The John o’ Groats to Lands End one…

Many, many people have travelled Lands End to John o’ Groats in search of records or adventure. There's been cyclists and runners, tandems and recumbent trikes, walkers and segway riders. The list is long and always getting longer.

But I doubt there's ever been a team made up of two Englishmen, two Greeks and an invisible man named Nick.

Until now...

LEJOG  or JOGLE - depending on which way you peddle - is an iconic UK ride. Whatever 1,000km+ route that's ridden, it's crammed full of hills, valleys, rivers, forests, dive-bombing buzzards, banana-eating-competitions, villages and spectacular scenery. It's every bit as good as you think it could be.

However someone chooses to describe the incredible adventure, you might be less familiar with how it starts (or finishes).

The A99.

This horrible stretch of road runs from John o’ Groats down the east coast of Scotland. It hugs the rocky coastline as if in an attempt to escape the high moorland and craggy hills that overlook it. Travelling by car, it manages to deceive you into thinking it's just another normal, remote coast road.

This was our first big mistake. It is not just another normal, coast road.

Luckily (or unluckily) for us we had Angus. Angus was a cheery, middle aged taxi driver who'd picked us up from Inverness and drove us up to John o’ Groats. It didn't take long though before Angus started pointing out an increasingly common convoy of massive logging lorries tearing down the road in the opposite direction. In the short gaps that fell between the convoys, Angus took on the role of concerned older family member as he warned us about the many, many, many cycling accidents that happened on this stretch of tarmac.

On a lighter, brighter note, the UK was experiencing something of a heatwave. I had reports from family sat on the beach in Cornwall eating ice cream in bright sunshine. Of course if you're planning a 9-day, self-supported trip like this, you hope to have weather like this to start in.

It was a shame the north east coast of Scotland hadn't seen the forecast.

We arrived into John o’ Groats in a hurricane with a temperature of 4 degrees.

It was mid-July for Christ's sake. 

It was at about this time we heard from Sam. His parents had driven up to John o’ Groats in their caravan, bringing our bikes with them. Judging by their t-shirts and suncream bottles, I assume they too had planned for more sunshine. They'd arrived 10 minutes before us which meant they’d already explored and visited all the sights John o’ Groats had to offer - the single 3 star hotel, the gaggle of houses, camp site and wooden shack, which apparently serves coffee on the one day a year they get actually get sunshine.

And then we heard from Nick the Greek. Our 5th and final team member. He had, at the last minute, on account of having had a very important last minute rearrangement to his company's filing system, bailed only hours before the start.

It was to be a team of 4.

Day 1 - John o’ Groats to Bonar Bridge

The A99 is the most terrifying road I've ever cycled.

In the space of 80kms, and in no particular order, we got wet, we got blown to bits, Worm crashed, we crawled up hills, I ate at least a half dozen snickers bars, and I nearly cried.

And so our first coffee stop of the trip at Thyme and Plaice in Helmsford felt well deserved. A chance to de-thaw, re-hydrate and assess the damage to Worm's bike. A part of me wanted to stay in that cafe, but it had finally stopped raining and the wind had dropped from hurricane to just a moderate gale. Struggling to find another excuse, and led by Pep who seemed to be on an easy Sunday ride (on his 23mm tyres!), we pressed on.

Turning off that bloody road was one of the most satisfying things I've ever done. Suddenly we were onto the moors high up above Loch Fleet as we wound our way to Bonar Bridge and our first overnight stop.

We've spent over 7 hours cycling into a hard headwind and we were ready for food and a good night's kip.

We walked in to our cottage, taking in the incredible views across the valley, with fresh strawberries on the table and our hosts offering to run into town to pick us up food for the night.

This warm hospitality was so welcome after an incredibly tough first day.

Day 2 - Bonar Bridge to Tomintoul

Disaster struck almost immediately. As we left the little farm cottage and made our way down the winding, bumpy farm track, Sam started complaining about his knee.

By the time we'd reached the bridge in the centre of the village, Sam was clearly struggling. The guy we called "the machine" was broken.

We stopped shortly after and despite various bandages and straps, funny pedalling techniques and a lot of swearing, it was clear Sam would have to stop.  Incredibly, with nothing but beautiful landscape for miles around, we'd actually stopped at a remote train station.

We agreed to meet back up at Inverness, with Sam going by train and tasked with finding a good cafe.

We waved him off as he took yet more ibuprofen, the swelling on his knee already looking painful.

"I don't think he's going to be able to carry on" I said to the others, as we silently followed the road, lost in our own thoughts at the prospect of losing Sam from the team (that or the climbs up strangely named mountains such as Cnoc Corr Guinie and Druim Na Gaoithe necessitated silence).

They say that most of the world's troubles can be sorted out over a good cuppa, and so it proved. When we arrived back in Inverness, Sam guided us to the fantastic Velocity Bike Cafe, perched on the top of a hill in the town centre. He'd perked up, having already made a plan to rejoin us.

The plan, we discovered, involved several more packets of ibuprofen and a caravan.

For now though, we carried on without him, leaving Inverness behind and headed for Tomintoul.

The next time we saw Sam, he was sat in his parent's caravan clutching a bacon sannie and mug of milky tea. Part of his plan, it seemed, had been to call in the cavalry, with his mum and dad changing their holiday plans and now going by the title of "official JOGLE support team". We didn't know it at the time, but they'd end up following us for half the route until Haydock.

Lucky them.

Day 3 - Tomintoul to Townshill

Tomintoul is a cute little town, hiding on the flat valley floor and on the cusp of some serious mountains. We set off early, with Sam rejoining us. The sun was climbing over the peaks as we weaved our way down silent roads, the ski resorts ominously waiting for us ahead.

Sam assured us the pain was manageable but that he'd need to ride at his own pace. Given how fast Sam was known to be downhill, we knew he wouldn't be that far behind us even if he was going at a snail's pace everywhere else. He would shortly prove us right.

The ski resort area of the Cairngorms was spectacular. As beautiful as you might think and as lumpy as any cyclist might fear. One section had me in the lowest gear, zig zagging across the road, such was the weight of the bike and the severity of the climb. And they went on and on and on.

But the descents more than made up for the slogs uphill. And, being summer, there was more wildlife up there than people, with the odd white cottage dotting the landscape for as far as the eye could see.

This 30k section remains my favourite section of road I've ever cycled.

Shortly after rejoining the valley floor, calamity Worm managed to break his bike. Somehow a pine tree had wedged itself between Worm's spokes and rear derailleur, snapping various bits off his bike. We creaked into Braemar where he spent a frustrating hour fixing his bike while Pep and I sipped coffee and waited for Sam.

And then he arrived, sporting a new look pedal stroke and being followed by a caravan which had apparently, at various intervals, served up bacon sannies and drinks, passed to Sam from out of the car's window. It was quite a sight and I don't know if the locals quite knew what to make of it.

Refuelled, with bikes fixed and the team back together, we set off towards the town of Townshill.

When we finally arrived into Townshill we were desperate for food and it was already late.

Day 4 - Townshill to Longtown

I'm going to be honest, getting to Edinburgh was a bit of a mission. It was dull and drizzly and we had to contend with strong winds as we crossed the ginormous bridge from Dunfermline to Queensferry.

The mood was lifted somewhat by a most conspicuous cyclist.

We heard him well before we saw him, as Whitney Houston came blaring out of some small, crackly speakers behind us. I didn't know it yet but we were about to be overtaken by a power ballad loving, moustache endowed and baseball cap wearing local gent, riding what appeared to be a child's bike complete with ghetto blaster mounted on the back. He gave us a wave and I tried not to stack it in the railings when I caught the bemused expressions on Worm's face. 

I'm still confused even now.

Anyway, we arrived into Edinburgh in search of girls and new cycling shoes.

For some unknown reason, Sam had thought it a good idea to take a 2 hour detour to see a girl. Who he'd met once. Who might have been around for coffee. Possibly.

While Sam went off on what might not have been a date, the rest of us helped Pep buy new cycling shoes.

Back on the road, we were headed due south, passing through Peebles and Lockerbie. The roads were quiet and seemed to stretch out in front of us with a nagging 1% gradient the entire way. This, I reasoned was impossible as we were pedalling south and therefore down hill.

We passed through Gretna Green (despite Sam's intermediate efforts in Edinburgh, none of us had a reason to hang about), in search of the English border and in need of the psychological lift we were hoping for as we rolled into England and stopped for a photo.

The sun was setting and the day's light was disappearing fast. As we arrived into Longtown, it was apparent that this town shut up shop early. So early in fact, I doubt anything ever opened. We tried the pub and the kitchen had just closed - seeing that pork scratchings were the only thing being eaten, I think the kitchen had closed a long time ago.

The local chippy came to our salvation with us bagging the very last 4 x fish and chips. Only Worm seemed unhappy at ending the day with deep fried grease for supper.

Later still, we arrived at our home for the night. A beautifully landscaped caravan park on the edge of town. So lovely in fact that the owners had locked up early to keep the riff raff out. As we starred at a solid looking padlock with no sign of human life, we tried not to think about the "nice coffee and cake" Sam had made us detour to Edinburgh for.

Day 5 - Longtown to Haydock

No one wanted to leave the warmth of the caravan as we packed up at just gone 7am. Thanks to a lot of shouting and some mock threats to start climbing the gate, someone had eventually appeared to let us in the evening before. Once we'd made it inside, we'd found a beautifully kitted out van. It was comfy, we'd watched TV and been able to make coffee so strong you could fuel a Lamborghini with it.

At over 200km long, day 5 was going to be an all day epic.

We tackled more energy sapping straight roads through Carlisle (a hangover from the previous day) and increasingly lumpy and bumpy terrain as we descended east of the Lakes towards Kendal.

Our legs felt the full extent of this with a steep climb between High House Bank and Greenside Crag on the approach to Kendal. It had been 55km of almost constant climbing and had taken more than 4 hours to navigate.

As we pulled into the pretty town known for its views and sickly sweet mint cake, we said farewell to Pep and his 23mm tyres (seriously, he didn't get a single puncture) as he mounted the 12.33 to Manchester for a return flight to Sweden. Family issues were sadly cutting his adventure short.

On we pressed, towards Preston and rush hour.

This was the only part of the entire trip I didn't enjoy, as we spent the best part of an hour navigating the city centre and what seemed like endless gridlocked suburbs.

As we clocked up our 7th hour, we found green fields and smooth roads. From nowhere, we were suddenly eating up the remaining kilometres at a fast pace. Spirits were high as we started to lose the light.

That was until we reached Ashurst's Beacon near a place called Dalton. After nearly 9 hours in the saddle and with bikes that weighed north of 35kg, it took every strained ounce of effort to make it up that 20% climb.

It was almost dark as we arrived on to a mini out of town retail park, cold, hungry and tired. And then we saw it.

Sam's parent's caravan parked at the side of the road in front of our hotel.

We'd made it.

The beast had been ferocious. It had cost us a team member in Pep, it had been brutally hard at the start and it had forced us to drink in the rush hour traffic fumes of inner city Preston.

It hadn't exactly been slain but we'd tamed it sufficiently to all still be peddling as we fell through the doors of the hotel.

205km in a smidge under 10 hours.

The jubilation of getting off the bike and the prospect of food was threatened almost immediately when we were told the restaurant was about to close.

We bolted through the hallways, dumped the bikes and gear in our rooms and are arses were sat on the restaurant chairs inside of 3 minutes.

This was not a salad and diet coke day and we devoured everything the kitchen threw at us.

Day 6 - Haydock to Tenbury Wells

We were now in Worm country, as we toured around Warrington and south to his home near Chester. The familiarity of the roads seemed to give him a boost as we cycled 15km or so of his commute. He led and Sam and I tried to keep up.

As we descended further south, the built up towns we passed through gave way for countryside and rolling green hills as we picked up signs for The Wrekin, a hill that stands 400m or so high, a handful of miles west of Telford. We were cycling through pretty wooded sections of twisty lanes now as all roads led upwards. We then hit what felt like a wall, as we took the road that leads close to the summit of the big hill and down the other side.

Whether the Wrekin road is actually as steep as it felt, or it was the toll of the day before, who knows, but I was grateful to reach the descent and the pub on the other side.

I can't say the owner of the gastro pub was delighted by the arrival of three dishevelled looking bike riders, but we found a quiet corner of the beer garden so as to not bother Petunia and Doris who were on the sun terrace sipping their g&ts.

We pressed on and stopped for a photoshoot in the beautiful Ironbridge, the supposed birthplace of the Industrial Revolution and where an engineering break through led to the mass production of iron opening up opportunities for the rest of the country and world beyond.

We stopped for some photos on the bridge itself, dodged the tourists and then pressed on, cycling what might have been the physically hardest section of road of the entire trip. Ironbridge to Cleobury; a narrow, twisty series of roads that saw us constantly battle an uphill gradient and a headwind.

There was very little conversation as the three of us rode single file with gritted teeth, spurred on by the idea of a warm shower and Shutts hospitality at Sam's house that evening. The support crew's work was never done it seemed and not content with having chased us half way round the country towing a caravan, Sam's folks were now playing B&B hosts for the three of us.

That road was a war of attrition. Being familiar with roads but not knowing them well, made it all the worse. Every time we recognised a stretch of road, a pub or a turning, it made us feel closer to our destination than we actually were.

I lost count of the number of times I told myself we were nearly there, as we'd turn a corner only to see nothing for miles ahead of us. It was totally demoralising and a drawn out of sort of cycling torture I don't want to experience again anytime soon.

Finally though, as we hit the small town of Cleobury, we knew it was only a 2 or 3 mile descent to supper.

Thank. The. Lord. It was almost over.

As we rolled along the world's bumpiest driveway, losing various bike parts and contents from my panniers, elation over took us as we saw Sam's house.

Sadly, the elation didn't last long. Worm delivered the news we'd feared all day but had hoped not to hear - he was leaving immediately, Chester bound, as he left to look after his ill girlfriend back home. 

Day 7 - Tenbury Wells to Bristol

Sam had warned me about a dog at the end of his driveway living on a farm where the animals seemed to do what they liked. I half expected it to be called Manor Farm and see pigs walking on hind legs as we passed the entrance.

It's one thing to try and flee a dog when on two wheels, but this was no ordinary mutt. Sam had portrayed this creature as a crazed hound who'd try to pull us off our bikes and gnaw at our ankles. Added to that was that the farm in question sat on a steep hill and we were weighed down with heavy panniers. I was more than a little uneasy at the prospect of having to do the world's slowest sprint to escape the damn thing whilst unceremoniously trying to kick at it with my cycling shoes.

Luckily for me, the dog was elsewhere, probably reading a newspaper.

We passed through Tenbury Wells, our home town, and took a little trip down memory lane. It took all of about 2 and half minutes, such is the size of the small "town in the orchard".

We had 30 miles or so of quiet lanes and rolling countryside ahead of us before our coffee stop in Hereford. It was bliss. We barely passed another sole as we rolled through hamlets and villages, never too far from the busy, noisy A49.

We arrived in the pretty English / Welsh border town of Monmouth and sat on the banks of the Monnow river eating lunch. Massive baguettes, crisps and several bananas disappeared in rapid fashion. We sat there soaking up the sunshine, blissfully ignorant of what was waiting for us just outside the town.

It's called the B2493 and it's a killer of a climb.

It snakes its way up and out of Monmouth towards Chepstow, endlessly forcing us into ever smaller gears and instantly making us regret such a big lunch.

I was peddling so slow at one point my Garmin paused thinking I'd stopped for a rest. I hadn't, I just couldn't pedal any quicker. After all those hills we'd tackled - through the Cairngorms and highlands of Scotland, up and around the Lakes, slogging through the savage climbs of north Shropshire, it seemed this bloody mountain was going to finish me off.

And I hadn't even seen it on the map!

My Garmin and I were very happy to reach the top, having lost untold hours somewhere on that B-road. 

It was on to Chepstow and beyond.

The hours passed and the roads got busier as we crossed the Severn Bridge and arrived into Bristol, and the home of one Patrick Chapman.

Day 8 - Bristol to Okehampton

This was a day of beautiful Somerset countryside bathed in sunshine as we crossed the Clifton Suspension Bridge leaving Bristol, travelling through the Thatchers' cider orchard, across the mendips and on to Bridgewater and Taunton before arriving into Devon.

Pat was only supposed to be doing 50km or so with us before turning round and heading back but each time we discussed stopping, another beautiful valley or stretch of road opened up which was shortly followed by "surely you don't want to miss out on cycling this?!"

We managed to continue this, such was the quiet, pretty lanes and tracks we were cycling down, that Pat was still with us at 100km, now half contemplating a sickie from work and carrying on to Lands' End with us.

Sadly there was an all too tempting train station giving him an easy escape back to Bristol, which he took, leaving Sam and I to press on to Okehampton and our penultimate night's stop on the route.

As we headed into Okehampton, a small market town on Dartmoor's northern edge and surrounded by hills on every side, we looked forward to arriving a little earlier than was normal. There might even be time for an hour in two in the pub, which is where we were staying.

Initially, we arrived at the pub and things seemed fine. A girl checked us in, told us about the secure bike lock up, and told us food was served from 7. I started to relax, thinking about a hot shower and a good meal.

They say it's the hope that kills you.

After a long day in the saddle, Sam and I had spent the last hour of the ride talking about how we'd spend the evening, imaging what might be on the menu, thinking about the luxury of staying in a pub / hotel for the night.

The first warning came when we were shown the secure bike lock up.

It turned out this was a shed.

I pointed out the heavy duty padlock on the door grasping at the positives, until Sam noticed the gaping holes underneath and at the sides of the shed. And part of the roof was missing.

But it was to get worse.

The accommodation was in a separate building and looked like it hadn't been touched for decades. Paint flaked off the walls, light bulbs flickered and there was a smell I couldn't quite identify.

We opened the door to our room to be greeted by the biggest, brown stain on the carpet I've ever seen. It was worryingly close to the 'en-suite', which came complete with broken light and a door that wouldn't shut.

Even the tea facilities came with no cup and a kettle so small, even the borrowers would have struggled.

A while later, we traipsed to the pub. Reluctant to get back on our bikes, and based out of town, we had no other option. Believe me, we would have gone elsewhere if we could.

Thankfully, the food turned out to be great and the pub was comfy enough. We had the place pretty much to ourselves. Given the whole experience, we felt more than a little sympathy for the girl who was running the place -  our food being served (and quite possibly cooked) by the same girl who'd checked us in earlier.

Day 9 - Okehampton to Lands' End

Our last day was a mix of emotions (it started on a high after we discovered our bikes were still in the 'secure bike lock up'!).

On the one hand, it felt like completing the ride was within touching distance now. The other, that the adventure was almost at an end.

As we entered Cornwall, we knew the cycling was about to get tough. Cornwall is insanely hilly. It has no mountains (by the textbook definition) and yet was the day with the most climbing, far outstripping the days we did through Scotland's ski resorts.

You see, nothing in Cornwall is flat. You're either going up a steep hill or up a very steep hill. Even in the rare moments you do find a descent, you can't enjoy them; they're twisty and turny and have you nervously hovering over the brakes the whole way down.

Some of the descents make you wish you were actually going uphill again.

We reached the edge of Bodmin Moor, as the hills stretched out in front of us and we could see the Caradon Hill Transmitter in the far distance. That marked one of the highest points on the moor and where out next cafe stop would be.

The roads here are fantastic and carry very little traffic. We rode side by side where we could, eating up the miles. Morale was high.

We turned a corner lined by high hedgerows to the left and guarded by mighty oak trees to our right. It was a shady stretch of road, dappled light illuminating the odd pot hole.

Then, out of nowhere, Sam shouted and swung across the road, missing my handlebars by millimetres. My backside left the saddle as we both nervously jumped at the sight of an enormous bird's wings flash in front us, clipping Sam's helmet.

He'd been dive bombed by a Buzzard.

We pressed on, turning right at Upton Cross and onto the long slog of a climb to Minions and its tea rooms. We passed the Hurlers (ancient Bronze Age stone circle) and took the fast descent down to Golitha Falls. Bodmin Moor might be famous for Jamaica Inn and the Beast said to roam here, but the scenery and history makes for an incredible place to explore.

Riding on the moor on the rare occasion that it's not thick with fog is an absolute treat and we enjoyed the hour or so it took crossing to Cardinham Woods and on to the Goss Moor.

Truro came and went with a quick lunch and family reunion, before heading to the north coast and Pentreath. From here we cycled south, popping out at Marazion and the mighty St Michael's Mount.

I know this stretch well, having cycled it many times before. In fact cycling the Penwith coast is some of the best cycling I've ever done - it's got everything. I found myself imagining every turn, climb and descent that was left. We were close.

When we arrived, the tourists had mostly gone. The sun was low in the sky and those left were either cyclists (we met another guy who'd finished JOGLE within minutes of us having done it) or hikers.

We took the obligatory photos as a mixture of relief and sadness washed over us. It was done.

It had taken 9 days, we'd peddled 1,466km and had ascended 16,604m.

Sam turned to me and asked "how we were getting back to Falmouth?"; our final destination on this adventure.

"Train", I said.

"We've got an hour to get back to Penzance before it leaves. We'd better start peddling".