Slide

At the moment I'm re-packing my backpack for a car-camping trip.

And listening to the new Bowerbirds album The Clearing. Want to listen? Give it a purchase here. Don't want to?

TOUGH.

You really are missing out on one of the most adventurous albums I've heard in a while, even by Bowerbirds standards (and certainly by Bon Iver standards, if I had to scratch for some analogy to something you may have heard. Actually, I think some of this album was recorded in his studio with his engineer. Fun fact.)

As I go through my camping gear, I think back fondly on the 30 pounds I had to strap to the back of bike.

***

In lieu of the West Highland Way, Jason and I found National Cycle Route 7 from Glasgow through to the south of Loch Lomond. It hugged a tributary that slowly, calmly trotted parallel the great River Clyde.

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Sort of like this but the much windier route up to the bottom of the lake

I couldn't describe how nice it was to finally bike, really bike...not the abbreviated 1 mile jaunts to get to where what we needed in order to bike, but a proper ride. No traffic. Intermittent friendly faces. But mostly the cool air and shifting sky. Occasionally threatening with rain, and immediately friendly once again. Often all at once but never discouraging in the way a cloudy Southern California day is.

For the initial part of the ride, we wove through villages and the little hills that separated them from the path. In some portions the village and hills became one, where businesses set up shop along the bike path and seemed to build their establishments into the hillsides, like Magic Cycles.

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As during the first few feet of our failed attempt at the West Highland Way, again we biked through shaded paths, leaf strewn and damp, often covered in a thin veneer of mud. Stone archways gated the path at some points along the way. And again, the wholesale uprooting of trees every few hundred feet. It was verdant. It was damp and cool. It was an experience I couldn't tell you about, biking through it all at speed.

Not long after the last two photos were taken and about 30 total minutes of solid biking, we came through a tunnel of foliage created by the collapse of a large tree. There was enough space to bike through a small sliver of pavement where the branches didn't hang so damn low, and a large muddy puddle to the left. Really not a big deal. Totally.

Jason biked through with slight caution, and come my turn I did the same.

Except I didn't and instead my rear tire hit a muddy patch on this sliver-of-path. The rear tire slid into the muddy puddle. Since the back of the bike--with tent, clothes, supplies--was around 30 lbs, it did damn well what it pleased and kept sliding. I tried to steer the bike back but the rear had gone too far and I slammed into the ground, hands first, followed by hip.

It only really hurt because I put my hands down, which (thankfully?) took most of the hit. My left thumb lost a bit of skin, and the wrist and fat of the same palm was in a huge deal of pain. I heaved from the shock and sat on the path just past the tree for a second. Jason helped bandage it up, I took a Tylenol, and off we went.

No time to stop.

Except when Jason fell 10 minutes later.

We started to pick up some speed as I got over the pain in my wrist and we got confident. We biked through more leafy shaded path, over rolling grades and through foliage and fallen tree. I was riding in front for a slight downhill segment. As was par for the course, there was a combination of mud and leaves. My tire slid slightly so I feathered the brake to ease off. I guess Jason wouldn't say I feathered it, as he hit the brakes a little harder than I did, and in a fraction of a second I heard: CRASH. SLIDE. SLIDE. SLIDE.

I stopped and looked back and saw Jason strewn out like the leaves, with bike 20 feet behind him, and a long comical skid mark between the two. The long slide had taken out most of the bite out of the fall, so Jason walked off with little more than some small scratches.

We realized then that maybe we should give nature--or something...bike path?--a bit more respect. We avoided leaves and mud and took almost crawl-like pace on damp downhills.

Which didn't do wonders for our plans to make Fort Williams by nightfall.

Stump

North we went. And in a few short pictures...Milngavie Town Centre. I'll save you the pain of explaining how Jason and I aimlessly walked around asking for directions to the nearest place with Allen wrenches for sale, ending up at the UK version of Walmart (Tesco, as it turns out), how the entrance of the Tesco was parked precariously over a beautiful and robust stream--which in the United States could have counted as being "in the wild"--and taking turns eating Clif bars/watching the bikes (and the stream) whilst the other person went inside to get things.

If you're wondering why I didn't take pictures of the Bridge Over River Tesco, consider how many times you'd thought of taking a picture of Walmart.

We eventually ended up with a map-book of Scotland and saddles at appropriate height.

That first Clif bar was reasonably satisfying. I don't remember the flavor now, but I do remember that it gave me a sensation akin to throwing a shovel of dirt into a gaping pit. If the pit had a 6-hour-old microwaved airline donut at the bottom. This Clif bar would be the only meal I had until sundown, if you can guess when and what that meal was.

I'll give you a hint. The sun doesn't really go down this far north at this time of year, and the next meal was...well, I've been playing lots of Hanging With Friends lately, so let's play a little here. I believe this would be worth 11 points:

_ _ I _


Jason and I found the entrance to the West Highland Way and began the journey into the Highlands.

***

Five minutes down the trail, we came to an impasse. One issue being that the trees had shaded most of the trail, so it was slippery and didn't have a chance to dry. Mind you, it had just rained earlier that morning. At at the moment we hit the trail head, it was partly sunny with some low clouds moving with considerable speed. Recall in my first post that the weather would become a major factor.

The other big issue being that a massive tree had fallen directly onto the path. I'm not sure the path was passable by foot, much less bike, and much lesser hybrid bike with more than its weight in cargo. There really was no way around this thing. Off trail was far too rugged, and the tree far too large.

We were flustered.

It had taken us all of 5 hours to finally hit the trail and then realize in less than 5 minutes that God had thrown an ungodly stump in our way. We took to asking strangers for help on other options, and all were more than willing to offer a kindness--but having never encountered a tree blocking the WHW, they could only suggest a few things here and there. We made our way back to the train station and solicited help from the ticket person who had informed us of a wee bit of bad news: no matter what we did--even if we had been able to bike as far as we wanted that day--it was highly unlikely that that we could get our bikes on a train to Fort William. They had to be booked at least a day in advance. As disconcerting this new should have been, we would worry about it later, as we were getting restless and wanted to bike somewhere.

The ticket man was able to suggest that we could pick up a bike trail in Dalmuir. We took a train back south from charming Milngavie to Westerton, and then west to Dalmuir.

At Dalmuir we were still lost, and so it was then that we met Ronnie. Ronnie was the ticket person at Dalmuir station: at first look, a small-framed and possibly-bitter older gentleman. Bespectacled and white haired, but not grandfatherly, not yet at least. I was a bit nervous to approach him at the window of this pitifully small trailer-for-a-train-station:

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Ronnie wasn't nearly as abrasive as he should have been. He was friendly and smiled and put up with my ignorance of lands and people, and with my Americanness for much longer than he should have. I poured through half the little map-guides at the ticket window, asking if this train line was right for that. (Btw, this train line was NOT right for that. And he didn't have any better news about getting our bikes on the train in Tarbet for Fort William.) He never hesitated to respond. He gave good directions. Maybe part of it was that no one else was in line at this forsaken station buried amongst what I imagine were the Scottish suburbs and projects.  Maybe my standards for human congeniality were skewed. This disturbed me slightly. I'd have to think about this a bit more.

Ronnie, again, had spoken some strange English. This time, I think I was catching onto it. It took a second for me to understand everything he was saying, but I was eventually able to gather that we needed to go back up the hill we just came down, turn right and go down the road, make a left at the T, 'round the corner right at the next light, turn right up an inconspicuous driveway, and through a gate onto a cycle route parallel the River Clyde.

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Through no small part of human patience (that is, the people who were patient with us), we had finally found the start of our adventure.

Mind the Gap

This is a rough start.

We realized not long after Martin left that the bikes didn't quite fit us. The saddles on both of our bikes were about 3 inches too low, and we had to bike 10 miles too many before we could find the Allen wrench to fix it. The rain was steady but faint, the sky heavy gray but occasionally yielding to an insistent sun. We were good enough to bike to the train station in Paisley to get into Glasgow, where we could transfer to Milngavie.







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As we biked, through our first (training) roundabout and off into the suburbs, we immediately noticed something remarkable about Scotland. That the houses in this suburb were most likely older than many American cities. That the overgrown and fungal walls had seen at least as much time pass as the cities of the Pioneers.


Beautiful.


And breathing, I should mention how easy it was to breathe for a city. What a scent...a sort of musky-woody essence seemed to follow us everywhere. (The Scots seem to have distilled this and drenched the lobbies of hotels, distilleries, restaurants, and anywhere else with a plaid carpet.)

***

We would settle the saddles in Milngavie and start on the West Highland Way. 100 miles separated our bikes in Paisley and the destination we still hadn't picked out in Fort William. Fortunately, because of the northward latitude and summer skies, we assumed we had until 9:30pm to get there before sundown.

This was probably the most reasonable assumption we made all trip.

The trains are charming, by the way. The voice that informed you of the upcoming station was pleasatnly Scottish. At every station, the voice also informed you of impending peril at every (dis)mount.

We became keenly aware of this the first time we tried to carry our 50 pound bikes onto crowded trains destined for the heart of one of the biggest cities in Scotland. We also learned that a bike doesn't fit into station elevators very well--much less two bikes--but that backing-in the first bike made things slightly better, and that putting the bikes head to tail was necessary, though none of these precautions guaranteed a bike pedal wouldn't jam itself into your shin.

Not that this will matter in almost exactly 24 hours and 35 miles, where there won't be an elevator.

The trains are punctual, by the way.

***

Slightly scarred and breathless, we arrived in Glasgow Central Station.

Check the shorts

I can't speak for Jason, but I was a little self-conscious about how I said "Milngavie," especially now that I had to purchase a ticket. I had only heard it a handful of times from Roblee on the plane and was working from that. I rehearsed and rehearsed until I was ready.

"Two tickets to Min-guy please"

"What's that?"

"Uh. Mi-lin-gie?"

"Mul-gaie ya mean?"

"Yeah that, two please"

LAX to GLA

I know I haven't written here in quite a while.

I'm sorry. I really am. I'll make it up to you. Right.

Now.

2011 wasn't a great year for most people. Between lost jobs and lost keys, I don't blame most people.

But 2011 was alright for a particular Ed. Sparing most of the details for now, 2011 was an alright year for the fact that I left the country for the first time.

***

Our flight from LAX to Glasgow stopped in Philadelphia. We departed Philadelphia sometime approaching twilight. I couldn't wait to leave the country. I was unreasonably excited to look out as far out into the Atlantic as possible as we took off. I really wanted to have a profound moment, the "So this is my adventure, and beyond that horizon somewhere...IS THE DESTINATION" moment, and maybe I would snap a quick picture or two to post to Facebook with some profound (or funny) caption. I tried to stare through the window from my aisle seat, but after trying for way too long I could tell the guy in the window seat was starting to feel awkward. At some point, I got tired of trying, and at some point, he closed the window.

I think this was also the point at which I stopped caring about trying to take so many pictures. And all for the better. And the worse for you, poor reader, for you'll see that this post will soon be littered with blank spaces where there should have been beautiful pictures of a land familiar and yet exotic. Alas, those images are for my eyes only and I could never do them justice with words.

I couldn't sleep. I wasn't tempted to watch Just Go With It on the in-flight movie either. (That said...not a terrible movie. Adam Sandler however...not a convincing plastic surgeon.) Neither the guy who I had just tried to stare past or I were interested in small talk for the next 7 hours. Not yet at least.

I finally did sleep a bit, and as we flew north, the Sun came too soon. Not long after, so did the start of our descent. It was at this point that the object of my staring-past and I got to talking. He was from Scotland and had spend 11 years in Connecticut as financial broker of some sort. He was Roblee (or Robleigh? or Rob Lee? Let's call him Roblee) from Glasgow, returning for his mate's stag party. As much of a stag party as hiking into the woods and drinking a whole lot of beer with mates was. 

I take that back. That sounds pretty awesome.

He gave me a few tips as to how we should go about our trip, since through all our pre-trip planning, Jason and I still didn't know what the hell we were doing.

Ambition (our pre-trip planning)

Trust the native.

Which wouldn't have been such a bad idea, except that as we were landing, we started to get an idea for the weather hadn't bothered to check (save for the angry Icelandic volcano that threatened our flights). It was raining, and only after we were scraping the tops of motorway signs and apartment buildings did we break the cloud cover. This will become a significant plot point. We disembarked. I didn't see Roblee again.

We landed in Glasgow May 26, 2011 at 6:55am. Immigration deflowered my passport and off we went towards customs.

I was actually pretty worried about customs. As I was strictly limited to $800 for the entire 10-day trip through the Scottish Highlands and Dublin (on the pound [$1.80:1] and Euro [$1.40:1] respectively), I came prepared with 2 pounds in granola and energy bars. All packed into a stuff sack in my Kelty Coyote 65ST (the ST stands for Short Torso why thank you):

If this gets confiscated, Ed starves.

Wouldn't want any of the other stuff getting yoinked either. If all the stuff on my checklist actually made it in the bag to begin with.

As it turns out, Glasgow Airport customs was a man and woman chatting at a desk. I'm not sure they saw us walk by.

Jason and I made it to the waiting area of the airport where the first order of business was to meet Martin. Martin was our bike man.

I suppose this is a good time to mention that our plan was to make most of this trip on bike. We rented (or "hired" to those speaking the wrong English) the bikes from RT Cycles just outside of Glasgow. Miraculously, through email correspondence alone we were able to get the bikes to show up at the airport just minutes after we landed. Pannier bags, locks, helmets and all.

Martin spoke some strange English. I knew it was English. I just had no clue what he was saying, unless the word was "bike." I'm sure it didn't help that the police officer at the pick-up/drop-off area of the airport was giving him grief for loitering for more than a few minutes--something Martin explained had to do with the bombings that took place at the airport a few years prior. I think that's what he said. Martin was very nice though, and was a good sport about us dumping the contents of our bags onto the sidewalk and asking him to wait just a few minutes more before he took the hollow shells for holding.

[I'm probably sounding wonderfully ignorant right now, but I'm being a little facetious. And really, some Scottish people do just speak far too fast for the slow American brain.]

We had the bikes. After scrambling to stuff the racks and pannier bags, the journey began. We had an ambitious schedule. We knew we wanted to get to Fort William by dark, with the assistance of the train. Based on Roblee's advice, the best way to do this--as a matter of simplicity and adventure--was to take the West Highland Way.

The West Highland Way was one of a handful of hike and bike trails that meandered through Scotland.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect. All we needed to do was to get to the starting point in Milngavie, bike to Tarbet (on the above map, a bit south from Inverarnan), mount the train, and find a campsite.

By the way, try saying "Milngavie."

Wrong. Like I said, the wrong English. (Yeah yeah, the whole Gaelic thing. Still wrong.)