Sunday 17th August – JOGLE Day 7: Annan to Kendall. 68 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Reach England’s Green And Pleasant Land, And Conquer Shap Fell.

We were feeling in comparatively good shape when we made our way downstairs for breakfast at The Old Rectory, bearing in mind the physical ruins we had been the day before. Breakfast was served at about 07:30, and our host Dave had kindly risen earlier than this, and on a Sunday too. One thing they do have at The Old Rectory is chocolate porridge (a bribe that Dave used to get his son to eat the stuff) and I decided to tuck into that, and very nice it was too!

After the usual calorie stuffing exercise had finished, Ray and I sat back with a coffee and planned the day, praying that there had been a shift in the weather. We came up with contingencies for if the headwind was trying to murder us again (mostly involving stopping more often for shorter periods of time) and tried to figure out just how bad Shap Fell was going to be. Remember when I said that on the way up in the car we passed through the Lake District and it was bleak? That was what we were facing, and on a Sunday too!

We tromped back up to our room, and Dave mentioned that there was another JOGLEr staying but that he wasn’t up yet. We wondered if it was Mark, but he wasn’t on a recumbent so figured it wasn’t, unless the damn thing had broken again!

Our gear had been very kindly washed by Dave over night, and so smelled fresher than it had in a while, a pleasant change to the smell of shower gel!! Once more the TV came on for the Olympics, and we settled down for a bit to let breakfast go down and pretend that we didn’t have 68 miles to cycle.

At about 8:30 we paid for our room, and headed out to release the steeds who were chomping at the bit to get going. The weather was pleasantly still if overcast, with just a hint of rain in the air. It was like all of our birthdays had come at once, and we bid farewell to Dave and set off for Gretna Green and points south via the B721 paralleling the A76.

As we pedalled along, we could clearly see the Solway Firth on our right and the hills and mountains of England on the far side of the water. The weather across the border seemed to be nicer as well; with the trailing edge of the cloud we were cycling under finishing almost at the point that Scotland becomes England. There was actually sunshine happening, right across the water!! We were saved!!!

Having passed through some small villages along the pleasantly flat route, we arrived at Gretna just as Ray’s milometer hit 400 miles, and passed signs to the chapel where you can elope to. Basically, it’s the Vegas of the UK, but without Elvis or the dancing girls. Well – we saw no dancing girls.

And suddenly there in front of us, was a sign. Not a sign from God, but a sign telling us that the hard effort was worth it and that we were getting somewhere. It said “Welcome to ENGLAND CUMBRIA” and we were well come to England. (Think about it people – welcome: Well come. Never mind...)

After taking some photos in front of the signage, and hopping across the border and back again a couple of times just to say that I’d actually been in two countries at once, we got back into the saddle and pedalled onwards, with the Manly Steed speeding ahead on beautifully flat and smoothly tarmac’d roads.

From Gretna we headed up to Longtown where we were to pick up the A7 down to Carlisle. As we went, occasionally in the distance we would see a flash of luminescent green, and after a mile or two caught up with Mark who was still in one piece having stopped the night in Gretna with a friend. We chatted as we went before leaving him in the town to get some supplies as I was out of GoGo juice and energy food.

Outside the Longtown Spa I called my parents to let them know that we had reached England. Now, let me say a word about my folks, or Mama & Papa Rowe as they are known in Twickenham. Up until this point they had been very supportive in that ‘Yes dear, that’s nice, but do you really think that you’ll be able to get to the end?” type way, and my mother had given up asking if it was harder than I was expecting after day 3. Something changed when we hit England: they, like Neo in The Matrix, they started to believe.

There was much excitement to find that we had made it out of Scotland, and it turned out that my brother now owed my Dad £1.00 because he’d bet that we wouldn’t make the border. Better than my Dad I guess – he was surprised we made it past Day 3.

Ray came out of the Spa loaded down with food, and I noticed that he’d bought some popcorn as well.

“Popcorn?” I cried. “Mate, why the hell have you bought popcorn? It’s just gonna take up space and we’ll never eat it!!”

Ray looked sheepish and stowed his goodies in his pannier while I went and bought some drink, chocolate bars and a tuna sandwich (which repeated on me for about 20 miles) chuckling all the while about Ray’s popcorn.

We picked up the A7 down towards Carlisle with me cracking hysterical jokes about Ray’s popcorn (none of which he laughed at – he possibly couldn’t hear me...) and pretty soon were passing out from under the clouds of Scotland. The weather warmed up and we dared to ditch the waterproofs when the sun came out.

Mark had passed us in Longtown, and we came across another cyclist, Dave, with the somewhat weary pedalling of a JOGLEr who we had a brief chat with and who turned out to be chap who had stayed in our B&B the night before. It turns out he had left John O’Groats the day before we set out and had come down the east of Scotland through Aberdeen rather than taking in Glencoe, and again he was soloing the whole thing.

We navigated our way through Carlisle, and found the A6 which would take us south for the next few days. We took a breather just after Carlisle, and the sun came out to play properly. After that, it got more and more hilly as we headed for Penrith passing through such fabulously named places as Low and High Hesket, and Plumpton. Not as funny as Cummertrees, but they have their own unique appeal.

We caught up with Mark as he laboured his way up another mighty incline, and we all pulled into a lay-by to have a break and drink more GoGo juice than was probably good for us. Dave caught up with us, and it was strangely reassuring that 4 people who had never really met before could stand for ten to fifteen minutes in the middle of nowhere and share their stories about their journey to that point. Mark started talking about how tough Shap Fell was likely to be, and from his description I envisaged rock climbing my way over the top with The Manly Steed strapped to my back.

We parted company with them, and didn’t see Mark again until our last day in Cornwall. The last few miles into Penrith were tough, and we decided to grab a bite to eat at the first likely looking pub that we could find, pulling into The Grey Bull just after reaching the outskirts of the town.

I left Ray at the rear of the pub with the bikes while I went in to see if they were serving food, and walked lycra-clad and very obviously out of place into a traditional working man’s drinking hole. I asked if we were alright to tether the steeds out the back, and one of the locals at the bar quipped that they might not be there afterwards.

“That’s fine by me!” I said. “We left John O’Groats a week ago, and have another 500 miles to go and I’m looking for a reason to stop!!”

There were gasps of amazement (come on – suspend your disbelief people!!) from the three locals and they asked why we were doing such a long cycle. “Stupidity can’t be ruled out. Also, we’re raising money for charity – Macmillan, SSAFA, and Kids Company.”

“You’re collecting for the cancer?” asked the one at the bar. “Mate – you leave your bikes where you want – we’ll make sure nowt happens to them.” And he proceeded to tell everyone who came in what we were doing, further more giving us £10.00 to add to the pot and telling us to call him if we didn’t reach the £1000.00 mark that we wanted, as he ran his own business and wanted to help.

Ray ordered a heavy roast lunch while I opted for soup and treacle pudding, and as he was fighting his way through it I mentioned that he might not make it over Shap Fell while carrying all the extra weight. He began to look worried, and we plied the other people in the bar for information on the road over to Kendall.

“I wouldn’t want to do it” was the response. Good then, I thought.

“At least you’re carrying that popcorn.” I said. “That’ll come in handy if we get stuck!!”
Picking up our bags from behind the bar (the landlord had kindly stowed them there for us – top man!!) we parted company with The Grey Bull in Penrith feeling buoyed by having met some genuinely nice people. Good food, by the way – recommend stopping there if you are passing through.

The clouds were back as we headed through Penrith, stopping for GoGo juice and chocolate at a petrol station before cutting across the A66 at a large roundabout, and continuing down the A6 towards Kendall. The road passed through some beautifully rural country which was surprisingly open considering we were heading into the Lake District with its towering peaks. Occasionally the sun would come out, but it had turned cold and we donned waterproofs to keep out the wind.

Our route led us over and under the M6 a number of times and it was quite surreal to think that we had actually passed this way in the car what seemed like an age ago, but what was actually only a week.

The road gradually climbed as we went, and eventually we reached the village of Shap itself, stopping to have a break for the big push up into the hills. It started to rain properly, and we were liberally soaked a number of times as we continued on, and in what was becoming something of a tradition for this trip, we were faced with outlandish weather. There was a downpour drenching us, but because of the glaring sunlight we were cycling with sunglasses on. Ray put his hood up and set his helmet on top of this, which got us a number of strange looks from passersby, but Ray was adamant that he’d rather look a pillock than get a wet head.

I soldiered on regardless.

The run up to Shap Fell is a twisting road which must be delightful when you are in a powered conveyance and have a heater. Not so if soaking and cold on a bicycle, although the Manly Steed was having a rare old time of it, splashing through puddles and probably calling out to its counterpart to slow down and let it catch up.

We slogged upwards pausing for a break every few miles as it became apparent that the top wasn’t coming as quickly as we would have liked. We passed what looked like an old quarry on our right, passed a small lonely looking building, and rounding a corner saw a lay-by ahead of us into which we pulled and stopped for a break. We had reached the top: Shap Fell was conquered, and we were once more feeling positively ecstatic that another major hurdle had been removed from our way. We took some photos and looked out over the hills and dales to the East of us, watching the land drop away into the distance.

We had called Mike while in Penrith asking him to book us a B&B in Kendall as we had run out of pre-booked accommodation in Annan, and he had texted us with a number to call when we got to Kendall. With a place to sleep sorted, we got back onto the bikes and flew down the steep descents and up a couple of steep climbs which are the A6 into Kendal, passing through country which looked like it could have been The Shire from Tolkein’s Middle-earth but for the pylons stamping their way through fields and trees. We paused to eat a banana at a place called Forest hall – a name reminiscent of where Frodo met the Elves for the first time in the Lord of the Rings (I know, but I am a bit of a fantasy geek...)

We reached Kendall at 18:40 in decent spirits and called our hosts to get directions, and pedalled through the town following the river before crossing over one of the numerous bridges. Five minutes later were knocking on the door of Lyndhurst Guesthouse, and were met by a lovely couple called Yvonne and Stewart.

Yvonne is a slightly crazy German lady who called us insane at the fact that we had cycled as far as we had. We were given a tourist map with various eating holes pointed out, and we retired to our room to collapse, shower, and change for dinner which we had in a Pizza Express in the town centre.

I called my parents again letting them know we had arrived, and called Hannah (who was going to Wales in the morning) who was missing me. I fell asleep to the sound of the TV as Ray watched something mindless, and felt like we had actually got somewhere today. We were in England!!

Saturday 16th August – JOGLE Day 6: Stair to Annan. 71 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Experience A Truly Hellish Day, Both Give Up, But Don’t Tell Each Other And So Carry On.

Neither of us wanted to get up, but there is only so much groaning and complaining that you can do before you realise that you might miss breakfast if you don’t get up soon. I rolled out of bed (cue much wincing and belaboured stretching of tired muscles) and went and splashed water on my face before dressing and heading downstairs with Ray.

Breakfast was a pleasant affair in the Stair Inn, and the owner served us the usual mix of cereals, porridge, and cooked breakfast which I forced my way through with the usual mutterings and dark looks at Ray as he wolfed down his third bit of toast and asked for seconds of bacon. The weather was looking ok, but we had watched a weather report the night before which talked of strong winds.

When we asked the publican if he had any updates on this, he replied cheerfully “Yep. It’s gonna be gusting between 20 and 40 miles per hour and it’s coming in from south of the country. You’ll be heading right into it!!”

I won’t repeat my thoughts on our overly cheery host, but with my overly sensitive buttocks sending spikes of what can only be classed ‘sensation’ shooting up my spine, I was potentially going to be quite uncharitable. Our host, it turned, was not and he offered us £10.00 towards the charity fund which we accepted gracefully (secretly glad it was a note, and not in change as that would have weighed us down)

After breakfast we repaired to our room to pack and go through the usual routine of climbing into slightly damp cycle gear. Ray watched some of the results from the Beijing Olympics (we were starting to do quite well apparently) while I climbed into bed and tried to will myself to Land’s End.

It didn’t happen.

At about 9:15 we finally gave into the inevitable, picked up our bags, and went back down to pay for the room and retrieve the bikes. The Manly Steed and it’s smaller counterpart had fared well over night (no doubt regaling the kitchen staff with tales of derring do in the far, bitter north) and after a quick rub down and a check of the tyre pressure seemed ship-shape and ready to.

Panniers strapped to the side, we limbered up briefly before stepping back into the saddle for the sixth consecutive day. The clouds overhead were lowering and moving at a fair pace across the sky, and it was a tad chilly.

“It doesn’t look so bad.” I said to Ray, who looked back at me and smiled. Sometimes you don’t need to say anything.

We pulled out of the car park, and were immediately into a steep hill which went on for a couple of hundred yards before gently descending into rural farmland at its best. 100 yards into the hill my right quadricep (that’s thigh muscle to you and me) pinged in an excitingly painful way causing me to swear my way to the top and pull over for an episode of manly stretching and Ibulieve rubbing.

It became apparent after a mile or two that the thigh was going continue hurting and get worse if we didn’t do something drastic, and so Ray offered up the tubigrip which had been supporting his knee claiming that he didn’t need it anymore. Not that tubigrip is drastic, but it was all we had at the time.

We pedalled the remaining miles on the B730 to a small village called Coalhall, and then turned left onto the A70 towards Ochiltree, Cumnock, and the A76 which would lead us to Dumfries and then Annan, our target for the day.

On a beautiful day, the A70 will afford you spectacular views over the Scottish lowlands as it rises and falls in rolling manner, passing through farmland and the odd pretty town. On a windy day, when your thigh is hurting and you are starting to get paranoid about how hard you can push it before it gets worse, there is really only one word for the A70.

Exposed.

At times there was nothing between us and the wind sweeping up from the Solway Firth other than the occasional hedgerow and herd of cows. We dug in, and eventually (swapping the lead many times) reach the A76 at Cumnock. After a quick stop to buy GoGo Juice and a large quantity of chocolate bars (and the odd Caramac – lovely stuff) we hurled ourselves into the teeth of the wind once more and pedalled onwards passing through dual carriageway and standard A roads as we went.

We passed New Cumnock (Cumnock being so good they just had to build a new one) and then were into a stretch of road which was seemingly an endless series of ups and downs. I have mentioned in the past that on the flat and downhill stretches I really come into my own. When you combine 20 to 30 miles an hour (downhill obviously) with nearly 16 stone you get a lot of momentum, and my ability to punch through headwinds with Ray tucked in behind me has become near legendary in The Rifleman pub of Fourth Cross Road, Twickenham.

On this day, it made not a blind bit of difference. With the wind shrieking its defiance at any near legendary abilities I might have (and there are a few, people, but this is about cycling so you’ll just have to hear about them another time) I was having to pedal downhill to get anywhere close to even 20 mph, the flat sections were painful, and if Ray hadn’t taken the lead up the hilly sections I’d probably have still have been on the A76 just north of Sanquhar at nightfall.

We passed through some small villages as we went but they seemed deserted as people far cleverer than we stayed indoors or more importantly in the pub. We decided on taking breaks every 5 miles or so to try to keep ourselves in some sort of positive mind frame, but it soon became apparent that were getting nowhere fast. On top of everything else, the rain started to fall at about 10:30 so we were battling against that as well.

It was really all too much.

We arrived in the town of Sanquhar at about 1:30 having covered about 27 miles or so to find that Sanquhar was shut because there was a procession / festival including skirling bagpipes and full tartan regalia being held there for a couple of hours. We decided that perhaps now might be a good time to stop for lunch, and made our way to the roadside cafe next to a petrol station. We tethered the steeds outside carefully out of the wind, and the Manly Steed eyed me reproachfully as I grabbed our gear and went inside.

The inside of the cafe was as steamy as a damp locker room but as welcoming a place as I had seen in a long time. We loaded up on hot food and coffee, and gradually my hatred of the world in general eased back to its usual slightly mocking position. In its place settled a depression and feeling of despair. We weren’t getting anywhere, had just spent 4 hours battling through some horrific weather, and I just couldn’t see how we were to make more than another 35 miles in the afternoon.

I looked at Ray, who was staring into the bottom of his coffee cup, who looked up at me. Sometimes you really don’t have to say anything. I felt like bursting into tears.

We were both at rock bottom and something had to give. We had never experienced anything like this before, and after five and a half days on the road and more than 350 miles covered we were exhausted and had run out of steam.

Paying for lunch, we forced ourselves out into the wind and occasional rain to continue onwards. We had no choice: Dumfries was the nearest town of any size, and I was already planning escape routes.

It is quite amazing what the sun will do for you. I have said this before, I believe. As we headed south the clouds lifted, and it became warm enough for us to remove our soaking waterproofs. The wind was still strong and still in our faces, and we still had to scrabble and fight for any mileage, but we caught occasional glimpses of golden sunshine as we slogged onwards.

At Cannonbridge we took a break, resting on a grassy bank a couple of yards from a signpost telling us we only had another 16 miles to go till Dumfries. After that, there was another 16 miles to Annan, and we had managed through hard and painful work to cover more than half of our daily distance.

The sun came out, and we ate some chocolate bars. A wasp landed on Ray’s back, and I surprised myself by letting it crawl onto my hand rather than flicking it off him and running around screaming like a small child, as I normally would have. I watched it as it sunned itself for about five minutes on my finger before coaxing it off with a piece of chocolate from my Twix wrapper. I have always been afraid of wasps, but in that moment I felt an affinity for something so small in the hands of something so large.

We got back on the steeds, and I rolled out my favourite line: “As one shepherd said to the other: let’s get the flock out of here.” Ray groaned, smiled, and we set off southwards once more.

The remaining miles in to Dumfries passed under our wheels as we slogged onwards, and the occasional signpost helped us along as we passed through Thornhill, Auldgirth and Holywood (I looked around for a movie studio but saw nothing – I had been looking for someone to make “Will Rowe: The Wilderness Years” for some time) until we joined the A75 as it looped around the town centre. We made slower progress using pavements rather than dicing with death and silver Mercedes on the dual carriageway sections as it bypassed the town on a series of raised bridges, and then we were onto solid dual carriageway with a proper hard shoulder to ride on.

At Collins we took our lives in our own hands by crossing a couple of lanes of traffic to turn right onto the B724 and take the back roads to Annan. We were exhausted by then and bonking massively (come on people – you’ve been so good till now!) so out came the emergency Stingers, and we called ahead to the B&B to let them know that were definitely going to be there, although a little later than planned.

It may have been the exhaustion, but the name of the villages set me off laughing as we went along which was a mistake as the road is quite hilly at times. We passed through Mouswald (No mice that I could see), Clarenceville (didn’t see anyone called Clarence) and Cummertrees (No trees... err... doing... err... anything at all)

We were nearly run off the road by a motorbike, though, which was refreshing as normally it’s cars or campervans.

Annan couldn’t come soon enough, and we rolled into the high street at about 18:30. A quick call to our B&B, The Old Rectory, and Dave our host gave us directions which he said were straightforward but which we still managed to get wrong.

We tethered the steeds in Dave’s shed and they looked happy to have some quiet time to themselves after the hideousness of the day. Our room was a comfortable twin with an ensuite shower which I hurled myself into almost immediately, and then I stretched out on my bed while Ray took his turn.

Dinner was a confused affair in a local restaurant which managed to serve me a deep fried starter involving Mexican, Chinese, and Scottish influences (Jalapeno peppers filled with cream cheese, sweet chilli dip, and oatcakes) in one dish, and where the beer was quite, quite bad. However, on a Saturday night you take what you can get.

We talked of the day, and how hard it had been, and I confided guiltily to Ray that I had decided at one point to give up and go home. He smiled.

“So did I. I only carried on because you were.” He said.

We both started laughing, as that was the same reason I had got as far as I did, and it was the kind of laugh that releases all of that pent up anger and frustration.

I went to bed that night feeling that if things did get worse, that I’d be able to get through it, because as long as you are moving forwards you are getting somewhere.

Sometimes I forget that.

As always, my alarm went off after too short a time, and it was Sunday morning. We had been on the road almost a week, and today we were going to be in England.

Friday 15th August – JOGLE Day 5: Tarbet to Stair. 69.5 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Nearly Meet Their Maker.

Breakfast in ‘Aye Servus’ was served by Maria at 07:30 as we wanted an earlier start on the day, and once more Ray tucked into a huge meal while I struggled through cereal and some bacon and toast. We packed our bags, and stepped into slightly damp cycle gear which had been washed in the shower the night before.

Hannah was unhappy about leaving, but she had to go back to work the on the following Monday and Mike who had been such a stalwart was hankering to get back behind the bar. We parted company under a light drizzle as Ray and I left them packing their things in the car, and the Manly Steed sorrowfully carried me back to the main road before turning left and back onto the A82.

Ray and I pedalled our way along the road with Loch Lomond on our left, and we frequently got glimpses of Ben Lomond shrouded in cloud on the far side. Mike and Han overtook us for the last time beeping and waving through the sunroof, before disappearing around a corner and heading for Glasgow and the journey home to Twickenham. It would take them nine and a half hours, and us another 7 days or so to get roughly parallel with them.

It is all in all a very pleasant road which runs along Lomondside, and we were fortunate enough to be next to a bus shelter when the rain came washing towards us in a solid-seeming sheet so we stopped for ten minutes or so in the dry until the worst was over. The sky continued to open on us every half hour or so, but we put on our waterproofs and carried on regardless.

I was feeling hungry after the first 10 miles or so, and we decided to stop for a second breakfast in Duck Bay Marina which consisted of coffee and bacon sandwiches washed down with more coffee and chocolate cake. We both agreed that we felt quite exposed without the support team.
After about half an hour we got back on the bikes, and soon the miles were being eaten up as we headed towards Balloch and Alexandria. We left the A82 just before it turned into a dual carriageway and pedalled through Alexandria and Renton, and then down onto the A814 through some attractive industrial estates before rejoining the A82 just before Milton.

This decision was one that proved to be a near fatal error. The A82 is very narrow at this point, and we should in hindsight have got back off it and cycled through Old Kilpatrick to find a route up to the Erskine Bridge. Hindsight, as they say, is 20:20 vision.

We cycled along being overtaken by two lanes of cars with no hard shoulder or really any protection against 60-70 mph traffic. I prayed silently to the memory of the chap who had died on his 12th End to End for a bit of help, and we pounded along as fast as possible to get to our junction which would put us back on safe ground.

We were half a mile from the exit when a silver Mercedes with( I can only assume a near sighted driver) whizzed past us, actually brushing my pannier and missing Ray by about a foot as the complete idiot swerved over the white line and then shot off into the distance. That half mile went by quickly as we reached speeds hitherto unseen on the Manly Steed and its counterpart, and we stopped in a lay-by to take a deep breath and shakily let the adrenaline and fear drain from our systems. I have come to understand something about Mercedes drivers over the last few months: they never look where they are going. Every time we have had a near miss it has been with a Merc, or occasionally a BMW.

Ray noticed a shard of broken glass was embedded in his tire and so we took a few minutes to remove that and check that we were still in one piece. The Manly Steed was fine other than not wanting to try that again, although it was interesting to note that there was a muddy smear down the outside of my pannier which hadn’t been there the last time we stopped. I gave a silent prayer of thanks to our guardian angel, and then we cycled up onto the Erskine Bridge for a stunning view of Glasgow and the River Clyde.

Once over the bridge (and it’s big!!) we picked up the A726 and passed Glasgow International airport on our left as we went along some quiet roads, stopping for a photo or two. Then onwards to Paisley, which is memorable only for its lack of anything of interest, before heading down to Barrhead on the B774. From there we took the A736 to Lugton following a seemingly endless road which wended its way through a patchwork of fields interspersed with small wooded areas.

It was now getting on for 14:30 and we had yet to stop for lunch, and I was starting to bonk in a less than exciting way. We stopped to ask two chaps who were perched on a ladder fixing a signpost where the next pub serving food was, and were told to try The Canny Man in Lugton as they did decent lunches. We were told that it was only a few miles further on, and so we pedalled ever onwards arriving just after 15:00 to be told that the kitchen was closed. The look on my face as I ordered coffee, Coke, and water must have elicited sympathy in the girl behind the bar as she produced a plate of biscuits with our drinks.

I spent a couple of minutes in the toilet warming up my sodden top under the hand dryer, and then joined Ray to sit brokenly staring at the rain and wishing for a burger. The manager popped over and told us that there was no charge for the biscuits, and we finished our drinks and went back out into the rain before pedalling back up the road and hooking a right to join the A735 Dunlop road. We stopped in Dunlop and bought some filled bread rolls in the Post Office cum village shop at about 16:00, and the sun blessed us with its presence for the first time all day. We sat enjoying the warmth on the pavement with our backs to the shop, and with food inside us and a bit of sunshine we were ready to continue on.

We were now properly into the lowlands of Scotland, and the scenery was reminiscent of a rural idyll of bygone days. The close shave of the A82 faded back into our memories as we pedalled through to Stewarton and then onto Kilmaurs. We bypassed Kilmarnock and instead followed B roads to Crosshouse and Gatehead before trying to pick up the Tarbolton road. Due to some erroneous navigation (and I won’t point fingers but Ray had the map and it was his fault) we ended up climbing a small mountain and joining the correct route more by luck than judgement.

It was now starting to get later in the day, and we had been in the saddle for eight hours without a proper break for lunch. We reached Tarbolton and found a signpost to Stair which was like water to a man in the desert, and cycled ever onwards. We stopped for Ray to massage his knee once more, and then we remounted and reached the Stair Inn at 18:50 tired but exhilarated.

The Stair Inn is quaintly picturesque to say the least. I checked us into our twin room while Ray waited with the steeds, and then we tethered them for the night in an outbuilding by the kitchen. The shower was much needed and I washed my clothes whilst wearily wondering what tomorrow might bring, and we both collapsed onto our beds with wet gear draped over radiators.

We went downstairs to the bar and ate a brilliant meal while the place filled up around us as Friday night is Live Music Nite in the Stair Inn and there was also a wedding happening locally. After a couple of pints we headed back up to our room and stretched out reading with the TV on. The music started up, and joy of joys!! Our room was directly above the stage with no soundproofing between us and the local band.

Perhaps unsurprisingly we didn’t care and the both of us turned our lights out to the sound of Queen’s “Another One Bites The Dust” being covered quite badly. I hurt in a lot of places, and missed Hannah. Sleep came quickly and I thought that perhaps Fate had given us a bit of a break after the excitement of the day.

I was wrong of course.

The alarm kicked in once more at 7:30, and Day 6 was here and we had done just over 330 miles in 5 days.

Thursday 14th August – JOGLE Day 4: Glencoe to Tarbet. 52.7 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator And His Partner In Crime Are Seduced, And They Visit The Green Welly Once More.

It was a struggle getting up, but I like to feel that after nearly 31 years of doing so that I am a bit of a pro at it. Still, it hurt. Hannah tried a few words of encouragement, and then resorted to pushing me onto the floor with her foot while she snuggled deeper in the duvet. I will not repeat the thoughts crossed my mind regarding my wife as I sat in a daze hugging my pillow to my chest; needless to say, not many of them were flattering.

As had become my ritual for the last few days, I splashed cold water on face and then wearily tried to stretch the tightness from my legs. Also, I applied some antiseptic to my now excitingly sensitive saddle sores, and dressed for breakfast. A quick look in the mirror showed a tanned / weathered face looking back with a stunning t-shirt tan developing, and I looked a tad too healthy for how I was feeling.

Breakfast in Dunire was good with cereal and a cooked breakfast available, delivered by our bustling host who managed to feed 15 of us or so in as many minutes. I choked my way through Weetabix and a couple of slices of bacon with some toast, all washed down with water, coffee and grapefruit juice. Ray was once more tucking into about 3 courses of food, and I’ll admit that as I looked at him filling his skinny frame with more food than I could manage in two sittings I was somewhat envious.

I was keen to get going, but had run out of GoGo Juice the day before and needed to mix some more Lucozade with water in my Camelpak. I packed quickly, dressed into my now dry cycle gear, freed the Manly Steed from the garage and pedalled carefully over the gravel driveway to the road, and then down to the petrol station 500 yards away.

It was a phenomenal day. The sky seemed to arch overhead in a brilliant blue canopy, and the sun was climbing into the heavens unimpeded by a single cloud. The mountains looked close enough to touch, and it felt like the pain was made worthwhile to have been able to reach this point and be stood gazing around at such splendour and majesty.

The petrol station had no Lucozade, but they did have Gatorade which promised to be thirst quenching, and so in that went and was duly mixed with about a litre of water. I also bought a couple of blocks of tablet which is a sweet made entirely in Scotland and that resembles a kind of crystalline fudge. Basically, it is sugar. Lots and lots of sugar.

Ray met me as I pedalled up the road to the guesthouse, and the car was packed and ready to go. I clipped my pannier on, applied some suntan cream liberally to the exposed parts, and then we took our leave of Han and Mike with a commitment to meet them in Tyndrum for lunch. It was 10:00am.

Glencoe village is at sea level. The top of Rannoch Moor (the highest point of our day, if not the high point) is at 1144 feet. We had about 10 miles to get there, which may not seem like a lot, but 10 miles uphill is still 10 miles pedalling up a hill. With this in mind, we gently headed off south, with Ray leading for the first few miles until I got as comfortable as I could on the Manly Steed and my legs warmed up properly.

The road led us towards the mouth of Glencoe and we pedalled our way steadily onwards, stopping frequently to take photographs of the vistas that opened up around us. It was fairly hard going, but it seemed that with so much to look at I could ignore the exertion and goggle at the view as we cycled our way past a smallish loch and up a long curving section of road. We passed a car park on our right full of people and coaches all waiting patiently for the piper to come out of his caravan and to play the bagpipes (which happens every hour on the hour, I believe) and pulled in a half mile or so onward for a breather and to snap a few more pictures. As we did so, the sound of bagpipes came to us across the still air as the piper set to down below, and I swear that there is nothing as atmospheric as the sound of bagpipes echoing off the mountains and ridges.

Leaving the Plaid Piper behind us, we pedalled on passing various mountains including The Three Sisters and the White Corries, and pulled in to rest beside a sign for the Kingshouse Hotel. We took some pictures of Buachaille Etive Mor with its distinctive pyramid shape, and took a moment to call George, an old friend of ours, to tell him that we were looking at it.

George Darling is one of those irascible Scotsmen who is growing old disgracefully but with style. He is an artist of incredible talent who used to walk the hills with Ray and me in our younger days and he had just turned 70 in the February of 2008. We had (over and after a bottle of particularly expensive and fine Glenfiddich single malt) decided that Ray and I would walk with George up one last mountain before he was over the hill, obviously with no pun intended, and we had settled on Buachaille Etive Mor as he had never done it before, and it wasn’t so difficult that Ray and I would be unable to climb it.

That done, we carried on and passed the sign post for Rannoch Moor stating the we had climbed those 1144 feet. With the scenery around us, the smell of heather in our nostrils, and the sun shining in a deep blue sky I have to say that this was the high point of my ride: if we had got no further then I would have been a happy man. Well, fairly happy. You see, we were both beginning to understand why seemingly normal and balanced people go away with their bikes for holidays rather than to a beach with a bar.

We were becoming seduced by the sly minx of long-distance cycling as she pedalled just ahead and always out of reach, occasionally batting her eyelids at us coquettishly; believe me when I say that her Lycra-clad figure was alluring enough to get even the attention of a knackered couple of JOGLErs like Ray and me.

“Wow, I can’t believe the weather we’re having,” I said. “It’s fantastic!!”
Ray looked horrified, as Fate suddenly looked up from what he was doing away to the south of us, in the part of the country hit by Severe Weather Warnings.

“Bugger! I didn’t mean it!!” I shouted. Fate smiled, and not in a good way.

The sun continued to shine as we pedalled onwards, and the landscape opened out around us as we passed Loch Ba on our left, and Loch Nah-Achlaise on our right. We rested in a car park overlooking Loch Tulla and The Black Mount (which, by the way, looked nothing like the only real black mount in my opinion, the Manly Steed) and tried to avoid buying horrific souvenirs of tartan hats with bright orange hair sticking out from underneath. Then it was ever onwards, and soon we reached Bridge of Orchy, and we were only 5 miles or so from lunch, which was becoming sorely needed.

Thanks to my earlier faux pas regarding Fate and the weather, the clouds rolled in and we cycled the last few miles into Tyndrum under low hanging clouds and into a headwind. The final mile or two was up a long grinding gradient with some road works giving us great lungs-full of steaming tarmac steam which we both had to cough out after we cleared them. Ray said that that the smell reminded him of being a child, and I wondered just why he had been allowed to play with roadwork gangs at such a tender age. We freewheeled down a pleasant hill into Tyndrum and met Mike and Han outside the Green Welly Stop having done 30 miles or so.

The Green Welly is one of those places which carry everything you could ever want, but nothing which you actually need. It has a grocery / petrol station where I bought Hannah a 2009 Calendar of Highland Cows (she was yet to see any this trip – we couldn’t move for them it seemed) and an outdoor clothing section where we looked at torches which just couldn’t be broken, apparently. It took a half-nelson to get Ray out of there without one, but he forgave me later when we discussed how heavy it would be to carry.

Lunch was had in the pub next door, and we were dive-bombed constantly by about a dozen wasps as we ate. The sun came out, and briefly we were hot again. Mike and Hannah listened in awed silence as I regaled them with tales of long ago nights spent in this very pub, of how Ray had raced the locals in a drinking game involving no common sense and nine shots of whiskey, and how I had carried him back to our bunkhouse only for him to be noisily sick out of the window for the rest of night.

Ah – good times.

We mounted up with a straightforward 22 miles left for the day, turned left back onto the A82, and headed for Crianlarich and points south. We passed a sign as we left Tyndrum saying “Heavy rain and flooding forecast – drive with care.” I was not as happy about that as you would think, but since the sun was shining and frankly we had no other option we carried on.
Crianlarich is pretty, and we stopped for a chat when we saw Mark on the side of the road having a breather. He had taken a wrong turn that morning and cycled into Kinlochleven by mistake, thereby adding at least another 15 miles to his journey as it was back north. We didn’t laugh, but merely smiled sympathetically.

We left Mark to continue onwards, and then freewheeled for about five minutes down the longest hill we’d seen so far passing several LEJOGers on their way up. “It gets easier ahead!” I shouted as we flew past, and Ray came alongside to ask me just where it got easier. “Well,” I said. “Rannoch Moor is flat once you’re up there...”

We pedalled through Inverarnan and then down to Ardlui on the shore of Loch Lomond, and continued along the rolling road towards Tarbet passing an accident where a car coming northwards had lost its front wheels and driven into a wall. Han and Mike got caught in the traffic jam that built up around it, and were convinced that Ray and I had come a cropper. The Manly Steed snorted at this disdainfully when I told it later.

The clouds rolled in over the loch and the wind rose, and we reached Tarbet just as the first drops of rain fell. We called our B&B and cycled up to ‘Aye Servus’ to be met by the lovely Maria who ran it. The house had a fantastic view over the loch, and if it wasn’t for the hissing (yes – that is hissing) rain we could have spent hours looking down towards Alexandria and our route for tomorrow.

Mike and Hannah arrived fifteen minutes after us; we stabled the Manly Steed and its counterpart in the garage, showered and then headed up the A83 in the car through Arrochar to the Loch Fyne Oyster Restaurant. This is a chain of restaurants which has sprung up through London, and this I believe is the original, and very fine it was too, no pun intended.

After sausage and mash (the thought of a bad bit of seafood with 650 miles of riding still to go was too much) and a pleasant evening we headed back to the accommodation and then Ray and I had to go through our stuff and pack properly for the first time. Our time with a support car was at an end as Mike and Han were driving back south the next day, and it was an unpleasant feeling not to have the safety blanket of someone only half an hour away if something went wrong.

I ruthlessly cut my gear down to the absolute minimum determined to take only one pannier, and then went through to force Ray to cut his down as well.

“No, we don’t need those pliers. Or the spanner set. Motorcycle gloves? Really? No, dump ‘em. What else are you hiding in here...?”

We decided to take a load of pages out of our roadmap and navigate with that going forward as I was unconvinced of the Garmin’s accuracy, and so into the bag it went.

We climbed into bed (well – Hannah and I did – Ray was next door. I just want to be clear in case of any confusion, but time on the road can change a man...) to the sound of the rain outside and we set our alarms to wake us at 06:30am. Neither of us was happy at the prospect of leaving each other for a week, but we knew it had to happen. I was really glad that Han had been able to see us achieving the first four days as I think it made her feel a part of the trip – there’s nothing worse than being a cycling-widow. Well, there is, but don’t get me started on Cliff Richard...

I fell asleep aching both inside and out, and the alarm woke me once more the following morning. Day 5 had begun, the rain was still pouring, Hannah and Mike were leaving us on our own, and Fate was laughing quite hard.

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

Wednesday 13th August – JOGLE Day 3: Drumnadrochit to Glencoe. 66 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator Just Can’t Eat Enough, His Partner In Crime Soldiers On, And It Turns Out To Be A Day Of Two Halves.

Day 3 was new territory for us – we had never before cycled for three days solidly, and after our first 10 mile stretch we would be riding further than we had ever been before. Ray’s thigh was still causing him pain, and I was getting incredibly sore from sitting in the saddle for so long. The weather was inclement (although we appeared to be missing the Severe Weather that was sweeping the rest of the UK) and it just felt tough to get back on the bikes and carry on.

Breakfast was a quiet affair trying not to slap our French cousins for their noisiness last night as they came in to eat, and we removed ourselves to a quieter second kitchen area that no one was using.

The Manly Steed was positively ecstatic to be untethered, and I gave it a quick look over to check that everything was still in working order. We pumped the tires a little, climbed into our still wet cycle gear, and then Ray and I ventured forth once more, turning left onto the A82 towards Urqhart Castle and Loch Ness itself.

On a map the A82 alongside Loch Ness appears flat, and you would imagine that there wouldn’t be too many ups and downs. Well – we imagined that to be the case.

Sadly for us, the road has been hacked out of the cliff, and was by turns steep and uncomfortable, or uncomfortably steep. With our energy low anyway and feeling tired after only a few miles, this was not on the list of things that would make us happy, but we fought our way on to Invermoriston and stopped for a hot cup of vegetable soup and a couple of sandwiches from the local town hall.

Loch Ness is beautiful. You can imagine why people would believe that there is a monster as it is enormous and incredibly atmospheric, and I was sure that I saw something swimming in the murky waters... or did I...?

If I may mention a word about road surfaces at this point: when on a mountain bike with wheels and a frame set up to absorb vibrations and constant jarring, pedalling over badly surfaced roads is fine. In fact it’s quite normal, comfortable, and it isn’t a mountain so the bike isn’t fazed at all.
A road bike with wheels at 90psi on a badly surfaced road is a different kettle of saddle sores entirely. You feel everything, and by then I was finding it painful, and regardless of my love for the Manly Steed I was wondering if the combination of bad road surface and unforgiving saddle might actually do me in.

I was constantly hungry as well, and both Ray and I were becoming tired of the taste of the Cliff bars that were our staple high energy food. After a while, they all taste the same.

Now it might sound like I’m complaining, and frankly, I am. This was a very tough morning where we just didn’t seem to be able get into our rhythm, and there is only one road to where we wanted to get to so we couldn’t even detour.

We reached Fort Augustus and stopped for a breather, a manly stretch by the side of the road, and to take some photos of the locks (not lochs). From there, we carried on ever southward past Loch Uanagan and Loch Oich, riding through The Great Glen with mountains rearing up a thousand feet on either side in an unbroken line. The one thing which will remind me of our ride on this leg is the smell of bracken in the undergrowth at the side of the road. It was a constant, wet green and earthy smell (if that makes any sense) which made even the fumes from the passing lorries carrying 40 foot cut logs smell fresh.

We were stopped by the side of the road in a small car park having a break and pretending to examine the local flora (while actually peeing in a ditch) when Mark pedalled in on his recumbent. He was finding it fun / tough but because he was basically sat on a chair rather than a saddle he didn’t have the same soreness I did, although he had struggled on the hills as it was difficult to dig in because of the seating position. Also, his gearing was screwed and he had already been to a bike shop to get it fixed. We chatted for a while, and then left Mark to make a phone call and carried on our way.

The road then climbed a bit and crossed the Caledonian Canal, and we were beside Loch Lochy and within striking distance of Spean Bridge where we were to meet the guys for lunch. We arrived at 14:10 and were hailed from a white pub at the side of the road by Mike, whereupon we pulled off and checked our milometers. We had managed 40 miles, and broken the back of the day’s riding, but it had still hurt enormously, and I had struggled for a lot of it. Still – The Great Glen is immense, and to have ridden through it was phenomenal.

It was at lunch that I struck on what turned out to be a winning combination: Mashed Potato, with some sort of burger in a bun. A pint of coke, and a coffee. Also, some electrolyte replacements – we were drinking Diarolyte blackcurrant which wasn’t too bad when you are thirsty. This combo became my stock lunch for days to come as the mash and bread gave me carbs, the burger some protein and fat, and the coke and coffee gave me sugar and caffeine.
As we finished lunch and sat back, it was reassuring to know that we had 25 miles left for the day. The sun came out, and with food in my stomach and sugar coursing through my veins, I felt quite the new man!! Having Hannah giving me a shoulder rub helped somewhat as well...

We headed on at about 15:15 having had a chat with a chap in the pub who cycles into Fort William and he told us that it was straight forward from there on in, and that there was even a cycle path in good condition if we didn’t mind losing a bit of speed. After we had left, Mike and Hannah got into the car, and were just leaving when the publican came running out in front of them (no mean feat – he looked bout 90!!). We had forgotten to pay, and even Mike flashing him the secret pub landlord hand signal wouldn’t calm him down. It was all smoothed over as they paid and screeched off in cloud of burnt rubber.

Both Ray and I were feeling strong as the sun beat down on us, warming the morning’s damp from our souls as we pedalled our way through the beautiful countryside towards Fort William. The Manly Steed sparkled in the sunshine, and laughingly ate up the miles, no doubt calling to its smaller counterpart as we coasted down hills, as Ben Nevis came spectacularly into sight on our left through a break in the trees, and we stopped to snap some photos. From there on we passed the Ben Nevis Distillery, and pedalled past the McDonalds where we had stopped for lunch 4 days previously.

After a brief stop on the shores of Loch Linnhe for a photo and some drink, we headed ever southwards with the loch on our right glinting with diamonds of sunlight, and pulled over after another five miles or so to get a few more shots of the beautiful weather and scenery. Mike and Han pulled in and chivvied us to get back on the bikes and head south, and so we obliged by climbing somewhat wearily back into harness, and carried on towards Ballachulish. We crossed the bridge and turned left following signs to Glencoe village, and found our way to Dunire guesthouse where we unloaded our gear, and took a welcome shower.

Dinner that night was at the Clachaig Inn where we watched the sun setting on the mountains that reared up around us, and was washed down by some fantastic local ale, although it proved a challenge not to be dinner for the midges which decided that they would pay us a visit as soon as we stepped out of our car.

I made the nightly call to my parents letting them know that I was still alive, and sent out the text to all and sundry receiving back words of support from friends way too clever to have done this with me.

I had a fine dinner of sausage and mash with some haggis, and then we returned to the car and wended our way back to our guesthouse. My cycle gear was drying nicely on the radiator, and Han and I crept into bed at the princely time of 21:45.

The forecast was for good weather the next day, and I lay awake praying that this would be so as we had 1144 feet of vertical climbing over a 10 mile stretch to cover first thing in the day.
The bed was comfortable, the sheets were soft and clean, and I fell asleep exhausted but excited about what we had achieved so far – 198.5 miles in three days.

Once more the alarm woke me from my slumber at 07:30, and Day Four was upon us.

The sun was shining from a clear blue sky, and I could almost hear the Manly Steed calling to me from the garage where it had been tethered overnight.

Tuesday 12th August – JOGLE Day 2: Golspie to Drumnadrochit. 65.5 miles travelled.

Where Our Narrator Wonders If This Is All A Good Idea, And His Partner In Crime Has A Sense Of Humour Failure.

There is something nice about waking up in a large bed amongst clean sheets, and stretching without a care in the world, before getting up and starting one’s day. For Hannah, Day 2 started just like this.

For me, I gingerly rolled out of bed, wincing, and tried to get my legs working again. I kept telling myself that I had done this before, that our previous back-to-back cycle to and from Kent had been just as hard, and that this was in no way new territory for me. I decided that it would all look fine after 10 miles or so, when everything was warmed up.

Breakfast in Blar Mhor was served in a sunny dining area cum kitchen, and the cheery Elaine was soon swooping in with laden plates. It was here that I found to my horror that I actually struggle to eat anything before 09:00 in the morning, and so I forced myself to eat cereal and a cooked breakfast, determined to get my calories on board before the day began. My onboard computer from Garmin told me that I had burned 5,500 calories the previous day, and so I desperately needed to get the old glycogen levels back up to a decent level (according a book that I had purchased many months previously).

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the weather of Day 1 had rolled away, giving glorious sunshine and a deep blue sky, and that in spite of this it was pleasantly cool. Ray joined us and tucked into a massive 3 course breakfast, and then we forced ourselves up the stairs, stopping to pick up our fresh smelling cycle clothes from Elaine’s drying room.

Outside, we inspected our bikes, and the Manly Steed almost bristled at the merest suggestion that it might use a touch of oil on its chainset. We packed our panniers, fitted them onto the frame (carrying waterproofs, and plenty of food today – no repeat of yesterday’s roadside bonking thank you!!) and gingerly I stepped into the saddle.

“Are you fit?” asked Ray, perched lightly on his steed, pulling on his gloves.

“Absolutely not.” I replied, slumped on mine. “Shall we go anyway?”

We waved goodbye to Eileen, and turned right out of her drive onto the A9, and continued on our way south with the sea on our right. We started slowly to give our legs ample opportunity to warm up, and found the first 40 miles to be very pleasantly rolling, cycling along well maintained roads past golden fields of barley. We stopped after 10 miles or so to get some Lucozade Sport, and I mixed it with the water in my Camelpak to create what I started referring to as ‘GoGo Juice’. Thus equipped, and after a cheeky Snickers bar, I got back onto the Manly Steed and we continued on our way through pine forests and past meadows, passing a few cyclists coming North.

It was becoming increasingly easy to spot LEJOGers as they had a certain weary resignation to their pedalling, but to a person they always waved and smiled. This is a phenomenon which does not exist within London: out in the country (and I had noticed this on our trips to Brighton and Kent) people smile and acknowledge you as they pass, and you do so in return, perhaps calling out a good natured greeting such as “Hello!! Lovely Weather!!” or “Broken Glass Ahead!! Watch Out!!” but never “Huge Hill Coming Up!! We Just Came Down It!! AAAAAAAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!

In London this just does not happen. Rarely do you get a nod of acknowledgement, and whilst training pre-JOGLE in Richmond Park of an evening if you weren’t in a club uniform and pedalling like crazy in a pack, then you were almost ‘tutted’ out of the way.

Why, people?? Why can’t we be a little more civil – after all, we all have the same passion!! Think on London, think on!!!

Whilst free-wheeling through some lovely pines down a particularly long hill, the world suddenly opened up around us as we came down to the Dornoch Firth, which is a long stretch of road with open water on both sides, and the whole thing is quite stunning. We stopped to take some photos halfway across, and then it was back onto the Manly Steed and ever onwards. The Garmin kept us pointing in the right direction, but it was becoming difficult to read it as there seemed to be some problems with the routing software – apparently we were pedalling through the water twelve feet to the left of us, rather than being on the road.

We passed the Glen Morangie distillery not long after, and saw Han and Mike waving to us. We pulled over and they had once more had bad luck in the tourist stakes as it was shut for the day. No llamas and no whiskey – and later on the ‘Dolphin Sanctuary’ turned into a lookout point where people ‘had seen dolphins’.

Passing Tain we headed for the Cromarty Firth and passed Invergordon and then Dalmore, and were nearly 40 miles down for the day. Even though I had been (as I put it) ‘snacking like a bastard’ I was still getting tired and hungry so we joined the A862 just after Dalmore (leaving the sea behind us, which we would not see again until reaching Bude in Cornwall), called Han and Mike and got them to meet us in Dingwall for lunch in the Tesco cafe.

After lunch, and having been shocked by the sight of 8 year olds drinking pints of caffeine and energy drinks (basically Red Bull in a 500ml can) I realised that I had become a prude in my old age. But really – 8 year olds drinking Red Bull? You see, that’s what happens when you take the ‘E’ numbers and colourings out of everything – it’s like kiddy-crack: they’ve just gotta have it, and if they can’t then they’ll take the next best thing to get that legal high!!!

I digress. Cycling – yes – that’s what we were talking about.

We followed the A862 through Conon Bridge and Muir of Ord, and then picked up the A833 just after Beauly, with the weather teasing us by soaking us and then broiling us in bright sunshine – never wet enough to stay in waterproofs, never dry enough not to wear them. This was fascinating country as it was by turn’s bleak moorlands and then lushly forested and we cycled past a number of estates with country houses. We had to stop in Beauly and rest as Ray’s thigh just above the knee was causing him some considerable pain, and applied Ibulieve gel and a tubigrip support. After that, we decided that he should try not to put too much strain on it for a while and so he was always in the lightest gear possible for the rest of the day. This caused him to swear somewhat more often than usual...

The A833 became more hilly and bleak as we went, as we rested fairly frequently. Our old friend the Stinger gel came out towards the end of the day as I was having some issues with my energy levels, and Ray could be heard swearing his way up a particularly long climb from several counties over, I have no doubt. We stopped to take some photos of a Highland Cow, and then headed into the last 5 miles towards Milton and Drumnadrochit.

The map shows the A833 joining with the A831 just before Milton, which then joins the A82. What it does not show is a view of me screaming like a frightened child as, in the pouring rain with poor visibility, I freewheeled down what must have been a 15% gradiented hill, desperately applying the brakes as hard as I could and staring disbelievingly at the speedo which told me that I was doing 36 miles per hour. Whilst braking as hard as possible. And trying to get around the hairpin bends in the road in the pouring rain. At 36 mph.

Glad to be alive upon reaching the bottom, the Manly Steed and I breathed a sigh of relief that we had nothing dented but our pride, and we stopped outside the Loch Ness Monster visitor centre for a couple of photos and then made our way to the Loch Ness Backpacker Hostel, whereupon we were met by Mike and Hannah, and checked into our family room.

Mike cooked a sumptuous dish of Pasta a la Mickey, and then we headed out to one of the local pubs for a drink. I managed a pint and a half of ale washed down with a single malt (well, when in Rome...) before my body started shutting down and calling for bed.

Back in the room, I was aghast to find that I had left the heater on and so it was very much like a sauna smelling strongly of the wet clothes which we had washed in the showers and were trying to dry. The effect of a locker room was further added to by Mike massaging Ray’s wounded thigh with a mixture of oil and Deep Heat (relax readers, this is nothing raunchy or risqué, although time on the road, it changes a man... That aside, Mike is a trained sports massage person.)

It had been a better day than Day 1, and needless to say I was glad that it was over. The last 20 miles had been challenging, but we were through it and I was looking forward in particular to the next couple of days as we would be getting down to Fort William and Glencoe, my old stamping ground from when I was a younger, fitter lad.

The Manly Steed was tethered to a post in a shed along with its smaller counterpart, and through the pattering of the rain on the roof above I could almost hear them swapping stories about who had done what that day.

The room was like an oven, and a large contingent of very loud and drunk French students took up position outside our door, no doubt to taunt the exhausted ‘ros bifs’. It didn’t work, and I dropped into slumber beside my gorgeous wife, still not 100% sure that I was comfortable sharing a room with my gorgeous wife and two other blokes.

Just as unconsciousness beckoned, I realised that I was still having fun.

The alarm went off at 07:00am, I vaguely remember thinking “Sod it!” and I went back to sleep for another hour.Day 3 was here, it was still raining, and we were running later than planned.

Monday 11th August – JOGLE Day 1 – John O’Groats to Golspie. 72.5 miles travelled.

Where Our Intrepid Narrator And His Partner In Crime Start Their Journey, Ray Nearly Passes Out And Will Has A 6-Stop Hill.

Ray and I made breakfast in the kitchen talking with a chap who had LEJOG’d before, and who actually cycled long distances for fun rather than charity. He told us that he kept a list of all his gear, which he spent time whittling down every trip – I think he was down to one set of clothes (he wore these at all times) and a toothbrush. Oh – and a bike. His was parked next to the Manly Steed and had very small wheels – it was a Pashley something or other and apparently has a full suspension system, something which in hindsight I should have got.

We were finished and enjoying a coffee by about 07:30, and Han and Mike had risen and joined us just as we were done. I spent some time shivering as I got into my cycle gear, and then we packed up the room and loaded the car. Ray and I mounted up, and got moving as quickly as possible to avoid being midged by the local bloodsucking vampires.

It was a pleasant and still morning as we pedalled the few miles from Canisbay to John O’Groats, and the start of our journey. The sea was the colour of lead in the distance, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. We arrived at the post to find that there were no signs saying how far Lands End was, but we took some photos stood next to it with the Journey’s End Cafe in the background. It had to be done quickly as we were getting eaten alive, and not in a good way.

There was a plaque commemorating a rider who had died on his twelfth End to End, and I was to pray to him many times on the way South for a bit of luck when it all got a bit too much.

Another intrepid cyclist was just leaving when we arrived on a recumbent bicycle, going solo, and we would meet him several times along the journey. His name was Mark (we found out later) and his bike literally fell to pieces several times through the course of the journey.

Photos taken, Lucky Heather stowed (provided by Han at the last minute) Ray and I stepped onto our bikes, clipped the SPD into the pedal (you wouldn’t want to do both while standing stationary – you’d fall over), and I reset my milometer to zero and turned the Garmin on. With the sea at our back, we looked across at each other.

“Shall we?” I asked.

“Why not?” Ray replied, and we set off on the first leg of our journey. The time was 08:50, and the Manly Steed was almost quivering with excitement.

Ray and I are not Chris Hoy-esque in our cycling abilities, but we feel that we can hold our own. We stop for a rest and a stretch and a bite to eat every 10 miles or so, which usually equates to every hour give or take, and then we are back in the saddle, and we allow about an hour for lunch. The first 40 miles we covered in this way as we pedalled along the A99 through Wick and along the coast (we passed our recumbent cyclist after about half an hour as he put on midge repellent) , and we were surprised and incredibly happy to see us reaching the 40 mark in three hours.

The scenery was by turns stunning and bleak, ith moorlands of heather and and forested hillsides everywhere, and the sun was shining brightly for much of the morning making us feel confident of finishing the day strongly. The A99 turned into the A9 at Latheron, and we continued south.

We pedalled up our first really challenging hill at Dunbeath, and then had a horrific small mountain to climb called Berriedale Brae. Until this point, my worst experience with hills (and may I point out that I hate them with a fiery passion?) had been Ditchling Beacon, which was a 4-Stopper (I had to stop 4 times to catch my breath before I could pedal to the top). Berriedale was a 6-Stopper, and it didn’t even have the decency of giving us a decent run at it as there is a hairpin bend at the bottom which means you have almost a standing start. It was hot, muggy, and although the midges had gone the horseflies were out in force. We stopped at the top, gulped down liquids and some food, and carried on happy that we didn’t have to do another one like it that day.

We were travelling with the bare essentials (waterproofs, liquids and some food) and had expected to find somewhere to grab a bite to eat along the way. This did not materialise at all, and we ran out of high energy Cliff Bars and nearly all of the water 10 miles from Helmsdale. The terrain was still fairly challenging, and we stopped for a breather and a stretch, whereupon Ray insisted that I eat one of the remaining apples and drink the rest of the water.

As we mounted up, Ray wobbled quite a lot and we had only pedalled a hundred yards before he stopped and had to lie down. Ray had until this point been convinced that he could survive on his usual 3 cups of tea a day with a couple of sandwiches, and I believe that this was a bit of a wakeup call for him. He was bonking incredibly hard (please readers – it means to run out of energy. A little more maturity...?) and this was a first for him, only ever really having seen it happen to me with my much larger required intake of food.

Fortunately we had set aside emergency rations for just this situation, and so I leapt into action and produced a Honey & Chocolate Stinger gel pack from the Manly Steed. This is basically chocolate and honey in gel form, which provides a huge kick of energy to your system in about two minutes. Ray went from Horizontal to Vertical in about three minutes, and he was able to get back in the saddle and we were on our way in about five.

The run into Helmsdale has a beautiful long hill which we freewheeled down (I pity those coming north – it’s long!!) and we stopped at the first likely looking pub to get some food and some much needed rest.

Hannah and Mike had been doing the tourist thing on their way south, and had apparently had a wonderful morning. They had a large fry up in a cafe called Morag’s in Wick, and then had tried to visit a Llama Farm only to find that it had no llamas. They walked right up to us as we were sat on some picnic tables feeling somewhat sorry for ourselves. They were parked 200 hundred yards away and had been trying to find bad souvenirs.

We ordered food and moved inside as the heavens once more opened and deluged in spectacular fashion, and we managed to avoid the worst of it, although The Manly Steed received a good soaking.

After lunch we mounted up once more, and wearily pedalled the last 16 miles to Golspie through periodic showers. This felt very tough as our energy levels were still at low ebb, and we made sure to eat as much as possible on the move.

We arrived in Golspie and spent some time trying to find our B&B, which turned out to be an absolutely delightful house call Blar Mhor where we received a warm welcome from Eileen, who offered to wash our clothes. We gratefully accepted, and after hot baths Ray and I felt almost human again. The Manly Steed was parked in the garage along with its smaller counterpart, and after a quick rub down we left them no doubt nattering about the day’s journey. Mike drove us the 400 yards into town (we were not going to walk it) and we had dinner at a Fish & Chip shop where I had macaroni cheese washed down with two bottles of Lucozade Sport.

We got back to Blar Mhor at about 20:30, and I politely declined Mike’s offer of staying up drinking. I collapsed into bed in our beautiful and spacious room (if only all our accommodation could have been like this!!) at 21:00, and remember nothing until 07:30 when the alarm went off, and Day 2 was underway.