Just a few hours ago we had been bobbing in the North Sea, riding waves to get our thrills; now we were doing the same, waves of electrical power were spiriting us effortlessly high into the Scottish backcountry, deep into the Queen’s back garden.
Slowly my eyelids blinked open, the musty smell was instantly familiar, a mixture of neoprene and chain oil. Empty pizza boxes on the dashboard reminded me of our nutritious meal the night before, damn. I sat up slowly, careful to avoid the pedals and chains that surrounded me, squeezed as I was between 3 bikes inside the back of the fully-loaded Sprinter. A shard of light around the door seal showed that dawn had broken. From the snoring I knew my buddies were still asleep but outside I could hear the rhythmic “thump, sssssh, thump” of waves unloading on the beach. My body was pleading for another half-an-hour’s sleep, but it was too late, waves were going unridden, I needed to get out of the van.
Our accommodation was far from glamorous, no beds, no showers, no frills, we were three-up in the back of a panel van full of bikes and boards.
One by one the rest of the crew emerged, bleary eyed, hoods pulled tight against the chill morning air. The sun was not quite up, but conversation was punctuated with the humour that only a terrible nights sleep could bring. We needed caffeine and we needed it fast. Surprise! The beach cafe owner almost dropped her mop when she flipped on the lights at 8am. Our three faces pressed up hard against the door like hungry dogs looking through butcher’s shop window. “Is there any chance of a coffee?” we pleaded, trying not to look like hobos. “Sorry, but we open at 9:30am”. The reply hit us like a hammer. Our crestfallen faces must have inspired charity to our saviour’s heart and not 5 minutes later we were sitting inside in the warm, chairs upturned on tables around us, tucking into a breakfast fit for a king as the coffee machine worked overtime.
We were in Angus, on the East coast of Scotland. The original plan had been so simple, ride bikes in the mountains, but then mother nature had dealt a surprising hand. Weather systems had collided hundreds of miles out over the North Sea, isobars had clashed swords and a powerful swell was silently marching under the surface ready to unload on the beach just a stone’s throw away from us. “4 foot, 12 seconds”. Just a list of numbers, but to us they meant fun. Not blessed with the long fetches and consistent waves of Hawaii or Indonesia, surfers in Southern Scotland make do. Full suits, hoods and gloves, riding whatever we can get on the rugged coastline. To us, mountain biking and surfing go hand in hand, just another way to get an adrenaline fix, but what would we do with just one day? This is where we revealed the ace up our sleeve, we had E-MTB’s, we could do both.
Fuelled up, rubber clad and as warm as you can be in the North Sea, we were small dots bobbing slowly in a vast landscape. Out-back beyond the surf line we enjoyed quiet reflection and lost conversation as the forming waves moved silently beneath us, a stillness punctuated with vibrant seconds of speed, explosive power and violence as we snatched short rides from the swell. Foam hissed and boiled on the shore as we glided in then clawed back out through the shorebreak. After a few hours fighting the resistance of thick suits we were spent, but the day was not done yet.
Just a few hours later we were riding a different kind of wave, waves of pedal assist. Gravel spat from under our tires as we pedalled swiftly into the Queen’s back garden, the 50,000 acre estate of Balmoral Castle. Starting from Glen Clova our plan was to climb up and over Broad Cairn before a high-octane plummet to Loch Muick via the iconic Corrie Chase trail, a ribbon of perfect singletrack. Skirting the shoreline past the Royal Boat House the route would climb back onto Capel Mounth with a final grassy descent to the car, 26km of Scottish mountain gold. Time was short, we had surfed for too long.
I thought of perhaps trying our charm again at Balmoral and getting a cup of tea with the Queen, but decided against it, I don’t really like Corgis.
The mist was falling and we were chasing the remains of the day, we crept from ‘eco’ to ‘sport’, pedalling harder up the Glen Clova valley, as a single fast moving train we raced through the technical sections. We had done this route many times on non-powered MTB’s and it was startling how much faster we were moving, not only would we make our destination but we also had energy to chat, insult each other and talk nonsense – it’s often those conversations that mean the most. As we rode we talked about the polarising comments against EMTB’s in the wilderness, keyboard warriors claims of ‘losing touch with the environment’ and ‘not being suitable for the big mountains’ seemed ridiculous to us as we soaked up the mountain panorama and quietly stalked upto a herd of bemused Red Deer, no more disturbing to our environment than the noise of our tires cutting into the gravel track. Occasionally surprised Grouse exploded from the heather in front of us, 25 kph was unheard of on these climbs.
Charging back to the van with the darkness closing in, our displays blinked red but we were going to make it. As we raced back down the flat country road, our party of three became two, became one, as our batteries gasped their last watt and died. Linking arms, the last E-MTB standing helped tow our ragged party to the finish. Muddy bums on towels, we cranked the van and started out for home. Within no time the heater started pumping, bringing respite to numb toes and cold hands. Today we had enjoyed the perfect recipe of surf and turf, a slice of undiluted Scottish gold.
This article is from E-MOUNTAINBIKE issue #013
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