In October I rode from Land’s End to John o’ Groats in aid of a charity called the Ministry of Stories. It took five days and was on the rather grueling side of things. Here is a cobbled together journal of the ride.
Enjoy, Greg

Day 1

You were chatting on the radio, chasing down leads, writing blog posts, donning monster masks, and posting videos, but now you are on the starting block on a clear Monday morning. You look west out to sea and observe a world smothering cloud moving in. Better hop to it and start this ride.

The first glitch. The computer hasn't uploaded my new route for the day. Murphy's law dictates this is a perfect time for this to happen. Thirty minutes of endless faffing about and the computer is synched. Just in time, as the first drop of rain dings against my helmet.

And I'm off. All the planning behind me, the ride is real. Even though the rain has set in there is a calmness in the air. Perhaps a perceived one but a good time to focus and settle in for the day.

Dawn is magical, a bold statement indeed. The term magical, loose, and vague but fitting if used for emotive purposes. Those few hours before the sun rises, when there is nothing but a tiny patch of road lit up by your bike lights. Everything is broken down into simplicity. Just you, the bike, and the journey ahead. Later, the roads get busier and the landscape reveals its dirty little secrets; like big hills in the distance, urban sprawls where glass and road debris litter the streets, and traffic lights set you back.

But back to Cornwall. By the time the sun had risen, I was through Penzance and riding into Marazion. St. Michaels Mount sat brooding off in the distance. In wet weather, this historic feature did not really dazzle but rather dampened the spirits, as if the ride’s outcome was already written in the sand. That of a dreary doom and damp ladened adventure.

But the thing with riding is that you not only go through all the seasons in one day but all the emotions as well. Like going up a hill you can be up and you can be down. This was a down moment but you learn from experience that you will be up again soon enough. This came in the form of Dartmoor. Moments earlier, in the town of Tavistock, the rain proceeded to reign havoc on the cycle computer. It went haywire, changing pages, pausing then unpausing, starting new laps. And this just before a big climb.

I looked at my phone, got the route, and headed out of town. Slowly I climbed into Dartmoor National park. At a quick pitstop, I watched a farmer’s psychedelically painted collection of sheep have a gnaw on the grass amongst the heather. My first words of the day were to another species and it felt fitting as my detachment from the rest of humanity was now ever-growing. I had firmly broken off from the humdrum of society’s daily shuffles. A few miles down the road and the cloud layer splintered. The sun revealed itself. The mood shifted, the tors magnificent; the black band of tarmac snaked up and around this beautiful park. Wild horses ran down the road, others spooked, headed off into the distance coursing through irregular rock formations…

I was out the other side and guess what? The rain caught up with me. By the time I had gotten to Exeter, I was navigating by phone as my CPU had flipped out. Coming up to 6 pm and this was not the time for getting lost in a city. Foul moods had once again arisen. Still trying to bust a move out of the city and the first day's ride was about to fade into darkness. Exiting the sprawl, I could now focus on getting through a series of small villages. I'd check them off as I went and then made a note of the next place to head for. The computer at this point was not navigating, but at least showed me where I was on the map. The rain kicked up and my surroundings became forested, remote -- or at least I felt cut-off from everything and everybody.

The rain lashed against my face as the wind kicked up a notch, and then the computer went dead...
The light that had felt like a little beacon of hope had now gone out. I had been erased from the map. Phone service was intermittent. I'd ride for a bit then look at my phone. Realize I'd gone the wrong way and set back in another direction; check the signal, check the map, zip the phone back up and head out. The lights of Taunton now appeared as a glimmer of civilization. At this point, I was talking out loud like a haunted spirit. Somewhere to the northeast was my destination. Looking back into the darkness and the relentless rain I headed on until the village of Drayton revealed itself to me.

A soggy mess of squelching shoes and a defeated spirit..........

Day 2

In for the fight and hoping for an easier day of it

I shrugged off the day before, the only reminder being my entrenched shoes and socks. The computer was now working, albeit I didn't dare pause it at any time lest it starts freaking out again. The sighting of the day was Glastonbury Tor. Not really on my route but I saw it off in the distance. Like most of the sights on this ride, it was just out of reach. A constant reminder that this wasn't a sightseeing adventure. A glorious single-track farm road sat basking in the sunlight, giving me good vibes for the low-key morning ride into Bristol.

Bristol was the usual big-city chaos. The wind was now starting to kick as I followed the river Avon. Above, the Clifton suspension bridge hung over the gorge. For some reason, I thought I was going over it, but no I headed into an industrial estate and was now firmly ensconced in roundabouts filled with huge lorries heading over the Severn Bridge to Chepstow. The roads were ground up by heavy load traffic and the slight ascent up a rough surface gave my 25mm's something to grumble about.

After this industrial interlude, I was now ducking and diving along the border with Wales as I followed the river Wye. The river so serene I was hypnotized. Its tranquil nature tried to bamboozle me into sitting by the sun-dappled shore, whiling away the hours. Snap out of it! No time for that as I bombed past Tintern Abbey. In Monmouth I stopped to degrease the chain and put on some fresh wet-lube as the fancy stuff I applied in Cornwall couldn't handle the rain.

On to Herefordshire and into Shropshire, these went by in a blur. A slight headwind buffed the sharp edges and made the riding rougher. It had gotten cold and I hid in a neglected bus shelter to put on another layer. The sun was now setting and the last downhill section put the chill right into my bones. A petrol station stop to warm up and have a coffee. Then on to Shrewsbury and the thankfully fairly flat ride into Marpas.

Day 3

Get that first cup of coffee down your neck as fast as possible.

The last two days had done me in and I looked to see if it was possible to do some active recovery on this day's ride. So, instead of heading deep into the Lake District, I re-routed to enter the gateway town of Kendal. Then up over Shap Fell and into Penrith. This would save me a few thousand feet of climbing, but still starting and ending in the original places. Man, that was a great decision.

The computer was on a wobbler this morning. After nearly an hour of messing about with it and changing out my brake pads, I set off late. With my navigation system not working I had my phone at the ready for directions. I left under duress.

A few miles down the road from the hotel, I was chased by what can only be described as a trio of guard turkeys. I'm not calling some security personnel turkeys just to be condescending, no I was actually chased down the road by bonafide turkeys of the Christmas dinner variety. Before they could gobble me up. I clicked up a gear and left with a chuckle. Once up the road, the CPU kicked back in and my maps were back online. Things were on the up and up.

Most of the morning's ride was ambling through the built-up areas of Merseyside. It was a relief to hit Lancashire which reminded me more of the rolling hills and farmlands of Essex. Then it was into Cumbria and the town of Kendal. Had I really gotten away with not too much climbing in the Lake District? No, because around the corner was Shap fell!! You might not think it by this point but the climb was a wonderful slow grind. One where you can settle in and plod along. To the left lied the inner sanctum of the Lake District, up ahead the summit and a rapid descent down to Penrith. From there on to Carlisle and then the border.

Gretna Green couldn't come soon enough after many miles on a road that ran next to the motorway. The fast-moving traffic up above my only company. Miles in the dark seems longer when there is nothing to look at. Just your breathing and your pedal strokes, each breath, each rotation of the crank taken into account on what felt like a constant loop. Eternal playback of the same stretch of road. After crossing the border, a barely in-focus selfie by the Welcome to Scotland sign was taken, followed by a two mile shuffle to the service station hotel for the night. Emotions were running on empty.

Day 4

Chasing light and running into darkness

Yeehah, the weather report is for light rain in the morning. The computer is working, life is great! The road from Gretna Green to Glasgow pretty much follows the motorway, weaving from one side of it to the other. Nothing spectacular, just a case of putting in the miles. Daylight took forever to break and when it did a layer of gray was the best you were going to get. In the true spirit of the ride, the clouds showed their appreciation and poured encouragement down on me. Shivering, a much-needed stop was made for a coffee, some layering, and a curry pie! Yes, a classic pitstop combination.

Back into the grey misery which tagged along all the way to Glasgow. With time an issue, I didn't want the last big city navigation to be a game of snakes and ladders; which is generally what happens with council-run bike routes. But Glasgow was smooth sailing and gave me a real insight into the psychogeography of the place. As if emotions were connected to weather patterns, my good mood was blessed by sunshine.

Following what seemed like a disused railway line out of the city, then along a canal for ages, I was lost in a bucolic moment of suburban fly fisherman and a winding river interjected with council housing and new builds. This river led all the way to the bottom of Loch Lomond.

The mist sat over the lake and the sky above was not a dire reflection of the water below but an all-out dismal forecast for the next segment’s ride. Having a quick snack before heading along the shores of the Loch, I dreamed longingly of having something warm to drink in a venue that sat pretty and lit up by the lake, beckoning me to enter. The last outpost, the last temptation. I brutally disconnected myself from that fantasy and headed out…

And guess what happened? Skirting the lake on a route that dipped down to the water's edge, then back up to the road and then down again in a frustrating game of do I don't I. The drops started, first light drizzle then the rain was just shoveled into my face and down the back of my neck. The computer craped out. It went through its usual freak-outs, but this time it was the final death knell. My CPU had kicked the bucket.

By this point, the route was an array of over-saturated verdant foliage and water that gushed from the side of the hills, bursting out across the road. I laughed in the face of such chaos and pounded the peddles harder in a moment of madness. The Trossachs had taken my sanity.

And then it was up into a mountainous pass, where the three sisters: Aonach Dubh, Beinn Fhada, and Gearr Aonach resided. and on to Fort William - passing at the foot of Ben Nevis, before riding through the inky mire to Inverganny- all shrouded in darkness. Another confirmation that this ride wasn't just for kicks, but regardless these shadows out of time were sorely missed.

Day 5

CPU down, CPU down...

It was decision time. With my cycle computer completely not working by this point, orientation would be down to looking at my phone every now and again. Luckily there are not too many roads to choose from when you are this far north. My original route for today initially took me up the eastern side of Loch Ness and into hillier terrain. By the looks of it, the road was very small or possibly a trail. Another stint of being lost in the dark made me shudder and the thought of my phone losing signal while up there made me choose a hard fast route instead.

The A82 into Inverness during the day would have been way too intense, but at 5 am it gave me about three hours to hightail it the forty plus miles in relative peace and quiet. It was for the most part a chilled early morning ride, where houses sat tucked away in the tree-line and the road slumbered along the side of a steep incline. It hooked around Urquhart bay before climbing out of Nessie HQ aka Drumnadrochit and back to the west bank of the Loch. With only sixteen miles left to go a silver sliver of Loch Ness exposed itself to the rising sun and the clouds of early dawn reflected back up into the sky. The traffic had picked up, but luckily I was already at the outskirts of Inverness.

It was a slightly janky route out of Inverness, following alongside the A9 for a bit before jigsawing across a few B-roads. Then settling on an upper valley route, which brought views down to the spreading lowlands and hid the layout of the road ahead.

The landscape was now covered by a huge patchwork of pine and the road that followed lead me into a heavy mist. All my lights were put back on hoping that the cars saw my intermittent red flashes in this pea soup. After a mile or so just like that I dropped out of the mist and into a fast, thrilling descent down to the Firth of Dornoch, the sun setting the scene. A switch flipped and the lakeside charm was turned on.

Time to burn rubber to Lairg full of smaller hills and autumnal trees. Then it was a step up into raw unadulterated beauty. Leaving the main route for a smaller road, that, as always starts off as nondescript but ends up crammed full of fast flowing rivers, open vistas, and mountains spread out across the horizon. A sense of ease passed through to the peddles and I finally took it all in. The ride itself, the rough days before, and was I now ready to fully appreciate the present.

Openly engaged with the landscape I saw some deer amongst the felled trees in the foreground. Soon after I scooted by the famed Crask Inn; a historic stopping point for long-distance riders. Then there was a long winding descent, not a fast and furious technical flurry, but one of a soothing curl around a stream, a continuous coast, and looks of longing as I cruised by the Munro that is Ben Kilbreck. For something so massive, you don't expect a swirling silence, but it is a serenity that you find in these places.

A long lost friend returns. The pitter-patter of rain makes itself known and the floating on a cloud vibe was cancelled. The peddling became furious. No wet gear today as it was already soaked through. The saviour today was my merino base layer. The loser of the day was my pace. The more the rain came down the more intense I rode. I had thrown down the gauntlet, the battle was on. I vowed to beat him, I praised him with profanities and I kept the engine warm. But this came with a caveat of diminishing returns. Blasting out of the single-lane road that cut back into the A386, I cheered at the thought of only thirty miles to Thurso. This was the final town before hooking left to John O' Groats.

Alas, as I saw the waves crashing against the north coast of Scotland, it was with a heavy heart that I realised that these miles we going to be tough. The coast as I found out was not flat but a series of ups and down out of each cove or inlet, please ask my high school geography teacher for the right terminology. Pedaling dropped to a minimum, time grabbed me by the throat. The mind had a chat with the body and decided to act up. No matter how many gels I sucked down now they were not helping.

I had a break in a bus shelter and did a little mind refocus. The finish line was so close now. I couldn't just stop. Back off again, down a hill up a hill, mumble something, laugh at it, and peddle on. The sun was now setting behind me and I was starting to wobble a bit over the road. Another break and a quick phone call to my wife: “Please make me a mortadella sandwich and meet me outside the hotel in one hour”.
The sixteen miles to Thurso were a series of micro deaths and system reboots, all the grueling way into town.

There she was outside the hotel, sandwich in hand, my lucky star. I threw on another layer whilst wolfing down the sandwich. My lovely lady grabbed me an espresso from the hotel bar. That was swigged back and followed by a gel for good measure. A quick route check, a kiss, and then a click of the pedals and I was on the road again.

Energised by sustenance, by the thought of finishing I pushed it hard, nothing could stop me now. In the black of the night on the last twenty miles, I could hear the wind and the waves creating a sonic backdrop, the perfect crescendo welcoming me to the end of the land. Every solitary light in the distance perhaps the end? No, not yet the road just kept on going on. But now a left-hand turn, this was it! And there was the famous sign, beyond was a fishing boat undulating in the harbour, the only sound a cable clacking against a mast. As I leave in the dark, I arrive in the dark.

The ride in totality was around 950 miles between the two signposts. That's thirty less than the original route after I shortened day three. The total raised for the Ministry of Stories was £4100. Super happy about that, so thanks to everybody that supported the ride and has now supported the Ministry of Stories.

Much love to my sweetheart for feeding me, picking me up off the floor, and sourcing the last can of degreaser in Bristol.

If you are interested in volunteering at the writing workshops or working behind the counter at Hoxton Street Monster Supplies.
check out this link: https://ministryofstories.org/volunteer/

Love to All,
-G-