Though pretty level it was a flat day indeed. Possibly the hardest day, not through physical effort, more through having to pedal through Wigan. If ever a terrain was hostile to the bicycle, this is it. Though I nearly killed myself on dartmoor, I nearly died in Wigan, mostly by losing the will to live.
And then we saw the Bowland Hills and all is right again, plus a fabulous guest house in Scrotum near Preston and tomorrow: The Lakes.
Dave (just Dave) came to our aid on the van, fixing back on some trim at no charge for which we are most grateful, as we are for all the many roadside donations.
Cally was stopped by the Cheshire Constabulary, for meandering across a red light, a small matter considering Paul Benney drove through St. Helens with both van side doors open; he had picked his staff well, all were crack shots and the van, like some Helicopter Gun Ship cleared our path of footpads, ne’er-do-wells, oiks and youths brandishing their cans of Old Wifebeater Lager and Energy Drinks. Bandit country.

Known locally as ‘The Longest Day’ mainly because my mileage calculation came upon my poor calculator skills and 50 miles became 75. However we were treated to the A49 and Cheshire, what astounding trouble and traffic -free roads. Knutsford just over the hill, to where we return in a fortnight.
Last night we bade a sad farewell to Donald Workman. The memory of him propelling his six foot plus frame alongside my penny shouting out directions only to hand me a beautifully inscripted sheet with instructions thereon is a lasting image indeed. Donald was replaced by an altogether different regime: one Paul Benney who masterminds the rest of the trip. Paul, not happy with our frugal consort, came with staff: two cooks, a pastry chef, an excellent cocktail waitress, drivers and coolies, plus a mysterious witch doctor ‘Renata’ Danobetia who set about the squad with herbal potions, massage and secret chants. We were sorry to see her go too. Dinner and Board was in the beautiful Much Wenlock, hosted by the deWet’s and their beautiful accomplice: the girl ‘Jane’ so the 70 miles was about the right distance for swapping yarns.
And now it’s time to talk of Tom. He rides a mere Pedersen, yet has won more stages than any other rider in the Peleton (4). He is fast but the colours on his jersey’s aren’t -he holds the green, polka dot, yellow and pink jerseys, so far: laundry takes an age.
“I’ll take the 52 I think” came my order barked at Benney and, with a series of claps from his hands his assistants unloaded the gleaming 52″ wheeled Penny, whilst relieving me of my tired 50 incher. I was lowered into the saddle and we bashed through the miles without the need of E.P.O’s or clinical aids, save the odd muscular G and T.
Tom tested positive for meths and so won the day. His satellite navigation system is known as Thomas-Thomas to save confusion.
Thanks to you all for your texts, too numerous to answer, despite our over-staffing, and tomorrow is bandit country….

You meet the best people on these rides, many are doing their own end- to -end but, possibly, none quite so intrepid as Master Fergus Gunn (fig 1) who pedals his 1958 Sunbeam Twinkie (Fixie) Track Iron Trike with Campag Groupset and Carradice Big Boot in which all his essentials are stowed. Throwing convention to the wind, Fergus opts for a beany hat over a cycling helmet and pedalled the length of his garden from one end to the other and back again. It ain’t what you do it’s the way thatya do it.

Did we mention Astrid turned 22 today?Thanks to the copious van,an entire picnic could break out in beautiful Tewkesbury (see below)
We met friendly Spaniards cycling from Bournemouth to Liverpool to attend a week-long Beatles convention (where else) see below.
As I crunched through the miles I pondered on how miserly the French are as they seem less inclined to share their Litter Collections out amongst the populace than us Brits do. I mean: what does your Brit do on finishing his packet of 20 Benson? That’s right, he places it on the kerb leaving it for anyone else to take and use as a handy container for screws or sweets, a carefully folded crisp packet can be an excellent substitute contraceptive in the unlikely event used condoms are not to be found roadside, the salt and vinegar having ideal antiseptic qualities. Bought too much milk? No matter: plenty of bottles can be hunted for along the road, indeed it will not be long (especially after this publicity) until our Town Halls host Litter Fairs for litter collectors where that mint red bull can can be offered for high bids, or swapped for diet coke (ringpull intact).
Strikes me a bit odd if a county wants to encourage tourism but finds it beyond them to make our roads cleaner than those found in, say, India.

Bristol is a cycling city, we knew this as soon as the great chaps at The Bicycle Workshop on Colston St. set about Pedersen No. 2 and repaired a warped spindle with minimum fuss and cash. Today we retired able Seaman (Robert) and we introduce Midshipman Workman (Donald) who is racing a broken frame into the capable spanners and torch of Trevor Jarvis who rose to yesterday’s challenge, what guys!
Today we sped from Taunton to Bristol meeting friendly trike-ists and stopping in the magical town of Axebridge…. The cheese was Old Dem Dike, bought by Harriet in Bristol and demolished by us round her table, washed down with lashings of Gem by Bath Ales, both highly recommended. Tomorrow is Astrid’s Birthday, in case there are still people in the British Isles unaware of this fact, it lasts just one whole week. The photo pinup is of Mr August in Axebridge.

The easiest and brightest day so far, thank you for all your textages of support, thank you to the great last two bed and breakfasts ( any cyclist needs the comforts of Penrose in Lostwithiel and The Red Lion in Shobrooke went far beyond the call of duty: food way after 10, tumble dryers (overworked) and beautiful cats. Tom managed to break a seat tube on Pedersen No 3 so we pressed No 1 into service and I am putting out a call to anyone who can braize on our route (please) . The A38 was bedecked in signs telling us how many casualties occured in the last 12 months at any given junction, right beneath one of these we came upon a nasty collision. I expected to see, further ahead, a grumbling signwriter come walking with paint and brush for to update the sign.
Please feel free to donate (thankyou to all who have and all who do enroute) if what we are doing is too confusing, please take a lead from our great friend Mike Christy, and donate to your favourite charity, that way no-one loses out! Now, whilst I have your attention , on the way out allow me to direct you to www.slowcoast.com in which our chum Nick cycles the coast of Ireland for a great cause , he’s there now: ignore at your peril.

In which it rained and rained and (guess, go on, that’s right) : rained. A long hard day, the sort you tell grandchildren, the sort that gets better with the telling and passing of years. Triumphantly, and with a friendly wave to the lovely friends that shadowed, guided and helped us, we entered Devon. Quite unknown for it’s mountain ranges, but there they were, taunting us. So we ploughed across Dartmoor and even though visibility was down to less than a car length it is surely one of the world’s most beautiful places, even in the rain, did I mention the rain? And now we sit in a warm dry pub with pints (excellent Cornish ‘Tribute’) and cheesy pasta (cheese of unknown origin but who cares) and all is ‘right with the world, that is, until tomorrow. There were no ponies, convicts or black-eyed dogs on Dartmoor, no traffic either, who would be so stupid to attempt a crossing in that weather?

Cornwall, being the sump of Britain, also seems to have amassed all the cars of Britain too, all jammed onto tiny roads too small to share room with us. Land’s End is great if you collect souvenirs, are happy to pay to walk on a cliff, and like the smell of diesel and chip fat. We bid a hasty depart, 11.30 instead of 8.30, as the poorly van went under the doctor again, but came out smiling… a hearty breakfast of beans on toast gave us a strong tail wind which was needed for those fabled hills. We are all most happy to donate to the Cornish Separatist Movement and look forward to Devon tomorrow. Lostwithiel ( now dubbed Lost Withnail) gave us an average Sharps Doom Bar bitter and English Brie, (probably as local as Tesco’s Cheese Bar in Truro. ) Tom is keeping a journal on ‘great industrial estates I have had the misfortune to ride through’ and astrid is worried about her swollen knee…

Arrived in Penzance after lengthy visits to nice mister Kwik Fit in Acton who attended to a distinct lack of brakes on our trusty van. We got here 7 hours later than expected (1.am) greatly relieved as, for a long moment, we was gonners. Looking forward to a later start tomorrow after a lengthy breakfast and another visit to the kwikfit surgery. Onwards, they cry!

Loading the van so kindly lent by Tony at HPS Plumbing (Halesworth)…