What does Rosie do in the Face of Abject Terror?
Teetering precariously on the edge of one of the UK's deadliest roads is a rite of passage...
Pertinent Statistics
Did I lean into my discomfort? Yes;
Did I want to stab myself in the eye? Also yes;
Did I finally conquer my irrational fear? Not even close; it was probably reinforced, if anything;
Blood, sweat and tears trifecta? Two out of three ticked off;
Was the pseudo-trauma worth the view at the top? Maybe. I’m glad I did it though.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that any blissful day of delight must have an equal and opposite day fraught with tragic comedy to counter it.
It’s the karmic rules of the universe, everyone.
So naturally after a day of sunshine, rainbows and fairy pools, life builds up an opposing quota comprising of a mountain cliff edge, a teetering vehicle, and a mini hyperventilation episode. This leads to the diligent questioning of a very appropriate question: what do you do in the face of abject terror?
Readers, I get my ass kicked.
NC500 Solo 2021 Phase 2.2, August 2021: Bealach na Bà
Day Three of the North Coast 500 solo trip saw me unzipping my tent after camping with my new friends on the Isle of Skye, to welcoming (read: inhaling) a swarm of midges who took a liking to my tent as the sun rose. This was the point I really started to regret taking my fuchsia, aqua and yellow tent instead of the easily camouflaged forest-green alternative.
The price we pay for fashion.
I packed my things away (complete with an inordinate midge apocalypse as I rolled them up with the poles), and said goodbye to my new friends. I then set off towards the Applecross peninsula in Wester Ross, whereby I’d experience the winding single track road of legends, Bealach na Bà.
Route Context
Bealach na Bà (AKA The Applecross Road) is a route which strikes terror into the heart of many; this is why:
Many many many (and many more) hairpin turns;
Single track road reaching a height of 2053 ft, and gradients of 20%;
According to Wikipedia, has the greatest ascent of any road climb in the United Kingdom;
Regularly likened to roads throughout the Alps;
Was (hilariously) named 9th deadliest road in the world according to one recent ranking, which I (hilariously) wasn’t aware of until after the trip. (I have doubts regarding the credibility of this survey, but let’s roll with it for the street cred);
Officially not advised for learner drivers.
Good thing I’m not a learner driver.
The one thing I do absolutely have, however, is an irrational fear of driving up steep hills. (Yes it’s just driving up them—driving down is fine. Don’t ask; there’s a convoluted logic to it.)
Especially on a single track road.
Especially on a single track road with intermittent barriers.
So naturally, I decide to tackle a route which encapsulates all of my fears in a way that offers no escape if anything goes pear-shaped mid-trip. It’s literally up a mountain. The only way up is… well, down.
But: I would have been mad at myself if I didn’t do it.
And: I’ve never been one to avoid a challenge.
I simply had no excuses!
It all started so well. I was driving on the open road with good music and breath-taking views. The sun was beaming down (yes, still Scotland), and I was at terrible risk of achieving a beautiful tan for the first time in my life. I was soaking in the rugged beauty and air of absolute freedom, and I was probably just three miles short of legitimately finding myself.
And then it all went wrong.
I was 80% up the mountain on the single-track road, when a pack of campervans travelling down forced me to reverse into a precariously positioned passing place in one of the steepest and narrowest parts of the track. Did I mention this part had no barriers? Because this part had no barriers. Did I mention that Micras only have a 1.2L engine? Because that was also the case.
My car started emitting strange smells and noises (likely my fault), while I began simultaneously emitting tears and screams. Tragic, but proportionate, I felt. I really was preparing to die here in a scene that would have been fitting in an Indiana Jones movie, but sadly there was no Spielberg to capture the obvious cinematic potential of mine and my car’s demise. Flashbacks of childhood nightmares came full circle as I succumbed to the acceptance that this could be the end.
Sweat drenched my back as I teetered dangerously close to the edge. The vans inched by, each a hair’s breadth away from the driver-side window (wing mirror tucked in for dear life). My rear passenger tyre was holding onto the edge of the verge and I sat paralysed, adrenaline coursing through my veins.
The last van passed.
My jaw unclenched and I exhaled.
I crawled forward to a proper stopping place before the final climb, and got out of the car to recover. A kind hiking family struck up some chatter, laughing heartily at my Indiana Jones fiasco before awkwardly informed me that the last stretch was even steeper and narrower.
Cue internal meltdown number two.
Fortunately, kind Mark took pity on me and offered to coach me up the rest of the way, in between poking fun. His daredevil strategy was going twice as fast as I would have instinctively dared, and yet we got there in one piece. Kudos to you Mark. You’re the real MVP.
At the top, the views were beyond incredible. I shared a flask of coffee with a local father and son, shared stories, and even got cuddles with their adorable collie—a therapeutic reward for the harrowing journey.
If it weren’t for the constant fear of plummeting to a dramatic and untimely death off the side of the mountain, it would have been quite a pleasant drive.
Mark may have been an unsung hero that day, but what I appreciated most wasn’t his heroics.
I didn’t need a hero.
I didn’t need someone to swoop in and make the bad stuff disappear.
We’re capable of wholeness and wonderful things on our own.
But what I did need in that moment was simply the right type of weirdo to laugh with me at the absurdity of the moment, to remind me to breathe, and to share in the last leg of the journey to the top.
In short, it’s okay to need people.