Monday morning, 2 days after the Bealach Na Ba ride and my work colleague asks me 'how did the weekend go'? Where to start? I talked about stunning views, fantastic cameradie, a great vibe, first class organisation and described a 90 mile route that took in the Bealach Na Ba climb, the highest tarmac road in the UK. The bemused look was followed with a simple 'why?' to which I struggled to respond to, words flipped through such as 'challenge, adventure, thrills, fear, pushing to limits, even life defining moments' in the end I simply said, 'because its fun'.

Take it back 3 days to Friday 28th July. A long but pleasant journey along the west coast saw me arrive at Sheildaig the night before the ride, even in this small coastal village 19 miles from the start there was a 'carnival comes to town feel', cars with bikes strapped to roofs and packed in boots arrived outside the B&B's and the one hotel. Although total strangers, we recognised each other immediately and began chatting away about tomorrow's ride, the shared challenge bonding us all. I was advised that registration had opened early so slipped off in the car to Kinlochewe to register. Organisation was perfect, a conveyer belt line gave us our electronic dibber, route map, commemorative buff, a race number the size of a dinner plate and instructions on how to pay somebody £2 for a massage afterwards.

My night was spent in true athletic fashion back at my hotel with a 'few' pints and whisky chaser to settle the nerves. The talk was of the recent 'cycling weekly' report in which the author, a top cyclist was unable to get up the Bealach and was almost blown of the mountain, hence my need for a pre ride drink.

On the morning, we were greeted with a grey but dry sky, which at least would ensure the Bealach was not shrouded in cloud. Kinchlochewe's population had exploded by 800% as 500 adventurers of varying levels of fitness and ability readied themselves on machines ranging from uber lightweight Colnagos (ahem!), to tandems, mountain bikes and good grief, more than one fixed wheel. I chatted to Dave Moss, a fellow soul from Dumfries and came across a number of familiar people from earlier battles in TLI races, everyone very relaxed and all looking forward to the ' piece of nonsense we had signed up for'

We were sent off in waves of 100 at 2 minute intervals with the real racers in the front, wannabe racers in the next wave and so on. As I was number 214 I set off 4 minutes after the leaders to sound of bagpipes and cheers from a large crowd. Despite telling myself its only for fun, the long climb out of Kinlochewe saw me jump near the front of the pace line and already start to clip off the front with the leaders, I was pleased to see the ever green Dave Moss had managed to jump onto my back wheel. Pretty soon though I had left him behind and started working my way up to the other groups. It must have been a 'brisk pace' as after the first few miles I started jumping through groups of riders from numbers 100-200 who set off 2 minutes ahead, nearing the top we were treated to a wonderful view of several Deer running along side us. Over the top and into a headwind, which although we were going to complete a circular route, would blow in my face for most of the day, an 'againsterly' being the correct meteorological phrase.

I fell in with three other riders and off we went, taking turns into the wind as we ran alongside Loch a' Chroisg towards Achnasheen. Ahead I could catch glimpses of beautiful sight, that of two long trains of multi coloured cyclist's jerseys winding ahead. We put our heads down and begin a daylong pursuit of that enticing sight, never able to grasp their coattails. We pick up stragglers and our group grows then shrinks and grows again. I clip of the front with two other riders and take long pulls as we are now in 'no mans land' and I would dearly love the shelter of a 100-rider bunch. I've only done 15 miles so far and yet my heart rate is at 90% and the riders ahead are getting more and more distant. Realising that 3 against 100 riders wont go and there are more pleasant things to look at today than a heart rate monitor I sit up, take a drink and wait for a moderately paced group to pick me up. I don’t have to wait long and with a few shouts a group of 15 or so join me and I sit at the back and enjoy a relatively easy spin through Glen Carron. We beat the 10.30am train at the Balnacre crossing and continue our sweeping journey through woodland to the coast. I'm glad I stepped off the gas because I can now appreciate the most fantastic part of the Bealach Na Ba ride, the crowds. Simply amazing, through every village they are out in force. Past isolated houses, the family are out waving. The few cars we meet, they pull over and lean out their windows to cheer, a true community event which the people of Wester Ross truly took to their hearts. Whenever I can, I wave back and I make sure to say thank you to every Marshall I pass, amazingly, the marshals respond with a thank you back.

Lochcarron at 30 miles provides the first feed stop and also the first real climb, a 10% gradient manages to silence the group who begin to grind up it. This serves as a nice leg warmer, as over the top we are treated to the sight to the sight of the Bealach Na Ba on our left. I keep glancing at it and the rider next to me tells me to "stop looking over there, nothing to see". Trust me, there is something to see and it looks bloody big!

We swing to the road on the left, passing a sign saying 'road closed to motor vehicles, bike ride in progress' (Heaven!). At sea level we pull over, record our start time by being dibbed and then set off up the climb.

The Bealach is a swine, it’s a swine because it lures you into a false sense of security, deliberately makes you think you can handle it, and then POW! it rips your lungs out your chest and breaks your legs…well almost. The first mile of the climb is simple, it rises up immediately from the start but it’s a manageable grade, as a natural spinner, I use the 39X19 and begin to pass riders, a mile on I slip into the 21 and continue spinning past riders, it increases further on to what I think must be its steepest pitch and I move into the 23, I'm comfortable still and I distinctly remember thinking to myself, 'piece of p**s really' as I turn a corner and then almost fall off. Up ahead as far as I can see, the road climbs on, at a more severe angle, the smile falls from my face. Out of the saddle now I begin the grind up in my lowest gear 39x25. The chatting cyclists from lower down the climb are now silent, in fact there is an eerie silence with little wind and although there are 100+ riders on this stretch of road there is no sound save that of the occasional gulping of air, surreal would not begin to describe it. Onwards and upwards I climb and its really starting to hurt, looking at my legs I can see rivers of sweat running down them and dripping onto the road. A large drop of sweat drops from my nose and another. I need to take my helmet off before I feint from heat exhaustion and I hang it over my bars, that helps. I continue climbing and reach a bend, seeing the rock face on either side of the road fall away, I assume I'm nearing the summit and cheer inwardly. I'm hit by a huge sense of disappointment when turning the corner I see the road leading endlessly on, always at a steep gradient towards the sky. I start to pass riders pushing up the hill and start to think that’s not a bad idea. The road narrows and its hard to pass riders as they begin to zig zag and wobble up the pitch. I come to the sections with the 25% gradient at the hairpins and take the wide outside lane to lessen the gradient. A spectator calls "well done, nearly at the top" and I want to kiss him! Nearing the summit, the gradient falls back and my helmet somehow falls off. "There you go" I say to a spectator, who is watching, "I really should be wearing that", he laughs and I move on to the summit. The kind marshals dibb me for an end time and then fill my water bottles and pass me a cup of water. I treat myself to a celebratory swig of Balvennie from my hip flask, whisper a prayer to my fairy godmother for protection, release the breaks and begin the mad descent down the other side. In between screaming down at 50mph I am treated to the sight of the Isles of Raasay and Skye. Soon I reach sea level again and roll though the village of Applecross, the residents out to enjoy the sight and cheer the riders on. Forget the Bealach, yes that was hard, but riding the Applecross peninsula solo, into a head ward was one of the hardest rides I've done this year. The roads roll up and down, the ups are short, nasty steep climbs that sap your legs, the downs offer no rest for weary legs, the blowing wind requiring forward momentum at all times. I see ahead a small group of riders, I so want the shelter they can provide and put my head down to catch them. After two miles I've maybe gained an inch on them, their riding at my speed and this is going to be hard. No longer looking at the gorgeous see views from the Sound of Raasay I stare ahead at the group of riders, who always dangle enticingly ahead by 20 seconds. I chase for 10 miles picking of the odd dropped rider until finally I make contact. Just as I do however the group splits and I'm caught at the back. I stick with my new found friends for the next 10 miles as we wind towards Sheildaig, never a break with short climb after another coming thick and fast. We twist down a beautiful Alpine descent and I notice I'm not the only one looking around and taking in the beauty of the roads and land, despite the grim pain now being felt.

The sight of Sheildaig is a welcome one, again the entire village is out in force and I enjoy the home made flap jacks on offer, a helper is keen to fill my water bottles and I snaffle some fruit from the table. Only 20 miles to go. However, my ride companions didn’t stop at the feed but kept on and I now have to chase, up the steep climb out of Sheildaig with two flapjacks wedged in my mouth!

I start to suffer like a dog now, I know the route from here onwards and know there's a long climb through a valley into a headwind, I would dearly like some shelter from the riders ahead. I begin the grinding pursuit, and it is grinding, nothing graceful now, head lolling to one side, tongue hanging out, legs full of acid, - this - is - a - real - bugger. Past the last drink station at Torridon I fix my eye on the two riders who are ahead by no more than 30 seconds. I won't forget that last 15 miles through Glen Torridon, the magnificent mountain of Beinn Eighe towering above me on my left. The valley road was endless, the wind was picking up and like a dog who should be put down, I grovelled onwards towards the two riders ahead. It took all the 15 miles, staring ahead, pushing the pedals to catch them. And catch them I did, at the very top of the climb just before the descent to the finish. It was all I could do to sit on their wheels and roll down toward Kinclochewe and cross the line to cheers and applause. I am dibbed and walk into the village hall to be presented with my certificate 5 hours and 8 minutes, the climb of the Bealach took 38 minutes. Interestingly enough, the two riders I managed to catch at the end after a hard 15-mile pursuit, they set out 4 minutes ahead of me so technically I beat them by 4 minutes. I laugh out loud at the silliness of it and enjoy numerous cups of tea, cakes and sit outside and share horror stories with my fellow survivors. After a hour or so, I collect my bike, load up the car and begin the drive back to my hotel in Sheildaig. My route takes me back along the road I just cycled and there are still a number of cyclists coming in, a mixture of smiles and grim determination. After a mile or so of crawling along, I think 'sod it' park the car, get out in the now falling rain and cheer the rest of the heroes home.