Aidan Harding

Category: Highland Trail Race

  • Highland Trail Race – Day 3

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    The alarm buzzed into my exhausted mind. It had a few layers to dig through, but eventually it found some kindling inside my head. A spark, and consciousness started to spread. I could feel the wet sleeping bag against my face – I had been too tired to actually pull it into the bivi bag the night before. Loch-side and pine trees were painted in muted colours, and I felt wretched. I had to smile a little, though. This was why I had brought the warm clothes. I was going to put all of them on, and after a couple of hours of riding, things were bound to look up.

    The difficult part was getting from lying cold, tired, and hungry in a wet sleeping bag to being dressed and on the bike. Not only had I not zipped up the bivi, but I’d also forgotten to set some food within reach of my head for breakfast. Like a giant wet, sweary caterpillar, I hopped over to the bike and retrieved some carmel waffles. All too soon, I’d eaten them, and had nothing left to do but dress.

    The moment I was out of the sleeping bag, the shivers took over my body. Hands, feet, teeth and chest were buzzing and clattering away as I methodically added layers. Everything I had worn in the night was soaked, but adding a fleece jersey, wool socks, and thermal longs made it more bearable. Squashing away my gear, and clipping it back onto the bike, purpose was returning to my bones.

    Wind and rain met me as I finished the off-road from the night before. All the while, I was scanning for tyre marks in the mud. I had slept – what had the others done? Had they got the jump on me? I couldn’t see anything conclusive. On tarmac, I pedalled hard to devour the easy miles. I was happy to overheat a little now – the sweat wasn’t going to make me any wetter. Mile by mile, I was waking up and closing in on Torridon. I passed shelters that could have made for a better bivi last night, and worked my way around the mass of Beinn Eighe, feeling its gaze track my ant-like progress.

    Soon enough, it was back to pushing the bike up over rock and water. Brief bursts on the pedals would surge me upwards, but there was too much trail still ahead to attack like that. The sun was finally breaking through, bringing the glen I had just ridden into a sharp foreground. Mountains sat out behind the glen, with snow and crag. Each one representing another adventure for another day. I looked back along the road, trying to catch a glimpse of following riders. Nothing. For now, the task was simple – push on.

    I was more than ready to ride when the gradient finally relented. With legs ready to work at a different motion, I powered into a fierce wind. The glen was far behind now, and high country ruled. Up here, someone had dumped a mountain bike playground. Granite moulded into little bowls and curves was an invitation to throw the bike around and have some fun. Pumping the bike through dips and jabbing on power up little climbs, the fun was back in a big way. The wind that pushed weeds to one end of the loch up here was making me improvise lines, but there was space to play with. Skirting a second loch and still climbing, I could see the summit on my GPS but it still seemed far away on the ground.

    Finally, the descent. But not rideable enough. Not right here, not right now. The trail had an unnerving habit of being fine, and still fine, and then suddenly pointy and deadly. Controlled and cautious, I worked down where I had hoped to fly down. With an easing gradient and better sight lines, I could risk more rolling and speed. Occasional stoppers meant I had to stay sharp, but progress was coming.

    With that last bite, the savagery of this section was over. Miles rolled by uneventfully until Dornie and the chance to buy some real food. I scoured shelves laden with meat pies and rolls and sandwiches until I finally found something veggie and some chocolate milk. Staggering and stinking, I paid for the food. Outside, some guy in a hat was taking photos of my bike. Steve Heading – my rival in The Cairngorms Loop and EWE, a friend from hard miles and similar ambitions was here to see the racers come in. We chatted and I ate, fiddling with a few things that needed attention on the bike. Steve wouldn’t tell me how I was positioned in the race as that might give me an undue advantage. Eventually, he did say that I had been the first rider he had seen in Dornie and he had been there for a while.

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    Happy to think I was in the lead, satisfied with some real food, and on the final miles (in truth, there were still 100 miles to go!), I started to climb out of Dornie feeling great. Andy Heading was a short way up the road, and I couldn’t pass without stopping to chat. Andy had been one of the first people I had read about on the Iditarod Trail. We had never met before, but he had been part of the inspiration that had taken me out there and, eventually, brought me here.

    The head of Glen Lichd was an extraordinary push. Extend you arms, brakes on, take a step. Repeat. Golden light, and folded terrain were at my back as I toiled. My mind was slipping into maintenance mode, the afternoon wore on with no urgency at all. Any progress was enough. When I misjudged a rain-bar and pinch-punctured my tubeless tyre, it was repaired from a seated position but only after taking time to eat. When my brakes pads felt worn, I took an age to swap in new ones. Rudderless, but creeping forwards, I longed for the trail to Fort Augustus to be easy.

    It wasn’t. The trail surfaces were good and generally rideable, but the climbs often exceeded my strength. To make matters worse, I had started to see tyre tracks in the dirt. Two sets of tracks, one with Ikons, one with what could be Racing Ralphs. Maybe Mark Goldie and Phil Simcock had teamed up. Maybe they had ridden through Dornie while I was eating. The tracks didn’t wobble, and they weren’t accompanied by footprints in places where I was walking. Through fiery coloured mud and thick moss, across rivers, up forest roads, their tracks didn’t wobble as I failed to find the strength to ride continuously.

    My mind was churning. Hours of thinking that I was going to win this race were shattered. I still had to get to the end in time for my canoe trip, but this was going right to the pit of my mental and physical reserves. Why couldn’t Steve have told me straight-out that they had gone through? Next time I got to civilisation, I would get Trackleaders up on my phone and check the positions.

    The tracks tormented me all the way through gravel climbs on service roads. I could only alternately between trudging on foot and heaving on the pedals. Looking back at the forest and mountains, the beauty of The Highlands was becoming emotional. Looking forwards, the task still appeared endless. Brake-cooking descents were the reward. Eventually, and after dark, the trail proved that it was not infinite. I rolled into Fort Augustus, picking up water from the tap outside the (closed) petrol station.

    I phoned Emily to let her know that I wasn’t going to make the start of the canoe trip in the morning. Maybe I would bivi before Tyndrum, but probably only for a couple of hours. When she told me I was doing well, I dismissed it. Third place wasn’t enough. She told me that I was miles ahead and the tracks I had been following were from people who had cut the ride short and returned along the final leg. Remotivated, I hit the Great Glen Trail fast.

    It was late and fully dark. The trail here posed no challenge other than the miles, but my brain was beginning to play tricks. All kinds of things were flying towards me out of the darkness. Fruit, stars, animals, toys. They tumbled past me. They tumbled right through me. Nothing seemed to be keeping my mind together and, as it unravelled, all I could do was pedal faster. The quicker I got off this canal and onto some engaging riding, the safer I would be. I was making good speed, but time ticked to the beat of hallucinatory camels rather than seconds on a watch.

    Banavie came into view. Somewhere here, Emily was sleeping. A cat dodged across the road. I held my arms out and stretched my back. My stomach hungered for the 24hr petrol station in Fort William.

    Whoever invented macaroni and cheese pies is a carbo-genius. I bought two of them from the petrol station, with some milk and some snack bars. All I needed was dinner and a few hours supplies to make it to the end. The shivers came back as I ate the pies on the forecourt. But I had a chance to look at the blue in the night sky. Up here, at this hour, light is not far away.

    I planned to ride into the forest on the first section of the West Highland Way and see. Bivi if I needed to, or push on if it felt right.

    It felt right.

    I felt OK, I had a canoe trip to get to, and my sleeping bag was soaked anyway, so I rode. The sun rose as I climbed through the forest. Out of Fort William on fairly easy trails. I was disappointed to be pushing the bike when it looked rideable, but the legs said no. Not stopping was the main thing. Descending into Kinlochleven, I was heavy on the brakes and medium on the safety-first walking.

    I knew that pushing over The Devil’s Staircase was the last big challenge of the ride. I’d done it before, and there was no doubt that pushing was the only way. As I pushed, I saw two riders in full-face helmets sat back-to-back on the side of the trail. They had Go-Pro cameras on their helmets. They were going to have fun riding what I’d just pushed up. As I got closer, I smiled in their direction, then realised that they were actually a pile of rocks. Daylight hallucinations were coming in.

    I glimpsed Glencoe and blue skies through my peripheral vision, but  the twisting trail down the Devil’s Staircase took my full attention. A point of the hips was the only way to make the bike turn around the rocky switchbacks. Braking hard, rolling the rough stuff, it was 100% focus up here. Before long, the height was gone and all that was left was the jaunt back over what I remembered as rolling hills.

    A guy in chinos and a white shirt was pushing an ice-cream cart through the heather on my right. He was going to sell a lot to the West Highland Way walkers. It was another daylight hallucination and there were more hills than I remembered between here and Tyndrum.

    A burnt-out car lay on the left of the old drover’s road. How did that get up here? Again, it was a pile of rocks and my mind was rebelling. The going was good on the trail, but I was easily distracted. The end was close enough to want to just teleport there. It felt like I had all the time in the world, and I was faffing around constantly. But little-by-little, I got there.

    On the final trail into Tyndrum, there was no ceremony, no people at all. I rolled into town, cruising around a bit but finding no familiar faces. So it was straight to the Real Food Cafe. I was bewildered by being able to choose food that didn’t come out of my frame bag. As I struggled with the decisions, I said to the man at the till, “Do you remember all those mountain bikers from Saturday morning? I’m the first one back.” It was more of an apology for the lycra and the smell than a boast. “You’ll be hungry, then,” he replied. No arguments there. Just a big serving of curry and chips that started me back on the road to re-entry.

    Full results here

    Thanks to:

    • Alan Goldsmith and all the reconnaissance riders for putting together the route
    • Steve Heading for the photos and still coming up when he was too injured to ride the event
    • All the companies that help me out with kit. It’s all good stuff, I wouldn’t venture out on rides like this with anything less.

  • Highland Trail Race – Day 2

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    As soon as I woke, I started to wonder whether Mark had ridden past in the night. Phil was right here, and sorting himself out for departure. I ran through my morning routine. Eat, pack away the sleeping gear, get some snacks to-hand for the day, check my water situation. While Phil repacked, I headed down the hill to get water (he had told me about an off-trail tap he knew from the Strathpuffer). By the time I got back up, Phil was gone. I hit the trail as fast as I could, trying to catch him. My legs were neither sprightly nor defeated, they just worked. Before long, I saw Phil with a mechanical. Checking that he wasn’t stranded or injured, I rolled on by.

    With moderate gradients and the power he has, it was no surprise that Phil caught me back up. We settled into a rhythm through the beautiful country.

    Widely spaced and ancient-looking trees in Strathgarve Forest put me in mind of the Cairngorms. Powerful deer herded and ran as we worked our way along glens and over braes. Trail conditions were good – uphills were often rewarded with high-speed downhills, culminating in 10 miles of fast-going along Glen Achall. This was more like riding on the Great Divide, big skies and simple miles. A civilised morning ride, with the promise of real food at Ullapool.

    In town, the goal was simple. Find the public toilets, get some food, then get out before getting too comfortable. Despite our appearance and odour, the tea room was hospitable and served excellent soup. Avoiding the temptation of an ice-cream and a sit-down in the sun, it was back onto the bike for Phil and me.

    I had an inkling that things were going to be pretty hard out of Ullapool. But I wasn’t quite ready for 1000ft of climbing in 1 mile. That was an hour of pushing with heels dug into the turf. An hour where predictions of an arrival time in Poolewe vanished beyond our grasp. There was no mile-munching contoured descent from the top. Another loch, and then steeply back down on rutted trails. The gradient and the tightness of the downhill lines forced me into a careful pace, only riding within the bounds of what I could see. With this much caution, it was confusing that Phil wasn’t right on my tail. At a gate, I couldn’t see him and waited a little. I got that sinking sensation. It wasn’t my role here to shepherd him, and he didn’t need me to do that anyway. But the delay was so long, it could mean a rider down. Just as I started to push back up the hill, he came into sight. His rear derailleur had caught on the side of the trail and was damaged.

    At the bottom, Phil pulled off the trail to attempt to deal with the damaged derailleur. His bike had sliding dropouts, so he proposed to singlespeed it. Weighing up where we were (on a road) and the kit he had with him, I decided that Phil was perfectly capable of looking after himself from here. It was time to go and get on down the trail.

    There was some riding, but pretty soon the climb became pushing again and brought me up to Carn Na Canaich where white rock lay down a fun trail. Afternoon was creeping across the sky and, as the wind picked up, I stopped to put on a jacket. In that pause, I took in the sight of lochs below me, mountains above, rock and heather at my feet. It was the perfect time in the perfect place. Miles were coming slowly, but they came wrapped in rich experience.

    This philosophical satisfaction didn’t last long, though. The downhill turned to steep, and cut down a sheer valley to Shenavall. In fact, cursing punctuated nearly every step. I didn’t even have room on the trail to walk with my bike. It had to be carried. Bike shoes skidded over the grass and tantrums boiled. I barely looked up at all as I carefully planted each foot, the bike a useless anchor.

    From the bottom, plenty of bog provided a squelchy skirt to the crossing of the river Abhainn Srath na Sealga. The river flowed into a dark loch that had its own pebble beach way up here between the mountains. At the GPS-indicated crossing, the water was clear, wide, and lazy. Looking up and down the bank, this seemed like the best place, so I waded in. Shins, knees, mid-thigh, creeping more. The water really was flowing slowly and I was making good progress, able to see my feet. In the end, no dramas and my feet were no wetter than they had been from the bogs.

    It was feeling dusky as I headed up out of this valley. I had heard that all this pushing was for the sake of a fun descent and a 6 mile singletrack, so my goal now was to hit that singletrack with some daylight. Pretty soon, though, the climb became another grinding push. Walkers were jaunty as they pointed out how silly it was to push a bike up here. I could not disagree. And when the descent started with steep switchbacks and steps cut into the trail, I began to think we were about to lose 1700 feet of height in one arm-pumping shot. The trail widened, though, and it was possible to have some fun heading down. Fairly steep, as wide as a road, and pocked with steps and exposed rocks, the trail gave no time to ponder the sun setting over a loch so big that it might as well have been a sound.

    The gradient levelled out and a skirmish of rain came in with the wind. I plugged in my dynamo light and zipped up my jacket a bit. It felt like the forecast rain was approaching and a cold wet night was due. On the plus side, my tyres sat on singletrack and this may be what had been promised. The lazy devil in me cursed the twists and turns and pumps and flow. A nice forest road would be quicker. But, if you give a mountain biker singletrack, they’ll be happy. I didn’t even look at the GPS, this was the only trail and I rode it as fast as I could. Like a Tuesday night dust-up, not an adventure race, it was time to get all over the front of the bike and stuff it into the corners. My flooded rear hub was silent and the only sound was tyres on dirt.

    The previous 30 miles had taken more than 8 hours. It had felt like an adventure in itself. It was around midnight now, and I had finally reached Poolewe. The town offered nothing helpful at this hour, but it was a milestone that had been hard won. I put a fleece on under my jacket to counter the rain that was now steady and unflinching. It was time to keep moving and put pressure onto anyone who was still chasing. If Phil had managed to singlespeed his bike, he wouldn’t be far behind. Mark was riding so strong that he might have already passed Phil. The midnight hour was for making tough miles and not backing down.

    Before long, I was pushing up another hill. Rideable stretches passed quickly, but heaving the bike over boulders and seeing sheets of rain catch in my helmet light, I started to regret coming onto another exposed hill. The downhill was even worse. This was no manicured bike trail, it was boulders and cut rock. It was streams and braiding tracks. It was heading down the hill so sharply that I couldn’t see beyond each rock outcrop until I was on it. Tired and cautious, I would creep forwards, checking everything before I rode it. Can I ride that line? Where can I stop if the next section is unrideable? Often, a creep and a look over the lip of a rocky section would reveal trail that was unrideable that night. I wondered what the trail would be like in daylight, without bikepacking kit, and with a downhill bike. I walked. It was just too dangerous to risk rolling into the jaws this rocky trail. I hopped back on, I hopped back off. I walked some more. I screamed into the night. Frustrated at being unable to ride this. Cold, wet, losing focus, and just wanting to find somewhere to lay my head.

    When I finally reached the forest that I had seen on the map as a possible bivi spot, the rain was coming through the trees almost as fast as on open ground. All I could determine from the GPS was that there was a car park and toilet coming up. Maybe there would be shelter down there. Maybe I would end up sleeping on a concrete floor that stank of urine. My body was shutting down, failing to maintain heat, and my mind was clouding. If the car park didn’t work out, I was no shape to press on and look for somewhere else. I went for what I had here, a soft bed of wet pine needles and whatever cover the trees could provide.

     

  • Highland Trail Race – Day 1

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    When I rolled up to the start line, I was still munching a bagel. After a traffic-delayed journey the day before, I had hastily thrown my kit together that morning. Now it was a relief to see so many friendly faces. Our little world of dirt-bag racing had hit Tyndrum and a bunch of guys (sadly the only two women entered for the race had to pull out before the start) with tales to tell were nervously chatting away.

    People seemed surprised by the amount I was carrying. I was acutely aware that I didn’t have the legs to just romp away with this, and my only chance to win would be through relentlessness. I was planning to be more aggressive than usual with the sleeping side of things and that often means losing the ability to maintain body heat. So I took plenty of clothes.

    As usual, the start was just a shout of “Go!”. The blue skies and sunshine were a surreal contrast to the worst-case scenarios and the weather forecast that boded ill for later on. For this moment, bleak mountains, raging winds, and snow seemed like they belonged to another planet.

    The riding tempo out of the start was a little too high as we headed out on the West Highland Way. When the sun shines and the trail is good, it’s nice to make the best of it. Nonetheless, I was huffing and puffing a bit in a loose lead group. The rattly drove road zipped lightly under our wheels. Fast-paced climbing became a fun descent towards the driveway for Glencoe Mountain Resort. Easy rocks and corners made for a flattering trail and an enjoyable introduction to the route.

    The Devil’s Staircase saw the effort of the lead group maintained. On foot, we pushed hard towards the summit and a rocky descent into Kinlochleven. I gave way to the first couple in the lead group, wanting to keep the descent controlled and not hold them up. There was little to be gained by hurtling down the rock steps, and a there was a high chance of walkers on this popular route. Even so, with tough tyres and the benefit of a suspension fork, it was a lot of fun working the trail back down off the mountain.

    Pretty soon, the lead group was established as a four. Phil Simcock, Mark Goldie, Phil Richmond and myself. I could see that Phil S and Mark had me out-powered on the climbs. This was just what I had feared. Phil R was a bit of an unknown: riding strong, but claiming that he was just making hay while the sun shone and wouldn’t be keeping up the pace after today.

    I let Phil S romp away without trying to come back at him. For hours, I couldn’t see him, and then he would be back in my sights. Since we were both on singlespeeds, I felt annoyed at myself whenever Mark got in front of me, but I didn’t always have the strength to reel him back in. I was going to have to get lucky, sleep less, or just out-tough the pair of them.

    When we rode as a group, it was sociable and miles were passing smoothly. Splits formed, and were later eaten up. I tried to keep a wise head on things and enjoy where we were. It was pretty easy to find that joy on fast-running trails with fine weather and mountains all around.

    We reached Fort Augustus just before 8pm having made 100 miles in 10 hours despite some pushing sections. It was time to rehydrate, and I mostly ate food from my bike. I had carried that food 100 miles, I was going to make damn sure I ate it. While the others had spread their gear around a bit during the stop, I was constantly occupied: eating, emptying rubbish, refilling water, repacking. And I rode out of there ahead of the other guys. A little bit rude, but the stops are part of this kind of racing.

    It was no surprise that Phil S and Mark caught me later on, and we travelled together into the twilight. Circling a loch on its pebble shore, spinning hard on the tarmac, zig-zagging along flooded trails, we passed the time with stories. Eventually, I realised it was only Phil I was talking to. I could see Mark’s light way back on the hill, and moving like he was still riding. Maybe it was his asthma, or some stop to fiddle with his bike, but the lead group was down to two.

    Around 4am, we took a bivi in the woods that play host to the Strathpuffer 24 hour race. I like to ride late and get up after the sun has had chance to warm things up a little. 150 miles in Day 1 felt like a very good total, and everything on the bike + body was in working order. With my alarm set for 4 hours, there was no difficulty in getting to sleep.

  • Highland Trail Race – Intro

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    The Highland Trail Race is a 430 mile race around the Scottish Highlands. Although it is in the UK, the northernmost part of the route is about as far from London as Verbier in the Swiss Alps. The nature of the riding, the scenery, the whole environment is far remote from my local riding. And therein lay the attraction of the event.

    430 miles over tough terrain is too far to go without sleep, but not far enough to need a long-term sustrainable routine. Like the 400 metres of bikepacking, this race was going to live in the uncomfortable gap between a sprint and a marathon.

    Before the start, I tried to strategise through some of the unknowns. Organiser, Alan Goldsmith had revealed that the reconnaissance ride had taken 55 hours of moving time. That equated to about 7mph moving average, and implied significant hike-a-bike.

    From the map, I could see that there was a decent amount of the West Highland Way and some road sections. This made the 7mph even more ominous. So, I abandoned the idea of predicting the time taken between two points along the route – some miles would be eked out slowly, some would spin by with ease. I decided to carry enough food for pretty much the entire route from day 1. In the past, I have pulled into small Scottish towns to find everything closed up with no options for food or sleeping. So, the aim was to be self sufficient within minimum reliance on resupply.

    The weather forecast predicted hot sunny days, cold cloudless nights and, eventually, rain. That meant carrying a full set of gear from warm to cold and wet (see kit post).

  • Highland Trail Race – Kit

    The Highland Trail Race was absolutely amazing. With some stiff competition from strong riders, it was pretty sharp at the sharp end.

    Through a mix of luck, wisdom, stubbornness, and toughness, I managed to come out on top. Full emotional reporting to come, but kit-lists are easy to write while I still sort my head out.

    My overall philosophy was to try to make sure I could continue to make progress without moving into a downward spiral of losing body heat (e.g. core body temperature dropping to uncontrollable shivering or hands losing dexterity). I wouldn’t be able to just wait out any cold/wet conditions, so I had to be able to keep going through them.

    Additionally, I didn’t think I could make much of a guess at opening hours or arrival times for resupply en-route. So, I filled my whole frame bag with food 🙂

    Clothing

    Specialized BG Sport velcro shoes Cheap; no ratchets to get jammed with grit.
    Bridgedale wool socks, Innov8 running socks Inov-8 socks have very minimal seams for long-distance comfort. Bridgedale wool keep you warm even after wading rivers. I wore the Inov-8 socks for 2 days, then switched to the wool to start day 3 in the wet.
    Endura MT-500 MTB overshoes Gives layering options, and keeps warm when wet (day 1 on the trail was very hot, the night of day 2 was very cold and wet).
    Sugoi RS Zero Bib longs, no pad I considered leg warmers instead, but these tights have proved themselves to me on the Iditarod. When it’s cold windy, and raining, there’s no such thing as too warm.
    Sugoi RS Bib shorts They fit my arse and don’t cost crazy money.
    Gore Bike Wear Active Shell shorts Having used waterproof shorts once on a bikepacking race, I’d now never be without them. Keeps my main shorts dry enough to avoid needing to change them, comfortable enough to ride in all day, and now seem to stay up better than the model I had from a year ago.
    Singular short-sleeve synthetic jersey Merino can get a bit worn through in these conditions, and you’ve got to show the team colours!
    Mountain Hardwear Polartec 100 fleece Works with Gore Tex jacket below. Considered arm warmers instead or as well, but decided to be ready for the worst and minimise on intermediate kit. I’ve read that fleece works better than synthetic down when wet – I don’t have synthetic down to compare to, but fleece under a waterproof certainly does perform well even when wet.
    Gore Bike Wear Path II Pac-Lite Shell jacket Soft shells I’ve found to just wet out, hang heavy and never dry until you get back to civilisation. Hard shells with mesh are too hot to be used in anything other than real cold. This shell works in normal rain and as a windproof, then adding in the fleece underneath provides comfort even when it gets really hostile outside.
    Roadie cap + helmet A bit of variation so that I can easily wash the cap and choose to have it on/off.
    Black Diamond Mercury Mitt A piece of kit from Alaska. No cycling glove I have used has lived up to claims of keeping you warm when it’s around freezing and the rain is hard. These monsters do exactly that and with no gear levers, reduced dexterity while wearing them is fine. I considered some winter bike gloves, but simplified to just these or bare hands.

    When I got up in the rain at the start of Day 3, having bivvied in the rain with no shelter and already being soaked when I lay down, I had full-body shivers going on. Once I ate a bit, put on all available clothing and rode for a bit, I was able to make progress in comfort. Having all that gear was a big aid to getting out of bed and onto the bike.

    Bike

    Singular Swift Frame Always dependable, always fun to ride.
    Rockshox Revelation 100mm forks The Cairngorms Loop was pretty savage on my hands, so suspension seemed like a good idea here. In retrospect, definitely a good choice. Rigid is still more fun for local trails, though.
    Wheels: Front – SP Dynamo hub/Stans Crest Rim, Rear- Hope Pro2 Evo SS Hub/Stans Crest Built by Just Riding Along, the wheels simply run well. More on the dynamo later. The rear has taken a lot of hub servicing, but at least it’s easy to do at home and cheap.
    Maxxis Ikon Tubeless-Ready (tubeless) The new tubeless ready version of my favourite treads are slightly beefed up compared to the EXOs I had been running. Fast, grippy, and suitable for pretty much everything but claggy mud.
    Hope Headset Fit + forget
    Velosolo 32t SS chainring, Andel 18t rear, SRAM PC979 chain Works smoothly, looks right, and lasts for miles
    Shimano XT cranks, M520 pedals
    Hope Ceramic BB Eventually, I not only wore through a number of old Hope BB bearings, I also wore the metal off the cups so much that they wouldn’t hold the dust caps any more. So I had a Shimano for about a month until it seized and then fitted a new Hope Ceramic at 7.00am on the day of the Highland Trail start. It was a good excuse to visit my old LBS, Cycle Care on the way up.
    USE Carbon Seatpost, Selle Italia Flite Saddle This post has been lightweight, comfortable, and durable over a year of bikepacking use. So much for fears about “fragile” carbon parts. I just wrap in it tape before fitting the rear bag, and it’s great.
    USE Carbon Bars, USE stem These bars are the right width, and the right weight. I’ve been hauling on this setup for over a year and been happy all the way.
    Avid BB7 brakes My Shimano XTs had got very unreliable in the days leading up to the race and I knew I could get these fitted and working well very quickly so I did. Also, they’ll be just the job for the Iditarod Trail next year.
    Exposure Revo, Diablo, RedEye lights The Revo provides plenty of light and dynamo power is great for riding as long as your legs will carry you. The Diablo is still very much worth having for technical sections and looking off the trail for bivvy spots. The combination of a dyno hub and Revo light are actually lighter than a normal hub and an Exposure Maxx-D, so it’s a lightweight setup. Despite many river crossings and much rain, there was never a flicker of a problem from either light.
    Garmin Dakota 20 Simply works for me. Easy to keep fed with AA batteries and so waterproof that it has survived multiple capsizes in kayaks.

    Bags + Camping

    Wildcat Gear Frame (Clouded Leopard), Front (Mountain Lion), and Rear (Tiger) bags The frame bag is high-quality and great for packing heavy stuff like food. I had it custom-made to fit around a single bottle as I like to have a traditional bottle to-hand. The front harness is fiddly to fit in the first place, but secure and makes popping your front dry-bag on and off simplicity itself – all without rubbing against your head-tube. Likewise, the rear harness takes a while to fit the first time, but makes it very easy to access your stuff on the trail. It’s stable and hardly noticeable in-use.
    Inov-8 Race Elite 15 Hydration Pack – 15L with 2L Camelbak bladder Hip pockets for easy access to multi-tool + snacks, stuffed with bulky lightweight items and valuables. I finally decided to get over my hangup about using a bladder on bikepacking rides. Definitely worthwhile here as I rarely had time to pull out my actual bottle.
    Mountain Hardwear Lamina 32 Synthetic Sleeping Bag plus silk liner With a high chance of rain, and a low chance of having time to stop and dry my gear, synthetic seemed like the way forward. It’s a lot bulkier than the down bag I’ve used on other recent trips, but it is rated to 1C and I was confident that it would be warm enough when used with the liner. I take a liner to provide layering options, and to keep my sleeping bag relatively clean.
    Terra Nova Discovery Lighty Bivvy I’ve slept in this for many nights and not once have I woken up dead.
    No sleeping mat Pick somewhere soft!

    Plus various of the usual tools, spares, and first aid.