Day Five - Leominster to Wybunbury

Like Wiggo (I expect) my morning began in a greasy spoon with the full fry-up. Though to be fair, I did cut back; poached rather than fried eggs. It's these little sacrifices that we athletes have to make.

Steve had no such restraint, and boldly ordered the 'monster' option. I've added a pic so you can see the full artery blocking horror he waded through.

Once we'd fuelled up, we headed out of Herefordshire, through Shropshire and finally into Cheshire. It was a beautiful day; sunny, a light breeze, lighter traffic and another 80 miles under our wheels.

Tonight we are staying not at a YHA, but for the first time this trip, in a pub; The (rather lovely) Swan at Wybunbury. (see pic). Rather lovely but rather thin-walled. I can actually hear a bloke in the next room snorring so loudly I 've had to turn up the TV.

Today's heroes include Cynthia and Carol who laid on a feast (there is no other way to describe it) great hospitality and great conversation.... and also an unnamed baker in the unimaginatively named town of Ironbridge, who had the fine idea of adding black pudding to sausage rolls; genius.

Thanks also to Cynthia, Carol and Angelina for moving my fundraising total even higher; I'm now within touching distance of £2,000.

Now, you will have gleaned from
my blog that I am riding to John O'Groats with my old school mate Steve Morgan.

Some of you will know Steve, and given that he is a kind of Bono / Bill Bailey hybrid in the hair department, you might expect me to go on about his hair-cut.

But what sort of a friend would I be.....if in the pursuit of a few cheap laughs - I recalled a couple of embarresing anecdotes about Steve and his long hair.

For example, what sort of mate would recall the time an Italian waiter in a Brighton restaurant sidled up behind Steve in a rather predatory manner, inhaled deeply and said in his romantic Latin way, "ahhh what perfume is Madam wearing tonight"

And I certainly wouldn't mention the time while in Kenya, a bus boy came up to us both and said to me...."can I carry your girlfriends bags"..... Not least for my own self-respect.

OK - hair issues aside, while I am a very keen cyclist, Steve is a very keen and talented cyclist. It's only one additional word but it makes for a whole world of difference.

It has also caused me to spend many hours...trying desperately to hang onto Steve's rear wheel, huffing and puffing away, unable to talk, while Steve chats blithely about the weather....how many more miles there are to go...and how much more of the countryside you see when you are going as slowly as this.

It's always a rare pleasure to be complimented on my cycling by Steve, it happens on average every other year. Today I thought it was about to happen again...

"I'm really impressed", said Steve, (I could feel the compliment coming..) "really impressed with the way you .... (come on Steve, say it....) manage to stay upright on a bike when you are going so slowly".... Ouch.

But as I say, Steve is a much, much better cyclist than me. He has good stamina...an easy climbing style...in general he is excellent on the bike.

When he looks where he's going.

Which he hasn't always done.
Back in his college days...while in a race around Newick in Sussex he cycled full tilt into the back of a parked car.

It was a nasty smash but credit to Steve. With his palate fractured, blood everywhere...cuts on his face....and with a bystander trying to prise some of his teeth out of the cars back bumper where they had embedded themselves, Steve mumbled.....
"Is my bike alright ?"

Had he hit the car just a fraction faster, those words could have ended up up on his grave stone
So while Lord Nelson is famously remembered for saying, "Kiss me Hardy" before he croaked it
and Captain Oates for the immortal, "I might be gone some time" Steve's famous last words could have been, "is my bike alright".

BTW, unable to post this blog last night, i'm currently at breakfast, and can confirm that the snorring bloke was in fact a woman (or indeed her daughter). Or both. They look like members of Team GBs Greco-Roman wrestling squad, with - shall we say, 'developed phyisques', which might explain the sheer volume they were able to generate. (they both boldly went for the full English, in case you were wondering).

Now, I've been asked by a few people who read this blog, what happened to my pedals as I mentioned yesterday that they needed to be replaced in Hereford. To be quite honest, I saw this as a rather niche interest subject area, one for the cycling purist and hardly thrilling enough to keep the rest of you awake, let alone on the edge of your seats.

But since Ive been asked....I'll tell you.

Climbing over 'the unspeakable' hill on Monday, I suddenly found that my foot was no longer attached to the pedal. Instead, I had a bit of the pedal attached to my shoe, and a bit attached to the bike and I was pedalling against thin air; this was clearly not sustainable, and sure enough a slow-motion 'comedy-fall' followed as I toppled gently into the verge. Much swearing followed. Then a bit of 'heath robinson' type repairs before climbing back on and slowly grinding my way up the hill. Still, the repairs had given me a chance to get my breath back.

As I slowly and tentatively pedelled on, I wondered how the pedal had come to break (having never had such a thing happen before in over 20 years cycling).

I mulled over a few theories;
Was I 'Chris Hoy-like' putting so much power through the pedals they snapped. Maybe not. Had Steve sabotaged them, in a Mutley / Wacky Raced type of way. Or had I been plain minty and bought cheap pedals? Probably.

While I managed to fix them, the prospect of them breaking permanantly in the highlands, with me having to pedal the final few hundred miles one-legged, was enough for me to dip into my pocket and get them replaced.
But there is always a silver-lining, they are lighter than my last pair ;)

I'll be flying now....

Day Four - Long Ashton to Leominster

Nurse ! Nurse !

A quarter of the way to John O'Groats and half my body appears to be protesting, bits breaking down or refusing to do what they are supposed to, so let's start Day 4 (Long Ashton to Leominster) with a ward round.

First, my eyes. At 6.00am this morning, it looked as if crude plastic surgery using a blunt mussel shell had been performed under my eyes. When I looked in the mirror, two brutal diagonal slash marks, demarcated not so much bags, as stuffed grey sacks under my eyes. It was as if I'd aged 25 years overnight. Or turned into Michael McIntyre.

I fear this may have been caused by having slurry sprayed in my eyes for hours yesterday as I cycled behind Steve. Either that, or the Sandman needs to wash his hands a little more fastidiously.

My ankle is hurting too; it's not too bad on the bike, but enough to leave me hobbling off it. Thankfully, I have a bag near my handle bars, stuffed with a veritable dispensary of drugs (it's the pharmaceutical equivalent of Pick n' Mix). It also works, so any twinge and I reach for the pain relief lucky dip.

Heroes of the day include Penny for a fantastic cooked breakfast, Ben Williams and Gregor Kelly for boosting my sponsorship total (you can find me at Mick Slatter at JustGiving before you ask) and a wonderful old school bike shop in Hereford that not only had the pedals I needed, but fitted them in a jiffy too. I've added a pic of the shop




- which has apparently been in the same family since 1952. It was wonderful (full of odd bits of kit in nooks and crannies) friendly, and deserves to survive despite the on-line giants. If you ever pass through Hereford, do drop in. Even if you don't need new pedals.

Leaving Long Ashton we crossed the Clifton Suspension Bridge, then the old bridge across the Severn.



Not sure how old it was, but it wobbled in a rather alarming way each time a lorry passed.

Then we passed through Chepstow, where the town planning has been going downhill ever since the castle was built ...... some time in the Dark Ages. Still, despite a strong challenge, it cannot surpass Bridgewater in Somerset as the ugliest town we have passed through so far. (apologies to any Bridgewatonians reading this - but I suspect if you can read, you are probably no longer in Bridgewater).

From Chepstow we headed to Ross-on-Wye and had lunch overlooking the river (Chicken Tikka bap, a custard tart and a bottle of Lucozade since you are asking).

Funny, cycling long distances is a bit like being pregnant (easy ladies - give me a moment). I don't mean the most painful thing that has ever happened to you, more that you start wanting foods you've never liked before. Like Custard Tarts. Clearly this is near nursery food for people with no teeth (or taste). Today, I was unable to leave the bakery without one. And it was lovely too.

After Ross-on-Wye it was Hereford and then a final push to Leominster pronounced - Lemster, apparently) where we are staying in the YHA. (You will remember I mentioned that the guests of YHA's are blessed with singularly peculiar habits ? ) Let me share tonights with you. A mere three metres from me is an eldery gentlemen eating alone (we are the only people in the lounge). Nothing odd about that you say, but he is not eating in the conventional sense, he is bringing the food to the rough vicinity of his mouth then sucking it up - its sort of Dyson-style eating. It is not pleasant.

Meanwhile, from the kitchen, his mate (I believe) is singing a mixed medley of songs from the 50s and 60s. I can't make out many, but I have managed to identify 'Mama, he's making eyes at me'.

It's time to leave for the pub.



Back from the pub; it was lovely. Perfect real ale, quirky un-changed interior and friendly bar-staff and a recommendation to get brekkie at Tony's greasy spoon; a plate full of fry-up and builders tea for under a fiver. The breakfast of champions. Should be enough to see us into Cheshire tomorrow.

Day Three - Exford to Long Ashton (basically Bristol)

Last night I was assaulted. It must have happened very quietly as I didn't wake up, but in the morning it felt as if I'd been worked over by an over-enthusiastic gang wielding rubber truncheons (with fairly poor aim).

Still, on the plus side we are out of Devon and have crossed the county line into Somerset. I used to like Devon: home of cream teas, happy holiday memories and beautiful beaches. Cross Devon on a bike however and it reveals its true nature; its dark and vicious side. Hill after flippin hill, after flippin hill.

Stunning, but tough on the legs

And they are nasty, steep little buggers too. So for much of yesterday, I was either flying down one at 45 mph (wondering how much protection a thin layer of lycra makes to your skin at that speed) or grovelling up an unforgiving incline at 2mph.

And here's the irritating thing, the roads appear to have been fiendishly designed so that right at the bottom of the hill, there is a sharp right angle, (no doubt thrown in for pure amusement value) over a narrow bridge, so that all that lovely downhill momentum (and if I can do nothing else noteworthy on a bike, I am built to generate momentum) is lost as you slam on your brakes. As you avoid launching yourself into the river (and I came pretty close on more than one white-knuckle descent), you are then faced with a wall of road ahead of you, which you have to tackle from a standing start. Often, farmers have been kind enough to allow their cattle to linger on these slopes long enough to cover them with a generous coating of slurry, which makes getting a bit of traction even harder. There are few more humiliating ways to take a tumble from your bike.

Those with cycling experience will know that it is always easier to cycle behind someone than ahead of them; in this way you take advantage of their slipstream. So I've been spending as much time as I can sheltering behind Steve. To be honest, there is not much of him to shelter behind. He's far too skinny, its like trying to hide behind a lamp-post. Still, it does help a little.

What doesn't help on the often wet roads we've been on, is that riding behind Steve, I'm continually covered in spray from his back wheel.

Ordinarily I'd baulk at the suggestion that I might want to get down on my hands and knees and repeatedly lick the road surface (favoured as it is with a wide variety of road-kill, manure, diesel and mud) but riding behind Steve, I've been treated to repeated mouthfuls of this stuff...

It was raining today, which was fitting really, since all the kit we carefully washed last night had not dried out. Getting into wet kit is low down on any list of happy things to do, particularly so when it hums a bit. And hum our kit did.

The reason was that the YHA drying room (we were staying at the youth hostel in Exford) didn't really dry anything and was pretty whiffy to boot, not unlike my sons rugby bag after he's left it full of used kit in his bedroom for a week. Or two. You get the idea.

The reason for the whiff is that among the many strange habits of YHA residents (are there are many strange habits, perhaps to be explored in another blog entry) many people don't bother with actually washing what they have been wearing (and sweating in) all day (socks, underpants included). They just hang them up to dry. And it seems people do not use their best smalls when staying at youth hostels As a result, the clothes line in the drying room would not disgrace a set from Tenko. You don't believe me, I can tell - so I've added a photo.

Bio-hazard!

Now imagine your clothes hanging along side these suspiciously yellowing, near unidentifiable undergarments. Not nice.

Today we faced the unforgiving road without our Director Sportive - my Dad - who had followed us for the first two days. He left last night, no doubt to do something more sensible instead. His help and moral support has been fantastic - cheers Dad, much appreciated.

Take away the rain (please, just take it away) and it was a pretty good day today. We crossed the 200 mile mark, I had faggots for lunch (we were in Somerset after all) and we climbed Cheddar Gorge. If you know Cheddar you won't need telling that a tat fest of toe-curling proportions has been allowed to blight the bottom of the gorge - what a shame given the beauty of the rest of the climb. But once you leave behind the themed tea-rooms, themed crystal shops, themed teddy bear shops, and themed fish and chip shops - and of course Cheddar cheese shops....the gorge is quite an experience.

Not a scrap of tat in sight....just Steve

It might have been even better had we not had to pedal through rivers of rainwater tumbling down the road.

Tonight we are staying with good friends of ours near Bristol. They are very fine athletes....Penny is about to enter the British Ironman in Wales, Giles was fresh from competing in a 12 hour time trial (that's 12 hours - alone - riding against the clock) in which he pedalled an astounding 272 miles. Dropping in to see them both, even having cycled from Lands End, is not unlike bagging a Munro and then spending the night with the Bonningtons.....

But at least they knew what to expect when we arrived, the washing machine was primed and ready, I had a hot bath and the beers were in the fridge, the curry on the cooker. Perfect; though tomorrow on a bike, after a belly-full of beers and boona should make for an interesting combination.

I'll let you know how it goes.....

Day Two. Tintagel to Exford

Today I met 'the unspeakable hill'. It probably has a name; I don't care what it is. It looks like this;


And I never want to see it again. It just went on forever. Straight as a Roman road, it climbed so much I expected an Andean pan pipe band to appear. It certainly felt cold enough that high up.

Its been a day of climbs; over two thousand, two hundred metres. And it didn't start well, rain on the window at six am at the beautifully located Tintagel YHA...(below)

Still, at least the rain moved on by 10.00 ish.

Steve continued his infuriating behaviour as he waits for me to labour up hills, today is was cycling from one side of the road to the other, singing 'the long and winding road' by The Beatles'. You can go off people.

The second long 6 hour + day in the saddle and the Chamois cream began to earn its weight in my luggage.

Chamois cream is very close to my heart, or more prosaically another part of my anatomy.

Some of you might be familiar with the magical qualities of chamois cream, but for those who are not, let me explain.

First of all, to understand chamois cream you have to understand cycling shorts, because you shouldn’t really use one with the other. (Remember, chamois ream is to cycling shorts what mango chutney is to biriyanni yani – one complements the other).

You may already own a pair of cycling shorts (or indeed many pairs) and if you do, you have my express permission to skip this paragraph. But if you don’t, a few basics to get you started.

Cycling shorts are not just shorts you use for cycling; they are specially designed to ease your day in the saddle. They have padded inserts sewn into the sitting bit. Originally, this insert was made of from proper Chamois...your own little slice of goat sewn neatly into your shorts. But these days, the insert is made from a range of synthetic materials whose complex and confusing names could just as well be found on the side of paint pots or pot noodles.

Whatever this mini-cushion is made of, the principle is the same; to insulate your backside from the rigours of the saddle. Saddle sores are the curse of cycling and whatever you can do to avoid them – do it.

Having said that, some of the cures of the past sound pretty unlikely and wouldn’t be something I’d recommend.

Legend has it that Tour de France competitors in the pre-war years – before chamois was the material of choice, and before had even been invented – used to pop a raw steak into their woollen shorts. For the next 8 – 14 hours, a process of intimate tenderisation would occur. (better for a steak to develop a blister, than for your more intimate bits) . At the end of the day, the now perfectly tenderised steak would be garnished with a little black pepper, pan fried, au point, and consumed with a little chablis. Good for the heart apparently. If the riders worked in teams, I’m assuming they kept a close eye on whose steak was whose.

Thankfully these days, no need to whack a bit of silverside down your shorts.

As they already have the padding in place when you buy them.

Getting into a pair of these shorts for the first time is not something to be done with an audience. Wearing such shorts for the first time is a curious experience, as if you’ve inserted a baby’s nappy into the most intimate area of your shorts. These shorts also have a high waist line – approaching your nipples….(there is nothing worse than following another cyclist with low slung cycling shorts. In the very worst cases that still scar my memory the revealed crease was so exposed that if he’d stopped, you could have parked your bike between his buns). I digress.

Cycle shorts usually have built in braces, so that once on, you hook the braces over your shoulders, which ensures no chilly bits poke out, but whatever style you have, the key thing is, they cut down on saddle sores and all the other sorry collection of aliments that can traumatise a part of your anatomy that usually gives you next to no trouble,

Of course, there are cycling shorts and then there are cycling shorts. You get what you pay for. I insist upon the best. Swiss made, Assos shorts (yes, I’ve spelt that correctly) the rolls royce of bun huggers. They have turquoise insert which is rather attractive, but naturally, wasted on everyone but me. Crucially, they take away a lot of pain, but they still need Chamois cream.

The process goes like this. Get your shorts on, get the braces over your shoulders….and reach for the tub of chamois cream. It comes in a variety of hues…my personal favourite is a light blue colour (so that it matches the turquoise inner of my shorts - not that anyone other than me will ever know). Dip in three fingers or so, and get a generous glob of the stuff on your paw. Then hold open the shorts and apply liberally on your sitting bits. Unless you are doing something very wrong, that will be your perineum (that word again). Apply generously - now is not the time to scrimp. Brace yourself though, on cold mornings, the first touch of the chamois cream on the business bits can be a little arresting. Also, read the label carefully, some versions are tingly… …giving you a chemically cool sensation that can be a little startling if you aren’t expecting it. Some are minty – who’s going to be eating this stuff…and the gloves are now really off as manufactures compete with each other for unique selling points.

(Steve, my expedition comrade is currently experimenting with a chamois cream which he delightfully describes as having the aroma of lamb roast and mint sauce. I’ll just have to take his word for it, but I hope for the sake of readers of this blog he is attacked by a pack of dogs who missed their breakfast and who have a particular fine sense of smells. The results could be amusing. I’ll have my camera ready….)

Back to the chamois cream application process.

Make sure you get enough chamois cream on the first dip. There is no ‘double dipping’, definitely not if you are sharing a pot of the stuff.

The first few tentative steps you take after this operation can be distinctively disconcerting, as if you’ve been struck with incontinence. But let the cream ‘warm’ up and it’s not so bad. But saddle up and the chamois cream comes into its own. Like the perfect lubrication, the Castrol GTX of shorts, there is no chance of chaffing, rubbing, abrasions, or any of those equally eye-popping words.

A few words of warning. Once greased up – as a non-cycling friend of mine so charmingly refers to the process – and it is not advised to go the the loo. Inadvertent or over enthusiastic application beyond the reaches of your perineum can give the sensation of having just having had a mouth wash enema.

And that is it really – a small pot of cream for a long day of comfort.

I'll be getting through bucket loads of the stuff.

Day One. Lands End to Tintagel

Woke in the Lands End YHA to blue sky - and critically no rain. Breakfast was a somewhat nervous affair - I reckon there were about a dozen people like us starting out on the road to John O'Groats.

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.

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?

What a Lightweight

How many pairs of pants is it decent to pack for 13 day bike trip?

13 would of course be ridiculous; far, far too heavy. So how about three?  Would two be pushing it? Is one pair just downright rude? Or how about going without and going commando?

I ask because every gram I resentfully stuff into my panniers will have to be hauled 1,000 miles by my sorry and wheezing carcass. This is no time for passengers; be it shoes or booze, jocks or socks.  Every item I pack has to earn its place.

How heavy !?
Three pairs of boxers....

Of course everyone has advised me to travel light. I do not need persuading. All cyclists are obsessional about saving weight and I am no exception. No bicycle or bike-part can be purchased without carefully checking what it weighs first.

For evidence, watch a cyclist with someone else’s bike. Their first reaction, almost Pavlovian in its predictability, is to pick it up. There is a ritual to be followed here;  one hand on the bars, one on the saddle, they will carefully lower and raise it a couple of times – without actually putting it down – like a pair of human scales, all the while pulling faces or murmuring appreciatively (if the owner is within ear shot). Secretly, if it weighs more than their bike, they allow themselves an inward smile of smug schadenfreude.  

I have taken part - in all seriousness – in quite detailed discussions about the relative merits of bike parts and their relationship to gravity, while sitting in a pub on my third pint and second packet of pork scratchings. The irony was, at the time, wasted on me.

Unfortunately, the lighter the part, the higher the price. The relationship is exponential. At the top end, savings of a few grams can cost a few hundred pounds.  Of course, it would be considerably cheaper if I simply went on a diet and lost a few pounds from around the waist, maybe shrunk down those moobs a bit rather than bankrupting myself chasing down carbon fibre or titanium parts on the internet. But that would require self-discipline and commitment. 

You can even buy lightweight inner tubes – the thickness of an extra strong condom. I know, because I’ve checked. (The inner tubes, not the condoms, obviously).

I once tried to buy a pair of wheels, enticingly marketed as ‘Mavic Helium’s. (See what the crafty French manufacturer was trying to do there – imply wheels of such lightness they were beyond the laws of physics). I made my enquiries over the phone, and was a tad disconcerted to be asked what I weighed. I lied of course.  “Sorry mate”, he said, “but weighing as much as you do (remember, I’d lied to the man) I wouldn’t buy a pair wheels as light as this…can’t guarantee they won’t collapse under you”. it was a crushing moment. I hung up before he tried to sell me a pair of oak cart wheels.

Anyway, ahead of my trip, I’ve once again been thinking hard how to save weight (other than by reducing my intake of curry and beer of course).  Touring bikes like mine are relatively heavy, so are full panniers and so am I. Put us all together and 1,000 mile could swiftly feel like 3,000.

So I started by dumping all the things I was thinking of taking into a pile on my bedroom floor. It looked a lot. Shove it in a suitcase and chuck that in the back of a car and you wouldn’t pause for a moment. But this is altogether different.

It was time to get ruthless.  

My shoes were the first casualties, for eight hours of each day they would sit lazily in the panniers contributing nothing to getting me to John O’Groats, they had to go. Flip flips would have to do. I appreciate that taking only flip-flops is a high-risk strategy. There’re rubbish in the cold and not great in the rain (of which much is promised, however many web-sites I consult). But  I reckoned that at least twice a day when I showered my feet would warm up – that would just have to do. And since I’m down to flip-flops, the casual socks could go too.  (Who says I don’t keep a sharp eye on fashion trends...?).

The two pairs of jeans I’d laid out now seemed profligate. On the subject of jeans, I’m assuming that I’m alone in sticking them on the kitchen scales? If so, take it from me that they are heaver on the scales than they feel on you. So, no jeans then, I’m just taking shorts. Shorts singular that is. Just the one pair. With no belt of course; a leather belt with a buckle tips the scales at 183 grams . String will have to do – it weighs next to nothing – and it’ll be hidden under my tee-shirt anyway.

When I say tee-shirt, I’m not just taking one; that would be ridiculous.

I’m taking two. It’s going to make the photographs of the two-week trip look fairly repetitive, but there you go.  

No coat or jacket of course. I’ve got a fleece (lightweight yet, take it from me, remarkably fashionable). But if it rains in the evening it won’t matter as I’ll be refuelling in the local hostelry anyway.

Washing kit is a problem; it’s inherently full of lotions, sprays, liquids and stuff that is too heavy when you have to pedal it up hills. The toothbrush is OK…..now I’ve sawn it in half.

Heavy Toothbrush

Light Toothbrush

I did contemplate throwing out the shaving foam and razor and arriving at John O’Groats looking like Catweasel, but in the end the prospect of two weeks of itching stubble under a helmet chinstrap was too much to contemplate. So the shaving tackle is coming. But even here, I’ve managed to make a saving.   

I’ve been helped by terrorism. (stay with me on this one). Now, while flying planes into buildings has generally buggered up life for everyone, it has meant that chemists now routinely stock tiny bottles of toiletries to ease your way through those enhanced airport security checks.

So I’ve not got a diddly little can of shaving foam so that the 500ml monster stay at home in the family bathroom cabinet. To maintain the good will of my cycling partner, Steve, I’ve grudgingly added a diminutive can of deodorant.

Before anyone is unkind enough to point it out, my haircut (a number 2 razor cut all over for those that don’t know me) means there is no need for combs, brushes or metro-sexual hair grooming products.  Talking of hair, I’m waiting until the day before I leave to get a final cut, no point in carrying any extra hair with me.  

Body wash is, as we all know, just shampoo and soap in one, so that’s a handy 50% reduction. Nails (toe and finger) have already been cut to the quick, so no scissors or nail clippers.

Contact lenses are a problem as I need to rinse them every day. But saline is heavy, so I’ve been experimenting, squirting saline into the lens case, filling it 13 times…hopeful that I can get away with one small bottle. I can’t. Damn.

Still, the toilet bag is a now a disposable sandwich bag, so a grams few clawed back there.

We are youth hostelling for quite a few nights and while dormitory living and sleeping as God intended might make for a memorable, if potent mix, I’ve concluded that basic decorum demands I have something to wear at night. So its pyjama trousers...with the legs cut off. Obviously.

But the pile of clutter on the bedroom floor was still disconcerting high. It was time to start cut back on the cycling kit.

Out went the all-weather gloves and the heavy duty rain jacket. And the spare cycling shorts. And the spare jersey. That looked better.

For everything else I’m working on the general principle of one on, one off.  So, two pairs of shorts… two short-sleeved jerseys (with the rather optimistic logo / boast, ‘Lands End to John O’Groat’s’ emblazoned on the back, something I worry I’ll come to regret). Two pairs of mitts (these are special cycling gloves with gel inserts on the palms so that at the end of the day grabbing hold of a rattling handlebar, it does feel like you’re been working on a pneumatic drill).

Predicting the weather on a 14 day trip is not easy. This is where arms warmers and leg warmers come in.

These allow you to wear a short sleeved jersey and shorts in fine weather, but if the weather turns nasty…you can pull out the arms and legs warmers…or knee warmers, stick them on and tah da – you’re warm (ish) again.

Let’s start with arm warmers. These are snug-fitting lycra tubes, usually in black. But you can go for white if you have a bold, ostentatious streak in you and tanned skin. Naturally, white is the preferred colour in Italy.

You simply pull them up your am, tuck them up under your jersey sleeve and away you go. If the sun comes out, you roll them off, and stuff them into the back pockets of your jersey. The more skilled can do this on a moving bike, but this requires riding hands-free and the margin for error here is small and the price of failure high, especially when riding in a group. Falling off with your hands trapped inside lycra tubes and unable to grab the bars earns light hearted derision and heavy abrasions.

Leg warmers and knee warmers (take your choice depending on your default level of optimism / pessimism) follow the same principle. Leg warmers do require some rather unflattering pulling to get them into place, almost Nora Batty-like contortions.

And that is pretty much it....not a lot of slack I grant you....it’s not much more than travelling with my pockets full.

BTW - If you’re still wondering about the boxer short teaser I opened up with, I eventually opted for three pairs. For everyone’s sake, let just hope there are plenty of washing machines on the road north.

(If you've enojyed this or other blog entires, I'd be delighted if you could sponsor me at Just Giving - Mick Slatter, to help me raise money for physically and mentally disabled children in Mid-Sussex).