Its not over till the White Van Man bellows....

Day 14

Route: Thurso to John O’Groats

Distance: 20 miles

Time: 1 hr 10

The smell of freshly ground coffee wafted up the stairs of Number 4 B and B in Thurso to wake the slumbering support team, as their Scottish fry up was being lovingly prepared in the homely kitchen down below….the same cannot be said of the early morning wake up call to which residents of Sandra’s Backpackers were treated too. The noxious smell of old, greasy chip fat is unpleasant at the best of times, but first thing in the morning it proves an even more offensive pong. Still, nothing could dampen our spirits at this point and we happily chomped through the variety of Tesco Value cereal, jam, bread and milk provided in the inclusive Continental Breakfast served at Sandra’s (and when I say serve, it was self-serve). With the last applications of Udder cream applied, our favourite lycra outfits selected (or for Camillo, his CF T shirt, kindly worn for the last 5 days of the trip in support of the cause. Much appreciated of course, but cycling downwind of him proved an interesting experience to say the least) and panniers packed for the last time, we hit the road. We were warned by the kindly hostess at the B and B no to be disappointed by John O’Groats, and given she was a local, from Thurso, we approached our final destination with trepidation. The rain had stopped thankfully and we made it to John O’Groats in good time, meeting just outside the town to adjust hair, lycra, tubey grips for the big photo shoot.  Jerry and Sue were waiting, champagne in hand, at the finish line as we dismounted our trusted iron steeds for the last time below the John O’Groats sign. People have said it would be an anti-climax finishing, but I wouldn’t agree with that.  Reaching the iconic white and black signpost kept us all going up the fierce Cornish Hills, the sleeting rain in Carlisle, the loss of map pages/team mates/White Van Man.  The champagne was consumed speedily before we took shelter from the fierce northern winds in the End to End café, and celebrated some more with coffee and scones. It was with some sadness that we took the wheels of our bikes, packed them safely away into the White Van, peeled the Lycra off and put of civilian clothes. 7 hours later we were back in Fife, and it all seems like a bit of a dream. I don’t know that any of us really believed we would complete this challenge, particularly after we lost our team leader on the first day, and after day 5 when we still seemed to be in the bottom corner of England, Scotland and the end point seemed a million miles away. The trip would not have been possible without the help and support of a number of people, and I would like to take this chance to thank everyone who has donated to our two charities. We have raised over 4000 pounds for CF, an incredible sum as I had originally thought 3000 was going to be hard to achieve. Joss has raised over 600 pounds for Cricket 4 Change and a further 300 for CF. So thank you from all of us to everyone who has donated. And of course Jerry, our trusty support crew, who was there to take us to hospital, provide interesting and varied cups of warm/tepid/boiling beverages, calm Katy’s at times irrational temper, and provide a never ending ream of facts and stories over breakfast/dinner/lunch. Mama Eccles for providing various delicious cakes as sustenance en route and for driving up to meet us over the finish line, as well as spreading the word for our fundraising in Fife and beyond. The Dooley’s and the Whites who provided home cooked meals and comfortable beds en route. To Mike Faulkner for mentioning us in his blog and raising support for the cause. Our star guest riders, Lucy and Mary, who provided a much needed release from each other’s company and a cycling companion for Katy at the rear. And of course Rosie, my original partner in crime who helped, in fact managed/arranged/organised, the majority of the trip. She booked hostels, hosted team meetings, joined the CTC to get a route, planned training rides, booked trains, attended to Boot Camp sessions in Balham and acted as accountant (we all still owe her money I am sure). So watch this space for CFCycle take 2 in 2012, as anyone who know Rosie will understand that when she says she will do this next year, she means it wholeheartedly. It has been an incredible journey, one which has taught me to appreciate road surfaces, udder cream and the slim fit of lycra. Thank you again, now it onto bigger and better things – Iron Man anyone…….

Day 15

Route: Crask Inn to Thurso

Distance: 62 miles

Time: 3h 30min

Some people write guide books with the intention of informing future readers of the best places to visit – such books highlight the hidden local gems, the tucked-away restaurants, the off-the-beaten-path hotels. I imagine the Crask Inn from last night would feature in such a guide book. I also suggest that there be a second genre of guide book. This genre should focus, instead, on places to avoid: places that not should be visited under any circumstances, places that should not be visited unless the integrity of the very fabric of space-time depends upon your presence at that given location. What would feature in such a guide book? I am currently penning such a book and it is, in fact, a 200-page monologue about Thurso. Thurso was founded in 1461 by a splinter group of the Benedictine Order of monks who set out northbound from Aberdeen, their intention to self-flagellate until they reached the sea, upon which point they would walk into the sea, letting the salt-water into their wounds, and then drown themselves in the icy currents. This was supposed to be the ultimate act of sacrifice. Upon reaching this most northerly point, however, the monks realised that they could perform an even greater act of self-annihilation: they would found the greyest city in the world and force themselves to live their till the end of their days. Thus, Thurso was born. Story has it that recently, in the ever-popular effort to “twin” British towns with European counterparts, the mayor of Chernobyl made a visit to Thurso. As the mayor stepped off his helicopter into the car-park of the Thurso Poundland, he looked at the sight before him. He gazed at the rows upon rows of grey pebble-dash buildings, constructed by the man who felt about architecture the same way Marx would have felt about Goldman Sachs. He looked at the piles of rubble inexplicably strewn across a town that has never seen conflict. Swallowing back the overwhelming urge to take his own life there and then, the mayor scanned the horizon further – there was a school of fish-and-chip shops specialising in deep fried confectionary simmering nearby, a gaggle of bookies nestling next door, then a herd of pawnbrokers glowering farther afield. What is that in the distance? Ah yes, the warm glow of a decommissioned nuclear power station that now specialises in handling radioactive waste. And, as it turns out, nothing gets a Chernobylian’s back up like the mention of uranium – for the mayor, this was the last straw. He thought back to his home town, with its friendly eight-legged lambs frolicking peacefully in fields of man-eating daffodils, made his apologies and stepped back aboard his helicopter. “My people have been through enough”, the mayor thought to himself, and to this day Thurso remains un-twinned. Anyway, with pride of place in this guide of where not to go in Britain is a certain hostel, “Sandra’s Backpackers”. Sandra, whom we have yet to meet, hates only one thing in life. Unfortunately, this thing is backpackers. Her hatred is manifested in various ways – having the reception in a chippie and ensuring the deep-fat fryers feed directly into the hostel air vents is one way, having sourced her beds and mattresses from the local prison is a second. Having doors wedged open so that people can walk off the street unimpeded, directly into your bedroom, is a thoughtful touch. And in a masterstroke of propaganda that would have made Goebbels proud, Sandra has managed to secure a four-star rating for her hostel. This is adds a crucial element, disappointment, to the whole experience. But today has not been all doom and gloom for we managed to spend quite a lot of time getting to Thurso and there we experienced the many and varied boons of existence – a relaxing coffee in the sun courtesy of meals on wheels a.k.a. Jerry Eccles; a filling lunch with Jerry and Sue in Roay; incredible views of the North Sea and Orkney enjoyed along winding picturesque country roads. Finally, Jerry and Sue also treated us all to a meal out for which I am particularly appreciative as I am very much enjoying burning an extra 3000 calories per day and hence eating a similar amount extra. Thurso did let itself down somewhat at dinner by giving us a very tasty and filling meal. Service, however, was more along the lines of the expected standard: it took an hour and a bit for us to get our food, but in the chef’s defence it seems that the first half-hour went on the actual cooking of the food and all the rest of the time went on letting it return to room temperature. Thank you Thurso.

Day 14

Route: Drumnadrochit to the Crask Inn

Distance: 72 miles

Time: 5hrs 05min

The head rattling, bone shaking effects of Jerry’s snoring has become part of our nocturnal routine at this stage of the trip. Initial attempts to drown out the ‘heavy breathing’ consisted of ipods firmly shoved into ear sockets (Jack Johnson the anti-snore soundtrack of choice)or regular sharp jabs into the side of the White Van Man are no longer needed by us hardened cyclists. The same cannot be said of the poor German Couple who had the unfortunate luck of landing beds in room 4 of the Loch Ness Backpackers on the night of August the 19^th. Consequently our morning bowls of porridge were eaten under the steely glare of the bleary eyed hill walkers, whose sleep has been much disturbed by the rouge White Van Man.  Udder cream applied, bikes checked (tyres not pumped, as previous attempts by Jerry have resulted in flatter, in fact flattened, tyres) we set off, warned to expect a ‘hilly’ to start the day by one of Joss’s friends who lives locally. It was quite a steep hill in fact and a bit of a shock to the thighs and calves after a day of gently rolling loch side terrain. We arranged to meet Jerry in Bonar Bridge to refuel at lunch, fifty miles from Drumnadrochit, an easy feat for our now Tour de France style physiques. We were treated to some stunning views as we sped down to the gleaming White Van Man, calor gas lit and tea at the ready. Camillo ate, and provided a tasty lunch time treat for the resident Bonar Bridge midge clan. The lads took a post lunch snooze whilst Katy hit the road, impatient as ever,  to be quickly overtaken by the boys who left a good 20 minutes later. The roads got steadily quieter, narrower, and bumpier as we headed towards our one and only night of B and B luxury of the trip –the Crask Inn, twelve miles from Lairg on the road to Altnaharra. It happens to be the only thing on this road too. Jerry, who has visited this popular stalker spot previously, described it as fairly quaint and eccentric. As we walked into the bar with its roaring log fire, the sounds of an accordion blasting from the tartan bedecked living room and navigated our way around the twenty five strong local accordion society on their annual hurrah throwing back sherry and tenants in the bar, it became quickly apparent Jerry was spot on with his description.  The support crew (Mum and Lilly) arrived in time for afternoon tea accompanied by Looby (Jerry’s sister).

"And then there were three"

Day 13

‘And then there were three’

Route: Glencoe to Loch Ness

Distance: 68 miles

Time: 4 hrs 59

It seems that after a rather troubling few days the Gods (or at least the Scottish Gods) seem to be shining on us for once. We awoke to glorious sunshine in Glencoe, well rested after our night in the rather quaint Independent Hostel (our efforts to sneak dad in were thwarted by a the owners regular patrols accompanied by his trusty terrier, thus dad was reduced to second class quarters – the back of the van).  However after regaling the weary cyclists with tales of his gap year adventures around the dinner table the evening before, we all felt the van sounded positively luxurious in comparison. Lucy’s trusty iron steed was safely stowed away in Jerry’s sleeping quarters, her rider abandoning team CF Cycle as her presence is required at a friend’s 21^st. Lucy did inform me last night that she was supposed to be making a speech at said 21^st, but is yet to put pen to paper – still the 5 hour train ride from Fort William to Kirkcaldy should provide ample time to complete the task. Our route yesterday took us alongside the train track, so Lucy shall be speeding back past all the same scenery she very admirably conquered on her first, and perhaps last, 80 mile cycle through the Highlands. She made a fantastic addition to the team, and we were all sad to see her go – especially the boys, as her culinary skills are by far the most impressive in the Eccles family. Bye Bye Lulu – we (well, I particularly) will miss you, and thanks for coming. The morning passed quickly as we sped through Fort William and made speed to Fort Augustus, where Jerry was stationed with rations in hand. The White Van got a little above its station in Fort Augustus, which lies at the head of Loch Ness, and Jerry proudly pulled up in a bus parking space and was subsequently blocked in by a far larger, and by the point angered, Loch Ness Tour Bus. Turns out Jerry has got quite into the White Van Man Persona, and takes any opportunity to test the boundaries of parking/curb crawling/traffic warder dodging in his efforts to fit the WVM bill. Our morning efforts were rewarded, as it turned out to be a mere 18 miles to Drumnadrochit to our Loch Ness Backpackers. Our fitness levels are such by this point that we were at the Backpackers by half three, leaving us plenty of time to relax, unwind and prepare for the last two days of the cycle.

Some snaps from the Highlands

Day 12

Stirling to Glencoe

Distance: 80 miles

Time: 6 hours 15mins

In 2004, Mrs Elizabeth Logan became the proud owner of a new Jaguar X-type 4 door saloon. Parking it for the first time in her garage after collecting it from the Jaguar showroom, she steps out and listens to the clean, crisp click of the reassuringly weighty door closing behind her. She then looks round, pausing for a second to admire the Jag’s shiny metallic finish, its luxurious calf-leather seats, its registration plate that (as a treat, “oh, go on, you deserve it” she said to herself) singles her out as LI3 LOG. But now fast-forward through 7 years and a serious of unfortunate events, including the car’s sale at auction and Whit Perkins becoming its legal owner, and not even the prescient Mrs Logan could have envisaged what would become of her dream wheels. It is a chilly August morning and the Jaguar is parked in Stirling train station car park; inside, the bodies of three men are half-visible through the condensation that has built up over the course of 5 hours’ fitful sleep. Scattered cans of Tennent’s around the vehicle give those of an inquisitive disposition a clue as to what could have led to such a sight. Commuters who park nearby glance towards this spectacle before shaking their heads and stepping on to the 8.37 to Edinburgh. “LI3 LOG” is still the licence plate on the car, a sorry hint at its former glory, like a dilapidated statue in an abandoned ex-Soviet ghost town. Waking with a start, Camillo looks at his phone – it is 9.22. An hour ago he received a message from Katy – “Check out at hostel at 930, what do you want us to do with your stuff?”. Hurriedly, Camillo scrambles a reply “Can you just leave it at reception?”; Katy rejoins with “sorry we have already gone”’; Camillo, now slightly panicked, “Where is my stuff?”; Katy, smiling, “We left it in the room”. Thanks a lot, Camillo thinks to himself as he drags his beleaguered body out of the Jag and into reality of the bike ride. A mere 3 hours later and Camillo is now showered and on the open road, carrying all his possessions on his bike, doubtlessly many times over the drink-cycle limit, with no idea as to where Glencoe is except an inkling that he would do well to head North. What a figure this man cuts, pedal-stroke after pedal-stroke, just him and the open road stretching out ahead of him for 80 miles, just like Che Guevara in Motorcycle Diaries. Passing drivers slow down as they overtake him, encouraged and slightly enawed by the way his small action is a metaphor for endurance. “What a testament to the human spirit” mutters one. “That’s true grit” says another. And the pedal-strokes just keep on coming. There is no hangover, no haziness, no dry mouth. Just an ordinary guy doing what needs to be done. The miles tick over. 10. 20. 30. And the pedal-strokes just keep on coming. 40. 50. 60. He’s now in the Highlands, exposed to the elements with only a “Team CF” T-shirt and a pair of shorts separating him from the icy Scottish wind. And the pedal-strokes just keep on coming. 70. A sign for Glencoe. 75. A sign for the youth hostel. At this point, picture it if you will, Camillo is silhouetted against the setting sun, panniers brimming with his belongings, a totally self-sufficient individual prepared for whatever the road may throw at him. And he draws into the youth hostel, anticipating a hero’s welcome. A group of German schoolchildren look at the new arrival, perplexed. Camillo consults his phone: Katy “We are not in the SYHA we are at the independent hostel next door”. Camillo bids farewell to the German schoolchildren (who by this point had already circled round him and sit cross-legged eagerly hoping to be regaled with tales by this bearded worldly traveller), and walks next door, anticipating a hero’s welcome. And it turns out that a hero’s welcome is a chorus of “well it’s your own fault for going out last night” followed by a sausage and bean casserole, and a luke-warm shower.