Day 12

Stirling to Glencoe

Distance: 80 miles

Time: 6 hours 15mins

In 2004, Mrs Elizabeth Logan became the proud owner of a new Jaguar X-type 4 door saloon. Parking it for the first time in her garage after collecting it from the Jaguar showroom, she steps out and listens to the clean, crisp click of the reassuringly weighty door closing behind her. She then looks round, pausing for a second to admire the Jag’s shiny metallic finish, its luxurious calf-leather seats, its registration plate that (as a treat, “oh, go on, you deserve it” she said to herself) singles her out as LI3 LOG. But now fast-forward through 7 years and a serious of unfortunate events, including the car’s sale at auction and Whit Perkins becoming its legal owner, and not even the prescient Mrs Logan could have envisaged what would become of her dream wheels. It is a chilly August morning and the Jaguar is parked in Stirling train station car park; inside, the bodies of three men are half-visible through the condensation that has built up over the course of 5 hours’ fitful sleep. Scattered cans of Tennent’s around the vehicle give those of an inquisitive disposition a clue as to what could have led to such a sight. Commuters who park nearby glance towards this spectacle before shaking their heads and stepping on to the 8.37 to Edinburgh. “LI3 LOG” is still the licence plate on the car, a sorry hint at its former glory, like a dilapidated statue in an abandoned ex-Soviet ghost town. Waking with a start, Camillo looks at his phone – it is 9.22. An hour ago he received a message from Katy – “Check out at hostel at 930, what do you want us to do with your stuff?”. Hurriedly, Camillo scrambles a reply “Can you just leave it at reception?”; Katy rejoins with “sorry we have already gone”’; Camillo, now slightly panicked, “Where is my stuff?”; Katy, smiling, “We left it in the room”. Thanks a lot, Camillo thinks to himself as he drags his beleaguered body out of the Jag and into reality of the bike ride. A mere 3 hours later and Camillo is now showered and on the open road, carrying all his possessions on his bike, doubtlessly many times over the drink-cycle limit, with no idea as to where Glencoe is except an inkling that he would do well to head North. What a figure this man cuts, pedal-stroke after pedal-stroke, just him and the open road stretching out ahead of him for 80 miles, just like Che Guevara in Motorcycle Diaries. Passing drivers slow down as they overtake him, encouraged and slightly enawed by the way his small action is a metaphor for endurance. “What a testament to the human spirit” mutters one. “That’s true grit” says another. And the pedal-strokes just keep on coming. There is no hangover, no haziness, no dry mouth. Just an ordinary guy doing what needs to be done. The miles tick over. 10. 20. 30. And the pedal-strokes just keep on coming. 40. 50. 60. He’s now in the Highlands, exposed to the elements with only a “Team CF” T-shirt and a pair of shorts separating him from the icy Scottish wind. And the pedal-strokes just keep on coming. 70. A sign for Glencoe. 75. A sign for the youth hostel. At this point, picture it if you will, Camillo is silhouetted against the setting sun, panniers brimming with his belongings, a totally self-sufficient individual prepared for whatever the road may throw at him. And he draws into the youth hostel, anticipating a hero’s welcome. A group of German schoolchildren look at the new arrival, perplexed. Camillo consults his phone: Katy “We are not in the SYHA we are at the independent hostel next door”. Camillo bids farewell to the German schoolchildren (who by this point had already circled round him and sit cross-legged eagerly hoping to be regaled with tales by this bearded worldly traveller), and walks next door, anticipating a hero’s welcome. And it turns out that a hero’s welcome is a chorus of “well it’s your own fault for going out last night” followed by a sausage and bean casserole, and a luke-warm shower.