Conversation was a tad muted, the sobering realisation of what we had collectively let ourselves in for killing any idle banter, though one woman in cycle attire was braying away about how many marathons she had run and how much training she had done. I took particular delight in deflating her tyres before the off. Or I would have done, it she hadn't looked fit enough to beat me to a pulp (and then run a marathon).
The man riding in the chicken suit came to breakfast in full chicken attire. Bright yellow in fact, more canary than cockerel. The finishing touch was his chicken's comb, an inflated yellow marigold glove, artfully attached to his helmet.
The key though was, not to be overtaken by him. The indignity would stay with me forever.
At the Lands End finger post, the obligatory photos were had - the fact we got there early was prudent; no sooner had we got ourselves snapped (slightly false smiles and in my case, a carefully pulled-in stomach) than some bloke came along and dismantled the sign, then put up his own replacement sign along with a chain around the sign and a price list. Now you could be the proud owner of an official, once-in-a-lifetime photo for around a around a tenner; just like the one we had caught on my iphone five minutes earlier.
And then there was no more prevaricating - it was time to go.
A quick word about Steve, my cycling partner on this expedition. He is pretty flippin' swift on a bike and one of my constant fears was forever trailing behind him (not least as that would mean having to look at his lycra-clad backside for two weeks).
Of course, Steve promised we would ride slowly - 'its all about the ride' he unconvincingly repeated in the weeks before our trip. So, no surprise that he was already dozens of yards ahead before we'd even left the Lands End carpark.
(it actually got worse, somewhere beyond Penzance, I caught him cycling with just one foot - i was tempted to assault him with my bike pump, then remembered that he was carrying it for me to save me the effort.
By the way, for those who have not been there before, Lands End has a sort of hideous 'end of the pier' tacky quality, full of tat for sale none of which you'd give houseroom to.
As well as cyclists, there was another group starting out for John O'Groats. But these were going in cars. Driving. With engines. It was an Austin 1100 rally, but I gave them the Most contemptuous look I could muster. Engines indeed.
So to the ride. It was 75 miles, in what is a very unflat county. No rain, no punctures, no mechanicals. perfect.
And after six hours, we arrived at the Tintagel YHA - isolated but stunningly located on a cliff with fantastic sea views.
Less fantastic was the news that breakfast was not on offer. There was a small shop (when i say small, I'm exaggerating, it was tiny) was a small stock. So small traditional breakfast fare was not on offer, though bolder hostellers could breakfast on can of sardines, cans of hot dig sausages or cous cous.
So we did the decent thing and hiked off to the local spar for bacon, eggs and bread, milk and fruit juice, which we then had to carry over the coastal path back to the youth hostel. In the dark. Helped by a singular bike light. (day one and my decision to pack only flip flops was coming back to haunt me on a muddy and badly lit heath strewn coastal path).
Still, the job is now done and we have the full english awaiting us in the morning. We are going to need it - its another long day in the saddle if nearly 80 miles across Exmoor. Most of it, apparently, up hill. Steve might even have to use both feet.
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