Day 11: Tain to Thurso

Total: 90.1 miles
Time in saddle:  5 hrs 36 mins
Average speed: 16.2 mph
Maximum speed:  34.1 mph
Cumulative: 953 miles
Chafing rating: 2/5 (nice, almost)

Nearly there! What a strange feeling. I am so keen to see my family but I want to try and savour the atmosphere this evening, as we sit in a really awful hotel, reminiscing about these 11 intense days. Spirits are high. Tommy Tarmac has ‘grassed me up’ to The Don, from the Wirral, after I did an impression of him earlier today that was more accurate than was good for me. I have just walked downstairs to a large cheer and a chorus of requests to repeat the impression which I naturally refused as The Don was sitting opposite me, stony-faced. The Don is quite scary but he took it in good spirits because he’s A GOOD GUY. He did ask which room I’m in. I gave him the number for Tommy’s room. I’ll be checking my brake cables in the morning.

We were greeted with a thick fog as we left the Royal Hotel in Tain, but this was a sea fog and on higher ground we had the most wonderful views of the Dornoch Firth. As we crossed its long road bridge we peered up at thin, fluffy clouds which broke to reveal a beautiful blue sky. The water was perfectly still, meaning we got a clear view of a seal as its head broke the surface. We stood there for a while admiring the view, trying to savour the last full day’s ride.

John at Dornoch Firth

The A9 is a horrible road further south, and there were still many trucks on this section of the route north, but the views across the wide sandy beaches were spectacular. We rode 34 miles along it through Golspie, Brora and Helmsdale and saw our first signs for John O’Groats.

First sign to John O'Groats

Just before Helmsdale, there was a loud crack from John’s bike and his chain deposited itself in the middle of the road. John remained perfectly calm, whistling as he removed a link and re-connected it before setting off again. Don was amazed at John’s composure and said he would have got really livid and would have thrown the bike in the field and sworn a lot. This was the impression I did which landed me in trouble.

John calmly repairs his chain, flanked by Matt and Nick

Alas, at Helmsdale, the chain snapped again and John disappeared with Ian from DA to find a solution. The rest of us stopped for a coffee in Dunrobin Street. That’s right, Dunrobin. Helmsdale is a bit like Royston Vasey. Craig appeared with a large portion of chips. I couldn’t resist either, but the chip shop owner spooked us a little with his creepy manner, his staring eyes and his wispy voice. 

His conversation with Craig went:

“So where are you from then?”

“Preston”
“Oh, I have a friend in Preston. He lives on a big estate.”
“Is it Sandown Court?"
“Aye. That’ll be the one then”

His conversation with me went:
“So where are you from then?”

“Kent”
“Oh, I have a friend in Kent. He has a yacht by the sea”
“Is it Margate or Ramsgate or somewhere like that?"
“Aye. That’ll be the one then”

We only shared this experience with each other as we sat on a bench eating our chips watching a car go by with 2 dead stags in the back.

At Helmsdale we needed to turn onto the A897, the most remote and beautiful road we have ridden on the whole tour. As we returned to our bikes, mine had fallen over. I checked it for damage and thankfully there was none, but as I leaned forwards to look at the chain-ring, my cycling glasses fell off my head onto the road and the lenses fell out. Brian stepped on one lens breaking it into 4 pieces. I looked for the other but gave up. Luckily it revealed itself as Matt rode over it snapping it in two. My wife paid £7.99 for those glasses.

The A897 was the last road to the north coast. A-road is a bit strong. It was a single track road with passing places that went from being beautiful to stunning to spectacular the further north we went.

The A897

 

I rode most of this road with Craig. He is a quick cyclist and we had a fantastic burn-up after lunch for about 20 miles through truly remote countryside, flanked on each side by peat bogs with large, black mountains in the background.

Craig near the top of the country

Our first glimpse of the north coast was momentous. We could no longer go north but had to turn right and head towards Thurso. Land’s End felt a very long way away. I was feeling quite choked with emotion. I looked across at Craig and he had tears streaming down his face.

Riding along the top at last

The ride along the north coast was windswept and the last water-stop of the trip was a welcome sight. I am not sure how I will cope at work next week with the DA reps serving me energy bars mid-morning and mid-afternoon. I may need to call for a water-stop mid-meeting.

With Craig at the last water stop

Cyclists' friends

Before Thurso, Craig agreed to come on a quick diversion to Scrabster, where I went on holiday a couple of times as a child. My friend James’ Grandfather was Harbour Master and I had my photo taken in front of his old house. I had some amazing holidays there, sailing across the top of Scotland and messing about the harbour in dinghies. Seeing the house was nostalgic but why did they ruin it with UPVC windows? (Don’t get me started on them … A cold caller once rang me to try and sell me UPVC windows with the claim that they will last longer than wood. I said, "How do you know? I've got wooden ones that are a hundred years old." GRRR!). But sorry James. I couldn’t get you that Sherbet DibDab as the Wee Shoppe is no longer there. And nor are the giant rolls of plastic tubing that we never confessed to damaging.

Harbour House, Scrabster

We are staying in the Royal Hotel in Thurso, a town every bit as drab as I remember. Nick, a man who turns a phrase as well as he turns his pedals, went for his usual constitutional after his shower, and came back, head in hands, sighing, “Oh God, it’s so depressing. This place is like Tain, but the bugger-all is spread over a wider area. It just smells of chips and unemployment."

The Royal Hotel represents the town very well. The notices warning against damaging paintwork and furniture protect a décor that is regarded by the management as definitely worthy of another 35 years. Next door is a pub that, tonight, hosts a ZZ Top/ACDC tribute act (as if either needed one). If we went all rock-starish ourselves and trashed our hotel rooms, we might do as much as £40 worth of damage.

Last day tomorrow. This has been a wonderful experience and tomorrow is our champagne moment. Before we reach John O’Groats, we have a little 8-mile diversion to Dunnet Head, the most northerly point on the mainland. We then regroup and cross the finish together. I am having to pinch myself.