• 11am, Forfar bypass McDonalds. We all meet up and agree that although the sun is shining, its bloodly cold.
• A cup of coffee and a moan later, its pointed out by me that one of then races bikes at Knockhill and the other is a road racer. If they wait on me all the time, they'll get frustrated. "Oh no, we'll go at your pace", etc.
• Eight miles later, they zoom by. About six miles after they expected to...
• iPod on, and I realise that I've not really ridden a bike properly for three years. Ouch.
• I suddenly remember biking rule #1: "Concentrate on the receeding apex of the corner, not the armco barrier your heading to". Surprisingly, the bike starts to corner again.
• Meet up beside the A9 again. They've been stopped so long, they have to shake small spiders from their boots. Next - a 40 mile blast up the A9. Possbly the most horrible road in Scotland. And. Merde. Il Pleut. Derek got so far down on his bike, he managed to stay dry behind the postage-stamp sized bit of plastic he calls a 'screen'.
• Again, watched the fat tyre and loud exhausts of my mates disappear, and hunker down behind the screen, dodging sleeping drivers in their volvos, and praying for the destruction by the hand of god of the idiot who designed this road.
• And the tossers who never look in their mirrors. Honestly. They're far better behaved on motorways in Germany and France. Even the motorways are far better behaved.
• Dalwhinnie. Fuel up and go for coffees. About 20 bikes arrive in the 30 minutes we're there, just enough time to empty bladders, and admire the logos on the waiters T-Shirt: Dalwhinnie - twinned with Las Vegas. Class!
• Some advanced motorcycle group appear. They're on a 250 mile outing with a lead and tail instructor, radios, the lot. Wet weather gear, touring bikes. Probably even heated grips and air conditioning. Note for next time: Dont wear the jacket with three holes in it (Frank Thomas fabric stuff is shit!), take the liners, and dont wear trainers.
• Over the top of the hills to Spean Bridge, and then stopped at the first Dam.
• More rules. When you see a Yellow Lamborghini parked at the side of the road, try not to point at it so much that you have to swerve to avoid the next crash barrier.
• Coming down off the hill to Cluanie Dam - lovely open bit of road, lots of twisties, and huge cross winds. Now. At this point, remember, its an 18 year old Kawasaki. Its been designed as a sports bike - so straight line speed. The fairing is the size of a small house and has the cross section of a sailboat. So 'taking' this thing down the twisties, avoiding the sheep and bracing yourself for the cattle grids was made marginally more interesting by the cross windows.
• More rules. Stop moaning.
• Cluny Inn for more coffee, sitting outside in the sun, observing the snow still on the mountainside.. Watching hundreds of bikes go by.. Agree next stop is Broadford on the Isle of Skye
• Coming down the mountain, tailing lines of 10 or more cars, no passing places. Just picking them off one by one..
• One of the few straights - and I see big lights behind me. Its the guys with the R1's catching up from Cluny. And they go by - fast..
• Spean bridge flashes by, over the causeway (more cross winds but better sphincter control) and finally Eilean Donan Castle (The one from Highlander and a bond movie) This also means about 15 miles to Kyle of Lochalsh and the bridge, all of it good..
• Uneventful blast to the Bridge, up and over.. I did think of hopping onto the pavement, stopping at the top and taking pictures - but no.. Straight over, and onto Broadford.
• Finally, the Broadford filling station. The lads have been here for several days waiting for me.. Fuel up, warm up, watch all the traffic we've just passed go by, and head onto Dunvegan. The last 40 miles in a 240 mile day. (240 miles is nothing in a car - but on a bike, fatigue hits after an hour, and its best to stop for 15 minutes than go home in an ambulance.. )
• Again, the lads hang behind me, sniggering into their helmets at my frankly crap-but-getting-better cornering (both of them can easily corner 30mph faster than me on the same corner. With a passenger on the back. Ralf has video of him passing EVERYTHING on Mad Sunday on the TT - on a 600cc bike. With his son on the back. )
• Through the Cullin mountains. Cold, windswept, more like the Alps than Scotland. Ive driven this road many times and I have a morbid, cripping fear of Sheep on this road (a few near misses in cars) and loose rocks from the cliff faces. Oh, and the 500-feet drops through the biker-shredding crash barriers. The other two, on the other hand have no fear. And so again, on an impossible hairpin through two cliff faces, I watched as the loud exhasts and fat tyres disappeared into the sunset.
• Over the top, and heading downhill. They've been stuck behind the bloody caravans. Honestly. Towing a caravan tells me much about yourself (unless it has bike logos on the side, in which case your' off to a track day):
  • You love the smell of chemical toilets, burnt clutches and your family for extended periods of time.
  • You love to drive at 40mph, with miles of frustrated drivers doing dangerous stunts behind you.
  • You are confused when people give you the finger when they go by.
  • You have no appreciation of your actions consequences on other road users, and are confused by any repercussions.
  • You have no trust in hotels, and no imagination.
  • Time for you is something you feel you have lots of, and everyone should bend to your idea of this concept. In other words, when you get more than 10 cars behind you, pull in and let them by, you idiot!
  Or, in summary, a loser
• Through Luib, onto Sligachan, and left towards Dunvegan. The last bit is over moorland - all open and wide, but the road surface resembles a student flat after a party. At one stage, there's rock the size of a tennis ball on the road - not bad news for a car, but certainly a trip into space for a bike.
• And finally Dunvegan. Unpack the bikes, and have supper with my Dad. And stare, slack-jawed in admiration at the bands' new 300 watt speaker system and mixing desk. This is the stereo I wanted as a kid, and now my 75 year old father has one! Aaaauuggghh!

After that, a sedate trip down the pub to listen to the band playing. Lots of banter, including the creation of "Brian, International Freelance Buscuit Consultant" (not me, I hasten to add). And Dancing. God, Dancing. Even "Brian" (who developed a wooden leg earlier in the evening to avoid dancing) got up, provoking us to exclaim "Its a Miracle!". Joanne, the second Mrs Murdo in all but name, should be canonised. Of course, I forgot to mention this relationship (A decent brefing on the status of folks on Skye would take a few days by itself) to Ralf, who in passing mentioned to Mr Murdo - "Watch out for [Joanne] the lady in pink trousers".. And so back to the house, where a previously dry father invites us to have a 'dram'. Thankfully we decline, knowing in fact that a 'wee dram' is most of a bottle and means another day in Skye drying out before we can ride again.. About 2am, I broke up the socialist revolutionary party discussion on Money and Ownership, and so to bed.

Day two - the long way back

Up bright and early at 9am. Well, some of us were. I was up like a wounded animal - not enough sleep, back sore, throttle wrist sore. Sigh. By 9.15am, all packed, and loaded onto the bike. But. No Father. He had slept in. We had intended to get the ferry from Armadale at 11.30 but we couldnt leave without saying goodbye. And none of us wanted to waken him up. So much standing around (I went to pay my respects to my mother up the hill). By 10.30 he was up, making breakast, and insisting we eat it. His years doing Bed and Breakfast meant that we all got king-sized portions of three-flavour dead pig and chicken. Lovely. Finally around 11.30am, we headed off to Armdale to get the 1.10 ferry.

Quick blast to Broadford (somehow the lads stayed behind me - I suspect they were sleeping), and hung a right to Armadale. The Junction has many signs - including the time for the next ferry. Which I missed. The lads thought they saw something that said 16.00 but werent sure.. And so we blasted down the new road (the old single track to Armadale used to take an hour to do the 15 miles). Only one part under construction, and only one bit of 'off roading' required to get through it.

We roared into the ferry terminal at 12.40 - plenty time for tickets. No other cars, and so we went to the head of the queue...

Ferry guy came out and asked if we were queueing for the 16.40.. Ah - no - the 13.10.. "Och", he said, "That doesnt run till the 1st of June.. ". Much slapping of my head by the other two. We wandered over to the cafe, and got three nice coffees served by an exceptionally pretty girl. The sun was shining, the water flat calm. Life doesnt get any better. Well, aside from the lack of bloody ferry.

Rules: Dont let Bill navigate or read Ferry timetables..

So back to Broadford, over the bridge, fuel up in Kyleakin, and head over the Black Isle road to Inverness.

Now the Black Isle road from 10 miles south of Kyleakin is a pure joy. Lots of nice twisty, hilly (20% ascents and decents), decent surface, and a few wide-open bits.. An hour later, 40 miles north of Inverness, we stopped on a pavement for a catch-up. I decided that the next stop would be Borders in Inverness - the starbucks inside never seems that busy, lack of screaming kids, etc.

The road to Dingwall was full of double-continuous lines, 30mph traffic. Horrible. And one idiot in a bugeye sprite (60s two seater convertible) who despite having a 200 watt halogen bulb (even in daylight is bright), the exhaust practically at his ear (the top was down), still decided to pull out on Ralf when he was overtaking. Sigh. If it wasnt for Ralfs quick reactions, the idiot would have had 200kg of Triumph in the back seat, along with a 75kg angry Ralf. So he got some excessively close tailgating, overtaking and the middle finger salute when I got by him. Dunno why we bother - he proably didnt realise what he did in the first place..

And so, crawling over the bridge and then onto borders for a coffee, muffins and a seat that doesnt vibrate for half an hour. God, the whole of Inverness seemed to have responded to the sunshine by going shopping today. Sheesh.

Onto Aviemore and Coylumbridge for fuel. The main Aberdeen-Inverness road is really horrible. Should have been upgraded to Dual Carriageway 20 years ago, and is one to avoid. Ralf, on the other hand, knows this really good road from Nethy Bridge, which leads through Tomintoul, Fettercairn and then home. I should have realise that this route would take in places famous from Scotlands Travel reports. Places famous for being blocked by Snow. In August:

• The Devils Elbow
• The Lecht Ski Center
• Tomintoul in general
• Cairn-o-Mount

Fantastic. The BBC weather reporter that we all have in ourselves ran down the route..

The lads held back for me at Nethy bridge, Tomintoul.. Around the Lecht ski center, they decided that my policy of slowing down on the 20% decents (I have a morbid fear of carrying too much speed into the inevitable corner at the foot of the hill) was pants, and roared by.. 'No worries' I thought..

The 'next stop' plan at this point unravelled. The South Deeside road seemed to feature in it, but I'm not good at this stuff, and so.. After an hour or so, I stopped in a forest to get rid of the gallon or so of coffee, and listen to the nine or so voicemails. Ah. I was about 10 miles ahead, and they'd been waiting somewhere else for a while. They soon caught up, and we attacked the Cairn-o-mount road. Well, they attacked, and I 'barely survived'. God.

Rules: On a bike hill start at a junction, try and keep both feet on the ground. And dont try starting in third..

Rules: When parking on a lay-by, make sure they're something solid under your side-stand. Wet sand is not solid, and a middle aged unfit biker cant lift 200kg of bike.

Over the hill, slow descent (behind a transit van taking 80% of the road) and onto Fettercairn. Final stop, and my heartfelt thanks to the guys for being patient with me.

And so, having called the wife and the barn door already been opened, I rode home, said goodbye to 'Brian' in Marykirk, and drive the bike straight into the barn. Unloaded, unpacked, and straight for a shower. The Frank Thomas fabric 2-piece suit will be incinerated - its reached the level of Biohazard. 12 hours sleep, and I'm feeling good again. Where to go next time?