All of us were puffer virgins, some had raced a few XC races, and one of us had never even bothered to enter a mountain bike race previously. We had all read all the blogs, seen the photos and enjoyed the stories, some of us had even endured the teeth sucking and head shaking from their local bike shops.
But just like Happy Gilmore’s golf balls, our bags were packed and tickets booked, so we were about to experience our first puffer and 24hr MTB race.
Like all modern stories, this one starts with a silly idea in a WhatsApp group, or someone mouthing off on a forum. I can’t recall which one set us on this path, but if was definitely one of those two and we soon had a ‘puffer 18’ WA group in motion. The entry date rolled around and four of us had bought tickets as a quad. The team was formed, back up was kept warm and Dan Durling was AWOL.
The Team was named ‘Brixton Cycles Tractor Club’ in honour of the great ‘Social’ Dave Tapsell who used to refuse to stand up on club run climbs and would only shout “RAMMING SPEED” as he shagged his way up the hills, we also went down on the start sheet as Outliers.cc, to mark new beginnings for some of us.
The final team selection was made and the lucky four were as follows - Ben Delaney – former Irish team pursuit champion, Ras Lantern Rouge, Instagram influencer and PHD Christmas tree farmer. Colm Tobin - Irish track championships veteran, former Cat 2 Road racer, greyhound owner and plastic French car enthusiast. Luke Richardson – Actually a decent MTB rider, 24 years old, fit as a fiddle, King of Swinley, posh window maker and CX pervert. Rob McAuliffe – has Driving license and can drive van.
With such a finely balanced and crack outfit such as that, we were confident that at least some of us wouldn’t die.
Getting to Inverness and ‘planning’.
Strathpuffer isn’t a place as such; it’s more of a legend. The event takes place in Contin Forest just past the village of Strathpeffer on the Black Isle, north of Inverness. It’s a lovely spot, but even for McAuliffe who lives in Perthshire, still not easy to get to if the weather doesn’t want you to.
After much messing around with van cancellations, partners being upset about cars being taken and people realising that they didn’t have enough holiday left to get there, a plan was formed. Richardson was to get the Sleeper up from London on Thursday night, get off at Pitlochry and be collect by McAuliffe on Friday morning. Delaney was to fly in to Edinburgh from Dublin and meet McAuliffe in the airport on Thursday night and Tobin was to start panicking about his Flight on Friday night to inverness in July 2017. We would then pack the van and drive up, meet Tobin in Inverness, have a nice pint and meal and get our heads down.
So that all unfolded perfectly and we all arrived on time and correct….
Delaney and McAuliffe managed to meet roughly on time, the THUNDERSNOW that had enveloped Edinburgh for most of the week had abated and driving conditions were swift and pleasant as we sped towards Pitlochry. Conditions were excellent until we reached the turning for our village, at which point the snow reappeared everywhere on the ground and in the air, which meant the 20 yard drive to the house from the road was now looking like something only Aled Jones could fly over. This meant that Delaney’s welcome to Scotland involved a shovel and pushing for an hour, until McAuliffe’s silly car was beached outside the house. Perfect. Ish.
This weather front now jeopardised Richardson’s collection at 6am the following morning from the station. But we went to bed and worried about that at 5am the next morning. When the alarm went off, the windows were checked and further overnight snow meant no chance of Richardson being collected in a timely fashion. So after a few calls he stayed on the Cally Can until Inverness and we would meet him at the Youth Hostel. If we could collect the van from Aberfeldy and then get it over the Drumochter pass to the Ness. After an unexpected lie in, we breakfasted well, watched yet more snow fall and then decided to dig out the winter car.
Obviously a Smart car is the perfect winter vehicle and after several swears and more astounding Delaney shovel work and tarmacking jokes, we got the little beast out and went to collect the van…….Although we didn’t as a shopping trip for McAuliffe’s partner was called for as it was looking like she would be snowed in all weekend and we also had to collect the dog, which we might have forgotten about… Driving to the ‘feldy was exceptionally sketchy, despite the immense ability of the rear wheel drive cereal box, but the dog was collected, shopping acquired and a macaroni pie was sneakily eaten, when no one was looking.
Luckily in the time the shopping had taken, the gritters and plows had been out and the roads were now passable. The snow had also stopped falling. After the Smarts glorious return we set off to collect the van. Barhaul, Aberfeldy’s local ‘we do everything’ business had done us a lovely deal on a LWB Renault Mastervan, which was just the ticket and made Tobin excited as it was French. Forms were signed, teeth were sucked when they found out what we were doing and money was knocked off the bill, but they didn’t ask us for payment up front, so they must have been confident of our survival, even if we weren’t. Now the roads were grand, we went home, packed the van with the essentials (Bikes, all the clothes you own, BBQ, fire wood, patio furniture etc etc…) but sadly the taking of a portable pizza oven was vetoed. We lobbed some food in as well, including the Tentmeals food packs, which were to become invaluable, but we ultimately forgot the whole Christmas cake that was offered.
After a brief stop at Pitlochry to get brake pads, a camp kettle, some cutlery and Delaney some wellies, we headed up the A9. The road was clear and the sun was up making the snowy Cairngorms look stunning. It wasn’t long before Delaney had the welsh Go pro out and was filming everything and wondering out loud if you could grow Christmas trees on this terrain. We happily headed off in search of Richardson, who had spent the day in Inverness. Richardson had discovered the Velocity Café and had spent most of the day there, which he had mostly enjoyed. However a group of school children had been in there learning spannering and as all 11yr olds who live in the highlands are MTB experts, their pointed questions about tyre choice had clearly rattled him.
We swung the Mastervan into the Youth Hostel around 16-30 as the light was starting to fade, Richardson bounded out like the young pup he is and after we’d thrown a few sticks for him, he calmed down enough to load his rig into the van. Three tractors were present, correct and ready, ish. The 4th Tractor, Tobin, had just closed his front door in sunny Nunhead and was about to become ‘that’ person who takes a wrapped up MTB on a Friday night London commuter train…… As we were all very aware of Tobin’s travel anxiety and hatred of airports (“They make you feel like you’re a terrorist” he says, in his brogue), we were very sympathetic towards him over social media. We immediately checked he had made the train, then started winding. Text messages soon started to be answered with ‘yes’, ‘no’ and the truly guilt inducing ‘FINE’. We started joking that he should get a taxi to the hostel with his bike so we could go for a relaxing beer, instead of having to pick him up from the airport. This went down badly at first, but then he actually did book a taxi, which meant that he had the last laugh, as we then did go for a beer….
Before beer though, we raided Morrison’s in the town and filled up on all the food the teenage boy/single father could wish for. Pot noodles, unripe bananas, Soreen loaves and Super Tenants left over from Christmas. We also bought 15litres of water, confident it would be more than enough for the whole trip. We also bought a bag of half/half Tabasco and cheese Doritos, which would play havoc the next day. After we had got lost on the way back to the YHA we decided it was time for a sensible meal, a few light ales then back to YHA to meet ol’ smilin’ Tobin. After a lap of the town centre and several dodgy curry houses avoided (I’m sure they are lovely, but the thought of a curry’s second coming the day after was enough to put us all off) we settled on Pizza Express. We were shown to our table and it quickly dawned on our party that 18-00 on Friday is clearly ‘divorced Dad children’s time’. With McAuliffe playing Dad to the suitably young Delaney and Richardson we fitted right in. Pizzas were ordered and devoured, large Peronis sunk, and puddings rejected, we headed off, after some more Tobin baiting (He was wandering around Gatwick at this point with a pint screaming, “OIM NAT A TERRRAARRRIST” apparently) into the night to find a nice quiet pub to ‘plan’ in and to ‘discuss tactics’.
Delaney had set the sensible bar high so far. This respected Ras finisher, national medal winner and TCR scratcher had shown McAuliffe and Richardson how the amateur pro prepares for an event. He had talked himself down, made sensible food shopping choices and crucially, not had a large Peroni in Pizza Express. Quietly impressed by this purring cycling machine, the group got a bit lost and ended up outside the Black Isle brewery bar. Seemingly lifted straight out of Shoreditch, this pizza-ovened-wooden-decked-school-chair-encrusted craft ale bar drew us in like an art student to a pair of vintage Reebok classics. Reassuringly, despite its appearance the clientele was more Sam Smiths than Sam Smith and the beer selection on a par with ‘spoons. This proved to be Delaney’s undoing. In spotting a treble hopped citrus Belgian beer that he had not seen or drunk before he simply pointed at the bottle and screamed “GIVE ME THAT” at the startled barman. He then scurried off like a chimp who has stolen the best banana at the zoo, to enjoy his precious prize. Surprised and a bit scared, Richardson and McAuliffe settled on a Porter and Session IPA respectively. Finding Delaney making ‘OOK’ noises at a shared table and slowly shelling the other punters off the uber-cool school chairs, we sat down and began to plan. We actually planned on winding Tobin up, but he was now in the air, safely strapped to a seat, somewhere over Cumbria.
After a round each and one for the road (Richardson and McAuliffe sticking to their chosen ales while Delaney went feral in the Belgian shelf) we headed back through the streets of Inverness to await the Tobin’s happy landing at the YHA. In order to wait properly we liberated some Super Tenants and Holsten Pils from the Morrison’s Christmas leftover bags (£2.50 for 5 cans anyone?) and waited in the lounge. After a few anxious WA messages and tins of vending machine Pringles, the last tractor finally arrived. He walked into the hostel and announced “FUCK THAT” which cleared the lounge of the more mild mannered hostellers, but also caused the enterprising lady at reception, spotting an opportunity, to open the bar. After tales of first world woe from Tobin, and with a few more cans cracked, we actually started to plan the ride. We drew lots for racing order, Tobin who had been keen on the Le Mans start, bagged first leg, Richardson the second, McAuliffe the third and Delaney the fourth. That was it, planning done. Cans consumed we headed to bed just after 22-00, alarms set for 05-00 and a big old adventure ahead of us.
Getting to the ‘Puffer and the start
Waking up in a bunkbed when over 35 is always a strange experience and its worse when you realise that all the good the 3.5% session IPA did you, the Super Tenants you drank after, undid, with interest. This coupled with getting out of a bunkbed and then working out how to use a complicated shower, at 05-15 is not the greatest start to a day in which the ‘puffer awaits, but this is how McAuliffe found it. After Tobin had also showered (after McAuliffe, thank you, yes you, sniggering at the back) and Delaney and Richardson were up, we where good to leave. Well we thought we were but Delaney, who had gone from Belgian Ale Chimp to Hungover Orangutan buy this point, had to destroy several toilets. This was to become a disturbing theme over the next 24hrs. After cisterns had been cracked, beds striped and most of the door keys left at reception, we left the hostels front door. Disappointingly the van was still there in the car park, so while McAuliffe de-iced the Mastervan’s windscreen, Tobin took everyone through its wondrous French engineering and then refused to sit in the back, as we had told him he had to, as “it jus' not safe lads”. So looking really safe and like a tarmacking gang from Aberfeldy (perhaps the worst advert for Barhaul they could imagine) we headed out into the dark Invernesian morning and towards the Black Isle.
The journey to Contin was fairly straight forward, the directions were simple and the Mastervan a right shit to drive, thanks to Tobin’s arse hovering over the gear stick due to the front bench squeeze, his loving relationship with Renaults was nearly consummated at every roundabout and changes into 6th. We arrived just before 0700 and there was already a small queue of traffic waiting to enter the forest, with it there was the small band of amazing marshals already on duty, holding back the tide. After some initial confusion about who we were, we were told that Barhaul’s finest would not be going up the fire road as we had no chains and it was very icy. We were pointed in the direction of local hotels car park, 50 yards down the road. Before this happened, the chap in front of us, simply lost the plot with the volunteer sorting the parking. Why was never clear, but it was the only cross word we saw exchanged between anybody in the whole-time we were on site. As we drove away from the entrance a chap asked us if we had ice tyres for the bikes, we said no, he laughed, we looked at each other.
We entered the snow bound car park that already had a few Motorhomes and vans set up in it, most from the night before and promptly beached the Mastervan in between two piles of building debris at the end of the carpark, this enabled the chaps next to us to set up a gazebo alongside their van and for us to set up the patio furniture and executive patio heater (BBQ) next to the Mastervan. With this done, we freed the bikes and pedaled the 5 mins up to registration, which was at the changeover zone in the nice, big, warm tent.
We were some of the first up to registration and with lap 'dibber' and numbers collected, liability for death signed away and t shirts and stickers filched, we decided to collect our lights. Tobin and Richardson had hired USE’s most monstrous lights and we were all to share them. The USE folk were kind, helpful, understanding and generally brilliant throughout the event. But as good as they were they couldn’t get Richardson to understand how to turn his light on. If he couldn’t do it now, what hope 13hrs later…. Before heading back to base camp we all smashed a bacon sandwich (diets forgotten) had some tea and had an explore of the campsite and fire road. When perusing others camping set-ups we quickly became aware that things that we had brought with us ‘for teh Bantz’ were actually the basic essentials. Namely; chairs, lots of water and a large fire. Clearly this wasn’t some people’s first rodeo. In fact we overheard a few people talking about how they had been to all 13 Puffers and the snow was set to make it the best yet, “….even better than the one when the main tent blew away…” some people had amazing set ups, we saw everything from Horse wagons, caravans, 4X4 T6’s, Tepees, Yurts, Winnebago’s and old German fire engines, down to single man tents. It was awesome to behold and the atmosphere brilliant.
We left the start to go back to Mastervan HQ and to prepare Tobin for the start of his life. It was now around 08-00 and the Le Man start was at 10-00. Back at Mastervan ground zero the car park had filled up quickly and luckily our ‘towels on the sun lounger’ job with the patio furniture had saved our compound from being overrun. Much bike fettling and van unloading now commenced, a second bachelor’s breakfast was taken and the fire was started. Quickly a kitchen area was established, ground rules about snow and shoes in the van laid down and sleeping matts pumped up. Kit was thrown on with careful consideration to the conditions, which lead to some interesting approaches.
Richardson, now fully outed as a young Ranolph Fiennes had gone for the hipster-in-all-the-top-spec-mountain-gear-I-could-borrow look, Tobin for the why-did-I-want-to-go-first-full-lycra-xc look, Delaney looked like the Instagram influencer he was in £340 bibs and £10 wellies and McAuliffe had gone for the Timeless, Barbour-and-hi-viz-railway-trousers look. Looking as damn hot as we sounded, we pedalled up to the start. Tobin was strapped into the Welsh Go Pro with the kinky harness, so he could help Delaney Influence and The BCTC was ready to roll and run and walk.
Briefings from the organisers followed, warnings and salutations given and many a bike was perved upon. The atmosphere was carnivalesque and the port-a-loos were doing good business. Suddenly there was a lull in the crowd, the piper had struck up.
This was the cue for the first riders to be piped to the bottom of the fire road, when the pipes finished, they were to run back up and collect their bikes. After a few minutes, the pipes stopped, the crowd went silent and with the sighting of the first running rider, the noise returned, elevated to a roar as the riders poured through. There was carnage as the right bikes were found, things dropped, feet ridden over and drinks spilt. Tobin claimed his Single speed sled and he was off.
The Puffer had started and there was no going back now.
Except to Ground Camp Mastervan, for a cup of tea and maybe a tea cake.
@Rob
Strathpuffer 2018
All of us were puffer virgins, some had raced a few XC races, and one of us had never even bothered to enter a mountain bike race previously. We had all read all the blogs, seen the photos and enjoyed the stories, some of us had even endured the teeth sucking and head shaking from their local bike shops.
But just like Happy Gilmore’s golf balls, our bags were packed and tickets booked, so we were about to experience our first puffer and 24hr MTB race.
Like all modern stories, this one starts with a silly idea in a WhatsApp group, or someone mouthing off on a forum. I can’t recall which one set us on this path, but if was definitely one of those two and we soon had a ‘puffer 18’ WA group in motion. The entry date rolled around and four of us had bought tickets as a quad. The team was formed, back up was kept warm and Dan Durling was AWOL.
The Team was named ‘Brixton Cycles Tractor Club’ in honour of the great ‘Social’ Dave Tapsell who used to refuse to stand up on club run climbs and would only shout “RAMMING SPEED” as he shagged his way up the hills, we also went down on the start sheet as Outliers.cc, to mark new beginnings for some of us.
The final team selection was made and the lucky four were as follows - Ben Delaney – former Irish team pursuit champion, Ras Lantern Rouge, Instagram influencer and PHD Christmas tree farmer. Colm Tobin - Irish track championships veteran, former Cat 2 Road racer, greyhound owner and plastic French car enthusiast. Luke Richardson – Actually a decent MTB rider, 24 years old, fit as a fiddle, King of Swinley, posh window maker and CX pervert. Rob McAuliffe – has Driving license and can drive van.
With such a finely balanced and crack outfit such as that, we were confident that at least some of us wouldn’t die.
Getting to Inverness and ‘planning’.
Strathpuffer isn’t a place as such; it’s more of a legend. The event takes place in Contin Forest just past the village of Strathpeffer on the Black Isle, north of Inverness. It’s a lovely spot, but even for McAuliffe who lives in Perthshire, still not easy to get to if the weather doesn’t want you to.
After much messing around with van cancellations, partners being upset about cars being taken and people realising that they didn’t have enough holiday left to get there, a plan was formed. Richardson was to get the Sleeper up from London on Thursday night, get off at Pitlochry and be collect by McAuliffe on Friday morning. Delaney was to fly in to Edinburgh from Dublin and meet McAuliffe in the airport on Thursday night and Tobin was to start panicking about his Flight on Friday night to inverness in July 2017. We would then pack the van and drive up, meet Tobin in Inverness, have a nice pint and meal and get our heads down.
So that all unfolded perfectly and we all arrived on time and correct….
Delaney and McAuliffe managed to meet roughly on time, the THUNDERSNOW that had enveloped Edinburgh for most of the week had abated and driving conditions were swift and pleasant as we sped towards Pitlochry. Conditions were excellent until we reached the turning for our village, at which point the snow reappeared everywhere on the ground and in the air, which meant the 20 yard drive to the house from the road was now looking like something only Aled Jones could fly over. This meant that Delaney’s welcome to Scotland involved a shovel and pushing for an hour, until McAuliffe’s silly car was beached outside the house. Perfect. Ish.
This weather front now jeopardised Richardson’s collection at 6am the following morning from the station. But we went to bed and worried about that at 5am the next morning. When the alarm went off, the windows were checked and further overnight snow meant no chance of Richardson being collected in a timely fashion. So after a few calls he stayed on the Cally Can until Inverness and we would meet him at the Youth Hostel. If we could collect the van from Aberfeldy and then get it over the Drumochter pass to the Ness. After an unexpected lie in, we breakfasted well, watched yet more snow fall and then decided to dig out the winter car.
Obviously a Smart car is the perfect winter vehicle and after several swears and more astounding Delaney shovel work and tarmacking jokes, we got the little beast out and went to collect the van…….Although we didn’t as a shopping trip for McAuliffe’s partner was called for as it was looking like she would be snowed in all weekend and we also had to collect the dog, which we might have forgotten about… Driving to the ‘feldy was exceptionally sketchy, despite the immense ability of the rear wheel drive cereal box, but the dog was collected, shopping acquired and a macaroni pie was sneakily eaten, when no one was looking.
Luckily in the time the shopping had taken, the gritters and plows had been out and the roads were now passable. The snow had also stopped falling. After the Smarts glorious return we set off to collect the van. Barhaul, Aberfeldy’s local ‘we do everything’ business had done us a lovely deal on a LWB Renault Mastervan, which was just the ticket and made Tobin excited as it was French. Forms were signed, teeth were sucked when they found out what we were doing and money was knocked off the bill, but they didn’t ask us for payment up front, so they must have been confident of our survival, even if we weren’t. Now the roads were grand, we went home, packed the van with the essentials (Bikes, all the clothes you own, BBQ, fire wood, patio furniture etc etc…) but sadly the taking of a portable pizza oven was vetoed. We lobbed some food in as well, including the Tentmeals food packs, which were to become invaluable, but we ultimately forgot the whole Christmas cake that was offered.
After a brief stop at Pitlochry to get brake pads, a camp kettle, some cutlery and Delaney some wellies, we headed up the A9. The road was clear and the sun was up making the snowy Cairngorms look stunning. It wasn’t long before Delaney had the welsh Go pro out and was filming everything and wondering out loud if you could grow Christmas trees on this terrain. We happily headed off in search of Richardson, who had spent the day in Inverness. Richardson had discovered the Velocity Café and had spent most of the day there, which he had mostly enjoyed. However a group of school children had been in there learning spannering and as all 11yr olds who live in the highlands are MTB experts, their pointed questions about tyre choice had clearly rattled him.
We swung the Mastervan into the Youth Hostel around 16-30 as the light was starting to fade, Richardson bounded out like the young pup he is and after we’d thrown a few sticks for him, he calmed down enough to load his rig into the van. Three tractors were present, correct and ready, ish. The 4th Tractor, Tobin, had just closed his front door in sunny Nunhead and was about to become ‘that’ person who takes a wrapped up MTB on a Friday night London commuter train…… As we were all very aware of Tobin’s travel anxiety and hatred of airports (“They make you feel like you’re a terrorist” he says, in his brogue), we were very sympathetic towards him over social media. We immediately checked he had made the train, then started winding. Text messages soon started to be answered with ‘yes’, ‘no’ and the truly guilt inducing ‘FINE’. We started joking that he should get a taxi to the hostel with his bike so we could go for a relaxing beer, instead of having to pick him up from the airport. This went down badly at first, but then he actually did book a taxi, which meant that he had the last laugh, as we then did go for a beer….
Before beer though, we raided Morrison’s in the town and filled up on all the food the teenage boy/single father could wish for. Pot noodles, unripe bananas, Soreen loaves and Super Tenants left over from Christmas. We also bought 15litres of water, confident it would be more than enough for the whole trip. We also bought a bag of half/half Tabasco and cheese Doritos, which would play havoc the next day. After we had got lost on the way back to the YHA we decided it was time for a sensible meal, a few light ales then back to YHA to meet ol’ smilin’ Tobin. After a lap of the town centre and several dodgy curry houses avoided (I’m sure they are lovely, but the thought of a curry’s second coming the day after was enough to put us all off) we settled on Pizza Express. We were shown to our table and it quickly dawned on our party that 18-00 on Friday is clearly ‘divorced Dad children’s time’. With McAuliffe playing Dad to the suitably young Delaney and Richardson we fitted right in. Pizzas were ordered and devoured, large Peronis sunk, and puddings rejected, we headed off, after some more Tobin baiting (He was wandering around Gatwick at this point with a pint screaming, “OIM NAT A TERRRAARRRIST” apparently) into the night to find a nice quiet pub to ‘plan’ in and to ‘discuss tactics’.
Delaney had set the sensible bar high so far. This respected Ras finisher, national medal winner and TCR scratcher had shown McAuliffe and Richardson how the amateur pro prepares for an event. He had talked himself down, made sensible food shopping choices and crucially, not had a large Peroni in Pizza Express. Quietly impressed by this purring cycling machine, the group got a bit lost and ended up outside the Black Isle brewery bar. Seemingly lifted straight out of Shoreditch, this pizza-ovened-wooden-decked-school-chair-encrusted craft ale bar drew us in like an art student to a pair of vintage Reebok classics. Reassuringly, despite its appearance the clientele was more Sam Smiths than Sam Smith and the beer selection on a par with ‘spoons. This proved to be Delaney’s undoing. In spotting a treble hopped citrus Belgian beer that he had not seen or drunk before he simply pointed at the bottle and screamed “GIVE ME THAT” at the startled barman. He then scurried off like a chimp who has stolen the best banana at the zoo, to enjoy his precious prize. Surprised and a bit scared, Richardson and McAuliffe settled on a Porter and Session IPA respectively. Finding Delaney making ‘OOK’ noises at a shared table and slowly shelling the other punters off the uber-cool school chairs, we sat down and began to plan. We actually planned on winding Tobin up, but he was now in the air, safely strapped to a seat, somewhere over Cumbria.
After a round each and one for the road (Richardson and McAuliffe sticking to their chosen ales while Delaney went feral in the Belgian shelf) we headed back through the streets of Inverness to await the Tobin’s happy landing at the YHA. In order to wait properly we liberated some Super Tenants and Holsten Pils from the Morrison’s Christmas leftover bags (£2.50 for 5 cans anyone?) and waited in the lounge. After a few anxious WA messages and tins of vending machine Pringles, the last tractor finally arrived. He walked into the hostel and announced “FUCK THAT” which cleared the lounge of the more mild mannered hostellers, but also caused the enterprising lady at reception, spotting an opportunity, to open the bar. After tales of first world woe from Tobin, and with a few more cans cracked, we actually started to plan the ride. We drew lots for racing order, Tobin who had been keen on the Le Mans start, bagged first leg, Richardson the second, McAuliffe the third and Delaney the fourth. That was it, planning done. Cans consumed we headed to bed just after 22-00, alarms set for 05-00 and a big old adventure ahead of us.
Getting to the ‘Puffer and the start
Waking up in a bunkbed when over 35 is always a strange experience and its worse when you realise that all the good the 3.5% session IPA did you, the Super Tenants you drank after, undid, with interest. This coupled with getting out of a bunkbed and then working out how to use a complicated shower, at 05-15 is not the greatest start to a day in which the ‘puffer awaits, but this is how McAuliffe found it. After Tobin had also showered (after McAuliffe, thank you, yes you, sniggering at the back) and Delaney and Richardson were up, we where good to leave. Well we thought we were but Delaney, who had gone from Belgian Ale Chimp to Hungover Orangutan buy this point, had to destroy several toilets. This was to become a disturbing theme over the next 24hrs. After cisterns had been cracked, beds striped and most of the door keys left at reception, we left the hostels front door. Disappointingly the van was still there in the car park, so while McAuliffe de-iced the Mastervan’s windscreen, Tobin took everyone through its wondrous French engineering and then refused to sit in the back, as we had told him he had to, as “it jus' not safe lads”. So looking really safe and like a tarmacking gang from Aberfeldy (perhaps the worst advert for Barhaul they could imagine) we headed out into the dark Invernesian morning and towards the Black Isle.
The journey to Contin was fairly straight forward, the directions were simple and the Mastervan a right shit to drive, thanks to Tobin’s arse hovering over the gear stick due to the front bench squeeze, his loving relationship with Renaults was nearly consummated at every roundabout and changes into 6th. We arrived just before 0700 and there was already a small queue of traffic waiting to enter the forest, with it there was the small band of amazing marshals already on duty, holding back the tide. After some initial confusion about who we were, we were told that Barhaul’s finest would not be going up the fire road as we had no chains and it was very icy. We were pointed in the direction of local hotels car park, 50 yards down the road. Before this happened, the chap in front of us, simply lost the plot with the volunteer sorting the parking. Why was never clear, but it was the only cross word we saw exchanged between anybody in the whole-time we were on site. As we drove away from the entrance a chap asked us if we had ice tyres for the bikes, we said no, he laughed, we looked at each other.
We entered the snow bound car park that already had a few Motorhomes and vans set up in it, most from the night before and promptly beached the Mastervan in between two piles of building debris at the end of the carpark, this enabled the chaps next to us to set up a gazebo alongside their van and for us to set up the patio furniture and executive patio heater (BBQ) next to the Mastervan. With this done, we freed the bikes and pedaled the 5 mins up to registration, which was at the changeover zone in the nice, big, warm tent.
We were some of the first up to registration and with lap 'dibber' and numbers collected, liability for death signed away and t shirts and stickers filched, we decided to collect our lights. Tobin and Richardson had hired USE’s most monstrous lights and we were all to share them. The USE folk were kind, helpful, understanding and generally brilliant throughout the event. But as good as they were they couldn’t get Richardson to understand how to turn his light on. If he couldn’t do it now, what hope 13hrs later…. Before heading back to base camp we all smashed a bacon sandwich (diets forgotten) had some tea and had an explore of the campsite and fire road. When perusing others camping set-ups we quickly became aware that things that we had brought with us ‘for teh Bantz’ were actually the basic essentials. Namely; chairs, lots of water and a large fire. Clearly this wasn’t some people’s first rodeo. In fact we overheard a few people talking about how they had been to all 13 Puffers and the snow was set to make it the best yet, “….even better than the one when the main tent blew away…” some people had amazing set ups, we saw everything from Horse wagons, caravans, 4X4 T6’s, Tepees, Yurts, Winnebago’s and old German fire engines, down to single man tents. It was awesome to behold and the atmosphere brilliant.
We left the start to go back to Mastervan HQ and to prepare Tobin for the start of his life. It was now around 08-00 and the Le Man start was at 10-00. Back at Mastervan ground zero the car park had filled up quickly and luckily our ‘towels on the sun lounger’ job with the patio furniture had saved our compound from being overrun. Much bike fettling and van unloading now commenced, a second bachelor’s breakfast was taken and the fire was started. Quickly a kitchen area was established, ground rules about snow and shoes in the van laid down and sleeping matts pumped up. Kit was thrown on with careful consideration to the conditions, which lead to some interesting approaches.
Richardson, now fully outed as a young Ranolph Fiennes had gone for the hipster-in-all-the-top-spec-mountain-gear-I-could-borrow look, Tobin for the why-did-I-want-to-go-first-full-lycra-xc look, Delaney looked like the Instagram influencer he was in £340 bibs and £10 wellies and McAuliffe had gone for the Timeless, Barbour-and-hi-viz-railway-trousers look. Looking as damn hot as we sounded, we pedalled up to the start. Tobin was strapped into the Welsh Go Pro with the kinky harness, so he could help Delaney Influence and The BCTC was ready to roll and run and walk.
Briefings from the organisers followed, warnings and salutations given and many a bike was perved upon. The atmosphere was carnivalesque and the port-a-loos were doing good business. Suddenly there was a lull in the crowd, the piper had struck up.
This was the cue for the first riders to be piped to the bottom of the fire road, when the pipes finished, they were to run back up and collect their bikes. After a few minutes, the pipes stopped, the crowd went silent and with the sighting of the first running rider, the noise returned, elevated to a roar as the riders poured through. There was carnage as the right bikes were found, things dropped, feet ridden over and drinks spilt. Tobin claimed his Single speed sled and he was off.
The Puffer had started and there was no going back now.
Except to Ground Camp Mastervan, for a cup of tea and maybe a tea cake.
Photos can be found mostly here