained trails. 

“What if there’s a stray leaf on the ground?” Pad asked. 

“I’ll sweep it away!” Jeremey responded, showing off his skills.

“A bit of dirt?” 

The canvas isn't blank anymore

“Gone!” Sean shouted, violently fending off imaginary dust. 

Giving up on the brooms, I asked about the rather large blank canvas in tote. They didn’t seem to know what that was for. But they did ask me to scribble a bit of graffiti on it. And I obliged.

The plastic fork behind Jeremy’s ear was the only thing that made a bit of sense to me. 

The three suddenly realized they had a bus to catch and fled with their ridiculous accoutrements in tow. 

Go figure. 

The ride to Balloch from Glasgow was absurdly short and easy. It probably should've been rolled into another stage, but my guidebook suggested taking advantage of the day and boarding a boat cruise to tour around the famed Loch Lomond. By the time I got there, the last of the cruises was set to depart in an hour, and I was tempted. I figured I'd secure lodging, have a quick lunch, and sail away!

Ride through Balloch Castle Country Park

To pull that off, however, one needs to plan ahead just a wee bit. Not my forte. While the small town is jam-packed with B&Bs, most of them were entirely booked. The ones that weren't wanted a small fortune and an organ donation for a night's rest. Even the local campground was reserved for glampers only, and they scoffed at the idea of a smelly guy in a tent on their grounds. I gave up on the cruise, and instead opted to stay at a campground five miles away, which appeared to be located lakeside. As I pedaled there through the beautiful Balloch Castle Country Park, I imagined myself sitting in my tent as the sun set, occasionally sipping a brew and writing tear-inducing poetry with the shimmering waters of Loch in my peripheral. 

My View of Loch Lomond

No such luck. Most of the ride there was along a busy, narrow (and hilly!) road. When I eventually found the site, it was a big let down. No lake. Just other campers. Nowhere to charge devices. Dirty facilities. No small town nearby. And not so much as a picnic bench to take a seat. I set up my tent, but my choices were to either lay down in it (and fall asleep at 6 PM) or awkwardly stand next to it, and admire the view of the other tents. 

So I rode five miles back to Balloch. Hills. Traffic. Blah blah blah. 

Me, Caroline, and Billy

It would've been great to spend the rest of the night there, especially after befriending a few locals and a hilarious couple celebrating their 35th wedding anniversary. The thick accents- while often rendering their speech incomprehensible- only added to the fun. But at 11 PM I called it quits, put my faith in my taillight, and rode another five miles back to camp. Ironically, most of the day's ride (and certainly all of the climbing) came from the three trips back and forth to Camp Sucks-A-Lot.

The next morning I rode back to Balloch (yet again) to pick up my route. I could've followed Google Maps to the next town, but FOMO got the better of me. I didn't want to miss any portion of what my guide called "...one of the most scenic stages of the entire route."

Loch Lomond

And wow. 

From start to finish, it was incredible. 

I'm trying very hard to avoid using superlatives and saying something like "It's the most stunning ride I've ever been on." Since I typically live in the moment, it's hard to compare what I see in the present with what I've seen in the past. I mean, Utah was particularly amazing for sure. But this ride... I'm pretty sure it's one of the most stunning rides I've ever been on. 

One of many views that
couldn't be captured properly
in a photo

Climbs were challenging, fun, and seriously rewarding as they led to top notch views of the Trossachs and Loch Lomond. 

I toured through the lovely towns of Drymen, Gatmore, and Aberfoyle, renowned for its wool production. 

Queen Elizabeth Forest

Then up a steep climb through Queen Elizabeth Forest Park, thick with tall trees and rife with tiny waterfalls. I assume that the rough paths and tricky terrain deter a lot of tourists from venturing too deep, so it felt like I had the place all to myself. 

Along Loch Venachar

An easy ride along Loch Venachar saw me into the town of Callander, nestled amongst hills on the east side of Trossachs Park. The sun came out, and I realized that this was my first rain-free day in Scotland, which made me appreciate even more that I had gotten the ugly out of the way all at once in the trip to Abington. 

I hardly talked with anyone- there were no quirky characters, and I only came across a handful of touring cyclists.

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But this wasn't the kind of day that called for company. 

The day spoke for itself. 

There sure as hell wasn't anything that three Irish guys with brooms needed to sweep away. 

P.S. 

I failed to read the camp rules in a timely fashion.

After reading rule #5 at midnight, it was awkward to have to wake everyone up at the campground in order to introduce myself.

Also... rule #11 isn't a rule. Just sayin'.