Thursday. I've got a bit of a problem. It's my hands. I cannot use my thumbs or all of my fingers effectively. It's caused by the constant pressure of the handlebars on the nerves. Road bikes (as opposed to touring bikes, for example) have no 'give' at all and so all movement on the bike is converted to movement on the road and vice versa. So, you feel every bump, every ripple, and eventually your nerves just stop functioning properly. Let there be no doubt at all in anyone's mind. This is carefully crafted and symmetrical revenge wreaked on me by Old Three Fingers Boon for the things I have recounted in this blog.
I first noticed the problem a day or so ago when trying to change gear using my fingertips (brakes and gears are integrated) and I just couldn't push the brake lever across to drop a gear. I assumed it was just muscle fatigue in my fingers but it soon became clear it was not. It has gradually got worse and now I've lost a lot of function and sensation in both hands. It's not painful, I just can't use or feel about half of each hand. Eventually I had to use the heel of my hand to change gear. This pushes the bike to the left (usually) but thankfully my neck and shoulder correction ploy (see previous blog) keep me, roughly, going straight.
Anyway, I'm off on the last day's ride to John O'Groats and leave Brora just before nine. The forecast is for rain and a very strong south-easterly wind. Neil texts me to describe the route. He also books a taxi to take me from John O'Groats to Wick. There's a target now. It's three o'clock and it can't be missed.
There's a long and very stiff climb after Helmsdale and then a good ride. The climb is hard: it's tipping down, windy, I cannot feel my fingers (part cold and wet, part nerve problem) and visibility on the tops is down to ten metres (just this one Bear Grylls moan if you don't mind). I'm hoping the big trucks can see my rather fetching, flouro-yellow, off the shoulder number and so won't run me down.
Just after Berriedale Braes there's a fast. and long descent. I'm quickly up to 50kph and I don't want to slow down because I feel I deserve the payback from the climb. This works fine because I can't feel the brake levers anyway and I couldn't possibly stop in the wet at this speed without a bit of a Clarkson. This could be scary but luckily I can't actually see where I'm going as raindrops in your eyes at this speed either make you blink very rapidly or, as in my case, you simply shut your eyes for a bit of relief. Exciting ride down. Well, the bits I saw were anyway.
The ride after Lybster is on the most remote, straight and beautiful road I have ever cycled on (picture above). I see nothing and no-one (even with my eyes open) for about six miles maybe more. My GPS screen is blank except for an arrowhead (me) and a single line. If you are into cycling then do this route. If you are not into cycling, then do this route and then you will be. Every now and then the solitude of the last few days tells and I greet the local sheep with a loud, cheery "How do you do!" There's little response, so I sing a bit (not a good idea, particularly from the sheep's point of view).
The three o'clock deadline looms and I up the pace. If I miss the taxi I'll have to cycle about 17 extra miles to Wick into the strong, south-easterly headwind. I calculate that I'm within time and anyway it's not a race. So the last few miles will be a cruise. I'm about a mile away now and I realise I am going to finish and I start to whoop and laugh out loud. The sheep look worried. Then in the distance I spy the telltale flash of fluoro yellow. It's another End to Ender. Wait a minute though...... that competitive type on Shap Fell had a shirt like that didn't he?. Can't be him, surely. Can it? Could be I suppose if he took a different route to me. He's the sort that would do something like that.
Suddenly I'm out of the saddle and stamping on the pedals. No way, absolutely no way, is that competitive type getting there before me. I'm gaining on him! I can do it! I can do it! Bob the Builder turns up. "Jump on Bob! I need your help!" My legs are aching and I'm wondering if seeking help from a cartoon character in a children's TV show means I've finally and completely lost the plot. I lose sight of him on a bend. A sly move that typifies his kind. All matey on Shap Fell and then this. So I really push hard whilst he can't see me. I must go faster or he'll nick my taxi, I just know he will. There's only about 400 metres to go and I take the last bend at pace and suddenly he's right in front of me shoving wire into a pipe. His jacket reads "Scottie Leccy: We shove wire into pipes" or something similar. I slow a bit and I know that the solitude had indeed taken its toll. And then...... and then it's all over.
I freewheel toward the signpost for the obligatory wet and windswept photo. I have to prise the 'professional' photographer out of his hut and into the rain. No matter how many times I ask him to hold my Blackberry upright he insists on doing it his 'professional' way and that's why the facebook photo is sideways. Back at his hut I scour the wall for any photo of that competitive type. He's the sort that would leave one but there's no sign. I have to write my name and address on a label as the 'professional' photographer watches. I need to grip the pencil with both hands and my brow is furrowed as I scrawl "Professor" in shaky, childish capitals. He backs away a little and I can't resist pushing my tongue out of the side of my mouth to signify intense concentration on the demanding task in hand. I bid him a cheery goodbye and he willingly agrees to put one of my postcards up so that the competitive type can see that I whupped his ass real good (if he ever makes it that is! Ha!).
Right now I'm in Weatherspoons (look, this is Wick, OK?) and it's curry night. The loss of function in my hands persists and consequently my lap and shirt are generously covered with pilau rice, onion bhaji and chicken jalfrezi. The beer I keep spilling down myself is gradually rinsing the worst off though so that's OK but it's in the toilet that the trouble really starts. I can't do my trousers up. I just can't form an effective pincer grasp and so manage the belt and zip. I don't know what to do. The best idea I have would no doubt lead to the following front page article in the Wick Weekly Advertiser:
"Wick, Thursday. A 52 year old man was arrested in the toilets in Weatherspoons last night. A customer told police: "He was covered in beer and Indian food and standing in the middle of the toilets with his trousers undone. He said "Could you do something for me please as I can't manage with my hands. I'll gladly buy you a pint afterwards". I was shocked. This is sort of thing just doesn't happen in Wick on a Thursday." The man was later questioned at Wick Police Station and claimed to be a Professor. However, further enquiries at John O'Groats revealed that he could barely write his own name and had previously been seen serenading farmstock. On being remanded in custody, the man alleged there was a conspiracy involving a "competitive type and Old Three Fingers Boon." The hearing begins on Monday."
It took me quite a while but I eventually managed to do things up and by then I wanted to go to the toilet again and so I decided to call it a night. Back to the hotel where I can't turn taps on or off, operate the kettle, undo my laces etc. etc. I think about calling reception:
"Good evening. This is Morag. How can I help you?"
"Could you send someone up to take the lid off my toothpaste please?"
"Are you the Englishman who watched the match in The Bush Inn in Carnwath?"
"(Wearily) Yes."
"Hahahahahahahahaha"
".... (Click)"
Now it really is all over and I'm on the train to Inverness. It feels a bit too fast so I might soon have to shut my eyes for a little while. Thanks to family, friends, workmates, my team and Neil at Velodays for invaluable support and encouragement. It was very important to me during some of the Bear Grylls moments. Special thanks to Liz who has put up with both me and my training regime over the last six months.
Finally, I did this ride to raise money for a very worthwhile cause but I did it at this time of year for another reason. My Mum was born on June 4th and died on July 4th. I'm not a religious man and so I needed a different way to remember her and this was it. She taught me to be independent, to try to do things that you don't think you can do and to help others who need help. So that's what I tried to do. If you're looking down Mum, I hope you will feel proud and, erm, you couldn't just give my kit a rinse could you and yes, of course I'll get my hair cut.
Blog over.
The final table:
Distance: 104.7 km
Cumulative distance: 1607.68 km (1004.8 miles)
Ride time: 4h 56m 50s
Max speed: 58.3 kph
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