“THERE’S NO GOING BACK.” It isn’t clear which one of us my friend Jamie is trying to encourage. But if ever there was a time for second thoughts, shivering on the Wemyss Bay quayside dressed in spandex seems to demand them.

The seaside Scottish village is the point of departure for what we both hope will be a memorable journey cycling across lochs and islands, stopping for nothing but whims and whisky. As the ferry loosens its lines and the diesel engines fire up, though, the scale of the challenge finally hits me: I’ve traveled these roads plenty of times before, but never with nothing but my legs to power me.

It shouldn’t have surprised me that it was monumental; I’d come up with the idea last year while watching the Tour de France. As whippet-thin riders climbed Mt. Ventoux, a pang of jealousy struck. This was proper cycling, unlike my daily smog-filled commute across London. Jamie, an Edinburgh native and fellow cycling nut, liked the idea. But, he pointed out, another option lay closer to home: his sister’s hotel on Jura.

The remote island, part of Scotland’s Inner Hebrides archipelago, is famous for its sweet whisky and inspiring George Orwell. It sits off the country’s west coast, which looks like it was made for tour cycling, with hundreds of kilometers of quiet roads snaking around seemingly endless waterways and islands, offering spectacular views, bracing sea air and a fair share of climbs and descents to set the heart racing.

Almost a year to the day that we hatched our plan, here we are, two blokes with heavily laden bikes on a half-empty ferry. Disembarking at Rothesay, we’re away. I feel utterly free, gliding along, breathing in the sea air, bleating back at the sheep.