Well, I have to hand it to Scotland or the High Lands or wherever we are. They built me a road.
Exaggerating, only a little, about 10yrs ago they worked out I would turn up - one day - and when I did they'd built a new A9 for the cars, the trucks and the 40fters so that I could cycle 80 miles all by myself in the forest. It rained a bit but not in a Cornwall or Devon type way so that was easy to ignore.
Except, I was late setting off. Last night when I did 10 miles for the road, I had to take all my courage in my hands. It was scary. Fast, furious and very unforgiving but I'd saved up all day for that hour and having done it, retreating back 16 miles to the Blair Atholl Hotel was like a piece of bliss. Now that is an awesome place.
On check in, I got an attic upgrade to a very large bath apartment and I thought I'd died and gone to LEJOG heaven. Because I had. Quick change and in the pub that adjoins, I had a fabulous fish pie and the Majors declared their best meal of the Tour.
I was shattered so I tried for an early night but up in the attic it seemed like the best thing to do was go back to the pub. I did. But it was odd. A lot of local folks and the man behind the bar who said very loudly (word travelled before me) in a super scottish accent:-
'Are you mental?'
That's the most direct attack on LEJOG so far that I've received. I'd like to say I batted it off and didn't feel a thing but it would be a lie. It cut close. The other thing I've struggled with is that the other day, I walked in to a pub in the middle of no where without the Majors and when I said I'd like a beer and would it be OK to bring in the bike because of LEJOG the lady behind the bar said 'is your name Ruston?' I looked at her and felt WIERDED out. When I said yes, she said 'Sarah?' and then I felt entirely WIERDED out. How on earth.. 'Oh', she said. 'A lot of people are tweeting about you'.
Good God. How does that work? A complete stranger knows my name before I order a pint of medicine. I NEVER want to be famous.
I was dreading the A9 all night. I woke in a sweat and I refused to get up for breakfast until 10 mins before but I was all for taking time and didn't actually go back to last night's late end until 10am. And then I got a stroke of luck. In the dark, at Glen Garry, I thought I saw a Sustrans cycle logo but it was dark and I'd just done 10 miles against the road until a man yelled out of a 'Highway Maintenance' lorry 'Be Careful' in a way which you know means BE CAREFUL.
In the light, I sent Mum Major down the downhill to check if I was right. And I was. There was a cycle route. Good God. What a result. The trouble was that only 10 miles later in Dalwhinnie Distillery, a great coffee spot and half an hour late, they donated a great bottle of Whisky for free.
So it was a slow late start to a slow late day. It went on in the same vein all day. The replacement cycle route should be taken over a week. One day in the not too distant future I will get the train to Inverness and do a week to go back to Pitlochry via every single stop it is possible to do. It's a dream. And no, it's not day 12 blues. Day 12 realism actually.
Meanwhile the Majors were drunk on taking pictures. Newly free - I insisted on being responsible for myself - they were seen taking hundreds of pictures. So many so that at one point in the day, in the middle of the road with all blinkers on, there was the Major's car with Mum Major standing by saying, 'Your Dad's taking pictures'. I kept on. As it turned out, Dad Major was so busy taking pictures he fell in the Loch. Loch Moy to be precise.
You have to laugh. Little Lady Lead Legs is at the end of all trying and Mum Major is pulling Dad Major out of the Loch. I guess it's a holiday on one level. Although on this level it's not very funny. I'm a lot fed up, a lot tired and a lot at the end of my patience.
Ah well. Today was a result day. I did it. I didn't want to. But I did it. Sometimes, getting through it is a good day.
Today, I got through it.
XX
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