Loaded up with bananas and muffins from the hostel breakfast bar, our first stop…..Halfords. We just can’t stay away. New cable and WD40 should sort our mechanical woes. No such luck. Shifter jammed. Off to a proper bike shop then. Highland Bikes where they have a 10 week waiting list for repair work. Steve, the owner, takes pity on me though. 45 minutes later I’m handed this…
It’s like being given your extracted tooth by the dentist. This is the cause of my shifting problem - the broken cable nipple which jammed the mechanism. We‘re on our way by 11am and the Tickle Monster, frustrated by our distinct lack of
progress today, immediately launches a blistering attack. The breakaway is established. Will the peloton reel him back in before Altnaharra? Even with a full set of gears it seems unlikely. Gaz and Carl are happy to let him get 10 minutes down the road and settle in for day. Riding this once main road which has been turned into a cycle way, nearly half of the road reclaimed by nature.
A long and painful climb up the Struie is rewarded with this:
A glorious view out to the Dornoch Firth on a windy but sunny day. Last time I was here, there was a thick mist. I was oblivious to what I was missing. Then a rapid descent to Bonar Bridge on a road surface that’s been gnawed at by ice and snow. It‘s like riding down a giant cheese grater. No wonder then Tank Commander Hinde suffers our third major mechanical. A rack bolt, sheared off by the vibrations rattling though his Panzer. Here’s a flattering picture of him at the road side, fixing the problem with a zip tie.
Mr Tickle is six miles up the road, chuckling to himself. He knows what’s in store. A brutal 10 mile climb from Lairg to the famous Crask Inn. In normal circumstances, this would be no problem at all. But today there‘s a 20mph headwind to fight. Not only that, the road is so narrow, we’re constantly being forced into the deep gravel verges as we encounter tipper truck after tipper truck heading towards us. Five miles up, it becomes clear why. On this beautiful, windswept moorland, they’re constructing a giant wind farm. Heavy plant and signage championing the ecological benefits of turbines litter the landscape. It looks horrible but it’s too windy to stop and take photographs. Not until we reach here anyway:
The most isolated pub on the UK mainland has been given a refurb since I was here last. It needed it. Refreshed we head to stage finish, Altnaharra. An eight mile descent into this hidden gem of a hamlet and our B&B digs for the night. When we get there the Monster is already showered, another stage win in the bag. The yellow, polka dot, green and white jerseys are nailed on now. Tomorrow’s journey to John O’ Groats should just be a formality. Should be….