Cyclist
The Cateran Dirt Dash: Bikepacking for beginners
The two-day Cateran Dirt Dash is billed as a ‘reliability trial’ rather than a race. This may account for the discernible absence of testosterone in the air as riders of all sizes, genders and ages gather for the start in the genteel surroundings of Alyth Bowling Club in Scotland. We will be heading off-road into the Perthshire Hills but are reassured ‘The Broom Wagon of Eternal Shame’ will only ever be a phone call away.
I don’t know whether ‘bunch’ is the right collective noun for a group of bikepackers – it seems appropriately less formal than ‘peloton’ – but I quickly learn that while riding with company off-road may not offer any drafting benefits, it does provide other perks. Firstly, there will be regular gates to be passed through during the next 48 hours and the person at the front will be the one expected to wrestle with a mind-boggling array of latch mechanisms and tautly sprung ‘pull and release’ lever systems, so it pays to position yourself mid-bunch.
The second advantage is navigation. We’ve all been sent GPX files but it’s inevitable that the ‘real world’ will occasionally diverge from the route as shown on our screens. The more people in your group, the better the chance that at least one of them will be able to read the map properly. (Spoiler alert: that person won’t be me.)
Soon after the bunch splits – less to do with the pace than with riders stopping to take photos of an ancient stone circle – I find my way barred by a wall and have to choose whether to turn left and uphill or right and downhill. Just above me, two riders are pushing their bikes up the steep, rocky slope.
‘You look like you’ve done this before,’ I shout up to them. Instead of receiving an encouraging affirmation that would inspire me to blindly follow them to the ends of the earth, I hear, ‘Yes, we have. And we were rubbish at it then too.’
Recalling the perennial cycling proverb, ‘The only way down is up’, I start pushing my bike towards them. The taller of the two is Ben, who I learn is a former professional astronomer who now designs medical imaging software. If he can’t navigate us to safety, I reason, then no one can.
Rocks and roll
Our route largely sticks to the Cateran Trail – named after a notorious gang of cattle thieves – which comprises cart tracks, gravel trails and footpaths hewn into a landscape of purple-tinged moorland, brooding mountains and metallic-grey lochs.
My contemplation of these natural wonders is abruptly interrupted by a muffled grunt and the sound of something soft meeting something solid behind us. Another rider has resisted dismounting and attempted to pedal his way through the chaos of protruding stones that scar the hillside. These stones have been here for 500 million-odd years but it’s hard to respect them when they keep trying to send you flying over your handlebars.
‘It’s OK, I’m fine!’ he shouts as he bounces to his feet with only his dignity and left-hand brake lever slightly scuffed.
The distance for day one is 42km, which doesn’t sound much but it’s nearly all off-road and includes over 1,000m of climbing. Plus, we are carrying our bed and board on our bikes. There is no luxury hotel with power shower and bike valet awaiting us.
I have a 40-year-old tent rolled up between my handlebars and when I look at some of the other riders with their bulging panniers or rucksacks I feel a smug sense of superiority. This is especially so at the end of the first day when we have to ascend 400m in 6km on what starts out as a perfectly navigable forestry track but by the top is barely more than a narrow, squelchy rut in the hillside.
There is a chance for a breather during the climb at a bothy called Upper Lunch Hut (where Queen Victoria apparently had a picnic in 1865). Waiting there to greet us is Bob Ellis from local conservation group the Cateran Ecomuseum. He’s an older gentleman and it’s not apparent how he arrived at this remote location looking distinctly fresher than the rest of us. Pointing to the saddle between two peaks that will be the highest point of our journey (642m), he says with benign authority, ‘It’s 35 minutes to the top. No one has ever managed to ride all the way up.’
Sure enough, exactly 35 minutes later, a small group of us arrives at the summit to be met by what the event blurb had boldly promised is ‘one of the finest views in Scotland’. The view down to the Spittal of Glenshee, with the A93 winding its way up to the UK’s highest mountain pass – the Cairnwell, just 30m higher than where we are right now – certainly impresses. It’s then a treacherous descent, weaving through those prehistoric rocks, to our campsite beside a river.
As instructed, I’ve packed a bowl, mug and cutlery. We have been spared having to bring cooking equipment by the provision of a hot meal served from the hatch of a nearby cafe, but I have serious ‘bowl envy’ as I compare my small aluminium receptacle to my co-riders’ dustbin lid plates.
It’s as I’m returning from the cafe that it starts raining and a high-pitched droning in my ear alerts me to that other scourge of a Scottish summer – the midge. It’s only then I realise the full horror of my decision to stay faithful to my ancient tent, which resembles a canvas coffin next to its more modern counterparts. I am going to have to disrobe, sort out and store all my essentials – sleeping bag, inflatable mat, phone, bike computer, power pack, headtorch, shoes, warm clothes – in a space not much bigger than a bread bin.
Left, right, left… right?
Day Two starts off gloriously. Breakfast cereal portions are dished out democratically regardless of bowl size and it’s sunny and warm. We pack up at our own pace and start riding when we feel like it.
My computer directs me onto a well-defined farm track offering sweeping views of Glenshee and its eponymous river. After about an hour the trail leads into a wood where I am greeted by the sight of Bob Ellis, looking as fresh and dapper as he had on top of the mountain yesterday.
‘You’re 14th so far,’ he announces, apropos of nothing. Then he tells me last night’s rain has made a short section of the route impassable and I need to take a detour. He gives directions but after a litany of ‘left, right, left, right’ I ask if he could repeat them.
‘Never mind, just follow those two,’ he says, pointing to a pair up ahead who are wrestling with a gate’s ‘pull-release-and-count-all-your-fingers-afterwards’ latch system.
‘But what if they’ve forgotten your directions too?’
‘Then at least you’ll have company.’
It’s shortly after this that I find myself at the centre of a major rescue operation. I arrive on a narrow section of path to find a rider sat in a ditch nursing his shoulder and whimpering in pain. He’s been a victim of one of those prehistoric stones and thinks he’s broken his collarbone. Another rider is already on his phone to ‘The Broom Wagon of Eternal Shame’ so it’s down to me to call 999.
After giving all the details of the incident to the operator, I receive a voicemail asking me to call the local mountain rescue unit on a mobile number. I dial the number only to receive the automated message that Ben Affleck never hears when he is saving planet Earth in his latest Hollywood blockbuster: ‘Your remaining credit is zero. Please top up your Tesco card.’
‘Oh God,’ moans Tim, the injured rider. ‘Please don’t make me laugh, it really hurts.’
Within half an hour a seemingly endless stream of rescuers is arriving. One of them lights a flare that produces a plume of red smoke and soon a helicopter appears from behind a mountain. It’s all gone very Apocalypse Now.
‘We were on a training exercise when we got your call, but this is much better,’ explains the man with the flare. As the casualty is safely transferred to the helicopter, I remember I’ve got a bikepacking adventure to complete.
After what occasionally feels like a fairytale procession through forests and glens, past lochs and castles, and over an ancient arched stone bridge, I arrive back in Alyth. There’s no certificate or medal to mark my achievement, just hearty congratulations from the event’s recurring character who has magically appeared once again.
And yet, a firm handshake from Mr Bob Ellis seems a fitting end to an eventful 48 hours spent in the Scottish wilderness, with only a very small tent and Tesco pay-as-you-go SIM card for salvation.
The details
No dashing required
What Cateran Dirt Dash
Where Alyth, Perthshire, Scotland (nearest train station Dundee, 28km away)
How far 82km over two days with overnight camp
Next one 4th-5th May 2024
Price £95 including evening meal and breakfast at campsite
More info dirtdash.cc
Take only what you need
How to keep combined bike and kit to under 14kg
Bike Pinarello Grevil with Hunt 650b Adventure carbon wheelset (£799) and 47mm WTB Sendero tyres (£49.99 each).
Total weight: 9kg
Bags Restrap 18-litre saddle bag (£129.99) and small frame bag (£59.99) handled all kit except the tent, which was stowed between the handlebars.
Combined bag weight: 780g
Sleeping bag and mat The OEX Fathom EV200 sleeping bag (£59) packs down to an impressively small size, while the OEX Traverse three-quarter sleeping mat (£45) provided good insulation on cold ground.
Combined weight: 1.5kg
Warm jacket For off the bike, Rab’s Mythic Alpine Down hooded jacket (£320) is extremely warm, windproof and packs down to a fist-sized ball.
Weight: 280g
Tent The 1980s Phoenix Phoxhole one-man tent is sadly no longer produced, although similar modern-day – but heavier – versions are available for around £150.
Weight: 950g (including pegs)
• This article originally appeared in issue 150 of Cyclist magazine. Click here to subscribe
The post The Cateran Dirt Dash: Bikepacking for beginners appeared first on Cyclist.