Post-Race Blues, Tent Temptations, and Gravel Grudges: Adventures in Between

I suppose this is what they call the post-Rat Race blues. Last weekend’s big adventure feels like a glorious blur of mud, sweat and mild panic – and since then, well, not a huge amount has happened. But not nothing, and that’s something.

First up, I’ve signed up for the Dirty Reiver in April. I say “I’ve signed up,” but in reality, the Phantom pressed a few buttons and – poof – my name is on the start list - he signed me up! It’s a mere 130 kilometres of gravel cycling, mostly off-road, designed to be both punishing and life-affirming, a bit like British weather. Hopefully, the Phantom, Mr Orange, Boof, and K will all be rolling tyres alongside me, assuming nobody is suffering from selective memory loss when April comes around. Word on the grapevine says entries are sold out, so at least we can collectively suffer with some exclusivity.

Speaking of suffering, I spent an indecent amount of time obsessing about tents recently. At the Rat Race I spotted one with the words “the classic 2 seconds” emblazoned on the side. Naturally, I had to investigate. Turns out it’s a Quechua pop-up tent, which you can pitch in all of two seconds – less time than it takes me to clip into my pedals. A quick Google inevitably led to Decathlon, who happened to be flogging the three-person version for under £70. Thanks to PayPal temptation, I am now the proud owner of one (just awaiting delivery). It weighs just 3.6kg, promises to be dismantled just as quickly as it’s pitched, and is rated for “occasional outdoor use.” Which I generously interpret as “perfect for Rat Races, weekends with SJ, and pretending I am an organised outdoorsman.” Can’t wait to test it out.

Elsewhere, ParkRun continues to be a strangely addictive Saturday ritual. I’ve now completed my 95th, lining up at Arrow Valley for the 50th time. Out of 472 runners, I finished 107th in 24 minutes 23 seconds – my fastest time of the year, clipping 11 seconds off my previous best. That’s also two consecutive weeks of running my quickest of 2025, which either means I’m peaking nicely or about to injure myself in a blaze of misplaced confidence.

Cycling-wise, I’ve returned to the land of Zwift. My “bike room” had been untouched for a while, so reassembling it felt like piecing together a forgotten archaeological dig. The fans had migrated (cheers, Spoon), the smart plug sulked, and the heart rate monitor played dead. Eventually, I cobbled things together in time for an FTP ramp test – which, unsurprisingly, after a morning ParkRun PB, went about as well as testing one’s brainpower while hungover. Let’s just say the results were “character building.” My second pedal wasn’t officially a test, but still managed to prove my legs aren’t quite speaking to me yet.

Outside of self-inflicted endurance antics, I’ve walked Ernie a few times. He remains a mischievous little monkey, happy to remind me that a tug of war with the lead requires as much energy as a 5k run.

Looking ahead, next week promises something to get excited about: camping with SJ, testing the gifted walking poles, and that 2-second tent begging to prove its worth. Because in the end, whether it’s 130k of gravel or wrestling with a pop-up, it’s all an adventure in its own way.

Rat Race Coast to Coast 2025

On the weekend of 13 and 14 September 2025, Mr Orange and I set ourselves the small matter of completing the Rat Race Coast to Coast, a 100‑mile challenge involving running, cycling, and kayaking across some of Scotland’s most savage and spellbinding landscapes. The route threaded its way through places that carried an air of folklore and grandeur—Cawdor Castle, Loch Ness, Glen Nevis and Glen Coe—all playing backdrop to our epic attempt. This was no afternoon jaunt; it was an unforgiving Highland adventure, but we took it on as a determined duo and came out the other side triumphant

The escapade actually began on the Friday, with Mr Orange arriving at my door early to scoop me up into his trusty Skoda. For the record, I did apologise for making a Postman Pat comparison, but as it turned out his family wagon was impressively comfy and swallowed our mountain of kit without drama. The journey north was one of steady fuelling, courtesy of fish and chips and some not-too-bad chicken curry. By the time we reached Cawdor Castle, we were in event mode: bikes racked, trackers collected, poster map glanced out and hot drinks for good measure. It was here I had nostalgic flashbacks to Ironman 2016, that same excited buzz of seeing hundreds of competitors preparing for something almost absurd. We retreated to our digs in Nairn, ready for the morning’s assault.

At 7:30 the following day, the Rat Race began with a neat 11k run—a mixture of trails, little “stunty” sections, and plenty of mud underfoot. We were feeling strong, gliding past competitors who’d already slowed to a walk. Before long, Cawdor Castle appeared, the first major milestone, and our bikes awaited. 

The transition was an exercise in dignity preservation: long‑sleeved jerseys strategically tied round our waists while bare bottoms were slathered with chamois cream. Rude health established, off we sped on our 86k cycle.

Wasps were happy here too!

That ride was a tale of contrasts—sunlit tarmac and blue skies morphing into cloud, hills, and the odd food stop where fruit was enthusiastically mobbed by wasps. The big climb of the day was steep and commanding; others pushed their bikes up while I felt uncharacteristically heroic grinding to the top. 

A rapid descent spat us into Nessie‑themed tourist territory before a flat section that felt suspiciously like canal towpath, except the canal was a loch and the ford we crossed was decidedly real. 

Then came the unexpected gift: a good 10k of gnarly singletrack, loose gravel and switch‑backs. We were advised to dismount in hairy sections. Naturally, we didn’t. 

The day ended at Invergarry, bikes racked, heavens now open, tents pitched in the rain. Consolation came in the form of burgers, fries, and the smug novelty of drinking from a collapsible cup. A relatively early night followed—though “early” in a tent really means listening to gusts of wind (?farts) and snore around you.

Sunday began damp and disorganised. We faffed with tents and chocolate muesli—rehydrated by water, which I found delicious and Mr Orange found revolting—before setting off half an hour behind schedule. The first section was a 45k gravel cycle, smooth enough to be enjoyable and scenic enough to be utterly distracting. Lochs, hills, and crisp Highland skies all made for a ride that felt like a postcard.

At Fort William we had a mandatory kit check: waterproofs, thermal mid‑layer, headlamp, food, first aid kit, the works. 

From here came the real sting in the tail—the supposed “8k flat run” immediately betrayed itself by launching uphill. What followed was a tough, bog‑ridden marathon‑in‑miniature. Trails disappeared into streams, gravel became boulders, then bog.

I fell three times, the third with comic timing that made me grin harder than it hurt. Mr Orange, annoyingly, stayed upright even when we descended on gradients so steep (25% was quoted) they might as well have been labelled “abandon hope.” After what felt like a lifetime of squelch, we finally reached shouts of  only 3k to go'. 

This was 3k of descent then a last bit of merciful tarmac before hitting the kayaks.

The kayak was a mile long, windy, wet, and wobbling as Mr Orange paddled with gusto, soaking me further. Cramp-like pain struck him but was vanquished by some creative leg positioning. 

We pushed across the chop to land at the Isle of Glencoe Hotel, sprinted through the finish, high‑fived a child for dramatic effect, and I even found the spontaneous energy to double‑jump and click my heels like some deranged leprechaun.

The official tracker gave me a finish time of 15 hours, 14 minutes and 42 seconds. Mr Orange’s tracker claimed he’d finished faster—though I reserve the right to question its honesty. Either way, top 25% finisher status sat very nicely on our shoulders. (Mr Orange informed that we finished 87 and 88/472 on day one, finished 227 and 228/468 day 2 and finished 166 and 167/466 overall).

We collected a fine medal, devoured burgers and chips washed down with celebratory pints, and then retired to a hobbit‑like house for the night. Breakfast was back at the Glencoe Hotel the next morning, after which a coach whisked us to Nairn to reclaim our bikes.

It was, in all respects, a staggering event. A wild adventure, a tough test, and a joyful way to mark our 50th birthdays. The question now is what we might plan for our 60ths—though that thought alone is almost as daunting as cycling through bogs with chamois cream drying on my behind. Above all, what made this journey extraordinary wasn’t just the epic Scottish scenery or the medal at the finish, but the fact I shared every mile, stumble, climb and laugh with a great buddy. Adventures are always bigger, braver and funnier when done together, and I couldn’t have asked for better company than Mr Orange.