Ian Wood relates the full story of the 2010 End to End epic ride.

 

"It was October last year when Alan suggested doing the End 2 End ...

How far is it from Land’s End to John O’Groats? I didn’t know.

I know now. I know now that it’s an average of well over 100 miles day for eight consecutive days. I know now that it’s far enough to make me wish (three times) that I’d been doing something else between the 6th and 13th September.

But I also know now that if I had those eight days back I’d probably do exactly the same thing all over again.

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It’s very ordinary at Land’s End – a few buildings and tourist attractions, the sign and the starting line – and we set off aiming just for Penzance (where we knew John had gone in the car to buy the first day’s supplies). That’s the way we rode the whole thing – let’s just get another 20 miles down the road and see what’s there. We all said that if we left Land’s End aiming to ride for 860+ miles we’d climb off after 5. We meet some army guys doing the ride for Help the Heroes and run into them a couple more time over the next two days. Sensibly, they’re taking ten days to get to John O’Groats.

We’re signposted to take a cyclist’s detour through Camborne to avoid road works on the early part of the A30. 90 odd miles will be completed today and 70 of these will be in torrential rain up the A30, including the drag over Bodmin Moor to Okehampton. Artics drown us in spray from behind and in front and in the narrower single carriageway stretches threaten to buffet us off the road altogether. My wife rings me that evening to say there’d been a severe weather warning for Cornwall. Two small examples: the rain had washed the hardcore out of the gullies at the road side, making us ride up a rock-strewn river bed, giving me my only puncture of the ride (rear wheel snake bite); and at the roadside MacDonald’s they send two members of staff with mops and buckets round after the four of us. For the first time I wished I was somewhere else. On leaving MacDonald’s the rain’s coming down even harder. Antony punctures and JJ has a problem with his rear gear cable and then the sun comes out, the rain stops, we reach John, he serves coffee and cake and we grin and laugh like idiots. Alan piloted us safely to the motel in Okehampton and we went down into the town for fish and chips. JJ reminded us that by this point in his epic solo record breaking ride Wilko had gone about 350 miles further. Excellent! It’s best to know your place.

Day 2 and John begins his love affair with the boiling of kettles to fill the hot water dispenser. During the ride four of us will judge our accommodation on how we can wash and dry our kit and store the bikes but John’s more concerned with the size of the kettle in each room. Within two miles of the motel Antony punctures twice – front and rear at the same time – which is a real achievement even for him. Bang goes Kevin’s extra £5 sponsorship – promised if we could get Antony to John O’Groats without any punctures. Oh well. Those sixteen inner tubes from Drake’s Cycles now don’t look quite as unnecessary as we may have thought.

We have over 100 miles to go to Bristol and the weather’s improving. We wait for an hour for a big breakfast in Crediton and then on through the lanes of Cornwall and Devon. Testing hills and fast descents and we all felt great – this is why we’d wanted to do it – swooping and climbing past other groups of cyclists doing the E2E at a more leisurely pace (10 days, 2 weeks ...). JJ reminded us that by this time on his epic ride Wilko had already reached Scotland. So, big helpings of humility all round. Antony breaks a spoke and we give John the list of bike shops and some food for thought and the spare front wheel is fitted to Antony’s bike. Alan attacks during the long slog over the Mendips (“Ooh, sir, I’ve got a bad case of the Mendips”), I attack on the big burn climb to Bristol airport and we all race down into the city. We marvel at the Clifton Suspension Bridge so much that we actually don’t notice the steepness of the gorge back up to Clifton and all relish the climb. Then it’s down to the motel after first just failing to find Cribb’s Causeway. JJ’s sister and her husband turn out to support us whilst we eat. Alan and I decide that Mal’s texted suggestion of a detour over the Long Mynd and up Burway must be rebuffed strongly but respectfully (well, at least strongly).

Cooler start the next day and we leave John boiling kettles whilst we head over the Severn Bridge after a deliberate (?) detour to the viewing platform

Then on to a remarkably big and tasty breakfast in Chepstow, served in record breaking time. The sun’s out and we’re into the Wye Valley, on past Tintern and up the rocky gorge: wonderful morning, great riding, and truly awe-inspiring scenery. As we pass a lad on a tourer laden with panniers the usual question of “End to End?” is met with a stoical “No just riding back from Spain” - another hefty dose of humility all round. The A49 into Shrewsbury is a pain: narrow and full of lorries. So, JJ inaugurates the first of our final 10 mile 4 ups, dragging us ever closer at 25s to our motel - Leominster, Ludlow, Craven Arms, Church Stretton – so fast that we amaze John by getting in front of him somehow. Day 3 closes after 94 miles of riding and laughing. I start dreaming up possible answers to “End to End?” How about “No, just off down the chippie for a bag of scraps”? John again proves to be the hero of the day having persuaded a bike shop in the Clifton area of Bristol to give him free replacement spokes.

Day 4 and we’re faced with 110 miles to Lancaster. Out of Shrewsbury early to avoid the rush hour, leaving John boiling kettles, to the breakfast stop in Wem where we fail to raise the owner of Alan’s first choice cafe (according to the notice in the window he’s away down the treacle mines) but settle in the next cafe along for the usual heap of fried food. Then we’re off to Tarporley to meet members of the Port Sunlight Wheelers who’ve promised to ride us through Lancashire.

True to their word four Sunlighters are waiting at the Lock Gate cafe just after 10.00, including the legendary Wilko himself, who kindly agrees to present John with the Official Directeur Sportive Spoon of Office.

Later, John will describe his experience of meeting Wilko as “ace”. And as if that wasn’t a treat enough in itself, Wilko and the Sunlighters pilot us at 25s northwards around Warrington and set us clear for Wigan and Preston. I relish telling Wilko that I’ve already broken one of his E2E records (for the number of full English breakfasts – I’ve had three and by the same point he’d had none). He smiles and pretends to be impressed. I am a Yorkshireman and have no shame in admitting I played a film of the Wye Valley in my head to get me through this part of Lancashire. Preston is a nightmare in the rush hour and despite a couple of traffic incidents (losing JJ on an immense roundabout and having the usual run-ins with simple folk in white vans) we manage to pop out the other side to be reunited with John and the remainder of the Chorley cakes. And so up to Lancaster where we need John’s help, two phone calls and advice from a hairy biker to find the motel. It would’ve been easy enough to locate from the M6 but we’d made an early policy decision that we wouldn’t ride on the motorways - although JJ’s mother-in-law appears convinced that we’re travelling pretty much M5, M6, M74 and M9 all the way. Oh well, he decides charitably not to disabuse her. I enjoy a pleasant ostrich steak dinner in the nearest pub.

We decide on a 7.00 start on day 5 as it promises to be a long one – 120 over the border and up to Moffat – but JJ and I both wake up and wish (me for the second time) that we were somewhere else and could just roll over and sleep through the rain. John starts boiling up. Still, we encourage each other by joking that it’s not the A30 in torrential rain. We’re aiming for breakfast in Carnforth and it keeps on raining. I’ll blame poor visibility for us ending up in Morecambe and I’ll pretend that the run along the front up to Carnforth was pleasant. John meets us again at the cafe. I offer to swap my bike for the car keys but he refuses. On the dual carriageway around Levens I decide not to attempt to beat Wiggins’s 17 minute 10. So, we have no option but to pedal through a traffic swamped Kendal (busier than in 1977 when I passed my driving test there) and begin the 10 mile pull up and over Shap. We lose Antony in the clouds as he goes off the front – all credit to him for ignoring our shouts of “Pace yourself!” He’s chilly but waits for us at the summit. No views from here today so we pursue each other down to the cafe in the village. We’re shivering and sodden on the road opposite but the lady owner takes a fancy to JJ (this will happen again in Dalwhinnie with a different woman) and invites us in. It’s almost a repeat of the MacDonald’s on the A30 – we’re just as wet but the food’s better. And so are born two new units of measurement:

The Brumby/Joynson – this stipulates 10 miles travelled for each meat pie consumed

And far more effective:

The Bodell/Wood – this gives a more presentable 17 miles per fried fish

Despite this we confidently decide that JJ wins the Gut Bucket Award (where did he put all those chips?). In a blur of rain and shivering we’re off........... Penrith...........  Carlisle......... Gretna. We stop at Lockerbie to pay our respects at the memorial – inspiring and sobering and set in beautiful surroundings. Finally, after a crushing final 15 miles we’re in Moffat. For the third and final time I wish I was somewhere else. Alan’s not overly impressed with his Scouse landlord’s welcome (“It’s summer wot u want the heating on for?”) and JJ frets about the overnight safety of the bikes and the landlord’s refusal to lock them up (“I can’t lock ‘em up, I’m havin me tea”).

Day 6 and off to Perth but first the small matter of the 7 miles up the Devil’s Beef Tub, not made any easier when Mal texts to say that he once went up it in a time trial. Ever prepared, John’s back at the B and B boiling kettles. The scenery’s spectacular and we pace ourselves steadily (apart from Antony who again goes off the front to make sure he gets to the top first) and actually enjoy the climb. A brief stop in Carnwath to discuss the exact kind of cakes John should buy from the local bakery and then off at speed along the rolling A70 towards the Forth Bridge. As I’m doing 30s down a short descent a battered Astra draws up alongside and a Neanderthal passenger throws a full plastic litre bottle of 7Up at my back wheel. Alan suggests later that that it might have been another more yellowy fluid. Not sure how I stayed on but a huge surge of adrenaline swamps me and I’m off after the car at 30+. Later Antony says it’s like a team pursuit. I don’t really know what I’d have done to the caveman if I’d caught him (sorry, I do know – it’s detailed and biological – and I can’t write it down here) and so it’s good that I can’t keep up with his car. I run out of steam near Crosswood Reservoir and we decide to stop for lunch. A varied morning and we now have clear views of the Forth Bridge away to the north. Full credit to Alan again as he pilots us to the bridge whilst totally avoiding the middle of Edinburgh – he’d have been an asset to Marco Polo on the Silk Road to Samarkand. In fact you wouldn’t know that we were anywhere near the Scottish capital. Temporary glitch as one of the cycle paths is closed and we have to take the underpass to locate the bike lane on the western side of the bridge. The older rail bridge, away to the east, looks for all the world like Lego in its new polymer coating.  Uncanny feeling on the bike lane over the bridge – strong cross wind, deck shaking as the artics rumble past. John’s walked back half way along the bridge to take the photo ......... what a guy!

Alan guides us to the next rendezvous with John and, as I recall fondly, several pork pies and two Scottish raspberry jam pastries. This is why we decided to ride the E2E. It’s turning into a lovely late afternoon – blue sky, high white clouds – and we descend through dense pine woodlands towards Perth. Alan comes up trumps again and gets us off the main road and into the lanes, up and down skirting around the middle of Perth. My favourite number – not for the first or for the last time – turns out to be 27. Such a small difference from the 25 .......... but around here as we savour the ups and downs of Scotland.............. it makes all the difference. I’m musing again, and wondering if Bruce’s Cave will still have the same tourist value once Bruce Forsyth dies, as we shoot down a steep descent into Perth, turning right instead of left and fail to find the motel. The young Swedish lady in the posh hotel where we grind to a halt tells me how to get to the Travelodge and off we go to make up tomorrow’s bottles, have a shower and imagine how the Neanderthal would’ve looked if I’d caught him after all. 100 miles completed in the day. At 1.45 am I’m woken by a text from my 16 year old daughter asking me if I can fix the wireless internet access on her netbook. Kids eh?

The A9 beckons in the morning – as it turns out we’ll complete 111 miles to Inverness in the day – but it’s not a pretty site: blustery, full of traffic with the promise of the Pass of Killiecrankie, the Pass of Drumochter and the delights of Pitlochry. Alan again surpasses himself with his route knowledge and manages to navigate us at times along the old A9 which has been converted into a cycle way. Pit stop in Pitlochry and Alan recalls an earlier visit when, as he was warming up for the Etape Caledonia, he rounded a corner to be confronted by a man in Bob Jackson strip – Mal himself getting ready for another big day in the hills. Antony attacks Jimmiekrankie and soon we’re into a lovely headwind blowing us the wrong way back down the Pass of Drumochter. The scenery’s wonderful, the company’s great, we’re working together pretty well, but this pass seems never ending. Verily, I say unto you, it is the Pass of the Devil’s Back Passage. Down into Dalwhinnie and the welcome site of John and his bacon, egg and sausage sandwiches – triple whammy! Obviously, the boiling water dispenser’s brimful.

And so once again JJ works his magic on the ladies. Six female cyclo-touristes, big tyres and panniers, outward bound from Glasgow to Inverness over three days. JJ marvels at the size of their panniers and one of them lingers to vouchsafe to him that she’s been throwing kit away as each day passes  leaving her now with only a pair of knickers and a single bar of soap. She tells him that they’re not in the same class as cyclists as JJ. Strangely, with all this enticement and his evident power over women, he allows the ladies to cycle away. In Kingussie, Alan’s thoughtfully arranged for a cat 3 and 4 road race to come thundering past just as we reach a right turn. The man’s a marvel – we’ve done nearly 700miles and he’s timed our arrival here to the nearest minute. It’s a gift he’s got.  One more pass to climb and we’re storming down into Inverness. Yes, that really is another 111 miles in the bag!

And this is now the final day and we’ll have the North Sea to our right throughout, mostly obscured by cloud – Antony will need two more tubes and a new tyre. We have a big breakfast at Skiach at 8.30 after crossing the Moray Firth and the Black Isle. Over the Dornoch Firth Bridge we’re slowed by roadworks as the usual contractor’s five vans, one JCB, a road planer and three workmen appear to be absolutely immobile. By Cuthill at 10.15 we’re sitting down to breakfast number 2 courtesy of John (with the usual lashings of boiling water). By the time we reach Golspie Antony uses two tubes and a new tyre, the only time on the trip when we have to ring for the support vehicle. Passing Dun Robin Castle JJ assures us that it’s not a home for retired Scousers. Brora is our lunch stop at 12.30 and we chat nervously about the upcoming climbs of Helmsdale, the Ord of Caithness and Berriedale as the rain starts. We set off and each artic coming head-on at speed drowns us in a bow wave of water and the horizontal rain’s like needles in our eyes. This is not pleasant but the adrenaline’s up and we don’t seem to care. And here comes Helmsdale – steep, long, steady but mostly steep and I feel smug and happy but the others steam past at the top and my smugness evaporates as I see Berriedale looming up like the side of a house. I remember Alan’s advice – get into the right gear on the descent before the sharp turn up the climb – and I drop onto the 27 again with a sigh of relief. Round Heartbreak Corner, this is steeper than the side of a house (at least with over 700 miles in the legs) and up and up, past the graveyard (the irony’s clear to us all), gasping and rasping we reach John and the car. JJ takes the polka dots with a supreme display of paced and steady climbing. Nice climb, he says, and for once I do not agree. We’re cold and wet and Alan recommends a pub “down the road” at Dunbeath ..................... it probably wasn’t an hour before we reached it but it seemed an age in the wet, cold clouds. Into our one remaining set of dry gear and ravenously into the soup and coffee, then an extra sandwich is ordered and down that goes. More coffee and that’s put away too. Are we putting off that last 50 miles or are we savouring the experience? Off we go, in the rain but now with a tail wind, stopping only to ring the official photographer (from a bus shelter in Wick) to make sure he’s willing to stay at John O’Groats beyond the normal 6.00 pm. For a while JJ and I are chasing each other at 30s and I’m playing that film of the Wye Valley in my head again – if this ride didn’t end at John O’Groats we’d probably pick somewhere more photogenic and drier to cross the final line. And we do cross the line together at 6.10 pm. John’s got there first to make sure that the photographer doesn’t go home before taking our picture. As the ferry from Kirkwall pulls into the storm-tossed harbour I remember that national route 1 starts in the Orkneys and goes all the way to London but that’s for another year. Maybe. In the gents, having paid 20p for the privilege, I again get a text from my 16 year old daughter asking if she can sleep over at her friend’s. Kids eh?

We’ve ridden 131 miles today and have no compunction about putting the bikes on the carrier and having John drive us back to the hotel in Wick. The car seems to go unfeasibly fast – only 50 but that’s 20 more than we’ve managed on the flat for the last eight days. It’s not an anticlimax, it’s a fabulous feeling. In case, like my son, you feel that the next photo only confirms that we were in Land’s End on the 6th and then just happened to be in John O’Groats on the 13th – look at my face: that’s the haggard look of a man who’s cycled well over 800 miles.

We’re not really convinced, any of us, that we’ve really come all that way in eight days. But we have. Of course, by this time, JJ reminds us, Wilko had been back home for six days.

After the champagne – thanks Ken – and the three bottles of wine – thanks again Ken...........

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And without this man it wouldn’t have been possible:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And without the man in the middle we’d never have found our way, never have found the hotels and I would never have completed 7000+ miles on the bike between October and 13th September – chapeau Captain!

 

And all of us – Alan, Antony, JJ, John and I – would like to encourage all of you to ride the E2E. It’s a wonderful challenge and has left us feeling elated. The stipulation is that you’ll be doing it without us. Alan, having now completed the trip for the third time, insists that if he ever suggests passing this way again on a bike we have his permission to shoot him.

We take it in turns to drive back to Leeds, sadly having left John in Wick to come back on the train. Helmsdale and Berriedale still look steep even in the car but now the sun’s out and the views over the North Sea are fabulous. No need to fear the artics now, the car doesn’t deviate at all as they thunder towards and past us.