Be Careful What You Wish For

There is a version of my life that I’ve carried around in my head for a long time. In it, I’m super fit, I’m cycling around Scotland, and I don’t have aching bones. I regularly park up somewhere beautiful in my campervan with a cup of Tetley in one hand, a homemade flapjack in the other, Mr M and Florence sitting beside me, surrounded by the kind of quiet that only comes when you’ve earned it.

Some of that’s true. I have the campervan. I have the bike. I even have the beautiful somewhere — last week it was Killin, which is as lovely as anywhere has a right to be.

But dreams have a habit of arriving slightly different to how you ordered them.

I was a racing cyclist once. A proper one. I was the only girl in a Yorkshire club where the Sunday runs were sixty to a hundred miles, and the men I rode with were older, faster, and entirely unbothered by the concept of waiting for me. I loved it. I was fit in the way that only makes sense when you’re young and haven’t yet discovered that life has opinions about your training schedule.

Then life had quite a lot of opinions.

Children. Difficult times. Years of walking with Beatrix instead of cycling, which was its own kind of wonderful. And then losing her and not wanting to do much of anything for a while. You know how it is.

On Wednesday, I did thirty-two miles from Killing (my new name for Killin) to Kenmore and back, and I was absolutely done in. Mr Google Maps said it was mainly flat. Let me tell you, it’s not! The only thing that kept me going was the stunning views of Ben Lawers and the thought that if I cried too much, another helicopter might come and take me away again. But thirty-two miles. Really! I used to do that as a warm-up. I crawled my way to the campervan. I sat down and considered whether moving again was strictly necessary. Which clearly it was, as even Evie the campervan told me I needed a shower! Apologies to my new camping neighbours who must have thought they had a neighbour who didn’t like to talk. I was just too tired!

The campervan I had waited and quietly yearned for most of my life turns out not to be entirely Mr M’s idea of a perfect holiday. He’s a man who appreciates a proper shower and a kitchen that doesn’t require him to perform origami to make a cup of tea. So the life I pictured, the two of us pottering happily about Scotland in our little home on wheels, has become something I largely do on my own. To give you an idea of how strongly Mr M feels. He calls Evie a cold tin box on wheels. It took me ages to cheer her up again after hearing that. And cycling, which I introduced him to, is now a solo activity too — his knees have now retired.

I want to be careful here, because this is not a sad story. It’s not even a sad song. It’s just an honest one.

There is a particular frustration in knowing what your body used to be capable of and feeling the distance between that and now. It would be easy to feel like you have failed — like you should have protected the fitness, not let the years get in the way, and made better choices somewhere along the line. In my case, not eaten my own weight in Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.

But here’s what I’m trying to remind myself: frustration is not failure. Wanting things to be different doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful for what you have. You’re allowed to sit in the gap between the dream and the reality and find it a bit annoying. That’s just being human.

And sometimes the dream is still worth following, even when it turns up looking nothing like the brochure.

After my cycle to Kenmore, Evie was parked at the campsite at Killing. I was exhausted. I might actually have been dead. As I made porridge for my supper, because that’s all I could face with the exhaustion-induced nausea, I contemplated not cycling at all the following day. In fact, I contemplated not cycling ever again in my entire life. And that would be perfectly fine. Even the Wi-Fi had given up for the night.

The kettle was on for some Horlicks. Mr M was at home with his proper shower.

We are both, in our own way, exactly where we want to be.

I had a fitful night and had to take a migraine tablet for a tiredness-induced migraine, and went back to sleep. Waking up after 8.00 am, I decided that I was not leaving Evie all day, well, except maybe to walk to the village cafe for a coffee and cake. Then I opened the van door, and the sun was already shining and not a cloud to be seen.

So I had a change of heart. I decided that I could, in fact, manage another short 20-mile-ish route to take me up to the top of Glen Ogle, where I could have my lunch in the sunshine and cycle over the viaduct that drivers only get to admire on their way up the road from Lochearnhead to Glen Ogle.

As I ate my porridge, I wondered what I was going to eat for breakfast tomorrow because I’d eaten an extra porridge ration for supper the previous night.

Then I was off, a hot cross bun stuffed with cheese, a flask of tea, a bottle of juice, and plenty of other snacks stuffed into my pannier. The surprisingly tough climb out of Killing was made almost enjoyable with the views of Ben More and Stob Binnein in the distance. At the junction of the A84, the road up to the top of Glen Ogle was tough, and I struggled. But I reminded myself that even Evie with her 2.2 litre engine puffs up this hill. Then it was a gentle descent all the way down to Lochearnhead on the old railway line across the viaduct. And can I just take a moment to thank whoever is responsible for removing the numerous cattle grids and gates that previously lined this route. What a joy it was not to have to stop every few minutes.

Lunch was on a bench looking over Loch Earn. Sitting in the shade of the trees, I was able to enjoy the sunshine without getting roasted, admire the view, and listen to the sound of silence, only interrupted by the birds singing.

I was joined on my bench by another cyclist. We compared our routes for the day and agreed that, despite him being from Lancashire and me from Yorkshire, it was quite acceptable for us to talk to each other. We discussed the merits of putting cheese on Christmas Cake and whether it should be Wensleydale or crumbly Lancashire. Of course, I’d always pick Wensleydale, but I did confess that I do have a liking for crumbly Lancashire. But I would never admit to that in a court of law. Things went downhill a little when he admitted that he didn’t like Yorkshire puddings and that they were just a pancake fluffed up. And that’s the difference between a proper Yorkshire person and a Lancastrian.

Seeing some walkers appearing at the top of the hill, he announced he had to go as he had already passed them once today, and he couldn’t believe they’d actually caught him up again. I poured myself another cup of tea and watched him disappear into the distance.

Eventually, I did leave my cafe and had a glorious, gentle cycle back up to Glen Ogle. It’s roughly 4 miles of uphill, but the gradient is such that you really only know you’re going uphill when you look down and see which gear you are in. Then, of course, there was the blissful descent all the way back into Killing, which I am now happy to once again call Killin.

Back at Evie, I enjoyed the rest of my picnic and flask of tea, and that’s when I remembered. I absolutely love cycling. I just needed to remind myself of that.

Sometimes the dream doesn’t arrive the way you ordered it. But sometimes, on a Thursday morning in Killin with the sun on your face, it arrives anyway.