Day 9 – the morning: Sting in the tail

Dornoch was a great place to stay – somewhere I wish I could have spent longer. Its dunes and golden sands were reminiscent of places in Cornwall – eight days previously.

I woke up at 7.30am, just a stones throw from the beach and, whilst it was fairly cosy in a sleeping bag in the camper van, it was freezing cold outside. The brisk northerly wind was blocking out any of the potential warmth coming from the sunny intervals in the sky.

After eating my final pre-ride big breakfast (a saucepan of cereal, some fruit cake and a few biscuits), I gave my bike a quick check-over. The back wheel appeared to be slightly buckled. I checked all the spokes and noticed one was loose. Then I checked the rim and noticed inch-long cracks around the base of four spokes.

Without a bike shop nearby, nor a likely chance that they’d have a matching wheel for me, my challenge was in serious danger of being derailed. If one of those cracks became worse it would lead to a spoke breaking and my wheel becoming seriously buckled.

I tightened the loose spoke with a pair of pliers (as I’d forgotten to bring a spoke key), loosened the back brake a touch and set off with fingers crossed.

The navigation on the final day was supposedly simple – ‘just head north until the road stops’ I kept telling myself. I should have paid more attention in the morning because I made a wrong turn immediately after leaving Dornoch village centre. I took the scenic route along the coast through Embo and Skelbo rather than the A9 inland. It probably didn’t add to the mileage much but the bumpier roads weren’t helping my fragile back wheel.

After six miles I stopped briefly to check the map and stretch out a sore knee. As I picked the bike up from the ground I heard a loud TWANG. I felt no sudden pain on my body (just the same dull aches I’d felt for the last eight days) and I realised it was something on the bike. Sure enough, that troublesome spoke had completely snapped at the point it met the wheel rim.

I couldn’t break the spoke free, nor could I remove it from the wheel hub (the centre bit), but I couldn’t cycle on as it was because it was catching in the rear gears. It was malleable enough to bend though so I wrapped it around its neighbouring spoke, completely undid my rear brake, re-crossed my fingers and set off again, hoping it would hold for the final 74 miles – otherwise I’d have a very long walk.

I rejoined the A9 and passed through the pleasant towns of Golspie and Brora. Surprisingly the wheel seemed to be holding together. I could feel it wobbling every time I got out of the saddle so I had to take each climb sat down, pushing hard and pedalling fast to build up any speed.

In the early afternoon Helen called to say there was nothing at our proposed lunch stop so she was moving three miles down the road to a hotel in Lybster. She also asked, with some trepidation in her voice, whether I’d passed Berriedale yet.

I hadn’t and I knew from her voice that the uphill would be vicious and the downhill terrifying with only one brake.

Sure enough, the road wound up from the beautiful coastline to the top of the misty Creag Thoraraidh.

Although I’d been sweating on its lower slopes I was very grateful for all my layers as I reached the top. The 13% gradient downhill would have been very satisfying if I’d had two working brakes. I built up to 33mph very rapidly but, with the wheel situation and the damp conditions, I didn’t have the nerve let rip and race downhill.

After 50 miles I reached the lunch stop in Lybster and had a coke and a delicious bowl of creamy Cullen Skink. “Thirty miles to go” I thought. If my wheel completely gave out could run that in seven hours? Probably not.