Full Send: Vignettes from the 2024 Highland Trail 550
After years of putting off participating in the storied Highland Trail 550 bikepacking race in Scotland because she thought she wasn’t capable enough, Jenny Tough finally lined up for the 2024 edition of the race this spring. Find her uplifting story of persevering through the demanding course to quiet the voices of self-doubt alongside photos by John Summerton here…
PUBLISHED Jun 27, 2024
Photos by John Summerton
Standing over my bike in the shoot created by the gravel track that makes the startline, clouded by midges, I am visibly shaking with nerves. A rider next to me necks a gel to propel her over the fast first hour. I keep glancing at my watch. Four minutes to go. I wish I had peed earlier. Another woman nearby ducks into the bushes, but I think I’ve left it too late now. Sofiane emerges from the crowd before me to deliver a quick hug and good luck. I tell him I’m sick with nerves, and he tells me he’s been feeling the same way. We’ve both done enough of these things that you would imagine we could muster more confidence. I notice the looks on nearby faces hearing the two of us confirm that we were too scared to finish our breakfasts this morning. We remind each other that in a couple of hours, these feelings will melt away. We just need to get going and remember the most important thing: it’s only a bike ride.
The Highland Trail is a bikepacking race that has always been like a lore for me. I held it up on a pedestal as an event only for the hardiest of riders—endurance athletes with the best bike handling, mental fortitude, and perhaps even webbed feet. I always dreamed of one day being the type of person who could be amongst that crowd, but year after year I put it off, making excuses that I wasn’t capable. Perhaps it was a case of “the devil you know.” I had finished two Silk Roads and nearly 10 other bikepacking events, but I knew the Highlands and their treachery too well to dive in with the blind naivety that had helped me to the startline of other events around the globe. But, six months ago, I moved to the Highlands—uncomfortably close to a segment of the HT550 route—and that, combined with Alan Goldsmith’s ambitious policy of a 50/50 gender split, saw me running out of excuses. This had to be the year. I put my name on the list with exactly five and a half months to turn myself into one of those incredible bikepacking species I so admired.
84KM
The first climb is a fairly social affair. I meet many riders, mostly briefly, and we drink in the views together, agreeing that we are fortunate humans to get to cycle in a place like Scotland. The first hike starts with a long bog walk. My shoes sink in with a squelching noise, and they will never be dry again. The group starts to thin out, and I get more solo time, but I am always with others either just ahead or behind, catching up at any bottleneck or water refill.
I’m used to the first day being a total crisis inside my mind as the pace surges beyond my capabilities and the first climbs push my lungs and legs beyond their capacity. I’m used to the first day filling my mind with panicked thoughts of what am I doing here? and ideas for how to gracefully exit early.
But, oddly, not this time. I pedal inside my comfortable range and don’t panic if another rider goes past me. I’m in a good rhythm and not falling behind. Perhaps this is what experience feels like, or, if we’re daring to be confident—what being properly trained feels like. I’ve never had this in an event before.
In the week before the start, I attended a yoga class where the teacher held out tarot cards at the end. Thinking it would be a bit of fun and amusement, I selected one from the deck: the Bobcat and Blackthorn. “A difficult journey ahead requires preparation and patience. Channel the bobcat’s stealth and pack plenty of provisions.” Well, that was far more accurate than I had been expecting.
I had filled my cue sheet with reminders to help me be patient. I had learned from previous finishers about segments that looked short but took hours due to bog, boulders, rivers, or all of the above. Alongside cues of resupply locations and shop hours were notes like, “This trail will take five hours. Relax and remember to eat.”
255km
I get to Contin Stores just after they open and take a huge coffee and two stale sandwiches outside to have breakfast with a couple of other riders and hovering photographers. The past four hours of riding have been on my home turf, something I’ve never experienced in a race before. I knew the puddles and the steep bits and the awe-inspiring view from the top. I also knew how long it would take me to cycle home instead, where I could crawl under the duvet with a cup of tea and a dog on my lap and just forget this whole soggy, freezing, arduous experience. I could enjoy these trails any day of the week. Why would I sleep in a cold bivvy on the ground outside when I’m so close to my warm bed?
325km
Rain comes on and off throughout the afternoon, and the gravel track north feels endless. I haven’t seen another rider since leaving Contin eight hours ago, further adding to my dip. I keep my determination not to stop, aided by the rain bringing out midges, encouraging me to just keep moving. They can’t keep up with even a slow and grumpy cyclist, but if you stand still, any exposed skin will be feasted upon. It feels like the longest day to reach Oykel Bridge, although the pub is still serving lunch when I arrive.
Another racer I had spoken to that morning was hellbent on getting over the Bealach Horn before dark, and I assumed he knew what he was talking about, so I also set my pace on that goal. Looking at the route in the pub, I think I can just about make it.
402km
Clouds shroud me as I push up the long climb, where the true nature of the Highland Trail finally reveals itself: a boggy mess of a hike, both down and then up the other side. It is not possible to ride on any type of bike at any time of year. I knew this one was a walk, but I hadn’t appreciated how hard the walking itself would be. On numerous occasions, I have to lower my bike down a boulder before jumping myself into a mud pit.
To my overwhelming relief, Jamie, one of the only riders I’ve seen today, catches up with me in this part, and I tell him I’ve been losing my mind. He says it’s been the same for him, and a few days later, when all is said and done, some dot watcher friends will tell me that all 70 of us have been a string of dots the whole time, never seeming that far from each other on the computer screen, even if in the Scottish wilderness we all feel incredibly isolated.
When we finally make it to the top of the Horn, the clouds lift enough to reveal an alpenglow across the mountains, and we delight in a freewheel descent with the last of the day’s light. We’ve made the first huge milestone: the northernmost point of the course. Jamie takes the first available bivvy, telling me that his feet are already in a state that “could compromise his race,” and I stop at the next one, needing shelter from the walls of an estate office to keep the cold wind off of me. It was probably my best bivvy of the ride, with both a roof and a sheltered wall keeping me warm and dry. My shorts and socks even dried out overnight! I go to bed quickly, pulling my buff up over my face to act as a sleep mask. I set an alarm for three hours and after forcing down a stale sandwich, I fall straight to sleep.
Alan Goldsmith, the founder and director of the HT550, achieved something remarkable this year: a 50/50 gender split. An impressive 32 women with loaded mountain bikes (and one gravel bike!) stood on the start line in bright colours and pigtail braids, diluting the very standard and homogenised look of a bikepacking event. The 2024 HT550 was more than double the largest field of women I’ve ever raced with in six years of this rapidly growing sport. In that time, I’ve had countless media interviews or discussions with race directors about how to increase female participation, and I often hear gender allies come to the conclusion of needing easier, less intimidating events. But there we were, at what is regarded as one of the most physically arduous and technically challenging routes on the international bikepacking calendar, disproving that theory.
Throughout the harder segments of the route, my heart sang for the incredible strength this group of women was showing. The Highland Trail has an abnormally high percentage of hike-a-bike compared to other offroad events, which is where a female racer would objectively be physically disadvantaged: our bikes and equipment weigh the same as the men’s. Relative to our body weight and nature-dictated upper body strength, the fact that this group of women were pushing their loaded rigs up these climbs along with the men does, in my opinion, show the cycling world that women are extremely capable when it comes to racing in hard events. Encourage them, and they will come.
560km
I instantly declare the Coffin Road as one of my least favourite parts of the course. Why Allan would choose this is beyond me, and I am starting to realise he’s a slightly evil race director. It wouldn’t be rideable under any circumstance. I’m not even sure an e-bike could do it. After the heavy rain that had poured on us all day, the muddy, grassy, extremely steep slope is now a slip-n-slide, and I struggle hard to get enough traction to walk and push my bike. I slide backwards a few times, growing in frustration. It falls dark as I reach the top, the silver lining being that I can now see a few other headlamps turn on in front of and behind me on the hills, reminding me I’m alone, and this is a race. At least try to move a little faster, I tell myself.
I get to the bottom in the dark, none too pleased with the segment, and my brakes are howling as I fly down the steep hill. A cluster of barns before the next climb is my only hope for a rest, and I try not to shine my light on other riders already tucked into most available bivvy spots. I find an empty shed and try to get to sleep quickly. Fisherfield is up next, and I’ll need my strength.
Fisherfield held so much significance. It is dubbed as the crux of the route, Alan claiming that most riders who make it through here also make it to the finish. The word “crux” had me assuming it was also the hardest segment, and I was eager to meet the challenge. Fisherfield was also mentally a carrot on a stick for me; I was keen to see this part of Scotland, and, being so remote, it wasn’t somewhere I would likely otherwise visit. It felt like now or never. When I woke up that morning and started up the gravel climb that drops riders into this wilderness, I had butterflies in my stomach and could hardly contain my joy that I was making it. I was starting to feel like an actual rider of the Highland Trail.
580km
I arrive at the shore of the infamous river crossing, and I take it as a good sign that there are no riders around. Some years, it’s only ankle deep, but other years, it’s more chest-height, and after “the wettest winter in UK records,” I wasn’t sure how this would go. If it was a bad crossing, I assumed someone would be revelling in the trauma, but no one is here. I stop to change my socks. The waterproof ones I’ve been wearing can turn quite miserable when submerged, the waterproofing working both ways once water gets on the inside. I then pick up my bike and make my way across. It’s only knee-deep, and I’m kind of disappointed. “That was the crux?” I ask out loud as I look back on the wee river. It wasn’t the hardest thing I’d done yet, but in a few moments, I will learn that I had put all my expectations on the crossing and taken little note of the climb out of Fisherfield.
It is the first proper, bike-on-back, steep, rugged hike of the route. I love hoisting my bike on my back and how strong it makes me feel, but it has to be said that my heart rate goes up a dark red ramp when I do, and I’m on limited time once the bike is up there. I vow not to put the bike down until I make the top, and I huff and puff heavily until I get there. I try to gently lower the bike, and with the dribble of energy left, let out a very tiny “whoop” that gets carried away on the wind – now I have made the crux… surely!
It’s a fast, fun, and stunningly beautiful descent down the other side, and my brakes are really not making a nice noise. I tell myself I will fix them at Poolewe, which I think I will make for lunchtime. It’s a very enticing prospect, and my sunny disposition carries me all the way there, even when the screeching sound scares off a fair few hikers coming through the final gravel turns towards the village.
I went through my brake pads all the way, and besides being frustrated at trying to push back the pistons without any tools on hand that offer enough leverage, I’m impressed. Both times I raced the Silk Road, I didn’t use up my brake pads, and these ones lasted barely past the halfway mark of the Highland Trail. Before the race, I recall Alan saying, “A few bikes will be eaten alive this year,” due to the wet conditions, and I apologise to my bike for nearly letting it be a statistic. Finally, a satisfying push and the pistons are open. New brake pads slide in, and I ride a fantastically silent bike out of town.
615km
I did not know that the Tollie Path was such a pain in the arse. I am frustrated and make an enemy out of it. What looks fairly rideable is actually a deeply saturated ground, my wheels sinking in deep and forcing me off the bike. My feet slop through the bog, and I tighten my shoelaces to prevent them from being ripped from my feet altogether. It takes way too long to finally hit the paved road on the other side, and I am annoyed at how little cycling I’ve done since waking up over 12 hours ago. I am up against it to make the cafe opening times at Kinlochewe, and a headwind on the road further pressures me, but a cup of hot coffee—with indulgent sugars mixed in—will be just the thing to fix my grumpy head.
I got there 15 minutes after the coffee machine was turned off, and the unsympathetic owner simply shrugged at my bad luck but offered to fill my bottle. Zoé arrived just after me, and we sat on the ground under an awning while the rain returned, midges clouding around us as we ate the cold and miserable food still left on the shelf. We commiserate in the slow day we had been through, and then Zoe confessed that she had started dot watching, something I usually swear off during races. She told me what I had been wondering—that she and I were swapping second and third places and had been since the start. We made a pact to cross the finish line together, whether one of us would have to wait a few minutes at the final climb, and my heart lifted at this conversation. It had been my hope that Zoe and I weren’t merely racing each other but forming a friendship, and her feeling the same way meant a lot to me.
715km
The climb into Glen Affric is impossibly steep and with slick, slippery rocks, requiring the bike to go across my back while leaving one hand free to put down occasionally and help push me upwards. It’s a beautiful place almost beyond belief, with two incredibly tall waterfalls opposite each other as the bealach narrows. At the top, I meet with Zoé and Lars, and the three of us enjoy a faff together, resetting our bikes, bodies, and minds from the hike-a-bike just passed for the fast-riding miles now ahead.
“It’s full send,” I declare. No more sleeping until the finish line.
“That’s probably a finish tomorrow at 6 or 7 a.m.,” Lars calculates.
“If I go to sleep, I won’t get back up. Full send, through the night. We can all make it!” I reply.
So we clip in and ride onwards as a trio. All of us are going to the finish line, and together, we will motivate each other and keep it fun.
Zoe and I hit Fort William alone close to 9 p.m. and had our last feed of the journey. We took our shoes and socks off one final time, although by now changing socks was only ever one wet and muddy pair for another. At least it was a change in sensation.
“Seventy kilometres to go. We can do it in five hours,” Zoe said.
I knew she was way off, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Zoe didn’t like night riding—she always slept well then rode hard (the opposite of me)—and I feared if I told her how long she was about to ride for that she would bail on the Full Send and our pact to go to the finish line together. I was not stopping to sleep. I didn’t trust myself to get out of my bivvy again. No, next time I sleep, it will be a very, very long one.
We high-fived, packed our final snacks, and began climbing up one of Scotland’s most popular trails as the sun set.
The final nine and a half hours of the Highland Trail will be a ride I’ll always remember. I tried to impress Zoe by pointing out that we were passing Scotland’s highest peaks and using its most popular and famous trail. She was more upset that the infamous water bars had returned to the route. One had got her back wheel on day one, and she wasn’t keen to ride any of them ever again. We knew a mechanical in the night would ruin the Full Send, so we both played it safe on the otherwise fast and fun singletrack.
We talked the whole time, keeping each other going as the sun set, then the stars came out, and then the sun rose again. And yet, we still had a long way to go. When I saw that more than five hours had passed—Zoe’s deadline—I hoped she didn’t notice.
And although it felt like the longest ride of my life, suddenly, it seemed so short.
894km
“Do you remember this?” Zoé stops to push through a small railroad underpass. I look up and the memory comes back. We had gone through this underpass five days ago. Well, almost five days ago. I look at my watch, and it’s 7 a.m. Race time is 08:30, meaning if we get there in the next 90 minutes, we’ll be sub-five-day finishers.
I well up with tears (I had pre-warned Zoé this would happen). We hug, then ride as if we don’t have five days’ worth of fatigue in our legs, zooming towards the finish, where Alan waits to see us cross the line. Actually, there is no real line; he is the line, and we speed past either side of him before braking, our Full Send complete.
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