More Than Two Wheels

Ten days. Five islands. One long road winding north from Barra to the far edge of North Lewis. We set out on a surfpacking trip along the Outer Hebrides, chasing waves and wildness, knowing full well that the weather could flip the script at any moment.

And it did.

The Hebrides are known for many things—bleached white beaches, ancient stone circles, midges, and wool. But above all, this place is known for being raw. Exposed. Alive with the Atlantic. Life here is carved by wind and saltwater. The line between land and sea feels blurred, like everything is constantly shifting—sand dunes blown into new shapes overnight, weather fronts slamming in without warning.

In a perfect world, it would’ve been the ideal setting for a surf-bikepacking trip. Long open roads, wild camp spots tucked behind dunes, and empty lineups all to ourselves. In the dream version, we’d wake to morning light spilling into our tent, the hum of the ocean just over the dunes, boards strapped to bikes, coffee brewing on a camp stove. That version existed—but only in glimpses. The rest was something entirely different. Something harder, and maybe… more meaningful.

A Road Wound in Wind

The journey began on Tiree, with a sea-sickening ferry crossing to Barra—a tiny island known for its unique airport, where a tidal beach doubles as the runway. From there, our trip properly began. A thread of singletrack roads and ferry crossings carried us northward—through Eriskay, South Uist, Benbecula, North Uist, and eventually onto the sprawling mass of Harris and Lewis. Three hundred kilometers of rugged coastline, stitched together by tarmac, gravel, and a fair share of Type II fun.

We knew what we were signing up for, more or less. But there’s a difference between knowing a storm might come and actually living inside it. One day, we found ourselves cycling through 80 km/h winds, the kind that force you to lean sideways just to stay upright. We camped behind campervans to keep our tent from taking flight. Headwinds so strong they turned a casual day’s ride into an hours-long slog—each pedal stroke a tiny rebellion against logic.

You don’t get far thinking too far ahead on days like those. You focus on the next bend, the next shelter, the next bite of food. Your legs ache. Your ears roar. Your thoughts go quiet. It becomes simple: move forward.

The Stillness After

The storm didn’t pass all at once. It eased off in fits and starts—winds softening, rain thinning to mist, clouds slowly pulling apart. And then, one afternoon, something shifted. The air felt lighter. The sky opened just enough to let some light through, pale and hesitant at first, then warming into that soft, golden glow the Hebrides keep tucked away for special moments.

We rolled down to the beach, legs heavy, salt crusted into our jackets, and stood there for a while, just watching. Lines of swell traced their way into the bay, clean and steady, the sea finally calm enough to read. A few others dotted the shoreline, but the lineup itself was quiet—unclaimed, inviting.

The waves weren’t perfect. They didn’t need to be. After days of battling wind and rain, of pushing into headwinds that made every kilometer feel like a question, even a gentle waist-high roller felt like a small miracle.

Why Choose the Hard Way?

So… why do a surf trip by bike instead of, you know… a van?

Why choose the hard way?

It’s a fair question. One we asked ourselves more than once, soaked to the skin, pushing into the wind with no sign of a surfable wave in sight.

The dream version of a trip like this is seductive: long summer evenings, golden light, endless beaches. You picture yourself rolling into new bays every day, board under arm, slipping into glassy waves, then sleeping under the stars. That version does exist—just not all the time. And rarely without a price.

Because here’s the thing about dream worlds: they’re light on detail. They leave out the slog. The cold. The rain. The way it seeps through everything—tent walls, jackets, skin. The way it gets into your bones.

Those 50-kilometer days become something else when the wind flips. They feel like 150. Every little hill becomes a mountain. Every exposed stretch turns into a battle. Your legs whisper doubts. Your brain joins in. But somehow, you keep going.

Why?

Maybe It’s Not About the Waves

The waves are part of it, of course. They’re the bait. But they’re not the whole story. Not even close.

We came for surf. We found something else. Something deeper.

This kind of trip teaches you things. Patience, for one. Acceptance. The ability to slow down, to sit with discomfort instead of fleeing from it. On a bike, you feel everything—the gradient of the road, the direction of the wind, the weight of your pack, the texture of the air. You can’t speed through it or numb it out. There’s no “skip to the good part.” You earn every moment.

And then, when it does all come together—when the clouds clear, when the swell arrives, when the wind dies down and the lineup is yours—it means something. The joy is sharper, the stoke more real. You’re not just there. You got there.

Choosing the Long Way

We chose bikes instead of a van. A tent instead of four walls. The Outer Hebrides for its open, barren coastline and the chance that maybe—just maybe—we’d find surf in its hidden corners.

We chose a window in the calendar, picked dates between other obligations, and booked a ferry. Everything else we made up as we went.

In some ways, it was simple. Just two people, two bikes, two boards. A road ahead. The rest was all learning.

There were moments I’ll never forget: cycling through golden evening light along the machair; sharing a pot of noodles while drying our socks in the wind; waking up to the sound of waves just meters away; chasing sheep off the road as we descended into another quiet glen.

There were hard moments, too. Numb fingers in the wind. Sleepless nights. Long, silent climbs. But those are part of it. You don’t get the full picture without them.

Here’s what we believe: the first freedom you ever get as a kid is riding your bike. That joy—that sense of control and possibility and independence—sticks with you, even if you forget for a while.

Doing a trip like this brings it all back.

A bike isn’t just transport. It’s a vessel for experience. A way to move through the world at a human pace. A way to see more, feel more, carry less. It’s hard, yes. But it’s real. And in a world full of shortcuts and comfort, sometimes choosing the long way around is the most meaningful thing you can do.

Final Notes from the Edge

The Hebrides left their mark on us. Not just in the photos we took or the waves we surfed, but in the way they reminded us what it means to go. To try. To keep moving when it would be easier to stop.

We came for surf. We left with something else entirely.

Wild memories. Windburnt faces. A deeper respect for this rugged edge of Scotland. And a quiet, lasting sense of freedom that comes from doing things the hard way—and loving them anyway.

Facts:

10 days

Route: Barra to North Lewis

Film & edit: Adam Gairns (@honesttoast) & Henna Palosaari (@hennapalosaari)

Words and photos by Adam Gairns & Henna Palosaari