The Achnasheen Desolation

Murdo MacLeod

1982

There was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run. When the wild majestic mountains stood alone against the sun. Long before the white man and long before the wheel. When the green dark forest was too silent to be real

These are the opening lines of Gordon Lightfoots Canadian Railroad Trilogy, a song nobody remembers but which takes me straight to my day like this.

It was late August 1982, one Monday morning, when I clambered into the old cycling gear - thick tartan shirt, v neck sweater, brown corduroys and worn trainers - and mounted my 5-speed Raleigh to embark on the opening day of an epic journey from Inverness to the Isle of Harris, stopping at Torridon and Broadford. There were four of us - my twin brother John, my cousin and friend Norman and our school friend Andrew.

Leaving Inverness, we snaked along the shore of the Moray Firth to Beauly, through Muir of Ord, into the enormous wilderness landing in Achnasheen. Those few words convey nothing of the agony of that unspeakable 43 mile tragi-comic struggle against the forces of nature and unsuitably tight trousers. Our cycling styles matched our personalities - Norman out in front, taking the wind without compromise, strong and persistent, and unnecessarily serious; John, apparently carefree and optimistic, prone to bizarre mechanical failures; Andrew, inexperienced but determined to enjoy himself, progressively worn out by sprinting and resting repeatedly; and me, tucked in, talking and singing incessantly, wanting only to be heard and not seen.

By lunch we were spent. A gusting, obnoxious head wind had driven the life and spirit out of us as we wobbled, jelly-legged, into the pub at Achnasheen. John bought a round to refresh us, and in a moment, Andrew drained his pint. Soon after, we found him, with an unsettlingly beatific expression, leaning back holding the roller towel in the bathroom. Andrew was, like me, unimpressively twiglike, but even his weight was too much for the towel, which split with a satisfying zing, depositing Andrew on the tiled floor. I have no idea what Andrew was feeling - he said nothing throughout - but it improved our morale no end.

We started out again, stiff and bloated from too many chips. An elderly American stopped us to engage in conversation. Maybe he just felt we looked like we needed encouragement. When we rode off, he called after us, Okay, lads, heads down - butts up!

Some may call Achnasheen the jewel of the highlands; it may have produced men and women of renown and beauty; but that day it felt like the heel of Andy Murrays sock. Glad we were to shake the mud of the place from our Golas.

20 minutes out, a driver waved us down. Boys, you left your coat at the pub! Not ours, we confirmed. A shrug and he continued on his way, still with the coat. Who knows whose coat it was? By this point, we were becoming mildly hysterical.

As we slowly ascended out of the village it dawned on us that the road sharply inclining away from us was the only road to the west, and thats where we would have to go to reach a bed for the night. And if youve never cycled any distance let me tell you its no problem to work out whether its better to travel than to arrive.

The hill, leading to a crest with a justly admired view of Loch Maree and Kinlochewe at its foot, was a slow, desperate climb, with no apparent respite, exposed its full length to the whipping wind which obviously didnt much fancy us. Norman summarised the situation through half-closed eyes, John Wayne about to lead the herd in Red River, and got on with doing what he did best - leaving us behind. I followed at a slightly forlorn distance, with John cajoling Andrew to get it in first and take his time.

I thought we were doing pretty well. Hill climbing is, crucially, about rhythm. Get into a pattern of breathing, pedalling and pulling, and the unbearable pain recedes into barely manageable torment. Never stop. Let me make that clear. When youre on a long climb, never stop. Its a nightmare getting started again so nobody ever stops. Its an unspoken bond among us not to stop.

Andrew stopped. John called us back. I turned to see, fatally lost momentum, and gave in, turning to wheel back to the layby where Andrew had reached his limit. Norman eventually realised what had happened, and returned, seething.

Andrew, who by this stage, was sitting on a rock gazing over the valley with an enigmatic face, spoke indistinctly. John, torn between sympathy and an unstoppable urge to burst out laughing, translated. He said, Leave me alone boys, I want to die. There was a pause. In the silence, breached only by the howling of what I believed was the wind but could have been Norman, I saw that Andrew hadnt just dismounted. He had tossed his bike aside with disdain. You cant do that. Its your steed, your boon companion, your only way to get to dinner that night.

John mediated with Andrew and eventually persuaded him to return to his vehicle. I did nothing, but very effectively, as Norman didnt kill Andrew, but turned and resumed his climbing.

The rest of that ride remains with me, a vivid waking nightmare. When we reached Torridon we had been utterly wiped out by the head wind, and having misjudged the distance had suffered the grave disappointment of shelter being 10 miles further than we had thought. We barely spoke that evening. We were too tired to argue, and too demoralised.

You might think that arriving would be glorious relief, a chance to stop and rest, warm up, dry out and restore the juices with a good meal. We got all of that, but only one thought preoccupied us that night.

Its going to be just as bad tomorrow.