An open fronted barn. Corrugated metal roof, brick walls and a well-trodden earthen floor.
Luxury bikepacking accommodation.
It is so late, nothing stirs in the farmhouse nearby.
I lay out my mat and bag on the floor behind a mini tractor. I take off my waterproofs, helmet and shoes and pad softly across the barn to the tap at the side.
Luxury, it even has fresh water.
An echoeing silence fills the large space. Every move is louder than it has ever been as I try to be as quiet as possible.
A hushed grunt and a snort emanates from a dark corner at the back of the barn.
I freeze.
I am not alone.
I stare into the darkness.
My hand reaches for the torch on my helmet. My hair provides no solution.
A few more snorts, sighs and snuffles and I relax. The sounds of a small horse are clearly distinguishable. It’s in a small fenced area and unfazed by my presence.
Berating myself for disturbing anyone in my search for comfort, I settle down in search of sleep.
It never comes easy on the first night of the Highland Trail.
Moments later a cacophony of birds clatter around the metal roof. I’m clawed unwillingly from the depths of my slumber. I listen for a short while, contemplating why they would need to make so much noise in a so recently silent space.
Nothing for it. Get up and go. This is not a sleeping event.
One hour sleep after twenty hours of riding.
That will have to do.
Two hours later I’m rolling along the tranquil Glean Mòr towards Glencalvie Forest in the warmth of the morning sun. This section of the trail is beautiful and the miles come easy.
My watch alarm starts buzzing on my wrist.
Time to wake up. Highland Trail day two begins.
A single-story stone cottage. Two rooms, wooden sleeping platforms, and a roaring fire.
This is the pinnacle of bikepacking accommodation. A well maintained bothy.
Tucked only a short distance from the track in a vivid green hollow in the landscape, I’ve passed here three times before without knowing the comfort that was a stone’s throw away.
I’m in my bivi on a sleeping platform near the fire. The room is luxuriously warm. The relentlessness of the Highland Trail had drawn the day’s ambitious goals to a close.
Memories of dark, driving rain through Ledmore’s endless boulder field made the draw of the bothy overwhelming.
The door opens and someone creeps in.
A seemingly endless succession of rustling and commotion ensues until eventually, peace descends to the quiet hush of sleeping humans.
There are two sleepers in the corner, the firestarters. I hope the endless rustling and commotion hasn’t disturbed them too much. Sleep comes easy on this night.
The door opens and someone creeps in.
A seemingly endless succession of rustling and commotion ensues until eventually, peace descends once again.
It is an unfortunate night to pick for a sleeping adventure in the great wild landscape of Assynt. Ours is not a sleeping adventure and our rest is all too brief.
Someone’s alarm, not mine. But this is a race. I reluctantly get up, but gladly join in the seemingly endless rustling and commotion. The draw of the race beats all desire for rest.
The two sleepers in the corner, unmoving, steadfastly attempting a full night’s sleep.
As I leave, in the dim light of the early morning, I notice the other room for the first time. I realise we could have slept in there and not disturbed the resolute sleepers.
Exiting the bothy is like a portal to another world.
The sun is rising over Ledmore, a low cloud hovering near the summit of Suilven.
The true beauty and barrenness of the Highlands is revealed here. The miles of boulders, bog and bracken pass easily on such a fine morning.
I ease open the door to a tiny, one-roomed shack.
“Space for one more?”
No response. There clearly isn’t.
I go in anyway.
I stand in the space the door occupies when it opens, I close it behind me. Then I settle down, squeezing in to the only space available.
Keenly aware that my head now occupies the space the door opens into, I drift off into a most unnerving sleep.
Seconds later, the two racing occupants start a seemingly endless succession of rustling. The final occupant, it turns out, must be a sleeper.
I have to sit up, and gradually shuffle into the space they are leaving. Or else they could not open the door.
The first racer is out in moments. A brief nod and grunt of acknowledgment and he is gone. Off into the cold, dark night I had only recently been grateful to escape from.
The other racer has a lot more faff. Something needing fixed, or kit needing sorted. Eventually the seemingly endless rustling ends, and peace returns.
I smile to myself, feel a pang of guilt for the keen sleeper who presumably had been hoping for a full night’s sleep, then I roll over and succumb to a deep slumber.
Daylight awakens me, alarm clocks no longer a part of the plan.
Pedalling calmly away. I had let two racers leave and felt no compulsion to follow. Only now was my race beginning. On my own terms, in my own way, and on one of the greatest trails on the route:
Torridon.
The night descends whilst we ascend.
Rising out of Glen Nevis, a track into the mountains. The omnipresent crunch of tyres on sand, gravel and rock. Tall conifers on either side.
The climb has no summit, this is where we are, and where we will be, for an indefinite future.
We pass through the landscape like weather. Often alone, but sometimes together. Limping onto the home straight, we are hollow shells of our once eager selves. Riding machines abused to near terminal, one with only a front brake, another with only three working gears.
It goes on, but really, it doesn’t feel that long. Time and distance don’t feel relevant by this point. I am truly present. There is nothing else but me, here, now, moving forward.
And this time, my racing companion.
As we crest the summit I see his lights disappearing down the track ahead.
He’s missed the turn.
I let out a feeble shout, surprised at my insufficient volume. It’s a fast descent, he was out of sight before I even shouted. I watch helplessly as the light fades. My last remaining attachment to the human world disappears round a corner down the wrong trail.
I seriously consider going after him. But the extra climb is a terrifying concept.
I freeze.
I am alone.
I stare into the darkness.
I really, really want his light to reappear.
Squinting, I see a meandering light on the track, gradually brightening. He slowly appears round the corner, climbs back up silently.
We aren’t really racing. We’re just bumbling our way onwards. Inwardly content with ourselves and the fact we are still moving.
We had discussed stopping on this last night. The finish line is so close, a mere Highland Trail five hours of hills, trails and boulders. We weren’t vying for a podium position, or any particular finishing time. We didn’t have enough reason to push through the night, a challenge that is never easy, but even less so on the fourth consecutive night.
It just made sense to stop. Get a good rest, ride in to the finish as the sun rises and warms the West Highland Way.
And yet, as we eventually start the descent towards the glowing village lights of Kinlochleven, I can’t help but question that decision. To stop, go through seemingly endless rustling and commotion, and then start cold for the final miles.
Or, keep going through the night, ride some of the best singletrack in the pitch black with tired eyes and fatigued legs just to get to the finish a few hours earlier.
I opt for the latter.
A barn floor behind a tractor.
A bothy fire.
A doorway too small to sleep in.
An open mountain in the dark.
Andrew Hutcheson 
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