The Big Ride
by Simon Levermore

For fifteen unforgettable days in early June 2000, we travelled in our own bubble of unreality. We lived a peculiar existence, wholly removed from what passes as normal life. No work schedule, no cooking, no washing up, no DIY, no little noses to wipe. No demands other than those which we put upon ourselves. The sun shone (most of the time) and the wind pushed at our backs (most of the time). Life was gloriously simple. All our thoughts and energies were focussed on just one goal - to cycle the entire length of the British mainland from Land's End to John O'Groats. "Piece of piss", as the meathead biker we met on the train down to Penzance so eloquently put it.

The three amigos consisted of Rodney, Ian and myself. The trip having been conceived by Rodney and Ian as a way of marking both the millennium and their joint one-hundredth birthday. I joined them just to mess up the numbers. We'd never cycled together before but, thankfully, it became clear on our only pre-trip practice ride that we were all of the same mindset. This wasn't to be a hell-for-leather End-to-End bash up the M1 with lunch stops in Little Chef. A scenic trip was called for, along the quiet back roads and byways of Britain, soaking up the character of the passing counties and stopping at as many tea rooms and cake shops as humanly possible.

Camping was ruled out early on and not just because of the added weight penalty of all the gear. The idea of cycling 70 or more miles each day and then not being able to crawl into a hot shower and collapse onto a comfy bed in some cosy B&B was thought too horrible to contemplate. We considered the merits of roping someone in to follow us with a support vehicle. But this idea was binned fairly soon too. There's a simple beauty in self-reliance. Carrying all that you are likely to need to overcome any obstacle is a very wholesome feeling. There is also the matter of numbers. A fourth person in a support vehicle would add yet another dynamic to the group, especially as the driver would gain a very different perspective on the trip than the pedallers.

Despite coming up with the idea two years before the off, we certainly couldn't be accused of overplanning. Our one and only route planning evening - armed with maps, B&B guide and the CTC Bed & Breakfast route instructions - took us about as far as the Cheddar Gorge before we all got bored and decided we'd work out the rest as we went along.

Even with two years 'preparation', when I turned up at Ian's house on D-day, with minutes to spare before catching the train to Penzance, he was still waiting for his shorts to finish the spin cycle in the washing machine. Barely controlled panic ensued as the machine's timer counted down all too slowly - three minutes, two minutes, one, 'ping', grab shorts, grab Rodney, jump on bikes and head for the station. Of course, the train was late. So late, we were in danger of missing our connection at Birmingham where, in the dash between platforms, we lost Rodney. Ian stayed in the guards van of our connecting train with two bikes while I ran off in search of the wayward Rodney. Exit Simon stage left, enter Rodney stage right. Having jumped over the world's oldest woman on the down escalator, I just managed to join the others with seconds to spare. Naturally, there was no engine on the train and we could look forward to an hour's wait. Time for lunch.

As Ian wrote in his journal that day "We compared lunchboxes - as boys do". Sadly, mine was the smallest. This said a lot about our differing approaches to luggage. Ian was carrying at least a kilogram of home-made cake and that many spare razorblades I began to wonder if he'd start howling and slavering at the next full moon. Rodney, I suspect, had a tweed suit, dressing gown and slippers stashed away somewhere. I'd gone for the minimalist approach - two small panniers and a barbag, all of them half-empty. I'd drilled holes in my adjustable spanner, cut my shoelaces short, and even chopped most of the handle off my toothbrush. Probably a mistake really, as I had a job to reach my molars without swallowing several fingers. Travel as light as possible. You won't need a towel, shampoo or soap if you're spending every night in a B&B. A good haircut will save precious ounces but, if you find yourself drilling out your spare tubes then you're overdoing it. You can always buy something if you've forgotten it and you can post home anything you don't need. I bought the world's smallest tripod - bit like a tiny, three legged squid - useful for the essential border crossings team shots. Rodney and Ian posted back about half what they were carrying when we got to Shropshire. Even then, Rodney's luggage gradually migrated into my panniers. First the team medical kit, then the loo roll (both remained unused). I suspect, his slippers were in there somewhere too.

Of course, this was a cycling trip and although the riding was, in one sense, everything, it also somehow became just incidental. A means to an end. The rhythm over which the melody and harmonies of our peculiar life where played. At times, especially the first three days, the riding felt like a war of attrition. Muscles and willpower against an unrelenting barrage of hills. Then there were sweet moments when men and machines worked in perfect harmony. We'd feel superhuman. Skimming in tight formation across the landscape, seemingly without any effort. Self-contained and self-assured. Senses heightened to the sounds and smells around. The honeysuckle in the Cornish hedgerows, the call of the elegant curlews gliding alongside us over Scottish moorlands. We moved in silence for fear of breaking the spell. I never wanted those moments to end.

The demands of the trip made us very aware of the needs of our bodies. Ample and timely food, protection from the sun and water by the gallon become paramount. Well, this was true of Ian and me. Rodney, being made of cat-gut and old leather, could cycle for ever under any conditions. With no natural off-switch he had to be told to stop at the end of each day. Whereupon he would immediately fall asleep.

The days took on their own routine. Breakfast arranged for as early as we could get away with. Wake up ravenous much too soon and spend ages packing and re-packing panniers, trying not to think about food. Strange how so few possessions can take so long to sort out. So many things you can't stash away until you actually attach panniers to bike; chequebook, pen, half-toothbrush, packed lunch, and anything else that goes above them in the all-important pannier pecking order. Breakfast time. We'd forego the full English, in favour of a couple of bowls of muesli and a good rousing bowl of porridge. A huge, greasy fry-up didn't seem the ideal start for a day's cycling. We only had bacon, egg, sausage and the rest once. That was eaten for supper on arrival at a small hotel in Sanquhar, Scotland. Bit of a coup that one. There was nowhere else to eat in the village, so we convinced them to cook our breakfast when we got there at 9pm. We still talked them into providing a huge bowl of ever-expanding porridge the next morning.

Sometime between 8 and 9am each morning we were on the road - although never as early as we'd hoped. It got harder and harder to get out of bed as the days went on.

Elevenses at ten. Lunch around half-eleven. Then stoke up on bananas and cake throughout the afternoon. There'd always come a point late afternoon when nothing else would do but to sit down for a proper cooked meal. At that point we'd decide how much further we thought we could ride and try to book a B&B at a suitable location. Some days we went only a few more miles, some days we went another thirty or so.

Booking accommodation at the last minute worked well for us. We weren't in high season. The B&Bs were a mixed bunch, ranging from a bit rundown and impersonal to cosy and welcoming. One notable stopover was with the control freak landlady in Bishop's Lydeard, who was surprisingly reluctant to welcome three malodorous cyclists into her pristine house. "You're going to John O'Groats, obviously" were her opening words. More an order than a question. Dismissing our heartfelt account of how strenuous the first three days had been with "Oh, they all say that", she proceeded to show us around the house like it was a military operation. Not only showing us where each light switch was, but even how to use it. "This is on. This is off."

The only time we were hard pressed to find beds was when we arrived in Appleby-under-Westmorland in Cumbria on the day of the annual Horse Fair. The town was heaving. The hotel proprietor where we finally managed to book a room said he could probably squeeze an extra bed into a twin room. He did, by lying it across the other two. Still it did give us a good platform to spread out the maps for a route talk. We were behind schedule and beginning to fear we might not make it to John O'Groats in time for the return train. The decision was made to head from Glasgow to Fort William and then to cycle along the Great Glen, skirting the edge of Loch Ness where there was a chance of catching sight of that mysterious beast Nellie (as Rodney called her). We abandonned plans to use a Sustrans route going further east via Inverness. A good decision it was too, as the ride over Rannock Moor and through Glencoe to Fort William has to rate as my best day's cycling ever. The weather was excellent, the scenery breathtaking, and more than any other day it really brought into perspective the scale of our trip. It didn't take much imagination to see ourselves in bird's eye view, a tiny pinpoint of humanity moving unnoticed through the vast grandeur of the landscape. We felt humbled and privileged to be there.

The team roles divided up nicely. Ian and I did the navigating using the CTC route instructions and 1 in 250,000 scale maps. We had a few 1 in 50,000 maps for tricky bits, such as navigating a pleasant(ish) passage between Manchester and Liverpool. Without the excellent CTC instructions we would have gone wrong far more than we did, and we'd have been compelled to carry the full set of 1 in 50,000 maps (about 40 of them). As we discovered, the 1 in 250,000 scale maps don't mention a lot of small villages and they don't shown black arrows on the minor roads.

Rodney stayed out of the navigating. Probably wise. Instead he was in charge of flatulence, for which he consistently blamed a pasta dish he'd eaten at Ian's house some weeks before. He also played a key role as 'Sage of the Saddle', unfailingly knowing the exact time (without aid of a watch), the compass bearing we were currently on and the impending weather. And more than once he'd enigmatically question the wisdom of stopping for a pee under an alder tree - I never did figure that one out.

The parts of the trip where we felt least in control concerned organising transport to Penzance and back from Thurso. Ian spent days camped on the phone to Virgin Trains to catch that fleeting moment between Apex tickets becoming available and completely selling out. Weeks before we set off I contacted Scotrail head office to negotiate booking three bikes on the train back from Thurso. I won't go into the gory details, but the outcome was I received emailed confirmation that it would be possible and, not to worry because the guard at Thurso station would be duly informed of our arrangements. So on our last day we assembled on the platform as some inhuman hour of the morning to await the train. Out stepped the guard, looked at us, "Mr Levermore?" says he. Sorted. "Only two bikes on this train". Bless him. Even though he knew all about us, he still thought he'd try it on. A quick waft of Scotrail's email under his nose and he had to concede defeat, but not without a defiant 'Well, you'll have to take the wheels off 'em.' Which of course we were only too happy to do. Were we heck!

There were so many wonderful moments during our fortnight. Riding over the Severn bridge as the setting sun turned the sky crimson. Cresting the Wrekin in Shropshire to see the whole of the Cheshire plains beckoning us. Relaxing outside the cosy B&B near Fort William, watching the birth of wispy clouds at the peak of Ben Nevis. But much more than these, it was the camaraderie, the shared experience and the unbreakable good humour. We laughed without reserve - usually whilst wobbling uphill at less than walking pace - and I can honestly say that never a cross word was spoken between the three of us.

If you can square it with work and family to take two or three weeks out of reality, don't hesitate. You'll never regret it. I won't forget the sight of the final road sign stating "John O'Groats 1/4 mile" - downhill. We posed for our final team shot, near to Britain's most northerly tea rooms, draped over the village sign which read, most appropriately, DUNNET.