My Forty Third Week as a Budding Author

This year I have been very fortunate in that I’ve been able to combine family holidays with work. This might not have been so successful when I worked in IT. I doubt that Helen, Jake and Holly would have enjoyed sunning themselves in a data center server room. Whilst the temperature would have been higher than any other destination we’ve visited previously, flashing LEDs hold a limited fascination and the hum of cooling fans gains a tedium similar to most of the board meetings I was forced to attend.

I guess I could have broken it up with a session where we vehemently blamed each other for a major system failure followed by a brief interlude where we nodded in agreement at company strategy presentations whilst secretly thinking “How did this w**ker ever get on the stage in front of me? And why has he just pretended that he cares about us whilst looking at his watch?”.

However, my current job as a cycling dosser pretending to write a book does have certain holiday based fringe benefits. Essentially I am able to con the family into thinking they are on vacation whilst I extract free labour from them in the name of “fun”.

This last week has been spent zooming round Scotland in the motorhome. Partly due to me having cycled up here in the first place and needing a lift home. I managed to guilt Helen into packing the van full of treats, kids and warm clothes followed by a long drive to pick up her wounded warrior lying spent by the side of the road. I also skillful sold the idea of a vacation whereby the family would develop their photography skills in various scenic Scottish locations. Coincidentally these locations would be places that I had failed to photograph and uncannily they would be taking pictures of a cyclist fighting desperately to complete the content for his book. That’ll be me then.

Our quest began in Torridon, halfway up the Bealach Na Ba. Last time I was here it shagged it down with rain and I was shagged out. All of this shagging prevented me taking any meaningful shots so I persuaded Helen that we needed to get as high up the pass as possible to nail some decent piccies. She agreed as long as I drove the van, there are a multitude of warning signs at the bottom that basically advise motorists to walk. I got it about a third of the way up before crapping myself and insisting we walk the rest. Later a Scottish omnibus descended from the top and put my driving skills to shame.

This was Helen’s first foray into cycling photography and as the picture above attests she took to it pretty well. It was all of ten minutes between “Which button do I press?” to “Please ride that again, without the stupid gurn and try to keep your hands off the brakes”. The kids disappeared with my spare camera promising to take some moody scenic shots. Hmmm……..

Our session was rudely interrupted by a mad walker. She strode purposefully up the road and enquired as to “How long we would be taking photos?”. I hadn’t realised that the Bealach was metered and that only a fixed time period was available for the taking of landscapes. We fobbed her off with “twenty minutes” and watched her march off up the hill muttering to herself about “yellows, blues and scenery”.

Next we hit Skye and drove most of the way round the island in search of an open campsite. The trusty Sligahan site was closed and we decided not to break the “Don’t shit in the motorhome” rule. Eventually we found a croft next to a loch that had expanded out into camping. We paid, asked for pub directions, parked up, admired the view, then trooped up the road in search of food. After half a mile conversation ceased drowned out by rain. We’d broken Scottish rule number 43 subsection a) 

“No matter how clear the skies, how low the wind and how dry the roads you shalt always carry a coat as it will probably rain” 

Hiding out in a bus shelter Helen confessed that she’d done the “man thing” of nodding as directions were supplied but failing to take any of them in. We sent Jake out on a scouting mission up a small lane. He returned wet with no sightings of ale. Hunger drove us out into the drizzle. The first pub we found had stopped doing food. The landlord of pub number two was so fat that there was no question of a lack of pies in the vicinity. Suspiciously they were out of steaks and burgers. Given that his wife was a similar size I had no doubt as to where the red meat had made it’s home. To make things worse he matched me pint for pint from behind the bar and then had another to ensure he kept the lead.

Helen made me work it all off the next day though as I rode up and down the Skye hills to ensure that she got the shot.

Another long drive after Skye to Aviemore and a planned rest day from photography. We’d promised the kids a day doing “their sort of stuff” and nervously pushed open the door of Tourist Information for a perusal of their “stuff to do leaflets”. Jake immediately pounced on a terrifying full colour shot of a bloke haring down a fast flowing river with only a car tyre for company.

“Dad, I’d like to go river tubing please”

I was tempted to pretend that my phone had no signal, but Jake is a tenacious little beggar and I knew he’d find a payphone. I gave Helen a resigned glance and dialed the number on the leaflet.

“Please don’t answer, please don’t answer, please don’t…”

“Hello, Stupidlydangerousoutdoorwatersports, can I help you”.

“Ermm,, yes, you don’t really do river tubing do you?” 

“Yes sir we do”

“Oh shit”

“But sadly we finished a few weeks ago”

Jake was a bit confused when the news that we couldn’t go river tubing was accompanied by two adults dancing round the Tourist office punching the air. We let them go on the Treezone high wire forest course instead, who very sensibly did not require adult supervision for the over 12s.

We consoled Jake further by introducing him to the fine Scottish tradition that is Irn Bru. Though he betrayed his middle class credentials by taking it from a glass laden with ice. Luckily the cafe did not have umbrellas or olives.

We curtailed the rest day due to a complete lack of rain and drove up into the hills to knock off a few evening shots. It all went a bit wrong for me here as a complicated piece of book continuity planning meant that the photos must be taken in summer-ish gear. Problem was that it was bloody freezing which explains the quizzical yet hypothermic look that Helen captured in the photo below. I like to think that in years to come it will become the cycling equivalent of the Mona Lisa with generations of riders staring up and asking “Why’s that pillock riding summer shorts with winter boots?”

The week has been therapeutic though, but in a bad way. It hasn’t taken me long to forget the hell that was Lands End to John O’Groats. In fact, it gets worse, as I’ve been looking at the map again and I’ve spotted a line. The line is nearly 500 miles long, it’s not all on roads and in fact some of it is very very high indeed. To make matters worse I’ve tentatively drawn the line in a mapping package and I’ve been splitting it up into days…not many of them. I keep saying to myself “What are you doing you idiot? Don’t you ever learn?” But I’ve drawn it now and so at some point in the near future I am going to have to ride a bike along it.

There’s clearly something of the Frank Bough about me. No sooner do I leave the den of self flagellation then I’m thinking about entering it again. However, this line really is a beauty and there’s a nice little environmentalist type rant to go with it. Have you guessed it yet?

I’m going to hit publish on this blog early as we’ve got a busy day tomorrow. First a trip up into the Cairngorms to show the kids a ski station devoid of snow, then we begin our long journey home. On arrival I’ve got to really get my act together as the book content is just about done. I’ve got to hibernate away and make the bloody thing happen for real. No mean feat for a gadfly like me.

Dave

28th October 2011

WEEK 44>>>>>>>>>>>>>