Day Thirteen - Tongue to John O'Groats

The last day. The last 69 miles. On paper this day had always looked a breeze. But a breeze wasn't the problem. The problem was a full blown gale.

From the moment I gingerly got on my bike at Tongue Youth Hostel and turned due east, we were headed directly into a 30 mile an hour headwind. It was so strong, that at times I saw birds being blown backwards and too often for my liking we were pedalling just to keep going downhill - and that is so, so wrong.

Especially when you are at the end of a two week trip such as ours.

And then it started pelting down for good measure. Cars had their headlights on during the middle if the day and the sky darkend. It was as if we were being made to really work to complete our trip.

I could fill the next few paragraphs with plenty of woeful, self-pitying prose; but let's just say it wasn't the happiest six hours I've ever spend on a bike.

Still, my grumbling Achilles and I slowly neared John O'Groats. The route we came by, cleverly plotted by Steve on little backroads, meant there were few signs counting down the miles, so all of a sudden, there it was.

I didn't except massed ranks cheering me as I arrived, nor did I expect wide-spread adulation, autograph hunters or packs of press photographers. But even my lowest expectations of the sort of welcome we might have expected at John O'Groats turned out to be over optimistic.

When we arrived in the rain, we went looking for the John O'Groats finger post to get our photos taken for posterity (and facebook) but found to our dismay a very grumpy man dismantling the sign and putting it in the boot of his car.

'It'll be £9.95 for me to get out the sign for you" he grunted. "I'm not getting out of the car for anything less". If you are familiar with my reluctance to spend money, you'll already know the answer he got.

Then, cold and wet, I went in search of a cup of tea and maybe even a slice of cake, to celebrate our success in a very British understated sort of way.

"We're closing, you can't sit down, you can only have take-away. And there's nothing hot to eat", said the charming hostess of the only open cafe.

So John O'Groats failed dismally on the warm welcome front. Still, we did find a rather sub-standard sign post for a photo, and as we sat contemplating our 1,000 mile trek (take-away teas in hand) we were able to watch other end-to-enders. Some were about to start their journey in the other direction. A couple of students, like us, had made it all the way from Lands End. Well, not all the way; they'd been caught in a storm in Pitlochry and taken the train, and got a puncture earlier in the day and got a taxi. Students = lightweights.

Once you arrive in John O'Groats, you are at something of a loose end. For weeks its been THE goal, the total focus on all your efforts, then you arrive and .... well, that's it really.

We wern't staying the night in John O'Groats (I wouldn't recommend that to anyone). Instead we were booked on the 18.00 ferry from John O'Groats to Orkney. Cath and the kids and Dindi, Steve's wife were that very afternoon flying up to Orkney (how very sensible). We were all staying with Anne and Eddie, good friends of our who live on Orkney.

So ironically it was on Orkney, not John O'Groats where the fantastic welcome began. Anne and her daughter Maggie drove down to meet Steve and I at the almost deserted dock where the ferry from the mainland arrives.

Leaping out of the car, they presented us with huge chocolate medals and a bottle of Orkney beer for each of us. Back at their house, champagne was opened, bunting had been put up and a massive poster congratulating Steve and I hung across the dinning room. A curry was slowly simmering on the Aga. It was wonderful to be among family and friends, to be among people who were genuinely happy for you, to be among clean people who did not smell of damp lycra.

The moment was completed when Eddie and his son James came into the kitchen both playing a salute on the bagpipes. They both know the pipes well, as they play in the Kirkwall City Pipe Band - it was a lovely touch.

It's been quite a journey - thanks for joining me on it, for the comments, the support and the sponsorship (you can still donate to my site on Just Giving).

Thanks also to Steve for putting up with we for 1,000 miles, and Cath, Callum and Beth for supporting me (and always believing I'd make it).

Day Twelve Inverness to Tongue

Day Twelve

In an attempt to medicate my way through a challenging 89 mile day in the Highlands on a pair of clapped out and loudly protesting Achilles - I think I may have overdone it a little.

I didn't bother with the small-print for Ibruprofen or paracetamol dosage, but I suspect I sneaked beyond the 'ample' zone.

My suspicions were aroused when, from out of nowhere, I dredged up from the dark recesses of my mind the Laurel and Hardy classic, 'Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia' and proceeded to belt it out on the quiet country roads north of Inverness for far too many minutes, including the high-pitched Oliver Hardy bits. (Which I thought I did rather well). I also started to bleat back at sheep.

But whatever the painkillers were doing in unlocking my self-restraint, they weren't doing a whole lot to dampen down the pain from my ankles. (Up until now, they've had the decency to take it turns. But since yesterday they've decided to call it a day together).

This makes cycling a somewhat tricky and painful proposition. At one point, first thing in the morning, I was seriously concerned that I was about to be overtaken by a lady pensioner on a Raleigh Shopper - thankfully, she turned off before she caught me.

I appreciate that being a man, my gender's reputation for pain tolerance has gone before me, and at least 50% of you reading this may already have jumped to the hasty conclusion that I'm simply being a bit of a baby.

But I know they 'really' hurt because my usual array of coping mechanisms: counting to 100, panting sharply like I'm in childbirth, recalling every swear word I've ever encountered (and what a surprisingly rich, varied and textured tapestry that turned out to be) failed to work.

I then tried to see if I could get away with - sort of - not pedalling. I started by trying to pedal one-footed, with the least painful foot, but this threatened to slow my already pedestrian pace down to mere crawling.

I then discovered an initially promising change in pedalling style (toes pointed downwards at all times making me look like an overweight ballet dancer forced onto a bike) but after five minutes that hurt too. So I just made do with counting down the miles.

There were 89 of them today. Over the bumpy Highlands with wind and midges thrown in too. 89.57 miles to be precise. Go on - count them - I know I did, every last flippin one of them.

But 89 is far too big a number to deal with at the start of the day. Knocking off a couple of miles, so you can tell yourself, 'only 87 to go' doesn't deliver the kind of self-deceit or delusional motivation I require.

You have to break these numbers up a bit, play a few mind games with yourself, trick yourself. Set small targets and easily achievable goals.

As we rolled out of Inverness this morning, I knew from memory that we had 154 miles to go before John O'Groats. So the first target was to turn those 154 miles into 150 miles (that way, I had a small moral victory after only four miles).

The next target was to cycle until 9.30 am, watching the clock on my bike as each minute passed. The next milestone was to reach 22.25 miles, which would be exactly one quarter of today's ride. Only six miles later (at 29.66 miles) we'd be a third of the way through the day's ride. Then I'd ride to the next village for a shop-stop and a can of Irun brew. Then another minute of cussing. And so on. And so forth.

I'm also a great one for pulling faces. I don't have a poker face on a bike; if it hurts, it shows. One of my idiosyncrasies in these painful situations is to press my tongue against my chin. You may remember that this was a look perfected by Fleegle (the dog-like lead singer of the Banana Splits) but I've added a pair of cross eyes to the look. If you can imagine Fleegle on a bike, cross-eyed and moving slowly, with that trademark tongue out, and suffering from Tourettes syndrome, that gives you a pretty good approximation of what I looked like today. And for the full kids-TV / cartton mash-up of the 70s, imagine Steve as Road Runner. Meep meep !

In the end we made it. By we, I mean I made it to remote town of Tongue and Steve didn't die of boredom in the process (I dont think Steve has travelled so consistently slowly on a bike since it had a pair of stabilisers on it). He's being very good about it - but what he wants to do is scream out with every fibre of his body, 'come on Slatter, stop moaning and move your lazy backside'. Today he asked me 17 times (I counted) if I wanted him to carry my panniers - 17 times I managed to keep myself from temptation.

The trouble us, Steve needs an additional challenge to keep himself interested. This ride is not challenging enough for him. You see, Steve, as I may have alluded to, has competed in national cycling events, whilst I have only watched national cycling events. That is a small, but crucial difference, which is becoming increasingly apparent each passing day.

But what a beautiful place Tongue was when we finally arrived. If you don't know it, its on that northern Scottish coast, the one pointing towards the Artic which we generally forget about. It is very remote. The road we took (the main road I'll add) was single track for about 40 miles and passed almost nothing except stunning valley and loch views, that unfolded one after another.

But being remote has its problems - supplies of essential goods just aren't that regular. We know to our cost becuse the YHA we are staying in doesn't provide meals, so tragically we had to go to the pub. Equally tragically, having had two pints (between us) we were told the pub had no more ale. So Steve and I had literally drunk Tongue dry.

Which was a shame because we needed to raise a toast to our last night on the Lands End to John O'Groats trail. Tomorrow, if all goes well, we will arrive in John O'Groats - the adventure over.

Still, me and my ankles have got to get there first ! I'll let you know how those last hilly 65 miles go.

Day Eleven - Glen Coe to Inverness

You know those documentaries, that have no real drama, so invent something vaguely pathetic to add a bit of tension; well, that is what has happened to this blog. Except it is not invented. (although it runs the risk of being pathetic).

Today, all was going well, we'd put Fort William behind us and were heading towards Loch Ness. The sun was out and i'd managed to score a packet of scones for lunch. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, soon after lunch (taken at the edge of a beautiful sun-dappled Loch Oich) my ankles took a collective decision that they had had enough. They went on to claim UDI and engaged in non-violent but pretty painful protest.

Standing up in the pedals is rapidly becoming akin to taking a bread knife to my Achilles, even soft pedalling leaves my normal stoical mask looking a little dislodged.

And there, people, is your drama.

We have two days left, one hundred and fifty four miles to go, and two non-functioning ankles; game on.

As I tap this out on my Iphone, I have one leg resting on a bag of ice. I've also lined up a few painkillers that could drop a horse. My ankles and me will have a serious conversation about this in the morning.

Otherwise, the day was marked by rather too much traffic, but some wonderful views of mountains and lochs.

Steve was once again like an excitable puppy on a bike; boundless energy however much he is exercised. As we passed a sign for Ben Nevis, Steve said, "Have you ever climbed it?"
"No," I replied, "have you?"
"Yep, last time my brother and I went touring in Scotland, we did it on our rest day. We pretty much ran up it".

I groaned inwardly.

Still, while I may not have the of Olympian stature of Steve, I am very pleased with the number of people who are referring to us as 'lads' on this tour. On one occasion, we found ourselves in conversation with an old boy in Cumbria (it was at a level crossing waiting for a train to pass - but let's say no more of that) who, when our chat was over wished us luck with a hearty, "good riding lads". It was like something out of an Enid Blyton novel. I'm called many things, but rarely something as inappropriate as 'lad'. I'm delighted to report not much has changed in Scotland, they just say 'laddie' instead.

I have to say that I could do with an age related compliment. Not only do most of the pictures taken of me on this trip appear to show me with ever increasing amounts of grey hair, just before I set out on this adventure, I was almost mortally wounded by a throw-away comment at a party. I was in conversation with an elderly chap, - somewhere in his mid-70s I'd wager - and was telling him about my forthcoming Lands End to John O'Groats ride. He looked across the table at one of my friends, (a woman of my approximate vintage, with four children of her own who are the same sort of ages as my children) and said pointing at her, "your daughter must be very proud of you". I left the party a broken man.

For fear of offending anyone, if you are from Fort William (and proud of it) can I suggest skipping the next paragraph ?

OK, now they are gone, can I just say what a dump the town is? Look at the name on a map and it conjours up images of a picturesque frontier town, beautifully blending in with the Highland scenery, full of healthy, hardy outdoor types.

What you get is a long line of holiday homes and ridiculously named Bed and Breakfast places, book-ending a town centre made almost entirely from ill-matching low rise concrete blocks. It was, to borrow a quote, a carbuncle. However, my critical (indeed our critical) mistake was to have a detailed and volumable conversation to this effect, while sitting on a park bench, while not three feet behind us sat a taxi, its window wide open and the driver hearing our every word and snort of derision. I'm concluding from the fact that he said nothing that he is either the recently sacked Planning Officer for Fort William, now making ends meet with a bit of cabbie work - or was from Oban.

Heroes of the day include the very kind owner of the Foyers Stores in the Falls of Foyer. When I stumbled in mid-afternoon to her shop and tea room, sweaty, dishevelled with vacant eyes ringed by salt marks, desperately in search of liquid refreshment, rather than throw me out (as was her right) she saw the logo of the children's charity we are riding for, and promptly donated £20 to the cause. It was a wonderfully kind gesture, so if you are ever passing Loch Ness, drop in at her tea room at the Falls if Foyer and give her your business.

I'd also like to thank Marek, Anna Plimmer and the Poulsons for donating to the ever-growing pot. People have been very kind - the total us just under 2.5k - a lot more than the £1,000 I first hoped for.

The last hero of the day is Steve. (if it is possible to type through gritted teeth than I am doing it!)

Firstly for putting up with my endless whinging, but also for offering to carry my panniers at the height of my Achilles distress yesterday. Of course, I could not allow this to happen...it would be little short of cycling emasculation.

However, I'll let you know if I weaken tomorrow. Don't bet against it.

Day Ten - Glasgow to Glen Coe

As we left Glasgow today, we were inevitably 'cut up' by a bloke in a white
van. It's not the first time and probably won't be the last, but Steve was
unable to contain himself. At full volume (and in an accent far too English for my liking, given our location) he ventured an opinion on the drivers proclivity for self-abuse and the authenticity of his parentage.

I stared at the brake lights in fear, praying they would not suddenly turn
red. This could go one of two ways; the best outcome was to hope the driver was deaf or on the phone. The potentially more painful outcome was that he stopped to 'discuss' the matter in more detail with Mr Morgan. I'd like to point out, that Steve would at this point be negotiating alone. I have few
cycling abilities, but can shift myself reasonably swiftly over a couple of
hundred yards - or at least beyond the reach of an enraged van driver. For
me, its all about flight, not fight.

But being a cyclist is to immediately turn yourself into a target. You can be
cycling along, minding your own business and suddenly, someone either tries to kill you, or for some reason feels the need to shout obscenities at you.

It's one of the few depressing sides of cycling. Well, that and steep hills.


Another favourite trick is for a car - usually packed full of adolescents -
to slowly pull up alongside you, windows open, all the better for all the
occupants to shout "banker" (at least that is what it sounded like) or some other highly celebral and erudite
comment at you. Of course, since this comes totally by surprise, you tend to
squeal with shock and wobble quite a lot. The car meanwhile drives off with
its spotty occupants nearly wetting themselves with self-congratulatory
laughter.

Only once has this situation worked in my favour. Enraged I gave chase,
fuelled by adrenaline and the need to right a wrong. The hapless teenagers -
presuming to have left me well behind on the road - got stuck in traffic.
The hunted had become the hunter. Like great white, I approached unseen. I was delighted to notice that their windows were still obliging open; they'd forgotten all about me. With their car stuck at a traffic light, I was able to draw up alongside, poke not just my head, but entire upper body in
through the passenger window and scream at the top of my voice, a word which (let us just say) they had used freely at me but moments earlier. The only change I made was to convert the word into the plural.

I swear the two boys in the front seat actually hit the ceiling... I know I
dripped sweat on them for good measure, before withdrawing hastily and sprinting off cackling to myself.

Be warned, middle-aged men on bikes do (occasionally) have their moment.

Thankfully, the brake lights in Glasgow stayed off, Steve's head stayed on
his shoulders and we lived another day.

Thankfully, we were soon off the busy Glasgow roads. Steve had once again
plotted a superb route and for nearly 30 miles we followed both canal path
and later cycle path out of the city, which took us almost to the end of
Loch Lomond. In the unexpected sunshine, it was bonnie indeed.

At lunchtime, I ordered Haggis and baked potato, with baked beans. When in Scotland....

Then the real work of the day unfolded as we entered The Highlands. Lots of
climbs but some simply fantastic views to compensate protesting legs. In
fact, climbing up to Glencoe, I noticed Steve had actually broken sweat for
perhaps the first time this trip. This was a major incident.

You see, Steve is far too good a cyclist to go touring with me. He's tootling his way up to John O'Groats far too easily for my liking. He's like the flippin duracell bunny, he never seems to tire or slow down. He has only two speeds, fairly rapid and very fast, which he alternates between for most of the day. To add insult to injured pride, every now and again he will shoot off down the road, 'to get a workout' he'll shout as he sprints off.

Three miles later, he'll be positioned atop some cruel little hill or other
nasty little incline, camera in hand, eager to catch some of my slow-motion cycling. Occasionally he shouts encouragement such as, 'come on chubster' or 'ahh, he is finally here'. At this point if course, If I see him with a
camera, I am obligued to stand up in the pedals, stop pulling exhausted
expressions and attempt to adopt the pain-free and focused demeanor of a
decent cyclist.

Steve is great company, but next time (what time, what flippin next time!!)
it might be advisable to go with someone for whom the trip is actually a challenge. Who occasionally breaks sweat, not just wind.

Glen Coe itself was stunning, though even in sunshine it has a brooding
presence; in mid-winter it must be intimidating indeed.

From Glen Coe down to our youth hostel we enjoyed an exhilarating five mile high-speed descent. Bowling along, with minimal effort amid beautiful scenary was a fantastic end to the day.

Actually, that wasn't quite the end to the day. The local pub not only had a
selection if fine ales, but it had the full haggis, neeps and tatties option. Haggis twice a day; now, does the epicurian highland high life get
any better than that?

Day Nine - Carlisle to Glasgow

Sorry this is a little late getting published, and I'm touched by how many of you have become alarmed that I might have gone under a Strathclyde bus. But no, all is well, and my reason for missing my deadline was driven by a great evening with Chiara in Glasgow.... And falling asleep after comprehensive 'refueling' before I could start blogging.

So what of Day 9?

Well, it was the longest day so far, taking us 104 miles nearer John O'Groats, across the border into Scotland and finally Glasgow.

It feels like we are really making progress now. But it was a long old day in the saddle. And a day which included falling off my bike for the first time this trip, a bee sting and a pair of very numb .....hands.

Of course we stopped at the border for the compulsary photos at the 'Welcome to Scotland' sign, before cycling through the wedding related theme park that is Gretna.

Carlisle YHA where we had spent the night didn't offer breakfast, so the first 20 miles were done on empty stomachs. So imagine my joy when we saw signs for Ecclefechan. (just savour that name; enough reason to stop in itself). Eccle-feck-in.

But this isn't just an amusing named village in the Slatter household. Years ago, before kids, we had Hogmany in Port Patrick, way out on the west coast of Scotland. On Hogmanay evening itself, we had a meal and were being served by a waitress called Fairy. It was a cruel parental choice, as most of the attributes you mighy associate with fairies; beauty, grace, lightness and engaging charm seemed to have evaded our waitress. She had one aim in life that night, and it had more to do with finishing her shift and drinking on the beach with her friends than serving us.

"What's for pudding?", we asked as the clock ticked towards midnight...
"Ecclefechan tart" came the reply.
"Is it nice?" we asked.
"Nah, its mingin" said Fairy... "It comes with cream but that's been spilt all over the flair (floor),
Do you no' want any?"
We didn't.

But ever since, Ecclefechan tart has earned a special place in my heart. And today, some 15 years later, it was time to finally try a slice. We stopped at the aptly named Ecclefechan Hotel and asked for a a bit of tart. Ecclefechan tart is like christmas pudding, mixed with mince pie filling spread over pastry; it is not usually ordered for breakfast.

But the waitress (altogether more helpful and amusing than Fairy, but more prosaically named Sandra) was happy to find us a couple of slices, and even cracked the no-doubt obligatory 'here is your tart' joke, along with a cheeky grin when she arrived at our table.

Fairy was wrong, it wasn't mingin' and it set us up nicely for the long day ahead.

It was cycle paths and minor roads all day today, but if I have a complaint; and I always tend to (as you may have noticed) the road surfaces were shocking. South Lanarkshire Highways department should hang their collective heads in shame. While they seemed particularly enthusiastic in erecting signs that rather smugly said, 'South Lanarkshire - thriving on safe driving' they were singularly unable to lay a decent road surface. It was like cycling over corrugated iron, randomly sprinkled with rocks, pebbles and just to keep us on our toes, potholes.

By the time we arrived in Glasgow, Steve's handlebars had worked loose, I'd dislodged a handful of fillings and our hands were shaking so much, we needed both hands to successfully guide our pint glasses to our mouths.

Perhaps South Lanarkshire council should stop spending their road budget on stupid signs and actually build some decent roads.

And if you are wondering about the 'falling off the bike moment' I can happily tell you that it was highly amusing for Steve, but did no lasting damage to me, except to my ego, as it happened at about 2mph as I inexpertly tried to negotiate a gate on a cycle path. The slow motion collapse onto the grass verge had the natural grace of an elephant being tranquilised. We will say no more of the incident.

Heroes include Chiara who as mentioned, provided fantastic hospitality, use of a shower, took us to a great pub (converted old church) then on to curry house. And to Deirdre, Angela, the Grays and the Gorniaks for helping push my total even further. Thank you all so much.

Day Eight - Carperby to Carlisle

I woke up this morning, deep in the Yorkshire Dales and re-read yesterday's blog. It was clearly the work of a lily-livered, cossetted, sofa-dwelling wimp. It was time to give myself a firm talking to; 'Get a grip, Slatter!'

There was to be no more moaning, no more self-sorrowful paragraphs - I had to man-up, take control of the situation and show this ride who was boss (after I'd rolled over and had another half an hour in bed of course).

Cath and the kids, who had wonderfully driven up from Mankinholes yesterday to spend another evening with us (and prepared a Mexican feast, bought beer and washed cycle kit as I lay like a zombie on on the sofa) were heading home today. So after breakfast I waved my happy little family off in the car (the thing sensible people use for long distance travel) and turned to face my bike. Let me tell you, I gave it a good hard look.

Six more days of riding and I could hurl the damn thing into the North Sea (and get a great deal
of pleasure in doing so). But I had to get there first. Today we were up against a long ride through the Yorkshire Dales, then the North York Moors, before dropping down into Carlisle.

It sounded tough - it turned out to be a ride blessed by the cycling gods. With a general 'off the dales and down to the sea' feel to the ride and helped by a juicy tailwind, we raced along. It was just what I needed. The miles were ticking off and the painkillers were quietly but efficiently going about their work on my ankle which had stubbornly refused to get better since, oh, I don't know....Penzance. When I say ankle, I think its my Achilles (an altogether more classical injury - geddit !?).

Anyway, with my ankle on the acceptable side of niggling, all was going well.

Once again, Steve had plotted a superb traffic free route, which he had painstakingly added to his Garmin (for the non-cycling fraternity, a Garmin is a small handlebar mounted computer that acts a little like a bike sat-nav). At each junction it indicates which way to go via a little screen, and if you stray from the agreed path, it beeps irritably and insistently until you get back on course. This has meant we have not got lost once in over 600 miles.

But I have noticed something suspicious. We do seem to be passing a statistically unlikely number of train-related places; disused lines, restored steam lines, railway museums, goods yards, working lines..

Now Steve has something of a history in this department and I'm beginning to wonder if there wasn't a little 'tweaking' made to our daily routes.

You see, as a lad, Steve would rush home from school, pack a tupperware box full of sandwiches, jump on his bike and - often in the company of his brother Nigel - race off to the level crossing at Wivelsfield in Sussex to wait for trains.
So innocent...
so wholesome...
so sad.

This is of course now ancient history for Steve, but today, his interest was once again aroused as we were following the famously scenic Settle - Carlisle line. And as it was a Sunday, there was a special steam service running.

So imagine the scene at coming upon a level crossing and finding that a steam engine and Pullman carriages was on its way. For five minutes, Steve was that twelve year old school boy again - I have added a photo both of the train and Steve photographing the train for you to enjoy.

As I think I may have occasionally mentioned in passing, my ankle has been giving me grief. It gets OK later in the day, but it's pretty flippin' sore in the mornings. (Not that I go on about it).

So as we neared Carlisle, I decided that rather than just stretching it by walking to the pub in the evening (my usual warm-down routine) I'd be a whole lot more pro-active about it - and get an ice-pack involved.

But for that I'd need ice. Since we were staying at the Carlisle YHA I surmised that a full ice bucket might be low on their list of guest services.

As we entered Carlisle, it became apparent that picking up some ice from a shop wasn't going to be that straight forward. (Carlisle; plenty of Icelands, not a lot of ice - if you get my drift).

Eventually, we stopped at a Co-op store. Rather than draw attention to myself clopping around the shop in those ridiculous cycling shoes with plastic cleats on the bottom, that make you sound like a very slow moving tap dancer and make you walk like a duck on an icy pond, I asked one of the lads stacking shelves if they sold bags of ice.

Given the look he gave me, I might as well have asked him if they stocked Strawberry Daiquiris and fresh Sorrel leaves. So I settled for a bag of peas instead; as John Lennon would have said, "let's give peas a chance". (I'm sorry!) See picture.

Heroes of the day include the Ashcroft family for their fine hospitality (and pet therapy!) in Carperby,and Ed Will, AnnaMarie, Claire Prosser and my dad who all helped pushed my sponsorship total higher - I'm touched by how generous people are being.

Villians include the owners of an All-You-Can-Eat' Chinese place that we made the sorry mistake of visiting after two very fine real ale pubs. I fear spectacular food poisoning overnight following our ill-advised consumption of a variety of re-heated dishes, each of which was an unlikely and unnatural colour (and taste). A dodgy constitution won't be fun as day 9 sees us cross the border for Scotland - and take on a 100 + mile day to Glasgow.

I'm told it's forecast to rain.....

Better check in for my next blog update - it could be a quite memorable day.... In all the wrong ways.

Day Seven - Mankinholes to Carperby

We are in North Yorkshire. We are over half way and have done over 500 miles.

There are parts of me hurting that have been biding their time for years before giving me grief.

Literary inspiration has been hammered out of me by roads of perverse vertical cruelty and tomorrow we have a long ride over the north York moors to Carlisle - I haven't even got the energy for the usual low-level light-hearted slagging of my mate Steve...forgive me, but I am going to bed .....

But I can throw in a few pics for you...

- of where we are in the UK (quite far north I hope you'll agree).
- the view over my handle-bars.
- my look of fixed concentration / pain
- a bit of Yorkshire cricket at a most incredible location as we ate our lunch
- Sun on the Kettlewell dale
- A babbling brook in Herriot country
- The ever onward road

Cheers and good night

BTW - I'm riding this monster to raise money for a Sussex charity working with mentally disabled children and young adults. If you'd like to support their excellent work, you can find me on Just Giving.

Thanks