Well, we'd waited long enough and talked the talk for ages, but here we were ready at last to do battle on the Selkirk Merida, Sunday 2nd August 2009. Rob had made his way over to the Rugby Ground the previous night and camped overnight, while Stewart had driven down from Edinburgh and Jeff, Jon, Steve B, Jason and Terry K had shot over this morning, leaving the Cave at 06:20 and arriving at 07:50, speed cameras or not. Terry H was also competing but I didn't spot him at the event - way too far ahead of me.

We got into the start queue at 09:20 after registering and collecting our race numbers on arrival, and spent the next 40 minutes listening to some Welshman waffling until the bell went. Jason recognised the voice from previous events. We'd got ourselves about half way up the queue and didn't have to wait too long to get moving as the hundreds of riders covered the first few miles on the main road out of town westwards towards St Mary's Loch.

We went off-road for the first time at Bowhill and that's when the Mighty MidAirCrisis Machine changed into top gear, with Rob, Jon and Stewart up ahead and Jason, Steve and Terry riding as a threesome a bit further back, but taking advantage of slower riders all the way up this dual forest track until the trees gave way to open moorland. That's when Steve and Terry stopped to remove some garments as the heat was definitely building up nicely already and we could see a big climb looming up ahead.

As the first manic downhill loomed, the latter two followed each other down it with Jason now gone, again passing a good few people on the way, the air filled with the pungent pong of burning brake pads and rotors, and that was the last time they saw each other until the finish. Unless one or more of the lads would like to fill us all in with some detail, you'll have to put up with a lonely Gollum's account of the rest of the ride from here, sorry, but I'll keep it short.

As far as MTB outings go, this is the epitome of what you don't start riding with a group for. After Steve trotted off into the distance, Golly's "group" consisted variously of several very friendly Scotsmen, substantially fewer talkative Englanders and one very gobby Welshman, who turned out to be reasonably entertaining and took my mind off the pain for 15 minutes until the next climb arrived and he blew me off. (does that sound OK?).

From then on, roughly just after the 45k turnback point, it was Solitary Confinement for the Wizened One. On most of our rides I find myself talking to myself when I'm not even by myself. But on this bu@@er I talked to myself so much that I bored myself stupid. Sorry, no - I was already stupid, I was here after all. I just bored myself.

Luckily, once I'd mastered the art of walking V-E-R-Y long distances upwards supported by my Trusty Trek, I somehow had sufficient brain food left to enjoy attacking the downhills. And to give credit where it's due, these were mostly brilliant. I'd used them, as always, to gain a few positions as the better climbers ahead of me generally turned out to be poorer descenders. Unfortunately every single one of the blighters turned off at the half way point, leaving me out in the wilderness on my ownsome, not even the stars to talk to this time, unlike that other lonely overnighter, the Wild Boar of 2007.

At Elibank I suffered leg cramp for the first time ever on a bike. I get this all the time after rides and in bed at home, and most GollyMobile travellers can testify to having witnessed such attacks as they're usually quite violent with Gollum limbs flailing about dangerously. At first I thought I'd been shot, as there's always someone, or something, stalking me from the nearby trees. When it dawned on me what was happening I stopped, dismounted (this was on a tarmac stretch) and took on half a bag of my very salty Salt 'n Vinegar flat crisps. They, together with the High Five powder I'd tipped into my drinks bottles, seemed to do the trick and after just a few minutes I got back on. It hurt a wee bit for a few hundred metres then all was well again and I was up to my normal road average speed (about 7.2mph).

I think the next thing I saw was a transit van with High Five barrels stacked behind it on a table, but no human presence. I'd ignored the other food stops in favour of a fast time so again I screamed past this one and continued, little mush screwed up in pain. I began to try and figure out where on the ride I was. Could I hell remember how many climbs there were to come, or how many I'd done. I had the profile printout in my back pocket but had such a positive vibe and so much pent up speed that I didn't want to interrupt my phenomenal progress just to confuse myself further.

Soon I noticed houses off to my right, like a real place, where people probably lived. I figured it must be Walkerburn, the village we pass through just short of Innerleithen, and then it dawned on me that there just may be another small climb approaching. However, I was amazed to find that, although I again had to walk good chunks of it on very wide firebreak and forest track, it wasn't rising particularly steeply. Some time later I began to recognise the odd tree from previous visits, and lo and behold, I was on the Inners Red! A few aches and groans later a Mountain Rescue LandRover came into view. As I approached it I saw the familiar top of Caddon Bank a few hundred metres behind it, but a black and yellow arrow board just in front of it.

I stopped to ponder whether it was right or wrong and whether or not I should ask to be rescued, as the temptation was strong. As I did, one of the lads approached me in his camouflage gear (he must have been baking) and began to interrogate me. Well you bu@@er, wasn't he a Jarrow Lad? We had a bit of a natter about old times and old places, lit a fire and played a few hands of Pontoon while reminiscing, but after an hour or two I told him I was in a bit of a hurry as there was some "race" or other on and I'd have to leave. He challenged me that his mob could get down to the car park before me in their LandRover. That's when I knew how dangerous he might be and made a swift bolt for the drop into the trees.

That was pretty good, and soon led me over it's tricky roots and twists onto Caddon a bit further down the hillside. Home at last. With zero energy all I could do was sit on the saddle, lowered as far as it would go, and let the brakes off. Good old Caddon did the rest, thank goodness, and all the enjoyment of MTBing came flooding back into the Gollum's petit brain cell. Wheeee!

Nearing the hard stop area at the bottom, out went the anchor, and just as well as there was a female biker positioned right across the end of it! Thank goodness for geet big 203mm rotors and the absence of Superstar pads. Unfortunately, just as the hitch was moving out of my way, a real life Merida Marshall noticed my race number and immediately shuffled me "over there" where another previously hidden arrow was lurking. Bu@@er. Bu@@er. The damn thing was pointing straight up the hill - that good old prelude to the Minch Moor climb. Just what I bl@@dy well needed! Now I suddenly knew what was coming next.

For the next 60 minutes or more I took a very slow walk up the wiggly Red climb. Alone again except for two casual riders making their way up - for fun, the b@st@rds. When they passed me I pretended to be stopping to watch the Downhillers stot down the DH track. Clever, eh? As soon as they vanished I started pushing again. Cor, that was hard. Last time I was here I buzzed up all the way with the bunch, but not this time, matey.

Even when I cleared the tree line at the top and emerged onto the Minch, feeling better as I knew I was almost above the clouds, I still had to keep stopping every hundred metres or so as there was just nowt left in the tank. Up there at the cairn, it was as desolate as I've ever seen it. Not a sod in sight for miles in any direction, and you can see a long way from up there. Once again though, there's only one way to get off this thing, and that's to lose altitude very rapidly.  So down came the saddle again and with hardly a turn of the pedals, the first fireroad zoomed into view after a couple of classy elbows-out berm traverses.

Hitting that fireroad brought back the stark realisation that it wasn't all fun ahead. The route didn't continue down to the valley floor we know so well, but forced you right. Still downhill, and still as fast as you dared, but with soggy, deep grooves to get stuck in and horrible concrete drainage steps every so often. After jumping the first one I realised that it was consuming too much energy so followed the tyre tracks around the outside of the remainder. Just picking up speed nicely when a crossroads appeared and beside it another Mountain rescue squad. Or was it the same crew, and had they indeed raced me down here???

The only reason I slowed and stopped at this one was to raise the seat as there was a green thing looming towards the sky at the twelve o'clock position. Well, that means at least one more climb! This turned out to be the Southern Upland Way and I followed it, managing to stay mounted all the way. When it got to the radio mast I thought someone had been moving the waymarkers for a laugh. That's because they pointed straight over what looked like fresh gorse over the moors. It wasn't easy to join the yellow distant yellow dots at speed, and it sure looked like very few bikes had disturbed the surface before me. "Does that mean I'm on the wrong route, stupid b@st@rd?" I asked myself. Not many other paths to take without just ignoring the arrows and getting back to the SUW, so I stayed with them.

Burned-out caravan - not what you'd expect here! Another mile and another one! Dear me, what happened to the Country Code? The landscape passed by serenely until, nearing the Youth Hostel at XXXX I was flashed by yet another Mountain Rescue driver who stuck his hand out of his window and pointed up the hill (naturally!). Now this is where things went not only hazy, but left me wondering if I'd just been turned back early, although here was still a nice friendly trail of those arrow marker boards. That weird thought dawned on me again that there weren't that many tyre marks up here to show the passage of a "marathon".

Anyway, the route provided me with an entertaining drive through a farm track where I was attacked by dozens of pheasants and just before I reached the road at the far side, a great many cows began to stare me out and refused to move out of my way - very disconcerting with absolutely no leg power available to outrun a side of beef, or even a pheasant! As much as I detest tarmac and the riding thereof, this one came as blessed relief and when I saw "Selkirk 3 miles" I felt - stuffed! No way could I ride another three miles, even on flat black stuff. My saviour - that box of Jaffa Cakes I'd tied to my handlebars at the start of the ride, put there as my incentive to finish the damn thing. So I cracked on, head down, about 12mph, just praying for sight of the end.

When I got to where I could actually see the Rugby Ground, I noticed a reflective green-clad figure taking down the signs outside, way up the road. When I got to the entrance the signs had all gone and I had to guess my way in to the finish line with no bl@@dy help at all from anyone. When I figured I should ride under the bouncy castle, a reclining lass sat there behind a table waved me over, stuffed a red tee shirt in my face and said "Where ya bin, sat in a pub aa' day?" (my Scottish accent here). Cheeky fat cow. I wish I had been sat in a freakin pub aa' day instead of this purgatory. My next move was to stop at the big white marquee we'd registered in this morning, to hand in my race number or clock in or whatever. No sod there either! So I just poddled along back to the van to be met by several wide-eyed blank stares on the faces of Jason, Jeff, Jon and Steve. None of them, however, were as blank as me. What a tw@t of a ride that was, You can shove it where the stars never twinkle next year, marras.

Anyway, well done Jon - magnificent effort from our "Roadie".