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We left Pitlochry at about 9:30am (crazy days – late starts AND early finishes!) to set off in the rain and wind to Drumochter Pass. We paused briefly at Garry Bridge to do a BCQ, before heading along a stony, pebbly, gritty track that ran almost alongside the A9. The wind was strong and I struggled to keep up, feeling pretty tired with every wooden gateway and footbridge we had to pass through that were on bends and hills, and really slippy in the rain. I allowed myself to slow down, as it took me all my strength just to keep pedalling whilst shivering in the cold, and the boys had to wait for me as I caught up, braving the treacherous weather as they did so. We were really cold and wet by the top, 
and relieved to get to Dalwhinnie – apparently the coldest place in the UK - where there was a nice little tearoom. I sat with clothes, gloves and helmet dripping puddles of water on to the floor as I slowly thawed, eating a lovely warm lunch and hot drinks and purposefully forsaking the pre-bought sandwiches that had been intended to see us through the day. My cold, numb fingers felt slightly better when the owner of the café gave me £10 for my charity, and once again on this trip, an unexpected encouragement provided optimism for me to continue on the way! Calum’s brother, Angus, joined us here and would spend the rest of the day riding with us. After lunch, and a prolonged visit to the toilet where the hand-dryer provided some much needed warmth, the rain started to die out. We bumped in to Bob Yorke and his family at Ralia, and as we coasted along the country lanes my renewed burst of energy allowed me to put my foot down and cycle on ahead, enjoying the feeling of being out in the wild alone and earning me the name “Pink Lightning”, a step up in accolade from my previous name of “Penelope Pitstop”…
Eventually we reached Newtonmore, and whilst cycling along chatting with Angus, I was suddenly distracted by a signpost indicating we were about to arrive at the Macpherson Museum! I babbled excitedly, until we arrived at said museum when I could contain myself no more and dived off my bike yelling at everybody that I would catch up with them. Bert caught on to my excitement, and convinced the boys to wait for me whilst I went in for a photo at the home of my clan. 
I was delighted to discover that Angus and Calum were also of Macpherson descent, and that Angus had actually visited this very museum on his 21st birthday! We had a lovely ride down the B970 through picturesque mountains (Cairngorms) and woodland to Aviemore, a few of us die-hards stopping to do a BCQ along the way at Doune. I dropped back quite a bit as I kept stopping to take in the magnificent views and take photos of fields and lochs and animals in breathtaking scenes. The difference was that this was not due to a severe lack of fitness, but the beautiful scenery that assaulted me at every turn.
Aviemore has a large hostel, but on arriving at my girls’ dorm to discover I was, once again, to be sharing with some European girls who spoke limited English, I dug my heels in and demanded a room for two with Bert. The arrival of the extra boys on the trip had emphasised for me the feeling of being a bit out of it, but Bert readily obliged me and left the boys dorm to share with me. We had a delicious meal made by Calum before heading off to a local pub for some evening drinks.
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Woke up to a lovely sunny morning with blue skies, and was set up for the day with some of Calum’s left-over curry. Headed through Boat of Garten to Carrbridge, where we had tea and scones in a lovely little cafe. I still marvelled at these tearoom events, having gotten used to the 10-hour daily slog of England and Wales, and it was lush to be able to pause for scones with cream and hot chocolate after cycling for only an hour or so. 
After this re-fuel, we took a gentle ride up The Slochd followed by a gentle run down to the Clava Cairns – some prehistoric burial Cairns built about 4,000 years ago. Gentle seemed to be the order of the day. It was all very pleasant, and the lack of rain, and views all around felt very foreign to me, but so very welcome!
It was still sunny as we left our sightseeing stop at the Cairns and headed to Culloden, where starting to get complacent, the boys made a very serious navigational mistake. As we cycled past the sign for the Culloden Battlefields off to the left, I assumed the boys had decided not to stop off to see it after spending so long at the Cairns. As we sailed down a long, straight and steep hill, that seemed to go on and on and on, it was great to clock up speed and see the miles ticking by, and exhilarating to feel the wind on my face. What I hadn’t realised as I relished this feeling, was that the, until now excellent navigators, had completely missed the sign I had been looking at, and in fact did still intend to visit said battlefield.
After a mini-meeting at the bottom of the hill, and waving at the German cycle troupe as they went on by, it was (almost!) unanimously agreed to return to the site. I guess it was completely unanimous if you only counted the male opinions of the group. I kept my cool, and tagged on to the back of the line to circle around and head back uphill to the battlefields by a different, several mile long route, grumbling under my breath all the way! Hot chocolate with marshmallows and sumptuous cake went a little way in easing my upset, and I felt I deserved this unplanned fatty feast to ease my troubled brow. We then set off on foot to wander around a field in the bitingly cold wind and look at flags in the distance. We managed a BCQ in the middle of the field, which went a little way to appeasing me, though even this was unimpressive, so I shivered quietly and waited patiently to continue on our way. Battlefields must be a boy thing. 
It was an easy ride down to Inverness after this, back the way we came and then along a few roads until we stopped off at a supermarket for food. Whilst waiting for the shoppers, I happened to notice a post on facebook showing a cartoon of “Is this the real life, or just a Fanta (orange) Sea”, and ended up humming the great Queen epic to myself as the boys congregated ready for the final leg to the youth hostel. By the time we left the car park, there was a full-blown rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody going on, which seemed quite surreal as we navigated our way around roundabouts in the centre of Inverness in rush hour.
Tonight my hostelling home was shared with a highly-strung, slightly neurotic lady; a European lady who was keen to announce her impending departure would be about 4am; and the two dear ladies we kept bumping in to who were doing LEJOG with their husbands on tandems!
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Once again, we headed out with no rain and after pottering about in Inverness for a while, we pretty quickly crossed a long bridge over to the Black Isle. After doing a couple of circuits at a roundabout, where we were confused to keep coming across the same people, we were pointed in the right direction and continued on through Munlochy. Once again it was exhilarating to head along straight roads, up gentle hills, and with beautiful views all around; I pounded the pedals, enjoying my new level of fitness and powering ahead with a great sense of freedom and joy at being alone in the great outdoors. Calum was some way ahead of me, and we eventually paused at a junction to wait for the others to catch up; Calum pointed out where his mum lived, off in the distance on the other side of the Beauly Firth. We then cycled on to the north, down a long hill before we turned sharp right to head east along the Cromarty Firth coast towards Cromarty. We hit our 1,000 miles along this stretch and stopped for an impromptu photo shoot. 
In Cromarty we stopped to buy lunch in a bakery and sat by the sea watching the “Cromarty Queen” ferry heading backwards and forwards to Nigg. After eating and drinking, we queued for the ferry and headed across, cycling through Arabella and on to Tain.
Bert and I stopped to do a shop here, before we went over a big long straight bridge over the Dornoch Firth and continued on to Dornoch, a quaint little village that sold delicious ice cream and where we were also able to do a BCQ!
By the time we got close to Rogart Station the wind was strong and against us, and I struggled to keep going, sheltering behind Bert and Rob, who took it in turns to lead our little group of three. We eventually pulled in at Rogart Station where we met Andy Summers again. We all chose little rooms in our allotted carriage, and Bert and I set to cooking up a meal in very basic conditions! We did however, manage to make a tribute dessert for the team – a rocky mountain road concoction with LEJOG spelled out in dried apricots! After eating, we braved the midges to dash to the local pub, but were sorry to discover it had closed early, so we returned to bolt ourselves in to our carriage with all the windows closed, despite the warm evening. I soon went to bed, and Bert was later bemused to hear Alan being profusely apologetic after getting the doors confused in the narrow passageway and almost attempting to jump into my bed.
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It was definitely a holiday atmosphere as we prepared to leave our train carriage at the station and head off after a leisurely breakfast in the hot sunshine towards Loch Brora. After battling the wind, rain and grey skies through Cornwall, Devon, and indeed, all of England, here we were in the north of Scotland, donning our sun tops and shortest shorts, basking in the warmth and enjoying the most beautiful countryside that can only be found in this part of the UK. 
We eventually left after 10am, and once again I enjoyed shooting along in the sunshine, taking in the views and soaking in the peace. 
Before reaching the loch we stopped to chat to a local farmer, the boys caught up, and we then had a relaxing ride alongside the loch.
Now it was my turn to drop back, and Bert and I got really behind the rest of the group as we got carried away with the holiday atmosphere – posing by the loch for photo sessions, and stopping to watch some really clever sheepdogs gathering in the sheep.
We caught the boys up after dropping down in to Brora, and shared a long lazy lunch in the café. We then joined the A9 and rode north along the North Sea coastline with, once again, amazing scenery. After such a leisurely day, I was once again full of energy, and after ambling gently along for a while, I decided it was time to catch up with those at the front, so put on my Pink Lightning super-powers and forged ahead to casually sail past Bert, Calum and Trevor, smiling and waving as I did so. Thus I was the first to arrive in Helmsdale, where we discovered a wonderful hostel with a large communal area and a very welcoming warden.
As we arrived fairly early, we had plenty of time to wander around Helmsdale and sample a variety of pubs. Following a confusing arrival of a group of scouts and guides, we ended up sharing a dormitory alongside the man and boy LEJOG combo.
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Woke up to blue skies as far as the eye can see. Maybe it was because it was our final day, or maybe it was because of the large chapel windows that had no curtains, but we were all up way before the planned time and were on the road much earlier than had been scheduled. Arthur was pleased to get out the sunglasses that he had carried for more than 1,000 miles and needed for the first time today! After a photo shoot to mark our final morning, we started the day with a big climb out of Helmsdale. Having heard horror stories for most of the route from Cornwall, I must admit that I was a little nervous about falling at the final hurdle, but my nerves were unfounded as I sailed up the hill, enjoying the fine views across the sea. 
Berriedale was the next hill, more renowned than Helmsdale, but I was heading up it before I even realised, after having ridden past a couple of the guys who were sensibly stripping off layers in anticipation of the hard uphill climb. As it dawned on me that here I was, climbing up the last (and hardest) hill of the trip, I realised that behind me there was a large lorry, revving as it sat on my tail.
At the steepest bend of all, where I would under normal circumstances have stopped, I knew I had only one option – to pull out in to the middle of the road in order to keep going and avoid the steepest part of the bend. Twenty days ago I would never have dreamt my confidence would grow to this point, where I knew that the lorry patiently sitting behind me was going at my speed, and that I could keep going against all the odds. After the bend, I pulled in to a lay-by to allow the lorry to pass, but didn’t stop cycling so I could keep my momentum going. I got to the top without a single dismount, and without even the slightest pause in the rotation of my pedals. What a triumph! Ballet dancer Calum looked a little surprised as he eventually came to a stop and turned around to wait for everyone else to catch up, to find me close behind him! I stopped to admire the views and enjoy the sunshine, whilst feeling generally smug with myself!
The road continued on along gentle ups and downs, snaking around the coastline as we headed north. The wind was fairly forceful in places, and actually became quite scary as we descended a hill to go over a bridge at Bridgend; here the wind was batting me sideways, and as my bike picked up speed I had to use all my energy to hold it upright. By the time I reached the bridge, my heart was in my mouth and it was a full-on battle between me and the wind as I struggled to hold my bike on a straight course and avoid letting the wind carry me over the edge to the gully below.
We stopped at a lovely café where we had snacks and cakes, before heading on to the A99 and eventually turned left to go directly north. The long straight road was a pleasant ride, and we stopped for a long break at the Grey Cairns of Camster, enjoying the sunshine and eating all the cakes we’d bought earlier.
Setting off again, we continued along the road, heading up and down hills through the fields, meandering along country lanes. The rain started, but as we were nearly at our final destination I just put on my waterproof jacket but not the trousers. The rain started and stopped a couple of times, and it had stopped when we cycled over the brow of a hill to be greeted by an amazing view of the Orkney Islands sitting in the North Sea, with sunshine all around. It began again as we approached the A99, which would take us the last few hundred metres to John O Groats.
Trevor, Alan and Rob headed straight to John O Groats as the advance party, to warn those who’d travelled miles to meet us that we were on our way. Arthur, Calum, Bert and I hung back, shivering as the rain bounced off the road and large puddles and rivulets formed before our eyes! The rain was going down my neck, my cycling shorts were soaked through, my gloves were twice the weight with all the water they were now carrying, and we all smiled as we realised this was the most apt way to end the trip – the same way we’d started. Our final week had been a weather anomaly, and now we were reminded of the majority of our travels through England and Wales – full wet all the way.
And now we were full wet once again as we headed the final few metres to our final destination, pedalling slowly through the water, fingers going pink with the cold. We pulled in to the car park and made our way over to the famous LEJOG landmark, looking for faces of loved ones… who were all sheltering from the pelting rain! People eventually appeared – Anne, Hannah and Sandy, Calum’s mum, and Andy Summers who’d driven the final part to greet us at the end and cheer us in! The incredibly heavy downpour stopped as suddenly as it had started, and we were able to pose for our celebratory photo under the grey cloudy sky, elated at our achievement. 
After a steaming mug of coffee in the café and a quick hello to the Dutch couple who had also just arrived, we packed the bicycles onto car roofs before travelling by road to Wick, where we were to spend our final evening.
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After being awarded rosettes at the B&B, we went on to have a fun night in the Wick Wetherspoons on our final evening – spirits were high, the Olympic opening ceremony was on the flat screen tv, and we were amused to be able to compare stripy sun tans where our fingerless gloves had lived for the last three weeks. It was a bittersweet time, having grown so close through the trials and mud trails of the UK, sharing the hills, the rivers, the sharp descents, the full wet, and the long, long hours of being in the saddle. Yet here we were at the end; sharing a beer and a meal for the last time. All I wanted to do was turn around and do the return journey… on my bike. With my new cycling buddies.
Instead, David and I set off the next morning by coach to Inverness, whizzing past towns, villages, and cliff views that we had sauntered through by pedal not much earlier. As we watched roads we had cycled along, we could almost feel the stones, bumps, potholes; sense the smells; remember the views that lay in wait just around the corner; and oh we so wanted to be back there – in the middle of the view rather than looking down on it through a coach window. At Inverness we joined Calum again, to share a train journey to Glasgow, and again, whilst re-living the memories, we caught glimpses of tracks we’d cycled along, hills we’d conquered, and views we’d lived and breathed, and I realised once again how blessed I am to be living in such a beautiful land in such privileged circumstances.
We had our final night without the trustworthy, gentle Calum; but having met with Mrs Valentine and enjoying some bubbles with the lovely couple, we had said our goodbyes and were able to enjoy an excessively hot evening of curry and laughs with the Moodys and Alan, before tumbling into our guest bedroom at the Moody household.
The following day, the boys pointed me in the right direction one last time, and we took a train to Manchester, cycled to Woodley, had more bubbles with the parents, and then got a lift down to Bristol in their car, leaving our bikes to be collected later. Whilst travelling, I pondered our journey… contrary to popular opinion, as we had travelled further north through the UK, the sun got brighter, the rain diminished, the hills got ever easier and the scenery got distinctively more thrilling and beautiful with every mile.
Of course, we had good intentions to retrieve the bikes as soon as possible so we could maintain our fitness levels and enjoy wholesome and hearty days out in the country, as well as our plans of cycling to work each day. Our good intentions remain good intentions, but the memory lives on and we still dream of the day when we rely on our bicycles more than our cars. I guess the challenge of cycling to work isn’t half as exciting as the challenge of cycling the length of the UK.
So. Who’s up for Africa?...
Mt Everest – 29,000 ft.