Decisions, decisions.

For a welcome change, our debate this morning wasn’t whether to stay in Ullapool or not. An all-time Scottish weather record had been shattered, the sun was out for the second day in a row! Our pressing decision of the day was a simple matter of direction. North or south?

Going north held promise. We came from the north down into Ullapool, so we knew the scenery and roads would be tremendous. John o’ Groats, the northernmost settlement of mainland Great Britain was a short 180 miles away. And did I mention the unheralded string of two sunny days to take full advantage of? But heading south also had merit, not only for the Isle of Skye, but also because eventually Raceway Rentals was going to want these motorbikes back, and at the present moment, the shop lay about 700 or so miles to our south, and our short trip only had three days left.

Pouring over the tankbag map in the car park, an older gentleman suddenly appeared, and as people often seem to do in the magical country, he came over and immediately started shooting the breeze. “If ye are lookin’ for the best roads, ye mus’ go to Applecross. One of the top one hundred motorbike roads in the woirld. Aye. Applecross. Ye won’t be regrettin’ it.”

I looked down at my map, located the town this mysterious stranger just mentioned, and realized the tiny, squiggly gray line leading to Applecross looked interesting. Very interesting. The GPS had the gray line simply listed as ‘Road‘. That settled it. South to ‘Road‘ it is!

When I looked up to thank the man, he was nowhere to be found. Gone. Well, that was… odd. I started wondering if he was really there at all, or just some strange Scottish Motorcycling Spirit sent to improve our already fantastic ride? I asked Abi, who was busy loading his SV if he’d seen the apparition or if I just imagined the whole encounter.

“Yes, stupid. I saw him,” he answered while rolling his eyes. “He got in his car and drove away while you were looking at the GPS. You OK over there, old man?”

Though our general direction was set, I had a little detour in mind first. But it was a detour that would be best sprung on Abi without telling him where we were going, since it involved something that causes me endless ball busting from my riding buddy. Here’s the big secret: I like to photograph lighthouses. It has nothing to do with big, long, hard cylindrical tubes thrusting up in the air or anything like that, I simply think a lighthouse in a picture makes for a good picture. And if I can incorporate taking a picture of a lighthouse into a motorcycle trip, it makes the trip better, at least to me. Abi disagrees. Every time.

I knew that sometime the previous day we’d passed the turn off for Stoer Head lighthouse, but at the time we were having too much fun to stop. I figured the turn off was about five miles back the way we’d come, so I took a left out of the lot instead of the agreed on right. Abi pulled up next to me and asked what I was doing.

“Oh, just taking a little scenic detour, that’s all”

“We better not be going to a fucking lighthouse.”

I just nodded and sped away.

Its times like these, times when I am being selfish with our trip that I realize what a good riding buddy Abi really is. Not for going along with me to another lighthouse without protesting. Not for following me down a long, single track road for ten miles to get to a place that he doesn’t even want to see in the first place, but for the fact that when we finally made it to the end of my selfish detour, and the lighthouse I thought was Stoer Head ended up being the wrong one – in fact it was just some dinky little eight foot high tube with a blinking light on top – he wouldn’t even think of making fun of me by strapping a headlamp on and shouting, “Ooooh! Look! Look at me! I’m a big lighthouse, much taller and brighter than the one over there!”

That’s what riding buddies are for.

We turned around, and filled up in Ullapool. Rumor was finding petrol in Northern Scotland could be tricky, especially on a Sunday, and with the SV’s 120 mile range, we wanted to be sure we started off full. $300 poorer, we started down the long, winding road toward London, via the mythical town of Applecross.

The roads, the sights and the scenery were all on par with yesterday’s. Words can’t really convey the true beauty of this place, at least none that I can string together. Since a picture is worth a thousand words anyway (two thousand with the exchange rate) I found myself taking my cheap little HP ‘point and pray’ digital camera out of my pocket constantly. I got a few really good pictures of the countryside…

– and because taking pictures left handed while riding ain’t always easy, some great shots of the FJR dashboard too.

Flying through perfect curve after perfect curve, two motorbikes suddenly appeared in the opposite lane, sporting the ugliest bright neon yellow paint job imaginable. Yup, they were bike cops. Fortunately, they were having too much fun racing each other through the curves to pay any attention to us at all. I thought to myself, ‘Now there’s the perfect job for me! Motorcycle cop! You can ride as fast as you want and call it working, you get to carry a gun, and as we all know, chicks dig guys in uniform.’ But then I realized that I’d probably have to give tickets and arrest people too, and that would ruin the fun.

Points of the ride were so scenic, sometimes we just had to stop to absorb it all. I stopped near a mountain surrounded lake to shoot a few pictures, and answer nature’s call. I couldn’t help but think that right then, at that moment, this was by far the most beautiful place I’d ever peed.

I’m a firm believer in always having a backup plan, and thus I’d set a backup lighthouse in the GPS, just in case. Ooooohhh, Abi will love this one! Rubha Reidh lighthouse was down another of those fun ‘B’ roads – B8021. This road was the second ‘single track’ road we’d encountered, and if you’ve never been on one, they’re a real treat, and a great way to work out your adrenaline gland. Basically, the road is big enough for one vehicle at a time, but – here’s the kicker – it’s NOT A ONE WAY!!! Every so often on these single track roads there is a place to pull out, usually indicated by a small, white, diamond shaped sign. When two vehicles are setting up for a head-on collision, the one closest to the turn out pulls in, and lets the other pass, often with a wave. For a frightening sounding system, it seems to work pretty well. Not so sure it would be as successful back in the states though.

The most funnest, most bestest part of all about these tiny, rural single track roads is they really aren’t all that busy, and they can be quite curvy, not to mention they carve through more of the spectacular scenery I’ve gushed on about for three posts now. And since they are single track, it doesn’t matter what side of the road you choose to ride on. For the first time since leaving London, I could ignore my helmet cheat notes. However, after riding on these great little tracks for a while, you forget that speeding traffic can suddenly appear over the next hill, and cause you to become a permanent part of the landscape. And if an oncoming tractor doesn’t get you, one of the approximately thirteen hundred billion cotton ball sheep that freely roam the countryside could always lumber into your path.

Pure entertainment!

On the way, I saw some strange creatures grazing in a field that I had to stop and take pictures of. Part bull, part Wookie, these enormous Highland cows were more than happy to pose for the camera. If there was a way, I would take one back home with me as a pet. I’m sure the neighbors would love all the free fertilizer!

Rubha Reidh was everything that the puny eight foot tower wasn’t. It was a real deal lighthouse. Even still, I caught just as much grief as before from my riding buddy.

When he finished harassing me, he told me that we should fill up at the next station. I still had half a tank, but his bike’s range was significantly less than the FJR.The next town had no petrol station, but a good lunch. We asked the waiter where we could fill up.

“It’s Sunday. I dunna tink ye’ll find mooch open now. The chemist down the road sells petrol in foive liter jerry cans. If not, tha closes’ one is in Kinlochewe, boot they close at two.”

Ahh, come on. Buying petrol from a jerry can? What is this? Mexico? No thanks! I’ve got a GPS, it has every gas station in the whole country programmed in. Technology is my friend. We’re good. We’ll find something.

Sometimes I can be so dumb.

We rode past the closed station in Kinlochewe, past two other closed stations, past three non-existent stations – including one that, according to my wonder of technology would’ve been in the middle of the ocean, all with no luck. The single track roads between towns were fun, but completely barren of any form of gas station. We reached a sign for the Applecross turnoff, and that sign had a picture of gas pumps on it. But my GPS said there was a Shell station a bit further in Lochcarron. At this point, Abi’s low fuel warning light was glowing like a demonic eye. We had another decision to make.

Lochcarron? Applecross? Where is my Haunted Spirit Riding Helper Guy now? Probably driving around Ullapool with a full petrol tank… Great. Using the most advanced form of scientific decisional-based emergency navigational triangulation known to man, we made our fateful choice. Simply put, we chose Lochcarron because the font on the map was a little bigger for Lochcarron than Applecross.

Abi, literally riding on fumes, pulled in the clutch and coasted down every hill on the way, and by some miracle coasted into the only open petrol station for a hundred miles in any direction, 132 miles after leaving Ullapool. And to think the range on that SV was supposed to be 120 miles!

While whooping it up at the station, a young kid walked over and asked if we were planning to ride to Applecross. He gave the now standard ‘Best Road, Best Scenery’ speech, then asked where we were staying that night, because by coincidence, his parents own a small, three room Bed and Breakfast called the Rock Villa Hotel that is biker friendly, right there in town, and by further coincidence it had three rooms available.

The road to Applecross was everything promised, the weather was sublime all day, and the Rock Villa Hotel was the perfect way to end what could only be called The Best Day Ever!

And better still, the Isle of Skye and Eilean Donan Castle topped the agenda for the next day, and then, the dreaded long slog back to London begins…………..

Author: frenchy

One Response to “Two Gentlemen… The Touring Thing Continues”

1. Lemuel Cardin says:

   November 30, 2010 at 2:05 PM

   I’d like to add your news feed to my site at http://www.bikerunity.com , do you have one available? I will come back later for your answer. Thanks a bunch!

   Reply