Day 16: Pitlochry to Aviemore

Today is all about Tim. This is the stretch that we cycled together back in 2020, in that strange ‘eat out to help out’ summer, when he booked a Caledonian Sleeper to get some much-needed cycling therapy in Scotland and asked if I’d like to go with him. We’d never ridden together before, both of us preferring to ride alone, so riding in each other’s company was a novelty and a delight. 

We had disembarked the sleeper in Inverness and ridden out to the coast first, meandering through the pines to Lossiemouth where we camped. Then it was inland along the river Spey, occasionally stopping to swim, until we reached Grantown-on-Spey and turned for the mountain road. A surprise thunderstorm saw us taking rooms in a pub in Tomintoul, then the next day we climbed the passes of the Lecht and Glenshee underneath the beating sun. We camped next to the river at Kirkmichael, taking a dip at midnight, then rolled down towards Pitlochry in the morning. So this western part of the Cairngorms route, through Pitlochry, Blair Atholl, Bruar, Drummochter, Dalwhinnie, Newtonmore, Kingussie and Aviemore is thick with memories of Tim.

Here is the hill where his descent left me standing, here is the winding pine-lined road that we rolled along, here is the spot on the river Garry where we stopped to swim. The weather is the same now as it was then: too hot for comfort, so there were lots of river swims. He had filled his water bottles from the river Spey and marvelled at how clear and delicious the water was. He did it again in the Garry – and was sick all the way to Inverness.

I remember this sign: it says “Warning: no food or shelter for 30kms”. This is the start of the famous Drummochter pass, which rises to 457m: the highest part of the cycle network in Scotland. It leads across the exposed and vast landscape, pacing the A9, gradually rising for 13 miles. We all stop to take a picture, then set out for the ascent. This is it.

The scenery is as dramatic as I remember: huge rolling moorland, bracken and heather, the river winding in the plateau between the hills. It doesn’t exactly feel mountainous – just gigantic in scale. It’s excruciatingly hot, but also extremely beautiful. It’s the kind of landscape that asks to be photographed at every turn, but of course the photos don’t do it justice. There are tiny homesteads tucked away across the burbling river, and sheep dot the fields. The road rises towards the V in the hills, and the size of everything takes our breath away.

Tim absolutely loved Scotland. And you can’t help but love it: the scenery is so big, so beautiful, so overwhelming that there’s little room for worry or thoughts about many other things at all. I wonder what it is that is so sad about this whole situation. I found myself crying uncontrollably coming into Pitlochry because it struck me that the last time I was here, it was with Tim. I am sad because I’ve lost a friend but I’m mostly sad because he was so happy doing things like this, but ultimately that wasn’t enough. 

Eventually we reach the sign announcing the top of the pass, and stop to take pictures. A little down the way there’s the sign welcoming us to the Highlands, so we do the same. My gear feels a bit loose which is strange, given that I’m sure I clicked into a high enough gear. As we remount to ride off, I discover why. My pedals are spinning freely without engaging: the freewheel has failed. 

This has never happened to me before. Even though I’m the resident mechanic and I have a fair amount of kit for running repairs, this is beyond the usual cables, brakes and chain. I think of the two spokes that have popped; I think about the knocking sound that’s been getting worse all day, and I think, maybe I should have replaced that wheel after all. 

There’s no chance of riding: I have an unrideable bike in the worst place of the whole ride, the place where there is a literal warning sign that once you’ve got onto the pass, you’re on your own. Thank goodness we are at the top. I’ll be able to freewheel down.

Progress is a lot slower when you can only rely on gravity and a slight tailwind, but we eventually reach Dalwhinnie where we’d planned to stop for lunch, which by luck also has a train station. We make a plan: I will get the train to Inverness, get to a bike shop and get back on the road. The slight complication is that today is a Sunday, meaning there’s only one train today (in three hours’ time), and all the bike shops are closed. I had forgotten it was a Sunday – days of the week don’t mean much when you are on the road. So I can still go to Inverness, but I won’t get this fixed in time to carry on riding today. 

The new plan is for the others to carry on riding, continuing to our booked camping spot in Aviemore tonight, and for me to take the train to Inverness and find accommodation somewhere, then head to the bike shop first thing. The others will then continue onwards from Aviemore tomorrow, and I’ll join them somewhere, depending on what happens, even if that means waiting in Inverness for them to arrive. 

It feels kind of poetic: Tim had no end of rear wheel trouble on his bike tour around the Baltic coast, popping spokes and struggling with the hub and eventually replacing the whole thing. I’ve done the same: two spokes replaced already, and now the freewheel hub is gone. There’s also poetry in the fact that I’ve done this ride before, and it was with the man we’re now riding in memory of. Maybe I don’t need to ride this road again. Perhaps what I’ve done already is enough. 

Stats for the day: 97km riding for the others, 48km riding for me. 479m climbing for the others, 390m climbing for me.

Accommodation: I put out a call on social media and was offered a bed in Inverness. The others stayed at Oakwood camping which was apparently very nice!