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.
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| Wasps were happy here too! |
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.
