Key stats: 93 miles; job done.
There was just one thing left to do: finish the 93 miles to Lands End from Okehampton. We set off into the morning mist over Bodmin Moor on the A30, our road of choice for the rest of the day, which would lead us direct to Lands End. Thanks to our drug of choice (ibuprofen) and our fuel of choice (clotted cream - no break was complete without lashings of Roddas finest), we powered through Cornwall, despite the best efforts of the Cornish drivers who contributed towards the top three most hairy moments.
The trip was summed up in the final 10 miles from Penzance to Lands End: we had driving wind and rain, rolling hills (Cornwall doesn’t let up to the bitter end) and a puncture (one mile from the end). However, this delay meant that when we arrived at the land’s end, the sun had come out in all its glory (pretty much the first time in England) and was setting over the Atlantic ocean for our arrival.
John o’Groats to Lands End: 5 guys, 927 miles, £20,000 (nearly!). Thank you for all your support. The End.
Sunday 4 April 2010
Friday 2 April 2010
Days 8 and 9
Key stats: 83 and 96 miles; current location: Okehampton, Devon
Another couple of attritional days. Day 7 took us south through Herefordshire (via the best sponge cake of the trip in a church hall in Madley), stopping for lunch in Monmouth where we were tipped off by the locals that weather should be clear for the rest of the afternoon and that the roll down the Wye Valley to the Severn Bridge would be nice and gentle. Foolishly, we believed them. They must have been cackling as we headed off into the biggest rainstorm of the trip, against the wind all the way down the Wye Valley until the Herculean climb out of the valley into Chepstow.
The Severn Bridge was a real highlight, riding along the access track next to the motorway, and gave a real sense that the end was close. Unfortunately, leaving the bridge took us into the industrial heart of Avonmouth, where Robin was able to have his daily run in with a Chav, exchanging pleasantries with what looked like a 12 year old driver of a Vauxhall Corsa.
We were given a real family welcome in Chelwood, from Bill and Pat Richards (and Murphy the dog). Pat was well prepared for our arrival and wowed us with the first pizza of the trip. Having been tipped off how much we were eating, she had taken the precaution of keeping a spaghetti bolognase in the side lines as contingency – which was very nearly finished, but Pat was one step ahead of us and whipped out an Irish fruit cake which even Will could only finish two slices of.
Stocked up with Pat’s hearty breakfast the following morning, we headed into the sheet rain through the Mendip hills. This was one of the low points of the trip – the rain was driving against and morale took a real battering. A puncture outside Glastonbury was the last thing we needed - Robin’s hands were so cold he could neither mend the puncture. James was concerned that this may mean that he may also not be able to hold his sambuca shot glass.
Fuelling up with watered down coke and Nutrigrain Elevensies we pushed on into Devon, only to find similarly gruelling hill sections, as ascents were not rewarded by hair-raising descents, as the prevailing wind often meant that we had to pedal hard to actually go down hill. Burdened with four more punctures, we limped into Okehampton after what has been physically our hardest day, to our hotel which was best described as a Butlins holiday camp. Having enjoyed a Jacuzzi and sauna, we headed to the dining room with grand plans to exploit the buffet to the max. However, we had mis-estimated the dining arrangements and Will was banished from the dining room for wearing shorts to dinner (Mrs. Tweed would be appalled, CD would be furious!).
This leaves us going to bed on the eve of the final day with one big question is on all our minds: will Will be allowed back into the dining room?
Another couple of attritional days. Day 7 took us south through Herefordshire (via the best sponge cake of the trip in a church hall in Madley), stopping for lunch in Monmouth where we were tipped off by the locals that weather should be clear for the rest of the afternoon and that the roll down the Wye Valley to the Severn Bridge would be nice and gentle. Foolishly, we believed them. They must have been cackling as we headed off into the biggest rainstorm of the trip, against the wind all the way down the Wye Valley until the Herculean climb out of the valley into Chepstow.
The Severn Bridge was a real highlight, riding along the access track next to the motorway, and gave a real sense that the end was close. Unfortunately, leaving the bridge took us into the industrial heart of Avonmouth, where Robin was able to have his daily run in with a Chav, exchanging pleasantries with what looked like a 12 year old driver of a Vauxhall Corsa.
We were given a real family welcome in Chelwood, from Bill and Pat Richards (and Murphy the dog). Pat was well prepared for our arrival and wowed us with the first pizza of the trip. Having been tipped off how much we were eating, she had taken the precaution of keeping a spaghetti bolognase in the side lines as contingency – which was very nearly finished, but Pat was one step ahead of us and whipped out an Irish fruit cake which even Will could only finish two slices of.
Stocked up with Pat’s hearty breakfast the following morning, we headed into the sheet rain through the Mendip hills. This was one of the low points of the trip – the rain was driving against and morale took a real battering. A puncture outside Glastonbury was the last thing we needed - Robin’s hands were so cold he could neither mend the puncture. James was concerned that this may mean that he may also not be able to hold his sambuca shot glass.
Fuelling up with watered down coke and Nutrigrain Elevensies we pushed on into Devon, only to find similarly gruelling hill sections, as ascents were not rewarded by hair-raising descents, as the prevailing wind often meant that we had to pedal hard to actually go down hill. Burdened with four more punctures, we limped into Okehampton after what has been physically our hardest day, to our hotel which was best described as a Butlins holiday camp. Having enjoyed a Jacuzzi and sauna, we headed to the dining room with grand plans to exploit the buffet to the max. However, we had mis-estimated the dining arrangements and Will was banished from the dining room for wearing shorts to dinner (Mrs. Tweed would be appalled, CD would be furious!).
This leaves us going to bed on the eve of the final day with one big question is on all our minds: will Will be allowed back into the dining room?
Day 7
Key stats: 78 miles, current location: The Mill, Staunton-on-Arrow, Ann Brisbane’s house
The morning got off to a slow start - we’d had snow, hail, and rain during breakfast and no-one wanted to leave the house. After an extremely long breakfast at Lucinda’s, we finally plucked up the courage to face the elements and actually managed to get into a good groove and had done close to 30 miles and were looking for our first break.
However, nothing could prepare us for the drama which was about to unfold. During one treacherous descent through the driving sleet, there was a sudden bang and a yelp from Will (the bang came from the bike), followed by Robin (a.k.a Murray Walker) dramatically exclaiming “Oh my god, it’s all over for Will, it’s all over!”. James and Tim turned, expecting to see Will careering into a ditch in a blaze of glory, were underwhelmed with the fact that Will’s rear tyre had blown and less than amused that we were a long walk to civilisation. There was only one thing for it, call in Bob in the support vehicle. Unfortunately, Dad was caught in a shopping outlet somewhere outside Chester and thus unable to reach us until we’d limped to the nearest village pub. It doesn’t happen like this on the Tour de France!
With the rain still driving outside the pub, it was evident that nerves were frayed. Murray Walker had morphed into Lloyd Grossman who was unjustly critical of the pub grub: the steak sandwiches had too many mushrooms in them, the French onion soup didn’t have enough onion in it, and the hot chocolate should have been renamed luke warm chocolate. The boys fed Robin with enough Dairy Milk to gag his culinary criticisms and get him back on the road.
This clearly worked, as we achieved over 50 miles non-stop through Shropshire and Herefordshire, which were relished and consumed by all like a good steak sandwich. Before we knew it, we’d scaled the infamous 1:4 climb between Castle Pulverbatch and Ratlinghope, unperturbed by their fearsome names, and descended into the heart of rural Herefordshire to Staunton-on-Arrow, the village where Mum grew up and Mum and Dad were married. Ann, Mum’s sister, lives in the village and is currently dog-sitting MacDuff (who, despite being 10, is still fast enough to catch a rat from the river Arrow, much to Dad’s delight).
It was here where our next challenge emerged: a mountain of ginger cake, lemon drizzle cake, hot cross buns, followed by spaghetti bolognase and a selection of four puddings and fruit salad. This is a challenge that we’ve grown familiar with. Lloyd was very satisfied with the quality and slept well.
Day 7
Key stats: 78 miles, current location: The Mill, Staunton-on-Arrow, Ann Brisbane’s house
The morning got off to a slow start - we’d had snow, hail, and rain during breakfast and no-one wanted to leave the house. After an extremely long breakfast at Lucinda’s, we finally plucked up the courage to face the elements and actually managed to get into a good groove and had done close to 30 miles and were looking for our first break.
However, nothing could prepare us for the drama which was about to unfold. During one treacherous descent through the driving sleet, there was a sudden bang and a yelp from Will (the bang came from the bike), followed by Robin (a.k.a Murray Walker) dramatically exclaiming “Oh my god, it’s all over for Will, it’s all over!”. James and Tim turned, expecting to see Will careering into a ditch in a blaze of glory, were underwhelmed with the fact that Will’s rear tyre had blown and less than amused that we were a long walk to civilisation. There was only one thing for it, call in Bob in the support vehicle. Unfortunately, Dad was caught in a shopping outlet somewhere outside Chester and thus unable to reach us until we’d limped to the nearest village pub. It doesn’t happen like this on the Tour de France!
With the rain still driving outside the pub, it was evident that nerves were frayed. Murray Walker had morphed into Lloyd Grossman who was unjustly critical of the pub grub: the steak sandwiches had too many mushrooms in them, the French onion soup didn’t have enough onion in it, and the hot chocolate should have been renamed luke warm chocolate. The boys fed Robin with enough Dairy Milk to gag his culinary criticisms and get him back on the road.
This clearly worked, as we achieved over 50 miles non-stop through Shropshire and Herefordshire, which were relished and consumed by all like a good steak sandwich. Before we knew it, we’d scaled the infamous 1:4 climb between Castle Pulverbatch and Ratlinghope, unperturbed by their fearsome names, and descended into the heart of rural Herefordshire to Staunton-on-Arrow, the village where Mum grew up and Mum and Dad were married. Ann, Mum’s sister, lives in the village and is currently dog-sitting MacDuff (who, despite being 10, is still fast enough to catch a rat from the river Arrow, much to Dad’s delight).
It was here where our next challenge emerged: a mountain of ginger cake, lemon drizzle cake, hot cross buns, followed by spaghetti bolognase and a selection of four puddings and fruit salad. This is a challenge that we’ve grown familiar with. Lloyd was very satisfied with the quality and slept well.
Wednesday 31 March 2010
Key stats: 77 and 78 miles respectively, current location: Lucinda’s (Tim’s sister), Chester
Despite the disappointing mileage, these two days were truly attritional. It may have been the spa facilities in Wetheral which meant that we were still sleepy when we hit the Lakes, but the driving wind and rain meant that Penrith, 17 miles away, felt like a major achievement.
Upon arriving in Penrith, we checked Will’s bike into a bike shop for some much needed repair and retired to a tea room. Will’s bike had been playing up all morning but little were we to realise how much of a problem this would present. Two hours later, after some serious teeth sucking and cursing from the bike mechanic, we were back on the road, but the nine day dream was probably over.
Between Penrith and Kendall, lay Shap Pass. 1,400 feet of climbing in the wind and rain through the desolate pass presented a solid challenge; but the seven mile descent which followed was not welcomed with visibility hampered by the rain and spray off the road, and our hands so cold they could barely keep a handle on the handlebars. The boys limped into Kendall and troughed up numerous portions of carrot cake.
The final 15 miles of the day were slow and steady, into The Midland Hotel in Morecombe. This 1930s art deco hotel was restored a few years ago and provided a resplendent back drop for us to sit back and enjoy night two in spa conditions, outdoor hot tub, sauna and steam room to boot.
Day 6 started with such hope: the troops had enjoyed a lie in, Robin and Tim went to the physio, the breakfast at the Midland Hotel was the best yet. However, the day presented more of the same: bad weather and bike issues (in the form of punctures and broken chain) featured large.
It reached new lows in Runcorn as we negotiated the dual carriage way. By the sound and the colour of the language from behind, we all thought we’d triggered some more road rage in the snarled up traffic crossing the Mersey. But it was Will rasping like an orange Ford Focus driver, throwing all his toys out of the cot in protest at the menacing alliance of the punishing weather and Liverpool rush hour traffic.
Although the day had been flatter, it had taken its toll. However, to those of you who are thinking that this trip was beginning to sound more like a tour of health spas of the north of England, you’ll be pleased to hear that no spa was frequented and no hot tub enjoyed in Chester. Once is chance, twice is a coincidence, thrice would be a pattern … which we would have taken had Chester not been where Tim’s sister lived, where we were spoilt with a whopping great lasagne and excellent beds.
Despite the disappointing mileage, these two days were truly attritional. It may have been the spa facilities in Wetheral which meant that we were still sleepy when we hit the Lakes, but the driving wind and rain meant that Penrith, 17 miles away, felt like a major achievement.
Upon arriving in Penrith, we checked Will’s bike into a bike shop for some much needed repair and retired to a tea room. Will’s bike had been playing up all morning but little were we to realise how much of a problem this would present. Two hours later, after some serious teeth sucking and cursing from the bike mechanic, we were back on the road, but the nine day dream was probably over.
Between Penrith and Kendall, lay Shap Pass. 1,400 feet of climbing in the wind and rain through the desolate pass presented a solid challenge; but the seven mile descent which followed was not welcomed with visibility hampered by the rain and spray off the road, and our hands so cold they could barely keep a handle on the handlebars. The boys limped into Kendall and troughed up numerous portions of carrot cake.
The final 15 miles of the day were slow and steady, into The Midland Hotel in Morecombe. This 1930s art deco hotel was restored a few years ago and provided a resplendent back drop for us to sit back and enjoy night two in spa conditions, outdoor hot tub, sauna and steam room to boot.
Day 6 started with such hope: the troops had enjoyed a lie in, Robin and Tim went to the physio, the breakfast at the Midland Hotel was the best yet. However, the day presented more of the same: bad weather and bike issues (in the form of punctures and broken chain) featured large.
It reached new lows in Runcorn as we negotiated the dual carriage way. By the sound and the colour of the language from behind, we all thought we’d triggered some more road rage in the snarled up traffic crossing the Mersey. But it was Will rasping like an orange Ford Focus driver, throwing all his toys out of the cot in protest at the menacing alliance of the punishing weather and Liverpool rush hour traffic.
Although the day had been flatter, it had taken its toll. However, to those of you who are thinking that this trip was beginning to sound more like a tour of health spas of the north of England, you’ll be pleased to hear that no spa was frequented and no hot tub enjoyed in Chester. Once is chance, twice is a coincidence, thrice would be a pattern … which we would have taken had Chester not been where Tim’s sister lived, where we were spoilt with a whopping great lasagne and excellent beds.
Sunday 28 March 2010
Day 4
Key stats: 107 miles, current location: The Crown Hotel, Wetherall (www.crownhotelwetheral.co.uk)
The day got off to a slow start: Will’s gears were playing up, there was a steady drizzle and the countryside lacked the Highlands and Islands of the previous two days. With 20 miles on the clock, the troops pulled into the somewhat sorry town of Crumnock, looking for a lift. All they found was a sorry pub where some kind cleaners took pity on our oily faces and stopped scrubbing Buckfast off the floor to make us a brew. However, no amount of sugary tea could lift us. Robin was taking some long hard looks at the empty Redbulls and asking, was the dream over?
Our lift came from an unlikely source: a chav in an orange Ford Focus (please take time to reflect on who drives an orange Ford Focus). He’d stalled at the lights and as a result had to follow us through the road works. Not happy with his lot, he wound down the window to rasp a few choice comments and shared some graphic hand signals with us. This had a strangely galvanising effect and, allied with the sign of some sun and a favourable tail wind, set the wheels in motion for the rest of the day.
Thereafter, we didn’t really look back and despite some niggly aches and pains creeping in, motored on through the lowlands of Scotland to Gretna Green and into ol’ Blighty. With Scotland and Robin’s poor Scottish accents behind us (it sounds like he’s from Lahore), we’ve spoilt ourselves to a night in a hotel with a pool, Jacuzzi and sauna, well appreciated after another long day.
The day got off to a slow start: Will’s gears were playing up, there was a steady drizzle and the countryside lacked the Highlands and Islands of the previous two days. With 20 miles on the clock, the troops pulled into the somewhat sorry town of Crumnock, looking for a lift. All they found was a sorry pub where some kind cleaners took pity on our oily faces and stopped scrubbing Buckfast off the floor to make us a brew. However, no amount of sugary tea could lift us. Robin was taking some long hard looks at the empty Redbulls and asking, was the dream over?
Our lift came from an unlikely source: a chav in an orange Ford Focus (please take time to reflect on who drives an orange Ford Focus). He’d stalled at the lights and as a result had to follow us through the road works. Not happy with his lot, he wound down the window to rasp a few choice comments and shared some graphic hand signals with us. This had a strangely galvanising effect and, allied with the sign of some sun and a favourable tail wind, set the wheels in motion for the rest of the day.
Thereafter, we didn’t really look back and despite some niggly aches and pains creeping in, motored on through the lowlands of Scotland to Gretna Green and into ol’ Blighty. With Scotland and Robin’s poor Scottish accents behind us (it sounds like he’s from Lahore), we’ve spoilt ourselves to a night in a hotel with a pool, Jacuzzi and sauna, well appreciated after another long day.
Saturday 27 March 2010
Day 3
Key stats: 107 miles, current location: Kidron House Hotel, Treghorn (south west of Glasgow) (www.kidron-guesthouse.co.uk)
Most days start off the same: Will comes down for breakfast 20 minutes late, everyone fails to finish their porridge, Bob convinces another hotelier that they should contribute to the cause in exchange for him paying their bill, and James mends his punctures. This morning, despite his bike having spent the night in the grand dining room of the Falls of Lora Hotel, he had one puncture.
Too early for sambuca, the team set off. We were treated to some excellent weather as we wound our way around Loch Awe and headed south over the Tullich pass to Inverary. Inverary was always going to be a good check point for the day, 35 miles in, but the fact that the sun came out really buoyed up the lads for the next few hours. The sighting of a mini-Rolf in the town was also a portentious sign of a good day ahead.
Meanwhile, Bob was struggling. He’d got so excited about the price of the Merlot in the Falls of Lora Hotel, he’d decided to treat himself to a bottle (£6.50) which he was topped off with a couple of cask strength Oban whisky chasers. He woke at 3am in the morning realising that he was asleep on top of his sheets. Not being able to manage hangovers as he used to, he was lagging behind the cyclists a little, struggling with the winding roads.
It was the windy roads which featured large today for those in the saddle. We had one long stretch when 24 mph was the norm, when James would stoically move to the front to lead for a while, before “tiring” when we turned a corner and faced a nasty headwind. This helped us reach Dunoon in good time to catch the ferry to Liverpool … only joking, to Greenock to head south down the west coast of Aryshire (the “Glaswegian costas”, west Scotland’s answer to Marbella, complete with the power station to warm up the local waters).
As with other days, we’ve enjoyed some tremendous generosity along the way, feeling like real celebrities, thanks in part due to Bob getting ahead of us and whipping up a real sense of anticipation with the tea ladies and OAPs in the tea rooms. We’ve also noted a generous spirit from Glasgewegian drivers, having received more beeping and hand signals than the rest of Scotland put together – the Glaswegians have a very aggressive way of expressing their support.
Tim got his first puncture today, parking it in a rose bush at the hotel this evening. That kind of behaviour deserves a puncture.
With England less than 70 miles away and the clocks going back, we’re getting an early night.
Most days start off the same: Will comes down for breakfast 20 minutes late, everyone fails to finish their porridge, Bob convinces another hotelier that they should contribute to the cause in exchange for him paying their bill, and James mends his punctures. This morning, despite his bike having spent the night in the grand dining room of the Falls of Lora Hotel, he had one puncture.
Too early for sambuca, the team set off. We were treated to some excellent weather as we wound our way around Loch Awe and headed south over the Tullich pass to Inverary. Inverary was always going to be a good check point for the day, 35 miles in, but the fact that the sun came out really buoyed up the lads for the next few hours. The sighting of a mini-Rolf in the town was also a portentious sign of a good day ahead.
Meanwhile, Bob was struggling. He’d got so excited about the price of the Merlot in the Falls of Lora Hotel, he’d decided to treat himself to a bottle (£6.50) which he was topped off with a couple of cask strength Oban whisky chasers. He woke at 3am in the morning realising that he was asleep on top of his sheets. Not being able to manage hangovers as he used to, he was lagging behind the cyclists a little, struggling with the winding roads.
It was the windy roads which featured large today for those in the saddle. We had one long stretch when 24 mph was the norm, when James would stoically move to the front to lead for a while, before “tiring” when we turned a corner and faced a nasty headwind. This helped us reach Dunoon in good time to catch the ferry to Liverpool … only joking, to Greenock to head south down the west coast of Aryshire (the “Glaswegian costas”, west Scotland’s answer to Marbella, complete with the power station to warm up the local waters).
As with other days, we’ve enjoyed some tremendous generosity along the way, feeling like real celebrities, thanks in part due to Bob getting ahead of us and whipping up a real sense of anticipation with the tea ladies and OAPs in the tea rooms. We’ve also noted a generous spirit from Glasgewegian drivers, having received more beeping and hand signals than the rest of Scotland put together – the Glaswegians have a very aggressive way of expressing their support.
Tim got his first puncture today, parking it in a rose bush at the hotel this evening. That kind of behaviour deserves a puncture.
With England less than 70 miles away and the clocks going back, we’re getting an early night.
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