Day 7: Carlisle to Kilmarnock

Total: 96.0 miles
Time in saddle: 5 hrs 9 mins
Average speed: 18.5 mph
Maximum speed: 43.4 mph
Cumulative: 611 miles
Chafing rating: 4/5 (aaarrgghh!)

I woke up this morning full of remorse. In yesterday's blog I referred to "that bloody bike". This is  no way to talk about my closest friend and so I apologised profusely when I picked it up from the storeroom. The bike rewarded me with a solid day at high average speed (for me) and we are now best friends again.

Breakfast in the Premier Inn (2nd class) in Carlisle was served in the partitioned room where they keep the chairs and IT equipment. Although there only appeared to be two other guests in the 'hotel', our dress code was deemed unsuitable for the restaurant. Each morning I have been eating granola with fruit salad and yoghurt, and drinking huge amounts of water, but as the tour goes on I am feeling stronger urges for more protein and I suspect a morning fry-up beckons tomorrow.

Some very miserable looking cyclists emerged from their cells this morning. In fact, I was just thinking how dejected Nick looked when Jen, the DA rep, told him the same. So he turned round and came back into Reception and ran out cheering and smiling but no-one was convinced. The halfway point was a source of celebation last night, but this morning cold reality had dawned on everyone that all those hard miles we had done had to be repeated, and repeated with tired legs. Robin Thicke's catchy ditty, "Blurred Lines" was blaring from the DA van again this morning, just like it has been every morning. This usually gets at least 3 cyclists dancing but this morning all we could see were serious faces and a few rythmically moving knees.

Entertainment was provided by Don from the Wirral. Or, The Don as he is known. Don is something of an ... ahem ... assertive rider who has collected a number of cars, vans and windscreen wipers on the way to Carlisle. He's a really nice bloke, but when you put him on a bike he's like one of the Polish Battle of Britain pilots: he doesn't always follow the plan but adds a huge amount to the overall effort with the number of kills he records. This morning, while we were warming up and stretching and pumping up tyres and checking brakes, we heard a "whooahh!" and saw Philip lying down on his bike in the car park. Philip rose with a patient smile to reveal, underneath him in a mangled pile, The Don. Don is indestructible.

This morning we had an early regroup planned for when we crossed the Scottish border at Gretna Green. We almost all arrived as planned, except we were 4 people down. We stood around, posed for photos, went to the loo and stood around a bit more. 

Me, Nick, John at Gretna Green

I phoned home to reassure Debbie that I had not eloped with another rider, and she expressed surprise that I had not married my bike.

My bike wouldn't fit through the door

We had a lovely chat and then I rejoined the others chatting and standing around a bit more getting colder and colder until, after 25 minutes, the strays appeared having taken a wrong turn. They were met with a big cheer and we all had a group photo in front of the Scotland sign. Pete, a tough and wiry Scotsman in the group, pulled out a bottle of whisky and we all raised our paper cups. I called out, "To Flodden!" and Nick and I watched the tumbleweed blow past before we got back on our bikes and headed for Annan.

It was a really tough ride today in quite hard conditions. Nick, John and I rode together all day, sometimes joined by others and sometimes just as a trio. It was a bit stop-start at first as I needed the loo (again), John needed to ditch his rain-jacket and Nick had a puncture. An occasional tailwind blew us along at 27 mph but the road was winding and we were buffeted by sidewinds and blustery headwinds on road surfaces that were extremely variable. Sometimes it felt as if we were cycling through treacle. The lunch stop at 62 miles could not have come soon enough and we relaxed in a barn eating cold meats and salads. The morning rides between the water stop and lunch are the hardest part of the day when the highest number of miles are covered. The afternoons are much easier.

Gourmet ice-creams at Catrine

Saddle soreness is becoming an over-riding issue for many of us, not just Vajrin, and especially me. And Nick. And Mick. Every few minutes, someone in the group will start a writhing shimmy above their seat before sitting down again gingerly, and then usually standing straight up again for a second attempt at a more painless landing. It's extremely uncomfortable. Sudocrem is now the hottest currency among the team.

We saw some lovely scenery as we rode. The steep forests of conifers either side of the road create such a different atmosphere from the pretty country lanes of Cumbria, yesterday. There was a real chill in the air and the oak and ash leaves are well on the way to turning autumnal colours.

We were not hallucinating (from a photo by Vajrin)

But most of this scenery felt as if it was in the distance today and the road itself was littered with trucks and potholes, meaning total concentration was essential. One thing we did spot just before lunch was a field of orange sheep. Nick told us they are dyed that colour to prevent rustling.

John heading for an ice cream

We reached Kilmarnock at 4.30pm after covering 96 miles in a little over 5 hours, at an average of 18.5 mph, the quickest of the trip so far. The Park Hotel, next to Kilmarnock Football Ground, is a far cry from the Carlisle Premier Inn.

Park Hotel (photo by Vajrin)

The atmosphere after the intense ride was quite heady. Nick and John appeared at dinner in dressing gowns and towels.

They have not explained why.

Day 6: Preston to Carlisle

Total: 98.2 miles
Time: 6 hrs 14 mins
Average speed: 15.5 mph
Top speed: 36.7 mph
Cumulative: 515 miles (over halfway)
Chafing rating: 3/5 (oooh!)

A plinky-plink version of The Entertainer woke me at 6.30 this morning (my wife hates my alarm, and so do I, which is why I use it, as the annoyance - especially hers - is the only thing that gets me out of bed) and for the first time my immediate thought was "Oh God, have I got to get back on that bloody bike?" This feeling soon subsided, and how! We have had one of the most exhilirating days of the ride.

But before that, I woke to the fabulous news that I had slept both soundly, and soundlessly, the night before. My snoring had kept Colin awake for a couple of nights early on, and so, for two nights, I had swapped with Nick to allow both a quiet night. Sharing with John meant we could be up blogging until late and he knows me well enough to wake me with a shove if I start my farmyard noises. He's not averse to an occasional midnight symphony himself, so this was win-win all round. Or, at least, we thought it was. Colin appeared at breakfast looking a little dog-eared this morning after Nick had spent the night snoring like a pneumatic drill, this after Nick had earlier pulled the key card out of the electric socket and walked out of the room, plunging poor Colin into total darkness as he sat on the lavatory. I am back with Colin tonight.

The charms of the Preston Ibis, which were considerable in comparison with the pententiary of a Premier Inn we are in tonight, receded as we headed out at 8.15am. As soon as I turned the pedals I was happy on the bike again. Ahead of us lay a hard day's ride through Cumbria and the Lake District to Carlisle. If we are honest, we do not have a huge amount of faith in DiscoverAdventure to plot us the most rewarding route and so, local boy, Craig took us on a slightly wider loop, taking in winding country lanes and picture-perfect villages. This is the sort of riding I do at home and I absolutely loved it.

Over-the-head photography by John

We weaved on through the lanes, and went through Lancaster. What a beautiful town. I would have loved to have stopped for a look around but this tour is not about that. Instead I made a mental note to bring my family back here to see Lancaster, Shap Fell, Sizergh Castle and Arnside. We also cycled around Morecombe Bay. I thought about the awful fate of the cockle pickers who were killed a few years ago on the treacherous sands as we passed along into a strong wind. We stopped occasionally for photos and a puncture repair, but ploughed on for 40 miles before we had our first coffee stop.

Puncture repair team

Craig took us to Arnside, to a coffee shop overlooking a beautiful estuary, famous for its rapid tidal surge, The Arnside Bore. One of the locals stopped Vajrin and asked him about the ride and by the second sentence, Vajrin was saying, quite audibly to the rest of us on the opposite side of the road, "My arse is completely raw." Chafing can get you fixated like that.

Coffee stop at Arnside

The Arnside Bore?

Riding the Arnside Bore

Then followed more wondrous countryside until just outside Kendal when we hit a horrendous dual carriageway with rutted tarmac and a dreadful headwind. I rode point to try and keep the group moving. I am convinced I saw a red car on its side on the verge just outside Kendal and I pointed it out to the group but at the end of the day no-one could remember it and I wonder if I dreamed it.

Kendal was a lovely town apart from a one-way system that allowed cyclists to ride in the opposite direction to the traffic, meaning we went all the way down the road saying, "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me", as people stepped out in the road every 5 metres. John and I peeled off and bought some Kendal Mintcake and asked a passer-by to take a cheesy photo. The passerby has just lost 4 stone and is thinking of doing LEJOG.

Kendal Mintcake

And then it was Shap Fell. It was almost interminable. Timing one's effort was tricky as you could never tell how much more hill was around the corner. We needed to get over the other side and reach Shap for lunch but were running quite late at this point after our wider morning excursion. I rode with Craig, each helping the other out at difficult moments. The road was not too steep, but was windswept, rutted and popular with motorbike riders who roared up it at at least 90mph.

Approaching Shap Fell: me, Craig, Philip (on-board photo by John)

Craig and me heading up Shap Fell

The experience on Shap Fell will live long after this ride. The top was beautiful and the effort to get there was really worth it. Cycling is wonderfully rythmical exercise, but on a long hill like this the quads burn, the hamstrings grab, the calves tighten, the arms strain and the neck aches. Controlling one's breathing is essential. Coming down the other side is a completely different affair. The wind screams in your ears, the rough roads send thumping shocks through the hands and arms, the legs feel as if they are on fire, with the uphill efforts still contained, as they turn over faster and faster, and your head placed over the handlebars means the road rushes past your eyes in mesmerising fashion. It is truly exhilirating.

It's a horse you need, John ...

So wide was our little breakway group's detour, that we arrived at lunch just as the slower group was leaving. We were 45 minutes behind when we set off, but Craig set a furious pace after lunch on the mostly downhill route into Carlisle. With fortunate timing, we dragged each other at 30mph for miles and miles until we passed the others as we entered the town. After such an aggressive 97-mile ride, it was imperative to jump into the freezing cold bath straight away for 15 minutes of ooh-ooh-aah-aah shock therapy, a massage and a stretch before a phone call home lying on the floor with my legs in the air. This treatment works wonders and I have no soreness for tomorrow. Nor do I have any dignity, but I am among like-minded souls.

I have only been to Carlisle once before for work, and my only real memory of it is having a lasagne that was soggier than the beer that accompanied it. We are staying in the worse of two Premier Inns in the town. The gruel served in the windowless basement of this glorified prison left me longing for that soggy lasagne.

Carlisle, however, marks a major milestone. We are now past halfway and have 515 miles in the bag at an average of 86 miles a day. We could see Scotland as we approached the hotel, and tomorrow we will all regroup and cross the border together. My body is holding up and I am surprised how I am coping. I expected to be in a lot of discomfort by now. I have tired legs but this is offset by the extra strength they have acquired. I have a slightly sore neck and a constant tingling in my fingers from the vibrations of the road but, other than that, all is tickety-boo. My sister saw me yesterday and looked shocked at how skinny I have become but this won't last forever at my age, nor with my love of Millionaire's Shortbread. And the group is fantastic. I am hoping I have made some life-long friends. We are all quite different characters but have developed a bond through dependency and pain. In my experience, in a large group there is always one person who is really irritating. There is no-one here like that which leaves me thinking that it might be me.

Day 5: Shrewsbury to Preston

Total: 89.1 miles
Time in saddle: Unknown
Average speed: Unknown
Maximum speed: Unknown
Cumulative: 417
Chafing rating: 2/5 (uh-oh)


I’ve been to the home of the Eckford Sweetpea. Apparently. That’s what the sign said just outside the village of Wem, but I don’t know if we saw one. We also went past Whitchurch, ‘Home of Clock Towers’. We didn’t see any of those either, as we were routed on the by-pass. It was that sort of day. Jen, the DiscoverAdventure Rep in charge, painted a rather gloomy (dare I say, grim) picture of the ride north, a day that promised more A-roads, many lorries and a lot of hard cycling.

I wanted an earlier finish today so I set off at the front with Colin, Vajrin, Sarah and Jo, who ride at a good but not lung-bursting pace, and don’t take too long at the breaks. It was a chilly, misty morning, the first time our feet have felt really cold. We started out on B-roads but soon hit the A49. Thank  goodness it was Saturday; something I had to be told, as I have lost all track of time. The trucks were not so frequent and the traffic seemed more relaxed. Then began several hours of metronomic cycling on a flat road. It was unremitting and introduced me to a new experience: riding 65 miles on the same road. This personal record is set to be beaten tomorrow when we ride 86 miles on the A6 through Cumbria to Carlisle.

The group I was with was a bit unforgiving in the morning whenever someone dropped back. I wasn’t happy about it. Philip, who had to call into a shop, was left behind. I turned round to see he had gone but I didn’t know why, and was told he could join another group. I needed two pit-stops (I drink a lot of water!) so I timed them for long straight roads that enabled me to see into the distance, as I too was left each time, and had to go full bore to catch them. On and on, on the same road we went, relentlessly but not unhappily. We really feel on these days, as we approach half way, that we are down to business. There are fewer wisecracks flying around and more head-down determination. I shared most of the ‘point’ work with Colin, an excellent rider, to keep the group moving at a reasonable pace, and like John in his group, went back into shepherding mode in towns. Many of the riders here have not ridden in cities before.

The constant whirr-whirr-whirr-whirr of the wheels set me thinking again about all sorts of things. I have thought about my father frequently on the last couple of rides. It almost felt like he was with me today. I could see his smile and hear his laugh. He would have been fascinated by this challenge. He would have thought I was quite mad and would have made frequent enquiries as to the state of my knees, but he would have loved talking about cyclists’ strategies for negotiating with traffic, about road positioning and about average speeds. I was thinking about my father when I first decided to do this ride, two months after he died, wanting to commit to doing something useful with my fitness having witnessed his being taken from him. I suspected these feelings might appear once the initial euphoria of the first few days had subsided, but I was taken aback at how strong they were, and found myself in floods of tears for several miles.

Jo, Sarah, me, Colin, Vajrin at the Wild Boar

At the first water stop, we saw the DiscoverAdventure banner but no stall and so pushed on to find a coffee shop. The late 19th-century, mock Tudor, Wild Boar Hotel looked like just the ticket. Outside we got talking to a man and woman, in their late forties, who asked us what we were doing. They then told us that inside the hotel is a plaque commemorating its first owners, the Naylor Brothers, John and Robert, who apparently completed the first recorded walk from Land’s End to John O’Groats in 1871, taking nine weeks to complete the journey. (My friend Alistair will read this and inform me they did it on a diet of gruel and small beer, in tweeds and plus fours, not lycra. And wearing monacles.) And then the man asked about the charities we are supporting. He told us he had just lost an uncle to skin cancer after a 10-week illness, that his brother had just been given 12 weeks to live with the same cancer, and that earlier this week, he had been diagnosed with the same.

Back on the road we were really feeling that we were now in the area the motorway signs refer to as THE NORTH, heading towards Warrington, and passing signs for Birmingham, Manchester and North Wales. Today we cycled through Shropshire, Cheshire and Lancashire. Lunch was in a sports hall just after Warrington. I rang my sister, Fiona, for a chat and heard the sound of the car engine in the background. “Where are you?” I asked. “About 5 miles from you.”

She had read yesterday’s blog in bed this morning, looked out of the window and thought, “I know, I’ll catch him and cheer him on.” It certainly cheered me up. But she had to work hard to catch us. She drove up from Stratford-on-Avon,  just missed the lunch stop,  just missed the afternoon water stop and finally tracked us as we made steady progress through the huge conurbation around Wigan.

Me, Colin, local boy Craig

We met up again at the Ibis Hotel in Preston and went and had nachos in the truly awful Phanton Winger pub. The first person Fiona got to meet in the Ibis was Tommy Tarmac, whose pratfalls she had been reading about that morning.

One of the quicker riders, Craig, who has featured in previous posts, is a local to Preston. He too had family waiting for him with a big banner proclaiming LEJOG2013. But first he took our group on a tour of the town, including a visit to the … er … bus depot. It is actually an extraordinary building.

Preston Bus Depot (cropped from a photo by Jo)

We also rode along a new cycleway beside the river and municipal gardens which was extremely calming after 4 hours on the A49.

Craig leads us through Preston

I have just re-read the above and realise it is not exactly packed with laughs, but I can assure you I am having the time of my life, my body is holding up well and I am enjoying being in the depths of a slightly crazy challenge. This ride takes me to places I have never been before, both physically and emotionally. I am loving it.

The riders were very spread out today but almost everyone is doing well. There was a huge amount of bonhomie around the dinner table, even in the ghastly Phantom Winger. I had ordered Pop-Poppity Chicken. I had no idea what it was but thought it might be grilled and spicy. It was chicken nuggets and potato wedges. So there you have it. Today I have been to Wem, home of the Eckford Sweetpea, Whitchurch, home of clock towers, and Preston, home of Pop-Poppity Chicken.

Day 4: Chepstow to Shrewsbury

Total: 98 miles
Time in saddle: 6 hrs 35 mins (approx)
Average Speed: 15 mph (approx)
Max. Speed: 43 mph (approx)
Cumulative: 328 miles
Chafing Rating: 2/5 (uh-oh)

In The Big Walk, a personal account of the 1960 foot-race from John O'Groats to Land's End, sponsored by Billy Butlin to raise publicity for his prison holiday camps, the author, A.Walker (also known as A. Nonymous), describes the feeling of waking up after the first day of walking 40 miles in a pair of old leather boots along icy roads on 3-weeks' training: "On descending the stairs the next morning, I was ashamed to discover that my upper legs were somewhat stiff." I know how he feels at the end of Day 4. Ten-minute, stone cold baths, which are deeply unpleasant and accompanied by hyper-ventilating and howling, have become the order of the day, followed by a massage (self-serve unfortunately) to keep the legs working. Last night it worked a treat and I am hoping it does the same tomorrow as we have another 92 miles to do to get to Preston.

The winner of the Big Walk completed the race in 15 days on foot. That makes me feel inadequate. That was my 'friend' Alistair's intention when he bought the book for me. He is very thoughtful like that. He also supplied me with examples of retired colonels with names like Humphrey Babington-Splatt who rode to Land's End, and back again, in 1873 on a penny farthing dressed in tweed and woollen socks in mid-Winter.

Anyway, what a difference a day makes. Yesterday's wet and miserable truckfest was replaced today with what almost everyone thought was the best day's cycling they had ever had. After a steep ascent from the hotel up to Chepstow, being passed by school buses with gurning faces pressed up against the window at us, we headed past the racecourse and down a spectacular 4-mile descent to Tintern Abbey.

On-board photography by John

L to R: Me, Craig, Nick at Tintern Abbey

We then headed to Monmouth along the beautiful Wye Valley, criss-crossing the Wales-England border.

Thank you

The road surfaces were fantastic and all the group kept a good pace. What slowed us down was all the stopping to take photographs of mirror-glass rivers and sweeping valleys.

Near Tintern

If ever anyone is feeling a little low, the Mitchell Brothers (Tommy and Mickey Wynn) will lift them with brilliant wisecracks. These boys are Londoners through and through and do a nice line in Cockney rhyming slang. Tommy was asking us, at one stage, where we all got our padded cycle shorts. At least that's what I worked out, eventually, when he said, "Where did you all get those shorts from that make you look like you've got massive 'Amptons?" I was thinking, "Hampton Court. What does that rhyme with?" And then I realised, "Ah. Hampton Wick."

Tommy had his second clipless moment in 2 days. Clipless pedals hold your shoes into the pedals so you benefit from the rotation of your feet when cycling, rather than just the downwards force appied to traditional pedals. If you don't unclip soon enough, they can get stuck and you topple sideways. I did this at a junction in Lewisham once and a passer-by told me I was an idiot. Yesterday, Tommy's performance was followed by an embarrassed jump up and a nonchalant lean on the bike as if nothing had happened. Today, he actually gave us some warning and I had my camera ready. We had stopped at a bridge to take pictures of the view and we heard, "Oh no. 'Ere I go again." As he hit the ground I heard myself say, "Stay there a second" and I got the shot I wanted. Sorry, Tommy. I should have said, "Are you alright?" He has a new name: Tommy Tarmac.

Tommy Tarmac still with foot in pedal

We made gentle progress to the first coffee stop. Rather than eat all the bananas and energy bars supplied for us, John, Craig and I headed for the cafe in the rather oddly positioned furniture shop behind the sheep shearing pens in a village called Wormelow. The coffee and carrot cake was wonderful. We rested aching legs in soft leather sofas and I had a lovely chat with my sister who is at home nursing a broken hip while I do this adventure. If I ever get down on this ride I only have to think of her toughness and stoicism to sort myself out.

I don't know what was in the carrot cake (Lance Armstrong's own recipe), but when we got going again we decided to put the burners on along the A466, passing villages with lovely names like Much Birch, Orcop and Tump. The three of us covered the next 30 miles, which were slightly uphill, in 1 hr 24 mins at an average of over 21 mph. This was the best cycling I have ever done. Riding routes that go from A to B gives you a sense of distance. You are heading somewhere new instead of returning in a circle. When it is along valleys as stunning as this, it does not get any better.

Heaven on a bike: not me, the countryside (on-board photography by John)

I was cycling to the rythm in my head of The Undertones', "I Don't Want To Get Over You", whose fast pace was a better accompaniment to the tenor of the ride, than the usual song that gets lodged in my head on the bike and can't be shifted for 3 days: "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" by Elton John and Kiki Dee.

John, Craig and I had lunch together at Leitwardine, all buzzing after the burn-up and keen to press on this afternoon. Unfortunately there was another problem with the organisation of the routes. The route notes directed us one way, along A roads, while the .gpx files on the Garmin, which we use, sent us another more pleasant route. We didn't know this until about 75 miles in, meaning we missed the afternoon water stop. We are getting through about 5 or 6 litres a day and so 40 miles with no water was not good.

Near Shrewsbury

All things bright and beautiful

Craig on The Red Arrow

To add to the confusion, the computerised route thought we needed a few extra hills to keep us honest. We became very friendly with a man on a rattling, clapped out, old shopping bike, slowing for a chat as we overtook him, wondering how on earth he was going to haul that weighty contraption up the 16% hill that we ascended. At the next T-junction about 3 miles away, after a fast descent, we had to wait before we could pull out, because the man on the shopping bike had appeared again. Huh? This happened three times. Every time we appeared at a junction after 10 minutes of hard riding, we had to wait for the man on the shopping bike to pass, until he turned and said, "You lot are making heavy weather of this section." We could only assume he had a secret tunnel.

We arrived in Shrewsbury at about 6.15pm, after 98 miles, 75 of which were at fast pace, tired but not exhausted. We are really feeling the benefits of all the training and are absolutely loving this experience. I cannot believe how far we have come. It's Preston tomorrow, Carlisle on Sunday and then into Scotland on Monday. The legs are tired but in good shape. Going downstairs is worse than going up when your quads are sore. But we are a long way from being like the colleague of an old friend in Australia, who played too much squash after a long break, and suffered the indignity of having his legs give way as the lift reached the ground floor at work, leaving him to crawl out as his boss and clients walked in.

Day 3: Cullompton to Chepstow

Total: 88.36 miles
Time in saddle: 5 hr 56 mins
Average: 14.9 mph
Max Speed:  Unknown
Cumulative: 230 miles 
Chafing score: 2/5 (uh-oh)

"Never go to Wales, Baldrick. It’s a dreadful place. Gangs of tough, sinewy men roam the countryside terrifying people with their close-harmony singing."

(Edmund Blackadder, Blackadder the Third)

But surely Wales had to to be better than the A403 through the Chittening Industrial Estate leading to the Severn Bridge. This road proved to be the last straw for a couple of riders who almost launched a a mini rebellion regarding DiscoverAdventure’s route planning.

We started off with instructions that told us to turn right out of the hotel. This meant left. Most of the morning passed on the misty A38, perhaps a nice road to drive but not to cycle. The rain yesterday had upset my computer which refused to work (the stats above came from Vajrin, who finished with me) which made pacing quite tricky. A few riders pushed on ahead, but the majority of the group decided to stick together for safety in numbers. John and I were roving shepherds, reeling in any breakaway riders and asking them to slow down to regroup. It was not a safe road to ride alone. I incurred the jeers of the group for taking 2 pit-stops in the first half hour. I shouldn’t have had that second coffee.

The route took us through Taunton and North Petherton, where we had a water stop, and Bridgwater. Everyone we meet is so polite and helpful to the group and jaws hit the ground when they hear what we are attempting. Yesterday, a cyclist pulled up alongside Philip in Exeter and said, ‘I’m just heading to the running track. How about you?’ And he said, ‘We’re just heading to John O’Groats.’ The cyclist just said, ‘Oh’. We had more of the same today.

Most drivers have been as polite as the passers-by we have met, giving us a wide berth, sometimes honking (but not in a Deptford way) and replying to our waves. The same cannot be said for the driver of the COFAST van who deliberately soaked the line of riders as he shot past. I have emailed the company to inform them that the group contains 21 riders raising in excess of £70,000 [postscript: the total exceeded £95,000 by the end] for a variety of charities and, perhaps, as a way of saying sorry, they may like to make a donation to one of them.

When we finally escaped the A roads we crossed some beautiful countryside on the Somerset Levels. At least, I think it was beautiful behind all that mist.

Between Wedmore and Shipham (photo by John)

Regroup at Wedmore

The constant slow pace of the group had me fixed on the wheel in front and quite mesmerised for a while, thinking about family, especially my wife and son. Like drink, being under the influence of a long cycle ride can make you a bit earnest. I thought long and hard about them and all the other good things in my life. I was really missing them. The incessant rhythm on the flat terrain also left me wondering why I was feeling so uncomfortable in the saddle until a regroup stop and the word spread that everyone was coming down with a condition known as numb-bum. This was cured (temporarily) by a long steep hill up from Cheddar to Shipham for lunch.

All the stop-start riding left me feeling cold and tight by lunch time, so I pushed on in the afternoon with Colin, Craig, Vajrin, Philip and Don. We were joined at the tea stop by Nick who, as predicted, is getting stronger and quicker each day. By the end he may show us all a clean pair of heels.

Don, Vajrin, Craig, Nick and Philip at the afternoon water-stop presided over diligently, as always, by Lahcen from DiscoverAdventure

We had a wonderful hour cruising at about 22 mph until we hit the crossing over the Avon. A tortuous route round a council estate, behind some garages and up by the bins took us up onto the Avonmouth Bridge, an ugly construction made even uglier by the sodden weather and the deafening traffic.

Avonmouth Bridge

After a quick photo-stop we then hit the A403 to head to the Severn Bridge. What an awful road, the worst I have ever ridden. I have no idea why the organisers thought we’d like to run the gauntlet of the massive trucks rushing through peak hour in a faceless industrial estate whose only landmarks were the flowers beside the road for the victims of accidents. It was ugly, windswept and unforgiving and not what you need when you already have 80 miles in the legs.

The A403 (daredevil on-board camera-work by John)

Best moment of the day for me was seeing my nephew Alex beside this road, camera in hand, snapping away as we approached. The other riders all waved not having a clue who he was, although I had mentioned he was hoping to be there. I am glad he didn’t bring his bike as planned. That was no road for me to be worrying about my nephew on. I peeled off and had a chat and then jumped back on the bike expecting to go the rest of the way alone. But this group of people is one of the nicest I have ever been associated with, and 100 metres up the road there were the other 5 cyclists in the group waiting for me. No-one is ever left alone on this ride.

Respite: Severn Bridge cycle road (photo by Vajrin)

Nick crossing the Severn Bridge

We crossed the Severn Bridge, alarmed at the way it moves around as you ride. We are staying in a magnificent hotel in Chepstow, all relieved the day is over. 

St. Pierre Hotel, Chepstow: an oasis after the A403 (photo by Vajrin)

We all had a chat with the organisers about the route choice and then relaxed a little. I sat in an ice-cold bath to ease muscle soreness and read the map for tomorrow. We might take a slightly quieter route in places.

John arrived later, with the group he had been guiding, to find his wife Lynn and two daughters were waiting for him in Reception. They had been waiting there for 3 hours and could only stay another hour before heading back to London as it was school tomorrow. What a nice touch.

I had a lovely phone call home hearing all about the 2 main courses and 5 desserts my son had at the Chinese restaurant in Orpington. This cheered me up no end, but I’ll have to get him out on his bike when I get home if he's going to keep eating like that.

Big day tomorrow: 99 miles. We have all vowed to ride up and down the drive a few times to get over the ton. 

Day 2: Liskeard to Cullompton

Total: 66.3 miles
Time in saddle: 4 hrs 57 mins
Average: 13.2 mph
Max speed:  44.6 mph
Cumulative total: 141.9 miles
Chafing score: 1/5 (nice) 

Ha! Guess which numpty looked out of his window at the glorious blue sky this morning and thought, 'Great, I won’t bother taking the rain jacket today'?

This was the feared Day 2 over Dartmoor. We decided a steady, disciplined pace, reserving our efforts for the uphills and enjoying the downs, was the best strategy. John, Nick, Philip and I set off from Liskeard at just after 8am. The views towards Plymouth, the deep valleys hidden in mists but the summits glowing in the sun, were wonderful. While I was enjoying the Cornish sun, my 76-year old mother (sorry, mum), was, at the same time, preparing for her Driver Awareness course after being caught by a speed camera. I hope she was rehabilitated. Cyclists like me need protection from people like that.

We were back on the manic A390 again, but it became much more scenic as we approached Callington and Gunnislake. The descent from Gunnislake was a white-knuckle ride, especially as there is a sharp right hand turn at the bottom that takes you over the lovely old bridge across the Tamar and into Devon. We all took turns to pose by the Devon sign having collected our first county.

First county done

A couple of colossal hills took us to Tavistock and the morning tea stop. Bryan appeared in the van with what appeared to be a serious problem with his rear wheel and the four of us went with him to Tavistock Cycles to get it fixed. This entailed accidentally entering a one-way street the wrong way and cycling 100m to a chorus of “It’s a one-way street” from the eye-rolling locals. After the fifth one I blurted out, “It’s alright. We’re only going one way.” That’s London behaviour. I’m sorry Tavistock. Full marks to the shopkeeper who refused to accept payment when he heard we were cycling for charities.

Outside Tavistock Cycles: a shop run by a man with a good heart

And then it was up onto the Moor. 

Philip (left) and John head up onto the Moor

The warm sunshine soon turned to a pea-souper and the cold grey roads headed up and up, occasionally down, but more often up. We had a big descent into Postbridge, one of about five 40-plus mph hills during the ride, and had lunch in the village hall.

L to R: John, me (in radioactive top), Nick

Click to enlarge

And then the mist turned to rain and we got drenched for the rest of the day, taking extra care on the slippery roads when skirting round the wildlife. John insisted on stopping on the Moor in the rain to get a photo of Highland cattle. For some reason he said, ‘You’ll thank me for this later’. Eh?

 

The descent from the moor to Moretonhampstead was super steep on winding roads, as taxing mentally as physically, but I had the presence of mind to say ‘Hello’ to the shop in the town where, 8 years ago, my wife bought a hoe. We then hit a series of horrendous hills to Exeter in atrocious conditions. One of the hills was about a mile and half long and a 17% gradient. So hilly was it that at one stage our average speed for the day was only 10.9 mph.

We really pushed on after Exeter and the last 45 minutes or so was completed at over 20 mph in the teeming rain, all of us thinking of the hot shower that awaited us at the Padbrook Park Hotel in Cullompton. Philip who is cycling with John, Nick and me, is 61 years of age. He has a background racing mountain bikes. His strength is awesome.

We were the first of a fitful set of drowned rats to arrive. The bikes are stored in a large dry room and we spent a loving 20 minutes, still shivering in our wet gear, cleaning them and restoring them to perfect order. 

The Padbrook Park Hotel is a good choice by the organisers. It is a very plush golf club. Staying at a golf club helps cyclists feel that we are not the worst dressed people in Britain. Room-mate Colin and I have decked our room out with wet lycra and have the heaters on full blast and the window wide open. We are trying to offset out carbon savings from travelling by bike. 

We expected the later arrivals to turn up thoroughly miserable but everyone arrived beaming. This day was a huge milestone on the trip. The mileage was low but the terrain certainly wasn’t. We have done a lot of heading eastwards. Tomorrow we turn left and head north. We will cross the Severn Bridge to Chepstow during a 91-mile day: Cornwall this morning; Wales tomorrow. That makes us feel like we are starting to get somewhere.