Taynuilt to Hunter's Quay Dunoon

I am sure it will come as no surprise, to those who know me well, that out of the two choices of ride available to me today, I took the longer, harder, sixty-four mile ride to Dunoon. It was a largely pleasant journey, beginning with a meander through grassy meadows, highland cows chewing cuds of grass, the sound of a cuckoo reverberating across the valley. Then I cycled through the pass of Brander with its steep inclines, down from which crashed huge waterfalls. The pass, after six or seven miles, gave way to the sparkling waters of Loch Awe, the banks of which were largely lined with deciduous trees and purple rhododendrons.  

The climb to the top of Glenn Array was steep and tiring. But the sun was out, and it was great to feel its warmth. And as I neared the top of the Array, walking due to the steepness, a breeze picked up. It's hard to describe just how refreshing this was. It left me thinking about 'Cycling without Age,' which was much of the motivation for undertaking this ride. Years ago, in my twenties, I worked for a short period on a ward for older men. Few had visitors, and from time to time the curtains would be drawn around a bed, and the deceased occupier removed, only to be replaced with another old man the following day. Talking to patients was discouraged; it meant you were being lazy. I remember asking one old man how long he had been there. "Three years," he said. "How often have you been out in that time?" I asked. "Never," he replied. Flouting the rules, I obtained a wheelchair. And an hour later we stood on a hill high above Salisbury, the wind in our hair (those were the days when I still had some), the sun on our faces. He pointed to various locations in the city below, and came alive as he chatted about his life, work, experiences, and family. The smile on his face, and his gratitude were deeply rewarding. There was another occasion, working in London, in an extremely busy old people's team, for Brent council, when a request came through from an old lady, Iris, for help with washing and dressing. This was low priority, and so it was three or four weeks later that I knocked on her door. I recall so vividly how she fell into my arms and sobbed. Weeks previously, she'd gone to the post office to collect her pension. Confronted by a youth, a large piece of timber in his hands, he'd demanded her money. She'd refused, and the youth had struck her repeatedly across the ribs. That's why she needed help washing and dressing. And not wanting to bother anyone, or make a fuss, she had put up with the pain and isolation. I worked for some weeks with Iris, and recall vividly how her face lit up when I turned up one morning with a bunch of flowers, and how she in turn struggled out to the shops to buy my two young children some presents. "You've restored my faith in humanity," she told me. These are moments of connection. And they really matter. We live in a society where loneliness and isolation for older people is so common, where the language we use marginalises and discredits them; old codger, dirty old man, old biddy, senile, demented, cantankerous, and fogey. We'll all be old one day. For me, loving the outdoors as I do, particularly cycling, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face. and the wind in my hair (what's left of it), and having people to talk to, to share my story with, will be all important. I look forward to seeing the rickshaws along the cycle tracks in Exeter, and the connections that will be built between volunteers and our older generation.

From the top of Glen Array, their was a steady descent into Inveraray, and Loch Fyne. This wasn't too steep, and so I was able to freewheel most of the way. I had contemplated stopping here for the night, but it was only midday, and it quickly became evident the small village was a tourist honeypot. There was an endless stream of roaring motorbikes, coaches and camper-vans travelling along the A89. I'd only just stopped for some lunch - bread, cheese and a large ripe tomato - sitting on a bench overlooking the loch, when there came a voice from behind me. "Nice bike. May I take photo?" I turned to see at least a dozen Chinese tourists, with their iPod's on selfie sticks. "Smile for camera please." Click, click, click.

The most frustrating part of the day was what seemed like an endless diversion around the far end of Loch Fyne. After nearly three hours, two of which were on the busy A89, I finally reached a point which was probably no more than half a mile across the water to Inveraray. But I was to be rewarded for my efforts. As I reached Strachur, and the turning for Dunoon, out of the Creggans Inn appeared seven Scottish lads, cheering, waving, and crying out enthusiastically. They had passed me earlier in their cars. One had a glass of orange, in which were ice cubes and a straw. "It's for you," he said. "You deserve it!" The lads subsequently took a number of my cards promoting the ride and the charity.

The last part of the day's journey took me down to Holy Loch, in Hunter's Inn. I walked along the shore front, watching dunlin in flight. I love the way in which they swerve their path, and coordinate their movements together, as if they were in some preplanned dance. Tomorrow I will take the ferry across the Clyde to Gourock. Although I shall cycle down the coast for another forty miles or so, it will be through largely built up areas. Despite the endless rain and the midges, I find myself sad to be leaving the wilder aspects of the west coast behind me.

Before I go, should anyone now feel inspired to follow in my tracks and purchase a penny farthing, I need to make you aware of two things. Firstly, be aware, should you visit the west coast, that midges have a top speed of four miles an hour. Consequently, you need to be sure you can maintain such a pace in order to stop them bothering you. Secondly, apart from the dangers of a 'header' I have described, there is another potential hazard. If you have ever watched a Robin Hood film, and in particular a chase on horseback, you'll know how the pursuing rider - normally one of the sheriff of Nottingham's evil accomplices - will often be knocked out of their saddle by an overhanging branch. This is the hazard for the penny farthing rider. All along the cycle track, following the Caledonian Way, I had to keep ducking; so much so that I am inclined to write to the powers that be for Argyll and Bute and request there is a clear pathway made available to the height of ten feet.