Navigation bar, and how to use this

This post is mostly for my mother, but everyone else can get on board if they like :)

For some reason the text of this reads 'last post first', and my navigation bar (the links on the right hand side of the page starting "Pre JOGLE Musings, and how it all came about") reads 'first post first', i.e. it's written chronologically, but if you just read downwards on this main page then you will be reading 'The Aftermath' before you have read our last days etc, and therefore before our first days.

I have now confused myself.

Mum - Click on Pre-JOGLE musings, and use the links on the right hand side tof the page from there...

Will's Lessons of The Road

Will’s Lesson Number One: There is Never Anything Other Than You and The Road. You Have to Make It Happen Yourself.

Will’s Lesson Number Two: Get Some Proper Cycling Clothing, with a VERY Padded Crotch!

Will’s Lesson Number Three: Get The Professionals In To Help You...

Will’s Lesson Number Four: Never, Ever, Ever Tempt Fate. Ever. Fate is ALWAYS Listening.

Will’s Lesson Number Five: Always Check Your Spare Gear.

Will’s Lesson Number Six: You Need To Eat Way More Than You Think.

Will’s Lesson Number Seven: When We Work Together, We Get There More Easily.

Will’s Lesson Number Eight: You Can Always Go Further and For Longer Than You Think.

Will’s Lesson Number Nine: Get a Sports Massage -It Keeps You Ticking Over.

Will’s Lesson Number Ten: It Will Always Hurt, But Once You Realise This, You Can Do Anything You Put Your Mind To.

The Aftermath

John O’Groats to Lands End: The Team AllenRowe JOGLE!!

Or

Heaven and Hell in 13 ½ Days - A Fat Boy’s Cycle Excursion...


The Aftermath.


In the weeks and months after completing the JOGLE, Ray and I continued to ride as much as weather and timetabling allowed, meeting up whenever we could. Christmas and New Year came and went in a blur and it was a month or so before I get back on the bike, and wouldn’t you know it but I’d put on a lot of the weight I’d lost for the trip, although it is interesting to note that I actually put on weight over the 13.5 days of cycling.

The Manly Steed and I ride to work sometimes, and have done some longer rides in the evening of 15 miles or so, with the longest having been 33 miles over the course of the day.

I sometimes catch myself looking at a far distant horizon and wondering what lies beyond it, and find myself missing the feel of the miles going past under my wheels.

I catch the Manly Steed sometimes looking at me with a speculative glint in its wheel, and can almost hear it whispering to me.

“Where to next?” it seems to ask.

I’m not sure, but I do know one thing for a fact: time on the road, it changes a man.

Sunday 24th August – JOGLE Day 14: St. Columb Major to Land’s End. 50 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator Will And His Partner In Crime Ray Fight Their Way Ever Onwards, And Reach The Conclusion Of Their Journey.

The last day was here. I felt a bit strange about that: today was, god willing, going to be the last day of our journey, after which we would return to real life after having taken nearly two weeks out of it.

I got up, nudged Hannah (who decided to ignore me and pretend that she was still asleep) and got dressed. I met Ray in the corridor, and we crept our way down to make some breakfast and put some fuel in our engines. We ate quietly at the table in the kitchen, and decided to get out and start as soon as we could: we were both anxious to see the end of our journey. It felt to me like our very first day, eating breakfast in the youth hostel in Canisbay and waiting to get started on the first leg of the trip.

We washed up our stuff and headed back upstairs to get changed. I bullied Han out of bed and she grumpily got up and got ready while I climbed into my cycle gear for the last time. We packed with little fuss (it was by now a straight-forward and well rehearsed thing for me) and went down to the car to load it, leaving a note for Gill on the kitchen table thanking her profusely. We would have been in serious trouble had she not been there for us, and I hoped that the few words we left conveyed the depth of our thanks.

We drove back down the A39 once more, and the weather was slightly overcast but with little wind. The sun was occasionally peeping through gaps in the cloud, and it felt like it might be a nice day. We parked up on the same spot as the previous day and reassembled the steeds, giving them a once over to make sure that they were still in working order. The Manly Steed was eager to get going, and I felt the same way. Rich and Nigel (Good friends, and our previous Brighton-trip compadres) were coming down to meet us and I was looking forward to seeing them.

We agreed to meet Hannah in a place called Hayle for lunch, and set off once more on the A39. After a few miles the road went through a couple of roundabouts and then turned into dual carriageway, my least favourite type of road to be cycling along. As we went along the sun began to come out and the temperature soared, causing us to start overheat.

It was at this point that I cycled along a gutter on the side of the road and hit a wet patch with a lot of moss growing on it. The Manly Steed’s wheels slid out from under me, and I tumbled to the ground grazing my chin and whacking the side of my helmet on the road while traffic whizzed past three feet away. I have always been a big supporter of cycle helmets, and I was glad I was wearing it as it took a lot of the impact away from my skull.

We took a few minutes to check everything over, and the pannier had protected my derailleur and gears while my knee support had protected my knee from a serious gashing. Other than my nerves being a little jumpy I was fine, and the Manly Steed was ready to carry on.

We reached the A30, and turned onto it in the final leg of the journey: it would take us all the way down to Land’s End. The A30 is, quite frankly, a horrific road. It is a dual carriageway, and the main artery of Cornwall with lorries, vans, campervans, and pretty much everything you would expect from a motorway, except that there are lay-bys to stop in. I was not enjoying cycling along this as more than one lorry got too close, and the slip-stream from a large white van nearly blew me off the bike. We had been on the road for about 7 miles when we decided to pull into a lay-by for a break, and a car pulled passed us and stopped.

Mark, our recumbent JOGLE’r who we had last seen just north of Shap Fell a week previously, got out and flagged us down. He was with his wife, and had reached Land’s End the previous day amidst the rain and wind. His bike, which had been falling apart at regular intervals along the route, had finally given up the ghost and he had gone the last 7 miles with only the smallest gear working, and that held in place by a stick from the side of the road. They had been driving home on the other side of the road, had seen us, and then driven to the next junction and come back to wish us well.

His wife had made cake for him, which she doled out to us. It was delicious, and full of calories which I was craving by then. We congratulated Mark, and he told us that if we could hold our nerve on the way in to Penzance on the A30 then we would be finished by mid to late afternoon. I had been thinking of trying to get off the dual carriageway and use some back roads, but Mark convinced me that it would be simpler to just carry on as a lot of the traffic would peel off at each major town we passed.

We waved farewell to our other traveller, and headed on for our lunch spot at Hayle some 20 miles away. There is a knack to cycling on the side of the A30, I found: focus. You need a focus like a laser beam to keep looking at the road in front of you, and to ignore what is going on around you in the form of hurtling multi-tonne death-machines. The cake added fuel to my legs, and we battered away at the mileage in a rush to get off the road.

We passed Blackwater, and came up to Redruth not long afterwards, and true to Mark’s word the traffic got lighter as we went. We passed Cambourne and stopped to call Hannah and find out where she was, and got directions to a pub where we could have lunch. Rich and Nigel had arrived, and they were waiting for us.

We pounded along towards Hayle, and the sky cleared completely as we turned off into a business park and reached our lunch-spot. There were no cries of happiness, no chorus of angels to greet us, in fact there weren’t even our friends and loved ones: they were off looking at the discount clothing village. Ray and I took a seat with the steeds outside and waited for them to finish.

Finally we were reunited with our friends, and we ordered food and swapped gossip on what we had been up to in the last few weeks. We were politely asked to move inside as food could not be served outdoors because of ‘dive-bombing seagulls’ (I kid you not) and we ate lunch in view of the steeds which were tethered outside while Nigel explained why his leg was in plaster after having been run over the week before. “You should have seen the other guy!” he said. We got a text from our other JOGLE’r Dave saying that he had just finished, and wanting to know where we were.

We checked the map and figured that we had maybe 20 miles to go, and that it would be maybe two and half hours of cycling to get there. We texted Dave back and left the guys finishing their drinks and headed onwards, stopping to remove our arm and leg warmers after a couple of miles. The road changed from dual carriageway to single lane A road, and it wasn’t long before we saw our first sign for Land’s End.

I had been feeling a bit emotional as we went, and to see that were finally so close brought all those feeling to fore. We carried on passing by Whitecross and through Cockwells (I couldn’t resist a chuckle) and rounded a bend in the road to see Penzance in front of us with the bay glittering in the sunshine. We pedalled through the town and just past the town centre I had to stop and stretch everything in my right leg. Once remounted, we carried onwards leaving Penzance behind us, and following the A30 over some steep and hilly territory. The countryside was wooded around us giving us a nice bit of shade as we went, and I snacked on some Snickers bars that I had been saving. The woodlands opened up to reveal farmland and fields ranging away from us, and it felt like the sky had just got a lot a wider above our heads.

We passed a building with a sign saying: “WC Matthews & Son – Builder, Decorator and Funeral Directors” which caused me no end of chuckles. We saw more signposts and counted the mileage down in our heads as we went.

Five miles, and I could feel every ache in my body. “Ray,” I called. He slowed down and pulled alongside me. “If ever I suggest doing this again, I want you take me into a small room and slap me repeatedly until I remember how much it hurt!” He smiled.

Four miles, and I could taste the salt of the sea on the wind as it blew into my face, and I remembered smell of heather in Glencoe and the feeling of joy on Rannoch Moor looking at the mountains.

Three miles, and all the million frustrations came back to me, none of which seemed as bad as they had at the time.

Two miles, and the landscape around us was reminiscent of John O’Groats, and I felt a pull to see it once more.

One mile to go, and we passed The Last Inn in England (it’s The First Inn in England if you are coming the other way) and we stopped to call the guys to let them know we were about ten minutes away.

Ray turned to me. “Thanks for making me come on this,” he said. “It’s been fantastic.” I looked at him, remembering the countless times that he’d helped me get through it.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” I said.

“I’ve been thinking about it, and you should cross the finish line first.” He said.

“Oh, no. We started together, we finish together.” I said, and we gripped hands briefly before starting off once more and for the final time. The road led down towards the cluster of buildings that marked Land’s End, and we pedalled slowly in dodging groups of tourists as we went. We saw Dave with a camera, and he snapped us just before we reached the finish line; it was great to see him, and he had waited for three hours or so to see us reach the end. Our milometer read 908 miles, and we got a photo of it.

We met up with Hannah, Rich and Nigel and went to find the post with Land’s End written on it. I tried to walk up to it and was stopped by a pillock claiming that if I wanted a picture standing next to it I would have to pay about £10.00 for the privilege, and that he would take it himself. I stared at him absolutely gobsmacked, and nearly threw his camera over the cliff which was conveniently close by. I didn’t, because time on the road changes a man, so I walked away muttering to myself and we took some shots a little further out, and got Dave in on them as well.

After that, we grabbed a beer and all sat in the sun relaxing. Everyone was talking about it being a great achievement, but I wasn’t sure that it felt that way: I had pushed myself further than I thought I could, and had come close to quitting on a number of occasions. I was too close to it to really know how I felt.

We finished our beers, and said our farewells to Dave and his wife, promising to keep in touch. We broke down the bikes, and I could see the satisfied glint in the Manly Steed’s wheel as I put it into the boot of the car, and almost here it whispering its congratulations to me.

Ray was getting a lift with Rich and Nigel, and as Hannah and I got into the car, I looked over at her.

“Shall we go home?” I asked.

Saturday 23rd August – JOGLE Day 13: Jacobstowe to St. Columb Major. 61 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Get Back Their Road Support, And Find That Mike Was Wrong About The A39.

Saturday dawned, and I was somewhat surprised that I was still able to move after our long ride the day before. I stretched in bed as the alarm went off, and then got up to kick Ray out of bed and go down for breakfast which was served in a bright and sunny dining room. We talked with our fellow guests and they had been to our Mecca: Land’s End. “What’s it like?” I asked. “It has a Dr. Who museum.” they said, unimpressed.

I could see their point.

We finished a delicious breakfast, and then went up to get changed and start our penultimate day. I stuffed my few possessions in the pannier, and was very excited at the prospective of dumping some of it with Han later that day. Small things, and all that.

We retrieved the steeds and stood with John watching the largest cat I have ever seen pouncing on things: apparently it was only a kitten. I would have called it a lion cub, but apparently it was a special kind of giant normal cat. The Manly Steed was unimpressed with it, and as I checked over its tyres it studiously ignored the feline leaping about a couple of inches away. Some people are just dog-people I guess, even Manly Steeds.

As we left, John pulled Ray aside.

“If you get into trouble today before you meet with Will’s wife, call me. I’ll come get you.”
We sadly left Carol and John, and headed back to the main road, picking up the B3216 to Hatherleigh. My legs felt very tired today, and Ray echoed my sentiments of a slower start to let everything warm up. We got to Hatherleigh, and hooked a left onto the A3072 once more, praying that it wouldn’t be quite so challenging as yesterday; John had said that is was fairly flat, but then followed this up with a comment that has stuck with me ever since: “It’s always flat in a car”.

We reached Highampton and took a quick break to stretch and take some photos of a road sign to a place called Sheepwash, and then got back into harness once more heading for Holsworthy and points west. We passed through a mix of farmland and woodland and soon reached Holsworthy and stopped at a petrol station on the far side of the town to pick up snacks and to use to the toilet. I called Hannah and she was in Bideford heading south for Bude: we agreed that she would call me when she reached the town.

We set off and I was hard pressed to keep my mind on the job at hand: so much of endurance cycling is being in the right frame of mind, and if you aren’t then the miles go past very slowly indeed. We cycled up a long slope dodging tractor debris, and at the top were greeted by a view of the distant blue ocean. I stopped to take a photo, and we realised that it was the first time we had seen the sea since Inverness on Day 2. A little further on we crossed from Devon into Cornwall, and I got a call from Hannah telling us that she was just outside Bude. We agreed to meet her in Stratton, a small town next to the A39, and fifteen minutes later we pulled up next to our Ford Focus, and Hannah got out.

I would like to say that it was an emotional meeting with tears and some sort of orchestra playing in the background while Ray stood awkwardly watching. Instead, I hugged her, and then had to stop myself from getting in the car and locking all the doors till I was allowed to go home. We stowed the non-essentials in the boot, and then discussed where we might want to stop for lunch and despatched Hannah to scout out a roadside pub. She called back ten minutes later and we headed down the A39 for Saint Gennys.

Mike Stringer is pretty much from this neck of the woods, and it was his idea that we follow the A39 as it was ‘pretty flat’. Michael was, is, and always will be, wrong about this. The A39 has some steep hills interspersed with some pleasant downhill stretches, and we were glad to see the pub hove into view on our left as it was nearing lunchtime. The A39 is definitely not ‘pretty flat’, although Mike has never cycled the route and everything is flat when you are in a car.

Lunch was had in a quiet pub in Saint Gennys, and I was smiling a great deal partly at having been reunited with Hannah, and partly because the Manly Steed was considerably lighter now that we had dumped our gear. We ate indoors as the weather turned from bright and sunny to overcast and windy, and the first rain of the day swept in from the south.

Hannah was put in charge of finding accommodation, and we discussed where we might be able to get to and where she should concentrate her search, little realising how difficult it would be to find a B&B for three people on the Saturday of the August bank holiday. After lunch we remounted, and headed southwards again on the A39, aiming to get to Wadebridge at the least.

We pedalled onwards, passing through open farmlands and fields on our left, and fields leading towards the sea on our right. The wind rose and Ray switched to take the lead on the ascents of the hills to help me up, while I pummelled my way through the gusting on the flats and downhill stretches. It was tiring, and I felt like my legs still weren’t properly firing on all cylinders, while my knee was complaining again.

We reached Camelford after about an hour and I was surprised to find that there was not a camel in sight, although I did see a Ford Mondeo. The road did narrow down to single track up a particularly steep hill as we left the town centre, which was exciting as lorries were trying to overtake us. We stopped at a petrol station at the side of the road and stocked up on GoGo Juice and snacks, and then got back on the road southwards.

A couple of miles further on we descended into a forested valley at Knights Mill and were soon riding through pleasant woodlands along a relatively flat road, allowing us to get out of the wind. It started to rain a little, and we changed into our full waterproofs before we got too wet. We climbed out of the valley and found ourselves on the Saint Kew Highway which led us down towards Wadebridge and the surrounding area. We stopped at a large roundabout overlooking the town and called Hannah to find if she had had any luck getting us a bed.

It turned out that she had drawn a blank, her parents had drawn a blank, as indeed had Mike, and that they had all been calling B&Bs all afternoon to no avail. We decided to get past Wadebridge and see if they had found anything by the next time we called.

We followed the road downwards from the roundabout and it led us out over an estuary which was full of lead black water reflecting the sky above us, and we fought our way up the other side as large drops of rain fell from the heavens. We carried onwards through periodic showers and gusts of wind until we were just past a place called Whitecross before pulling into a side road and basically climbing into a large-leafed bush to escape the wind and rain for a break. The Manly Steed and its counterpart fitted in next to us, and we called Hannah again to find that she had had no joy in getting us a place to stay. We agreed to meet in St. Columb Major and see what our options were.

I called Mike and asked him if he might prevail upon his mother for a room for the night. She lives in Bude and it would mean that we had to get in the car and go back there, but it really was a case of a port in a storm. Mike said he would check, and we got back on the bikes and pedalled onwards towards our meeting place with Hannah, turning left off the A39 after a few more miles of gusty wind and rain.

We met Hannah just off the A39 on a small grassy knoll, and took advantage of the chance to get out of the rain and wind. Mike called and said that his mother, Gill, was fine putting us up for the night, and we decided to break the bikes down and drive back to Bude as we were unable to find anything else.

It was slightly surreal after a long day’s cycling having had the rain and wind blast your brains out to be sat in the passenger seat of a comfortable car with heating, driving back over the ground that you have just fought your way across. It puts in perspective as well just what you have achieved as it took us 40 minutes of ups and downs to get back to Bude, where we found our way to Mike’s mother’s house.

Mama Stringer met us with her two crazy Springer Spaniels, and we went inside to have a quick wash and then head out again to get some food inside us. We went to one of the local pubs and fought our way in to a table, and gratefully rested our bones while we ordered from the menu.

We discussed the route for the next day, and realised that it was going to be about 50 miles before we reached Land’s End and the conclusion of our journey. It was going to be the shortest day of the trip, and I was looking forward to seeing the signpost and touching it with my hand.
We made our way back to Casa del Stringer and turned in for the night, agreeing to get an early start and be out the door by 08:00 at the latest.

I collapsed into bed with Hannah at about 10:30, and fell asleep fairly quickly. The alarm went off at 06:30, and I opened my eyes feeling strange.

The last day was here.

Friday 22nd August – JOGLE Day 12: Lower Langford to Lashbrook House, Jacobstowe. 82 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Find That The A3072 From Tiverton To Crediton Is Memorably Steep, And They Cycle Further Than They Had Ever Done Before.

Day 12 dawned sunny and bright, and it occurred to me as I was pushing my grumbling legs into action that it was Friday and, knee allowing, that we were due to finish on Sunday. It didn’t quite seem real, but we still had a couple of hundred miles left to go and they weren’t going to be easy. Hannah was due to come down the next day and be with us for Saturday and Sunday, and I was really looking forward to this.

Breakfast was a pleasant affair served to us by Colin, and we discussed our route with him as we ate, prompting him to mention a couple of big hills coming up along the A38. I silently pooh-poohed this as we were by now quite proficient at slogging to the top of small mountains, and went back to forcing as much fuel into the tank as possible.

Our gear had been washed overnight and was a tad damp but smelling fresh and we donned this and stepped out into the sunshine to rescue the steeds from their confinement in the garage. We bid Colin farewell, turned left onto the A38, and then took an immediate right into the petrol station to stock up on food and drink for the day: cue much hunting for Lucozade Sport and Snickers bars. Ray didn’t want popcorn, but I added some Malt Loaf to the pile to spice up the selection of chocolate bars.

Once remounted, we cycled on into some pleasant sunny weather and soon hit the first of Colin’s hills which wasn’t as bad as he had made out. This achieved, we pedalled along the A38 passing through numerous small towns and villages and stopping after about 12 miles in a pub car park for a break, at which point Ray availed himself of the facilities while I relaxed for 10 minutes on a sunny bank and tried to wish the pain away. My efforts at tonsuring my chafed areas the night before seemed to be working and although it wasn’t a lifestyle choice I had previously considered, I must say that I can now see the benefits.

We passed over the M5 just after Rooksbridge and carried on through Highbridge on our way down towards Bridgewater. The scenery was by turns rural farmland and towns, with miles of greenery between the built up areas. We reached Bridgewater after a long-seeming slog of about 20 miles, passing through it on the A38 and following signs to Taunton. Once through the town it was back into the open farmland once more and about 10 miles to Taunton which passed fairly quickly. The sun shone the whole way, and it seemed to be altogether a much more cheery day than we had had for a long time. We ate the miles up in patient 10-mile spells, stopping for a manly stretch on the side of the road whenever my right hamstring and knee felt in danger of getting too tight.

Taunton seemed to sprawl a fair way and we passed through only getting a little bit lost in the one-way system, and once back on the A38 we started to look for somewhere to eat lunch as we had been on the road for three and a half hours and I was getting hungry. We reached The World’s End pub after a few more miles, parked up and ordered some food from the bar with the usual coffee, water, and Coke. We added a sachet of the electrolyte replacement crystals that Ralph had given us the day before, and sat outside with the steeds watching the world go by and waiting for our food.

My burger with mash arrived, and Ray had ordered sausage and mash as well so we tucked in with gusto. I put in a call to Hannah to get her to find us a bed for the night either around or just after Tiverton, quite conveniently forgetting that we were at the start of the bank holiday weekend, and that we were now in the South West of the country. Many people flock to the coast on a bank holiday, and most of them seemed to be intent on preventing Ray and I from staying anywhere.

We finished our lunch, let it go down, and then packed our panniers once more. We remounted, turned left out onto the A38 again, and headed on. I was feeling a little heavy after all the food, and we took a slow 10 miles over rolling countryside before I started feeling comfortable again. We passed through numerous small villages with interesting names like White Ball and Red Ball (I could identify with the latter, although the antiseptic cream was helping) before once more crossing over the M5.

We cycled up a reasonably long hill before Appledore, and my knee started complaining in a loud voice that it was beginning to have enough of cycling for the day. I tried to explain that this was all a character-building experience, but it was having none of it. We pulled into a busy service station at another junction with M5, and I took some time to stretch everything I could, eat some more chocolate, and have some Malt Loaf. The car park was packed with people travelling to the coast, and it dawned on me that we might have some problems getting a bed for the night.

The map shows the A38 running into the A361, but what we hadn’t figured on was that the new road was a hellishly fast dual carriageway. I was not at all keen to cycle along it, and we missed a turn-off because we dithered with checking the map. I decided that I was going to off-road, hoisted the Manly Steed onto my shoulder, hiked up a near-vertical embankment and through many-a stinging nettle and bramble to emerge on a back road into Sampford Peverell a few hundred metres from Tiverton Park railway station. With much swearing Ray emerged behind me, and we lifted the bikes over a fence and got back on our way.

My knee decided at this point that it had had enough. I stretched it out, and Ray once more took one for Team AllenRowe and put my pannier on his bike, agreeing that it would be for a 10 mile stint and no more. I was very pleased to be off the dual carriageway, and we navigated a quieter road in towards Tiverton through a pretty village called Halburton passing Tiverton Golf course on our right. We reached Tiverton at about 16:00 and called Hannah to see if there was any news on the accommodation. There was no room anywhere that she could find in Tiverton and the surrounding area, and we gave her our proposed route and asked her to spread the net as far as necessary.

We were aiming for Bude at some point in the next 24 hours, and so carried onwards picking up the A396 towards Bickleigh just south of Tiverton, reaching Bickleigh after about 10 miles or so, stopping in a pub car park. We knew that we had to turn right onto the A3072 to Crediton, and were worried that we had missed the turn off: cut to me pedalling back a mile or so to see if we had. We had not.

There was accommodation as part of the pub, and they had some vacancies. It was very tempting after 60 miles to book in and take a load off, but Hannah called us having got us some accommodation in a small village called Jacobstowe further along. It was a nice evening, we had food and water, and we decided to push on.

We turned right onto the A3072 a couple of hundred yards on, and cycled alongside a small river in some very pretty countryside.

“Mate.” I said. “I’m glad we came this way. It’s really nice!!”

Fate looked up, and put a 10% gradient hill in our way for 3.5 miles.

If you are unsure what a 10% gradient looks like, understand this: I was falling off the back of my saddle at one point.

We fought our way upwards for about 30 mins, taking the occasional breather for some photos as the light was changing as the sun descended in the sky. We were really in the middle of nowhere, and the hills went on and on and on, but once we had reached the top of them the downhill ride in Crediton was pleasant beyond belief. I was surprised at just how much my fitness had improved over the past few weeks: I was falling apart in many places, but aerobically I don’t think I had ever been stronger.

Crediton was quiet, and we cycled through the town centre on the A377 and back out into the countryside once more, rejoining the A3072 at Coppeltstone and heading up a long steep hill. We were at about the 70 mile mark for the day, and I had brought out the really big guns to get me through this: the Viper Bar. A Viper Bar is better than a Stinger. It has caffeine, guarana and rocket fuel in it, and provides a long, slow release of high levels of energy.

We fought our way along as the sun began to set, and we stopped for me to stretch everything again on the side of the road in front of a house called ‘By the Way’. As I was limbering up, the front door opened and a lady walked out.

As we were somewhat unkempt Ray and I looked immediately at each other, and then to see if she had a shotgun in her hand. She did not, and asked us if we were ok and if we needed help.
We explained our lunacy to her, and she was very impressed, offering us a drink which I accepted gratefully, asking if she had a tap I could fill up my Camelpak from. She went one better coming out with her Britta-filter jug and pouring it straight into the bladder, and we bade her good evening and headed onwards towards Exbourne and Jacobstowe. It was small unlooked for kindnesses like this which helped us along mightily, and we pedalled past the 80 mile mark as the sun set in a stunning blaze of glory in front of us, turning the sky a deep pink and red.

We reached Lashbrook House at 20:15 after 13 hours in the saddle and 82.5 miles travelled, and were met by the incredibly lovely Carol and John. We tethered the steeds outside and headed inside, and found that we had a room each with a king size bed. Some luxuries are worthy of weeping over, and I very nearly gave up there and then for the rest of the trip. Carol had called a local pub to ask them to keep the kitchen open, and John drove us down there so that we could eat something.

“Don’t worry what time you finish.” He said. “I’ve got nothing planned – I’ll pick you up whenever.”

Unlooked for kindnesses, people. I have learned a lot from the people we met along our way.
We ate dinner at The New Inn, and spoke to our loved ones. My parents were mightily impressed that we had passed the 80 mile mark, and I left them with our route for the next day. I spoke with Hannah and agreed to meet her outside Bude in the morning, and left her to get an early night as she would be up early.

We called John just after 22:00 and he drove us back to Lashbrook House, which is immensely lovely and I would strongly recommend that you go to. We said goodnight to our hosts (Yep – they too are going to heaven if I have any say in it) and I ran a bath and collapsed gratefully into it, letting the heat soak away some of the more unfriendly aches.

I got into bed at about 23:00 and stretched out in my kingsize bed. I opened the windows slightly, and felt the tight skin on my faintly sun-burned face crinkle into a smile.

I was seeing Hannah tomorrow, and I was still going forward. Sleep came for on silent wings, and darkness took me.

Thursday 21st August – JOGLE Day 11: Wormelow to Woodpeckers guesthouse, Lower Langford. 62 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Cross The Severn Bridge And Nearly End Up On The M5, And Will Falls Of His Stationary Bicycle While Ray And A Flock Of Passing Motorists Look On And Laugh.

Day 11 dawned pleasantly bright and sunny, although Ray and I ignored the alarm as it went off at 7:00 and then 7:30. It was painful getting up, but it is amazing what you can get used to and so we flung some clothes on and headed down to breakfast at The Lawns. We were greeted by Ralph and Elizabeth and their small black dog who was having a great time chasing a ball around, and we tucked into a vast range of cereals and some absolutely delicious local apple juice. Cue the usual shenanigans: Ray eating, me choking food down, and our hosts looking insulted that I hadn’t eaten as much as the skinny feller on the other side of the table.

Our clean cycle gear had been drying atop the Aga overnight, and we were handed this in a basket as we climbed the stairs dodging small dogs chasing balls as we went. Once dressed we descended to check over the steeds, both of whom looked decidedly perky after a night inside. We had sachets of electrolyte-replacements thrust upon us by our hosts, and we spent some time discussing the route with Ralph before regretfully taking our leave of them. We mounted up outside, and were waved off as we headed down the drive and back to the A466, turning right at the main road towards Monmouth and points south.

The morning was lovely: the sun was out in a sky full of fluffy white clouds, and there was a gentle cooling breeze that took the edge off the heat. We passed along a gently rolling road and were enjoying the ride as much as one can when literally everything hurts. Still, on the positive side, Ralph had told us that it was a straightforward run down into Monmouth without any particularly steep hills.

Ralph was a dirty liar it turned out, because we were heading up a steep rise when a lady popped her head over the hedgerow to wish us good luck. We felt puzzled, but smiled and carried on regardless. Eight minutes of puffing later we reached the top of a bitch of a steep hill, soaked in sweat and somewhat of a mind to go back and inform Ralph just what we thought of his ‘gently rolling’ comment: Ralph had obviously only ever driven up it in his big car. That said the prospect of doing it again left me feeling that it might be best to carry on, and so we urged our steeds onwards; the Manly Steed wouldn’t have had a word said against Ralph anyway after they let it stay indoors the night before.

Monmouth was reached after a long and pleasant downhill stretch into the town centre, and we decided to stop and ask for directions to a bike shop as I was down to the last few scoops of Assos chamois cream, and my ass was definitely feeling the lack of chafing prevention. We randomly chose a couple completely at random who were randomly stood nattering on the pavement (he with many a facial piercing and long hair, her with a generous cleavage, long blonde hair and lithe figure) and got directions to a shop at the bottom of the town just over a bridge. We thanked them politely, and left them to continue down the high street and over the bridge. The Manly Steed wanted to go back and ask the nice blonde lady some more questions, but we sadly had no time. Ah, Monmouth: you will forever hold a place in our hearts.

The bike shop was no help whatsoever. The owner had never heard of Assos, didn’t stock chamois cream, and when I enquired as to whether he might have anymore saddles (yes people, it had got that bad!) he had none really as he had sold out yesterday. In fact, everything was sold out yesterday.

I left the chap to it, we remounted, and I once more realised that when you have a long way to go you just have to get on with it and accept that it’s going to hurt, and hurt a lot. We wended our way back to the A466, crossed another bridge, and were back on track pedalling towards Chepstow crossing the border between England and Wales a number of times as went. We left Monmouth behind, and quickly were into farmland with a lot of forests blanketing the hills around us. Just as we starting to get back into our stride we passed some hawthorn hedgerows which had just been cut by a large tractor with an industrial strimmer on it.

We tried to dodge the worst of the debris on the road and I noticed what looked like a white piece of paper stuck on the front tyre. Upon stopping to inspect it, it turned out to be a piece of wood. When I pulled it off the tyre, it actually turned out to be a two-inch hawthorn spike which was embedded in the Manly Steed’s front wheel, which immediately began to bleed air out at a furious rate with a loud hissing noise.

“Ray!!” I shouted, and we immediately got the Manly Steed propped on its seat-post and handlebars to facilitate a speedy removal of the front tyre. Ray donned a pair of yellow marigolds which he had been saving for just such an occasion, and while I tried to soothe the Steed he sat down with the wheel in front of him.

Without looking up, he put his oil smeared hand out, all business. “Tyre levers?”

I passed it over to him. “Tyre levers.” I said. “There are three, but you should only need two.”
Ray bravely dug in and got the stiff Armadillo tyre off, and the tube popped out spent and wasted. You could almost see the Manly Steed recoil at such a grievous sight.

“Inner tube.” He said, hand out.

“Inner tube.” I replied, ripping it out of its box, and slapping it into his hand. “My god,” I said. “There’s so much oil.”

“It’s going to be fine.” He replied “There’s always more oil than you think. Just keep it together!”

“Is there anything I can do?” I asked.

“Find me a plastic bag. We’re going to need it for these gloves.”

Ten minutes later the wheel was reattached, and I spent some time reassuring the Manly Steed that everything was going to be all right. Ray clapped me on the back, and continued to pump some more air into the wheel. Bike recovery rates being what they are, we were back on the road again a couple of minutes afterwards, muttering to ourselves as we passed the architect of our most recent drama in his big tractor. The architect looked at us and smiled: he knew what he had done.

The road passed through heavy woodland for the next few miles, and we paralleled the river in the valley on our right until we came to a bridge. I took that moment to take a couple of photos and put some more air into the tyre, and once more the inner tube went with a loud hissing noise.

Cursing mightily I started to change the damn thing again, and Ray pedalled back to help as I seemed to have an uncanny knack of cocking things up that day. Tube once more changed, Ray carefully pumped the tyre up while I swore and cursed at the world in general. The Manly Steed bore it all stoically – I guess you can get used to anything, even minor surgery on the side of a road.

Once more, we remounted and I took pains to avoid riding over anything that looked unfriendly. We passed through the incredibly quaint village of Tintern, seeing the Abbey on our right swathed in scaffolding. After that we slogged our way up past the Devil’s Pulpit and soon were heading into Chepstow seeing signs for the racecourse as we went. Out of nowhere, it seemed, I caught a glimpse of the Severn Bridge, and I felt my heart leap.

Ten minutes later we joined the M48 (on the pavement!!) as it ran down to the bridge and we pedalled out over the brown water of the River Severn hundreds of feet below us. The Severn Bridge is, quite frankly, a suicidalist’s dream as there are long drops on the left and fast moving traffic on the right, both providing a cyclist with a game of Russian Roulette as he goes: a strong gust of wind in the wrong place and who knows where you can end up.

Our sense of vertigo somewhat excited at the drop below us, we rode carefully across the river and passed once more and for the final time on our journey back into England. We stopped for photos as we went, and I could not believe the spiritual lift I felt after a frustrating morning of stops and starts.

We found our way to the services on the Bristol side of the Severn and hit the Little Chef once more for some lunch, only to be aghast at finding the new menu hadn’t reached this far south. That said, hot food arrived quickly, and if it wasn’t as tasty as it could have been it made up for it in quantity. A quick call to Mike got him hunting for accommodation for us, and we got ourselves up and ready to carry on.

We remounted with a sense of excitement, and I was eager to get past Bristol and out into the final legs of our journey. We opted to skirt the city centre and pick up the A403 and follow it around to the A4, after which we would pick up the A38 out past Bristol Airport. The weather turned very hot, and for the first time in an age we were able to remove both our arm and leg warmers, and cycle in strong sunshine through a lot of industrial units, passing the other Severn Bridge on our right as we went.

Our seemingly simple plan of joining the A4 turned into something more complex when we found that there were extensive road works on two roundabouts, and that the kind work men had removed all of the signposts as part of this.

Ray took charge in a strong and leaderly way. (No, it’s not a word but it should be. Neither is suicidalist apparently, but I still used it.) With a cry of “Come on!!” he headed off into a cloud of steaming tarmac, and the Manly Steed and I shrugged and followed, catching him up as cars started accelerating past us and the blue signs above clearly stated that we were cycling onto the M5.

After a certain amount of swearing, we battled our way back up the hard shoulder and took refuge on a side road. We were screwed as the map we had was a road atlas and didn’t show street names, and we couldn’t tell where the hell we were.

It was as if I heard a discrete cough from the disgraced Garmin, and I switched it on praying that it had enough battery power. A couple of minutes later we were on the A4 and heading for Clifden and its suspension bridge, and the sat-nav was once more in our good books after the debacle of Preston.

Bristol has apple trees everywhere. Loads of them. Ray and I were hard pressed to avoid all of the windblown apples in the road as we went, but soon we were pedalling under the Clifden suspension bridge and pedalling fast to avoid the rush-hour craziness of white vans and people carriers.

A quick stop at another Halfords gave us some more inner tubes but no chamois cream, and so I manned up once more and we found our way to the A38. There is a big hill outside of Bristol: we had been told about this a number of times, but I was fairly sure that we could make our way up it as we had conquered some brutes in the past days. What I didn’t factor into my thinking was that there would be a traffic jam up it as the workers of Bristol seemingly fled to the country after a long day’s work.

This elicited further swearing as we cycled up a number of pavements, and we stopped for a breather after twenty minutes of pedalling uphill. At this juncture, I covered myself in glory. I clipped my feet into the pedals, and decided to use the downhill gradient to get moving rather than pedalling, which turned into a less than graceful sideways collapse as the Manly Steed and I overbalanced.

Ray laughed a lot after checking that I was all right. So did the seven or eight car-loads of people who happened to be stationary next to me.

The remainder of the climb was as nothing compared to my injured pride, and we flashed past Bristol Airport on right, and then into one of the most exciting downhill rides of my life, where the Manly Steed and I managed to clock 41mph, a personal best for us.

Mike called and directed us to the ‘The Woodpeckers’ B&B, and we turned left off the road just before Lower Langford into the front drive of a pleasant house at about 18:30 where we were met by Sue and Colin, our hosts for the evening.

We stowed the steeds in the garage and left them no doubt muttering about the quality of their accommodation, went in and got showered. I was now so absolutely chafed on my backside that I spent a fair amount of time shaving the affected areas to try to cut down on irritating friction inducing spots. Ray declined to have a shave afterwards (we were sharing as he had left his behind somewhere) and said that he was thinking of growing a beard anyway.

Dinner was eaten in the Stag & Hounds, a busy pub further up the road, and washed down with some local ales. We spoke to our loved ones, and limped back and collapsed into bed by about 22:00. It had been a long day, with some frustrating moments, and my knee had pinged again in Bristol which didn’t help, but we were still moving and we hadn’t had to give up. I felt that all that was left of me was my determination to keep going, and Ray’s solid presence buoyed me when I was struggling to keep going.

Sleep came not a bit too soon.

Wednesday 20th August – JOGLE Day 10: Chatford to ‘The Lawns’ – Just South of Wormelow. 56 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Run Away From A Sinister Child, And Realise Too Late That Hereford Is A Land Of Steep Hills.

Wednesday arrived too soon, as most mornings had so far on this trip, but I woke with a feeling of expectation: we were starting to get close to the final legs of our journey, and I couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of excitement. Cue the usual wincing and groaning, and I spent some time stretching my hamstrings to try to ease them.

We went down for breakfast, and Christine laid on one of the more memorable breakfasts as we chatted with the two other guests who expressed their admiration at our manly prowess at having got as far as we had; I forbore to mention my less than manly tantrum the day before – but time on the road, it can change a man.

I filled up on porridge and toast with some bacon, Ray tucked into the usual, and we drank strong tea and coffee as well as about a pint and a half of water and orange juice. Christine chatted away about the local area with our fellow guests, and we nerved ourselves up for the next leg of our trip which would take us past Hereford, not far from Bromsgrove where I had gone to school for 10 years as a nipper.

We got dressed upstairs, and I dumped anything that was non-essential into the rubbish bin in an attempt to lighten my pannier. Ray took my book as I couldn’t bear to throw it out, I strapped my knee up, and we descended once more, paid for our room and thanked Christine, and got the steeds from their confinement with the angry bullock. As we were leaving the couple we had met at breakfast offered us £10.00 to the pot, as did Christine, and we got back on the road with their best wishes to warm us.

The weather was overcast but at least it wasn’t raining. My backside was by now severely painful, regardless of whether we were at the start or end of the day. The one thing that had been keeping me sane was by slather the Assos chamois cream on my padded shorts all morning as it cooled my tender parts and prevented more serious chafing. I had a problem: I was running out. I had bought Germolene the night before which has a local anaesthetic in it, and this helped to a degree, but without the Assos I was going to be feeling like I had been fingered by an elephant. I determined to find some more.

We followed the A49 past the Bridge Inn, and were soon back into our rhythm passing through incredibly green countryside and some pretty villages as we headed towards Leominster (pronounced Lemster – I don’t know why. I mean – LEOWMINSTER or Lemster. Which would you choose to call it before being mocked?) through the Shropshire countryside. We passed the Malvern Hills on our left (we couldn’t actually see them, but there were certainly a few big ones as we went) before stopping for a break after about 12 miles or so, at which point the sun came and we had some bright spells.

Once rested we headed onwards, and you could tell that you were very much in Middle England as we passed through places like Craven Arms, Little Stretton, and past a quaint sounding place called Longmeadow End. We passed around Ludlow without going into the town, and carried on our way along the well surfaced A49. The scenery continued to be fields and farmland as far as the eye could see, interspersed with copses of tall poplars and oak trees, and we stopped for lunch once more in a Little Chef that appeared from nowhere.

Once more, the pasta and bread combo Heston Blumenthal so reviled got my legs moving again, and I spent most of the time dodging the attentions of a man who looked to be carved from granite who insisted that I was a cyclist even if I didn’t claim to be one. I don’t know, maybe the lycra and the bike gave it away. Ray found it most amusing, and I resolved to push him off his bike later in the day should an opportunity present itself. We called Mike and got him on the case of tracking us down some accommodation for the night, which he leapt into with if not gay abandon, then a certain manly excitement recognisable in dance studios across the country.

The knee support seemed to be working, and I had a lot more confidence in my ability to carry on although I was still in a fair amount of pain both from my now chafed backside and from the injury to the knee. I took a moment to ‘Germolene up’ the worst bits and it was with a sigh that the anaesthetic properties kicked in.

Back on the road once more, we took the occasional break under whatever cover we could find as there were a few rainy patches, and once more I saw the strongly smelling pink orchids growing on the side of the road. There is nothing like dodging downpours to get you viewing trees in a different light, and pretty soon we were adept at spotting what would be a good place to shelter and what would get us soaked.

The A49 from Leominster to Hereford looks wonderfully flat on the torn-out page of a road atlas, but don’t be fooled: it is not. In fact, there is a particularly steep hill formation in the way at a place called Hope Under Dinmore. It was not the worst hill we had faced, in fact not even close, but it seemingly came out of nowhere and was therefore all the worse for it: we had no chance to nerve ourselves up for it. To make matters worse the heavens opened as we were toiling our way up, and we reached the top of a long steep climb not only seriously out of breath but seriously sodden as well.

We passed a reasonable sized car park on our right, and took the opportunity to catch a breather on the side of the road opposite. I looked across to see a small blonde girl waving to us from the arms of her mother, and we duly waved back, surprised that news of our coming had even reached the ears of babes in these parts.

“She thinks you’re her Dad!!” shouted the mother, which confused the hell out of me as I wasn’t even in the county when said consummation was to have taken place. “Her Dad’s a cyclist, so she thinks that everyone she sees on a bike is her Dad!”

I drew a deep breath of relief, smiled politely, and then chivvied Ray to get moving as quickly as possible so that we could get away from the scary child with the ‘personality issues’.

Fortunately, there was a long and very pleasant downhill stretch just afterward where I got up to 34 miles per hour, and I was confident that unless she could drive a car at the tender age 3, we were safe from other incidents of ‘mistaken identity’. Sinister times, people; sinister times.
Hereford is built on a hill. I remembered that from my school days just as we started another climb up into the town centre after a long flat stretch of road through more wind- and rain swept farmland. We received a call from Mike telling us that we staying in a place called ‘The Lawns’ and Ray duly called ahead to give them an ETA.

This done, we pedalled onwards hitting the town centre at about 16:00. We stopped at a large Halfords which appeared on our left and I left Ray to guard the steeds as I disappeared inside to try and find some more Assos chamois cream to take the edge of that nasty chafing. Sadly Halfords had none, and it was with a wince that I rejoined Ray and we carried onwards once more.

Not only is Hereford built on a hill, but there are other buggers bigger than it all around. We stopped for a break outside the town, and I crammed as much Snickers bar in my mouth as I could. Bonking is no fun at the best of times, but when it’s raining it just adds a little more unhappiness to the mix. Back on the bikes again, we hit what I will politely describe as a ‘long bastard’ of a hill which seemed to go on forever, which we fought our way up being overtaken by the now rush hour traffic leaving Hereford. Joyous. And the rain slacked off a bit, which was nice, but there was a headwind, which was not.

About 5 miles south of Hereford we reached the A466, and we turned off the A49 for the last time after just over 135 miles on the same road – we had picked it up in Preston two days previously. Sinister blonde children notwithstanding, the A49 had been a pleasant stretch of road, but it was pleasant to be on a quieter more rural stretch. We passed through Wormelow chuckling a little at the name, and battled up a couple of steep climbs before reaching the newly tarmac’d entrance to The Lawns guesthouse on the right at 17:30.

We cycled up to the front of the house and were met by our hosts for the evening, the absolutely fantastic Ralph and Elizabeth. Ralph and Elizabeth are the kind of storybook grandparents that everyone wanted as a child: they insisted on parking the Manly Steed and its counterpart in the front hall of their delightfully old fashioned country farmhouse, and had already laid newspaper down on the stone flags. They whisked our wet clothes away to be washed, and then had us relaxing with a glass of fine sherry in our room within 15 minutes of arriving having made an absolute fuss of us. I took the opportunity to have a bath and lay back almost weeping in delight as the hot water seeped into my tired muscles.

Ralph offered to drive us down to a pub in Wormelow as we needed a meal and it was a couple of miles away, and Ray and I tucked into some fantastic pub grub washed down with a couple of pints of local ale and cider.

We called Ralph at about 20:30 who kindly picked us up again, and we were back in our room by 21:00 and relaxing in front of the TV. Ralph and Elizabeth, like Christine at Chatford House the day before, are going to heaven.

The weather forecast for the next day was better, and I took the chance to give my parents the daily update of where we were and how far we had come. My Dad had taken to following on an atlas how far we were going each day, and plotting with us where we would be going the next.
I called Hannah and wished her a good night, and Ray and I turned in after having had a call from his better half Evey who was in Ireland and getting stick from her relatives about not being married yet.

Ray went to sleep looking fraught and worried at this, and I collapsed into bed happy that all that had been sorted out already for me the previous year.

As I fell asleep the rain pattered gently on the window, and I thanked whatever guardian angel was listening that I had reached the end of another day without having to pull out because of my knee. I could almost hear the Manly Steed excitedly talking to its counterpart downstairs about the day, and the fact that they were allowed to stay inside rather than in a shed or garage.

Things weren’t going to be the same again, I realised: time on the road can change a man; time inside can change a bike, even one as tough and dedicated as the Manly Steed.

Tuesday 19th August – JOGLE Day 9: Newton le Willows to Chatford. 65.5 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator Will Finally Understands What You Have To Do To Carry On, And His Partner In Crime Ray Teaches Him A Valuable Lesson.

If Monday came with ferocity, Tuesday morning was a grey damp handshake best soon forgotten. We rolled out of bed and I was slightly surprised that I still hadn’t gotten used to the stale smell in the room, which had been topped up by the heady musk of drying cycle attire.

We headed down to breakfast at about 7:30am and waited around for the manager to arrive, who did so in a flurry of damp waterproofs and apologies for being late. As the only people there for breakfast, we seated ourselves in the breakfast room and Ray ordered a cooked breakfast while I opted for cereal and some bacon. Cornflakes aren’t my favourite by any stretch, but when they are the only choice you take what you can.

The toast was cold and like cardboard, the cooked breakfast was cold and flaccid (the only term that really applies people!!) and we headed back upstairs without finishing our brown hot water (it could have been tea, it could have been coffee, you just couldn’t tell!!)

After the now routine period spent checking the TV and trying to pretend it wasn’t going to happen, we got dressed, packed our gear, and went to retrieve the steeds who were delighted to be set free. The Manly Steed was still incensed about the rudeness of the day before, and had spent the night coming up with dark and devious plans involving a bicycle pump, a water bottle, and some oil in case it should happen again. I was sure it wouldn’t but heaven help the unfortunate who tried it today.

We set off ‘waterproofed up’ into a light rain, turning left out of the Pied Bull’s car park having exchanged a few words with a cheery chap who thought we were crazy. Given the weather I was inclined to agree, and we pedalled into Warrington with The Manly Steed eying any passing VW Polo’s suspiciously. The light rain turned into a downpour, and we cycled through it following the A49 ever southwards.

Warrington is much like many of the other towns we had passed – it wasn’t particularly memorable as there were the usual large megastores on the outskirts and newsagents as we got further in, but the one thing it did have was a steel bridge which caught our attention. It was over a canal and came seemingly out of nowhere as the rain bucketed down on us.

Once out of Warrington, we headed ever southwards on the A49 passing under the M56 as we went, and after that we were into much more rural countryside. The A49 is a lovely road to cycle on as it switches between dual carriageways and standard A roads, and the surface is akin to silk in comparison to some of the horrors that we had faced to get to that point. We headed towards Whitchurch passing Runcorn and Chester on our right and Weaverham, and pretty soon reached Tarporley where the road turned into the A51. I got over-excited at a signpost to Tiverton, thinking in some pain-induced state of befuddlement that we were nearing Devon, but it turned out to be a vicious red-herring.

As we pedalled, my knee was getting more and more painful. There is something particularly horrific about hurting yourself and then carrying on doing it again and again – it’s a bit like cutting yourself with a knife, and then doing it again. And again. And again. With my knee, the pain was a gradual thing which got worse, but never quite bad enough to force me to fall off and be unable to carry on. It was always there, every time I pushed down with my right leg it hurt.

I have mentioned before the loneliness of long distance cycling, and how it is easy to get trapped in your head. Add to this a nagging injury, and I started to become panicked as we went along, and was swearing at myself as I looked at the milometer and saw that we were nearly at the 600 mile mark. I couldn’t finish it here, but I couldn’t see myself being able to carry on either, and tears started to roll down my face.

After another mile I pulled over and pretty much threw the Manly Steed down at the side of the road, swearing and wiping my eyes. The Manly Steed looked up at me reproachfully, but it understood.

Ray got off and I told him how bad the knee was.

“Mate,” I said. “I don’t know how much further I can go on this...”

Ray turned and went back to his pannier, whilst I swore again and stretched my hamstring out in a vain attempt to ease the ache behind my knee. “I just can’t see how I can carry on – it isn’t bad enough to stop right now, but what if it gets worse?” Everything piled up on top of me, and I could feel myself starting to lose it.

Ray came back with a drink and a packet in his hand. He could have said: “This is the time, my friend, where we have to dig deep and push through the pain. The time we have trained all those long months for, pedalled all those long miles for. This is the time where we step up, and with a passion as strong as the mountains we have crossed to reach this place, challenge everything we believe we can achieve, and refuse to lie down! This is the time where we are on the knife’s edge between failure and success, and it is up to you now to become the man you have always known you could be!! This is the time: now!! And we’re going finish this bitch if it’s the last thing we do, on our hands and knees if necessary, because WE WILL NOT GIVE UP!!”

In fact, Ray could have said many things. Instead, he held out the packet to me. “Popcorn?” he asked?

The tension broke, and I sat on the side of the road laughing and wiping the odd tear away as I (perhaps selfishly – but I don’t care!!) ate most of the toffee popcorn Ray had bought over a hundred miles back. After this, we got back on the bikes (me apologising to the Manly Steed as I did so) and carried on our way having decided to take breaks more frequently so that I could stretch.

Ray’s Lesson For Will: Don’t Take The Mickey Out Of Ray As You Will Usually Live To Regret It.

The A49 continued onwards until we reached Whitchurch and it turned briefly into the A41 as we bypassed the town. Neither Ray nor I had the energy to fight our way through the town centre, and we took advantage of a Little Chef on the side of the road to stop for lunch. It was raining once more, and we tethered the steeds out of the wind and the worst of the rain before heading inside to a warm seat with some much needed coffee.

There was a new menu being trialled (which Heston Blumenthall rubbished in a recent TV series – Heston has obviously never cycled from John O’Groats) and I ordered some pasta with warm bread while Ray had another cooked breakfast. We had done 38.5 miles and it was about 13:20, and we were both glad to be indoors. I called Mike and set him searching for a place for us to stay near Shrewsbury, and then dug into the steaming pasta which had just arrived.

Leaving behind the Little Chef we turned left back onto the A41 and headed onwards, rejoining with the A49 once more and following signs to Shrewsbury. We passed a garden centre on our left and I stopped to play with the large floppy eared dog who had come out to support us on our way, before carrying on and passing farmland on our left and right, terrain completely different from the previous day’s cycle. We stopped frequently, and I was concerned to note that I had very little strength in my right leg.

8 miles from Shrewsbury, Ray, in a display of superhuman endurance and terrier-like tenacity, took my pannier from me to lighten the load on the Manly Steed and thus enable me to get that bit further. We hit Shrewsbury at about 16:30 as the roads were starting to get heavy with traffic, and scooted around the outside on the dual carriageway, stopping in a large lay-by for more manly stretching. Mike called with a place to stay for the night in a place called Chatford House which was just past Shrewsbury, and with a final destination in mind we wearily remounted and pedalled onwards once more.

My old athletics coach Bob Skip (a top chap) used to say when we were training hard that you had to be “a certain kind of animal to want hurt yourself.” As we carried on I realised that this was true. I had wearily accepted that I was probably going to hurt more than I already did, and that the knee might get worse. I might not finish, but I was going to carry on and see how far I could get.

We turned right off the A49 onto some back roads before Stapleton and then turned up a single lane track that led us to the hamlet of Chatford where we found our way to our accommodation for the night. We were met by our host the lovely Christine and her two delightful daughters, and left the steeds for the night in a shed next to a bullock who was going to market in the coming days. The Manly Steed was no doubt muttering quietly to itself about this, but any port in a storm...

Chatford House is a wonderful B&B, and we took full advantage of the power shower before collapsing on our beds for 20 minutes. Christine invited us downstairs for coffee and homemade cake which was just what we needed, before offering to give us a lift into Shrewsbury to get some cash and a knee support for me.

This done, and £40.00 spent on a support (a great investment!), she then drove us to the Bridge Inn and left us there for dinner. We ate a lovely meal and had a couple of pints of local ale before Christine then came back and picked us up once more and deposited us back at the B&B whereupon the usual evening phone calls and texts commenced.

Christine is an angel. I think that she (and a couple of other people we met en-route) are going to heaven.

I collapsed in bed having had a draining day both emotionally and physically, and having watched part of Roadhouse (a bad film with Patrick Swayze) fell asleep missing my dear wife. Outside, the rain beat down in a steady patter, and I had no idea what the next day might bring, or even if I would be able to get through it.

Monday 18th August – JOGLE Day 8: Kendal to Newton le Willows. 74 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Encounter True Idiocy, Realise That It Is In Parts Grim Up North!!

Monday morning came with ferocity. Monday mornings are always bad mornings in my book, but this one seemed to really want to take some liberties. We had been on the road a week, and the sound of the alarm going off at 7:30 was an unhappy reminder that we’d be travelling for another week to come before we got to Land’s End.

Sighing, wincing and groaning we got up and headed down to breakfast, where we were met by Yvonne telling us loudly that because we were ten minutes late we couldn’t have breakfast. This in front of the ten other guests who stared at us as we tried to understand what had just happened. It turned out that she was joking, and so we scurried over to our table before she could change her mind.

I told you – crazy.

If you stay at the Lyndhurst Guesthouse (and I recommend that you do – Yvonne is a sweetheart actually but we weren’t awake enough to realise what was going on – German humour and all that) then do like I did: have the apple and cinnamon porridge for breakfast. Made from scratch, it was the perfect fuel for the day and tasted delicious. Ray tucked into the usual breakfast, I watched him tucking into the usual breakfast, and Yvonne and Stewart tried to give me more food than I could get down.

We got changed in the room afterwards and stretched out on the bed to watch the Olympics highlights, and I couldn’t help feeling a bit deflated. Yesterday had been a rollercoaster of excitement and frustration what with crossing the border and fighting our way up Shap Fell, and today was a long slog down to Warrington (or there about) and we were leaving behind the hills and forests for the more industrialised towns and cities.

We paid our hosts and went to rescue the steeds from the garage where they had been tethered, and gave them a quick once over to make sure they hadn’t picked up anything the day before. They were in fine fettle, and the Manly Steed was chomping at the bit to get going.

The weather was overcast but the wind had dropped, and we set out once more, heading back into the centre of town where we picked up the A65 towards Endmoor. We got lost in the one way system, but finally got it sorted and were soon pedalling along passing a hospital and Oxenholme railway station as we went. We had decided on the A65 as it cuts out some potentially unpleasant dual carriageway, and we were having a pleasant time cycling through fields and farms, even passing a chap who had a sign on his back telling us he was walking the JOGLE. We didn’t stop, but waved as we flashed past.

Just after Endmoor we hooked a right onto the B6385 towards Milnthorpe, and were winding our way through pretty, narrow country lanes for a few miles with the smell of cow dung in our nostrils. As we went, something strange began to happen. Whenever we passed a field of sheep and Ray was leading, the flock would run away like crazy. Whenever I was leading, they would run towards us. I think Ray’s reputation was preceding him.

Well – or mine was. I am something of a Casanova, if I do say so myself.

As we went, the porridge was sending strong signals out and I felt GGRRREAAAT!! Soon I was powering along, and I felt that we would have a fantastic day. The rain started up as we turned left in the pretty village of Milnthorpe and got back on the A6, but that didn’t matter – I felt like I could outpace the rain clouds!!

This good feeling stopped quite abruptly at about the 10 mile mark for the day in Carnforth when my energy levels bonked and we had to grab some emergency rations in the local Tesco, and from there onwards the day was back to its usual grind. Still – it had been good for a while!!
The roads in towards Lancaster are good quality, and as we went I couldn’t help but notice that there was a lovely smell in the air. Growing on the side of the road were huge clusters of some sort of pink orchid which filled our nostrils with pleasant bouquets, a welcome relief after the not-so-quite delightful bouquet of mulching cow dung earlier in the morning.

Lancaster is one hell of a confusing place in the city-centre, and as we had decided to ditch the use of the sat-nav a few days previously we were navigating with pages torn out of a road atlas, which were completely unhelpful as we had left the page we needed behind with Hannah. Clever us, eh?

So we were to be travelling blind for about 25 miles through not one but two major towns, and not once did we think to pick up a small local map. Instead we turned on the Garmin, scrolled forward, and programmed it to take us to the A49 at the south of Preston.

We headed southwards through the city-centre of Lancaster trying to read the sat-nav and road signs at the same time, and just about managed to claw our way back onto the A6 without bellowing at too many Lancastrian septuagenarian pensioners to ask for directions. We pedalled onwards through somewhat inclement weather passing through some small towns and rolling farmland, with nothing confronting us that was too difficult to overcome.

Lunchtime was upon us, and so we stopped in a pub 11 miles from Preston, just north of Garstang. It was getting colder as we tethered the steeds, and I ordered a burger and mashed potatoes, a pint of coke and a coffee. Ray ordered a chicken kiev with chips, showing off his adventurous nature to the pretty barmaid. We had covered about 30 miles, and we were in no rush to leave so I took a load off my sensitive behind and relaxed into the padded seat. I took a moment to call work and ask them to find us accommodation around Warrington.

All good things have to come to an end, and so we went back outside after just over an hour in the warmth. Ray was looking forward to the next leg of the journey, and I wasn’t entirely sure why: it was raining on and off and the temperature felt like it had dropped a couple of degrees. Still, time on the road, it changes a man.

The 11 miles into Preston seemed to take forever. We pedalled, we sweated, we stopped at a petrol station to get some GoGo juice and chocolate, we got soaking wet and put on full waterproofs, we pedalled some more, and we still took an hour and a half to get there. No clue why, but hey – we eventually got there at about 16:00 and found Preston to be a sprawling town with no clear signposts running through it. We had planned to leave the A6 in the town as it turned into a nasty looking dual carriageway, and we followed the Garmin’s directions as it took us along some minor roads through the suburbs. We turned off the A6 onto the A675 at Victoria Road, but missed the right hand turn onto the B6258 which would have taken us along quiet roads to A49 via Bamber Bridge. Hindsight, as I have said before, is 20:20, and with a clear map you can see where it all went wrong.

We carried on for a few more miles, and I knew we were in the wrong place when we passed under the M6 and were into more open fields. We turned around, headed back for the A6 where we at least knew where we were.

What about the Garmin, I hear you cry?? It kept changing the route on us every half mile. It works, I’m sure, but I don’t trust the damn thing as far as it could throw me. The detour had added 45 minutes to our journey as we stopped to try and find a map (too late!!)

In the end, we pedalled along the A6 dual carriageway section in the middle of rush hour as people headed home, an experience I was not keen on, so we turned off on the B5257at the first sign to Bamber Bridge and got back on track. Eventually we reached the right road, turned right, and found our way more by luck than judgement to the top of the A49 Wigan Road.

By then, I was knackered, and we took a break in brilliant sunshine as the temperature rose and the rain stopped for a while. It had been incredibly and surprisingly stressful getting through the town, as we hadn’t wanted to be on the dual carriageway with it bringing back memories of near-misses on the A82 in Glasgow.

We got back on the bikes and started southwards on the A49, and The Manly Steed snorted its disapproval of the Garmin. The Garmin looked suitably ashamed, and vowed to regain its good standing with us in the future.

We passed under the M6 again (this time in the right place) and stopped again for a break in a pub car park a little later just north of Euxton. As we were sat enjoying some late afternoon sunshine and I was chewing my way through another Snickers bar, the familiar form of Dave came around the corner and pulled over to have a natter. He had had no problems at all getting through the town, and it was immensely reassuring to see another JOGLEr and I was surprised at how quickly having a third person to talk to relieved the tension from me.

As we chatted (Dave had stayed with relatives the night before just south of Kendal) I received a text from Harriet and Jerome back at the office with our accommodation for the night which was to be in Newton Le Willows, a couple of miles north of Warrington, and still nearly 20 miles away, so we got back on the bikes and headed on. It turned out that Dave was staying in Warrington so we decided to cycle our way there together, and battle through Wigan as a trio. I told Dave about Ray carrying two packets of popcorn all the way from Carlisle, and he seemed nonplussed as I ribbed Ray again for having something so useless. I thought it was hysterically funny.

As we were pedalling along, and I was trying to ignore the pain in tailbone / buttocks / anything ‘nether-region’ we witnessed an act of such perfect idiocy which will stay with me for the rest of my life. We were just outside Wigan, and an old VW Polo pulled alongside me (I was at the back at this stage), the notables inside rolled down the passenger window, and said passenger extended his arm and then further extended his middle finger in what is colloquially known as ‘giving someone the bird’. I was somewhat shocked, but the cheery tattooed Chav with the sideways baseball cap and nicoteine-stained teeth (who exuded an aura of what I shall forever think of as just: ‘SCUM’) was not done.

Oh no.

“F@#k off!!” he cried, exposing said nicotine stained teeth whilst the driver beeped his horn maniacally, and with that they roared ahead to pull alongside Dave, repeat the exercise beeps and all, before finishing with Ray and driving off into the distance.

The Manly Steed was having none of this. To be insulted is one thing, but to be insulted by Chav Scum whose only exercise is heading to the dole office and occasionally shooting up and then sharing needles is quite another thing entirely. We pedalled like crazy, and the Manly Steed had a steely glint in its wheels that spoke of suffering for the perpetrator of our insult, but in the end it came down to the fact that even with Will Power powering the bike, it was never going to catch the damnable Scum in their no doubt stolen conveyance.

We reached Wigan as rush hour was in full fling, and stopped for a break and had a ménage a trois bonking on the side of the road (I know – cheap laugh - I couldn’t resist it though!!) where we shared out the Stingers with Dave who had never come across them before, and who was an instant convert. After some steep climbs there were some fantastic long downhill stretches, and the weather seemed to be brightening up as well: the sun broke through the clouds and gently warmed us.

Once through Wigan, we continued along the A49, stopping for another break, and then we reached Newton le Willows after a long day in the saddle at about 19:30. As we cycled the last 400 yards to our accommodation (The Pied Bull pub) there was a sudden flash of sharp pain in my right knee, and I found myself unable to pedal. I freewheeled as best I could to the pub, and got off very relieved to finish for the day. The Manly Steed and its counterpart were tethered in a meeting room at the back of the pub, both of them still fuming no doubt about the incident with the chavs on the road. It had been a tough day with some sun but generally grey and overcast with frequent rain, and it seemed it was always too hot for waterproofs but too wet not to have them.

The Pied Bull is a reasonable pub with basic accommodation, but it fulfilled a purpose as they had beds, hot water, and alcohol on tap 50 yards from our room. We had a relaxed supper watching the antics of the two attractive bar staff as they aired their dirty laundry very publicly with the patrons before causing arguments between the manager and one unfortunate chap who apparently was a ‘stalker’ because he was always in there drinking.

We went to bed at 10:30 tired and glad the day was over, having washed our kit in the shower and hung it up to dry. The room smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke, and I was really worried about my ability to cycle with my knee causing me pain as it was. Some ice and Ibulieve gel helped it, but ice and Ibulieve will only get you so far.

I drifted off to sleep to the sound of the TV again, having spoken with family and Hannah just beforehand. It seemed like we had a long way to go, and I realised that it was, in parts, quite grim up North.