As perhaps has been previously mentioned (though perhaps not, I lose track), holidays are a one sided planning affair in our household. The usual conversation goes along the lines of ‘shall we go on holiday?’, he replies ‘sounds like a plan’ and I wander off and hammer Google for 2 weeks straight, trying to find somewhere which treads the fine line between comfortable, peaceful (me) and near to a pub (him).
The one we are currently in the midst of went a little differently. ‘Shall we go on a mountain biking holiday?’ I proposed. ‘Sounds like a plan’ he said. From there things took a slightly different route. Location was reduced to ‘is it near one of the 7 Stanes trail centres’, comfort involved ‘does it have a bike store and a passing familiarity with people turning up looking like they’ve gone two rounds with a mud monster’ and near a pub became a bit of an irrelevance.
So, here we are in Castle Douglas. It’s perfectly located, the apartment has a bike store and a hose pipe (though suspicions are high this is accidental as it’s also located next to the only flowerbed), and the weather is being Scottish. By which I mean to say, it’s neither sunny or raining, but a weird mix of indeterminable origin where the weatherman says it will rain, it feels frequently like we’re riding in a rainforest and occasionally the heavens open with a viciousness henceforth only seen on TV in the dramatic bits of films.
We’re also in a bit of a bike tangle. I’ve got my new Marin, only ridden so far along towpaths and not in anger. The other half (who I really should introduce properly at some point, but there’s a comic to go with it and it’s in draft so must wait) does not have his shiny new bike as TNT delivery services didn’t, and so he has a Marin full sus on loan from the very very nice man at Blazing Saddles in Hebden Bridge. Be nice to your Local Friendly Bikeshop and my gosh will they be nice to you.
As a result, we approached Glentrool, our first 7 Stanes Blue route with something approaching quiet apprehension. I’d read Glentrool was quiet. The quietest of all the Stanes trail centres. They weren’t joking. Roll call involved two other cars; one exploding Scottish male mountain bikers in full voice and raucousness, and the other with no occupants and no bike rack either (it’s funny how you start assessing people on the accessories attached to their car, isn’t it).
Raucous group of raucousness turned out to be there to do the epic Purple route – 58km of quiet roads and forest tracks taking them down what transpired to be beautiful scenery when we got high enough to see it. We muttered about insanity biting late in life and found the beginning of the Blue route. The usual traditions of the rides my other half and I embark on rolled out as usual – him being sparky and positive and me quietly dying after the first 0.5km – except this time there was something a bit different. My Marin weighs half what my old bike does. I noticed this with some smugness after the first 10 minutes, the smugness generated by the look of slight bemusement on my partner’s face, who for the first time got a glimpse into the drastic difference an extra few pounds makes when trying to generate enough power to pull you up a hill. The full sus he was on was a bus, and as a result the sparkyness quietly dissipated until he’d got used to the energy transference not quite working the way he was used to.
We slogged up the hill, got drizzled on, felt very isolated, slogged some more, started to wonder if there was another living thing within a 2 mile radius of us, saw some sheep running off in the distance, dodged some cow pats on the loop around the edge of felling operations and generally tried to get used to our respective bikes. Partner failed to jump his, I failed to make friends with mine. Levels of irritation rose as I started to wonder if I was cut out for this mountain biking lark at all.
Then we went around a corner and the view of the Galloway hills opened in front of us and finally something started to make sense. Another 1km or so and we got to the top, the very highest bit of the route. Below us were two lochs and unbelievably, the sounds of raucous group of raucousness echoing back up at us from the valley below. It was one of the most stunning views I’ve ever worked for. So we sat for a bit, and gathered ourselves and I moaned a bit about traction and other half let some air out of my tyres and I resolved to get rid of the Mountain Kings pretty much about then, I think.
I don’t remember a lot about the down, but I did learn one valuable lesson in about the safest place to do so – Marins and cheap GT’s are not created equal. I used to be able to leave my brakes alone on downs, just coasting along, using the track and momentum to get me a little way up the inevitable up the other side.
The sound of my hubs and derailleur disappearing entirely because I am going so fast is not a sound I want to be hearing again. Fast is good. Fast is what I live for. Fast is absolute bliss. Too fast is when you know that if you came off, there would be a bit of snap, crackle and pop going on and you’re not wearing any body armour at all. A time out was called. Wits were gathered. I got back on, and I learnt my lesson and I throttled back – way back, in some ways too far back, a theme which was to continue.
Glentrool is a lovely Blue route. Absolutely lovely. It’s not technical, it’s not particularly challenging, it’s not going to change the world. What it is going to do is remind you why you pedal push, because the views are to die for, the berms at the bottom are actually really quite clever and the waterfalls by the visitor centre are pretty epic when in spate. This is Scotland so that will be quite often. Don’t go there for adrenaline highs, go there to have the side of a hill entirely to yourself for the day. To have the views to yourself. Sometimes, I think, everyone needs to stop and look and this is a wonderful place to do it.
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