It's the waiting sarge....

So we've arrived. Lands End; the road has run out and we've got the sea at our backs and 1,000 miles ahead of us. Tomorrow we finally start.

So many months planning, training, worrying. I feel distinctly sick. (In the nervous, what the hell am I doing sort of way).

We're staying at the Lands End YHA. Remarkably, despite being 44 they've let me in. More remarkable still, my Dad is (who let's just say is considerably more than 44) is staying with us and they waved him through quite happily. Youth is clearly not what it used to be.

And neither are youth hostels. They now have duvets. And bars.

But not many staff.

We checked at reception (a little window under the stairs). The very genial bloke behind the counter took our breakfast order and gave us a room key. We then wandered into the bar and as we stood there, debating between a pint of Cornish Knocker or Ginger Tosser the same bloke who signed us in appeared. It was Local Hero all over again.

And like Local Hero, the location is superb; remote, a little bit wild and blessed with fantastic sea views, albeit of a grey and greasy Atlantic. And as I type, through a veil of drizzle.

The inevitable thing about arriving at the Lands End youth hostel on a Saturday in August, is that quite a few other people are - just like you - riding to John O'Groats. You are not alone. You are no longer special.

For weeks, you've been the only show in town, suddenly, you can't move for End-to-Enders.

So naturally, there is a bit of eyeing up going on. Do they look like they've trained harder, faster, longer than me? Is their bike better? How many days are they taking?

Worst of all, there is a bloke preparing to do the ride in a chicken suit. All the way to John O'Groats, but dressed as Foghorn Leghorn.

This does not make me feel better. Being overtaken by comedy poultry could be the nadir of my cycling career.

So, the question is, whose going to get stuffed; me or the chicken?