From the Singletrack archive: this feature first appeared in Singletrack Magazine Issue 111 (2017). Words & photography by David ‘Sanny’ Gould.
Sanny and Kev ‘Dangerous’ head for the hills for a ‘five to nine’ adventure and discover that you don’t need to go far to get away from it all.
Readers of a certain vintage may look back with misty-eyed fondness whenever you mention the seminal 1985 teen classic that is The Breakfast Club. Acting as a springboard for the careers of the never to be forgotten ginger one from Pretty in Pink, the girlfriend from WarGames, the one with the Spanish name who looks a bit like Charlie Sheen, the blonde one from Weird Science and the one I always confuse with Judd Hirsch, it also launched Simple Minds in the States.
Slightly more off the radar than its namesake, it’s also the name of Kevin ‘Dangerous’ Grant’s overnight mountain bike adventures that he has been doing for probably more years than even he cares to remember. Forget Alastair Humphreys and his ‘Microadventures’, Kevin is the first person I know who would shoot off after work for a ‘5 to 9’ adventure. As proprietor of Escape Route, Pitlochry’s bike shop of choice, his recent foray into the world of purveying fine coffee and cake was the catalyst for an overnighter from the door. No sooner were the words ‘bacon sarnies’ mentioned and I was in. I didn’t need to be asked twice.
Upward, ever upward
With an appetite that can best be described as gargantuan, a pre-trip visit to Subway and the local Co-op with Kev saw us weighed down and loaded to the gunwales. Sometimes I wonder why I bother with lightweight bikepacking kit… By the time we had added enough rations to feed a small army for a week, we might as well have added a brick or two, as we probably wouldn’t even have noticed the extra weight. With fat bikes laden to the point that they were almost generating their own gravitational force, our progress up through the forest and steep, open moorland trails in the fading light could kindly be described as pedestrian. However, with no real agenda other than to find somewhere on the mountain to camp out, it gave us the perfect excuse to soak up the scenery as the sun slowly drifted below the horizon. A golden light engulfed us and held us in thrall to its warm glow, though there was a definite chill in the air. As much as we would have liked to tarry a while, we were aiming for a high point on the open moorland. All that stood between us and that high point was what Kev described as a three-minute carry. “Three minutes, my arse!”, I thought to myself as the combination of fat bike and bikepacking kit combined to create a dead weight that actively fought each step upward. Now normally I would shoulder the bike, but having cunningly packed a fresh apple pie at the top of my rucksack, I had no option but to grunt, lunge and shove my bike to the top. Memo to self – next time just squish the damned pie! It would probably have been easier to get the ring into Mordor than get to the summit of this bloody hill…
When the ground mercifully turned horizontal and my vision stopped blurring, I was greeted by a magnificent 360° panorama. To the north, the Munros of Glen Tilt, to the west, Kinloch Rannoch with the mountains of Glencoe far beyond – not a bad location to spend a night. After a careful mooch around to find the least lumpy place to set up camp, tents were deployed, warm clothes pulled from bags and the important business of the evening commenced: dinner. As we sat eating our Spanish-themed dinner of fresh olives, Manchego cheese, cooked salmon, fresh lime, Serrano ham and chorizo, washed down with Pimms and gin, all that we were missing were smoking jackets and a pipe. With nary a cloud above us, the temperature started to plummet. Kit was compared, (I will admit to be particularly gear envious of Kev’s insulated trousers and waterproof toilet roll holder – who knew that I needed one of those eh?), nonsense was spoken, and the beauty of our surroundings appreciated. It’s funny the things that pop into your mind when out on the hill on a school night – like the tale of a friend who, in a moment of pure drunken logic, decided that instead of getting out of his sleeping bag to answer the call of nature would instead let it out a little bit at a time for it to evaporate. Genius! I thought Kevin was going to choke on his dinner when I shared that little gem.
Up with the lark
“Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz!” went the alarm at an ungodly o’clock. For some obscure reason, I had decided that I wanted to be up at dawn and the night before, this had seemed perfectly reasonable. Bleary of eye I contemplated a lie-in, but was sort of awake so I flung open (actually, unzipped slowly) the sleeping bag and was greeted to blue skies above me. Result! It’s amazing how the prospect of a beautiful day can spring you into action – well, that and the fact that my teeth were practically floating with the call of nature… not so much ‘calling’ as jumping up and down on my bladder really. Waddling from my tent in my sleeping bag, the open foot design of it proving its worth right until the point at which I stood on the drawcord and fell face first into the heather, I was struck not only by the still silence of my surroundings, but by the fact that my bike and tent were frozen. It was like someone had coated them in a light dusting of caster sugar that gave everything an almost magical quality. Pictures were snapped as I wandered from our camp to simply enjoy the moment. The prospect of a long commute on a train into the big smoke or fighting the traffic in a futile attempt to get to one’s desk on time seemed a million miles away. I lost track of time until I heard Kev rising from his slumber, his gossamer light tent having more than doubled in weight overnight. Tea brewed, we sat down to the breakfast of champions – leftover turkey breast and ham foot-long Subway followed by fresh apple pie with warm custard. It may not have been particularly Heston, but, damn, it tasted good!
Trails for winners
One of the best things about an overnighter on a mountain is that you start your ride the next day with a descent. With no lung-busting climb to earn your gravity points, you can start refreshed and, as our American cousins often say, ‘on it’. With our bikepacking gear significantly lightened from the night before, we loaded up and made our way along a narrow ribbon of heather-lined singletrack. The path would come and go, but ever-present was the view. Behind us, a great hulk of a Corbett loomed large like some kind of Mount Doom, albeit without the lava and general air of menace. In front of us, the Divine Geologist presented us with some of his finest work. Temperature inversion? Tick. Crystal blue loch? Tick. Jaggedy mountains? Tick. Hmm. Overcrowded tube with my nose practically welded to the armpit of a heavily perspiring gentleman who is unaware of the concept of deodorant (or personal hygiene), or being in the mountains? Tough call.
Fat tyres and rock gave almost comedic levels of grip as we cut fresh tracks towards the forest below.
Punctuating the singletrack were sections of exposed granite – the combination of fat tyres and rock gave almost comedic levels of grip as we cheerily swooped towards the forest below us. Even as the heather deepened to the point of almost covering our wheels, line finding being an exercise more in blind luck than skill, we were having a blast. It felt something akin to laying fresh tracks on skis – ours was a blank canvas to add our own brush strokes at will. Hopping a deer fence, we followed a microtrack of barely discernible trail that wound its way through clearfell before hitting the trail proper. Now I don’t know about you, but if there is one thing better than sneaking in a cheeky pre-work ride while your workmates are probably staring bleary-eyed at the contents of their cereal bowl, it’s doing so on new trails where dust and loam are thrown up by your ride buddy in front of you as you throw your wheel from edge to edge, not knowing what the next corner will bring. Steep chute, tree-lined chicane, off-camber drops – not knowing is all part of the fun. I pride myself on my ability to just follow my nose and sniff out a new trail, but this was a real hidden gem that I would not have known existed had Kev not pointed it out. If the modus operandi of The Breakfast Club is to cram in trail rides while others have barely stirred from their slumbers, I was now a fully paid-up, card-carrying member of the club. To be afforded the opportunity to ride trails in the glow of the early morning sunshine, secure in the knowledge that second breakfast waits, and to know that the trails are ours alone to enjoy is a unique privilege. Night rides by comparison are easy. Just strap on some lights and go ride in the dark. The Breakfast Club is different. Your dawn ride is well earned. With a little planning and commitment, you can treat yourself to a night away from the clutches of technology and just enjoy being out in nature. You can almost feel your body clock resetting as you settle into your sleeping bag when the light finally fades. With morning comes the icing on the cake, the ride that no one else will even have contemplated the night before from the comfort of their centrally heated home. It is a stolen pleasure, pure and simple.
Homeward Bound
Alas, all good things must come to an end. The reality of modern living cannot be escaped forever. However, it can be tempered and tamed by adventures such as ours. Rolling down the trail back to where we started at the Escape Route café, very welcome bacon sandwiches (done on plain white bread with lashings of butter – just like my gran used to make), hot chocolate and cyclist-sized bowls of soup were our reward. As I proceeded to practically inhale my sandwich, I reflected on what had been a truly memorable adventure. A night out in the hills with a good friend, talking nonsense over mugs of tea, riding new trails at who-knows-when-o’clock, then having the luxury of time to look back and smile. Sometimes the best adventures aren’t the ones that take you to some far-flung destination or push you to your limits, but are rather much closer to home. Just take a leaf out of The Breakfast Club and go find your own little adventure. I guarantee you’ll thank me for it.
Special thanks to Kevin Grant of Escape Route bike shop and café in Pitlochry for the inspiration and company in the making of this article. www.escape-route.co.uk
