Before leaving this morning I had decided to dedicate today to a couple of friends who are no longer with us. As I climbed I found myself thinking about them and what they would have made of my efforts. What I know is that they were there for me, and without them I doubt I could have got to the top. So thank you, B and I, for your support, help and encouragement. And most of all for pushing me through the temptation to give up.
The descent off The Lecht was fast and furious. After passing through Tomintoul, Nick had a puncture. I was riding with Andy again and we were a couple of hundred yards ahead of the group when we heard the cry of ‘puncture’ so pulled over to wait. Suddenly, while we were watching a flock of sheep move across an adjacent field, there was a loud explosion behind us, rather like the sound of a shotgun. Looking back we could see the rest of the group looking a bit shell-shocked, and a large white cloud floating just above them. After replacing the inner tube Nick had used a gas canister to inflate the tyre and had succeeded in bursting the replacement tube. As you can imagine, from then on every puncture event included a ‘No thanks, Nick’ comment.
Thus far the ride had largely been a dry one. But that changed, and once we were under way again heavy rain started to fall. With raindrops the size of peas rattling on the lenses of my cycling glasses it was a case of head down and manning up to reach Grantown-on-Spey. There I met Matthew, the son of some old friends, and he rode with us all the way to Inverness. He knew the area well, so added a bit of local detail to the places we passed on this part of the route. I enjoyed his company and it was nice to spend some time riding with a new companion. Once we arrived at Inverness, Matthew piloted me through the town to the Kessock Bridge at the head of the Moray Firth. Saying my thanks and farewells to Matthew, who I would meet again at the end of the week when I returned to Inverness to visit his parents, I then rode the final 10 miles to Conon Bridge, our overnight halt. We were all staying together again in the Conon Bridge Hotel. This establishment is probably best described as ‘functional’. I’ll leave it at that.
Today was a very good day – but for totally different reasons. The best of reasons and the best of friends, old and new, here and gone.
Thursday 27 August 2015, 79 Miles
Stage 12: Into the Big Country
Breakfast this morning was an entirely different experience to yesterday. The was lots of chatter and banter. Jokes and bravado as the ‘Lecht experience’ was recounted. Everyone agreed that each of us had left and each of us had taken something from the experience. For me, the climb will always remain a place where I faced and overcame a few demons, with a little help from my friends.
We eased out of Conon Bridge on full stomachs and we hardly noticed the first few gentle climbs. I had the somewhat unique experience of the Dingwall lollipop lady stepping into the road at a junction to stop the traffic and let me through. Back at home in Suffolk the local lollipop lady usually takes great delight in stopping me!
Gradually as we rode northwards the countryside opened up and the spectacular Dornoch Firth appeared in front of us. The scenery was breathtaking, but little did I know that the best was yet to come. Crossing over the Firth we headed slowly upwards through Invershin and past the nearby waterfall with its salmon leap. I was riding with Stuart, who like Nick comes from Haverhill. Stuart’s bike has achieved a certain notoriety on the tour. It’s a conventional steel-framed touring model and he had fitted a large bag on a rack behind his saddle. His saddlebag was so large that it could probably have carried all our gear. Stuart was also Vince’s dad; well, not in the biological sense, but more a case of an experienced rider keeping a fatherly eye out for a less experienced rider.
We picked our way along the valley of the beautiful River Shin as far as Lairg, where the land then opened up on a scale I have never seen elsewhere in Britain. The sheer vastness of the landscape almost defies description. Huge sweeping peat and heather moors encompassed by distant mountain ranges made me feel totally insignificant. The good weather meant the views were outstanding. It felt as though the clock had been turned back several thousand years. The only things missing were a few dinosaurs.
After a long ride through this very remote and isolated countryside we arrived at the Crask Inn where we stopped for the traditional traveller’s swift half and a top-up at Ray’s Diner. We had to wait awhile before we were served, as the landlord was across the road at the mobile library choosing his monthly supply of reading material. Our halt coincided with a torrential rainstorm so we stayed at the inn rather longer than intended.
The Crask Inn is one of those places that has acquired a legendary status with walkers and cyclists. It sits in splendid isolation roughly midway between Lairg to the south and Tounge to the north. The inn, which dates from 1815, has four bedrooms and a bunkhouse which can accommodate ten people. At the time of our visit the inn was up for sale; offers over £295,000 were being invited.
Once the rain had cleared we sped off northwards, and amazingly the views got better and better. I took the opportunity to increase the pace a tad and sped off the front of the group to enjoy some of the best riding I have ever experienced, riding along the side of Loch Loyal. All too soon I reached the last climb of the day and then swooped down into Tongue. Tongue lies on the eastern side of a beautiful north-facing sea loch and in the late afternoon sunshine it was a spectacular sight. The white sands and blue seas, with the island of Ealan nan Ron at the mouth of the loch, lent it an almost tropical appearance. Our accommodation for the night was in another hostel about a mile beyond the village and next to the causeway that crosses the loch.
Much later that night, or rather, very early the next morning, I got up to answer a call of nature and discovered that the door to the nearby facilities was locked. Stumbling around in the dark I eventually managed to find some alternative facilities. Making my way back to our dormitory I passed through the kitchen where I discovered one of our number clutching a bottle of beer and looking out of the window. I subsequently discovered two things. First, the locked door was due to another of member of our group trying to escape the loud snores of a roommate. And second, the beer-drinking night hawk was hoping to see the Northern Lights! After making myself comfortable again I had an excellent night’s sleep; possibly the best one of the tour.
I certainly hope to return and ride here again. This has to be one of the best parts of Britain, if not the very best. For any readers who haven’t been here before, I can’t recommend a visit too highly!
Friday 28 August 2015, 76 Miles
Stage 13: Nowhere Left to Ride
At 6am under gradually lightening skies we each slowly began to prepare for our final day of riding. The mood amongst the group was completely different from any previous morning; a confused mixture of emotions. Euphoria at the prospect of actually reaching our goal. Sadness at the thought that as a group this might be the last time we would ride together. Apprehension at the prospect of the ride ahead, as some of us had heard that it was going to be as hard as anything we had faced so far. But above all, a sense of achievement that both individually and collectively we had each shared a unique experience.
After the usual hearty breakfast and with relatively little fanfare we loaded our kit into the van, gave our bikes one final check over, climbed onto our saddles, pushed away, clipped into our pedals and rode off. We headed upwards out of the spectacular natural harbour at Tongue, pausing to help one of our number who had the misfortune to suffer a puncture within the first mile. We managed to restrain Nick, who was ready to put his gas canister to work.
The rest of the day passed in a blur – a high-speed blur. With a following tailwind we sped along the north coast of Scotland under blue skies. Yet again, nature had provided the most spectacular backdrop for the final day of our adventure. The immense wilderness of yesterday gradually receded behind us, with the massive mountain summits forming a hazy and distant backdrop. But they were still a brooding presence, ensuring that we
couldn’t forget them. We rode down and up through a series of valleys carrying rivers northwards to the sea. The descents were fast, the ascents were steep and were all conquered with ease. With nearly 1,000 miles in our legs we sped along, often freewheeling with our bikes clicking, clacking and whirring in a sort of avant-garde cyclist’s symphony.
As we progressed eastwards the countryside took on a more gentle and nurtured appearance as the peat and heather moors transformed into a softer and more cultivated landscape of arable and pastoral agriculture. Wide, straight, open roads, more reminiscent of East Anglia, were the order of the day. The miles were rolling by.
We sped through Thurso in a blur, and after a quick discussion we left the planned route heading for Dunnet Head, the most northerly point in mainland Britain. The few extra miles that this diversion involved were at best a minor consideration. At this point we could have ridden anywhere we chose, as we were all on an incredible high. We paused to look out at Stroma, the most southerly of the Orkney Islands. A fierce squall was working its way across the sea; a reminder of the power of nature and, for some of us, a reminder of how lucky we had been with the weather over the trip.
After a quick photocall we retraced our route, which brought us back to the ever-smiling Ray and some refreshments. Then in a slightly subdued atmosphere we rode on together for the last time. Before leaving Tongue at the start of the day we had agreed to all meet and pedal into John O’Groats together. And so we finished as we had started in Land’s End thirteen days ago. Fifteen cyclists, who had come together to ride the length of Britain. It was a sobering thought to realise that we were now much closer to Norway than Land’s End.
Each of us knew we had shared something that mere words can hardly describe. And now, there was nowhere left to ride.
Monday 7 September 2015
Some Reflections After the Event
I spent the week after arriving at John O’Groats visiting friends in the north of the country as I gradually worked my way southwards back to Suffolk. I also used this time to reflect on the Lejog experience. So I thought I would complete the story by sharing some of my reflections; and at the risk of writing what to some might read like a speech at the Oscars!
I was struck by how incredibly lucky I was to be able to ride with fourteen other strangers who got on so well together. One of the great joys of cycling is that it is a real leveller in terms of attitudes and personalities. On a bike, everyone is an equal no matter whether they are experienced riders or not. We all wanted to enjoy ourselves and share a wonderful experience. Of course there were disagreements and annoyances, but they were all handled with great sensitivity and maturity. When one of the group was under pressure – with a puncture or mechanical, or just feeling the strain of the ride ‒ others in the group quietly closed ranks to help their colleague through the challenge. Often nothing was said, no recognition was sought. It was just the right thing to do. So to my fourteen fellow riders I say, ‘Chapeau!’
Martyn and Ray provided the back-up support for us. A keen rider himself, Martyn never showed any frustration or irritation at having to stop or ride slowly to deal with a complication or issue. He took everything in his stride, and then some. And what a route he had planned. I will never forget the ever-cheerful Ray, whose impromptu Diners were a guaranteed pick-me-up under all circumstances. And the Bettyhill sausage rolls were a stroke of genius! Without Martyn and Ray our tour could not have been the success it was.
I feel incredibly lucky to have been able to see so much of my country in such a short time. And I can definitely say that Britain is indeed a green and pleasant land. There are some new places I found that I will certainly be returning to for another ride. The riding itself was great fun. For me, as an experienced long-distance cyclist, it wasn’t too hard; except for some of the hills which would challenge anyone, no matter how experienced. I was incredibly lucky too not to have any punctures or major mechanicals, especially considering the pounding my Impulso took. The Impulso responded superbly to the challenges of the ride. It is indeed a worthy successor to the Nirone.
I was greatly touched by the fantastic support I received through sponsorship donations to Prostate Cancer UK. I just know that the money raised will be gratefully received and wisely used. I spent a lot of time thinking about people I know who have suffered the disease, many of whom have beaten it through their courage and determination. And I spent some time, and shed a few tears, thinking about friends who are no longer with us, particularly on ‘The Lecht Day’. Along the way I received many messages of support and encouragement, from friends and strangers. Opening my email, Facebook and Strava at the end of each day was a great boost to my morale.
The ride finished with a dinner in Inverness where as a group we all celebrated our achievements and shared a few stories. And the great thing was that nobody took it too seriously. Having fun was the order of business. Rumours that I was sighted in a nightclub at 3am downing tequila slammers and doing some funky stuff on the dance floor are entirely true!
The day after the ride was a strange one, as my legs thought I was playing some cruel mind game when they realised the Lycra was not coming out and we weren’t going to be riding. In fact, having been on such a high, it was something of an anti-climax to realise that I didn’t have much to do. Well, no riding for a while.
4. BIANCHI: MORE THAN JUST A BICYCLE
While I have been riding my Bianchis around the countryside and on my Lejog tour, they’ve often been the subject of admiration and even some envy. So I thought it might be interesting to take a breather post-Lejog and look into their heritage. Bianchi has a unique claim to fame since it is the world’s oldest bicycle-making company still in existence. So where did it all begin? How did an orphan from Milan create an iconic brand that became a world leader and a world record breaker?
Edoardo Bianchi was born on 17 July 1865 within sight of the Duomo, Milan’s famous cathedral. In 1869, Edoardo’s father returned from fighting in the Third Italian War of Independence. Sadly, he was badly injured and unable to support his family. At the age of four Edoardo was sent to Milan’s Martinett Orphanage. Fate worked in Edoardo’s favour however, as the orphanage had a tradition of nurturing alumni5 who went on to achieve great things in many different walks of life.
The harsh economic realities of the late nineteenth century meant that people started their working lives when they were very young children. At the age of eight, Edoardo was apprenticed to a blacksmith. Over the next few years he worked in a variety of workshops learning basic engineering skills. Undoubtedly this was a hard time to be alive but the orphanage helped Edoardo to develop the necessary resilience and depth of character and above all a determination to survive and, indeed, thrive. Throughout his life Edoardo donated a proportion of his wages, and later his company’s profits, to the orphanage to acknowledge the role it played in his formative years.
In 1885 at the age of twenty, Edoardo set up his own two-room workshop at Number 7, Via Nirone in the heart of the city centre. Via Nirone 7 is a name that lives on today in one of Bianchi’s most popular and much-loved road bikes. By now Edoardo was quite a distinctive figure, with his bushy eyebrows, a thick handlebar moustache and rippling muscles honed in the smithy. He had also developed a tendency to think outside the box and test and challenge conventional engineering designs.
The sign above the door to his workshop proudly proclaimed ‘Officina Meccanica’ (Mechanical Workshop). Edoardo repaired bikes and made and sold a wide variety of bike parts including hubs, bearings, bells and so forth. He also started to manufacture his own bikes. One of his early models was a steel frame with a large front wheel, similar to the British Penny Farthing. Then in 1886 came a critical moment in bicycle design. After a lot of experimentation Edoardo produced a bike with two identically sized wheels. Built around a diamond-shaped frame, with handlebars, and a chain to drive the rear wheel, Edoardo had created a machine that did not look
too different from today’s bicycles. His design was received with a certain amount of scorn and suspicion from other bicycle manufactures who were tied to the traditional velocipede designs. Undeterred, Edoardo persisted, gradually refining and improving the design. Soon after its launch he added pneumatic tyres, capitalising on their recent invention by John Dunlop.
His business went from strength to strength and outgrew the small workshop in Via Nirone. In 1893 Edoardo relocated to Number 6, Via Borghetto on the eastern side of Milan. By now, Milan had become a major industrial centre with assembly line-based factories, specialist workshops turning out components and, crucially, a voracious market ready to consume these products. Edoardo’s new premises gave him the space to set up his own assembly line. From 1889 he had also started producing luxury cars and then motorcycles, the production of which benefited from the increased factory space. That is another story which is beyond the scope of this book.
The growth of industry generally, and bike manufacturing specifically, was matched by other developments all of which contributed to the growth of interest in and demand for modern bicycles. Bicycle shows were organised, attracting commercial buyers from all over Italy and beyond. In scenes that we would recognise today, for example at the annual bike show held in Birmingham’s National Exhibition Centre, a host of stands filled the display areas. Milanese bicycle manufactures, including Edoardo, jostled to attract the attentions of agents, dealers and buyers to show off their latest innovations. Edoardo’s achievements and innovations were recognised through the receipt of several prestigious awards.6
In parallel with this growing interest and commercialization, cycle racing also became more commonplace. In May 1893, 450 cyclists raced around Milan’s city centre. In a hotly contested event the legendary Romulo Buni triumphed over Frenchman Paul Mendiger.7 ‘Molla Buni’, as he was popularly known, went on to compete at the 1900 Summer Olympics held in Paris. These were early days for organised cycle racing and very soon Edoardo’s Bianchis were at the front of the peloton.
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