Perth to Braemar

August 26, 2010

Jamming ear plugs into my ears and trying to think nice thoughts worked quite well. Although we had resolved to wake up early and conquer the hills before noon, Joshua let me sleep in. Outside the tent, the sky was heavy and grey, and once we managed to pull ourselves out of bed, we packed up quickly and wolfed down our breakfast of flapjacks and strawberries.

Joining back up with the A93, we passed a sign indicating 45 miles to Braemar. Although most days require some map reading or following cycle route stickers, today was straightforward: we cycled on the A93 the whole way from Perth to Braemar.

In addition to easing navigation, the A93 didn't invite many rest stops, and we covered the first 30 miles quickly. Although the first third was relatively flat, once we passed Blairgowrie, the road led up into the Moors. For 20 miles, we gained elevation and passed fields of cows and sheep. Eventually, the Moors became less and less cultivated, and they grew more and more purple heather. The landscape opened up, and we saw the steep range of Cairngorms up ahead.

Oh. And it rained. A lot.

By the time we got to Spittal o Glenshee, we were ready to treat ourselves to a cooked meal indoors. Rolling into the village Hotel, we parked our bikes and walked inside. As you may have gathered from my last few posts, we've been wild camping for the past four nights, and I haven't had a shower in six days. Everything we own has been either damp or soaking wet for days, and my hair is so matted and greasy that it holds the shape that the helmet creates when I take it off. We are disgusting.

I might feel bad about stinking up the joint, if it weren't for the terrible, horrible meal they fed us. The only redeemable part of the entire affair was a can of Schwepps Ginger Beer, and clearly, that's pretty hard to mess up. That, and there was a super cute little puppy that ran around the place and begged pets and scratches from the clientele. He was so cute that no one could deny him.

For starters, although Joshua had ordered a burger (Vegetarianism is a slow road for this one) and I had ordered the soup of the day with a cheese and tomato sandwich, it took them nearly an hour to kill the cow, bake the bread, ladle the soup, and slap two pieces of bread together. When the food finally arrived, Joshua discovered that four different kinds of animals had united to form his burger with ham, cheese, and egg on top, and I sadly discovered that the soup of the day was Chicken Noodle. Sort of. Apologizing to the chicken who gave its life for this sad, pathetic excuse of a soup, I spooned a few pathetic, flaccid noodles onto my spoon and washed it down with what passed as chicken broth. Oh. And a few kernels of corn. The sandwich wasn't much better, and apparently, the cook had found it too difficult to slice the cheese. Instead, the sandwich was filled with mealy tomato and grated cheese. Also - and this isn't unique to the fine establishment at Spittal o Glenshee - they had heavily buttered the bread. What is it with Brits and butter? They butter EVERYTHING.

We escaped the manky hotel and their manky food just in time to face our real uphill of the day. In the cycling book, they call it 'the Showstopper,' and they're not ones to exaggerate. For six miles, we burped up nasty Spittal o Glenshee and climbed a 12 percent grade. We sweat a lot, and the overly friendly construction workers paused to hoot, holler, and offer a good time half way up. At the top, I collapsed over my bike, and when I looked up, I discovered that it was about to shitstorm.

I'm not sure what's worse: climbing uphill in the pouring rain, or descending 10 miles in the pouring rain. I think I'll pass on both, but really, I think going downhill in the rain is worse. It's cold. Very, very cold.

When we finally rolled into Braemar, I felt like a popsicle. My hands and feet were senseless, and my hair and face were still dripping with rain. We hopped off our bikes to investigate the Tourist Office, and while we were in there, we found more information of the Highland Games we're going to see on Saturday, where the nearest campsite was, and that English postage will suffice in Scotland (duh. As soon as I asked the question, I felt like a complete imbecile.).

After we purchased some tomato soup, cheese, and crusty rolls for our dinner, we stopped in at the local outdoor store to search for silk sleeping bag liners and wooly socks. The place was super swank, and we couldn't choke down the astronomical prices, so we exited empty handed.

Putting my helmet on over my raincoat hood, I moaned about how cold and wet I was, and a passerby stopped to commiserate. Apparently, he and his buddy are going from sea to sea via mountain bike, and today is their day off in Braemar. He was curious about our journey, and we told him about some of the crazies we'd met doing the same thing (but much faster). He agreed that their version didn't sound like much fun, and then he asked us if we were from Canada. Sadly, Joshua and I shook our heads. The nice Englishman laughed and asked us why we looked disappointed, and we explained that we mostly feel like we have to apologize for being American. Even our English family who loves us scorns the American breed. And the French! They expect us to take full responsibility for our country's foreign policy. Woops! I'm sorry, sir. Let me just call up the Prez. You know he and I are real close. This made the Englishman laugh even more, and he told us that he wasn't at all disappointed to find out that we were Americans instead of Canadians - just surprised. He told us we should be proud to let people know where American and we're not so bad after all. Rock on!

Parting ways, Joshua and I headed for our campsite. Arriving freezing cold, we found a campsite, and I immediately hopped in the shower and commenced to take the hottest, longest shower of my life. It was bliss. By the time I was done, I had shampooed and soaped myself two or three times over, and I felt completely warm and relaxed. When I returned to the campsite, my sweet husband had already set up camp, and I picked up my computer and book and we headed towards the warming room.

Right now, the two of us are perfectly clean and almost good smelling (the socks will never quite smell good). We're sitting in the campsite's warming room, enjoying a little bit of shelter, some electricity, and central heating. Life is good.