In praise of postiverosity

SUMMER months bring the annual procession through the Highlands of pilgrims from Land’s End making for John O’groats, or vice versa, in support of charity. It is a trip that has been done on skateboard, lawnmower, grey Fergie tractor, unicycle, roller skates, scooter, wheelchair, public transport and horse, as well as by hitchhiking and on the more usual conveyance of Shank’s pony or bicycle.

Until recently, a friend’s wife held the women’s record for running it in 12½ days. Our family hero, however, is my wife’s brother, Uncle David, who has just completed the 874-mile marathon on that most precarious, uncomfortable and exhausting of conveyances, a penny-farthing.

I’ve never yet found quite the right occasion to ride a halfbroken stallion, but, from what I’ve heard, that seems to be the closest approximation to the penny-farthing experience, which combines a long way to fall with inherent instability, one gear only, no brakes to speak of and a propensity to eject you headover-heels if you are run away with. Not surprisingly, unsprung, solid-tyred ‘high wheelers’, as they were known, had a short day in the sun—only 20 years or so—in the late-victorian period before yielding to ‘safety bicycles’, the kind we now ride.

As a former SAS reservist, veteran of many outdoor adventures and organiser of countless endurance events for charity, Uncle David knows a thing or two about grit and determination. He has coined his own term— postiverosity (the title of his motivational autobiographical book)—for the obstacle-busting single-mindedness required to meet life’s challenges. It is a quality he needed in copious amounts on his journey.

In Lancashire, a friendly bicycleshop owner introduced him to clip-in pedals and cleats that allow the soles of your shoes to attach to the pedals. This improves propulsion by pulling one pedal up as the other is pushed down. Things can quickly go wrong, however, when you encounter a steep descent. Before you know it, you are barrelling down with your feet firmly attached to the pedals and your legs revolving in an unstoppable blur like Billy Whizz in The Beano. More than once, Uncle David found himself on the verge of a wipe-out.

Somewhere in the Borders, my uncle and his fellow traveller, Neil, had to cross the central reservation of a dual carriageway. Neil, an experienced high-wheeler, jumped it mountain-bike style. Uncle David followed, but hit the kerb and cartwheeled, smashing his arm onto the tarmac.

Startled motorists must have thought they had happened upon an impromptu circus act on its way to perform at the Edinburgh Festival.

Always a man to see a silver lining behind the darkest cloud, Uncle David confined himself to the stoical observation that the pain that hitherto had been in his bottom had providentially moved to the new location of his elbow.

And on they went, raising more than £20,000 for Mary’s Meals with the generous support of their sponsors Hendrick’s Gin and completing their mission in just over 11 days.

Torrential rain and traffic stasis turned what should have been a three-hour journey to Edinburgh into six hours, which meant that I maintained my unbroken record of failing ever to attend anything at the Edinburgh Festival. We had bought tickets to see The Trojans acted by a cast of Syrian women, but, instead, just made it to a pub before closing. After spending

the night in our campervan parked up next to Bruntsfield Links—by far the best way to avoid rip-off festival hotel prices—we tootled north before the traffic began. Back in 2004, I also missed Who Bares Wins, a production at the festival about former Royal Marine Stephen Gough who, as the Naked Rambler, made the trip from Land’s End to John O’groats. Scottish prison gates became a revolving door for Mr Gough, who wore only boots, socks, a rucksack and, sometimes, a hat.

You can bare your soul as much as you like in the grim wastes of Calvinist Caledonia, but a dim view is taken of public nudity. Mr Gough was arrested only twice in England, but more than 20 times in Scotland, as a vicious cycle of contempt of court and re-arrest outside the prison gates set in.

His second attempt to walk the length of Britain in the buff coincided with the second edition of our music festival in 2005. Hard to imagine now, but this was the pre-social-media era, when Facebook, later to revolutionise event marketing, was only a glint on the Zuckerberg computer. Every attempt to gain profile had to be exploited and, in the spirit of Woodstock, I called the rambler to see if he would like to make an ‘appearance’ as he was in the neighbourhood and enjoying one of his brief periods of freedom.

In retrospect, given our subsequent reputation as a family show, it was lucky the detour was too much for him.

Prison became a revolving door for Mr Gough, who wore only boots and a rucksack

Joe Gibbs lives at Belladrum in the Highlands and is the founder of the Tartan Heart Festival (www. tartanheartfestival.co.uk)