Days twelve to thirteen

Catching up on my blog!

Not much worth reporting has happened over these two days, the focus seemed to be on getting there. Some brief notes.

Day twelve

The A82 which led us so brilliantly through Glencoe the previous day stretched on in front of us, connecting west with east. The destination Dingwall, just North of Inverness, probably the most northerly city in the UK of any significance.

As James blogged... "from Euphoria to Chernobyl". The full steam ahead efforts of the previous day taking its toll on the body. The day started in a fine misty rain, which did nothing to raise spirits. The rain was in for the day, and gradually got harder as the day passed.

The ride took us past several Lochs; we rode along half of the north side of Loch Ness. It all looked rather eerie. Tranquil, still water, the surrounding hills shrouded in mist at their base, and low clouds covering the peaks. I remember one view that made everyone sit up and take notice.... the road turning a corner and we burst out from under some trees. Rare sunshine treated us to a view of Loch Ness as far as we could see, both forwards and backwards. Quite a sight... The terrain was easy going, but all the riders remained calm and steady. No one had it in their legs to sprint.

Only two real moments of any significance. After lunch, we were expecting a hill. Our trusty Garmin GPS devices were pretty good at fore-warning us of the contours, but I wasn't really expecting what I saw next.

At the foot of the hill there were two signs standing proud on an 8 foot post. One said 15%. The other, "For 3/4 mile". On their own, neither sign is particularly troublesome. Together they looked rather daunting. There was a unified crunching of gears as all 7 riders changed down to the small chainring.

Yorky and I pulled away from the front of the pack, not particularly fast, just at our own pace. Maybe 75metres from the foot we were side by side, standing on the pedals. The scene was set for Alberto Contador vs Andy Schleck style alpine battle to the top. Another turn of the pedals and we both seemed to realise at the same time that our legs were gone. We both sat back and settled in for the long crawl.

I don't really know how I got to the top. A mix of sitting or standing, using the lungs then the legs in turn. I stood as long as my legs could take it, until they started to buckle. Maybe ten turns standing,.ten seated. All the way up the three quarter mile, fifteen percent ascent. At the top I pulled aside into a lay-by. Massive intakes of air, my glasses steaming with the output from my lungs. I waited for the others. 30 seconds till sight of Yorky, a minute to James. 4 minutes for the next two and six minutes till the last pair. That was a tough one.

The next remarkable moment, happened straight after. The group  enjoying a celebratory bag of Jelly Babies, Tom was reluctant to come pick up the bag, maybe his legs too tired from the climb. "Just throw me one..." Lo and behold, Andrew served up a Jelly Baby through the air and Tom caught it in his mouth. Hole in one, amazing!

The rest of the route took us into Dingwall, eventually peeling off our favourite road in the UK, the A82. A short day, just 65 miles, at a relaxed speed. Quite welcome after the previous ride.

Aunty Jan at the Marsule B&B was also most welcome. Warmth and shelter from the rain. I even had a hot bath... bliss!

Day thirteen

The end now most definitely in sight, and the weather forecast showing no sign of rain. Things were looking up. The day saw us pass the first sign emblazoned with 'John O'Goats'. Just 104 miles to go at the first sighting. But with Tom's illness, we had to play it safe. The fact that he even got in the saddle that day amazed me. Lizzie and I spent the whole day towing Tom 70 miles to Dunbeath. On a bike, if you sit behind someone you are sheltered from the wind. You can freewheel whilst the guy in front pedals away. Today, I was 'la domestique' ... the workhorse. There was a light but noticeable headwind for the whole day so we kept the pace easy, sticking to 15 on the flats. I was taking the brunt of the wind to make it easier for those behind. We made it in the end, even up a 13% incline. La Domestique is of little use going uphill, the speed is low so the air resistance is negligible. With relatively fresh legs I took the opportunity to race to the top, a hard lung bursting climb. I waited for the others next to a cottage called 'Hilltop'. Some great views on offer, the whole day had been a coastal route. From where I stood it all looked rather pretty. North east coast of Scotland... if it wasn't for the changeable climate, I might consider retiring there.

The final day would be a formality, in terms of the ride... just 40 miles. Our recent overnight accommodations had all had maps of Scotland adorning the walls. The imaginary "you are here" dot  getting higher and higher each day. It was incredible to think how far we had come. My bike computer showing just short of a thousand miles. I had never been North of Scotland's two biggest cities, and I had never cycled more than three consecutive days. Still, the legs and body were feeling it... it was hard going just walking back to the accommodation after dinner. I went to sleep thinking about how it would feel, tomorrow, finally at JOG.