Lejog

Mackay’s Hotel, Wick – 09.15

WE DONE IT! We drag  our sorry carcasses over the line at John o’Groats at 19.00 sharp on Saturday, 131 miles from the start in Inverness, in 7.5 hours cycling time, average 17.35mph. BINGO! Great feeling of relief and achievement. Slight confusion as we ride into John o’Groats in very low light, do we have the right place? (there is more land to the right, the east – surely that’s not right? Its Dunnet Head – we’re def in the right place). The final avenue is lit up by street lamps, to us it could be the Champs Elysees at the Tour de France finale. Toine is there with the camera and champagne – nice touch. No naked dancing girls, disappointing, but champagne tastes good all the same. The famous signpost is removed every day to prevent theft, so we are photographed beside a non-descript white shed, then also the JoG gift shop to prove it to the doubters. Firm handshakes, back slapping, a celebratory cigarette, we load up the bikes and we’re off to get p1ssed in Wick.

Setting off late (9.50) from Premier Inn, Inverness, we had left ourselves a lot to do on the last day. The weather was fantastic running north out of the ‘Ness, over the Moray Firth to the Black Isle and beyond – great stretch of pretty flat road and we made good progress. Kept trucking, sun kept shining and we descend the hill onto the Dornoch bridge – I can hear a loon (red throated diver) crying out up in the Dornoch Firth. Good speed and we rendez-vous with Toine at the service station, about 40 miles from the start, at 12.35 – good going. Can’t hang around – soup, toast, coffee all delightfully served by miserable toothless waitress, toilet and off. Beyond Dornoch the countryside gets wilder and the clouds gather. Weather still OK and we kick on to Brora, then the drizzle begins. Sticks needs a Neurofen – stop now or in five? In five – must keep going. We are damp when we see Toine wobbling around on the spare bike two miles before Helmsgate – he’d parked a few miles up the road and had cycled down to meet us. We eat something, more anti-chafe cream around my undercarriage (which feels like it has been beaten with a meat tenderiser) and Toine is off, determined to show us he can ride a bike too. We set off in pursuit and, to be fair, its two miles before we catch up with him on a hill, where we leave him and push on through Helmsgate. Outside the town, the road climbs steeply – first big hill of the day. It levels off briefly in the crook of a glen – what’s that noise? Stickels’ arse? No, it’s the bellow of a rutting stag up the glen. I can’t see it, but it’s a great sound to hear as I brace for the next part of this big climb.

Halfway up we stop to talk to a cyclist, the first fellow Lejogger we’ve met since Land’s End. Matthew set off 3 weeks ago on his own and has chosen a more leisurely pace – about 50 miles a day and actually seeing some of the UK on the way. Nice idea but not really our style. He says the road up the Great Glen from Fort William via Loch Ness was horrible on a bike, partly vindicating our decision to go east through Perth and Speyside. We bid him farewell, only to see him in Mackay’s Hotel in Wick at breakfast this morning. Good luck Matthew, hope you made it.

Fast and wet to Wick

Helmsgate marks about two thirds of the trip from Inverness – we still have +45 miles to go. The hill goes on and on, but after the Cairngorms we have no fear and just keep spinning. Legs sore but lungs and heart no trouble, I haven’t been this fit in 15 years. After Helmsgate the rain falls more heavily – we find Toine before a small village, I get shoe covers, we eat Pepperami and more bloody bananas. “You’re doing well guys, its only 10 miles to Wick” What? Brilliant, that’s much better than I thought. We set off and round the corner, a sign says “Wick 18 miles, John o’G 35 miles.” “Dutch idiot!” screams Jolyon. “Let’s make it seem like 10 miles Sticks. Crank it up buh!” I set the pace and push hard for 10 miles, gunning the downhill sections as hard as poss, thighs burning. After 30 mins, soaking wet, I ask Sticks to take the draft. He moans a bit (knees or some poor excuse), but then someone lights a firework under his arse and he’s off, really motoring. I struggle to keep up and in truth in these conditions drafting doesn’t work, as the tail man just gets a face full of wheel spray. We rocket into Wick – 18 miles in 50 mins in pouring rain – and rendez-vous with Toine at Mackay’s for a quick coffee, my last half Mars bar and a pee. We leave the armchair seats in the tired regency-style hotel bar wet through , but we’ll be back later to pay for it in whisky. It’s hard getting back on the bikes in the cold damp Wick air, shivering as we take off through the town – JoG 17 miles – but this is the home straight and that lifts us. Above Wick, it’s stopped raining and the sun is low to our left, the countryside is mainly flat and barren but pretty in the evening light. With a pretty clear sky conditions are perfect for the final, FINAL leg. JoG turn right, 11 miles – we can see the headland in the distance, the end of the country.

We remove our lids and I think I need some Creedence Clearwater Revival  to take me in. Susie Q, Proud Mary, Who Stopped the Rain?, (appropriate) and Fortunate Son all help to keep the tired legs pumping – JoG 5 miles. Chatting to Sticks about carrying out stupid promises, it’s been long, hard and it’s needed 38 Neurofen but here we are, still peddling. It wouldn’t be a real finish without a final hill to twist the knife. This one goes on longer than expected but it matters not, give me another hill, we’ll take whatever you can deal us (a bad time to lose your bike chain.. Joke).

Below us, as the twilight fades into night, the metropolis of John o’Groats emits an orange glow. We ease off the pace, and freewheel through town – hesitating briefly in case we actually need to turn right to the Dunnet Head? No this is it, we’re here. No red carpet, no fireworks, no-one here. Except the ever-reliable Meurwissen with the bubbles. Cold, wet, can’t see anything but absolutely bloody delighted.

(Standby to read our finale piece later today or Monday, with a recap and thanks to the sponsors, friends and family).

Just a quick thanks from me to my wife Caroline for being so supportive / tolerant of all my daft ideas and for letting me do this, and Emily and Annie my gorgeous girls. Also to my mum Gale, and family Lucy & Tom and Ben, and to Ade Riddleston (the fifth Beatle) and Mark Tillett for their well wishes and support en route. Special thanks to Toine Meuwissen (aka Claudio), a coffee swilling, cigar smoking mad Dutchman, always there with a banana when you need one, without whom we couldn’t have done it.

 Keep peddling in all that you do. WS

Leflog, Oct 10, 2009

Premier Inn, Inverness – 07.25

Friday was an extraordinary day in every sense.

We left Perth at 09.00 sharp and we knew to make it to Inverness we were facing a long day in the saddle. Its 126 miles via Braemar in the Highlands and we knew there would be mountains. Climbing out of Perth it began to drizzle, but the roads were pretty good and we shot through Blairgowrie and out towards Braemar, for the first long, brutal climb of the day. At the bottom, Stickels gave the hill a name, which I can’t repeat on this webcast. Looking back, the hill was just a baby. The hills gave away to mountains and Glen Shee approached, with a huge brute of a monro (a mountain over 1,000 metres high) right in our path. Thankfully the road circumvented the beast, and at some point, about 8 miles from Braemar (the venue of the Highland Games), Sticks was ahead and looking down the glen, cold but the with the sun breaking through cloud on one side, I could see nothing for about four miles – no people, no houses, no cars, – except Sticks bright red jacket and a few sheep. Then ahead we saw the Glen Shee climb.

It’s hard to describe these big Scottish climbs unless you’ve done one. They obviously build roads down at the bottom of the glen, but at some point the roads literally have to go over a mountain to reach the next glen. This one never seemed to end. It rounds a corner, you delude yourself the road might suddenly ‘top-out’ around that corner, but no, you fool, there ahead is the main climb. On, on, on, on – relentless spinning. My bike has a fairly big low gear on the front, which means I can’t ‘spin’ properly uphill – every turn of the pedal crank is an effort. And near the top is the kicker, a “short” steeper section to just cap the crest.

Meanwhile Toine is there in the heated Volvo, drinking coffee (what else?), wearing a coat, with camera ready. For the first two mountains seeing this was a novelty, a nice idea. By the fourth, you are sick of the sight of him. Sod off and do something useful like tow me up this bloody hill! At the ‘top’, there is a straight and another short climb before we reach the summit. Hilariously (if something can be funny right now), it is a ski resort, with chair lifts, snowploughs etc.

 Until that moment it wasn’t clear how high we were. The whole way up Glen Shee it rained – it doesn’t matter because you’re wet anyway. But at the top the fun begins – the downhill. Holy cow, its an amazing run down into Braemar, perhaps five or six miles of constant down, mainly straight roads with some nice bends. The views are stunning but you’re too busy focusing on the road. The road is wet and I use my brakes far more than I’d like, but its still exhilarating.

Sticks speedo touches 51mph, mine says 97.5kph but it must be wrong. As you enter Braemar, it occurs to you that your feet are so cold they’re about to fall off. What a ride. We strip off a bit in the cafe, order pies and chips and strong coffee, and kindly she lets us drape our shoes etc over the radiator. I change my socks in the car and try to revive my stone cold feet.

Can’t stop, we’re 70 miles short of Inverness.

Night run to Inverness

It’s just before 2pm when we leave the warmth of the cafe. To cut a long story shorter, the roads are beautiful and the country wild, but we turn off the main A93 onto a short cut to Tonimuil. Another nasty climb, so steep at one point that we’re both forced to dismount and walk a few hundred yards. Does that invalidate the Lejog? Anyone who says so will get punched, says Sticks. Up, up, up it climbs and there, again, is Meiurssen at the summit, shouting “come one, harder” or something equally useful. Bananas are dispensed. Another climb, when I see Toine again he says, “Now promise when you look at this, you don’t cry.” What are you talking about in your Dinglish this time? Then  we see it. The next climb looks like they’ve built a road right up the Matterhorn. What can you do? Eat something, turn up Michael Jackson’s Hits on the iPod (who’s Bad? This trip) and go for it. The wind is intense, but thankfully it gets behind us. Finally, at the top, a small covey of grouse take flight over the moor, twisting back to the road. Lovely birds, you can see why they are difficult to shoot, with their erratic, jivey flight. I chase them further over the mountain. Later I describe a grouse, a bird which has declined heavily in large parts of Scotland, to Toine. “Yes I know the one, I hit it with the car. He had a death wish, I slowed down and he ran into me.” Hmmm. No time to lament a dead grouse. The climbs and the fantastic downhill runs carry on through into Tonimuil and then Grantown-on-Spey, where we stop for coffee and crisps in a hotel bar.

Inverness is another 34 miles and we have max one hour daylight/twilight left. Damp clothes back on, drink some delicious  pop and back on the bikes on the A9. It’s a very fast, aggressive road, the main arterial road for north Scotland, and no place for bicycles. We come off on the A938 for a seven mile shortcut, while the darkness descends. Michael Jackson (iPod) got me over the Grampians, Billy Joel will get me down the home straight.

We have to leave now, but quickly: we rejoin the A9 with 23 miles to Inverness, in the pitch dark, with both our rear lights failing, and heavy trucks doing 80mph passing within a few feet. Sticks ahead, me with the more reliable rear light behind. We are ‘full beam’ed and tooted constantly – it’s legal to cycle on ‘A’ roads, but clearly motorists at night have a problem with it. It is the most unpleasant, stressful 1.15hrs cycling I’ve done in my life, horrible in every way. The Premier Inn is, once again, a bountiful oasis in a hostile desert. We eat, I fall asleep at the table.

Now it’s on, on for the last big push – John o’Groats and the prize awaits.

WS

Parklands Hotel, Perth – 22.35

A few people have read our Leblogs and, more amazingly, one or two people found them quite funny. WARNING: this one isn’t – I’ve got no funny stories and I’m tired. So if you’ve got anything important to do, I would do it now and turn this of…..

 Well here we are, Perth, Perthshire, that’s in central Scotland for sassanachs. We’ve been in Scotland for one and a half days and we haven’t been attacked, which is good. The plan is to forge even closer bonds with our Celtic cousins by wearing kilts on the last leg to John o’G. I feel you have to immerse yourself in the local culture when you go abroad. Today I’ve eaten haggis and venison and we’ve seen a loch so we are doing OK with the diplomacy, och the noo.

Land’s End seems a very long way away. Today was frustrating – we should be 20-30 miles further north, beyond Pitlochry, to make a comfortable challenge on Inverness tomorrow. But, as Sticks says, let’s take it as it comes. Today, that meant switching bikes (mine needed a new gear cable, we had a spare bike – Martin’s throughbred Italian stallion – I used the spare and Toine sorted out my bike); two punctures and a third, broken inner tube = three tyre changes; getting lost in Edinburgh; choosing to cross the Forth Bridge on the wrong side (which involved being chastised by a red-faced bridge foreman in a van – the humiliation…), etc, etc. A frustrating day for me, but you have to be satisfied with what you’ve done – we’re in Perth which means we can make John o’Groats in two days if we really get moving. Therein lies the trick. Determined to kick-off by 8.30 tomorrow so we can eat into the Cairngorms in the morning and get somewhere like Grantown-on-Spey my mid-afternoon. It will be a big ask but we have the incentive – we all really want to go home on Sunday.

The Forth Bridge was today’s highlight. It was my first time, so I was a little nervous on the approach (what are you talking about fool?). The original Forth bridge, the three diamond structure used for rail, is a classical piece of Victorian engineering. This is the one where the expression: “this job is like painting the Forth Bridge” comes from, i.e once a job is complete you need to start it all over again. I am told that Joe and Toine’s company (KREATE) supply the colorant to the company that paints the Forth Bridge. Good repeat business. But now the paint they use is a modern system which doesn’t need recoating as much. So in time the expression painting the Forth Bridge will be meaningless. Fascinating. You can tell I’m exhausted. The newer bridge, opened by the Queen in 1964, is over a kilometre long, the 2nd longest bridge in the UK and a wonderful thing to behold (even though it is deteriorating and has become a political football for Scotland’s parliament). I find superstructures amazing, and riding a bike across one of them makes their engineering grandese even more impressive.

The weather, for the second day running, was fantastic. So annoying to cock things up in Edinburgh and not be on a single road heading north to make best use of the superb conditions. When you have time to glance around, some of the scenery we’ve ridden through, in the Lakes and through parts of Scotland, has been inspiring. But no time to really appreciate any of it, must keep peddling.

Haggis and chips and the Glenfarg run

What else is there to say about today? We cycled a lot, we got tired, we argued, we ache, we ate and we’ll do it all again tomorrow. This insane trip is not like groundhog day though. Every day and every ride is different. Today, the strongest memories other than the bridge were:

1) rising out of Inverkeithing, the town over the Forth Bridge where we stopped for bacon, egg & chips with a side-haggis in Kathy’s Cafe*, into Crossgates, parts of Cowdenbeath and Kelty. These communities look poor, nothing special to visit, but as they’re bathed in the late afternoon sunshine, looking out across the heather-laden hills of Kinross, kids playing in the skateboard park and people queuing for their fish suppers, they have a certain charm. Partly you’re cycling through them and not staying. OK, but this is the real Scotland and I’m glad we’ve cycled through places like Inverkeithing and Kelty as well as the smart Edinburgh suburbs and the grouse moors.

HP or tomato?

*Kathy’s Cafe, the only place I’ve ever been asked how I’d like my fried eggs done (not steak, fried eggs) – runny, middle or firm. You know a place is an artisan of fried food when there are three styles of egg texture. The margarine on the sliced white bread was thicker than the bread. The food was good actually, and the guy was helpful with directions, but we all used the loo (not together) and you have to walk through the kitchen to reach it. The kitchen was quite extraordinary, the kind of kitchen which, were you on your own and you met a woman and showed her your house, she wouldn’t call back for a second date.

2) the other memory was the run down Glen Farg to the main south road into Perth. A terrific run on a bike, 2-3 miles of steady downhill through old forest bordering a river, fantastic to finish the day on this flat-out run, legs pumping and touching 65kph.

 Sticks’ knees still hurt. What highlights Sticks? He comments: “The highlight of the day was coming here and having a nice meal. The rest of the day was utter shite.” No grey areas there then. A man of few but deep words.

Missing my girls a lot. That’s my inspiration to keep going through this lunacy, nail John o’G and get home asap. Tomorrow we’re on the A93, a very pretty route through classic Scottish Highland country, inc three famous salmon rivers and Braemar, the venue of the Highland Games. Hope the weather holds.

WS

Philipburn Hotel, Selkirk – 22.05

The perineum, the scrag end, the rectal shelf – whatever you chose to call it, all cyclists are familiar with the short strip of flesh connecting the genitals to the Nought – aka, Biffin’s Bridge. It is a tender area, not to be aggravated unnecessarily, and to be treated with care. Mine has blown up into a sort of red balloon. You can use double-ply padded cycling shorts, you can get a Sella Italia bike seat with “gel system”, none of it matters a jot. Seven hours in the saddle will render padding worthless.

Ten miles or so short of Hawick, Stickels says to me: “I thought about looking at me’ undercarriage this morning, but chose not to, on the basis that I wouldn’t like what I saw.” Very sensible, just wash it and go to sleep – hopefully the Biffin Fairy will have removed the swelling by the morning and magicked away the throbbing pain. Today it was really bad, on that killer road from Carlisle to Hawick both of us had some grade A Biffin pain, it’s a nasty brute of a pain because you can only relieve it one way: dismounting your bike.

Talking of magic, I called my cousin Merlin today, she and her family live outside Moffat, a town en route to Glasgow. So I asked her (the day before we arrive in Scotland) which is the best route through Scotland to John o’Groats, west or east? This causes some amusement by virtue of its short notice, but she’s very helpful and we go for the A7 via Hawick to Edinburgh. The main reason I mention this, not because of Merlin’s help, but because of my friend’s pathetic sense of humour. He doesn’t know Merlin and in Carlisle I tell him we might go via Moffat and meet her for a coffee:

JS: “Merlin? What is he, a wizard?”

WS: “No. She’s my cousin. She’s just a normal person”

JS: “Oh shame. I was hoping to meet this tall wizard with a big hat and a wand. Ha ha ha ha!”

WS: “Like I say, she’s not a wizard. She’s named after a bird of prey”

JS: “Ha ha ha. Maybe she could magic away the pain in my knees. Come on Merlin, cast a spell and remove the pain. Have you got any other mythical cousins, is there a Lancelot in your family? Ha ha ha ha”

WS: (Sighs) “Shut up you twat. Let’s go.”

[Both cycle off swearing]

Sadly this highly refined sense of humour is typical of the type of stupid conversation we have on the road. Childish, puerile, desperate and invariably rude. I guess it’s how men cope with adversity – when times are tough, and your Biffin’s is on fire, you have to revert to that one, constant measure of reassurance: cheap gags and Schadenfreude, taking pleasure from someone else’s misfortune. It’s certainly helped me get this far. Joe and I have given up on arguing, he’s too stubborn and I’m stubborn and simply don’t care anymore. Instead we’ve just focused on being rude to each other. It has the same cathartic effect as a good argument, but is less mentally demanding.

Cycling through parts of England, tired, wet, bearded and in leggings, I am a stranger and out of place. But I feel we are superior to the motorists and pedestrians around me. I am master of my destiny, I can do what I want (as long as it means going north on a bike), I am fit and strong and I’m riding out of this town. The northerners seem rather pale and undernourished, they need a good holiday in the sun. The motorists drive too fast, overrevving their engines in their rush to pass the tedious cyclists, mouthing the words “What are you doing on this mountain you idiots?” We are cold and tired but we have the upper hand.

Scotland the brave – orange sheep and a long schlep

We entered Scotland today. Oddly, no fireworks. In fact I had my head down and completely missed the sign (WELCOME TO SCOTLAND! – about the size of a car), I think Sticks gave it the finger. But it’s a moral(?) victory and means we have ‘made it’ to the serious hilly bit, before the home straight and the jackpot. The prize is closer, if not yet within reach.

Leaving Kendal in the Lakes, we ascended a couple of climbs before being poleaxed by the mother of killer climbs, Shad or Slap or Slag Fell, a notorious peak. Finally we bag it, and Toine joins us at the summit for water refills, photos and an abandoned attempt to use the iPod (the headphones hurt poor Jolyon’s ears). Then he’s off to client meetings in Ripon, a real trip over the York Moors, then on to Gateshead, before joining us in Selkirk. We soldier on: Penrith (KFC for restorative coffee and the Colonel’s chicken ‘bits’ – yuk), Carlisle (jury is out, nice place or dump? No time to find out), then Langholm before the big hop to Hawick. I call my other cousin Lorraine in Longtown, she’s at a sheep sale and we miss each other by minutes. Langholm to Hawick is a hell of a road – superb in a car; stunning scenery, mountains, sheep, dry-stone walls, heather, buzzards and stuff – absolutely shit on a bike. I don’t mind the distance (29 miles from Carlisle), but it’s just an unrelenting slog, constant shallow hills too small to get speed up going downhill, but always there draining your legs. It’s the kind of ride where you pedal and pedal and feel like you’ve got nowhere. A welcome and surreal highlight is seeing orange sheep (see picture). Stickels dismounts and talks to one – its been that kind of day.

Hawick arrives, finally, like a mirage. We choose Gino’s, the neon lights advertising ‘Pizza, Burgers AND Kebabs’ are totally irresistible.

Do you sell coffee? No. Tea? No. Chips? – oh yes. Chips then please. It’s what we need, starchy, salt and vinegar, proper chips. It’s hot and it gives us the lift we need for the last 12 miles to Selkirk. The climb out of Hawick is one of the most brutal yet, as bad as Slag Fell. At this point, every turn of the pedal crank your whole body aches and we both feel shot to bits; so to be honest what’s another long climb or two? Coming into Selkirk my rear gear cable pops, so either we have a technical in the morning or Martin Moore’s bike will have to come out of retirement. The County Hotel is booked, so we find our way to the Philipburn, an old converted country house on the River Ettirick, ex-seat of the Strang-Steele family and famous salmon/trout fishing spot. Hot bath and a great meal – bed then tomorrow Edinburgh and on, to Perth and Blairgowrie and into the Cairngorms. Bring it on! (oh the dumb bravado in a warm restaurant).

WS

The County Hotel, Kendal. 07.20

I feel like I’ve been beaten up. Meet Stickels at breakfast, he feels the same. Muscles everywhere hurt, mild headache, puffy eyes, legs feel like I’m back at school and received 18 dead legs.

The Lake District – we’re getting somewhere. Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter may have been creatively inspired by the region, but to me it is a soaking wet place full of big hills. Yesterday the rain was incredible. God opened the heavens at about 4.00 in the morning (Tue), went out all day and forget to close them. Except for a 10 minute window before Lancaster, it literally rained all day. We couldn’t have been more wet if we had cycled straight into a swimming pool. When you’re wet through, cycling isn’t so bad. It’s the stopping and starting that gets you. You get very cold and getting back on the bike again is hard work, your body says: “You’re soaking wet and you stopped. I thought you were going to have a hot bath. IDIOT man, get off the bike!!” At one stop a fat old lady hit Jolyon’s bike with her car. “I was trying to move around it,” she said. Clearly, but you didn’t do a very good job did you? I’m afraid your tolerance falls rapidly when you’re wet through and your core body temp is 10°C. Swearing and being rude gets you through the day, and several motorists have received The Bird. Rain slows you down and we lost ground – we only covered 90 miles of 120 yesterday – then to cap it all, our phones got wet and stopped working.

Stickels battled through the knee pain with seven Neurofen. We stopped at a bike shop near Preston where he had his seat adjusted. Now it’s higher and the knees feel better – although that might be the Neurofen overdose. His body position looks a bit better.

Toine visited a client in Stockport. After that we spy him in a country lane off the A6 outside Lancaster. He steps out of the car laden with Burger King – a welcome sight. I don’t normally like double Angus bacon burgers but it was like ambrosia at that moment. As you come into Lancaster, the university halls of residence loom up out of the gloom on the hill to your right. My brother studied here and I played rugby here. No offence Bro, but it’s a grim location for a campus. Further into town, Lancaster itself is old and pretty, a nice town/city. No time to stop and enjoy the sights, except for a pee on the bridge, and we crack on to Carnforth and Kendal, trying to forget about the cold. The last 10 miles into Kendal seemed to take forever. A sign read ‘Kendal 9 miles’ – fine. Then what seemed like 8 miles on, another sign says ‘Kendal 4 miles’. One mile on, ‘Kendal 4 miles’. Is someone having a laugh? We climb the dual carriageway A580 to drop into Kendal, truck spray making no difference to these drowned rats, and finally enter town.

Because the phones were out, we couldn’t rendez-vous with Toine in Kendal. He went ahead to find and book a hotel. The plan was to meet in the town centre, but Toine had carried on through the town to the County Hotel on the A6. We used a pay phone, left a message for him, then Stickels and I stood literally shivering in a pub until he arrived, engaging in small talk with a local mad artist. I want to go home. Cycling the mile to the hotel was the coldest ride I’ve ever done.

It was a hard, demoralising day. Stickels says his entry in the visitor book will read: “Thank you for the hospitality. Never have I been more grateful to stay in such a dump.” I think he’s joking. We’re ‘happy’ with 90 miles, but ideally we would have got further. The good news is it’s a bright sunny day in Kendal. The bad news is its cold, and northerly head winds are forecast. Today we go to Carlisle then north (where else?) on the A7 into Scotland via Hawick and Selkirk towards Edinburgh. Tired but keen to crack 120 today.

WS