To ride end to end, Land’s End to John O’Groats, LeJog if heading north, Jogle if heading south, has been an ambition of mine since I got back into cycling many years ago. However, a busy career and the need to find a very flexible fortnight’s window in which to do it has always been a major problem.
As you can imagine, taking early retirement and still being fit enough to be a competent cyclist meant that LeJog was pretty much top of my ‘things to do’ list – if I even had such a list.
Even so, it took me from March to August to find a big enough calendar window to stick something in the diary and actually start making serious plans. [not that any of my plans could ever be considered serious]

Having looked at both potential start points and studied the UK weather patterns, the generally south westerly winds make LeJog slightly more benevolent than JogLe and so that was the direction I chose to ride.
These words would come back to haunt me later when Storm Lilian turned up with different plans altogether.
I also wanted to do the journey on the National Cycle Network, NCN, wherever possible rather than taking the shorter, but often more stressful routes on the major road network.

As there is a direct train from Cardiff to Penzance it was rather obvious to make leg 1, train to Penzance, ride to Land’s End and then head up north through Cornwall to my first overnight stop.

So, the die was cast. A train ticket was bought and I estimated that Camborne could be reached by late afternoon of the first day. I therefore pushed the boat out and booked my first night’s accommodation. This meant I was now finally committed to the journey.

Unsurprisingly for me, it appears that I did have a plan. Plans do have a habit of changing though.

In June 2024 we’d ridden the Normandy tour with the “Fridays”, the Friday night ride to the coast club. For that tour I’d used my Lauf Seigla with a Restrap handlebar bag and an Aeroe Spider rear rack holding a 15-litre dry bag. I’d supplemented this with a small musette for snacks and goodies.
This had worked well so I chose a similar rig for LeJog. I relegated the musette into my luggage for emergency use and added a Zefal grab bag behind the bars to store Snickers, Jelly Babies and other sugary treats.
I also bought a Litelok U-Lock for ultimate security and I’d fitted it to my rear rack.
To cover all bases, I stuck with the Pathfinder Pro tyres with their superb on and off-road performance.
I briefly looked at my Penny Farthing and could hear that mischievous little voice in my head. “you know you want to…”

The original plan had been to book that first night and then simply ride the following day until I felt that I wanted to ride for a further two hours. Then, using Google, I’d find some accommodation a further 40km or so up the route.
However, when I started finalising the route and began to estimate where I might be for the second evening it was rather obvious that booking ‘spur of the moment’ accommodation, on a route that was somewhat off the beaten track, was going to be either expensive and rather limited – possibly both.
So, confident that 100 miles on cycle paths was achievable in a day, even with Cornwall’s hills, I found a sensible and reasonably priced destination for the end of leg 2.
Throwing some similar numbers into Google maps showed that the end of leg 4 would put me within spitting distance of our narrowboat in Droitwich.
This naturally formed the guts of a revised plan as I effectively had a sensible end point for leg 4 already fixed.
Therefore I simply split the distance and booked suitable accommodation near Congresbury for the end of leg 3.
At this point I still intended to return to my plan after Droitwich and book accommodation late in each day.
However, I naturally applied the same logic to my forward journey and roughed out where I was likely to end up. I even pencilled in potential hotels at those locations.
It was rather obvious, and somewhat lucky that 100-mile days seemed to fit the route rather sweetly, and, if followed, allowed me to continue on from John O’Groats to Thurso to catch a train home the following day.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been called a wanker whilst eating cornflakes.

As I left Cardiff, I now had a pretty fixed plan with accommodation booked for the first four legs and an idea of destinations for the remaining legs.
All being well I would ride 100 miles a day and Jane would book accommodation for me for the evening, just to give her something to do whilst I was away, obviously.

Right. Let’s do this.

I was rather surprised, and somewhat annoyed, that a five-and-a-half-hour train journey has no food or drinks service whatsoever. I had ‘emergency’ protein flapjacks packed on my bicycle. In reality, I’d expected these to be brought into play later in my journey on some remote Scottish landscape, hungry and tired and with no signs of a shop, not on the Cardiff to Penzance train before my journey had really started.
Luckily, I’d taken advantage of a Gregg’s breakfast roll at the station and my bike bidons were full.
So, despite being somewhat grumpy it wasn’t the disaster that it could have been.
The bike storage facility on the train however was a completely different story and it made me very grumpy – social media grumpy.
There is a tiny compartment, the size of a luxury shower cubicle in which you are supposed to store two bicycles by hanging them up by the front wheel. The compartment is not as long as a bicycle and the hanging hooks do not accept anything larger than a 28mm tyre.
So, if, like me you’re running 38mm tyres then you just shove your bike into the compartment with its front wheel sticking out into the corridor. The second bike, if there is one, just sits in the corridor blocking everyone from passing with a tray of hot coffee. [if there was a food or drinks service on the train!]

Land’s End is a dump.
OK, that’s not totally accurate.
Land’s End is an expensive dump.
It now seems to have grown into a theme park and shopping destination.
The famous Land’s End signpost is now a commercial venture where, during office hours, you queue and pay for the privilege of standing by it and having your photo taken, or outside of office hours you stand where it used to be.
No one in the queue looked like anyone about to embark on a journey to John O’Groats and I felt rather like I was either an imposter in someone else’s fast food fantasy or that they had hijacked the place. Either way, I didn’t really belong there.
My itinerary didn’t allow me the flexibility to wait until out-of-hours to grab a photo at the signpost so I took a grumpy photo near the signpost and was then mugged for a staggeringly expensive coffee and packet of crisps near an official guitarist who was singing about how fabulous Cornwall was and how proud he was to live there.  
I disagreed with him and rode off into the fine Cornish rain, retracing my route to Penzance – I’d heard a rumour there were pirates there.

At Land’s End. Refusing to queue and pay £10 for a photograph and not seeing anything due to the mist and rain. Notice how uncomfortable my fellow visitors look.

Camborne is a dump.
OK, that’s not totally accurate.
The part of Camborne I stayed in was a dump.
Once I’d removed my soaking gear and stepped from my minimalist accommodation looking for food, the first words I heard were from someone asking me, “hey, mate, do you have a quid?”
As it happens, I didn’t. I wasn’t even sure I was really his mate.
A depressing trudge down a litter-strewn Trelowarren Street found a depressing chip shop and a depressing bag of chips.
By eight o’clock I was in bed. It had been a long day and I was wondering what on earth I had taken on. Even a box of millionaire’s shortbread from Tesco didn’t seem to be helping. Maybe the morning would bring an improvement to my mood.

At some point Cornwall turned into Devon.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been called a wanker whilst eating cornflakes.
However, I’m very sure that I’ve never been called a wanker by a large parrot whilst eating cornflakes. It’s definitely something I would have remembered.
Still, there’s a first time for everything.
As I rode away from the mouthy parrot and the rather dodgy hotel it turned out that my bike’s battery was dead.
At a guess, shoving it in the office for the night had pressed one of the shifters against something and totally flattened the battery.
Secretly, I knew it was the parrot.
Luckily, I was carrying a spare [battery, not parrot] but I was then also carrying the nagging doubt that there was something wrong with my bicycle.

As it happens, there was!
I’d tried to service the bottom bracket before I’d left but was scuppered by not having the correct tool to remove the shells. I’d ordered the tool but it hadn’t arrived before I departed. The bottom bracket seemed OK on the workstand so I’d put the slightly squeaky, graunching noises down to a combination of shoes, pedals and possibly my knees.
However, on the nasty inclines of Cornwall and Devon it was becoming more and more obvious that my bottom bracket was making noises that it shouldn’t, and those things do rather annoy me.

So, I made yet another spur-of-the-moment plan.
As I was planning to spend night four on Ernest, our narrowboat in Droitwich, I would ask Jane to join me. Jane would find a new bottom bracket, borrow the correct tool and meet me at the boat bringing with her all the tools necessary to overhaul the bottom end before setting off on leg five.
The chaps at Bikeshredz not only sold us a bottom bracket but they also very kindly lent us their shop tool.
First though I had three more squeaky legs to ride.

At some point Cornwall turned into Devon.
There was no cream tea changeover checkpoint or anything and I spoke to so few people that I didn’t spot where the unintelligible Cornish accent gave way to something more understandable. I could sense that there were more cows and fewer horses and definitely fewer Birmingham registered vehicles. The NCN was not without its issues as it was mainly confined to narrow lanes with a loose gravel line in the centre. Around every sweeping bend lurked a tractor. Pressing on was tempered by constant alertness and maintaining the line with most visibility around corners whilst constantly tracking over the loose gravel section in the middle.
I could have ridden far more slowly but where’s the fun in that?
My Garmin listed 47 climbs – it was a well-deserved pint that evening.

There’s no escaping the fact that no matter how you choose to assemble your scone you can’t beat a freshly-baked Cornish pasty in Cornwall.

I never knew that Tiverton has a canal. It does and so started the first of many miles of riding on canal towpaths. It also has a Greggs and so started the first of many Greggs’ meal-deals.
It’s also most definitely in Devon so that was one question answered.
I knew that Taunton has a Greggs as it was one of my first ever Greggs projects. It would have been rude not to pass and pay it my compliments.
The Strawberry line took me from Cheddar to my golf club destination where, despite not having the slightest interest in golf, my pink, green and yellow outfit seemed to fit right in.

That smoothness instantly evaporated when I hit a massive bone

The NCN takes you through Avonmouth with its acres of new vehicles and up over the Avon bridge and on through Severn Beach. Familiar places that I’ve never been to on a bicycle.
Through Hill and Berkeley, familiar places that I’ve often been to on a bicycle and on to Shepherd’s Patch and the delightful canal-side watering hole that is the Black Shed.

Never let it be said that they don’t feed you properly at the Black Shed.

I knew things were starting to go just too smoothly. The sun was out, the sandwich was huge and the ginger beer was cold.
That smoothness instantly evaporated when I hit a massive bone, yes, a bone, presumably grown by a massive cow but left by an equally massive dog, on the towpath of the Gloucester and Sharpness Canal.
The bone was effectively invisible on the beige gravel rut of the towpath and I hit it with considerable speed launching me and my bicycle, unexpectedly into the air, which, on a long-distance cycle touring journey is somewhere you have absolutely no wish to be. Thankfully, and somewhat ironically, my alarming trajectory towards the canal was halted rather abruptly by a very shabby narrowboat (at a guess the source of the massive bone’s owner) otherwise I would have lost my bicycle.

The impact was a bit Wile E. Coyote against the side of the boat. Once I picked myself up, I took stock of the situation. The bike was OK. The bent bits were straightened, the bits that had fallen off were put back on; there was nothing major other than my embarrassment.
I walked back to see what I’d hit, somewhat amazed that a cow even possessed parts that huge, and flung it as far as I could into the canal. Unusually for me, my bone frustration meant that I never thought to photograph the culprit or the results of its existence.
The impact had bashed my head, my shoulder and re-opened a wound on the knuckle of my finger that I’d been nursing for days.  My left knee though had taken a massive knock. The moment I set off again I knew that things weren’t right there. Cycling on the flat, things were just uncomfortable but every increase in effort for a climb had my knee screaming.
Adrenaline fuelled, I pressed on to Droitwich where nurse Jane took one look at my swollen knee and said, “you’re not riding on that tomorrow.”
Ever the optimist I said, “let’s see what it’s like in the morning.”
Really not sure why I bothered…

So, after four legs, one of which resulted in a thoroughly damaged leg, I reluctantly came home. If the damage was structural, I wouldn’t be riding for a while. If it was just bruising, I’d be back as soon as possible.
Back home I reflected on the first four legs, but not until I’d replaced the squeaky bottom bracket, obviously.
What had I learnt from this endeavour so far?
Well, firstly my wonderful gravel shirt weighs a tonne when wet and doesn’t dry very quickly.
Secondly, there’s a great deal of weight in my rack and U-lock and that weight really hurts going up hills. Thirdly, there were moments where I had to detour to maintain adequate water supplies as the NCN is often well off the beaten track.

The following few days showed a marked improvement in my knee. Even I didn’t need to be a doctor to see that every day was a little better and that the anti-inflammatories were doing their stuff.
It was time to plan the continuation.
I ditched the rear rack, pump and lock and crammed what I could into my Restrap rear bag. I bought a second Zefal grab bag to carry what I couldn’t get in the rear. I decided just to use my cable lock as I’d found the U-lock unnecessary on the first four legs.
Finally I added a third bidon cage to the downtube.
I’d lost 4kg off the bike but only actually ‘lost’ the U-lock – marvellous.
I also treated myself to a pair of latex overshoes – condoms for feet, extra strong, unlubricated.

Revised set-up without rear rack and heavy U-lock. Extra bidon and grab bag added.

Rather than looking for accommodation each day it was obvious that early booking was considerably cheaper and this also applied to my return train journey – itself an absolute nightmare in trying to secure a bicycle booking from Thurso through to Cardiff.
So, I made the decision to restart my journey, ride 100 miles a day to pre-booked accommodation and ride to a pre-booked return train journey in Thurso. It removed some of the uncertainty but also meant that I was committed to those journeys each day no matter what the weather or the condition of the rider.
Still, in many ways any plan is preferable to no plan.

Right. So, let’s do this again.

Despite having already ridden Land’s End to Droitwich I chose to restart my journey at Cardiff and ride up to Droitwich first.
I’m not really sure why.
I guess it gave me a day to check out my recovering leg before restarting the journey proper and to shakedown the revised luggage and bike alterations. I also felt slightly selfish in dragging Jane back up to Droitwich and her having to drive home alone, without me, missing me terribly, sobbing…
Either way we turned it into a club ride up to Usk where I left the rest of the gang and continued on, alone, up to the boat at Droitwich.
So, like Jake the Peg – I had an extra leg – diddle, diddle, diddle dum.

Ernest. Always there when you need him and always happy to see you.

As the late, great Douglas Adams wrote, Rob, of Rob McKenna’s All-Weather Haulage identified 231 different types of rain, because, it turns out he was a Rain God and the clouds worshipped him.
I believe, on this journey I’ve identified 231 different types of canal towpath and very few of them are fun on a bicycle.
All of them can be experienced through the industrial midlands.
Type 3, “pancake flat, recently laid asphalt” was undoubtedly my favourite, followed closely by type 14, “hoggin”.

The crocheted hot-water bottle cover on the hot-water bottle sat on my bed was the first giveaway.

Type 44, “speed bumps at bridge approaches” was utterly infuriating but not quite as alarming as type 76, “gravel, loose, towpath <500mm width”
Near the bottom of the list was type 87, “asphalt with perpendicular tree roots >75mm <2m spacing”.
Of course, at the very bottom was type 231, “towpath, rutted with dog’s bone”.

Barely a week since my incident with the bone, my knee was on the mend but very much still not fixed. Whatever damage I’d done had left me with an aching knee but it didn’t seem to hurt any more or less whether riding or climbing. Ibuprofen seemed to shut it up enough to allow me to operate efficiently.
My left Achilles tendon was a different story though. Despite not playing a huge part in the dynamics of pedalling it was clearly upset and got progressively worse during the trip.
It seemed oblivious to the ibuprofen and showed no positive response to stretching.
Whether it was a bone injury or something caused by a change in my pedalling due to my injured knee, I’ll never know.

I was chased by a dog.
I could see it running parallel with me along the riverside in Heysham. It finally made its way through to the cycle path and ran alongside me.
Interestingly it kept pace with me as I gradually increased my speed. It was a beige thing, possibly a Labrador. It seemed quite happy to chase me and didn’t seem to want to hassle me.
I went faster still until, after what seemed like a rather excessive amount of time, it finally called off the race leaving me undoubtedly the clear winner.
It really chased me for so long that I have little hope of its owner ever seeing it again.
If, by any chance she’s reading this, your dog has some serious legs on it, still, hopefully.

My route took me through Yealand Redmayne, the home village of a dear friend of mine who died far too young as a result of multiple brain tumours. I remember his description of his family home but couldn’t spot it in the tiny hamlet. His description and my memory were probably miles apart; it wasn’t important. Just being there was enough to rekindle the memories.
They say we don’t truly die until we’re forgotten.
I’m not sure what he would have made of me riding a bicycle though.

My host at the guest house in Kendal was mental. Fabulous and mental. As she later confessed to suffering from ADHD I feel sort of embarrassed to call her such but I can’t for a minute think she’d disagree with me. Throughout the week leading up to my stay she sent me emails and WhatsApp messages of fabulously comprehensive instructions of how to find her, how to check in, where to store my bicycle, which direction to turn the key, which direction to turn the handle, where to eat and so on.
On the day of my arrival, with Storm Lilian predicted to arrive, she sent me further instructions on where to dry stuff, which towels to use, where to put my wet shoes. It was simply wonderful. I felt pampered and I hadn’t even arrived yet.
As she wasn’t home when I checked in, her instructions worked faultlessly. I followed the ladybirds to the broken pottery and found beneath it my welcome pack. The garage lock turned as she said and the handle likewise.
My room was rather scary.
My host, who we’ll call Yvonne, clearly liked to crotchet.
The crocheted hot-water bottle cover on the hot-water bottle sat on my bed was the first giveaway. However, after a brief glance around the room it became immediately obvious that we were dealing with an expert. The crocheted coasters and mats were copious but every glance revealed another little surprise – a little bag with tissues, another with a sewing kit, yet another with cotton buds and dental floss. Anything that wasn’t in a bag had a little note attached to describe its function or instructions on how to use it.
Thankfully I found a little plastic box of homemade shortbread that had neither a crocheted bag nor instructions how to eat it.
She threw in breakfast for a paltry £3.50 providing you were happy with cereal, instant porridge and toast and coffee. I absolutely was – ecstatic in fact.
I was slightly disappointed to discover that none of my breakfast or its accessories featured crocheted covers, not even the cafetière.  
We still exchange WhatsApp messages…

So, I waved goodbye and then slogged up Shap Fell, thankful that I was running on porridge rather than a full English.
The rain, that I’d been dodging for days finally caught me on those bleak borders’ landscapes north of Gretna Green.
Still, everything needed to be washed anyway.

Diversions are not unexpected. We all appreciate that things need to be repaired and roads need to be closed, however, as a cyclist it’s not always that simple. A road closed to traffic can often still be open for cyclists and pedestrians. Sometimes, ignoring the road closed sign is the only excitement I get.
Some diversions were rather well done, with QR codes and laminated maps showing the diversion routes. Others less so. A Heras fence closed a towpath and the sign said, ‘emergency towpath closure’ with no information as to for what distance.
I had to back-track to get off the towpath and then decide how far to ride in random directions before getting back on the towpath some guesstimated distance further along my route. Hardly helpful [Canal & River Trust].

Nothing in my room was crocheted and my bathroom had a fire place.

Just outside Carlisle a closed road, that was absolutely closed as it had been removed completely, only had a diversion onto a busy dual carriageway that was really not cycle friendly.
The man at the barrier told me that he’d heard that there was a good cycle diversion if I went back a couple of km and took the first left. “Good enough to get a Transit down there” he said.
He was absolutely right.
Now I just want to know why there wasn’t a sign a couple of km earlier saying, “cyclists this way” and “No Transits”.

A towpath (type 24, “patchy grass, uneven) closure with no indication of any diversion. Just, “naff off mate, we’re closed. And don’t come back…

Uttering abuse at Storm Lilian I squelched into Moffat and promptly dampened everything and everyone in reception.
I’d chosen to stay in Moffat house, which turned out to be rather a fine choice.
Nothing in my room was crocheted and my bathroom had a fire place. The chimney was sealed with what appeared to be a large, rubber, inflatable bag and the regular drip of rain down the flue resulted in a rhythmic “boing” every five seconds or so.
I was tempted to deflate the bag to stop the noise but was rather worried that it might have had a considerable build-up of water behind it so chose to bury my head beneath a pillow instead.

I made my early morning coffee from the hot tap – a true definition of desperation.

After washing my clothes, hanging them on the heated towel rail and taking a massive shower, I treated myself to a rather indulgent dinner to celebrate now being in Scotland. I very much deserved it.

What you’re looking at here is a haddock scotch egg with a curry mayonnaise.

Storm Lilian still hadn’t given up trying to ruin my journey and Carol Kirkwood and a glance from my window both confirmed it.
Due to the location of Moffat and the hills behind it, the most sensible route to cycle out is to travel south and then head north-west to return to route and even that is a long ascent.
The southerly leg was deceptively benign and I flew along in my wet weather gear wondering what all the fuss was about.
As I came off the roundabout and headed north-west Lilian introduced herself once again and whipped the expletives from my mouth only for them to smack into the windscreen of a Tunnock’s Caramel Wafer HGV that was following me.
Even now I’m embarrassed to look at the Strava data for that leg as I pedalled into an almighty headwind waiting for the painkillers to do their stuff on my knee, the rain to stop or the gradient to flatten out.
Any one would have been nice.
Finally, north-west turned into north-east and, as the landscape became less exposed the speeds picked up.
Not to be outdone, Lilian had one more sting in her tail and utterly battered me over the Forth bridge. Later, as I struggled through the cycle paths of Dunfermline a WhatsApp from Jane said, “pleased you made it over the bridge”. To be honest, she wasn’t the only one.

Busman’s holiday – inspecting the connections on the Forth Bridge.

My fourth pie had a magnificent lid. It really was an astonishing creation. Of course, we need to be honest here – it wasn’t a pie, it was a stew, with a lid. I’m not sure what happened to proper pies in pubs and restaurants. I feel there needs to some sort of campaign group – perhaps there already is?
It was still a rather acceptable ‘pie’, so nice in fact that it even charmed me on to a rhubarb crumble to follow.
My bike was snoozing in the beer cellar, the wine was full bodied and soporific. It was rumoured that storm Lilian had blown her last. Good times.

This will end

I woke to find my kettle didn’t work.
I tried it in a few sockets and it definitely didn’t work.
There was no fuse in the back of the plug.
I now knew why it didn’t work.
I made my early morning coffee from the hot tap – a true definition of desperation.
The previous night’s easy calm had been ruined by a fuse.
Time to hit the road.
This is what happens when you don’t make proper pies.

Storm Lilian might have gone but she’d left quite a few of her belongings behind. I was no longer riding in a storm but it was still windy with intermittent rain and I was heading north west again to round the Cairngorms through Pitlochry and Blair Atholl. Once again my route changed to north east and the headwinds eased providing a glorious run through the outstanding cycle routes up to Aviemore and my windowless hotel room.
Friday night before a bank holiday, and a huge biker convention had left me with little choice of accommodation so I was happy with a room – the window wasn’t important.
I couldn’t find a pie.

Storm chasing into Aviemore.

Something happened between Aviemore and Inverness other than just the rain. My Garmin was sending me one way and the NCN the other. The NCN looked rather lovely so I pedalled my way through heather-bordered cycle routes of wonderful quality and onto quiet lanes with pleasant views. At Inverness my Garmin caught up with me and I’d cycled 10km further than my proposed route. As this was to be longest leg it was clearly about to become longer.
The Kessock Bridge was still entertaining, but, as usual, my morning north westerly route switched to north easterly in the afternoon allowing for a nicer experience. At Tain, the cycle route moved onto the busy A9 and took me briefly back into the wind and across the rather exposed Dornoch Firth Bridge.
The lowest point of my entire journey occurred just as I pedalled off the causeway and my Garmin flagged up the next course point as “course ends – 49km”

An eerie quietness filled the bathroom – you could sense the gradual cessation of distant sirens.

49km! I’d been riding all day, a lot of it into a headwind and I was now in the gutter of the busy A9 in the rain. 49km was a normal bike ride. I had a whole normal bike ride to go before I had any chance of a pie.
“Just keep pedalling”, as Dory would say. “This will end.”
And it did, in Helmsdale, 49km later.

The shower had a tiny cubicle, rather like an old-fashioned phone box. The shower head was a can, high above and angled as far away from the door as possible. An ominous start. The control was a single lever – no sign of a temperature control, just a single lever. I reached in and turned the lever and the water started with a jolt, the whole shower assembly startled at being awoken from its idle slumber. It wasn’t a power-shower but in reality, it was – it really was. The flow was immense and the plug hole could barely keep up with the flow – the shower tray deep in water. Somewhere, on a Scottish hillside, I could imagine klaxons sounding, and dials spinning in a surface-water reservoir control room as operators frantically opened valves and stabbed buttons shouting, “someone’s using the shower in the Bridge Hotel, the duty pumps are at maximum, ready the auxiliaries…”
Thankfully, I found that opening the lever further didn’t increase the flow rate but did increase the temperature. I could see that the deluge of water was starting to erode the grout from the tiles so I quickly turned it off.
It shut down with a mighty “clunk” as the system, now used to such a massive flow, was suddenly starved of water.
An eerie quietness filled the bathroom – you could sense the gradual cessation of distant sirens.
This was going to be fun.
I undressed, hopped into the cubicle, shut the door and turned the evil device back on.
The delay from opening the lever to achieving a hot shower may have been short but that brief ice-cold deluge was undoubtedly most of a small loch.
It was impossible to stand in the water and lather myself. If I’m honest I don’t think my arms were strong enough to raise them against the massive flow even if I’d wanted to.
I stood there, allowing myself the ignominy of this aqua assault and, once thoroughly moistened, which was approximately 5 nanoseconds, I turned off the shower again.
As I applied shower gel to my now satisfyingly wet body I braced myself for the second round, and, sure enough, opening the lever again was another freezing introduction before a mighty inundation that instantly removed both the shower gel, any dirt, and possibly the top layer of my epidermis. I staggered from the shower cubicle, probably cleaner than I’ve ever been and promised myself a three-course supper as suitable compensation.

Leaving Helmsdale was, I think, the first day that I set off and it wasn’t raining. This was rather fortuitous as my overshoes had exploded the day before. I really can’t blame them. They weren’t heavy-duty and the right side of the heel of my left shoe had been gently kissing the nose of the crankshaft with every pedal revolution.
I’d noticed the mark a few days earlier, then the small hole, then the small tear but yesterday, as if to say, “I’ve given you ample warning!” the latex simply cried enough and let go.
That I’ve bought a further three pairs on my return is testimony that, despite the short life of this pair, I hold them in very high regard.

For some strange reason I’d taken to saluting magpies.

This final leg had some fabulous, and rather scary descents [73km/h!] but then followed by nasty climbs, early in the day, through each of the coastal hamlets. Turning left off the coast road brought me on to the unbelievably long, straight roads through the flattened landscapes, busy with newly-constructed wind turbines, through to my ultimate goal, John O’ Groats.

Despite having ridden nearly 1700km, now was the point where being so close to my goal highlighted how remote it was up here and how a broken chain, or other major mechanical could leave me thoroughly scuppered. I couldn’t stop my brain running through its huge list of “what if” scenarios.
None of these I’d thought about for days, but with the prize just around the corner now it was all I could think about.
Of course this isn’t exactly true.
For some strange reason I’d taken to saluting magpies.
I’m not sure which dark recesses of my mind this had come from but I went from not saluting magpies to saluting magpies in an instant.
I can’t even remember where this change happened and I had no idea about magpie-saluting rules.
Did you salute each one? It was sometimes difficult to keep track.
What about the ones you could hear but couldn’t see?
It also coincided with singing the theme music from the 70s TV show, Magpie.
Solitary life on the road can be rather strange at times…

For a start the signpost is free and they don’t take it in at night.

Whether it was because I worked out suitable repair solutions for each possible mechanical in my head or just because I was simply closer to the end, I don’t know, either way of course, nothing did happen and I rolled into John O’Groats to the imaginary ticker-tape parade, fanfare and cheering crowds.
I didn’t spot any magpies.

Whilst John O’Groats is undoubtedly commercialised it is far from the nightmare that is Land’s End. For a start the signpost is free and they don’t take it in at night.
It was busy, you might even say surprisingly busy bearing in mind its location, but not heaving. I mugged a passing tourist to take my photo. Not enough people asked me where I’d ridden from so I mingled furtively until someone finally did.
It was also not raining and absolutely no one was singing about how great Cornwall is and for that, I was truly thankful.
I found a seat and bought a pleasant lunch at its reasonably-priced café and later bought an equally reasonably-priced memento from one of its gift shops. For once, I didn’t feel fleeced.
I didn’t order a pie – there wasn’t one on the menu.

The final statistics of the journey were as follows.
1,728.12 km cycled from Land’s End to John O’ Groats on, wherever possible, the National Cycle Network. 15,378 m climbed.

Looking happy at John O’Groats.

I couldn’t complete my story without a special mention to https://bikeshredzltd.com/ for being super helpful, and, as ever, my long-suffering wife Jane who has to put up with it all.

Summary of legs.

Leg	Accommodation	Comments	Dinner
1	Vyvyan Arms, Camborne	Above a pub. Shared facilities. Small TV at right angles to bed. Adequate but run down. Bicycle stored in office. Left as quickly as I could.	Depression & Chips
2	George Inn, Hatherleigh	Fabulous hotel. Didn’t want to leave. Huge bed, big TV, coffee and biscuits plus bottled water in the room. Nice shower.	Pate. Steak Pie & Mash
3	Mendip Spring Golf Club	Lodge accommodation behind the club house. Adequate coffee facilities. Shower poured water all over the floor. Tiny TV, could barely see it in the distance. Bicycle in room.	Chicken Goujons Scampi & Chips
4	Narrowboat Ernest	Fabulous narrowboat. Plenty of beer	Fish & Chips
5	Pymgate Lodge, Cheadle	Nice hotel. Lodge accommodation in the rear. Bike in the room. Nice shower and good supply of coffee. Big TV. Manchester airport flight path. Good continental breakfast.	Steak Pie & Chips. Sticky Toffee Pudding
6	Lyndhurst Guest House, Kendal	Superb guest house. Owner couldn’t have been more helpful. Coffee and homemade biscuits. Big TV, bike stored in garage with tools available. We’re still exchanging messages now.	Deep Fried Halloumi Steak Pie & Mash
7	Moffat House, Moffat	Luxurious hotel with massive room and massive shower. Big TV. Coffee, biscuits, sparkling and still bottled water. Heated towel rail. Lovely shower gel that I used until Aviemore.	Haddock Scoth Egg Fillet Steak & Chips Cheeseboard
8	Bein Inn, Garfang	Tired hotel but good food. No fuse in kettle. Morning coffee ruined. Bicycle stored in beer cellar.	Lentil Soup Steak Pie & Mash Rhubarb Crumble
9	Coylumbridge Hotel, Aviemore	Huge hotel / complex like Center Parcs. Room with no window. Big TV. Typical facilities. Bicycle stored in dedicated cycle / ski store.	Burger & Chips Tunnock’s Teacake Yorkie Bar
10	The Bridge, Helmsdale	Nice hotel. Single room. Coffee facilities. Massively powerful shower that you couldn’t avoid the spray from in tiny cubicle. Bicycle storage room with tools and stands.	Chicken Strips Steak Pie & Veg Jam Sponge & Custard
11	Premier Inn, Thurso	Standard Premier Inn.	Hoisin Duck Wrap meal deal. Dairy Milk

Packing List

Bicycle	Lauf Seigla Race, Roval Terra Wheelset, Specialized Pathfinder Pro 38mm TL Tyres.
Bar Bag	Thermoball jacket, overtrousers, wet weather gloves, trousers, underwear, emergency blanket, First Aid Kit, spare Epipen, hydration tablets, charging cables, toiletries, cape, Hi Viz gillet, cable lock.
Grab Bag	Jelly Babies, Squishies, flapjacks.
15 Litre Dry Bag	2 x cycling vests, 2 x cycling jerseys, gillet, spare bibs, socks, hat, gloves, T Shirt, TPU tubes, washing sheets, overshoes, wet wipes, emergency Snickers (into second grab bag for second phase)
Frame Bag	Toolkit, hanger, chain lube, Epipen, spare tube, spare pads, CR2032 batteries, torque wrench, AXS battery, cable ties, spare spokes, axle wrench.
Top Tube Bag	Power bank, glasses, Chapstick, drugs, keys, money, snacks.
Rear Rack	U-Lock, pump (Rear rack removed for second phase – small pump added to frame bag)

Pies of LeJog

Nutrition

Despite carrying ’emergency’ Snickers, Squishes and protein flapjacks non were consumed during my ride. Generally I had a breakfast rich in carbohydrates, porridge, toast etc and then stopped for a snack for elevenses, preferably coffee and cake.
Lunch was invariably a meal deal with an orange juice from whichever establishment I passed around lunchtime and was a ham & cheese baguette if it was Greggs or a cheese and onion sandwich otherwise. [Jane doesn’t let me have cheese & onion sandwiches at home]. Crisps were also cheese & onion apart from, for some bizarre reason, in Dingwall where I chose roast chicken, just to be different.
If available, an afternoon Magnum stop was always welcome and Lucozade Energy drink was my fluid of choice if it happened to turn up in the afternoon. Generally, my bidons we’re simply water with a High 5 electrolyte tablet.
This routine worked all the way up to Dingwall which was my last meal-deal stop.
Knowing elevenses and lunch would be scarce north of Helmsdale I loaded up with chocolate chip cookies for my last, shorter leg up to John O’Groats.
Any hotel complimentary biscuits were added to my pockets for nibbles during the following day’s ride.

Cycle Path Variations.

Following the NCN, cycle paths and routes varied considerably. Many sections were on quiet roads – not without their own challenges. Canal towpaths and former railway lines featured prominently. At least one section had steps and a short section near Strensham services on the M5 was actually only passable on foot.
Without a doubt, Scotland offered the better cycle routes. Many sections of the A9 have been upgraded and the former road turned into a cycle route, often leaving the cat’s eyes and both lanes behind. At times I found myself naturally riding to the left expecting oncoming vehicles despite it being a segregated cycle route. South of Aviemore there were lengthy stretches of super-wide, freshly-laid, smooth asphalt coupled with a picturesque landscape.
North of Inverness the NCN spent a great deal of its time being a narrow section of the main carriageway which hadn’t always had the benefit of the adjacent carriageway’s resurfacing and consequently became a worse choice than the main carriageway. As I headed north the NCN finally became just the A9 and I had to mix with commercial traffic and the pop-pop bang-bang brigade doing the NC500.
After the A99 junction things got far quieter until Lybster where the NCN switches back on the quiet roads through to John O’Groats.
There simply aren’t enough roads up there to transfer cyclists onto quiet routes, that’s all.

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