A day of firsts: the first time any of us had been to the Lake District, our first headwind of the trip, and our first navigational misstep.

With the Dawg vetoing our original plan to travel via the notorious Kirkstone Pass (with its series of brutal one-in-four gradients, known in cycling circles as The Struggle) in the strongest possible terms, we spent the first half-an-hour of the day plotting an alternative route that avoided the area’s major hills. Given what was to transpire later, we’d almost have been better off sticking with plan A.

We’ve been really lucky with the weather – out of approximately 50 hours in the saddle so far, we’ve probably only experienced about an hour-and a half’s rain in total. But just as importantly, the wind has been with us too. Many of the people I spoke with in the build-up to this trip warned me that the prevailing south-westerlies typical of this time of year would be our biggest enemy on the journey down the country – it’s the main reason most people choose a LEJOG route over a JOGLE one. But ever the contrarian, my logic was that travelling south (downhill, you know!) towards home would give us a psychological boost. And with largely easterly and northerly winds pushing us along over the first week, that decision has been justified and we’ve made great progress.

That changed today. As we entered the Lake District, the wind howled in our faces, making it tough to get any kind of momentum up. We were using gears that were previously reserved for getting up hills to push us along the flat, and combined with general fatigue following two long days (and breaking the three-pint rule the night before in The Old Crown!) it felt as though we were plodding.

Still, we soon broke through another milestone – 500 miles for the trip – and that helped spur us on, as did the views. The scenery was stunning, and we soon forgot about the wind as we forged deeper into the landscape. The morning’s ride through Mungriesdale and down the western edge of Thirlmere was lovely, and we almost had the place to ourselves. Unfortunately, we were not alone for long. As we made for the tourist honey traps of Ambleside and Windermere, the volume of traffic on the roads shot through the roof. Our surroundings were still beautiful, but our enjoyment of them was compromised by the need to stay vigilant and concentrate on staying safe.

In fact, the over-commercialised nature of the area around Lake Windermere threatened to tarnish our first impressions – until fate intervened. Up until now, we’ve been able to navigate fairly easily using a mixture of iPhones, pages torn from a road atlas and our own research. But today, with our attention firmly on the tourist traffic streaming by us, we made a costly error and missed a turning that took us five miles south of where we wanted to be. Rather than just head back up the road and correct our mistake, we decided to cut across country. You can see where this is going.

Our first warning should’ve been the name of the road we planned on taking: Fell Foot Brow. If that doesn’t scream ‘hill’ then I don’t know what does. The 20% gradient sign at the bottom was a pretty major clue, too. And if any lingering doubts remained, they were soon dispelled as we began the climb – it just went on and on. And then on some more. Then up. Then on. And then up and up and up. On then up, on then up. Our legs and lungs were burning by the time we got to the top, but our reward was some amazing views from the summit. It was easily the toughest climb of the tour, and it’s no wonder most routes avoid it – from 20% at the start, it went up to 25% in places; even the few cars that passed us were struggling with the gradient.

From there, flushed with success at making it up in one piece, we made our third mistake and decided to cut across the top. At first the road was great, a dry-stone-wall-lined singletrack taking us through rolling moorland. But as the road petered out in a farmer’s yard, we were faced with a choice of turning back or carrying on off-road via the public footpath. Figuring we’d come too far to retrace our steps, we pushed ahead. The path was terrible, through fields and over fells, past startled sheep and grumpy (and confused) farmers, and it stretched on for miles, but it did eventually bring us out on a tarmac track, and from there – thanks in equal parts to both luck and judgement – we were able to wind our way back to some kind of civilisation.

It had been a massive detour. But funnily enough, despite the fact it had added an extra couple of hours onto our journey time, taken us miles off track and exhausted the muscles in our legs, I think all three of us enjoyed that part of the day the most: great friends having an adventure together. It reminded us of why we were doing the trip in the first place: for the sheer joy of doing it, as much as for the challenge and charity aspects.

Tired and hungry, we collapsed into the nearest pub we could find, The Blue Bell just outside Milnthorpe, where we had some additional good fortune as fellow guests Liz and Nigel donated some money towards the Pete & Mary Trust (for details of how to do this yourselves, check out the Sponsor Us link below, or in the menu at the top).

As legendary west coast rapper Ice Cube might say: today was a good day.

Well, that’s it: goodbye Scotland, hello England. As Vinnie Jones might say, it’s been emotional.

Apart from surely winning some kind of prize for the most characters in an A-to-B style blog title, today was fairly unremarkable from a cycling perspective. Aside from an hour or so crossing the northern edge of the Galloway forest this morning, the scenery’s been pretty ordinary, but at least the A-roads we were riding on were extremely quiet – more like English B-roads – and we made pretty good progress. Geoff’s knee seemed to be holding up okay after the previous day’s exertions too, and we pushed on towards the border in good spirits.

After a few hours riding and a pit-stop at Annan, we reached Gretna Green shortly after lunch. I’m sorry to report that Geoff didn’t improve on his status as a single man at the mecca for hastily arranged marriages; unfortunately the only birds we’ve seen so far have been ospreys, kites, herons, puffins and Arctic terns, which he claims are “not really wife material”. Some people are so fussy!On the plus side, however, neither Bailey nor I returned to the country as a bigamist, so it’s not all bad. After taking the compulsory photo of The Last House in Scotland (where over 10,000 secret/shotgun marriages have been performed to date) we finally reached England.

It’s funny the difference a geographical boundary makes. After all, it should be just an arbitrary line in the sand, drawn up by long-dead politicians. But there was a definite shift as we crossed the border. Perhaps it was the fact that, just 20 yards after passing the sign, you get spat out onto the M6 (or in our case, a road running parallel to it). It was quite a culture shock! Having experienced nothing but courteous drivers and empty roads for the past 450-odd miles, we had three altercations with dangerous tw@ts in the first five minutes of being back in England. The roads were now much busier, filled with impatient commuters trying to beat rush hour, and it was a reminder that whilst we might have got away with riding A-roads in sparsely populated Scotland, down here it would be a different proposition.

It wasn’t until we entered the northern edge of the Lake District that the traffic eased off. We were all pretty tired by this stage after another 80-mile day and a relatively low calorie intake. We burn about 4000 calories for each day’s ride, so add that to the 2500 daily calories we need just to survive and it’s clear we have to consume a lot of food! Yesterday I think we cut it a bit fine. To our credit, we did try to make up for it by hitting the local pub in the beautiful village of Hesket Newmarket (a community-owned boozer where the locals are paid an annual dividend in beer, and that is reportedly Prince Charles’ favourite watering hole) to neck some easy calories, but I’m not sure that counts!

Tomorrow it’s down through the Lakes via Keswick, Thirlmere, Ambleside and Windermere. The weather’s set to hit 20 degrees plus. Could be an interesting day!

hubris ˈhjuːbrɪs/ Noun
1. Excessive pride or self-confidence.
2. (in Greek tragedy) Excessive pride towards or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis.

Yesterday we taunted the gods with talk of upping the pace and feeling stronger by the day. This morning they laughed in our collective faces and took their vengeance, with Geoff’s knee the agent of our (near) destruction. What do they say about pride coming before a fall?

With an 11am ferry to catch and a 15-mile trek across Arran before we could board on the far side of the island, time was of the essence this morning. So naturally, this was the perfect moment for the Dawg’s knee to balloon to the size of a football. He’s been managing (slash moaning about!) a chronic knee condition for the past couple of months, and has so far coped brilliantly with the rigours of the trip. But the introduction of a 1000-foot climb whilst he was still digesting his breakfast was almost too much to bear, and seriously threatened our need to hit our daily mileage – and Geoff’s ability to continue the trip, period. At one point I think he was seriously considering jacking it in.

Tears, anger and anguished shouts to the heavens – and that was just me and Bailey – were much in evidence as the first hour ticked by. But somehow, we managed to talk/cajole/bully him through the pain barrier and make it to Brodick in time to get the boat back to the mainland. It wasn’t pretty, but damn, it was effective. In fact, we’ve come up with a term for our attempts to coax him through the mental side of the trip: Dawg Handling. So far it’s involved a mixture of carrot and stick, and the patient appears to be responding well to treatment; I’ll keep you posted with our progress. Stay positive mate, stay positive!

It emphasizes how critical the psychological aspect is: we’re all now fit enough to do this, it’s within our physical capabilities – provided we can overcome the demons plaguing us with doubt. Geoff did that today, and at 85 miles it ended up being our longest ride of the trip. Good effort.

It was a shame, because his discomfort overshadowed some more magnificent scenery as we crossed Arran. We’ve become a bit spoilt by all the amazing places we’ve journeyed through so far – somewhat blasé, even – but that was to be thrown into sharp relief once we reached the mainland and started to make our way down through the heavily populated Ayrshire conurbation.

On the boat we’d bumped into a couple of other local cyclists who we’re full of good advice, and we we’re grateful to Jim Duggan (holder of the world record for the fastest ever circuit of Arran, doncha know) for leading us through the early part of the ride and helping us find the start of the cycle path. From there we followed Sustrans route 7 all the way down through Irvine, Prestwick and on to Troon.

The path was ok at first, taking us through woodland, along the sea front and past the famous Royal Troon golf course. However, as we approached Ayr it became more industrial – as well as torturously slow and winding. And the potholes! Ayrshire must have some of most poorly maintained roads in the UK. We were finding it hard to pick up any speed or get into a rhythm, and the final straw came when the route took us off one road, over a really steep cobbled bridge, through a pedestrian precinct, down a lane for about 200 metres, past some charming ASBOs who greeted us with a cheery “hey f#*kheads!” then dumped us back out on the same road we just left – only 10 metres further on. Aargh!

We resolved to leave NCN7 behind and hit the B-roads, and immediately began to reap the benefits. Our route took us down through Maybole and Straiton (where we stopped at the brilliant Buck Cafe, a cyclist-run place that provided much-needed sustenance as well as some great route advice) and over the moors to Dalmellington – the same road as they use for the Scottish hill climbing championships. Yikes! From there it was a clear run through to St John’s, where we all found ourselves getting stronger, even accelerating up the hills. Even so, the sight of the Clachan Inn, our destination for the night, was a welcome sight!

Bailey described it best: today was a mix of the good, the bad and the ugly. The good (Arran/ the last 40 miles), the bad (Geoff’s knee) and the ugly (a big chunk of fairly grim urban riding, as well as some of the worst road surfaces in the UK). It seems strange to think that this time tomorrow we’ll be back in the mother country. Bring it on!

A great day’s riding. Weather? Warm and sunny: arms out for the first time this trip. Navigation? Easy: pretty much one road all the way from Oban to the ferry port at Claonaig. Speed? Good: over 20kph average for the day. Hills? Hmmm…

Today was possibly one of the most enjoyable of the trip so far. The way out of Oban was basically another A-road, which we had our reservations about given yesterday’s experience, but it did mean we could save about 30 miles over using the Sustrans route; clearly, it was a no -brainer. However, we needn’t have worried: whilst reasonably busy at first, the traffic soon thinned out, leaving us with an empty, beautifully maintained piece of road to ride on.

The route wound it’s way round the coast, undulating through (yet more) magnificent scenery. In fact, this was by far the hilliest day of the trip so far, but it is testament to the fact that we’re all getting stronger that we took it in our stride and were able to easily conquer climbs that even a few days ago would have proved challenging. Even the Dawg (despite protestations to the contrary) was flying up the inclines. Good work mate!

That was pretty much the story for the day: great roads, big climbs, fast descents and stunning scenery. We did stop a couple of times – once at a National Trust place for great views and ice cream; once at the picturesque Lochgilphead for lunch on the village green – and we did take a (planned) detour via the beautiful Crinan Canal, but other than that we kept up a decent pace as we aimed to get to the ferry in time to get us over to Arran. At one point we were even riding like a pro-cycling team, each taking the lead in turn in order to maintain a fast pace. It’s probably the closest any of us will ever come to feeling like Bradley Wiggins.

We were making such good time that for a while we even entertained the idea of getting the 4.20 ferry rather than the 5.50 one, and pushed on down the West coast. However, with just five miles to go that idea was scuppered by a monster of a hill, one of the biggest of the trip, which slowed our progress to a crawl. Having missed the boat by a matter of minutes, we had to settle for an hour’s downtime on the beach instead. Oh well, at least it afforded us the opportunity to relax and take some more great pics!

Indeed, one thing that has emerged is something of an obsession with taking photos of the bikes (you may have noticed!). My camera roll has (temporarily) gone from being full of photos of the kids to photos of the Genesis. The competitive streak has kicked in and we’re now all competing to see who can take the best, most creative photo, combining both landscape and trusty steed. This is clearly what happens when you spend too much time in one another’s company.

We’re all guilty, but the obsession took on an additional dimension today when Bailey announced he was going to invest in some new bike luggage specifically to enhance the quality of the shots he was taking. Something about “adding to the colour palette”. I’m sure Debbie will be over the moon to hear that, Andrew. Expect the Ortlieb and Brooks websites to be seeing a spike in traffic any day now…

You’ve liked the photos; you’ve read the blog. But whilst it might look like one big holiday, it’s not all fun, fun, fun. There’s a less glamorous side of cycle touring.

We have to travel pretty light on the bikes – which means carrying a limited wardrobe. Which in turn means washing as you go along. Which consequently means it’s not uncommon to find yourself scrubbing your way through a bath tub full of sweaty cycling shorts, tops, socks and pants and hanging it all out to dry before you can even think about going out at the end of a hard day’s riding. If we knew we were going to be handling each other’s undergarments, we might not have agreed to this trip.

In fact, being a cycle tourist means becoming a creature of habit: wake up, write the blog, have breakfast, shower, change, pack the bags, check out, sort the bikes, ride, check in, shower, wash the kit, have a pint, eat, go to bed. The same routine, every day.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving the trip. But next time you think “I wish I was doing that too”, picture yourself washing Squeezy’s kacks or Bailey’s socks or my sweaty shorts and you might want to reconsider…

Well, it had to happen sooner or later: our first puncture of the trip. Hopefully not the first of many! Just as well today was a fairly leisurely day, then. The big shift we had put in over the first few days meant we were ahead of schedule and could afford to give the legs some recovery time with an easy 50-miler.

The first stage of the ride consisted of all of 200 metres as we rolled down the shore outside our B&B to the tiny ferry that takes you across the coastal loch. Loading the bikes on was a slightly disconcerting moment, given they were only strapped on with a rope looped around the pedals; hopefully that ‘splash’ we heard as Bailey’s Van Nicholas was lifted on board was nothing important!

After unloading on the far side we spent 30 mins cleaning and lubing the bikes (following the previous day’s exertions) so that it was nearly 11 o’clock by the time we got started. It was only 11 miles, but the ride was, once again, stunning – a tiny road that hugged the shore of the loch and gave us more stunning vistas across the glassy still waters, as well as (pay attention, Harry Potter fans) a glimpse of the Hogwarts Express puffing away into the distance.

At Ardgour it was back onto another ferry (the last crossing point to the south before hitting the Irish Sea) and the dreaded A82. The five miles we had to cycle from Corran to the bridge at Ballachulish more than justified our earlier decision to cross the loch and avoid as much of this road as possible: one of the worst bits of tarmac I’ve ever been on. Huge lorries hurtling past, impatient drivers pelting along at near-motorway speeds – all on a road no more than two car-widths across – this is no place for cyclists. We were only on the shared path to the side but the backdraft from the logging trucks was almost blowing us off the bikes. Mary and Pete were uppermost in my mind as we cautiously forged ahead. Why do people drive so dangerously around cyclists?

On the far side of the bridge we were glad to escape onto a designated cycle path, which is where we discovered another consequence of the poor surface we’d just been on: broken glass equals punctures. At least we were well prepared! A quick tube change later and we were back on our way through a lovely stretch of forest, cliff paths and beach-hugging cycle track. Bar a few forays back onto the road (now much quieter, thank goodness!) this took us pretty much all the way into Oban. I’ll say this for Scotland: they’ve spent a boatload of money on their cycling infrastructure. Good effort, chaps!

Oban is lovely but, as has happened every day of trip so far, it started raining about 10 minutes before we arrived. This makes finding somewhere to stay a bit more of a pain in the arse (you wouldn’t blame a lot of hoteliers for seeing soaking wet bikes and cyclists and deciding they can’t be bothered with the hassle!) but we’ve had no major issues so far – in fact, everyone we’ve met so far has been lovely, from other cyclists and walkers, to shop/hotel owners, to restauranteurs.

It was nice to actually spend some time off the bike for a change – a few drinks and a wander around the town – but there’ll be little chance of that tomorrow: back to some proper mileage as we head for the Isle of Arran and a deadline to make the last ferry of the day!

If yesterday’s approach into Inverness was somewhat underwhelming from a scenery perspective, today more than made up for it. Wow. Just wow.

We kicked off by heading out of the town on the south bank of the river to Loch Ness, along the B862. Many JOGLErs opt to follow the A82 all the way down the great glen to Oban – some 120 miles of narrow, winding, 60-mile-an-hour roads populated by large numbers of logging lorries, tourist buses and gawping sightseers who spend more time trying to spot the elusive Nessie than they do concentrating on the road ahead. No thanks. The whole point of detouring to Inverness was to get to the south side of the loch, from where you can take the much-quieter – and infinitely more beautiful – General Wade’s military road all the way to Fort Augustus.

It’s a no-brainer, right? Well, there is a catch – in fact, the only monster we saw all day was the beast of a hill stretching out before us as we approached Foyers alongside the shore of the loch. It’s the main reason people avoid this route – a 1194-foot ascent isn’t easy at the best of times, let alone on fully loaded touring bikes – but, after a quick pit stop to use the camping stove Geoff’s sister Rachel bought for us to make a brew (thanks Rachel!), we began the long climb up. It was a slog, but sustained by the scenery and the 500-calorie flapjacks we’d each consumed with our cups of tea, we made it to the top where all that effort paid off. The views are stunning. And the way down on the other side is exhilarating, to say the least!

At the bottom we lunched at the picturesque Fort Augustus, before following the Caledonian Canal down to Bridge of Oich. It was nice to be on the flat again, and the gravel surface and countless potholes were a small price to pay for keeping off the A82. We did have to jump on for a couple of miles to get down from there to Laggan Locks, but it was bearable.

Now came the toughest part of the day. Again, to avoid the busy A road, we opted to take the forest track on the northern shore of Loch Lochy (I’m not making this shit up, it really is called that) at Kilfinnan. This was great at first – the stony path appealed to the MTBer in us all – but as the path carried on (and on, and on) the novelty soon started to wear off. 10 miles off-road on these bikes was probably about five miles too far.

As much as anything else we were concerned about the bikes themselves – all that bouncing up and down probably isn’t good for them, plus the grit and sand would play havoc with the componentry if not cleaned out. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before we experienced our first mechanical issue of the tour: one of the bolts securing Bailey’s panniers to the bike jiggled loose and got lost. Fortunately I had some spares with me (see Ginny, all those hours of research poring over other people’s kit lists paid off after all!) and was able to fix it, but it was a timely reminder of how dependent we are on the bikes and the need to look after them properly. Time for some cycle TLC before heading out tomorrow morning, I think!

The real positive about the forest track, however, was the stunning views it afforded across the loch to Ben Nevis. Those bumps and jumps were worth it for those alone. I’d never really appreciated before how huge Nevis is, and definitely have a new-found respect for all my friends who’ve climbed it. Great effort, one and all!

We finally rolled into Fort Bill (just as the rain started) at about 7pm, via the beautiful B-road from Clunes – a long but massively enjoyable day in the saddle. Some more haggling saw us ensconced in a great little B&B overlooking the loch, then all that remained was time for burger, beer and bed. Tired, but feeling good. Night all!

First things first, a confession: this probably should’ve been posted yesterday. But hey, John O’Groats is a bloody long way up, and none of 2/3/4G or wifi seemed to have made it up here yet. Sorry folks, I’ll try harder next time.

My next post will be a rundown of Day One. But before that, a brief recap of how we (just about) got here. What have we learned in the past week? To summarise, here’s a ‘what not to do when preparing to cycle a JOGLE’ list…

1. Don’t rely on couriers
Despite planning and booking it months in advance, our bikes almost didn’t make it to the start thanks to a combination of a missed courier pick-up and a bank holiday. Things worked out fine in the end (phew), but it was squeaky-bum time for a few days while our trusty steeds were lost in transit. The lesson? Other people are undoubtedly less competent than you, so leave way more time than you need. Because, erm, you’ll definitely need it.

2. Don’t get knocked off your bike days before you leave
As I span through the air, head-first over my handlebars (courtesy of a wayward pedestrian stepping out onto the cycle track without looking), I tried to look on the bright side: a timely reminder of the potential perils of cycling is probably no bad thing, I thought, given what we’re about to undertake. As I hit the ground, I just thought “ouch”. No serious harm done thankfully – bruised knee, minor road rash, and the pedestrian was fine too – but still not to be recommended.

3. Don’t get a hole in your panniers the week before you go
We get a lot of rain here in the UK. A LOT of rain. You also need to carry a lot of stuff on a trip like this. So developing last-minute holes in stuff designed to simultaneously keep that rain out AND carry your stuff is a no-no. Full marks to manufacturers Ortlieb for offering (and managing) to repair it in time. But I’m going to have to deduct a point for forgetting to mail it back to me and then sending the post-complaint express delivery package – guaranteed to arrive by 9am, just three hours before our flight – to the wrong address. Close guys, but no cigar (please see point 1).

4. Don’t try to take an offensive weapon onto the plane
When you’ve been up since 6am packing, then spent an hour tearing around Bristol trying to track down an errant pannier before your flight leaves without you, you just want to get to the airport and chill out for a bit. The last thing you need is one of your party (I’m looking at you, Geoff!) to fall foul of airport security by attempting to smuggle a stainless steel blade onto the plane. Mate, they made us pack that plastic spork into our hold luggage; they’re not gonna look kindly on a credit card sized killing machine. (Although it was a bit weird that having kicked up such a stink they let you keep it, after all…) Ah well, at least they stopped short of a full body cavity search!

5. Don’t confuse when your boarding gate closes with when you think it opens
A collective brain-fart, this. We were quite happy sitting in Soho Coffee, eating lunch and wondering when we should take a leisurely stroll over to the departure lounge – when the decision was taken out of our hands via the dreaded final boarding call. An 800 metre sprint to Gate 16 (when the hell did Bristol Airport get so damn big!?) at near world record pace is not exactly the best preparation for a 1000-mile cycle – but, then again, it’s perfectly in keeping with the rest of our build-up so far!

6. Don’t over-exaggerate the negatives
Of course, I’m making it sound worse than it was, and there were plenty of good things too. The flight up was great. The minibus pick-up service from the brilliant Sandy at John O’Groats Transport was impeccable. Our bikes made it to the start in tip-top condition (again, thanks to the re-assembly and service from Sandy and his team). Our accommodation at the Seaview hotel in JO’G was fantastic, with the largest selection of whiskeys I’ve ever seen collected in one place (the fact that we didn’t get sucked into sampling them all also has to be another plus point, from a hangover-avoidance perspective). And the scenery up around Duncansby Head (the Uk’s most north-easterly point) and the view across to a sunset over Orkney was amazing. Puffins, ahoy!

Best of all, we made it here safe, sound and ready to begin. So let’s see what tomorrow (and the rest of the trip) brings. Good luck, chaps!