Day Ten - Glasgow to Glen Coe

As we left Glasgow today, we were inevitably 'cut up' by a bloke in a white
van. It's not the first time and probably won't be the last, but Steve was
unable to contain himself. At full volume (and in an accent far too English for my liking, given our location) he ventured an opinion on the drivers proclivity for self-abuse and the authenticity of his parentage.

I stared at the brake lights in fear, praying they would not suddenly turn
red. This could go one of two ways; the best outcome was to hope the driver was deaf or on the phone. The potentially more painful outcome was that he stopped to 'discuss' the matter in more detail with Mr Morgan. I'd like to point out, that Steve would at this point be negotiating alone. I have few
cycling abilities, but can shift myself reasonably swiftly over a couple of
hundred yards - or at least beyond the reach of an enraged van driver. For
me, its all about flight, not fight.

But being a cyclist is to immediately turn yourself into a target. You can be
cycling along, minding your own business and suddenly, someone either tries to kill you, or for some reason feels the need to shout obscenities at you.

It's one of the few depressing sides of cycling. Well, that and steep hills.


Another favourite trick is for a car - usually packed full of adolescents -
to slowly pull up alongside you, windows open, all the better for all the
occupants to shout "banker" (at least that is what it sounded like) or some other highly celebral and erudite
comment at you. Of course, since this comes totally by surprise, you tend to
squeal with shock and wobble quite a lot. The car meanwhile drives off with
its spotty occupants nearly wetting themselves with self-congratulatory
laughter.

Only once has this situation worked in my favour. Enraged I gave chase,
fuelled by adrenaline and the need to right a wrong. The hapless teenagers -
presuming to have left me well behind on the road - got stuck in traffic.
The hunted had become the hunter. Like great white, I approached unseen. I was delighted to notice that their windows were still obliging open; they'd forgotten all about me. With their car stuck at a traffic light, I was able to draw up alongside, poke not just my head, but entire upper body in
through the passenger window and scream at the top of my voice, a word which (let us just say) they had used freely at me but moments earlier. The only change I made was to convert the word into the plural.

I swear the two boys in the front seat actually hit the ceiling... I know I
dripped sweat on them for good measure, before withdrawing hastily and sprinting off cackling to myself.

Be warned, middle-aged men on bikes do (occasionally) have their moment.

Thankfully, the brake lights in Glasgow stayed off, Steve's head stayed on
his shoulders and we lived another day.

Thankfully, we were soon off the busy Glasgow roads. Steve had once again
plotted a superb route and for nearly 30 miles we followed both canal path
and later cycle path out of the city, which took us almost to the end of
Loch Lomond. In the unexpected sunshine, it was bonnie indeed.

At lunchtime, I ordered Haggis and baked potato, with baked beans. When in Scotland....

Then the real work of the day unfolded as we entered The Highlands. Lots of
climbs but some simply fantastic views to compensate protesting legs. In
fact, climbing up to Glencoe, I noticed Steve had actually broken sweat for
perhaps the first time this trip. This was a major incident.

You see, Steve is far too good a cyclist to go touring with me. He's tootling his way up to John O'Groats far too easily for my liking. He's like the flippin duracell bunny, he never seems to tire or slow down. He has only two speeds, fairly rapid and very fast, which he alternates between for most of the day. To add insult to injured pride, every now and again he will shoot off down the road, 'to get a workout' he'll shout as he sprints off.

Three miles later, he'll be positioned atop some cruel little hill or other
nasty little incline, camera in hand, eager to catch some of my slow-motion cycling. Occasionally he shouts encouragement such as, 'come on chubster' or 'ahh, he is finally here'. At this point if course, If I see him with a
camera, I am obligued to stand up in the pedals, stop pulling exhausted
expressions and attempt to adopt the pain-free and focused demeanor of a
decent cyclist.

Steve is great company, but next time (what time, what flippin next time!!)
it might be advisable to go with someone for whom the trip is actually a challenge. Who occasionally breaks sweat, not just wind.

Glen Coe itself was stunning, though even in sunshine it has a brooding
presence; in mid-winter it must be intimidating indeed.

From Glen Coe down to our youth hostel we enjoyed an exhilarating five mile high-speed descent. Bowling along, with minimal effort amid beautiful scenary was a fantastic end to the day.

Actually, that wasn't quite the end to the day. The local pub not only had a
selection if fine ales, but it had the full haggis, neeps and tatties option. Haggis twice a day; now, does the epicurian highland high life get
any better than that?