All of the photos from the trip are online on:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=247144&id=684510420&l=b3a9a87f49
Thursday 29 July 2010
Monday 26 July 2010
DAY 9 LAST DAY!
The last day! Arising for our final cooked breakfast we were driven back to Tavistock where we had left off the night before and fiddled around with the GPS before setting off on our route. The weather looked promising this morning – it was slightly overcast, but bouts of sunshine were peeping through. Not even 500m into our journey this all changed though, and once again we had torrential rain. This time though it was so bad that we had to seek shelter in a nearby bus stop and waited for about 20 minutes whilst the rain hammered on the roof. Unfortunately the issue here wasn’t just one of gritting teeth and cycling through the rain. Because it was so torrential – the roads were akin to rivers, and drains were overflowing, there was the danger of other cars aqua-planing and not being able to stop quick enough. We waited for the rain to slow down to a moderately torrential amount before starting off again.
Although we moaned about the weather (again), we were very motivated to go on just because of the knowledge that there would be CHAMPAGNE at the end. Alcohol had become a serious motivator by this point.
Someone in team TROTT (I can’t remember who at the time of writing) was informed by the weather forecasters back home, that the area had received a severe weather warning and that we were right in the middle of it. Further to add to our dis-contempt with the weather (not that we needed any more hatred of the UK weather systems by this point), that the rain was following us SOUTH, despite the fact that the wind was blowing NORTH (or so it seemed). The other group of Lands end to John O Groaters from KGS (remember – the sensible ones doing it the correct way around?) had informed us that the worst thing about Cornwall and Devon (besides the hills) was the sunburn. SUNBURN??? WE WOULD HAVE GIVEN OUR WHEELS AND CRAWLED TO LANDS END FOR SUNBURN! Grumbling we TROTTed on (a joke that we found much too amusing when cycling – possibly due to low blood sugar and bouts of delirium).
After the initial climb we pulled over in a garage to inspect Tom’s break pads. He had the same problem as I had only a few days previously, his break pads were very worn down indeed. Learning from previous mistakes, we got the support car to Google bike shops nearby our current location. There was none within 10 miles so we opted for an impromptu measure – instead of replacing the pads, we borrowed a mechanics tools and made the callipers grip the wheel more tightly. Just a side note that this was a last minute measure and should not really be done unless the last option available.
Besides that minor hiccup, all was running smoothly (besides my ankle – but I strapped on a pair and got on with it). Then Robbie ran into some technical difficulties. Bombing down a road that was overcast with trees (restricting light), Robbie tore his front tyre when he went at 3x the speed of sound over some pesky sharp stones that were inconveniently in his way. Waiting at the bottom of the hill for Robbie to wheel his bike down, I phoned the support car to tell them what had happened. Robbie arrived and began to fit a new inner tube, but upon inspection of his tyre and the finding of a hole roughly the size of a bullet hole, it was realised that he needed a new tyre completely. Putting the bike on the rack, they set off in the support car to the nearest bike shop, leaving me and Tom to continue. We speculated that his tyre must have been shot by mercenaries hired by someone from a rival charity in an attempt to stop us.
Continuing on, me and Tom tackled some hideous hills that we had to go down slowly thanks to Toms dodgy back break pad. Still, after covering some milage, we met back up with the support crew and Robbie who had a shiny new tyre.
Reunited, we cycled on for the rest of the day without event. We were informed by my father via text that his train had been delayed by a suicidal woman on a viaduct, and despite leading the chorus of “jump you bugger, jump!” he was still going to be late.
It was now nearing the end of our journey, and with only a few miles to go we encountered a sign for Lands End after as we were passing through Penzance. Excited and spurred on by the thought of finishing, we went on and a few miles down the road encountered another sign that read that read “Mt. Misery”. Surprisingly, Mt. Misery was not actually that miserable (though this was possibly due to the fact that we were nearly finished), and it was the last climb of the day. The last couple of miles really were a joy. It was all flat and downhill, and the rain had stopped by this point. We finished with the support car behind us, blaring out blazing tunes as we cruised into Lands End, through the amusements there and touching the sign.
THE END!
Although we moaned about the weather (again), we were very motivated to go on just because of the knowledge that there would be CHAMPAGNE at the end. Alcohol had become a serious motivator by this point.
Someone in team TROTT (I can’t remember who at the time of writing) was informed by the weather forecasters back home, that the area had received a severe weather warning and that we were right in the middle of it. Further to add to our dis-contempt with the weather (not that we needed any more hatred of the UK weather systems by this point), that the rain was following us SOUTH, despite the fact that the wind was blowing NORTH (or so it seemed). The other group of Lands end to John O Groaters from KGS (remember – the sensible ones doing it the correct way around?) had informed us that the worst thing about Cornwall and Devon (besides the hills) was the sunburn. SUNBURN??? WE WOULD HAVE GIVEN OUR WHEELS AND CRAWLED TO LANDS END FOR SUNBURN! Grumbling we TROTTed on (a joke that we found much too amusing when cycling – possibly due to low blood sugar and bouts of delirium).
After the initial climb we pulled over in a garage to inspect Tom’s break pads. He had the same problem as I had only a few days previously, his break pads were very worn down indeed. Learning from previous mistakes, we got the support car to Google bike shops nearby our current location. There was none within 10 miles so we opted for an impromptu measure – instead of replacing the pads, we borrowed a mechanics tools and made the callipers grip the wheel more tightly. Just a side note that this was a last minute measure and should not really be done unless the last option available.
Besides that minor hiccup, all was running smoothly (besides my ankle – but I strapped on a pair and got on with it). Then Robbie ran into some technical difficulties. Bombing down a road that was overcast with trees (restricting light), Robbie tore his front tyre when he went at 3x the speed of sound over some pesky sharp stones that were inconveniently in his way. Waiting at the bottom of the hill for Robbie to wheel his bike down, I phoned the support car to tell them what had happened. Robbie arrived and began to fit a new inner tube, but upon inspection of his tyre and the finding of a hole roughly the size of a bullet hole, it was realised that he needed a new tyre completely. Putting the bike on the rack, they set off in the support car to the nearest bike shop, leaving me and Tom to continue. We speculated that his tyre must have been shot by mercenaries hired by someone from a rival charity in an attempt to stop us.
Continuing on, me and Tom tackled some hideous hills that we had to go down slowly thanks to Toms dodgy back break pad. Still, after covering some milage, we met back up with the support crew and Robbie who had a shiny new tyre.
Reunited, we cycled on for the rest of the day without event. We were informed by my father via text that his train had been delayed by a suicidal woman on a viaduct, and despite leading the chorus of “jump you bugger, jump!” he was still going to be late.
It was now nearing the end of our journey, and with only a few miles to go we encountered a sign for Lands End after as we were passing through Penzance. Excited and spurred on by the thought of finishing, we went on and a few miles down the road encountered another sign that read that read “Mt. Misery”. Surprisingly, Mt. Misery was not actually that miserable (though this was possibly due to the fact that we were nearly finished), and it was the last climb of the day. The last couple of miles really were a joy. It was all flat and downhill, and the rain had stopped by this point. We finished with the support car behind us, blaring out blazing tunes as we cruised into Lands End, through the amusements there and touching the sign.
THE END!
DAY 8
Bristol to Tavistock
In the morning we escaped the dark tower with use of our enchanted keys and set off cycling out of Bristol. This was not fun. The hills were horrible, but one thing surprised us all – the weather was actually nice! Today actually warranted wearing suncream and vests.
Today we were all excited as it was our second to last, and thoughts of finishing in Lands End were already upon us. Today was by far our most difficult day – the rolling hills seemed to be relentlessly coming at us. It seemed that as soon as we climbed one, we would turn the corner, and it would keep winding up! Still, at least the weather was nice, which meant that when we did stop we weren’t freezing and dripping wet, hugging around the motor of the car, desperately trying to get warm and shovelling pasta into our faces.
So sun so far… and then came the cursed DARTMOOR. Some of you may be familiar with this place. I am not, but the glimpse that I got was enough to make sure that I vowed myself that I would never return. Dartmoor seems to have its own weather system, so although we may have enjoyed sunshine all day up until this point, it was soon to stop. As we began our ascent up into the national park, all seemed well, but gradually the sun was clouded over and replaced once again with the all too familiar sight of grey skies and drizzling rain. This only got worse as the temperature dropped, prompting a change in attire from the cyclists from vests to waterproofs (making their appearance once again).
As we cycled over the rolling hills of Dartmoor, my right ankle which had thus far managed to survive 870 miles of pain began to give. Grinding pains that I am now informed are shin splints plagued me for the last section of that day which was not fun. Although fine on the flats, the pain only started once pressure was applied to climb the hills, so my tactic became to sprint these ahead of the other two and wait at the top, stretching my ankle. Help came in the form of a couple of “man up” pills (Neurofen) that came from the support car.
The weather in Dartmoor turned from bad to worse and once again the fog descended upon us, making it dangerous to cycle. The support car followed us down, hazards flashing until we were clear of the fog. Once we were up the final hill it was a home straight down into Tavistock, where we were picked up by Oli’s welcoming grandmother and driven to her house in Plymouth where we were staying for the night.
I think the whole team agree that the hearty dinner of chicken, bacon and rice that we were served was delicious, and what we were looking forward to the whole trip, having been constantly assured by Oli about her cooking expertise. We were not let down. Stomachs full we retired to bed and once again fell straight asleep.
In the morning we escaped the dark tower with use of our enchanted keys and set off cycling out of Bristol. This was not fun. The hills were horrible, but one thing surprised us all – the weather was actually nice! Today actually warranted wearing suncream and vests.
Today we were all excited as it was our second to last, and thoughts of finishing in Lands End were already upon us. Today was by far our most difficult day – the rolling hills seemed to be relentlessly coming at us. It seemed that as soon as we climbed one, we would turn the corner, and it would keep winding up! Still, at least the weather was nice, which meant that when we did stop we weren’t freezing and dripping wet, hugging around the motor of the car, desperately trying to get warm and shovelling pasta into our faces.
So sun so far… and then came the cursed DARTMOOR. Some of you may be familiar with this place. I am not, but the glimpse that I got was enough to make sure that I vowed myself that I would never return. Dartmoor seems to have its own weather system, so although we may have enjoyed sunshine all day up until this point, it was soon to stop. As we began our ascent up into the national park, all seemed well, but gradually the sun was clouded over and replaced once again with the all too familiar sight of grey skies and drizzling rain. This only got worse as the temperature dropped, prompting a change in attire from the cyclists from vests to waterproofs (making their appearance once again).
As we cycled over the rolling hills of Dartmoor, my right ankle which had thus far managed to survive 870 miles of pain began to give. Grinding pains that I am now informed are shin splints plagued me for the last section of that day which was not fun. Although fine on the flats, the pain only started once pressure was applied to climb the hills, so my tactic became to sprint these ahead of the other two and wait at the top, stretching my ankle. Help came in the form of a couple of “man up” pills (Neurofen) that came from the support car.
The weather in Dartmoor turned from bad to worse and once again the fog descended upon us, making it dangerous to cycle. The support car followed us down, hazards flashing until we were clear of the fog. Once we were up the final hill it was a home straight down into Tavistock, where we were picked up by Oli’s welcoming grandmother and driven to her house in Plymouth where we were staying for the night.
I think the whole team agree that the hearty dinner of chicken, bacon and rice that we were served was delicious, and what we were looking forward to the whole trip, having been constantly assured by Oli about her cooking expertise. We were not let down. Stomachs full we retired to bed and once again fell straight asleep.
DAY 7
Shrewsbury to Bristol
Arising fresh faced from the Shrewsbury we were hardly surprised to see that the clouds above us were still overcast. The night before we were speaking with the landlady in the Youth Hostel that we were staying in who remarked about how unlucky we had been with the weather, especially as it had been so nice only a few days previously. We all gritted our teeth and resisted the almost overwhelming urge to stab things.
Now, just to give some background info on the location that we were staying in, the place was a hole. Quite literally a hole. The terrain put us in a location whereby every road out of the place was a very steep incline, and so we opted for the support car to drive us out of the hole and onto the route from the previous day so that we could pick up pretty much where we left off from.
Once again wrestling the bikes onto the rack, clad in full lycra and waterproofs we piled into the Fiat Punto and squeezed ourselves in against the many tins of food that we had taken with us. Tarn programmed the car’s GPS to take us back to route. However, I was looking at my Garmin bike GPS and couldn’t help but notice that there was a conflict in opinion between the two systems, namely that they were taking us to two different locations, which inevitably caused complications when both me and Tom were reading each one of them and instructed Tarn to take the next left (and right) at the same time. After both the GPS systems engaged in a heated argument amongst themselves over what directions Tarn should take, we eventually got back on track (although I’m still pretty sure that my one was right…).
Winding through some small country lanes, we came across a group of sheep in the middle of the road. Robbie sped up and kept quiet behind them, then suddenly shouted “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” at them as he was around 1m away. I have never seen animals so scared in my life. These sheep darted left, right and centre, their hooves skidding all over the wet road. Some nifty bike control was needed to avoid collision with them, me and Tom darted around the road, madly trying to avoid them as Robbie wheeled away laughing at the carnage that he had caused behind him.
Apart from that small hiccup in the morning, the day was relatively without event. We met up with the support car, as usual every 20 miles to stock up on supplies and went on our way again. Rain was mild with passing showers, and bouts of sunshine that made us smile.
At the end of the day we began the descent into Bristol. Having spent most of the journey thus far not seeing any cyclists at all (other than the intelligent ones who had decided to do the cycle the correct way around, without the wind in their faces the whole time), we had a bit of a shock when we came into the city and were swamped by them. Bloody cyclists, taking up the whole road, and being such an inconvenience to motorists, and genuine charity cyclists. One man shot past us on a gleaming Bianchi carbon fibre frame with aero wheels. My desire to chase him down and overtake him again was halted when Tom shouted to me, and like a beaten dog I slipped back into the team TROTT peloton.
When we arrived at the Youth Hostel in Bristol we were greeted by a horrific myriad of puzzles to get into bed. In order to complete our first task, we were greeted by the gatekeeper at reception who bequeathed upon us three magical keys. We went across to the lift, where we used the first of our magical keys in a vain attempt to request the magical metal shaft. Returning to reception, where the gatekeeper requested his magician re-enchant the keys, we returned to the lift, and wrestled the bikes in. Pressing the button, I descended to the dungeons and got the bikes out of the magical chamber and put them in the corridor. I strolled to the bike store where I found that the enchantment on my magical key did not work on the bike store. Further to complicate matters, the enchantment seemed to have worn off completely, and I couldn’t gain access to the lift either. I got out my phone to inform the others of this complication, but there was no signal – was I to be trapped in this desolate dungeon forever!?
Knocking on a door to the games room, I was let in by a puzzled group of German tourists playing pool who wondered why an earth there was a bald, sunglasses wearing, lycra clad, dripping wet, and covered in mud cyclist, knocking on a door that said “Fire Exit – do not open unless in emergency”. There would have been a bloody emergency if they hadn’t let me in.
Returning up the stairs, I found the rest of the team crying huddled in a corner, having been broken to tears by the lift and key system. Someone went to reception for yet another magical key that would unlock the bike shed.
Once the bikes were FINALLY away, we all crammed into the lift and took it to the top floor of the magical tower. We were all very angry and in serious need of food/shower/sleep. Only two floors up and the lift stopped. The doors pinged open to reveal a small child (aged 9) who wanted to get in the lift. Snarling, we informed her that this lift was “UP ONLY” and that she could pretty much wait for the next sodding one.
Crashing into our rooms after making our way through yet more confusing doors (I have no idea how anyone expects to navigate this place when drunk), we grabbed our towels and made our way to the shower, half expecting there to be a magical “hot water key” or “soap dispenser key” for the showers.
Eventually we got to bed after uploading a backlog of blogs that we had written, but as yet had no internet to upload from. That done, I went to sleep within 10 seconds of touching my pillow, but was awakened moments later by Tarn, who seemed to be upset that I had put my used, sweaty cycling shorts in between his pillows as compensation for his driving 40 (instead of 20) miles down the road previously. Now we were even. Night!
Arising fresh faced from the Shrewsbury we were hardly surprised to see that the clouds above us were still overcast. The night before we were speaking with the landlady in the Youth Hostel that we were staying in who remarked about how unlucky we had been with the weather, especially as it had been so nice only a few days previously. We all gritted our teeth and resisted the almost overwhelming urge to stab things.
Now, just to give some background info on the location that we were staying in, the place was a hole. Quite literally a hole. The terrain put us in a location whereby every road out of the place was a very steep incline, and so we opted for the support car to drive us out of the hole and onto the route from the previous day so that we could pick up pretty much where we left off from.
Once again wrestling the bikes onto the rack, clad in full lycra and waterproofs we piled into the Fiat Punto and squeezed ourselves in against the many tins of food that we had taken with us. Tarn programmed the car’s GPS to take us back to route. However, I was looking at my Garmin bike GPS and couldn’t help but notice that there was a conflict in opinion between the two systems, namely that they were taking us to two different locations, which inevitably caused complications when both me and Tom were reading each one of them and instructed Tarn to take the next left (and right) at the same time. After both the GPS systems engaged in a heated argument amongst themselves over what directions Tarn should take, we eventually got back on track (although I’m still pretty sure that my one was right…).
Winding through some small country lanes, we came across a group of sheep in the middle of the road. Robbie sped up and kept quiet behind them, then suddenly shouted “BAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” at them as he was around 1m away. I have never seen animals so scared in my life. These sheep darted left, right and centre, their hooves skidding all over the wet road. Some nifty bike control was needed to avoid collision with them, me and Tom darted around the road, madly trying to avoid them as Robbie wheeled away laughing at the carnage that he had caused behind him.
Apart from that small hiccup in the morning, the day was relatively without event. We met up with the support car, as usual every 20 miles to stock up on supplies and went on our way again. Rain was mild with passing showers, and bouts of sunshine that made us smile.
At the end of the day we began the descent into Bristol. Having spent most of the journey thus far not seeing any cyclists at all (other than the intelligent ones who had decided to do the cycle the correct way around, without the wind in their faces the whole time), we had a bit of a shock when we came into the city and were swamped by them. Bloody cyclists, taking up the whole road, and being such an inconvenience to motorists, and genuine charity cyclists. One man shot past us on a gleaming Bianchi carbon fibre frame with aero wheels. My desire to chase him down and overtake him again was halted when Tom shouted to me, and like a beaten dog I slipped back into the team TROTT peloton.
When we arrived at the Youth Hostel in Bristol we were greeted by a horrific myriad of puzzles to get into bed. In order to complete our first task, we were greeted by the gatekeeper at reception who bequeathed upon us three magical keys. We went across to the lift, where we used the first of our magical keys in a vain attempt to request the magical metal shaft. Returning to reception, where the gatekeeper requested his magician re-enchant the keys, we returned to the lift, and wrestled the bikes in. Pressing the button, I descended to the dungeons and got the bikes out of the magical chamber and put them in the corridor. I strolled to the bike store where I found that the enchantment on my magical key did not work on the bike store. Further to complicate matters, the enchantment seemed to have worn off completely, and I couldn’t gain access to the lift either. I got out my phone to inform the others of this complication, but there was no signal – was I to be trapped in this desolate dungeon forever!?
Knocking on a door to the games room, I was let in by a puzzled group of German tourists playing pool who wondered why an earth there was a bald, sunglasses wearing, lycra clad, dripping wet, and covered in mud cyclist, knocking on a door that said “Fire Exit – do not open unless in emergency”. There would have been a bloody emergency if they hadn’t let me in.
Returning up the stairs, I found the rest of the team crying huddled in a corner, having been broken to tears by the lift and key system. Someone went to reception for yet another magical key that would unlock the bike shed.
Once the bikes were FINALLY away, we all crammed into the lift and took it to the top floor of the magical tower. We were all very angry and in serious need of food/shower/sleep. Only two floors up and the lift stopped. The doors pinged open to reveal a small child (aged 9) who wanted to get in the lift. Snarling, we informed her that this lift was “UP ONLY” and that she could pretty much wait for the next sodding one.
Crashing into our rooms after making our way through yet more confusing doors (I have no idea how anyone expects to navigate this place when drunk), we grabbed our towels and made our way to the shower, half expecting there to be a magical “hot water key” or “soap dispenser key” for the showers.
Eventually we got to bed after uploading a backlog of blogs that we had written, but as yet had no internet to upload from. That done, I went to sleep within 10 seconds of touching my pillow, but was awakened moments later by Tarn, who seemed to be upset that I had put my used, sweaty cycling shorts in between his pillows as compensation for his driving 40 (instead of 20) miles down the road previously. Now we were even. Night!
Tuesday 20 July 2010
DAY 6
SUN! Is the best thing about today! After a very depressing run weather wise thus far, we were greeted with glorious sunshine as we made our way from Lancaster to Shrewsbury.
We ended up having to make up some serious milage that was lost after the mess up from the hotel location fiasco (silly teleporting hotels), before getting back onto route, but once we did, the course was a real joy to cruise through in the sunshine. We pulled over and cracked out the sun cream for the 1st time the whole trip. Slathering ourselves in it and eating supplies, we continued on South.
Later on we stopped to consult the GPS and take on fluids down a country lane. We all propped our bikes up against a wire fence and were greeted by a curious foal who seemed to take a keen interest in Tom’s handlebar tape. We turned round for a second before Tom began shouting: “stupid horse, don’t eat my bike you mug”
After we had escaped the hungry jaws of the horse we plodded on. The ground was still wet from passing showers that had been in the area earlier on. Now, we’re not sure of the technical term for this, but we’ve been referring to it all week as “jetskiing” – because of the torrent of water that shoots off the back wheel and up into the air behind – sometimes the unlucky individual that happens to be behind the wheel. Today, the person in front of me was Robbie, and it wasn’t just water that was shot up into my face. Oh no, that wouldn’t warrant a mention in the blog. Instead, Robbie had ploughed through a puddle/mound of indiscriminate farm animal manure, which shot up into my face and mouth, causing be to cough and spit out little chunklets of manure. Still, it was marginally better than some of the pasta cooking that we’ve been having so far.
Alas, my comedic adventures of the day hadn’t finished just yet. Later on I had an unfortunate mishap where I slipped off the pedal whilst starting off on a traffic light and sat down rather more abruptly than I had wished for, wincing in pain and saying “OOOOOOooooowiiiEEEEEEEEE!!!” in a high pitched voice, I tried to cycle on as Tom and Robbie were in hysterics with laughter.
I had requested that morning that Oli and Tarn visit a bike shop and buy a new set of break pads, as my back wheel seriously needed them. Stopping at a pub to fit them, I realised very quickly that I was inept at this, I managed to put the pads on, but there was so much grime in the break callipers that they needed specialist attention. Fitting the bike rack again, me and Oli drove a few miles to the nearest bike repair shop, where the guys there were very, very helpful indeed. They fitted the pads, cleaned the breaks and gave the gears a clean and a quick service.
Rejoining the others a few miles down the road, we continued cycling. After an uneventful couple of miles, we seemed to be going through lots of small clouds of ash, which we presumed to be some exhaust fumes or soot from passing lorries. Stopping at a traffic lights, we looked down at our arms and legs to realise that these black dots were crawling. We had cycled through clouds of small insects which were clinging onto us. Pulling over, the others brushed themselves down whilst I stripped off to my shorts and screamed “THEY’RE IN MY EYES!!! MY EYES!!!”
Still, we continued on and finished on a very, very, steep hill. It was about half the size of the shap, but it was much steeper. Ignoring the temptation to get off and push, we did the last couple of miles slowly but surely, and collapsed once more in the youth hostel for a much needed rest.
We ended up having to make up some serious milage that was lost after the mess up from the hotel location fiasco (silly teleporting hotels), before getting back onto route, but once we did, the course was a real joy to cruise through in the sunshine. We pulled over and cracked out the sun cream for the 1st time the whole trip. Slathering ourselves in it and eating supplies, we continued on South.
Later on we stopped to consult the GPS and take on fluids down a country lane. We all propped our bikes up against a wire fence and were greeted by a curious foal who seemed to take a keen interest in Tom’s handlebar tape. We turned round for a second before Tom began shouting: “stupid horse, don’t eat my bike you mug”
After we had escaped the hungry jaws of the horse we plodded on. The ground was still wet from passing showers that had been in the area earlier on. Now, we’re not sure of the technical term for this, but we’ve been referring to it all week as “jetskiing” – because of the torrent of water that shoots off the back wheel and up into the air behind – sometimes the unlucky individual that happens to be behind the wheel. Today, the person in front of me was Robbie, and it wasn’t just water that was shot up into my face. Oh no, that wouldn’t warrant a mention in the blog. Instead, Robbie had ploughed through a puddle/mound of indiscriminate farm animal manure, which shot up into my face and mouth, causing be to cough and spit out little chunklets of manure. Still, it was marginally better than some of the pasta cooking that we’ve been having so far.
Alas, my comedic adventures of the day hadn’t finished just yet. Later on I had an unfortunate mishap where I slipped off the pedal whilst starting off on a traffic light and sat down rather more abruptly than I had wished for, wincing in pain and saying “OOOOOOooooowiiiEEEEEEEEE!!!” in a high pitched voice, I tried to cycle on as Tom and Robbie were in hysterics with laughter.
I had requested that morning that Oli and Tarn visit a bike shop and buy a new set of break pads, as my back wheel seriously needed them. Stopping at a pub to fit them, I realised very quickly that I was inept at this, I managed to put the pads on, but there was so much grime in the break callipers that they needed specialist attention. Fitting the bike rack again, me and Oli drove a few miles to the nearest bike repair shop, where the guys there were very, very helpful indeed. They fitted the pads, cleaned the breaks and gave the gears a clean and a quick service.
Rejoining the others a few miles down the road, we continued cycling. After an uneventful couple of miles, we seemed to be going through lots of small clouds of ash, which we presumed to be some exhaust fumes or soot from passing lorries. Stopping at a traffic lights, we looked down at our arms and legs to realise that these black dots were crawling. We had cycled through clouds of small insects which were clinging onto us. Pulling over, the others brushed themselves down whilst I stripped off to my shorts and screamed “THEY’RE IN MY EYES!!! MY EYES!!!”
Still, we continued on and finished on a very, very, steep hill. It was about half the size of the shap, but it was much steeper. Ignoring the temptation to get off and push, we did the last couple of miles slowly but surely, and collapsed once more in the youth hostel for a much needed rest.
DAY 5
The horrible weather yet again continued. It was wetter today than our wet kit from the ice demons in the Mayfair Hotel in Dunoon (don’t go there, ever.), however, spirits were lifted as we approached the border into England, around 30 miles into our course for the day.
We stopped by the ‘welcome to england’ sign, de-mounted our bikes and kissed the plaque, jumping with joy. I stood with one leg on either side of border and wondered if you were born where I was standing, whether you would be Scottish or English?
The moment we crossed the border we were greeted with glorious sunshine which lasted the entirety of 5 minutes. Rain continued to pour down on us, shattering our previously held belief that the weather would improve once we got across the border.
Entering Cumbria, we had a hilly up and down day through the winding hills, the big climb of the day was the shap, which was roughly a 900 million ft ascent. This was a real challenge; the driving wind was pushing us down as we relentlessly continued up. We climbed and climbed, but the winding hill just never seemed to plateau. When it finally did, a very heavy mist descended on us. We literally could not see 10m in front of us, so we pulled over to the side of the road, still being battered by the driving rain and the howling wind. We phoned Oli and Tarn and got them to drive to the top to escort us down with their hazards flashing.
Once we were free of fog, there was some beautiful views on our descent. We met up again with our support car and took on supplies before preparing for our final slog. We were 20 miles away from our destination. Or so we thought.
15 miles out, we had a phone call from Tarn. Him and Oli had driven ahead to the accommodation, and had encountered a slight problem. Namely that it wasn’t there. It had magically teleported 40 miles away from where it should have been. By this point it was already 8.45pm and had covered 115 miles. The thought of doing an extra 55 miles in the dark was slightly daunting. Shivering and wet, we propped up our bikes and took shelter from the wind behind a tree in a farmers yard.
Never fear though! Handily, Tom had relatives local to the area, who had been trying without success to chase us down all day and meet us, but due to weather conditions on the shap and other setbacks etc. had been thus far unable to meet up with us and deliver their precious cargo of chocolate and biscuits. Tom called them up and after attaching all the bikes to the rack on the support car, we were escorted to the CORRECT hotel address 55 miles away.
Arriving at around 10.30pm, we collapsed into our rooms and awaited the arrival of the support car. Once they arrived, we helped them unload the bikes and secure them away. By this point, we still hadn’t eaten, and we were all in the mood for some filthy, disgusting, greasy, cardio damaging food. And lots of it. Oli and Tarn elected to drive to the nearest KFC and buy a heart stopping amount of food in a bucket. They arrived at 11.05, closing time was 11. We had to settle for sandwiches from the bar, and nibbled on them whilst planning our route for the next day, and trying to figure out how on earth we would get back on our route.
We stopped by the ‘welcome to england’ sign, de-mounted our bikes and kissed the plaque, jumping with joy. I stood with one leg on either side of border and wondered if you were born where I was standing, whether you would be Scottish or English?
The moment we crossed the border we were greeted with glorious sunshine which lasted the entirety of 5 minutes. Rain continued to pour down on us, shattering our previously held belief that the weather would improve once we got across the border.
Entering Cumbria, we had a hilly up and down day through the winding hills, the big climb of the day was the shap, which was roughly a 900 million ft ascent. This was a real challenge; the driving wind was pushing us down as we relentlessly continued up. We climbed and climbed, but the winding hill just never seemed to plateau. When it finally did, a very heavy mist descended on us. We literally could not see 10m in front of us, so we pulled over to the side of the road, still being battered by the driving rain and the howling wind. We phoned Oli and Tarn and got them to drive to the top to escort us down with their hazards flashing.
Once we were free of fog, there was some beautiful views on our descent. We met up again with our support car and took on supplies before preparing for our final slog. We were 20 miles away from our destination. Or so we thought.
15 miles out, we had a phone call from Tarn. Him and Oli had driven ahead to the accommodation, and had encountered a slight problem. Namely that it wasn’t there. It had magically teleported 40 miles away from where it should have been. By this point it was already 8.45pm and had covered 115 miles. The thought of doing an extra 55 miles in the dark was slightly daunting. Shivering and wet, we propped up our bikes and took shelter from the wind behind a tree in a farmers yard.
Never fear though! Handily, Tom had relatives local to the area, who had been trying without success to chase us down all day and meet us, but due to weather conditions on the shap and other setbacks etc. had been thus far unable to meet up with us and deliver their precious cargo of chocolate and biscuits. Tom called them up and after attaching all the bikes to the rack on the support car, we were escorted to the CORRECT hotel address 55 miles away.
Arriving at around 10.30pm, we collapsed into our rooms and awaited the arrival of the support car. Once they arrived, we helped them unload the bikes and secure them away. By this point, we still hadn’t eaten, and we were all in the mood for some filthy, disgusting, greasy, cardio damaging food. And lots of it. Oli and Tarn elected to drive to the nearest KFC and buy a heart stopping amount of food in a bucket. They arrived at 11.05, closing time was 11. We had to settle for sandwiches from the bar, and nibbled on them whilst planning our route for the next day, and trying to figure out how on earth we would get back on our route.
DAY 4
Getting the ferry the morning from Dunoon across the bay to Greenock where our cycle began. Once on the other side we fiddled with the GPS system for around 30 minutes, trying to decipher why it was going to take us up the most hideous hills (probably similar in scale to Mt Doom from Lord of the Rings). Never fear! I re-calculated the route using the auto-routing feature on the system and we all stood by anxiously waiting for about 10 minutes for it to re-calculate our route.
I was the first to get a look.It seemed our options were to:
1) Tackle the mount Doom route
2) Cycle 130.2 miles around them via a series of cycle routes.
We opted for mount Doom. Protecting onto our rings with gel saddles and padded shorts, the fellowship started on a journey that would probably destroy them (the rings)
Whilst cycling we encountered a strange sight. A glowing yellow orb up between the clouds that seemed to be emitting light. We were confused by what this could be, possibly a U.F.O, (there had been sightings in nearby areas). We looked at it for a while before Robbie clicked and pointed out that it was the sun.
But as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared again. Once again the weather was relentless and refused to give way. Shivering like drowned rats we plodded on and up the roads. One of the worst things about the day was the road surfaces, which have been the worst so far. Truly they were shocking, with gaping potholes every few metres and uneven gravel that hadn’t been smoothed , so we were weaving back and forth, desperately trying to avoid shards of glass and other obstacles in our way.
We pulled over at a roadside junction to consult the GPS and discuss where we were going to meet the support car. As we were talking, a gang of ‘youths’ (approximate age 14-15) approached us and began eyeing up our bikes. Smiling at our skintight attire (which was funny because they looked equally ridiculous in their tracksuits that clearly had never seen anyth8ing close to exercise), one of the short and dumpy girls asked me in a thick Scottish accent:
“Can aaaaaaai have yur baike?”
To which I very swiftly replied a very firm and grumpy sounding “No”
Laughing at me the girl turned to walk away before I told her that she “could never ride my bike because she was much too fat”. The hurt look on her face was enough to spike team morale, and the group of the previously very cocky teenagers shuffled away looking dejected and hurt. To add insult to injury, the words “Nice come back!” was shouted after them.
Laughing, we continued on our way and met up with the support car and arranged to meet up with them around 20 miles down the road for lunch. However, Tarn was driving, and instead of doing the sensible thing of driving 20 miles down the road, he instead drove 40 miles, leaving us cyclists starving hungry, dehydrated and out of water, prompting an annoyed phone call. Tarn gave us the co-ordinates of their location, which on my GPS seemed to put him in the middle of a wood, halfway up a mountain about 30 miles away from our location. Needless to say, the co-ordinates were wrong, and lunch was waiting for us by the side of a quiet stream. Oli came to the rescue and water was delivered to us and we continued to lunch.
After lunch, the cycling was getting to my head. In order to keep my spirits up I started playing games with approaching traffic (no Gran, not ‘chicken’). Waving and sticking my thumbs up to every car that passed trying to count up the ‘score’ that I got from every honk. I was going to encourage Robbie and Tom to join me in playing this game, but they didn’t seem to be in the mood, preferring to deal with it all by keeping their heads down and concentrating on the cycling.
Pulling over at a bus stop with around 20 miles to go, we took a break before our final slog. Cracking open a couple of cans of Nurishment, Tom immediately started shouting:
“YOU STUPID DRINK! WHY DID YOU DO THAT!!??” He had spilled some on himself and decided to take out his frustration on the can itself. Clearly the can was now sentient and had a mind out to spill itself all over him.
Our final destination for the day was the interestingly named “Haugh of Urr” (which did sound like a location from Lord of the Rings), and stopped in a pub for a pub food dinner. Unpacked at the youth hostel at around 9pm and collapsed into the showers and then into bed for a very long an refreshing sleep.
On an extra note, quote of the day comes from Tarn, who, after Robbie looked at the route and said “that’s like trying to cook bacon with ice”, replied with “but... you can cook bacon with ice”
I was the first to get a look.It seemed our options were to:
1) Tackle the mount Doom route
2) Cycle 130.2 miles around them via a series of cycle routes.
We opted for mount Doom. Protecting onto our rings with gel saddles and padded shorts, the fellowship started on a journey that would probably destroy them (the rings)
Whilst cycling we encountered a strange sight. A glowing yellow orb up between the clouds that seemed to be emitting light. We were confused by what this could be, possibly a U.F.O, (there had been sightings in nearby areas). We looked at it for a while before Robbie clicked and pointed out that it was the sun.
But as quickly as it appeared, it disappeared again. Once again the weather was relentless and refused to give way. Shivering like drowned rats we plodded on and up the roads. One of the worst things about the day was the road surfaces, which have been the worst so far. Truly they were shocking, with gaping potholes every few metres and uneven gravel that hadn’t been smoothed , so we were weaving back and forth, desperately trying to avoid shards of glass and other obstacles in our way.
We pulled over at a roadside junction to consult the GPS and discuss where we were going to meet the support car. As we were talking, a gang of ‘youths’ (approximate age 14-15) approached us and began eyeing up our bikes. Smiling at our skintight attire (which was funny because they looked equally ridiculous in their tracksuits that clearly had never seen anyth8ing close to exercise), one of the short and dumpy girls asked me in a thick Scottish accent:
“Can aaaaaaai have yur baike?”
To which I very swiftly replied a very firm and grumpy sounding “No”
Laughing at me the girl turned to walk away before I told her that she “could never ride my bike because she was much too fat”. The hurt look on her face was enough to spike team morale, and the group of the previously very cocky teenagers shuffled away looking dejected and hurt. To add insult to injury, the words “Nice come back!” was shouted after them.
Laughing, we continued on our way and met up with the support car and arranged to meet up with them around 20 miles down the road for lunch. However, Tarn was driving, and instead of doing the sensible thing of driving 20 miles down the road, he instead drove 40 miles, leaving us cyclists starving hungry, dehydrated and out of water, prompting an annoyed phone call. Tarn gave us the co-ordinates of their location, which on my GPS seemed to put him in the middle of a wood, halfway up a mountain about 30 miles away from our location. Needless to say, the co-ordinates were wrong, and lunch was waiting for us by the side of a quiet stream. Oli came to the rescue and water was delivered to us and we continued to lunch.
After lunch, the cycling was getting to my head. In order to keep my spirits up I started playing games with approaching traffic (no Gran, not ‘chicken’). Waving and sticking my thumbs up to every car that passed trying to count up the ‘score’ that I got from every honk. I was going to encourage Robbie and Tom to join me in playing this game, but they didn’t seem to be in the mood, preferring to deal with it all by keeping their heads down and concentrating on the cycling.
Pulling over at a bus stop with around 20 miles to go, we took a break before our final slog. Cracking open a couple of cans of Nurishment, Tom immediately started shouting:
“YOU STUPID DRINK! WHY DID YOU DO THAT!!??” He had spilled some on himself and decided to take out his frustration on the can itself. Clearly the can was now sentient and had a mind out to spill itself all over him.
Our final destination for the day was the interestingly named “Haugh of Urr” (which did sound like a location from Lord of the Rings), and stopped in a pub for a pub food dinner. Unpacked at the youth hostel at around 9pm and collapsed into the showers and then into bed for a very long an refreshing sleep.
On an extra note, quote of the day comes from Tarn, who, after Robbie looked at the route and said “that’s like trying to cook bacon with ice”, replied with “but... you can cook bacon with ice”
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