Highland Trail 550

So many thoughts, swirling around,

Much like the wind and its howling sound.

No moment too lasting, absurd or full of delight;

It won't be forever, so keep on with might.

The sky doesn't wait for you to cry your woes.

Your shoes don't dry for your soggy toes.

It's a lesson in little things — choosing to smile.

It's what gets you through, each and every mile.

A route woven through delicately sharp land.

Where you push your bike more than planned.

Where storms roll through your mind without care,

Challenging what you can truly bear.

And more than you think, you can hold.

The torrential rain soon turns to broom gold;

The rainbow arcs across your eyes;

Suddenly you're in a new space, you realize.

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The Highland Trail 550 — a ruggedly beautiful route woven across the highlands of Scotland. Nearly 900 kilometres and 15,000 m of climbing in remote areas that bikes don't often go. And for good reason, a lot of the terrain is unrideable.

I had planned to race the HT550 the previous year, but my knee had other plans. With intensifying my strength training and feeling on top of the injury, I was keen to rejoin the bikepack racing community this year. I wouldn’t be the fastest, but was excited to experience Scotland’s landscape, weather, and its people by bike.

Leading up to the race, there was lots of chatter about Scotland’s unseasonably dry spring. Admittedly, I wanted some proper Scottish weather, at least for part of the race. I wasn’t expecting to have what Alan Goldsmith, the race organizer, has referred to as possibly the worst weather year for HT550 in the twelve years of it running. The rain combined with fierce winds made for a unique experience. One I am privileged and grateful to have experienced. I will be back.

Day 1 - Whisky Th(Rills)

155 km | 3,050 m | Hours Riding & Hike-a-Biking: 12.5

Fifty-eight of us huddled together for a group photo and then corralled along the gravel road in the rain. I had somehow found my way close to the front of the startline. Zoë reassured me that there was no point shuffling now. The placing would get sorted out quick once we started moving.

As soon as we got to the first technical bottleneck, I jumped off my bike to take a few photos of racers. It wasn't long before I felt discouraged by my trailing position. I haven’t done many bikepacking races and none on an international stage like this. Luckily, I soon after shared a few short miles with Anne and Lindsay who perked me up. As we opened and closed a gate, I asked Lindsay if there was a technique — you grow to read the gates like the trail. This turned out to be very true.

Around the bend from the first cafe en route, I found my friend Sarah furiously pumping up her tire. She had thrown a tube in after a finnicky puncture wouldn’t plug. My heart went out to her. I reassured her (with some doubt in my mind) that her race would be fine with a tubed tire and to shake it off. She finished up as I went on my way.

By now, the rain had paused, and I could feel the humidity in the stagnant air. As I slowly made my way up the big climb, a father and daughter cheered me on with a cowbell. Sarah caught up to me after the climb and we chatted for a bit as we pedalled along in the sunshine. Then she was off, headed towards the horizon on her single speed.

The miles seemed to tick by until I found my tires resisting the boggish terrain around Loch Ericht. I could tell by deep tire tracks that many put in power to stay on their bikes through this section. Not I. I was happy to walk, giving my already tight IT band a rest.

After juggling my footwork and lifting my bike onto the raised bridge platform, I began the trek up past Ben Alder Cottage. I had heard the water bars strewn across this section liked to eat tires, so I meticulously got off and walked them. On the descent, I heard and felt a few thuds on some medium-sized water bars I misjudged. Relief set in when I exited this section with tires and rims unscathed.

Along a short road section that followed, I happened upon a group of men standing outside a church with their bikes adorned with some bags. I missed my turn, thinking they were part of the HT550 and went to say hi. They were waiting to get picked up and driven to Fort Augustus… I explained I was going to be riding to Fort Augustus over Corrieyairack Pass. It sounded like I was in for several more hours of riding.

At the base of the pass, just before Melgarve Bothy, I came upon Donnie and Richie, the Whisky Trail Angels, ready to serve me up a dram. Having a drink just before a rather large climb wasn’t an ideal choice for someone as lightweight as myself, but their excitement was convincing. With the midges out in full force, there was no time to savour the whisky — with a big swig, off I went. Some hike-a-bike was required to make it to the crest of the pass, but the descent at sunset into darkness was rewarding.

I arrived in Fort Augustus around 11 pm. With it well past the closing hours of shops and restaurants in town, I was happy to learn that the Chinese restaurant in the hotel was still serving select dishes. As I stepped inside, Emily was just leaving into the darkness to find somewhere to sleep. Coincidentally, the men I had met earlier were there with their partners in the restaurant's corner. It was nice to see them again. Becky stumbled in while I was eating and grabbed a hotel room. I headed on my way, reassuring the owner I was fine not to get a room.

Shortly after leaving, it started pouring. I still had a fair amount of energy, as my fueling throughout the day had been great, but stopped when I stumbled upon the bed of a logging lorry not far out of town. The small covered portion would keep up to my shoulders dry and allow some clothes to hang. I decided this was where I’d lay my head as I might not find any better place. I felt content with my progress that night, remembering that the first leg was going to be the least challenging.

Day 2 - Wind Turbine Pass

136 km | 2,800 m | Hours Riding & Hike-a-Biking: 11.5

I set my alarm for a 5 hour rest, but the strong sunrise and other racers coming by early in the morning woke me. Alan and Emily stopped to say hello and snap a few photos of my genius sleeping setup (or so I thought). I massaged my legs for a long while, determined to relinquish myself of any unwanted niggles. Having just come out of winter in Golden a few weeks earlier, this was my first bikepack of the season. It took me quite a while to get packed up, reacquainting myself with the process.

I soon doddled through the darling town of Invermoriston. Along the way to the trailhead, I met a puppy named Nell and his owner, who asked if I’d stop and help socialize her. He told me that the bridge over River Moriston is whimsical in the winter, sparkling with town lights. I wondered if Annie had been privy to this sight when she bikepacked the HT550 in the winter.

Making it up and over what I have dubbed Wind Turbine Pass tuckered me out. Intense winds made normally rideable non-technical grades unrideable. At one point, the wind knocked me to the ground, landing on my shoulder and thigh. A heavy downpour rushed in while I was readjusting my seat and handlebars that were displaced on impact. The sky did not care that I was having a moment.

The storms came and went with haste, yet the damage from getting wet in such a short time lingered. I never stayed upset for long, though. It was too beautiful, even in the darkest moments. I persevered through the wind turbines and descended towards Loch ma Stac, where some interesting routing awaited — a rocky path along the beach, sometimes dipping into the shoreline itself. This was hilariously rideable at speed except for a few spots where I knew better than to squeeze through with my pedals and derailleur.

The cafe at the campground in Cannich awaited. Dazed, I walked in to find Ben and Emily having lunch there. They agreed that the ride from Fort Augustus to Cannich in the wind was brutal. It was nice to know the sentiment was shared. Ben was telling me how HT550 felt harder than the Silk Road Mountain Race and that he wasn’t sure he wanted to complete the route in its entirety. Despite the harsh weather, Emily and I were still quite keen on being out there. Emily was the Lanterne Rouge last year, happy to be out on the trail again and possibly knock down some of her finish time. While I ate lunch and ordered a sandwich to go, the two stayed and chatted with me, in no rush. We bumped into Becky as we were heading out to the general store. I loaded up on what I thought would be enough to get me around the northeast section of the route… it wasn’t quite enough.

The afternoon brought The Land of a Thousand Puddles. I had heard rumours of this section being merciless last year. Lucky for me, I was with Emily for this portion of the route. She has a brightness to her demeanor that is contagious. It was a grand time, playing in the puddles and taking photos of each other, splashing through most and getting swamped in a few. The time ticked by effortlessly with some rainbow sightings and before we knew it, we were cruising on the road to Contin.

We parted ways once reaching Contin. Emily went to the hotel for food and I continued on, determined to get to the next bothy before dark, once more, underestimating the time needed to cover 30 kilometers. I kept pulling over, looking at the map on my phone and mumbling, “I can’t do this”. And yet I continued on. I got a brief spark of energy when I spotted some highland cows at dusk. My content soon diminished as I battled against the crisp wind and rain that came down. I made the detrimental mistake of not stopping to put on leg warmers, thinking I was closer to the bothy than I was.

It was after midnight when I arrived shivering. The bothy turned out to be ruins semi-inhabited by sheep. One building had a room cleared of sheep poop, with an open window and no door. With teeth chattering, I hastily undressed and got my dry wool layers on. I tried to calm my mind by telling myself that I would get warm, it would just take some time. Once in my sleeping bag and bivy, with two packs of hand warmers strategically placed on my body, I finally warmed up and dozed off. I had set my alarm for a grand sleep-in (really, quite unheard of in an ultra race). I had decided that with minimal sleep the night before and such a brutal day in the relentless wind, I needed a proper rest.

Day 3 - Reset Rainbow

94 km | 1,300 m | Hours Riding & Hike-a-biking: 6.5

I didn’t start packing until 10 am… my body needed it, though. I was looking and feeling rough. My eyes and lips were puffy; stomach was grumbly; sit bones were tender; and I was tired. I decided I would put in less mileage on this day with the only goals of letting my mind and body reset and finding somewhere dry to sleep around sunset.

As I left my humble abode in the misty haze, Hanna serendipitously biked by. It’s always nice when you run into another rider — a bit of a morale boost, but also easier to work as a team to open and close gates. We parted ways, knowing our time would overlap at the Oykel Bridge Hotel, only about 40 kilometres away. Up ahead, before Alladale Wilderness Reserve, I pulled over, locked eyes with a sheep and cried out, “I want a hug”, as tears streamed down my face. It was a quick release that I needed. I found the sheep quite therapeutic during this race. Most paid little attention to me, but occasionally, one would gaze at me as if willing to accept the weight of my emotions.

I arrived at the bar in Oykel Bridge to find they had just stopped serving food. The bartender (under the supervision of his cute pup, Nancy), gave me some hot water for a dehydrated meal. Emily and Becky were packing up to leave, but I got to chat with the Whisky Trail Angels for a bit while I was waiting for my meal to soak. A quarter of the field had already scratched by this point, which was much higher than usual. Hanna arrived just as I was wrapping up. I was ready to head out, not knowing how far I’d go.

Almost immediately, I found a friendly horse around the corner. It jumped a creek, trotting over to me with excitement. A good lift of the spirits before a monotonous afternoon in the rain.

It wasn’t until the evening when I hit a paved climb with switchbacks that I came alive, despite the temperamental showers and wind gusts. On the other side of the climb, I sensed an impending storm. Amidst the howling wind, I hid between two earth mounds while sitting on the road, putting on all my layers and positioning my pogie lites. I nailed the timing and was protected from the elements as the storm enveloped me. Immediately after this storm rolled out, I was treated to rainbow skies flanked by Scottish Broom.

I rounded the corner on Loch Shin and entered what felt like grand civilization — a few homes. Pedalling along the pavement with fence lines punctuated with rhododendrons was magical. Magical other than the creaky sound coming from my bottom bracket. I reached my turn off for the beginning of Bealach na Fèithe (Pass of the Cattle) and pondered for a few moments. The sun was setting. My goal was to settle down early and to sleep somewhere dry. The nearest bothy was at least four hours away. The shed at the property I just passed looked inviting…

I walked up the driveway of the home and a man opened the door as I approached. He invited me in for tea with his wife. I sat and chatted with them for over an hour. They offered me soup, a shower and a bed to lay my head. I insisted on not showering and sleeping in the shed but did slurp a cup of noodles. A move such as this may be considered supported and cause for disqualification from a bikepack race, but I was in survival mode at the back of the pack. I wouldn’t trade this interaction for anything. We poured over some maps before I headed off to my sanctuary from the rain.

Day 4 - Pie O’Clock

88 km | 2,400 m | Hours Riding & Hike-a-biking: 8.5

I woke up feeling anew despite my bottom lip being double in size. At the time, I attributed this to windburn, but in hindsight, I also got quite a bit of sun exposure between showers. My thin SPF lip balm wasn’t cutting it in these harsh conditions. I departed for the Bealach na Fèithe climb, thinking about pie. Other than finishing the HT550, I really wanted a savoury pie from the Lochinver Larder shop. I thought if I made good time I could get there before close at 4 pm… wishful thinking.

About an hour into pedalling along, I spotted a red jacket off in the distance — Emily. What luck! The track up Bealach na Fèithe was mostly all rideable, albeit just a grass path in some spots. The wind was dangerously strong, though. Pushing bikes was required on some steep grades and near the top of the pass where exposure existed. I could tell this would be one of the most special areas of the route that I’d experience. Reaching the top felt exhilarating. It felt wild and free staring down into the valley below where the river meandered off into the distance.

We descended down the pass with care. It wasn’t the trail’s difficulty, but the wind that was the problem. With every bend in the trail, it was important to reassess the wind direction and how to correct for it by changing balancing points on the bike. There was one bend that caught me off guard and I almost toppled over.

We took a brief break in Achfary, sitting on the ground shovelling food into our mouths while listening to Kerry’s online tales of her and her bike getting swept up by a river just outside of Poolewe. Amazingly, she was okay and her bike recovered downstream by a local before it ended up in a loch. We pushed and carried our bikes up a steep hike-a-bike section, making good time. I felt faster with Emily nearby. The descent felt postcard-worthy as the sky brightened up and we travelled through the lush green landscape. On our way to Kylesku, we even spotted some seals basking along the shore.

We stopped at the Kylesku Hotel for a late lunch (or what Emily would call munch). It was a rather upscale restaurant, with tourists coming and going from boat tours. We arrived shortly before a reservation-only period began. The chickpea curry with fresh bread hit the spot. It was hard to get going again, but we knew we had to keep pedalling. I went up ahead on the road, about to dip into the North Coast 500 route.

Approaching the turnoff, I felt lost in thought. With my stomach misbehaving since the second day and now feeling slightly fevered and achy, I was worried I had a bug that would be my demise. I turned off onto the single lane of traffic, ready to climb for a long while. I didn’t have it in me to call upon speedy leg work to get to the passing spots with haste. Traffic behind me would have to wait. I pulled over to go to the bathroom and Emily passed me, unbeknownst to me.

I made it to the crest of the pass and worked my way to Drumbeg. I was completely out of food by this point except for a stash of dried apricots. There I found Emily and Becky. Emily was feeling great and was going to continue on past Lochinver. Becky was going to stop Achmelvich. I was determined to get to Lochinver, thinking pie would cure all. Sarah, who had scratched a few days earlier from hand issues, had spent the day in Lochinver welcoming racers through. A friendly face would be appreciated.

We trekked on individually. I stopped and locked eyes with another sheep and cried. Things seemed to be coming undone. But pie. Pie would cure all. I continued on to what felt oh so close to Lochinver, to realize I had a narrow footpath to navigate before getting to town. My emotional state really couldn’t handle this extra surprise. I arrived in Lochinver, completely overwhelmed. Sarah handed me two pies and let me know that she was down the street about to have dinner. Emily was there too, finishing up.

I sat in front of the Bunkhouse calling the after hours number for a room. No answer. I walked my bike over to the restaurant in tears. Sarah and Emily met me at the door. I didn’t want to go inside — I felt like I was making a scene. They coaxed me in and reassured me it was alright. Emily headed off into the twilight with a smile, and I sat down with Sarah and her friend to have another gourmet dinner. The hostess brought over some tissue for me to wipe my eyes. Food improved my state, yet where to lay my head remained a worry. Sarah offered her accommodations with an extra twin bed. I felt bad about taking the offer, another tick against being self-supported. All racers would have been graced with this offer though, easing my concerns somewhat. We settled the bills, and the hostess told me I looked beautiful as a dirtbag, in the sweetest possible way.

Back at the cottage, I undressed and stared at myself in the mirror. I was in rough shape. I had some hefty bruising from getting knocked over by the wind, swollen and blistered lips, and very tender feet (likely the beginning of trench foot). With a rinse-down in the shower, and soggy clothes hanging on the electric drying rack, I passed out immediately.

Day 5 - Ledmore Lemonade & Bog Boppin’

74 km | 1,000 m | Hours Riding & Hike-a-biking: 9.5

I got out of bed later than intended, my stomach still grumbling. With some diarrhea medication, I decided I would press on and see how the day played out. I have a rather weak stomach and typically if I have caught something bacterial, my body cannot fight it off without antibiotics, so I was looping in my head that this was the end. But pie. Chicken curry pie for breakfast made me temporarily feel on top of the world. I grabbed a bunch of other savoury pasties in town too before departing for the Ledmore Traverse.

Just before the trailhead, I passed a lovely building with the most beautiful roses. Somehow, my sense of urgency still wasn’t there, delighted to stop and take photos at any moment. These little moments were how I enjoyed myself out there and I wasn’t about to cut out the joy.

From what I had heard, this traverse on foot was going to take me between four and six hours. I don’t think I had any negative feelings about this. It just was. I found the most unsettling part was the transition into the traverse — that period where it was getting more technical but I was still determined to ride even though I had to quickly unclip after a few pedal strokes. I turned it into a game. Every time I stopped, I had to eat and drink. I feel like my fueling wasn’t amazing the day before, so I needed to get back on track with that. At Lochan Fada, I stumbled upon two bikepackers who were not racing, just riding. It was nice to be reminded that other people use their vacation to walk their bikes too.

I was happy when the trail disintegrated into but a direction of movement. I found a sort of flow, slowly jogging with my bike by my side, hands loosely on the handlebars and brakes, letting the bike bop along. A few sections required me to carry my bike up, but mostly, it was relatively flat. The traverse felt like it went by exceptionally quick. Before I knew it, it was time to release my cranks that I had affixed to my chainstay to prevent shin and calf bashes.

Along Cam Loch, two long-distance runners came up behind me. One of them knew of HT550 and asked me if I had any mechanicals yet — just a creaky bottom bracket, I replied. A bit of foreshadowing perhaps. I meandered to the highway, and like clockwork, my Wahoo Roam lost its GPS signal. I tried to reboot the unit. It never turned back on. No surprise there… my Roam has bricked on me many a time. I pulled out my Bolt back-up with improved reliability; though less impressive interface. Onward I went on the paved road trending downward towards Oykel Bridge with a tailwind! Having missed serving hours at the bar yet again, I had a lemonade with the hostess while chatting about the route to Ullapool. Both were refreshing.

I smashed through the next section to Ullapool, knowing I was the last one on route. This part of the route is what I would call ‘flowy’ track, relatively speaking. The undulating terrain was consistently technical, but rideable. Find a line and commit. Unless there is a bog. Don’t commit, it will just suck you in. I almost flipped over my handlebars in one bog, but thankfully was quick enough to unclip and stick a foot down into the abyss and catch myself.

Connecting this off-road area to Ullapool was some farm land with heaps of sheep. At last, I locked eyes with a sheep and smiled. Again, the final kilometres into civilization was a narrow footpath. My least favourite type of terrain. My AXS battery died mid-shift, which led to my derailleur meeting my cassette. I was able to flip my bike over and get the chainline moving again, but the derailleur wasn’t recognizing the new battery. The midges were swarming, so I decided to single speed the rest of my way into town. I beelined for the grocery store with nourishment at the top of mind. To my bewilderment, my derailleur worked again after this stop.

I called ahead to the hostel. They had an available room. I scooted over and was greeted by Fiona and Callum. They were the kindest. They prompted me to wash my bike out back and walked through the rest of the route with me. I got everything prepped for an early morning departure and went to sleep with a bloated stomach.

Day 6 - Hitchhiker’s Paradise

25 km | 775 m | Hours Riding & Hike-a-biking: 3.5

I awoke, determined to catch the three other women within tangible distance up ahead. I was ready to seize the day despite my incredibly painful bottom lip — any wind or heavy raindrops grazing the blisters on my lip caused me to wince. My stomach was not great but good enough to carry on.

It was drizzling when I left the hostel. Drizzle was nice. It was consistent. I headed towards Coffin Road, passing by and through sheep pastures to get to the next hike-a-bike. I felt strong. My new tactic was to put my palm at the back of my seat tube and push my bike up as I moved fluidly. As I approached the crest of the climb, a storm rolled in, which made for some moody cloud coverage. I threw all of my layers on to stay warm and continued along merrily. The descent was rather comical — essentially riding a streambed down a hillside. I eventually reached where the stream braided into a rushing creek and the track turned ‘dry’ once again. At the base of the descent, already soaked, I stopped to lay in the grass, taking photos of saturated bog cotton.

I exited onto a roadway via someone’s property, again, astounded by how this route is woven throughout the land. Turning off of the highway, I was excited to zigzag through Fisherfield soon. The first climb felt incredibly difficult, though. Why such a sudden energy drop after feeling great? Eventually I stopped to look at my bike and realized that the bottom bracket, the right side more so, was seized. I never imagined the creak would so quickly progress into such a disastrous state. The resistance I was feeling in the second easiest gear was not something I could expend for a significant amount of time. My knee, previously sound, would suffer. As midges teemed around me, I decided it would be unwise to go into the next remote area, essentially single speed.

I stood roadside, frowning, drenched. It didn’t take long for me to hail down an RV. Luckily, they were headed to Poolewe that day and were happy to help me to town. Once there, I sat in a cafe for a while, pondering my options. Scratching felt imminent. I devoured some macadamia nut cookies sitting in my soupy and gritty clothes, chilled now that I wasn’t moving. I called The Bike Shack owner in Garlioch, the next town over. He would be around for another hour or so. It was clear with biking the first hill out of Poolewe that I needed to hitchhike if I wanted to make it on time. It was an easy assist once again. This time, a family in an RV with a bike rack greeted me.

The Bike Shack owner, who mostly repairs lawn care equipment, was surprised to see how seized my crank arms were. With extracting the dust caps, using some penetrative lube and re-greasing, things were moving much better. Dare I say good enough to continue on? It was 4 pm now, though, and somewhere between Poolewe and Gariloch, I had decided to scratch, perhaps prematurely.

As I waited for check-in time at the hostel, I sat with a local and researched options on how to get back to Tyndrum. He mentioned he called the weather around here ‘dreak’ (dreary and bleak). That seemed fitting. Gariloch was still quite far north and public transportation (if they even let you bring a bike aboard) funneled east to Inverness, not the direction I wanted to go. I decided I’d bike about 8 hours the next day and catch a ferry and a train back to the start.

At the hostel, I settled into the evening with a group of retired ladies travelling solo. They were impressed with my journey. One woman asked if I was going to head into town for dinner. I remarked I had no desire to put on my soaking wet shoes and would just eat a bunch of snacks in place of a meal. They took pity on me and insisted on sharing their healthy, hostel-cooked meals. As we were eating dinner, one lady who had also been at the Ullapool hostel the night before chimed in that she had dessert for us — a chocolate, almond, and pear pie. This was the mini pie I donated to the ‘free food’ shelf, realizing it was too dense to keep carrying without eating. It had serendipitously made its way back to me to taste.

Epilogue

140 km | 1,700 m | Hours Riding: 8.5

Not long after getting on the bike in the morning, I realized my hands were quite puffy. At first I thought I must have had a reaction to midge bites, but then I realized this was likely a case of edema. My legs were swollen too. I’ve experienced nothing like this before, and it deeply unsettled me, especially since my bikepacking racing philosophy prioritizes avoiding any lasting damage.

Deciding to scratch the day before, I was proud of my effort and felt that I had accomplished what I set out for — experiencing the land and its people while managing tough conditions and challenges. Throughout the day, though, I had nagging thoughts of reconnecting to the route and finishing the race with an asterisk. Water levels had finally gone down and the three ladies (Emily, Becky, and Lindsay) had finally crossed the 50-m wide river opening up to Fisherfield. I could have linked back up with them and tried for Fort William, where I may have had to jump on a train to catch my flight. The puffy limbs told me that my body was done though. It knew race time was over.

I took the easiest route to Dornie, mostly on the road. In hindsight, it would have been nice to at least leave a bit earlier and follow the HT550 route to a tee, with a little added off-road mystery. Off-road mystery might have meant I’d miss my ferry though. The tourist traffic on the highway was less than desired. It only took a few careless drivers to ruin the experience and scare me. I took a peek at the Eilean Donan Castle and headed down the Isle of Skye to the Armadale ferry terminal. Once off the main stretch, the ride was uneventful. Just me against the clock. I arrived in time for ice cream before loading the ferry.

I spent the night in Mallaig and caught the 6 am train, eager to get back to Tyndrum to a fresh set of clothes and shoes. Upon arrival, I beelined for the Real Food Cafe. I was happy to see many riders gathered. Honestly, this was part of my decision to scratch — I wanted to reconnect with new friends and hear their tales. Fortunately, I also met a handful of others I had yet to cross paths with. I was happy to hear that Emily and I’s relaxed and cheerful approach to the race helped Ben get into the groove of enjoying and completing the route. I learned Jack crashed very close to the start of the race and persevered with a knee injury. Leila completed the route with a broken spoke. So many stories shared. And relief that others’ limbs too were puffed up.

It didn’t take long for me to come around to wanting to complete the route in the future, thinking about ways to improve my time out their and resist scratching. Oddly, I wouldn’t even ask for better weather. It’s all part of the experience and you learn so much about yourself during these events (and upon reflecting post-race). And the community makes it. This community doesn’t care whether you finish. They care that you show up and try your best, and I love them for that. I’m grateful to Alan for bringing us together on this ruggedly beautiful route. What a gift.