So exactly how did this escapade come about? Following last year’s Ironman the debate was all about shaving a couple of minutes off the swim, avoiding a ‘mechanical’ in the bike, trying out a pair of ‘Newton’s’ for the run, or simply looking for an easier course to post the life-defining PB. I knew straight away this wasn’t for me as it just didn’t seem personal or intimate enough. I wanted an adventure. Grant Wyatt nominated the famous South African cycling sportive, The Cape Argus, and whilst it would certainly have constituted an adventure, competing with 35,000 others certainly didn’t make it intimate. Jonny Greaves came close with the idea of accompanying him, Mellie and babbie Emily, to IM Switzerland and then cycling back through France on my Jack-Jones. With hindsight I should have explored this one more fully!

I continued the search and reasoned that within the UK there are certain events that everyone knows about, lots of whom talk about having a crack at them but, in reality, very few actually do. Swimming the Channel, the Three Peaks, the Bob Graham Round, Coast2Coast, an Ironman, the London Marathon and obviously, Land’s End to John O’Groats all come under this heading. Wahay, got it!

The fledgling idea was to take several of these disciplines, integrate them in one event and Robert’s your proverbial uncle. Combining a big cycle with the three peaks, linking a decent endurance swim in the lakes and perhaps rowing the length of Loch Ness seemed to be the… er… sensible way forward and one or two tentative feelers were put out…to resounding radio silence from any and all potential compatriots. Thanks guys.

However, the subsequent bombshell of ‘er indoors being diagnosed with cancer of the oesophagus in January well and truly put paid to those plans, and in reality, should have seen the end of any major endeavour for the time being. I should be so lucky. As it turned out there’s been a wee break in between chemotherapy and surgery and that’s my window of opportunity. Hence, it’s all last minute, haphazard and unorganized but being solo, unsupported and under canvas it’s going to be nothing if not personal, intimate and a bit of an adventure!

Setting the Scene:

Land’s End to John O’Groats, the ultimate cycle ride in Britain, has been the dream of long-distance cyclists since the invention of the penny-farthing (big penny, the front wheel and a farthing for the rear). My childhood memories are of reports detailing the crazy antics of men in tutus pushing prams, of arguing couples piloting heavy tandems and of Jimmy now-then-now-then Saville fixing it for himself to sail on by on his own challenge. The reality is none too different. Mike Day and Michael Areb rode it on unicycles in 14 days (1986); Arvind Pandya ran it backwards in 26 days (1990); Steve Gough, the naked rambler, walked it in a little over six months but included two considerable terms in gaol! In 2002, Lynne Taylor left Land’s End to set a new women’s solo record of two days, four hours, 48 minutes. Gethin Butler covered the same in an incredible, and frankly downright unbelievable, one day, 20 hours and four minutes. That’s just not normal.

Land’s End is aptly names as the terra firma literally falls away into a turbulent and vicious sea, whereas John O’Groats is far more intriguing. John O’Groats was in fact Jan de Groot, one of three Dutch brothers who arrived in 1496 at the request of King James IV to run a commercial ferry to the Orkneys. Only a few years earlier, the islands had been part of the combined Kingdom of Denmark and Norway and James was anxious that they should not be so again whilst under his tenure. Passengers were charged 4d (old pennies, for those under the age of 40) which became known as a ‘groat’. So now you know. If you do ever have the misfortune of visiting either or both places you’ll know from bitter experience that they’re both desolate, windswept, barren outcrops with no endearing qualities whatsoever. They reminded me of Morecambe…but without the taste!

Up or Down?

Being Northern I’m used to thinking in terms of going ‘down South’ and back ‘up North’ and being lazy should have made the choice a veritable no brainer. However, a little research and logical thought put a slightly different spin on it. Thinking about it, you start at sea-level, you finish at sea level, you cover the same ground and traverse the same hills and mountains. Admittedly, the higher altitudes are towards the top of the country but wouldn’t that allow me to ‘put some miles in my legs’ beforehand and make them potentially, more manageable?

As it turns out, most participants attempt the journey South to North and two reasons justify this direction. Inclement weather does come from the South-West more often than it comes from any other direction and we have the Atlantic Ocean to blame for this. The second is that, with most cyclists attempting the adventure in early or late summer, Devon and Cornwall can heat up to strength-sapping temperatures whereas John O’Groats is seldom above cool in summer, or bl**dy freezing in any other season.

As the crow flies (before ending up as road-kill on Scotland’s A9, but more of that later), the distance can technically be as low as 861 miles. Taking into account I’m no crow and am intending to travel on an eclectic mixture of both quick and slow roads and routes I reckon it’s going to prove to a 900 mile trip. However, with the direction sense of a confused drunkard the safe-money’s on it being a tad further!

Left or Right?

The first thing that struck me as I looked at the map of Great Britain at the front of the atlas, after obviously thinking that’s a helluva distance, was that you first travel a not-inconsequential distance in a West to East direction which serves precious little purpose other than lining you up for a relatively straight-forward South to North assault on the rest of the country. The ‘direct line’ thus tends towards the North-Western coast of Cornwall, Devon and Somerset, to the lowest bridging point on the Severn. In the Welsh Marches it hangs on the English side of the border (and who can blame it!) with Wales, crossing the River Mersey at Liverpool before continuing North through God’s own Lancashire into Cumbria and the Lake District. Notwithstanding the fact that I’m not actually planning on eloping with anyone in particular it’d be rude not to cross into Jockoland at Gretna prior to taking the decision to either head directly North through Edinburgh and into the Grampians or turn West and aim for the Great Glen via Dumfries, Irvine and Glasgow. As it would turn out I’d predictably make the wrong decision here and spend the rest of the trip regretting it!

Anyway, enough of my preamble ramble here’s how it panned out. I managed to do a bit of reading up on the history of the route whilst on the coach, kept a diary, logged the kit I carried and even recorded what I ate…and it was never enough. The manner of the story is told via my brief text write-ups which were posted on the Soapbox section of www.carlbeetham.com (thanks wee Tom) whenever the opportunity presented itself, followed by any ‘extra’ specifics that happened that day which may be of interest. I hope you enjoy the tale and if it spurs you on to similar escapades then good on you, you foolhardy individual!

Also, technically, I know I should be raising money for Cancer Research or Macmillan’s Nurses but, notwithstanding the tremendous job that they do, I reckon they already get enough coverage. Instead, I’m going to hopefully raise some money for the very poorly daughter of a pal, Graham ‘Handy’ Dandy, Neve Dandy. If you’re feeling generous go to her website – www.stayclosetoneve.com and put your hand in your pocket. All help and support goes directly to Neve and she’ll get 100% benefit from it. Go on, you know you want to. Anyway, here goes and let’s start turning those pedals.

Daily Diary:

Wednesday 18th May: Tomorrow will see me board the 6.13am train from Sunningdale to London Waterloo in the kick-off to my End2End (how it’s referred to apparently) attempt, hopefully arriving Land’s End some 14 hours later. I will not deny I’m currently more than a little daunted by the task ahead but suspect it’ll be fine once the wheels start turning. You’ve talked the talk and now have to walk the walk or face the prospect of a life-time’s p*ss-taking from everyone you’ve ever known!

D-Day Thursday 19th May: 10 hours on the coach followed by 13 miles cycling to Penzance, where I got lost three times and found the coastal hills tortuous. Land’s End is deserted, desolate (it’s all in the name – ed.) Uh oh, forgotten my tyre levers. School boy error and I’m about to put myself on detention. Please don’t puncture.
Extra – Just getting to Sunningdale station proved difficult enough and I was already jiggered by the team I finished dragging the bike bag onto platform 2 for the early morning train to London Waterloo. And who do I find there? Mellie and baby Emily ready to cheer me off! Secretly, I reckon Jonny forced them to go just to make sure I turned up and didn’t pull-out.
After an uneventful ten hours on the coach I’m met by Graham Dandy’s dad, Geoff, who collects the huge bike bag I’d borrowed to ensure they let me on the bus in the first place and wishes me well. I decide to take the scenic coastal route round the south of the peninsular just to see the Cornish sights and get a handle on how the bike handles fully laden. How wrong could I have been? The road was seriously tortuous and single-handedly cocked my gears up as I ground out the steeps in top. Thankfully the front of the bike’s not a problem as with all the weight on the rear of the bike, the front wheel is barely making contact with the road surface. Skittish doesn’t do the handling justice. This is going to be… interesting. In the space of only 12 miles I managed to get lost three times (I kid you not) but at least it made me realise that St Ives and Padstow the following day would have to be given a wide berth.
By the time I arrived in Land’s End the place was deserted and the campsite closed. Not to worry as I snuck in, pitched the tent and was shortly joined by two top-boys from Nottingham. They had less even idea about camping than I did but were kind enough to give me a beer and a splash of milk for a calming cuppa. 9.30pm sees me curled up (well not curled up as the canvas coffin that doubles up as a minimal mountaineer’s tent doesn’t allow for that much movement) with Radio 5 and an ominous weather forecast for the following day.
Route – Sunningdale, London Waterloo/Victoria, Penzance, Land’s End. Cycling distance – 15 miles. Terrain – Rolling, hilly and up & down. ‘Nadgery’.

Friday 20th May: Tough day today, 90 miles to Okehampton. Bike is sooo playing-up. Big ring only and that was after getting it ‘fixed’. Cold, wind, sun, hot and rain – all four seasons in a day. Knackered.
Extra – The day dawns cold, overcast and miserable but I’m relatively upbeat and confident and crack on with getting some serious miles under my belt. I’ve banked on getting through about 70 miles a day but this obviously will depend on the weather and road conditions, terrain and my fitness. The first petrol station provides me with a ‘meal-deal’ breakfast and get this, the attendant gives me his only tea-spoon which, in an emergency, I can use as a tyre lever. Top boy.
By the time I reach Redruth I know I’m in trouble with the cantankerous Campag chainset and I’ve lost the ability to engage the small ring. B*gger. Not to worry though as a friendly Newquay CC rider gives me another tyre lever and points me in the direction of Wadebridge’s Babes & Bikes. Proprietor Rick (no babe I’m afraid) fettles it to the best of his ability but warns me that it’s just about on the edge of adjustment and that I should have perhaps replaced the front mech when I put on the 50/36 compact. Now he tells me. Where was he when I needed that advice years ago!
6.00pm sees me rolling into Okehampton’s campsite and gratefully treating myself to a Kit-Kat, Mars bar, Heinz macaroni cheese and a pot-noodle. Nothing has ever tasted so good. Just then, five cyclists rock-up on the last night of their fully supported LEJOG venture and I am so jealous of the already set-up BBQ and dustbin of cold beers. They’ve managed to compete the reverse journey in only seven days whereas I’m already feeling the combined weight of winter-hack and almost 50 lbs of additional luggage and my ten/twelve day prediction seems a tad ambitious.
Later in the adjoining pub we discuss routes and my planned explanation is greeted by an ominous silence. “You’re not really thinking of doing the ‘Cadbury hills’ with all that gear and a chainset that’s playing up are you? We even avoided it on race bikes carrying nothing but ourselves. How many have you had?” Too many apparently as it just spurred me on further…even though they were justified in their warnings. How much more hilly could Devon be than Cornwall? Also, the first of many sponsorship gifts took place when Brian and his good lady donated a tenner to the cause and wished me good speed and a fair wind. Top guys the lot of them.
Route – Land’s End, Penzance, Redruth, Newquay, Wadebridge, Launceston and Okehampton. Cycling distance – 101 miles. Terrain – Up & down and steep. Devon has more steep hills than anywhere else in Britain.

Saturday 21st May: 90 miles to Clevedon, just south of Bristol. Tough but strangely enjoyable. The adventure is the people you meet in between the cycling. Ready for bed.
Extra – Rice crispies and a Kit-Kat prove to be the breakfast of champions and I’m ready to hit the road by 8.00am. Just pop on the lid and one glove and the other… where’s the other glove? Oh, damn, it’s windy, really blowy and it must have blown away a bit. I spend 15 minutes searching the camping field before realising I must have packed it in the panniers by accident. Empty the panniers to no avail. Re-pack them and re-empty them. Again. And I’m having the first hissy fit of the journey, on the first proper morning. An hour and a quarter later it turns up in the tent-peg bag in the middle of the wrapped up tent and I am within an inch of calling it a day already. And this before the ‘Cadbury hills’. Great.
Thankfully, the mood clears with the skies and in what feels a sharpish pace/time I’m cycling into Wellington looking for my first fish & chip shop of the adventure. Needless to say it wasn’t to be my last. I’m making a point of talking to anyone and everyone and the young fellow serving me turns out to be an ex-Horse Guard’s soldier who was stationed in Windsor. Small world. After talking pubs, shops and training routes around Windsor Great Park he checks his boss isn’t looking and slips me two fish and extra chips for the price of one. Top boy.
Fortified and refuelled, the road slips by without too much drama and I even find myself having to stop to put on some sun tan lotion. Needless to say this was to be the first and last time! Around six-ish I start asking passers-by for any campsite but to no avail until I get to a Co-op in Yatton where an old God squadder who’s collecting for a local charity agrees to look after my bike for a quid while I buy my dinner and then points me in the direction of a static caravan site in Clevedon. Turns out he’s a 74 year old guy who’d just moved down here from Sheffield where he lived round the corner from where I used to in Sackville Street and he remembered Joe Cocker drinking in The Ball. Small world and yep, another top-boy!
The ‘static’ owner pulls her face a bit about letting a camper in but eventually relents and directs me to an exposed and open corner of the field. No worries and the closest caravan takes pity on me and plies me with tea and cake. Bed by 9.30pm and I even manage to tune the tranny into Absolute Classic Rock. Life’s looking as good as the countryside I’d just cycled through.
Route – Okehampton, Crediton, Tiverton, Wellington, Taunton, Bridgewater, Yatton, Clevedon. Cycling distance – 102 miles. Terrain – Up & down and just as steep as earlier. Somerset flattens out a bit, until you get to the Blackdown Hills and the Mendips.

Sunday 22nd May: Another 90 miles to just 15 shy of Shrewsbury. Rain, wind and red-hot. Endless hills but good tarmac and finding some riding rhythm. Sleeping tonight in a wooden hobbit hole – I was upgraded from a camping pitch as the guys felt sorry for me.
Extra – I wake to the sound of rain drops but at least it’s still warm enough and another cuppa from the friendly ‘static’ sees me happily on my way before many have stirred. All’s well until I reach the coast and start to navigate the Avonmouth and Severn estuaries. Whoever devised these routes may have been many things but a cyclist wasn’t one of them and I end up completely lost, shielding under a bridge from the ever increasing heavy downpour. Enter stage left, Tubbs, Bristol’s 64 year old cycling butcher. His opening gambit of “End2Ender?” gave the game away as he had competed the same journey only last September with cycling tour company Skedaddle Saddles and claimed he could spot a fellow adventurer at 400 yards. Even though it was completely out of his way Tubbs guided me the next 15/20 miles right to the foot of the Severn Road Bridge and proved just the right antidote to the West Country’s inclement weather. Tubb’s liked to cycle 30 miles a day to and from work and he started each and every day at 4.00am. But get this, when I jokingly suggested he move closer to the shop he explained he only lived a mile away from it…he merely liked to take the long way there! Strange lot these cyclists and needless to say, Tubb’s you’re a top boy.
The Severn proved a somewhat hair raising experience as the 90mph gusts forced me to walk much of the bridge in fear of my life. I honestly have never felt wind like it. Oooeerrr madam. Somewhat grudgingly I did have to enter Wales but, as I was on a push-bike, at least they couldn’t charge me for the privilege. But what a surprise. Don’t tell Carl ‘The Taff’ Davies this but the A466 through the Wye Valley to Monmouth and beyond proved to be one, if not THE, roads of the journey. Go look at it on a map and you’ll get the idea.
The bad news though was that the Campag gears were really playing up again and changing chain ring was proving increasing difficult and unpredictable. It was as though I had an automatic gear box and one that changed of its own volition with little or no encouragement from me. Deep down I knew I had to get this properly sorted before I hit the hills of The Lakes and Scotland.
Little Marshbrook, just north of Ludlow provided the ideal stop-over at www.camping-shropshire.co.uk where I was upgraded to one of their innovative heated camping pods as they felt a bit sorry for me. And get this, the guys run an on-site fully accredited Scott & Orange mtb and road bike centre, Blazing Bikes. Who else could get his bike properly fettled and serviced at 8.00pm on Sunday for the price of a pint at The Station Inn next door? Am I one lucky b*gger or what! The food was just what the doctor ordered and all round I couldn’t have been treated any better. If you’re ever in their neck of the woods please check them out.
Route – Clevedon, Bristol, Severn Road Bridge, Monmouth, Hereford, Leominster, Ludlow and Marshbrook. Cycling distance – 100 miles. Terrain – Rolling and not too bad at all. The Welsh Marches used to be The Land That Time Forgot (just without Doug McClure!), attracting people who wanted to get away from it all. It undoubtedly offers a great quality of life to its residents and I really rated the place.

Monday 23rd May: A big push sees me to God’s country (Preston) for a hot bath and comfy bed. Knees sore and arse worse but going surprisingly well. Windy, windy, windy. Very windy. Gales. Not nice.
Extra – Shropshire’s answer to the hobbit hole provided a great night’s kip and you’ve no idea how riding a smoothly functioning machine makes everything feel right. The only blot on the copybook was the increasingly strong winds but thankfully in a stroke of luck they remained westerly and as such proved of slightly more help than hindrance.
Shrewsbury, Ellesmere and Overton all slipped past uneventfully and Wrexham provided me with the earliest fish & chip stop of the trip. Was it too early at 11.15am to be sat in a bus shelter enjoying a lovely bit of haddock, chips and gravy? Nah, thought not. The Mersey presented an opportunity for me to invoke Gerry & The Pacemakers’ ode to the river but, having just missed the ferry I elected to do the unthinkable and jump on the train and go under as opposed to over. It saved me an hour but failed hands-down to add any romance to the escapade. Mind, getting a fully laden bike into a tiny lift on its back wheel proved a challenge worthy of the young kid I hit on the head with my front wheel. Whoops. Sorry.
Reappearing in bright sunshine on the other side was enlivening and I realised I would make me ol’ dears at Preston for the night. But that was only if I first made it through Liverpool’s Walton & Litherland districts in one piece. These places are surely where the idea for Channel 4’s Shameless was dreamt up and I swear to you that at 2.30pm the only shops doing any business were the pubs and ‘bargain booze’ offies. In a town of strange orange ladies and chip-paper tumbleweed I saw one situation that was undoubtedly going to escalate into a nasty brawl and a further incident where a guy threw a full can of ale at his missus with a torrent of abuse. Just keep the wheels turning, don’t stop at the red light and please try to avoid any eye-contact. Phew made it and a hot shower, home-cooked grub and comfortable bed are my rewards!
Route – Marshbrook, Shrewsbury, Ellesmere, Overton, Wrexham, Chester, Birkenhead, Liverpool, Ormskirk and Preston. Cycling distance – 115 miles. Terrain: Nice and flat with great tarmac. I love it!

Tuesday 24th May: Och aye the noo, I’m in Scotland and it’s freezing! Torrential rain and two hailstone storms over Shap but it’s strangely enjoyable and I’m now halfway there.
Extra – The lovely A6 provides the opportunity of me reliving some of the journeys of my youth – Brock Bottom with my pals, fishing on the Lancaster Canal at Garstang with my Grandad and being scared in the dungeons of Lancaster castle with the family. Calling the A6 lovely may raise eyebrows in cycling circles as it is undoubtedly a busy road but here’s the rub. In England at least we have the major transition entities that are motorways and by and large the larger vehicles (juggernauts, lorries, fuel tankers and their like) tend to stay on them and thus don’t overly clutter the smaller roads. Well that’s my theory anyway…and it was one I was going to have confirmed the further I travelled to the North.
Kendal heralded the start of The Lakes and also the end of the pleasant weather that had accompanied me for the last day. As I literally crossed the town’s welcoming sign the heavens opened in a torrential greeting. Thanks. For nothing. And it started to get steep. Really steep.
Now, I can’t remember ever actually crossing Shap before but being Northern I know well its infamous reputation for blowing car engines and leaving their hapless occupants stranded for days on end as the weather forced back the potential and increasingly frantic rescuers. Having grown up in a family whose pride and joy was an aged and hand-painted (sh*t brown) Hillman Imp it was a place we knew to avoid. With obvious good reason. To say Shap is steep is to say I’m short and it came as no surprise when the rain first turned from a slant to horizontal and then to sleet and ultimately to hailstone. It was around this time that I realised the disposable plastic gloves I’d collected from a garage forecourt earlier in the day were not going to be up to the job! There’s planning for you.
Over the top and down the other side found me desperately searching tea and cake. So too by co-incidence was fellow E2E’er Kevin Moore and the two of us met over a hot cuppa and a slice of Battenberg in the Shap Hideaway Cafe. No prizes for guessing that the Essex based 55 year old ex-Deutsche Agile PM was undoubtedly a top, top boy. Even though the fact that he was Scouse obviously counted heavily against him. And my, did he have all the gear – a Thorn bike with hub centred gears, a well-worn Brooks’ saddle, a device for charging any and all devices and more Gore Tex that you could shake a stick at. Thankfully, he had all the idea as well and he was going to comfortably make it all the way with few concerns. I on the other hand couldn’t stop shivering long enough to think past where my next meal was going to come from. I’d even had to resort to putting elastic bands around my waterproof trousers to stop them catching the wind and pushing me across the road in front of oncoming traffic. Trousers as sails? Now that’s an idea worth registering.
What do you call a family that visits their local MacDonald’s every night for their tea? One from Carlisle of course. OK, I have to admit I was in there too but it wasn’t for my ‘usual Tuesday special’ as the loud, obese, argumentative and foul-mouthed patrons of this fine respectable establishment appeared to be. Not nice and with a Big Mac inside me I was off to experience the land of haggis, thistle and a wee dram.
Route – Preston, Garstang, Lancaster, Kendal, Penrith, Carlisle, Longtown. Cycling distance – 107 miles. Terrain – Starts off nice and flat but soon turns into rolling before becoming downright steep and craggy over The Lakes. Then nice and flat again over into Scotland.

Wednesday 25th May: No idea re distance as I lost three hours in the Edinburgh traffic system. Doh. Pitched in Kinross and will try to get half way to Inverness tomorrow. Cold beans and cider for tea. Nice.
Extra – During the night another tent had been pitched on the windswept site and these two guys were having a great adventure. As a laugh they’d decided to buy two Honda Melody 50cc mopeds to make the journey on and the planning they’d undertaken made me look like a serious round-the-world explorer. Their idea of weather protection consisted of a Superdry windcheater and a couple of black bin bags. In Scotland the conditions had been so severe that they’d had to push the bikes up the hills whilst they were still running WITH the throttles pinned back to the stop! Great guys, and top boys. I hope they made it and brought the craic to others in the same way as they had to me.
Earlier, I mentioned it was at this point in the trip that a decision had to be taken as to exactly which way I had to go. After much deliberation concerning distance, terrain, prevailing winds and potential weather conditions I was left with no choice but to flip a coin. Heads for Edinburgh and the Grampians, tails for Dumfries, Glasgow and the Great Glen. Heads it is and I’m not overly disappointed as I’ve never been this way before and… I’ve no idea what to expect. Uh oh. Initially the A7 was a great bit of tarmac but the closer to Edinburgh I got the busier and busier it became. By the time we eventually reached the A720 ring road I knew exactly what I was in for and looking forward to it I was not.
I managed just one junction of the road before calling it a day and leaving with my life intact. Just. I had been subject to more aggressive horn hoots, cat calls, verbal abuse and even object throwing in one junction than in probably the whole of my cycling experience. Not good. Consequently I chose to follow a wee B road on the inside of the ring road before joining the A90, the only road (according to my map) leading over the Forth Road Bridge. The A90 proved only to show the A720 to be its younger less hostile sibling but one with a sting in its tail. After a mile or two of unwelcome hassle and mid junction I came across the source of their Scottish gripes – a large and highly visible ‘No Pedestrians No Cyclists’ signs. Uh oh. But it was mid junction and what was I expected to do. I walked for about half a mile, climbed 60 steps, hauled everything over a fence, ploughed a field and finally dragged my sorry arse over a stone wall.
Eventually I came across what I hoped was the fair city’s airport and managed, with the help of several cyclists, to get my bearings and head off in the general direction of the infamous bridge. At least a couple of hours had been lost but eventually I was over and on my way via Cowdenbeath to the sleepy village of Kinross. Signing in at gone 8.00pm meant nothing was going to be open but the kind ol’ dear owner went and dug me out a can of beans, a couple of bread rolls and a can of Strongbow and wouldn’t accept a penny for them. Not even the gas running out before they were heated above tepid could dampen my spirits.
Route – Longtown, Selkirk, Hawick, Galashiels, Edinburgh, Dumfermline, Cowdenbeath, Kinross. Cycling distance – 115 miles. Terrain – Not too bad and certainly not as bad as you’d think. Rolling and hilly but usually a bit ‘draggy’ as opposed to too sharp.

Thursday 26th May: Skiing anyone? Aviemore, 30 miles shy of Inverness. Shocking weather still and soaked to the core. Everything is wet. Soon be over and I’m never riding again!
Extra – A Scottish meat pie kicks off the day and I manage to blag a hot tea off a couple of cyclists. Mind, these lassies have taken cycle touring to its extreme and they even needed a trolley to cart their gear around. Wrong. My cycling gear has been sodden now for a couple of days now and putting it back on has definitely lost its appeal. I’m starting to think of a chippie before the sun’s really risen. Pitlochry provides the opportunity I’m looking for and I’m enjoying my fish dinner when I’m joined by a couple of Californians who have specifically travelled here for this delightful cuisine. Now, don’t get me wrong they’re nice but they ain’t worth travelling many thousands of miles for. Chris Garnett turns out to be the world’s strongest hand-grip champion and shaking hands with him is like gripping a grizzly!
Back on the road I ponder the adage that if Britain’s climate is all four seasons in a day, Scotland’s is all four seasons in an hour. The A9’s a shocker and without a motorway in a hundred miles every vehicle heading North, irrespective of size is on this slim ribbon of ropey tarmac. And I’m holding most of it up as I refuse to be forced into the gutter. My lights go on at 2.00pm and I position two of them on my helmet in an attempt to remain visible in the miserable rain, spray and mist. I’m cold, wet, scared and will be happy to see the back of this day. And my knees scream out with any incline being tackled. Being turned away from a hotel just outside Aviemore because I looked a bit of a state was the icing on the cake for this day. Make it end.
Route – Kinross, Perth, Pitlochry, Aviemore. Cycling distance – 100 miles. Terrain – Ah, now we’re in Scotland for real. Hilly, hilly, hilly and all the way up to the summits of Aviemore.

Friday 27th May: Cold, wet night and it’s freezing. Snow forecast. Camping wild in Helmsdale as no campsite can be found. Fish & chips and beer were lifesavers.
Extra – After a cold chilly night under canvas where snow was forecast the A9 picks up exactly where it left off. It’s all I can do to keep my head down and grind out the 25 or so miles to Inverness. On checking out of the campsite I asked the attendant if it was all downhill to Inverness, as we were technically on the summits of the Grampians. I kid you not that he looked at me incredulously before explaining it was ALL uphill until two miles out of Inverness and then I’d better watch out for the descent as it was a shocker! B*gger.
What I’ve come to realise though is that the traffic travels in waves, you see nothing for a couple of minutes and then…whoosh…dozens of vehicles scream past you in tight convoy travelling a huge speeds. Being Scottish they’re also invariably going to be drunk on Buckfast fortified wine or hyped on Iron Bru. Thankfully, I’ve cracked on with the distances at a pretty alarming rate and I’m going to finish a good few days earlier than anticipated. Consequently, I need to pop into Inverness bus station to change my ticket. Young Stacey looks after my requests and she’s intrigued by the charity stayclosetoneve as her daughter’s also called Neve and she even donates a tenner before I leave. Top girl and this probably represents the lion’s share of a morning’s work – top, top lass.
Not a lot happens until I pitch up exhausted and ready for a comfortable night in Helmsdale. I’m just about to go into the local pub to book a room when that question is again proffered by a passer-by, “End2End’er?” I’m now adopted by Bob and his son Gareth I pitch next to them on the village green before retiring to the pub for a few pints, a cracking fish & chip supper and a lovely night cap of another pint.
Bob and Gareth have taken 18 days so far to cover the distance but they’ve had a right laugh and have enjoyed a cracking once in a lifetime ‘father/son’ experience. Gareth’s doing it on a classic steel framed Holdsworth but his father steals the show by undertaking the trip of a vintage Frank Mercer which he bought, second hand, 43 years ago. Awesome. And get this, his two chain rings are 54/48 respectively – a 48 inner ring…that’s only two teeth less than my big one. If I had a 48 inner ring I’d still have been in Devon! The boy must have legs of iron. Top boys the both of them.
Route – Aviemore, Inverness, Allness, Helmsdale. Cycling distance – 95 miles. Terrain – Mountainous (that’ll be the Grampians – ed.) and tortuous.

Saturday 28th May: Done it. Rode into John O’Groat’s at 1.30pm after eight days and four hours and it actually stopped raining to welcome me. Hitched a lift to Invs and am now sat on the overnight coach without a valid ticket.
Extra – 50 miles to go and I’m on the home straight. The map gives the impression that this is just going to be a gentle amble down the coast road and an easy freewheel into John O’Groats. Be lulled into this at your peril. Just out of Helmdale and I could not believe what I came face to face with. Two of the most severe climbs with sharp hairpin cutbacks appear out of nowhere and I have to admit that this was the closest I’d yet been to getting off the Pinarello and pushing it. But I wasn’t going to allow that as I wouldn’t have allowed myself to claim that I’d ‘cycled’ the distance so it’s a case of grit your teeth, ignore your screaming knees and force those pedals down.
A full ‘Scottish’ breakfast provides invaluable sustenance after only ten miles and Lucy turns out to be a right character – Lancastrian born and bred and married to an ex-Hells Angel who radically left to set up the Lake District chapter of rival group, Satan’s Slaves. She cooks probably as well as he fights. Though I’d not want to be able to confirm that. The next couple of hours are equally tortuous and with only a couple of miles to go I’m still climbing. No-one mentioned these hills and I thought I’d seen the back of pain and suffering with the end of the Grampians.
Everyone warns you that John O’Groats is a massive disappointment and cautions about getting your hopes up and for once everyone is so on the money. There’s nothing there other than the few expected tourist tat shops and scattered people huddling for shelter in bus shelters. A quick snap and I join them. But the next bus is over an hour away and I can’t be fagged waiting that long so I start prowling the car park asking anyone if I can put the bike in their car/van/vehicle/disability scooter/motorbike and cadge a lift to anywhere they’re going (it can only be either Thruso or Wick) and I can catch a train to Inverness from either. Whilst trying to convince a couple in a VW camper van that the bike will fit in a guy overhears me and offers me a lift in his sooper dooper Renault van all the way to Inverness. I’m in it before he finishes the sentence and what a stroke of luck! National sales manager John Dyer is up on business but is taking a couple of days off to show his wife, Phalinka, the beauty of the North. She doesn’t seem overly impressed and who can blame her. He’s a ‘red’ whose major concern is to get to a comfortable place to watch the Champion’s league final against Barcelona later in the day. Sorry, John! We scoot along all the roads I’d just cycled and I’m back in the bus station in what feels a blink of an eye. Thanks John and you’re a top boy. May your prospects all be converted, your targets all be blown and your openings all be closed.
An hour later, even though I don’t have the right ticket, and have only managed to wrap up the bike in a bit of tarpaulin, I’ve blagged my way onto the overnight bus to London and two hours’ sleep later we roll into London Victoria at 7.15am Sunday morning. Welcome back to civilisation. Bliss.
Route – Helmsdale, Wick, John O’Groats. Cycling distance – 55 miles. Terrain – Don’t ask.

Sunday 29th May: Arrive London 7.15am relieved and exhausted. Drunken Jocks and fighting Poles kept the driver distracted as the coach filled to capacity. Phew.

Ever Again?

Eight days and four hours after setting off from Land’s End I roll into John O’Groats having covered about 900 miles of the most gruelling roads and terrain I could have envisaged. If I had I probably wouldn’t have done it in the first place. Apart from one occasion at my mother’s, every night was spent in the tent, often heating up whatever food was on offer from those around me. I’d been soaked and riding in wet clothes for at least four days and had gained a perturbing ‘thousand yard stare’ from grimly gripping the handlebars in the face on marauding lorries and fuel tankers. Incredibly I’d suffered not one puncture and the mechanicals were limited to the gears and chain rings playing up. I’d experienced the complete gamut of Britain’s weather and lived to tell the tale. Without exception everyone I’d met had been fantastic – supportive, welcoming, generous, friendly and helpful.
So, would I do it ever again? I honestly don’t think I’ll have the opportunity but yes I would do it again. There are certain things I’d change though. I wouldn’t do it solo. Yes, you are able to travel at your own pace, stop when you wish, take the detours you want to and yes, you only suffer the mechanicals and stoppages of one bike and one cyclist. I also think travelling alone makes you more sociable as you have to make the intro to gain social contact but it would undoubtedly be easier to roll along with one or two other people. Two’s company three’s a crowd but I wouldn’t mind that.
I would do it unsupported and carry everything you need. Being supported is just cheating, pure and simple. If there were a couple of you lots of the stuff you need to carry would be shared (tent, cooking stuff, bike tools etc) between the group. I would attempt to travel even lighter than I did as, when you’re out on the road, you can relatively easily do without things you would consider absolutely essential when at home.
En route I would be more pragmatic in terms of using B&Bs and hotels. It became a bit of a mission of mine to always camp irrespective of weather/whether I could have done with a good dry warm night’s kip. The sh*g and hassle of the last couple of days could have been eased if I’d have had seven or eight hour’s sleep and dry riding clothes to wear.
Without question I would avoid the A720 and A90 like the plague and at Gretna would point the bike West and aim for the Great Glen.

Home Truths:

Social – If you don’t ask, you don’t get. People are nice and their ‘default setting’ is to do good. I spoke to/met with over a hundred or more people and everyone was fantastic, everyone. Older people smile more, talk for longer and potentially have more to offer. People are the only things that matter. You also don’t know what you are capable of until you ask the questions of yourself and invariably the answers will pleasantly surprise you.
Weather – We are so lucky in the UK as it’s never going to be a dull day, so to speak. We’re a small country but with big differences. Never, never think that this is a bad as it’s going to get as it will get worse. Upon pain of death never competitively say out loud or to yourself ‘is that the best you can do?’ as the strong wind will turn to a gale, the rain will turn to hailstone and the cold will turn to a frost. I stopped saying this on the sixth day.
What the wind gives with one hand it takes with the other. One minute it’s a supportive hand on your back gently pushing you along the way, the next it’s on your chest forcing you back down the hill you’re trying to grind your way up. Admittedly, the westerly that accompanied me for much of the journey was with me more than against me and for that I am eternally grateful.

Great Britain – Nice place to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there! Nah, seriously it’s a great place to be and I for one wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. OK, just nowhere near Walton or Cowdenbeath. The variety of terrain and vista is truly surprising and there really is something for everyone within these shores. Either ends of the country are quite similar in that they are quite barren and lonely places. At times they appear virtually lawless and beyond any authorities control. The only perceptible differences I could make out were that people in Cornwall prefer old two-stroke motorcycles of the pre-LC Yamaha RD nature whereas those in the North have a definite liking for beefed up Novas and Corsas running huge bean-can exhaust systems. The similarity is that I suspect all these vehicles are neither taxed, tested or insured!
It’s a small country with big ideas.

Road kill – We all expect to see rabbits and hedgehogs as road kill (which in itself is a great shame) but the amount of larger animals I saw was definitely upsetting. I lost count of the foxes and badgers that I passed dead on the side of the road. In Scotland a dead dear was not uncommon but the saddest thing I saw were three dead owls, one snowy white the others mottled brown. All are a sad loss to all of us.

Traffic – Well, no-one actually hit me and I don’t believe anyone really intended to. I think many drivers just play a light-hearted little game of seeing how close they can get to you and then measure the wobble they subsequently induce. Ironically, the back draft caused by a zooming close-passing lorry drags you along for a couple of metres and provides a few seconds of respite! On the A720 and A9 other road users were guilty of using the c-word on several occasions, and it wasn’t just ‘cyclist’.
The infernal combustion engine is experiencing its death-throes. We may be 20 or 30 years away from its complete demise but make no bones about it, its days are numbered, and with this the world will start to expand again. Our horizons will shrink. On one occasion I was overtaken by a fuel tanker travelling at a great speed, followed by several similarly speeding smaller cars, one or two which overtook the tanker. It was as if the smaller cars were chasing the petrol tanker, chasing the fuel in order to capture it and survive. Reminiscent of a potential early scene from Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. Uh oh.

Technology – You do not need to be connected 24/7. You do not need all the information the world has to offer at your fingertips. You do not need GPS to get you where you wish to go. You do not need to available to all and sundry all the time. You will not be defined by your iphone, crackberry or some such device. You need to be comfortable in your own skin, realise who you are and you need to develop a healthy relationship with your technologies. The tail must not wag the dog.

Food Diary:

Thursday 19th May – Weetabix, turkey sandwiches, two bananas, one energy bar, one can beer.
Friday 20th May – Prawn sandwich, crisps, three bars, one banana, scrambled eggs on toast, one can of Heinz macaroni cheese, one pot-noodle, two pints beer.
Saturday 21st May – Rice crispies, one bar, fish (2) & chips, full roast chicken, bread roll, two bananas, two bottles beer.
Sunday 22nd May – Two bananas, two bars, baked potato & chicken curry, pate & toast, mushroom stroganoff, chips, rice and peas, two pints beer.
Monday 23rd May – One banana, three bars, fish, chips & gravy, bacon, eggs & potatoes, bread & butter, three bottles beer.
Tuesday 24th May – Weetabix, toast, two bananas, three bars, tuna sandwiches, slice of Bakewell tart, Big Mac & large fries.
Wednesday 25th May – Two bananas, three bars, two sausage rolls, promotional pack of ‘After Eights’, can of beans, two bread rolls, can of cider.
Thursday 26th May – Meat pie, two bananas, two bars, fish & chips, all-you-can-eat pizza & pasta, two beers.
Friday 27th May – Two bananas, two bars, pie, chips & beans, fish & chips, three beers.
Saturday 28th May – Full ‘Scottish’ (eggs, bacon, sausages, black pudding, scotch pancake, fried bread, beans, tomato, mushrooms and toast), slice of Victoria sponge, two bars, no bananas!
Needless to say that with being constantly on the move, being unable to carry anything other larger than a banana or bar (energy, Mars, Marathon or Kit-Kat) and often arriving at a camping site after everything had closed, this didn’t really prove to be enough and I’ve come back weighing about three-quarters of a stone less than when I set off. Good if you wanted to diet though. Also, contrary to what Martin Litherland would have us all believe, bananas are not the Devil’s food, they are in fact the on-Earth equivalent of the God’s ambrosia…I just don’t want to see another one for quite some considerable time! On the move water was supplemented by SIS GO powder which I carried in sealable plastic bags and about 2 litres was consumed daily. Hot tea was brewed up when possible or bought when necessary.

Kit List:

Cycling – Bike (trusty alloy Pinarello with highly cantankerous Campagnolo Centaur 10 speed groupset; Stronglight 50/36 compact chainset; Fizik Arionne saddle; superb Continental 4 Season tyres; alloy rack and two textile panniers (thanks Peter); front mudguard; four Knog cycle lights (though not powerful enough for Scotland’s gloom and short-tempered lorry drivers); two 500ml water bottles & cages; three bungee cords; home-made map holder (patent pending!); one multi-tool; five allen keys (u – unused); chain splitter (u); pocket pump (u); puncture repair kit with additional patches & vulcanisation glue (u…amazingly!); two spare inner tubes (u), three tyre levers (eventually); assorted cable ties and elastic bands; assorted brackets, screws and plastic padding; cycling helmet; heavy-duty lock & 6 ft cable; bike bag (thanks Grant and Geoff Dandy for collecting and sending it back)

Camping – One man tent (Terra Nova Saturn, thanks Mr. Fox); thermal sleeping bag and cotton liner (thanks Tom); alpine mattress (thanks Jon); blow-up pillow; alpine stove & gas; mess tins (thanks Grant); 2 litre water carrier; plastic fork & spoon; camping knife; one-man aluminium kettle; head-torch; lighter & matches; enamel mug; lightweight travel towel; toiletries (small container shower gel, toothpaste and brush; deodorant; small container wash-up liquid, insect repellent (u), soothing/antiseptic creams (u), hand-cleans (u), band-aids (u)), tea towel (u), plate scourer (u), rag (u).

Clothing – Thermal cycling top; s/s cycling jersey; pair bib shorts; Sealskinz waterproof socks (waterproof my arse!); Hilly running socks; Nike cycling shoes with SPD cleats; Mizuno trainers; sports socks (u), pair mtb shorts; pair boxers; Helly Hansen l/s skin; pair summer riding gloves; riding cap; Sportful racing cape; waterproof over-trousers; sunglasses (u); ear plugs; eye cover (u);

Miscellaneous – Phone, spare battery & charger; transistor radio; notebook & pencil, marker pen; guide book; various pages from a road atlas; reading book (The Life of Pi by Yann Martel (u)); tea bags; energy powder; sealable waterproof bags; various spare batteries; tarpaulin (bought in Inverness on final day to wrap up bike on coach)

Costs:

I did this trip on a bit of a shoe-string as I’m Northern and tight. Consequently I blagged and borrowed as much of the stuff I needed as possible and I thank all of you whom unselfishly and generously stumped up what I needed. I started out with £100 in my pocket and drew out a further £50 in a Morrison’s in Scotland (I’d snapped my card on the second day and couldn’t risk using an auto-bank). Most of this was spent on camping, food and any necessities. Travel tickets cost a total of £104 and I’d also spent £28.50 on the card or a cracking good meal at The Station Inn. £40 was spent in the bike shop on various tools and a proper cycling pannier rack. Campsites usually came in around £8 per night but the ‘wild’ camping was obviously free and my mother didn’t charge me!
In total, I’d estimate the total cost of the escapade as being somewhere in the region of £350.

Conclusion:

It’s all about the journey, not the destination.