Planned route: 112.3mi, 7,332ft
Actual route: 112.4mi, 7,595ft
Another long day, another hilly day, and another early start in moderate rain. At 6.28am I set off, lights on, waterproof jacket on, overshoes on ... and, most importantly, Rock Tape and gauze pads in place. I'd like to say dressing your own saddle sores blind, in a tiny tent, in the dark, gets easier the more often you do it, but it doesn't. On the plus side, the discomfort I'd been feeling in my right hip at the end of day 6 had abated, and I was looking forward to what, for me, would be one of the highlights of the whole event: crossing the Forth bridge.
Unfortunately, the rain quickly upped the ante, from moderate to lashing down. Here's the best picture I managed crossing the Forth:
It's blurry because the weather was so bad, I didn't actually stop to take the picture. That, and the lashing rain, obviously. You can make out the new Forth road bridge in the distant murk on the left and, if you look closely, you can just about see the tops of the iconic Forth rail bridge on the right. On another, brighter day I would have stopped and got some decent pictures but instead, as with crossing the Severn on day 3, the Forth crossing left me feeling short-changed.
Crossing the bridge was also the only time on the whole route that I (and the cyclists in front of me) lost the route, so we ended up clambering over barriers and finding our own way back to the trusty blue and white route markers. I'm going to blame the weather... that and the natural tendency of cyclists on a big event to just follow the cyclists in front of them.
Fortunately, the rain soon eased off, though the jacket stayed on for a while as it was a cool morning. It was a day of many different layer combinations, actually, because later in the day it got cool enough to warrant putting a gilet on over my long-sleeved jersey. Anyway, after the Forth there was quite a long drag through to Kinross and Lock Leven, and then Perth which, even in the gloom, looked grand.
And so to the day's first pit stop and RAB's third racecourse, just north of Perth. In case you were wondering just how much got eaten at a pit stop, I took this picture there:
In my defence, I should point out that not everything shown was for immediate consumption - some of the things that wouldn't melt (the gingerbread man and flapjack) were stowed in a jersey pocket for eating during the next leg of the ride. However, full disclosure: this picture doesn't show that I also ate half a pork pie and a pain au chocolat at Perth Racecourse...
From there, the ride got increasing scenic and, more specifically, with my kind of scenery: hills and mountains, isolation, altitude, water. Blairgowrie and the River Tay were a prelude to the Bridge of Cally and then Glenshee. I've mentioned before that all the worst hills have names, right? Well, Glenshee is long and hard, generally grippy and, in places, properly 1-in-how-many steep. But the biggest challenge it presents is its length - it just seems to go on and on. Still, no walking was required, though I did stop for a breather half way up, the flapjack got eaten and a Blue Fuel gummy too. If I tell you that the ascent leads to a ski centre, you get the gist of how high you have to climb up Glenshee, with the kicker being the very last section which GPSs fancier than mine recorded as a 17% incline. That's tough when you're fresh, but when you're on day 7 of a ride and you've just climbed to an altitude of more than 2,000ft is very hard indeed - I thought my heart would burst from my chest... but it didn't, and I made it, to be met by the familiar Deloitte cheer squad with their flags and cow bells. Much appreciated, as was the day's second pit stop that immediately followed, at the ski centre.
From there came what, for me, was the most enjoyable descent of the whole ride, with spectacular views on the way to Braemar. The route then followed the River Dee towards Balmoral, the most obvious indicator of which were signs prohibiting parking in lay-bys. I kept an eye out for Liz, but didn't see her; there were a few jokes floating around about Nonce Prince Andrew lying low in the area too, but I didn't see him either.
What I did see were a couple more grippy hills towards the end, the rewards for which were isolation and striking views. From there, it was a long drag, counting off the miles, to Strathdon showground and the next basecamp.
The day's rain meant there was now another activity to add to the evening's itinerary - clean the bike. Really important if you wanted things to keep working well in bad weather. I also got a mechanic to give my brakes the once over, being concerned that so many steep descents were taking their toll. But with only very minor adjustment, they were given the all-clear; I have to admit there were plenty of times I wished I'd had fancy disc brakes on RAB, but my old-school rim brakes had performed admirably to that point. Little did I know their biggest test would come the following day.
Once the bike was cleaned and racked, I fell into my usual evening routine: shower, wash and dry wet cycling clothes, call home, update socials, eat, attend the briefing, prep the bike, do some stretches, obtain medical supplies... I say supplies because it was no longer just Rock Tape and pads that I needed. I happened to mention to a medic the latest addition to my catalogue of pain, swollen knee joints... and he gave me two of the largest Ibuprofen I have ever seen. Take one tonight, he said, and one in the morning. Would they upset my stomach, I asked, knowing that brufen-based drugs haven't always agreed with me. No, I was assured, as long as I took them with food. But since I'd already eaten that evening, I went off with the meds untaken, burning a hole in my pocket, and went to sit in the stretching area with my legs in the air for a while instead. That seemed to help a bit, as did wearing my compression calf sleeves overnight. That's what I subsequently told myself anyway. Little did I know those Ibuprofen would have a role to play later...
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