It started with a landslip and flooding.

These were a taste of things to come.

But I get ahead of myself here.

It started with the daft idea to cycle from Dumbarton to St Andrews overnight in a Scottish equivalent of the overnight century rides that exist in the southeast and southwest of England. I mean, it seemed like a pretty good idea at the time, as I didn’t fancy going all the way down south to do either the Dun Run or the EE this year.

The day of departure started with the usual stressing over whether to take one or two malt loaves, and whether the absence of plastic bags for the route sheets would be a problem. There was also the cursing and swearing over the faulty tyre flares and the delicate balancing act of weight of water in Camelbak vs hydration capacity, because I always sacrifice one bottle cage to the Great God Caffeine.

It was raining when we finally left the flat, heaving our respective steeds downstairs to the point of no return, Frood waving at us cheerily from the top step.

There was the brief dash to the station for everything to settle and then the damp wait for the train, both Munky and I starting to suffer from the inevitable plague of doubt that comes at the beginning of any such insane endeavour: why are we doing this, again?

At Haymarket we bumped into the Rev Will, resplendent in full courier get-up with his Crumpler over his shoulder and Langster at his side.

Briefly Munky got excited. He thought we might have managed to make a 3-speed between us. But no. Rev Will’s Langster was running the same 42×16 as my Pompino. Munky’s Mercian was on 50×19. Only two speeds there, Munky.

We moved down to Platform 4 to await the Queen Street Express. There we were joined by TomBT, also on a Specialized. His had gears. We thought this was possibly cheating.

It was about now that we discovered that the Queen Street Tunnel was flooded. And had suffered a landslip. So trains were reduced to a half-hourly service because it was one-way in the tunnel. The train arrived on time and then the four of us split up and dashed for either end of the train in order to get places on the overcrowded bike racks:

Still. At least Munky managed to get some extra kip in preparation for the night’s adventures:

On arrival at Queen Street we discovered that the high level service out to Dumbarton was closed as a result of the floods, so we headed down to the basement and inveigled our way onto one of the underground trains by the simple method of getting on and standing there in the middle of the carriage, all innocent and wide-eyed. We got some funny looks, especially when Munky broke out his cold pizza several hours early, but the guard said nothing when he checked our tickets so all was good.

We disembarked at Dumbarton East and bimbled around for ten minutes looking for a pub. No joy. It was about quarter past eight of a Saturday night and the only pub we saw was shut. Instead we headed for Dumbarton Castle and the official start point. On our way we had our first encounter with the species we named the Buckfast Zombie, although it was by no means our last.

There was no one there. We spent some time re-organising ourselves for the weather in the glowering shadow of the castle. Well, Tom did most of the re-organising while I made use of the photo opportunity:

TomBT, Rev Will and our beloved Chairman, Munky

A fine body of gentlemen if ever there was one.

A quick discussion found us in mutual agreement that no one else was coming, the sods, and so we set off on our nocturnal adventure.

We only managed about 2km before the first stop, when Rev Will espied a KFC. We had to eat something before we carried on, otherwise we’d end up collapsed in a hedge, and while I was rather dubious about the wisdom of this particular purveyor of high-velocity comestibles, there was very little choice to be had.

Even the bikes look unimpressed

The boys tuck in

After KFC it was straight North out of Dumbarton heading for the Auchencarroch Road.

Now I will freely admit that the route I had planned was supposed to be relatively hill-free. Honestly, that was the way I had planned it. It was supposed to be a gentle, fixie-friendly pootle of Dun Run proportions.

But it wasn’t. Oh dear gods no it wasn’t. Almost immediately we turned onto the cross-country lanes that would take us in a meandering route eastwards towards the rising sun, the climbs started. And I had forgotten about the dread Scottish predator the Highland midge. They couldn’t catch us while we were moving, but there are always the slight issues caused by brakes rubbing or hitting a series of 30cm deep potholes at high speed that entail a necessary stop. Then they descended. Clouds of them, homing in on our lifeblood like teensy-eensy vampire babies.

Fixed grins are a result of trying not to run screaming…

The rain started coming down then, in that awful, soft, penetrating, icky wetness that just sucks the soul out through the tips of your ears. The hills were endless. They went on and on and on. Every rounded corner produced a view of yet another climb around yet another corner, with the leaden knowledge that the hill did not crest at that corner but went on even further. Short downhills provided very little respite on a 70″ fixed, and we soon discovered that the gusto and verve with which we had attacked the initial 30km had taken its toll for the remainder.

We hit the steep 1:10 switchback road that dropped us off the high ground and shuddered our way into Strathblane with cramping fingers and jaws clenched tight enough to grind teeth. There we sought refuge in the Kirkhouse Inn, where the very friendly staff expressed the usual disbelief about what we were doing and tried hard to understand why we would want to. No, it wasn’t for charity. No, it wasn’t even for a bet. We were doing it for fun. Yes. Fun. Really. It was supposed to be fun and BY GODS IT WOULD BE FUN OR ELSE.

We were all feeling a little the worse for wear by then.

I sat down with the OS maps and reviewed the route from that point. I realised that Google Earth had fibbed about the smooth flatness of the topography and suggested to the gents that, rather than continuing south and taking the quarry detour through Torrance, we take advantage of the main roads being almost utterly devoid of cars at that time of night and head due east along the river to Milton of Campsie before striking south for Kirkintilloch.

This was considered a fine idea and so that’s what we did. We had our first truly enjoyable, sociable piece of riding. By that I mean we were able to tool along at a comfortable near 20mph, while chatting to one another about life, the universe and everything. Bikes, in other words.

The rest of the ride was pretty much as it was supposed to be, peppered with some very odd stops in very odd places. We paused in Kirkintilloch for Tom to say hello to a friend working on the door of a nightclub. I was permitted to go inside to use the toilet. The entire place was like a bad Dr Who sound effect from the John Pertwee era — and I like dance music. There were the interminable climbing and apparently asexual reproduction of roundabouts we discovered in Cumbernauld. We had another encounter with one of the Buckfast Zombies there. A passing car slowed down, and we heard Aerosmith’s I Don’t Wanna Miss A Thing come blaring out of a wound-down window. Along with the even louder screeching of the occupant attempting to sing along: serenading us in the wee hours, slap bang in the middle of Scotland’s industrial heartland. That’s a memory that will stay with me for a very long time.

In Falkirk, having passed the glowing pillars framing the Falkirk Wheel in the distance, we had our one and only flat. It was another opportunity to see what my little Canon could do in limited light.

Just one is pretty good going

Shackleton in Deep Sea Plankton mode

We also took the opportunity to make a firm decision on another route revision and avoid another set of hills that were simply unnecessary and certainly not in the spirit of Han Solo’s Kessel Run performance.

Doing the Kessel Run in 12 Parsecs means skipping Shieldhill

After that it was a straight run east through Polmont and Linlithgow for South Queensferry and the bridge.

Before we went on we needed a reminder, a symbol upon which we intrepid few could hang our memories of this epic and unique experience. Hence the Sign Of Four:

Next year we’re getting t-shirts.

After a brief stop at the all-nighter at Dalgety Bay for a coffee, we hit the road for the Kirkcaldy leg. Only 15 miles hence there was tea and warmth and the promise of a decent break somewhere the midges couldn’t get us. At this point the Heavens opened with real determination. Rain sheeted from the sky in a solid mass of precipitation that had the same demanding insistence as a cat desperate for its breakfast. While the ride was fast, and in the dry would have been perfect, in the wet I felt like I was drowning.

Coming along the Esplanade the manholes were all surcharging and there was about 3″ of water on the road. We got to the flat looking like four drowned rats, left the equally soggy bikes downstairs and ran upstairs for a much-needed cup of tea.

It was at this point my Mum rang. They were headed for Dunfermline at that point and she wanted to warn me that the whole of the East Neuk was flooding, and the weather was even worse up there. The four of us looked at each other. It was another three hours of riding and we were already soaked and freezing. Here we were, bacon butties at hand, and with a train station not five minutes away that had a frequent service to civilisation.

Regretfully we decided that we had contended with enough flooding, landslips, and attempted drownings during the night, and we would be better off calling it a day there. We had, after all, crossed Scotland from coast to coast — as could be seen in the sea glimmering out of the window in the early morning light. We had tackled mountains, midges, zombies, punctures, owls, bats, giant moths and foxes. We had seen women in very high stilettoes getting very excited about Shackleton’s lightshow. We had introduced an Englishman to the reviving properties of Irn Bru. We had stood on the Forth Bridge at dawn and made the Sign of Four.

It had been a good night. Next year we do it again. And finish it.

Dumb Run II: This Time It’s Personal.