Where Our Narrator Gets No Sleep, And His Partner In Crime Is The Worse For Wear.
Mike was at the front door at 01.45am as we had discussed, and I was somewhat disheartened at his cheeriness. Mike owns a pub in Twickenham on Fourth Cross Road called The Rifleman, where they serve some of the best real ale in the area, and his lagers aren’t half bad either. In my humble opinion, of course. And it’s cheap there.
Mention my name and he’ll likely not give you a discount at all.
Mike was flying high on a combination of Red Bull, excitement, and the fact that as a publican his body-clock is set somewhat differently to normal people. He had brought a state of the art hire-car which did everything but actually drive itself, and we managed to assemble the bike rack first time, get it fitted, and the Manly Steed was placed carefully alongside its smaller counterpart and secured for the journey north.
Our luggage was stowed (Ray having left his with us before flying out to Ireland) and Mike, Hannah and I all piled into the car. As we pulled out of our road, I looked back at Han and smiled. We were actually going to do this, and the nerves which had been plaguing me for the past 10 days ratcheted up a notch.
Oh God. We were actually going to this. People had donated £600.00 to make sure I actually did this.
There was really only one thing to do at this stage. Unfortunately, no one would let me spend the next 2 weeks getting drunk and pretending that I was cycling the length of the country.
I tried to sleep instead.
Our route was simple: M3, M25, M40, M6 Toll Road, and keep going until we hit the M74 and follow signs to Glasgow. After that, pick up the A82 to Fort William, through the Great Glen to Inverness, and then straight up the East Coast to John O’Groats via the A9 and the A99.
We made a pit-stop just before Manchester, and were making great time due to the lack of traffic, rather than our speed. That of course was completely within the legal limits. Next stop was Carlisle, and then we carried on through the Lakes following the M6. Damn, but I had forgotten how bleak it was up there, and I was glad that I was driving until I realised that the next time I would see them I’d be on the Manly Steed, with only Will power getting me to the top. As in powered by Will.
Just go with me here.
We picked up the M-& A-74, drove through the forested slopes of the lowlands of Scotland up to Glasgow, and were through the M8 and past Glasgow International Airport by about 09:30. We changed drivers as Mike was actually hallucinating he was so tired, and I sat behind the wheel with some relief at the prospect of a few hours driving without Mike swerving “to avoid that huge chicken!!”
Needless to say, I had slept for maybe 30 minutes the entire trip up, but as we drove up Lomondside along the A82, I felt the familiar feeling of homecoming. My parents had spent 10 years living in Kintyre, and it was always this stretch of road and onwards that felt like I was leaving real life behind and entering a world of forests, mountains and lochs.
We passed through Tarbet as the Scottish weather was doing its usual trick of raining hard whilst the sun was shining, and turned right before the Tarbet Hotel and continued along the A82 towards Crianlarich, Tyndrum, and Fort William.
It was Mike’s first time being further North than Glasgow, and he was constantly surprised at the scale and immensity of the Highlands. True to form, Glencoe was swathed in horizontal rain and we were pummelled by gales which rather spoiled the view, but we were able to see the bases of the mountains as we drove as quickly through it as possible, and then we were over the bridge at Ballachulish and up to Fort William, arriving there just after lunchtime.
As we were starving by this point (and I needed a break) we stopped for a traditional Scottish McDonalds, and then got back on the road towards Inverness and Ray.
Both the bikes were bearing up well, although the Manly Steed had a glint in its wheel which suggested that it would have been happier pedalling. I was not so sure of that myself: we had passed a number of cyclists who surely looked like LEJOGers getting well and truly soaked on the way up. I was not as keen to get started as you might think.
The road North of Fort William to Inverness doesn’t look that far on a map, but it took us nearly two and a half hours to get there. It dawned on me that I’d be cycling this route back in a couple of days, and could help but start counting hills. There were hundreds of the buggers, everywhere you looked!!
Big ones, small ones, none as big as my head (sadly).
We reached Inverness and followed the signs to the airport. It was incredibly small; in fact I am sure that we drove past it twice without realising what it was. The planes gave it away in the end.
We called Ray, and made our way limping wearily to the Starbucks and I ordered a huge mocha with enough caffeine to get a battleship back on its feet. I was so tired I was even mixing my analogies.
It had taken us fourteen and a half hours of solid driving to get here, through some truly awful weather and we had none of us slept more than about half an hour. I was starting to get seriously worried about our ability to cycle this, and Hannah had that look of “Get me out of this car right now or you are never sharing a bed with me again.”
Ray looked up when we arrived.
“Guys.” He said. “I’ve had the worst journey here. I’m so hungover, and my flight took three hours!”
From Inverness we had a quiet drive further north, and we finally let Ray out of the boot of the car after an hour. We arrived in John O’Groats at 18:30, and had been on the road for 17 hours. We drove to Canisbay to the Scottish Youth Hostel, and booked in with the incredibly friendly ladies running it. We had dinner in the Castle Arms in Mey on their recommendation which was well needed, and were somewhat surprised at the shrine to the Queen Mother they have there. Nice food though, but still – the Queen Mother? It makes my shrine at home to Kelly Brook seem quite normal.
We checked the bikes out when we returned, and Ray and I stretched our legs gently for about a mile. The Manly Steed was eager to get going, and after a quick rub down we left the bikes in a shed at the side of building.
We were all sharing a family room, and Han and I fell into the double bed while Ray perched himself on the bunk above us. Mike stretched out on the single bed, and we listened to sounds of the house quieting down around us. I closed my eyes, and willed myself to relax.
It was 22:00, and I went to sleep praying that we would have reasonable weather the next day. It seemed that I had only closed my eyes briefly when my alarm went off, meaning that is was 06:30, and that Day 1 was finally here.
I felt a little sick.
Mike was at the front door at 01.45am as we had discussed, and I was somewhat disheartened at his cheeriness. Mike owns a pub in Twickenham on Fourth Cross Road called The Rifleman, where they serve some of the best real ale in the area, and his lagers aren’t half bad either. In my humble opinion, of course. And it’s cheap there.
Mention my name and he’ll likely not give you a discount at all.
Mike was flying high on a combination of Red Bull, excitement, and the fact that as a publican his body-clock is set somewhat differently to normal people. He had brought a state of the art hire-car which did everything but actually drive itself, and we managed to assemble the bike rack first time, get it fitted, and the Manly Steed was placed carefully alongside its smaller counterpart and secured for the journey north.
Our luggage was stowed (Ray having left his with us before flying out to Ireland) and Mike, Hannah and I all piled into the car. As we pulled out of our road, I looked back at Han and smiled. We were actually going to do this, and the nerves which had been plaguing me for the past 10 days ratcheted up a notch.
Oh God. We were actually going to this. People had donated £600.00 to make sure I actually did this.
There was really only one thing to do at this stage. Unfortunately, no one would let me spend the next 2 weeks getting drunk and pretending that I was cycling the length of the country.
I tried to sleep instead.
Our route was simple: M3, M25, M40, M6 Toll Road, and keep going until we hit the M74 and follow signs to Glasgow. After that, pick up the A82 to Fort William, through the Great Glen to Inverness, and then straight up the East Coast to John O’Groats via the A9 and the A99.
We made a pit-stop just before Manchester, and were making great time due to the lack of traffic, rather than our speed. That of course was completely within the legal limits. Next stop was Carlisle, and then we carried on through the Lakes following the M6. Damn, but I had forgotten how bleak it was up there, and I was glad that I was driving until I realised that the next time I would see them I’d be on the Manly Steed, with only Will power getting me to the top. As in powered by Will.
Just go with me here.
We picked up the M-& A-74, drove through the forested slopes of the lowlands of Scotland up to Glasgow, and were through the M8 and past Glasgow International Airport by about 09:30. We changed drivers as Mike was actually hallucinating he was so tired, and I sat behind the wheel with some relief at the prospect of a few hours driving without Mike swerving “to avoid that huge chicken!!”
Needless to say, I had slept for maybe 30 minutes the entire trip up, but as we drove up Lomondside along the A82, I felt the familiar feeling of homecoming. My parents had spent 10 years living in Kintyre, and it was always this stretch of road and onwards that felt like I was leaving real life behind and entering a world of forests, mountains and lochs.
We passed through Tarbet as the Scottish weather was doing its usual trick of raining hard whilst the sun was shining, and turned right before the Tarbet Hotel and continued along the A82 towards Crianlarich, Tyndrum, and Fort William.
It was Mike’s first time being further North than Glasgow, and he was constantly surprised at the scale and immensity of the Highlands. True to form, Glencoe was swathed in horizontal rain and we were pummelled by gales which rather spoiled the view, but we were able to see the bases of the mountains as we drove as quickly through it as possible, and then we were over the bridge at Ballachulish and up to Fort William, arriving there just after lunchtime.
As we were starving by this point (and I needed a break) we stopped for a traditional Scottish McDonalds, and then got back on the road towards Inverness and Ray.
Both the bikes were bearing up well, although the Manly Steed had a glint in its wheel which suggested that it would have been happier pedalling. I was not so sure of that myself: we had passed a number of cyclists who surely looked like LEJOGers getting well and truly soaked on the way up. I was not as keen to get started as you might think.
The road North of Fort William to Inverness doesn’t look that far on a map, but it took us nearly two and a half hours to get there. It dawned on me that I’d be cycling this route back in a couple of days, and could help but start counting hills. There were hundreds of the buggers, everywhere you looked!!
Big ones, small ones, none as big as my head (sadly).
We reached Inverness and followed the signs to the airport. It was incredibly small; in fact I am sure that we drove past it twice without realising what it was. The planes gave it away in the end.
We called Ray, and made our way limping wearily to the Starbucks and I ordered a huge mocha with enough caffeine to get a battleship back on its feet. I was so tired I was even mixing my analogies.
It had taken us fourteen and a half hours of solid driving to get here, through some truly awful weather and we had none of us slept more than about half an hour. I was starting to get seriously worried about our ability to cycle this, and Hannah had that look of “Get me out of this car right now or you are never sharing a bed with me again.”
Ray looked up when we arrived.
“Guys.” He said. “I’ve had the worst journey here. I’m so hungover, and my flight took three hours!”
From Inverness we had a quiet drive further north, and we finally let Ray out of the boot of the car after an hour. We arrived in John O’Groats at 18:30, and had been on the road for 17 hours. We drove to Canisbay to the Scottish Youth Hostel, and booked in with the incredibly friendly ladies running it. We had dinner in the Castle Arms in Mey on their recommendation which was well needed, and were somewhat surprised at the shrine to the Queen Mother they have there. Nice food though, but still – the Queen Mother? It makes my shrine at home to Kelly Brook seem quite normal.
We checked the bikes out when we returned, and Ray and I stretched our legs gently for about a mile. The Manly Steed was eager to get going, and after a quick rub down we left the bikes in a shed at the side of building.
We were all sharing a family room, and Han and I fell into the double bed while Ray perched himself on the bunk above us. Mike stretched out on the single bed, and we listened to sounds of the house quieting down around us. I closed my eyes, and willed myself to relax.
It was 22:00, and I went to sleep praying that we would have reasonable weather the next day. It seemed that I had only closed my eyes briefly when my alarm went off, meaning that is was 06:30, and that Day 1 was finally here.
I felt a little sick.
This is really amusing. Painful, but amusing.
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