The Missing Leg

In many ways this was just about the last thing I wanted to do on a chilly Saturday morning at 4.30am. But, like quite a few things I have done recently I have not afforded myself the luxury of too much thought and just got on and done them.

I was getting up at this ridiculous hour to give myself time to drive to Shropshire, cycle 80 miles and then drive home again...in time for tea. And the reason for the far-flung destination for an 80 mile bike ride? Well this was the hole in my Land’s End to John O’Groats adventure. When I had raced home on Day Five of the ride I was only halfway through that particular leg, and when I took the difficult decision to continue, I said I would return to place the missing piece.

So, here I was, at 7.00am in the middle of Whitchurch - just me and the bloke delivering bread to Co-op. I parked up, saddled up, and with that familiar routine - bottles - check, energy bars - check, route notes - check, less than half a brain - check, and I was on the road again.

The early part of the ride was great - sun starting to warm the tarmac, me beginning to stretch the creases out of my legs and the miles ticking off again on the Garmin. It was just like old times, but minus my back-up man Nev. Holy moly - the realisation hit me like a slap across the chops with a paid of damp track mits - who was going to get the BLTs in? Better get my foot down and be back in time for lunch, never mind tea.

All was going well (now there’s a familiar line) until I breezed out of the sumptuous Cheshire countryside - all green and rolling, and slowly, Saturday-waking to the purr of  Range Rover Sports and soft snort of horses anticipating breakfast - and in to the carbon monoxide and concrete landscape that is our much-loved industrial north-west.

I once again found myself on roads I was not at all sure I should be on. Roads with names ending in ‘expressway’ are generally a bad idea with just pedal-power to avoid hazards, but I was focussed and indestructible, like an overweight Captain Scarlet before he progressed to hover-packs.

With a combination of sat-nav, Google maps and suspect memory, I eventually found the Campanile Hotel. I took, a quick picture to show I had been, ate a Snickers bar and vowed never to return to this place that hosted one of the most miserable nights of my life.

Then I was off again, chased by a huge black mass that could only be the ghost of my end-to-end come back to give me one last drenching, for old time’s sake. It caught me just south of Frodsham, deposited a few gallons of the damp stuff on me, and then returned for another three of four soakings before I finally arrived back in Whitchurch - soggy and hungry but satisfied.

So, that’s it - mission accomplished - the fat lady has sung.

I have clocked up well over 1,000 miles on a journey, the like of which I have never previously experienced, and, hope never to experience again.

Not that I haven’t appreciated the things I have seen, the people I have met, the satisfaction I have felt, It’s just that I needed to share it all with my mentor, my dad, and that is one thing I will never be able to do. Or will I? He must know, mustn’t he?

If you want me I’ll be in the bar - cheers dad x

Jez


PS - As I write - my sponsorship total for Cancer Research UK will shortly touch £3,700.00 - a huge thank you to everyone who has chipped in - greatly appreciated.