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.