Day 12 - Cup Final Day

From: Golspie
To: John O’Groats
Miles today: 69
Miles – running total: 940


Not only is it Cup Final Day, but we are playing in the final and the opposition is looking rather poor. But before the detail of the day’s riding, which I’m sure you are itching to get to, a brief reprise on the accommodation front. Last night’s venue, the Sutherland Arms looked attractive enough from the outside but the inside left a lot to be desired. This was fine for one night but we were meant to be returning triumphant to the same place after completing our journey. A plan was hatched and after a brief falling out with the hotelier, we used their wi-fi network to find a more suitable venue.

Fed up with country lanes, just want to get there.

With no travelling to do from hotel to start point, we were away bright and early at 8.30 having given Alastair one last revision of how the gears worked. We worked north still on the trusty A9 through Brora after six miles. Today could have played out in two ways – a leisurely bimble up the coast enjoying the atmosphere of our last day or heads down and let’s give it one more blast. It wasn’t discussed but the change of the wind direction in our favour made the decision for us and once the legs were warmed up we were off at pace. In the first hour we covered all but 16 miles, stopping briefly to refuel in Helmsdale at the foot of our first climb. This proved to be long and slow, made us work but was not too demanding. We thought we had got away with it and the pace picked up again. We were now storming along, a lot of the time breaking the 20mph barrier on the flat (care of that tail wind). Six more miles on and we hit the Berriedale Braes. We had been running along the coast relatively high up, suddenly we descended into a steep valley and at the bottom were faced with a vertiginous climb back out the other side. This was an out of the saddle job for much of the way up, another cyclist wishing us well having stopped on the first bend and waving us through. Stephen showed us a clean pair of heels and by the time we re-grouped at the top, none of us could recall having had to work harder.

We were eating up the miles now and with the Braes behind us picked up the pace again stopping for another break 16 miles south of Wick, the final proper town before John O’Groats. The terrain was undulating and with Stephen leading the way we rode in a tight formation sustaining a speed that we had not previously got near. We were flying. By my calculations we covered those 16 miles in circa 40 minutes. This was the most enjoyable part of the ride to date.

Andrew had driven ahead and found an attractive fish restaurant in Wick and we arrived shortly after midday for an early lunch of crab salad, pear ice cream and coffee. One more effort was required. That last stint was going to be between 17 and 20 miles. Off we went again and once again Stephen was up front breaking wind for the final time. We covered ten miles in 30 minutes before allowing ourselves a wee stop. Seven or eight to go but it started getting hilly again and now the legs were beginning to tire. The landscape around us had suddenly become more desolate, farmland turning to moorland covered in rocks and heather. One final incline and there the village of John O’Groats lay before us. We cruised that last half mile, with video camera on to capture the moment of passing the village sign, then on another mile down to the port and the much prized signpost confirming our arrival.

The finishing line (and not before time)

Done and dusted. We were exhausted and elated. Andrew presented us with a bottle of the fizzy stuff. We did photos, bought tacky souvenirs and repaired to a café to celebrate.

It’s a long way from Land’s End to John O’Groats. It’s more the monotony that gets you down than the physical tiredness. In fact Stephen, having led most of the day, not only went for a run when we got to the hotel but got in a race with a teenager and beat him. The man has no limits or concept of age.

Anyone got any bottom cream?

Before I sign off a few thanks are due. Our drivers Simon and Andrew have both been superb and have given up their time to help, support and pander to our every need. Well, almost every need. Nick’s friends Nicky and Chris lent us their bike rack, which has been much used. Alastair’s parents-in-law, Shirley and Bryn showed us great hospitality in Wales. Our wives deserve thanks for indulging us in this trip, left behind to mind demanding children and pets (especially young un-house-trained puppies). The list could go on but finally thank you to all those of you who have taken the trouble to read this blog. In particular thanks to those who sent messages of encouragement, primarily Alison, Mandy (aka Wendy) and Brian. The technology has not allowed me to reply even though I told it that it should. It is very naughty technology.

It has been an adventure. In almost two weeks there has not been a cross word between us. And not a drop of rain has fallen on us, how lucky is that? There have been aches and pains – Alastair’s shoulder has played up from start to finish; Nick had a problem with ‘Jim’ (the character Jim Royall of “ My arse” fame – go figure); I’ve had a cold and even Stephen had a stiff knee for the first few days – at least I think it was his knee. Over the course of 12 days, Nick’s on-bike computer has informed him that we have burnt up more than 25,000 calories each. This is great news except for the fact my waistline indicates I have consumed about 35,000. My new car bumper sticker will read, “Cycle 940 miles and put on weight – ask me how”.

I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but would I do it again? You’ve got to be joking it was a pain in the backside!

So, mission accomplished, London. We’re coming home.

WE WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE ANY DONATIONS, HOWEVER SMALL TO SUPPORT THE CAUSES WE UNDERTOOK THIS CYCLE ON BEHALF OF. PLEASE SIMPLY CLICK ON - http://www.justgiving.co.uk/Tim-Nightingale/

PS Racing bike for sale: Hardly used, one careful owner.

Day 11 - Almost the end of end to end

From: Fort Augustus
To: Golspie
Miles today: 85
Miles – running total: 871

I start tonight with an apology to Mandy, whom I mistakenly renamed as ‘Wendy’ in last night’s missive. We have few enough readers without me offending those that we do have by getting their names wrong. My top tip for remembering people’s names is to find something that rhymes with it. Works every time. Well, almost every time.

I left you in suspense last night as it was all about to kick off at the Whitebridge Hotel. Four skinny middle aged (push) bikers against the Hairy Harley Chapter on their UK tour. I thought things were going to go pear-shaped when Stephen opined rather loudly in the bar that anyone over the age of 30 with a ponytail, arm to arm tattoos and a girth exceeding 40”, should be imprisoned without trial and confined on an indefinite basis. Fortunately our bearded biker brethren were too taken up with their plans for the following day, which involved going on a steam train from Fort William, which when not chuffing around the Highlands is the Hogwart’s Express of Harry Potter fame.







Loch Ness



The day dawned bright and sunny and stayed that way all day long. We reached our starting point at the foot of Loch Ness and followed along its entire length before pressing on for Inverness. I am ignorant of the meaning or significance of “Inver” but there are an awful lot of them around here. We have been through Inverbeg, Invergarry, Invergordon, Inverness and, for all I know, Inverjimmy.

Another day, another bridge, this time at Inverness

We cruised into Inverness a little after midday, passing through en route to the A9, the main road going north and east. Our journey over the last 24 hours has gone from the west coast to the east, in a north easterly direction. We climbed out of Inverness for quite a while, initially along some country roads masquerading as cycle lanes. The climb was rewarded with a very long stretch of gentle downhill, allowing us to pick up speeds of 25mph+. Nick was leading and as we swept down the hill to the Cromaty Firth and the bridge crossing it, a sign came up that we had been waiting 11 days to see. It said “John O’Groats 111 miles”. Our momentum was such that we couldn’t stop for photographs, but we knew the end was in sight.



Bridge over the Cromaty Firth

Lunch awaited in a fine restaurant, by our rather low standards. Sitting beside the bay we were able to watch seals cavorting in the water and sunning themselves on rocks. If only we could have done the same.

The afternoon brought with it 36 miles of mostly flat terrain. And normally we might have laughed in the face of such a meagre number of miles but the combination of sore bottoms and at times a goodly head wind meant we had our work cut out. We started stopping after every half hour for bottom relief. The road dragged on interminably as we now headed up the east coast. It was sunny, the scenery was fine and yet we were near enough to the end to want it to be the end.

We pulled in to Gospie at getting on for 6pm. The final five miles had not so much been a late charge as the evening rush hour. We had a wonderful downhill section about five miles out, with sweeping curves and a velvet smooth surface. By the time we hit the flat we were speeding along at 20mph and sustained the pace into and through Gospie, hoping to trigger the electronic “Slow down” sign.

This was Alastair’s day. The whole trip he has been wanting to lead but we have had to restrict him for fear of getting lost. To say Alastair lacks a sense of direction is an understatement of incalculable proportions. Only last night in the hotel, while I was typing this very blog in our shared room, I heard this plaintiff voice somewhere in the hallway, calling my name. Alastair was lost, forgotten our room number and had knocked on two other doors already. But today, north of Inverness we got on the A9 and stayed there for the rest of the day. We pointed him in the right direction and let him loose.

So after all the bottom aching miles, we have one day left. We are following the coast road all the way to John O’Groats. We have only found out this evening that 25 miles in there is a 1:3 climb that is not to be taken lightly. It is steep enough that there are run off lanes for lorries. It’s not good news but somehow I think we relish the challenge. We have circa 72 more miles to do. And one major hill. There is not much at John O’Groats to mark our arrival, no brass band, no dancing girls, no ceremony just the satisfaction of knowing we did it. “A demain” as they say in Spain.

Day 10 - Real men eat mountains

From: Lanark
To: Inverarnan
Miles today: 90
Miles – running total: 786


Another day, another eternity in the saddle and no porridge or brown bread for breakfast. You’d think if you could get porridge anywhere, it would be here in Scotland where it is supposedly a national dish up their with other culinary delicacies like haggis and mince and tatties.

We climbed on board with slightly heavy hearts and headed up the hill. This was going to be our main day in the Highlands. The cloud was heavy and the hills shrouded in mist. We got into a steady rhythm and with a reasonably gentle incline soon found ourselves in the village of Tyndrum, which had a certain Canadian village in the middle of nowhere feel about it.

After Tyndrum there was more climbing followed by a long flat section through the valley, a meandering river off to our right. Along this stretch we came across our largest roadkill to date, a red deer, the first of two we saw by the side of the road. Another climb out of the valley pushed us a little harder, but the chill from the lack of sunshine meant we were glad of the warmth from the higher work rate. By now we were reasonably high and officially in the Highlands, as confirmed by the road sign. We skimmed across Rannoch Moor, apparently the largest wilderness in the UK and what a desolate place it was. Small ponds of water were all about, with a mass of dead tree roots which, I am reliably informed, date from thousands of years ago.

Caption competition: What is Alastair saying? (Answers in comments, please)

We ploughed on and suddenly the hills turned to mountains. We passed by Glencoe ski resort, which is not exactly Zermatt or Verbier. The roads were long straight and mostly flat. Our days are fairly pressed given the mileage and today would be the highest yet. As it is we have refuelling breaks, lunch breaks, puncture stops, wee stops and occasionally mid afternoon onwards bottom stops. There is therefore a paucity of time and while the scenery was again spectacular, I didn’t feel I could halt progress for the sake of another snap. I have therefore had to become adept at retrieving my camera from pocket on my back, getting it out of its case, switching it on and setting up the shot whilst still pedalling. This is a fairly precarious process since it requires two hands. I then have to move out to the middle of the road in order to get the other three guys in the shot. This is not something Health & Safety would endorse, nor something I would advise trying at home - especially if you live in London. At one point on this straight road today, a female passenger in an on-coming vehicle put her hands over her eyes as I fiddled with the camera. One has to suffer for one’s art.

There is a benefit to all this climbing and the descent down to Glencoe (the village rather than the resort) was taken at a modest 25mph although we could have tanked it at 40mph had our conservative other selves got the better of us. The run down was great and I only regret that I didn’t video it.

Back in the valley and Fort William was our next target, 14 miles away. The prospect of lunch at Morrisons, the supermarket, was enough to spur us on and less than an hour later we were queuing up for a wide selection of food, all of which had been fried. None of us had had the benefit of eating at Morrisons before and what a treat it proved to be, so much so that Stephen planned to text Mandy, his PA, to see if there was one in the City that he could take clients to for lunch, while Alastair thought it might be a cost effective venue for his private equity firm’s Christmas lunch. I would have followed suit had my own firm not suffered the misfortune of already having booked the Bleeding Heart.

We consumed our chips or mince and tatties in the lee of Ben Nevis, Britain’s highest mountain. Only 31 miles to do after lunch and we got back on board and headed for Fort Augustus, our target for the day. Along the way there were more lochs, more mountain streams, more local wildlife, some of it still alive and a total absence of sun. No matter, it didn’t rain. We still have had not a drop. The odds on getting from Land’s End to the middle of the Highlands on bikes over ten days and not being rained on must be about as likely as Labour winning the next election or England winning the World Cup. Or both. On the same day.

Exciting news on the puncture front. We thought we had a puncture free day yesterday but alas no. This morning Nick’s tyre was flat, which counted as a puncture. Then he had another flat in the hills and this evening another rear puncture. He is now uncontested leader:


Nick 5
Tim 3
Stephen 2
Alastair 0

Quite how Alastair has escaped beggars belief and is certainly no result of his cycle craft. Tonight I have to report that we are sharing our hotel with a group of Harley Davidson bikers. There are eight of them and five of us, but Stephen is still insisting that we can “take them”. I have my doubts since in weight alone each of them seems to weigh twice as much as us. And that’s just the women in the group. For the result of this showdown of the bikers, don’t miss tomorrow’s exciting penultimate instalment. We’re getting close, only 160 miles to go.

Day 9 - Through Glasgie, with love

From: Lanark
To: Inverarnan
Miles today: 80
Miles – running total: 696

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Last night’s accommodation was fairly sparse but adequate for our needs. What it lacked in luxury, it compensated for by the friendliness of all the staff we met. It seems the friendliness thing extends beyond the border.

Disappointingly, there was no porridge. And brown bread seems to be a product that is exclusively sold in the south east. We’ve almost given up asking for it. I tried again this morning but in vain. In one establishment along the route where we asked if they had any brown bread for our toast, the waitress said,
“Well, it’ll be brown when it comes out the toaster.”

And clearly some of our party’s sophisticated London tastes are occasionally frowned upon in the regions, to wit:
Waitress: Would you like tea or coffee this morning with your breakfast?
Alastair: Can I have a skinny latte, easy on the foam?
Waitress: Would you like tea or coffee this morning with your breakfast?

I awoke to positive and negative thoughts. We have only four more days and are two thirds through. On the downside we still have to cover a distance equivalent to cycling to Leeds from London and most of the way back.

This particular morning started cloudy, windy and cold. Cold enough that we all needed to wear our rain jackets all morning. We were 25 miles outside Glasgow, our first port of call. The ride in through various satellite towns and suburbs was largely uneventful, flatish and lacking greatly in aesthetic appeal. It did nothing to lift our spirits.

A local health food restaurant:

Once in Glasgow itself we took our mid-morning break in the less than salubrious surroundings of a Morrisons car park. We purchased the goods needed for a makeshift lunch on the move (picnic would be to overstate the matter) and then went ‘off piste’ following a cycle path beside the Clyde all the way into the City and out the other side. Nick’s research had established that this had been renovated relatively recently and the prospect of a gentle cruise beside the Clyde was an appealing one. The reality did not quite live up to expectations as the path was intermittently covered in broken glass, as one of our party described it “confirming all our worst prejudices”. Further confirmation was found, if needed, by the occasional group of men standing around, merrily passing the time of day having had one or more Bacardi Breezers too many. For the most part they waved us through in good humour, although discerning what they were saying was beyond us. One took a more aggressive position, which we thought might be down to our appearance being not dissimilar to Policemen on bikes i.e. luminous green jackets with blue helmets.

The centre of Glasgow, or the bits that we saw adjacent to the river, were modern and bright. It is certainly a modern city with plenty of interesting modern architecture, but the broken bottles and scattered shopping trolleys on the cycle path suggested there are still underlying problems as indeed there are in so many other cities.

We lunched late directly under the Erskine Bridge, overlooking a canal, in what was now bright, warm sunshine. Still 40 miles to go. A further blast along the cycle path beside the canal, then on to the roads before an afternoon break. 27 to go. We now picked up Loch Lomond on our right and followed it from bottom to top, soaking up the miles on some excellent road surfaces, punctuated by stretches of appalling quality surfaces. It’s feast or famine up here.

The sun while now sinking in the sky as we sped on to the infamous Drovers’ Inn, a hostelry marking the gateway to the Highlands and renowned for its outdoorsy clientele. We pulled into the car park at 5.30 on the dot, a long but not too demanding day with almost no hill work to speak of.

By Loch Lomond

Something for the morning

By contrast we start tomorrow morning with the longest climb on the whole trip. I am assured that it is not too steep, but that it will test our strength and stamina with an estimated duration of an hour and a half. It’s all fun, fun, fun.

Day 8 - Sassenach invasion of “The North”

From: Carlisle
To: Lanark
Miles today: 75
Miles – running total: 616

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There is an element of Groundhog day each morning as we face up to another eight hours in the saddle. It was a week ago this morning that we set off from Land’s End and while everything has pretty much gone to plan and we are undoubtedly making good progress, we are weary from our efforts and rather saddle sore. Last night we were so tired we got through dinner and a couple of bottles of wine but could not see out Match of the Day, which is never a good sign.

Sunday morning it may have been but we left our accommodation good and early after lashings of porridge and a top up of toast. We got on the bikes at 9.20 and sauntered through Carlisle on our way to the border. In all our travels through the north of England, I never once saw a sign that mentioned Scotland. Even when we were but a few miles from the border, the signs just read “The North”. This is the sort of thing you expect to see on the M1 at Watford, but what’s wrong with mentioning Scotland? And now, even while we’re well into Scotland, we’re still getting the same signs saying “The North”, presumably meaning the north of Scotland. Perhaps that one at Watford means the north of Hertfordshire.

After a couple of hours we finally arrived at the border. This was a joyous affair for us despite the rather lack lustre road sign announcing the fact. We were in Gretna Green, with the house on the opposite side from the sign declaring itself to be the first house in Scotland and the scene of 10,000 wedding ceremonies. We wondered out loud how many of those subsequently became divorces. The consensus was around the 9,500 mark.

Photographs taken and mid morning snacks consumed we went on our way. It was cloudy and cool. Rain threatened but never came. We couldn’t have complained if it had; lots of people do exactly what we’re doing and we doubt that very many will have cycled the length of England without a drop of rain falling about them.

We pressed on along flat roads with good surfaces for the most part, although not that good as Nick managed to pick up two punctures and now sits just one behind me on the leader board. We passed through Fleming Kirkpatrick which claims to be home to the very cave in which Robert the Bruce made some Attenborough-esque observiations of arachnid behaviour patterns. We by-passed Lockerbie and went on to Johnstonbridge for lunch, stopping at a motorway service station that we could access from our A-road.

The day turned out to be one of two halves: flat in the morning and gently hilly in the afternoon. These Scots are canny and minimised the strain of hill climbing by engineering only the slightest angle of ascent. They went on for miles and miles but their gentle nature made them a pleasure to ride up. They thoughtfully provided a cycle path, which in part was silky smooth and in part rather rough and pitted. They also very considerately provided a parallel motorway, which 99% of the traffic chose to use. We had the road to ourselves save for the odd motorcyclist using this empty space as a test track.

The afternoon passed with only the minor incident of us all simultaneously suffering from tired, numb, sore and chafed bottoms. Or other delicate areas in the immediate vicinity. This led to a number of bottom stops. Up until now we have been fortunate not to suffer more than we have. Whether our backsides have collectively had enough, remains to be seen.

After prolonged rollercoasting with a backdrop of the Southern Uplands, we were met at the appointed junction by head of logistics #2, who transported us back to tonight’s accommodation. I won’t go into too much detail, suffice it to say it is part of a stables.

Tomorrow we head down the road into Glasgow, where we’ll try to pick up the cycle path beside the Clyde. Four more days to go and my bottom can’t wait for it to be over.

Day 7 - Over the hill

From: South of Lancaster
To: Carlisle
Miles today: 76
Miles – running total: 541

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The flatlands of the past two days had lulled us into a false sense of security. Today the hills came back and took their toll. We are feeling wrecked tonight.

We headed into Lancaster, through its streets and out the other side, starting to climb almost immediately. In theory today was all about skirting up between the Lake District to the west and the Yorkshire Dales to the east. In reality we engaged with both. Our initial climb took us back into beautiful countryside which we had missed in the second half of yesterday, travelling through various urban conurbations. The road before rose and dipped and we ate up the miles enjoying spectacular scenery. We stopped mid morning at Kirkby (the second ‘k’ is silent) Lonsdale. We pulled up in a car park next to a delightful river (see photo left) and munched our snacks overlooking the rushing water.

Onward again we moved deeper into the countryside, finding some more hills to climb having already left Lancashire behind us and moving briefly into Cumbria before dipping east into Yorkshire and the Yorkshire Dales national park. We had been dreading the afternoon as we knew we were facing a five mile climb to somewhere called Shap on the top of the Dales. In reality the climb up to Orton that preceded it was far worse than Shap itself. Lunch in Orton was marked by a street market and unbelievably warm temperatures. I would wager this was the hottest day of the year in Orton.

Back on the bikes, up the moor and down the other side to Shap. From here we aimed for Penrith, moving seamlessly from the Dales to the northern tip of the Lake District. We arrived in Penrith late afternoon and tiring. It was still warm. One more step of circa 15 miles to Carlisle lay ahead, how difficult could it be? One A-road and a rollercoaster from start to finish with some inclines are fatigued legs could have done without. We nevertheless had our, by now normal, late afternoon charge and sped along as best our legs would let us. By the time we found Andrew we were a spent force.

In the course of the day we managed to pick up two punctures, one for Stephen (he now has two to his credit and is catching me up) and Nick had his first. Only Alastair remains puncture free. Our puncture repair process has become a slick operation with everyone now knowing their role in order to expedite matters.

And that is just about England done. Tomorrow we cross the border into Scotland. It is by no means a done deal. Not only do the hills of the southern lowlands lie ahead but the very real mountains of the Highlands. We still have 80 miles a day to crank out and we still have rather more than a third of the distance remaining. Scotland has few people but lots of space.

Day 6 - Lost in Lancashire (or was it Cheshire?)

From: Nantwich (north of)
To: South of Lancaster
Miles today: 86
Miles – running total: 465


The north/south divide is very much in evidence on this trip. And since most of you reading this monologue will be from the south, I have bad news: the north is a great deal friendlier than the south. The service we received in Cornwall and Devon was poor and often a good deal less than friendly. And yet, as we move north more and more people greet us at traffic lights, proactively asking where we’ve come from and where we’re going. Admittedly the average age of these people is also north of the retirement age. But last night’s landlord and chef engaged us over breakfast on how he butchers and ages his steaks. Not exactly scintillating, but at least he made the effort. Those from the south barely gave us the time of day.


Of course there are language and cultural sensitivities one has to be aware of. As we moved through Cheshire and into Lancashire we found that greeting people we were asking directions from with a cheery “Good morning my good fellow, would you be kind enough to point us in the direction of…” didn’t wash. In Lancashire, they may be friendly but they minimise their salutation to a perfunctory “Ye-awright?” The response to this is not an explanation of your current state of being, but simply a reflective “Ye-awright?” back at them. Once we learnt this straight forward lesson we were equipped to communicate far more effectively.

Good news on the puncture front, - someone else got one. Stephen had his first puncture today. The picture below shows Alastair and I repairing it. Alastair's the one pumping hard, while I manfully grip the rubber. Several motorists hooted while all this was going on and for the life of me I can't think why.Today was an important day. It was our sixth day of pedalling and thus marks the half way point on our 12 day schedule. It was always going to be the longest day in terms of mileage to date, but in fact due to our own incompetence we added a further five miles to the total as a result of getting lost in the morning. It wasn’t all bad. Once we realised we’d gone wrong, we risked all and tried to cut across country through the lanes to make good our mistake. In the course of this diversion we came across the chocolate box village of Great Budworth. There’s not a lot there but what there is rather fetching. We liked it so much we all agreed we'd go back some time, but not ten minutes later as it turned out when we realised we had gone wrong in our attempt to put right our earlier going wrong.

It was that sort of day. Early on, Nick (Chief Navigator) had even managed to take us off roading. It was also changeover day on the Head of Transport, Logistics and Procurement front. Our trusty Man Friday, Simon (see left), morphed Dr. Who style into Andrew (see right). We left Simon at lunch and met Andrew for tea.

On the pedalling front the Indian summer continued and we took full advantage. We moved into Lancashire and with it lost some of the rural idyll we have enjoyed for the last six days. We’ve been through a few towns today from Northwich to Leigh and Standing. We’ve skirted Wigan and been through the centre of Preston. For the most part what it lacked in aesthetic appeal it more than made up for in being relatively flat. We made hay and whacked along at a good pace. At one point this afternoon, proceeding in full flight formation we overtook another cyclist on a hybrid bike. He was not pleased and immediately put his head down and came after us. Stephen, on point, put the pedal down and off we went, duty bound not to stop before our pursuer had given up. By the time he did so we’d racked up the pace to 20mph and we already had 77 miles in the legs that day. There is only one conclusion: We are getting fitter and are better able to cope. Today was longer than any other but we felt in much better form at the end of it than we have on many of the others.

So as we move into the second half our mission, we have gone beyond both Manchester and Liverpool. Just as well that we’re getting stronger with the edges of the Lake District coming up tomorrow and Scotland only just round the corner.

Day 5 - Steaming north

From: Ludlow
To: Nantwich (north of)
Miles today: 78
Miles – running total: 379

There is a chill in the air as we set off at circa 9a.m. each morning, but the sun is rising and warms us up soon enough. Today has seen our best weather to date. It was in many ways the perfect day. Well, not quite perfect because it wasn’t all downhill and it still hurt. As Stephen observed in the late afternoon at our final break, “There is no easy way to cycle 80 miles a day”.

Aches and pains aside we have been through some beautiful countryside today, crusing through Shropshire from bottom to top, passing by Telford, going round the outskirts of Ironbridge (where we faced a significant climb). What made the scenery better was the fact that for the most part it was not very hilly. It rolled rather than rose up. I may moan about hills, but actually we have come to accept them. They demand much more effort, they hurt our legs, the lactic acid burns on the steepest, but most of the time we work up them slowly, each at his own pace and then re-group at the top.

Today was more about grinding out the miles. One tries to enjoy the scenery around and indeed we were treated to large fields on gentle hills, crops still being brought in, tractors trailing their loads and some big skies. But for all that I have to admit the focus, necessarily, is on the bottom in front. You need to keep it close in order to minimise the amount of effort you have to put in; but too close. You have to anticipate what they’re going to do – will they move out suddenly for a drain cover, go hell for leather down the hill etc. Look at it any which way but it all boils down to looking at a man’s bottom for six plus hours a day. To their credit all my fellow cyclists have shapely bottoms but this doesn’t help. I have tried NLP and other techniques to deceive myself into believing I am actually only three feet away from Rebecca Romero’s bottom (who tried and failed to complete the Land’s End / John O’Groats route last month). None works. Stephen’s bottom is Stephen’s bottom and not very entertaining as a result.

Another thought occurs to me. If you are really into environmentalism, then surely it is only sensible to pick up and take home roadkill for the pot. We have seen plenty. The rabbits are endless; pheasants are plentiful; squirrels abound; hedgehogs hardly rare; the odd fox, a couple of badgers and even what I think may have been a mink. Some I am sure would make for very good eating, the badgers and the mink would make for a very good hat and gloves. Clearly there is a social stigma here that we should try to overcome in the interests of the ultimate in recycling.

I had hoped to enhance your enjoyment with a video of the team cycling together, taken from on board the bike, going down a hill at a good clip. This feat of derring-do to rival anything that Ski Sunday has to offer, unfortunately runs to so many megabytes it is impossible to upload. I can hear a collective sigh if disappointment even from up here in Cheshire. Here's a photo instead, also taken on the move.

And on that thought, dear reader, I shall leave you, just as today we have left the Midlands and moved into the north. Tomorrow we progress up through the mill towns of Lancashire, threading our way between Manchester and Liverpool. The countryside is due to give way to a more built up environment. Can’t go over it, can’t go under it, will have to go through it.

Day 4 - Five counties, three bridges and a puncture

From: Bristol
To: Ludlow
Miles today: 80
Miles – running total: 301


We started our in Bris’ol, at Clifton suspension bridge where we had finished the night before. Clearly this classic Brunel structure merited a team photo and while were lining up a woman about to cycle across the bridge and called out,
“Excuse me, are you cycling to John O’Groats?”
“Yes” we replied
“I thought so, because I overtook you on Sunday in Cornwall near Land’s End. Good luck.”
And with that she was on her way. We were all puffed up to have been recognised.

We crossed through the northern edge of Bristol, across the downs, through the ‘burbs and edged our way out to the old Severn Bridge by mid morning. Our second bridge of the day, where your correspondent enjoyed a dizzying bout of vertigo and the rest of the team enjoyed making helpful comments like “Is that the bridge moving?” and “It could collapse at any moment”.

Thus we dipped into Wales and Monmothshire, our second county of the morning and had a mid-morning stop in Chepstow, before crossing the Wye with the backdrop of its Castle sitting about cliffs overlooking the river and back into England and the new county of Gloucestershire. Now we were back in the countryside, but this was only the start of our cross-county journey. We struggled up a never ending incline out of Chepstow and went on our way to Ross-on-Wye. Somewhere along the way we passed the Forest of Dean and into Herefordshire. Next stop Hereford.

This was another long day and not having set out until 9.30 because of the drive to the start point from our evening in Wales, it was never going to be an early finish. We were also moving into areas of the country that none of us was familiar with. Ross was an attractive market town, set on the side of a hill with plenty of history. We lunched here consuming the by now normal excess of calories. I’d swear that four days into this exhausting trip I have put on weight while my teammates are visibly shrinking away before my eyes. It was now 2.30pm and we had a long afternoon ahead of 40 some miles.

Hereford was a 15 mile stretch from Ross but included to start a delightful bimble along a deserted country lane running beside the Wye. Cycling up the Wye Valley, once again bathed in warm early autumn sunshine, it was almost good enough to forget all the aches and pains – Alastair’s bum and shoulder, my shoulder, Nick’s groin. Stephen was having a good day, although no doubt something or rather ached and hurt at some point.

We picked up the pace as we rushed towards Hereford, anxious for a break and conscious that we had a long way to go with the threat of receding daylight hanging over us. Perhaps for the first time we really began to work as a team, ‘drafting’ or cycling in close succession, one person ‘breaking wind’ at the front for a mile or two before the person behind moved to take over and so on.

We bowled into Hereford at circa 4pm with Alastair issuing directions to the cathedral as he had been there before. Just because Alastair has been somewhere before this is far from a good rationale for following him. Still, with the help of some school girls, we found the cathedral and with it Simon our driver and head of shopping. More calories were consumed and water bottles refilled. Still 25 miles to go.

With the day running away from us we took a tactical decision to cycle the next stage to Leominster on the A49 rather than the back roads to save some time. We ploughed on, pushed the pace up to 17 or 18mph on the flat until we hit another major climb. By the time we reached the top, fatigue really was starting to creep in so we eased back on the pace and cycled peleton like through Leominster and on to Ludlow. Five miles from our destination I picked up another puncture. Even the most statistically challenged among you may be able to detect a certain pattern to our puncture table:

Puncture stats:

Alastair 0
Nick 0
Stephen 0
Tim 4

We finally rolled into the rather lovely town of Ludow, still on the Wye at some time approaching 6.30pm.

A really very nice pub; beers in another pub, a visit from our friend Keith who had driven over from Derbyshire; England beating Croatia on the box to qualify for next year’s World Cup and a very decent curry made the perfect end to another tiring day.

Finally, we have moved out of the south of England. Tomorrow we hit the Midlands as we move north. It is hard and very slow going, but gradually, ever so gradually our trip is beginning to feel like our own little mini Tour de Grande Bretagne.

Day 3 - On the level

From: Thorverton
To: Bristol
Miles - today: 83
Miles - Running total: 221
Local tipple: N/A

Fare thee well Devon and Cornwall. Hail Somerset. We love your ‘Levels’. We love your ‘Marches’. We love the warm sunshine, gentle breezes and the opportunity to eat up a few miles. Cornwall may boast the most rugged coast and dramatic tors and around every corner in Devon there are hills clad in oak, with fields below carved up by hedgerows, villages in between and distant church spires. In fact around every turn is a view that looks like something out of a butter advertisement. But Jeez it’s hard work for a bunch of old farts on bikes.

We left our pub this morning, secure in the knowledge that there would fewer hills today, although we had a greater distance to cycle. Soon enough we hit our first wave of hills and the lactic acid in our legs reminded us that this was the third day and fatigue had set in.

We upped and down, went along and pedalled hard. Finally, we came to the Blackdown Hills. We started climbing. It may not have as steep as Devon but it was probably longer. By the time we hit the top we were craving flatter ground, but the lanes were confusing and our muddled middle aged brains led us to make a wrong turn and cycle a mile downhill in the wrong direction. God that’s annoying. We turned round, cycled back uphill again and then stayed along the ridge which marked the border between Devon and Somerset.

Soon after I got my second puncture. We changed the inner tube, continued on our way and then I got another one. Punctures are likes buses, you cycle across Cornwall, most of Devon and then get three in a row. This delayed us but we pressed on determined to get to Wedlock for lunch. As we came down off the Blackdown Hills we hit the Somerset Levels, an area of flat ground. Oh the joy. We sped along at 17mph, eating up the miles, until we hit another set of hills which we had to climb to get our lunch. By this time we were starving hungry and it was three in the afternoon. We were well behind schedule.

After eating an awful lot of food in a delicatessen, we set off once more headed for Bristol. Only 28 miles but we were running out of daylight. Our first port of call was Cheddar, which has its own set of mountains separating us from Bristol. With heavy hearts we started climbing and climbed and climbed. We were exhausted, but took it steady and made it to the top. From there we cycled down to Congresbury and on to Bristol. Before we got there another set of hills confronted us and when we realised what lay ahead, despair set in. Up we went again, grinding out another major ascent. Once we had peaked, we had an undulating ride into Clifton on the edge of Bristol. We found new energy from somewhere, we had another ten miles and not much light so it was heads down and hard pursuit cycling, racing the traffic, other cyclists and the onset of darkness. We arrived at the Clifton suspension bridge after 6pm, another eight hour day. Somerset is now behind us, tomorrow we head into Wales and then back into England. Another 80+ miles awaits and this is meant to be a holiday.

And for those wondering about the lack of tipple on the KPIs above, tonight instead of staying in some dodgy pub we are being sumptuously fed and accommodated at Alastair’s in-laws in Wales. So no local ale, just a bucket of red instead. I need my bed.

Day 2 - Lambs to the slaughter

From: Lostwithiel
To: Thorverton
Miles - today: 70
Miles - Running total: 138
Local tipple: Otter ale


The honeymoon is over. As we climbed on board this morning we knew we had the most challenging day of the whole trip ahead. We were headed across the last bit of Cornwall and on into Devon, finding a route cross country down tiny lanes, flanked on either side by the moors – Bodmin and Dartmoor.

In a jungle the person at the front breaks trail. Although it’s hardly the same, a similar role exists in cycling, so we have decided to call this 'breaking wind'. Rest assured we have all done our fair share of breaking wind today.

By mid morning we bid farewell to Cornwall, but the terrain didn’t get any easier and nor did the navigation. These country lanes have no name and no road number. Following a route even on the most detailed map is far more difficult than one might imagine, which necessitated a great number of stops to ensure we kept on track.

Eventually we escaped the lanes and hit a larger road as we headed towards Okehampton for our lunch stop. The road was a rollercoaster and the hills weren’t getting smaller. Dartmoor was immediately to our right on the other side of the valley. Five miles out from our lunch destination we started climbing. It wasn’t steep but it was endless. On and on we went, all increasingly exhausted and desperate for a break and some sustenance.

At the top we had briefly to join the speeding traffic of the A30 – a motorway to all intents and purposes masquerading as an A-road. Cars and trucks swerved around us at great speeds, while we ourselves were doing 30mph or more as we sped down hill. This may not seem much but is unnerving in the extreme, especially while being buzzed by traffic doing 80mph.

Okehampton and lunch finally arrived at 2.30p.m. The food was not so much consumed as inhaled. At 3.30pm we set off again, another climb out of the town and another 25 miles ahead of us. The navigation was easier than the morning and the terrain demanding but easier, especially with some prolonged downhill sections that seemed to run along the ridge. The miles flew by in spite of tired legs. With four miles to go and atop another major incline, we got our first puncture (or rather I got my first puncture). This changed, we went on our way, faced another two or three significant climbs and cruised into Thorverton after 6p.m. A long and hard day, but a very rewarding one. And the local Otter ale slipped down all the better for that.

Day 1 - 68 for starters

Route: Land’s End to Lostwithiel
Miles today: 68

“Today, we have mostly been cycling”. There was a frisson of excitement as we sped down to Land’s End and the starting line at 9.30a.m. Already there were cyclists coming the other way, presumably starting the same journey.

The windblown cliff top complete with wooden sign highlighting that John O’Groats is the best part of a thousand miles away has given way to a very second rate affair apologetically planted immediately outside the tackiest of developments imaginable. Land’s End has gone all faux Disney, but in a cheap and nasty way. Nevertheless we lined up for our photos. As we did so a gaggle of Geordies were unloading their bikes from a well organised van. A brief exchange, in spite of language difficulties, established that while we were planning the trip in 12 days averaging 80 miles a day, they were on a schedule of ten days and 100 miles a day. As we left you could almost hear them wishing us well while thinking we are a bunch of southern pansies. And let’s be honest, we are. Still, even the rock hard Geordies were all 50 and doing the trip to mark the event, just as we are.

We set off in quintessential Cornish conditions – wind howling, thick cloud moving swiftly and ominously across the skyline and seeking protective care of our luminous green rain jackets. Needless to say the Geordies were in t-shirts and worried about dealing with the heat. We gave Alastair a quick remedial lesson on how to use the gears and we were off, heading back to Penzance from whence we had just come. Our first wrong turn was in the car park, which doesn’t bode well for the trip as a whole, but thereafter we broadly kept to the Nick the routemaster’s detailed itinerary. Penzance came and went, the sun came out. We followed round the bay through Marazion with St Michael’s Mount looking glorious in the sunshine.

Our route is designed around B-roads wherever possible and so we headed into the lanes, flanked by hedgerows, rolling hills following one after the other and bowled merrily along until we got to Redruth for a mid morning break of bananas and an energy boosting mix of raisins, sunflower and pumpkin seeds and dried apricot.

On we went, now heading for Truro, getting slightly lost en route but detouring in the town to check out the cathedral. Out into the country again up a good sized pre-lunch hill and on to Ladock. A hostelry agreed to accept our business despite our matching blue cycling attire. A strange culinary combination of roast pork in a ciabatta type roll and dropped in gravy accompanied by a solitary roast potato may have been unconventional but it hit the spot, providing the ‘carbs’ we were craving. All washed down with a pint of lime and soda. Back on our trusty steeds and another 26 miles that took out towards Bodmin and St Austell before we finally found refuge in the Royal Oak in Lostwithiel.

Nick had promised that our first day would be relatively flat and so it proved to be. As flat as a pancake in fact if you’re Tibetan. But being southern pansies, it felt as if we put in a bit of vertical. Apparently, the vertical increases tomorrow to a significant degree. Joy.

And finally, a word on tonight’s accommodation. Having deposited bikes in the cellar we were greeted by the landlady, who seemed very interested in what we were doing, although she struggled to understand why we were walking all that way, or why indeed we needed helmets. The pub has run out of ale, possibly because she has drunk it all. We stayed for dinner where we were the only guests. Service was slow but then it must be difficult preparing six covers when you’re that pissed. The words “Fawlty” and “Towers” seem apt by way of summary.

Saturday 5th September - Penzance

Today has been taken up with travel. For me, going by train up to London complete with two weeks of kit and bike; meeting up with the others, packing the people carrier (aka the van) and driving down to Penzance. There are four of us plus Simon the driver. The humour was suitably boyish, the banter ranging from football to drunken mispent youths - ours, and back to football. The highlight was one of the bikes almost cutting adrift as we passed Bristol on the M4 and making an unsuccessful bid for freedom.

Six and a half hours after leaving London we cruised along Penzance's own answer to the Corniche. Amazingly it wasn't raining. Nor was it windy and when we took a pre-dinner stroll along the front, the sea was not only calm as a mill pond, but transparent, which means it can't qualify as proper English seaside where the water is necessarily the colour of tea to meet strict English Tourist Board quality guidelines.

Pints followed by plaice and chips. And then, only because of the bike ride, we indulged ourselves with pudding. Might this be the only ever attempt on the end to end where someone manages to put on weight?

Back to the hotel room. Our quintet is split between two rooms containing seven beds. This seemed a good idea on arrival just in case one of us got lucky, but strangley the sight of five middle aged gits in one corner of the Yacht Inn did not provide a lot in the way of prospects. No underwear thrown in our direction. Maybe tomorrow. But then again tomorrow we'll be too tired. And too old.

Tomorrow our journey starts and only now am I excited, even though I know it's going to be painful. It's like being excited about going to the dentist when you know he's run out of anathaesia.

Introduction - To boldly go...

Back in the spring of 2008 one of our number, who shall remain nameless, floated the idea of cycling from Land's End to John O'Groats. That's almost 1,000 miles (or possibly rather more if Alastair has anything to do with sorting the route). The three of us who hatched this cunning plan, didn't even have bikes much less any experience. A fourth member was drafted in, someone who had done some cycling and could provide advice. We are not cyclists, but we do like the idea of an adventure, getting up close and personal with parts of the British Isles we have not visited before. We also like going to the pub and curry and the opportunity to pursue these interests every night for two weeks doesn't happen along any too often.

This is going to be the story of that adventure. Four blokes, Alastair, Nick, Stephen and Tim with a combined age of 201 setting out to conquer Britain. Not a hint of a midlife crisis anywhere. Honest.

In order to focus our efforts we will be trying to raise some funds for charity, specifically for Macmillan Nurses and Glad's House (helping street children in Kenya). If you would like to know more about our chosen charities or make a donation in support, please visit: http://www.justgiving.com/Tim-Nightingale/

Thank you for your help.