Or ‘Death is not the end’ as the song goes.

…..Today our van hurtles south (bar yet another lightning bolt tightening at Hunters Tyres, Linlithgow) over terrain hard fought by the turn of a pedal, tomorrow we race the Pennies in a 3 hour event at Knutsford….

All the ride I have been thinking of my family and loved ones both near and far.
Every pedal stroke raised money for a cause that’s ever near to me.
I am in the middle of my dead father and my alive son.
They are paler than the palest blue and darker than the deepest sea.

Day once dawned and it was horrible. I spent most of last night suffering intense dehydration. I noticed that my demand for water increased with every day and my thirst grew acute quicker each time. Left alone half way up a 2 mile climb, something snapped. The world went pink. I lost my grip, dismounted and walked, Cry me a river? I could have drunk a river. For some reason I agreed to get the second climb out the way too (to ease the next day). The descent was perilous (see yesterday) the ascent: a hill too far. I overshot the end point, carried on climbing and begged a perplexed farmer for water. He came out with a half full chipped mug of water and I remembered that there is a war on. He told me where the llama farm (our halt) was ‘a way back down road’ and I reversed cursing.
My tanks were empty, my thirst disappeared, I wanted to pee but couldn’t, I felt as remote as the hillside I was on. Things got worse, feeling feint, nauseous, and very thirsty. I did the worst thing: 3 pints of best pub water straight. I couldn’t sleep, especially as the pub landlord cut up rough about us changing rooms and Paul got to the pre-emptive punchup phase with him until he agreed not to kick us all out.
We were heavily armed but it was his house (pram) in Nowhere’s Middle.
Cyclists beware the Belgrave Arms in Helmsdale.
There was no real sleep to be had , my waist ached and I went for a walk at 4am coming to terms with the fact that John O’Groats, a mere 40 miles off was 40 miles too far, couldn’t even walk it. I thought I could sit it out for a day, see what happens, but felt better for breakfast even if he served up the previous day’s coffee re-heated. A swift visit to the camp doctor set me straight; pills and potions later we headed off into dense fog. Though Dartmoor was dangerous, this was deadly.
Deadly? Perhaps. Stupid? Certainly sir.
Motorists drive without lights headlong into dense fog: worse than in India. Six people were killed on Scottish roads yesterday. Remote unknown statistics smeared over tarmac and bonnets, like jam on toast, etheir memory, their lives reduced to pathetic roadside shrines “Bunty RIP”
People seemed keen to add to the death count today: cyclists most welcome.
The sun came out in Wick. A jolie Frenchman ran a bistro by the bridge. He married a Scot and must love her muchly to move 1000 miles north 12 years past. His soup was flawless and filled my hollow legs.
This morning I thought the journey all over, now; just 17 miles to go. That’s my home to Diss. Simple.
All the ride I have been trying to set my own pace but when everyone else flies ahead your legs say ‘catch up’ I tried. I failed.
Welcome back both hee-bees and gee-bees (sadly no Bee Gees). Everything went pink again. I got off and walked. 4 weeks ago my trusty 1885 cycle fell off the back of my car at 70mph. John worked miracles on it and there it was beside me, 125 years old and in far better shape than me. Together we ambled into John O’Groats. The heather purple, The hills rusty. The cars gone and we were surrounded by sea and sky and sun.
I forced my iPod onto Guillemots ‘We’re Here’ and ‘If The World Ends’ and wept.
Everyone needs to see Scotland in this weather at some time in their life. Don’t put it off until it’s too late. Welcome John Of ‘Groat’ fame, I don’t know who you were but I didn’t think I’d see you today.

P.S. The ‘Journeys End’ cafe will sell you a salty mucus scone and then a pat of butter for an insulting extra 20p.
There must be a war on.

PPS. The SPICE Restaurant in Brora is a jewel in a crown brighter than any found in Royalist headgear. Ask for the Indian CD whilst you eat…

Day sixteen dawned all things bright and beautiful, Astrid and Israh benefitted from the decent kindness (and a joyous breakfast) from Sue and Ruari Gillies, taking away the porridge recipe as they waved a sad goodbye.
Though the wind was of the ‘head’ kind, undaunted we bashed up the coast, a brilliant blue sea to our right, and the roads were more dangerous, which sharpens the mind somewhat. Lunch was ruined. Though Paul chose an excellent location on the banks of the Moray Firth, peaceful, amazing view, He neglected to read that day’s tide table. It was out when we rolled up. Paul chastised the support crew and flew off round the headland to see if a well-placed small nuclear device may hurry along nature. He failed, the photo shows the reason why: Paul has survived with the most primitive of communications. Pictured is the new iPhone ‘shatter’ it works only after it has been subjected to charm and kind words. Semaphore is often a good second option.
Being ambitious and greedy we didn’t stop at the end of the ride but took on a few more hills to ease the day tomorrow, when John did the ride some 11 years ago a young accomplice lost teeth and broke limbs on the steep descent into Briedale, we eased down the ravine, caution taking over valour.
Paul made up for his luncheon error: whilst driving the van he spotted the village of Astle. On presenting our Astie to the clan chief and performing various rituals with abandoned ease, the entire village voted in favour of renaming their town after her. (fig 2) In doing so, they toppled the bronze statue of Jeff Astle and have commisioned a new one to take it’s place beside the Clan Chief’s hut.
Running short of cash, john sold his 1888 Victor to a local shop (fig 3) who pressed it into action straight away, John managed to get £35 for it after much haggling.

Some days are tough, others, like today, seem to fly by. By their independance the Scots re-calculated ‘the mile’ so it is now a movable feast. Some miles are longer than others.
I instructed the staff to lay out my clothes as per usual for today. Imagine their dismay when we were greeted by grey skies at dawn. Naturally I plumped for cavalry twill with Rapha tweeds. This caused no end of unrest as some silly beggar omitted to keep such necessary back- up ironed. I breakfasted on laughably small portions that sat midships on laughably big white plates. It seems the more you pay, the less nosh there is to nosh, this in Aviemore: home to hikers and bikers alike. Dammit, I demanded, chap needs fuel for the day and, on so doing, my beans ration was doubled and toast followed endlessly on tap. If you don’t make a fuss these blighters only take advantage
Outfit duly laundered I upset the mechanics by plumping for my smaller 50″ penny after Paul and I surveyed his map. A wise choice for my tired legs I think.
Modern gears on cycles still use inches; relating to the size of a penny wheel, the smaller the wheel the easier the climb but the slower the progress. I notice this when I am behind John on his 52″ wheel. His legs turn slowly as my feet pump away 14 to the dozen. That’s gearing for you. His two 52″ machines are nearly identical, me returning to my smaller machine that got me over Dartmuir (Scottish spelling) all those weeks ago, was like welcoming back an old friend. John has a pure-bred racing machine, I have a compound hybrid made out of old bits of rusting metal from someone’s shed.(fig 1)
Astrid and Israh were all set to camp or sleep in the van until the lovely woman next to our hotel offered them a bed for the night. This doesn’t always happen south of the border.
Clan-wise we are on the Borders of Sutherland and Ross, relatively peaceful. Tomorrow night we have to stop just before we pass the small Coastal strip that is Gunn territory. Using his trusty iPhone that has already stopped a few bullets, Benney has called up reinforcements from the Elliots (low landers greatly feared and respected in these parts) as we know the Gunns to be an unruly lot, ne’er-do-wells and cut-purses who think of nothing short of robbing a passing chap of his weaponry snd worse, his gentlemans relish. Breakfast without Marmite; quite unthinkable.

The problem with posting these messages to our loved ones back in the land of the living are numerous. I have my Campaign Office Furniture assembled by Guptha and he invariably supplies me with a low grade ink that is quite not my shade. A sound thrashing and remonstrance sends him out into the wilds to secure a reasonable match to Quink blue/black. I do believe I have even caught him mixing the stuff over an open wood fire with the other lads. I turn a blind eye. This is not the first post I have had to re-write due to so-called ‘Word Press’ failure on what is called, I am told, the ‘Internet’.

But here goes.

Another beautiful sunny hot day, so good of Scotland to accommodate us with this fine weather. Most understanding, especially as the ride was so hard. Uphill for the first half, along what used to be the old A9 (now called the B 923872893764) Instead of widening this old road it was handed over to us cyclists whilst they press-ganged a squad of hooligans to build a new shiny road next to the old one. Though this did mean that several petrol stations called it a day (fig 1) their carcasses add to the ghost-road charm and the feint white lines and extricated cat’s eyes look like a Highway Code Palimset. I dread to think of how many motorists have died on these ghostly stretches, and how many are dieing on the modern versions too.

Half way meant picnic, of course, rations were low, but we made do  with bread and mustard bought as far back as Tewkesbury, plus assorted remnants from last nights feast. A quick snooze by a babbling stream and all wa good for the descent into Aviemore, choosing the new A9 as it appeared deserted. A recent article in the Scottish Times has resulted in crowds lining the streets hurling flowers, abuse and kisses at us as we plough ahead through the forest of hands and bells and whistles. The French shout ‘Chappeau’, here they shout ‘O’Shanter’ instead.

Aviemore looks like Andorra out of season. I shall try not to think about that, we are exhausted and all in need of sleep, if tomorrows report fails to make it, it is because of computers, not because of ink and paper supplies.

P.S. there is no P. S.

A perfect still sunny day, we escaped the horrors of a Dunfermaline Travel Lodge after a splendid evening in Edinburgh, doing photos for The Times and eating Mexicans with our chums Stella, Noah and Keith. We went to the breakfast venue recommended to us to find that it opened at 11 but served ‘all day breakfasts’. Not having all day we bashed up into delightful Kinross only to find the cafe to be open in 15 minutes with an owner not prepared to let us wait. A passing stranger recommended ‘The Centre’ to us and we found it in a delightfully converted church, spotlessly clean. We devoured a fine meal, our first pancakes, and the ladies laughed when we tried to pay, The centre serves the community, a bus collects people and they sit and eat and chat. It was like a cyclists cafe of the 1930′s, so nice to see a church being used for the purpose it was built for. (fig 1)
Paul sacked our pastry chef. We were aghast until he introduced Israh our new glamourous Miss Friday. We first saw her sitting in a grassy field, she had bought us a picnic lunch all beautifully laid out. We made a right mess of it. In our world there is never a good excuse not to have a picnic. Astrid and Israh set about preparing a massive pasta feast whilst we stayed that night as guests of the Editor of The Times in one of his and his wife’s lodges on a remote moor under azure skies. (fig 2). We have reached Pitlochry and a different Scotland starts here.
On the trip we are pleased to say we have cured the nation’s housing shortage. We take all the thousands of boarded up pubs, factories, flats, shops and houses we have passed, and we convert them into houses.
Tomorrow we solve the traffic congestion problem.
All in a day’s work.

Possibly the hardest day. We remained dry but struggled into a headwind on the most diabolical road surfaces yet encountered, possibly equivalent to the unmade roads originally ridden over in 1885. Things looked bad, glances were exchanged.
Ahead of the pack, driving our van, flight officer Benney switched on ‘george’ the automatic pilot and clambered behind the seats to the dimly lit navigators table. He lit a pipe and removed the 1942 WOND (wind ordnance navigation director) from it’s leather satchel. It belonged to his father-in-law, pilot of ‘Dainty Danielle’ (G8080) the Lancaster famous for bombing a troll factory outside Copenhagen instead of the ball-bearing plant at Schweinfurt.
Paul assured us all that the device was re-calibrated after that unfortunate mishap, his father-in-law still insists that the Luftwaffe hid bombs in the trolls anyway. Paul aligned the badger cross-hairs, raised the tiny latex wind-sock held up a wetted finger and applied his slide-rule.
“I think the A704 over the A706″ came the calculation, using something called a ‘map’ (strange coloured lines printed on paper) and bowing to superior information, like Lemmings, we behaved. Paul had spotted a railway track paralell to the road and, noting how a train often takes the path of least resistance we gambled on flatness, besides, the wind would be to one side and it was shorter. The cunning plan was that much better than the sort supplied by Baldrick.
We made good time and struggled across the Forth Road Bridge (fig 1) fearing a mighty gust. Penny riders are high up, bridge railings are
much lower.
The ride being hard, I turned to DJ shuffle on my iPod for the first time on the trip. He didn’t let me down. The beats-per-minute seemed to mirror my pedal stroke like some Victorian spin class (without the annoying instructor). A 5 year old Jimpster album, Joan As Policewoman all cheered me on, and I found the urban south London desolation in the two magnificent Burial albums seemed to be so right for the
magnificent heather clad Tinto Hills.
In a hurry to make church on time (less the Lord be displeased) a brainless driver nearly unseated me at speed, she got out to remonstrate, I tried hard to run her down.
But missed.
Her God was on her side.
We passed a fat man riding a tandem on his own, the cycle was a 1960 Laca-Daisical.

51 miles into a near head-wind up one ghost road all day with rain threatening but never quite making it. A ghost road (made up by The League Of Ordinary Gentlemen) is a road left empty by the creation of an adjacent motorway. The M74 was full of traffic, the older version, now renumbered b7076, was empty, it is in fine condition, though those granite chippings slow a Penny from the usual 13MPH to about 8, and the wind did the rest. Spare a thought for the two riders with hangovers too, that bought them down to walking pace!
This Ghost Road also had stretches of an even older A74 beside it, now a cycle path. Highly recommend to any cyclist, we wondered past boarded up fuel stations and remnants of bygone times of travel, the great irony was that this was all, once, a Roman road.
Lockerbie was the only town, like Aberfan and Hungerford; synonymous with events it cannot dismiss or forget.
A mass picnic broke out en-route, the location was Narnia, Paul’s shopping exquisite.(fig 1)
Tom’s hammock saddle broke a string so a handy bungee got him home to Abingdon, to a welcome Days Inn on the motorway and an early night for us all. ..
Cally’s map Reading was so atrocious we ended up in Southern France (fig 2)

A beautiful run off Shapp, through brilliant sunshine whilst it pours back home. Rigurous customs, passport inspection money changing, plus the odd border-guard incentive (well done Astrid) got us into Scotchland and a wonderful return to insanity and fine hospitality was enjoyed at the Mintos in Minto. I was reminded why we are doing this ride by meeting George, what a pleasure and honour. Minto has no ‘phone signal, so this posting is late, I think places cut off from phone contact are to be cherished and preserved. Scotland is about to introduce a ‘view tax’ where all properties are assesed for their vistas and taxed accordingly. Minto, having the far-reaching sort is all the richer for the view, but all the poorer for the highest of tax bands.

Where is the most beautiful place in the world?
Today it is here.
On planning the trip I tried not to think too much about crossing the Lake District, Shapp Fell, at just 470 meters is an obvious choice, but little prepares one for just how beautiful the climb is. The land of Swallows, Amazons, rabbits called Peter, bears called Rupert, and bunnies called Benjamin, it is a land of my youth and it calls me back everytime I visit.
When I’m here, all is right with the world, and we passed ‘half way’ today (fig 1) The photo was taken days back, but seemed right for today.

ON ORDINARINESS
When our two cycles were invented they were called bicycles. After a few years, ingenuity put the pedals lower, geared on chains, and Tarmac allowed a smaller wheel, so the rider could be lower and these were sold as ‘safety bicycles’ the old sort like ours became ‘ordinaries’ . Later diamond-frame cycles continued to be called the Safety Bicycle and it wasn’t until long after their extinction that our cycles got called penny farthings, but it stuck.
Late in life I realised that my life-less-ordinary was not down to place or era, but was down to how I chose to look at life. ‘Place’ helps, The Lakes are extra-ordinary’ but I can see the ‘special’ that exists even in Wigan. One just has to make it oneself.
I received a message from my dear chum of old Nic. He has been on a rare visit back to the UK and we have missed each other again. 30 years ago I played drums badly in his band, we got nowhere and he flew off to the USA to seek his fortune. Years later he art directed films and sleeves for Duran Duran, including the fabulous ‘Wedding Album’ on which was the song ‘Ordinary World’ a beautiful paen to their coming-of-age as life became ‘normal’ after so much hedonistic stardumn. Nic had been to Wales and was trapped by that precious rarity: a place with no ‘phone signal. On returning to London he found the place he was staying burgled. Was that a return to someone else’s ‘ordinary world’ rudely encroaching on a magical week in Wales?
Tomorrow the roads will be full of holiday traffic; a family’s last gasp at summer freedom. Later, as we ascend mountain passes they will have to return to work on Tuesday and grim reality. I rejoice in how my Ordinary World is so precious, vibrant, beautiful and I don’t NEED the Lakes to remind me of this, but, equally I am grateful to their secret magical heather-clad slopes for doing so.
I hereby establish LOG: The League Of Ordinary Gentlemen. Any sex is welcome, simply providing that each member rides a Penny Farthing and has interests beyond cycling history. Apply to Cally for an enamel badge.