It is a truth universally acknowledged that a middle aged man in possession of a good bike must be in want of a charity fundraising opportunity.

 

In September I shall be cycling from Land’s End to John O’Groats (LEJOG) - 900 miles, 9 days, 2 legs, 1 bike, and metaphorically shaking the collecting tin on behalf of Parkinson’s. 

 

More specifically, it’s for a school friend of mine, Tom Isaacs, who was diagnosed with early onset Parkinsons at the age of 27. 

In 2002 Tom walked the 4,500 miles around the coastline of Britain raising £350,000 for Parkinson's research. En-route he met thousands of people with Parkinson's who were inspired and encouraged by his extraordinary feat. Since then Tom has written about his walk (Shake Well Before Use - Tom Isaacs) and founded The Cure Parkinson's Trust, a charity dedicated to finding a cure that has directed more than £2.5 million into Parkinson's research world-wide. 

 

Please sponsor me and help Tom find his cure.

 

Thank You

 

MY DAILY LEJOG BLOG:

Day 1 Land's End to Okehampton

109 miles
Sat 8th Sept
The Longest Day

5:30am wake up call - 700 sleepy riders were gently cajoled from their "luxury" tents to the cheesy, but undeniably apt "I want to ride my bicycle" by Queen.
Following calorie loading at breakfast, packing bags ready to be transported to the next base camp and a final tweak to our already over pampered and over-accessorised bikes, it was time for the Grand Depart (slightly pretentious Tour de France terminology will be a theme for this and all subsequent blogs).
The starting line was a cocktail of nervous anticipation, bike envy and pure fear.
My target time for the day was 7.5 hours. Not unreasonable given the weather conditions and my relatively obvious delusions of athletic grandeur.
It was a day of 3 halves (a joke for the actuaries with their "magic" numbers....); slow and steady for the first 35 miles; mounting confidence and purpose for the next 40 miles; then a good old fashioned burn out over the run in to base camp where the last 20 miles rose up and up and more felt like Mont Ventoux (smug Tour de France reference) than the approach to Okehampton. I arrived in pieces, metaphorical tears of relief in my eyes.
Time taken: 10 hours (and I wasn't the last by any means).
The general consensus agreed that it had been a tough day, with 8,600 feet of climbing - a bit of a wake up call for those who thought this LEJOG thing was a jolly spin through the countryside (me included).

The day in numbers:

Calories burned: 6,000
Litres of water drunk: 5
Flapjacks consumed: 5
Riders hitting cars: 1
Lessons learned: plenty


Day 2 Okehampton to Bath
108 miles
Sun 9th Sept
Le Tour de Fromage

I'm writing these words from my Alma Mater, Bath University, after a day of better riding, good weather and great scenery.
Having cycled most of day 1 by myself, today's game plan was to surreptitiously tack onto a group and draft behind them for 109 miles, which is almost exactly what happened. Apart from a climb in the Quantock Hills which briefly gave me cause for concern that I had yet to write my will, today's "highlights" comprised passing through the tourist saturated town of Cheddar (6 mile climb, switchbacks aplenty a la Alpe d'Huez), coming in well ahead of the rugby celebrities Lewis Moody and Danny Grewcock (oh what exalted company I keep), the plentiful supply of Cadbury's chocolate at the various pitstops, and having a real bed to sleep in.
Time taken 8 hrs 20 mins.
Getting better, but it still wouldn't impress Mr Hoad.
Tomorrow is a short day, only 99 miles to Ludlow, that foodie Mecca...

Today in numbers:
Feet climbed: 5,300
Dinners eaten: 2
England rugby players that I beat to the finish: 2
Hospitalised riders: 1 (but he's already been discharged)

 

Day 3 Bath to Ludlow
Monday 10th Sept
99 miles

After a night in luxurious accommodation with celings high enough to actually stand up in, it was the by now all too usual 5:30am breakfast call and 7am start.
Saying goodbye to the Georgian City, we passed through the picturesque Chepstow and later Ross on Wye. A frustrating morning was spent cursing the inventor of the derailleur gears as my chain refused to stay in place, but which the ever chippy "Halfords boys" fixed with a roll of the eyes and some comment about "boys with expensive toys...".
More cursing as we were led along a scenic path along the River Wye more suited to mountain bikes and fishermen than road bikes.
Although my 44 year old legs were running on empty for the last 35 miles, I was brought in with true Tour de France style by a team who carried me through to the finish at Ludlow Racecourse.
I certainly didn't feel a thoroughbred today.

Today in numbers

Bridges: Severn
Times my chain came off: 4
Steepest gradient: 22%
Rainbows over base camp: 2

Day 4 Ludlow to Haydock Park Racecourse (between Liverpool and Manchester)
106 miles
Tuesday 11th Sept

Today was meant to be the "easy" day: mainly on B roads and as flat as a drunken Karaoke singer.
Today we felt strong, confident, invincible. Setting off like a well oiled machine, we devoured mile after mile of England's best tarmac, beating out pedal strokes of metronomic regularity, transformed from a hotch-potch of ragged Tour de France wannabes into, well... a group of faintly ridiculous sporty types  huffing and puffing along the lesser trodden of England's highways. But we were proud, and wore the latest over-priced and over-branded cycling paraphernalia. We waved at small children, hoping they would confuse us with the Tour de France. We hunched aerodynamically over our handlebars, flattening our expanding waistlines and picturing ourselves descending the Tourmalet after an especially daring attack (TdF reference again).
Which was all very well until 2 members of the group collided, suffering a few cuts and bruises, and pricking the bubble of illusion that had been so fleetingly within reach.
We all limped home into a unforgiving headwind nursing a few more aches and pains than the previous day.

Today in numbers :

Olympic gold medal winners taking part: 2 (Rebecca Romero and James Cracknell)
Broken collar bones: 1
Participants having dropped out: 14 (allegedly)
Rainbows over base camp: 2 (again)
Cumulative time spent on the ride (including pitstops): 34 hrs

 

Day 5  Wed 12th Sept
Haydock to Penrith (almost Scotland)
104 miles

Today was wet, windy and a "what-am-I-doing-here" kind of day. It was the kind of day that I knew would have to happen sooner or later, because life isn't a beach, especially on 2 wheels and a guillotine for a saddle.
It had rained all night, which was just a warm up for the day when we were to tackle the infamous Shap Fell pass; 10 miles of ascent from Kendal to (you guessed it) Shap, enough to give even the most hardened of Sherpas a vertiginous nosebleed.
The morning was spent negotiating the elements and the rush hour traffic choking the bucolic, quaint villages of Preston and Wigan (not).
But once into the Lancashire countryside angry commuters were replaced by bemused sheep, of which I have experienced an odd affinity throughout this event as I follow other riders blindly through fields and country lanes for no apparent reason...
At Kendal we overlapped with the Tour of Britain which was passing through at the same time. The cheers and waves from the local schoolchildren who charmingly mistook us for elite cycling professionals was strangely heartwarming, a highlight of the day, but which was soon replaced by something much less pleasant.
The grindingly monotonous slog up to Shap had not one redeeming feature; the view was obscured by low cloud, no-one mistook me for Bradley Wiggins, despite the rakish sideburns, and the reward of a fast descent after reaching the summit was happily countered by a vicious headwind trying to blow me back up the mountain.
It was only one of my wife's energy flapjacks (c/o Hugh Fearnley Whatshisname apparently) that saved me from running out of energy before reaching base camp.
I write this from my "luxury" tent, fed, watered, tired, but knowing that I'm now more than half way to JOG, having covered 534 miles.
When asked for inspirational words to give us insight into how an elite athlete deals with days like this, James Cracknell told us today "...if you ask your legs, they will always say yes". Great.

Today in numbers:

Paralympians riding the route with us: 1 (Sarah Storey).
Pairs of cycling shirts worn to "keep things comfortable": 2
How many times I'd like to cycle up Shap Fell pass again: 0

Thanks for reading.

Limor

 

Day 6  Penrith to Hamilton (Scotland)
Thursday 13th Sept
100 miles (plus 1 due to road closure)

The nights and mornings are developing a serious nip in the air, so breakfast very much brings us all back to life and sets us up for the "pleasures" in store for the day ahead. The early morning scrum for bread, porridge etc is a fine example of man at his most primeval. However, food is no longer emotional, it's a mixture of fuel and life support. Boring but important: eggs and bacon = protein (muscle recovery), porridge, honey, banana = energy stores, caffeine = rocket fuel (used with caution). The field kitchen which follows us around the country goes by the name of "Beau Nosh". Beautiful people indeed.
Today's ride has been, and I choose my words advisedly, "straightforward". The flat route took us into Scotland winding its way up through Carlisle, Gretna, Lockerbie, and up to just South of Glasgow. Not much of note other than the slightly oppressive browns and greys of the local architecture, something that Calvin would probably have deemed "of excessive exuberance". After a bit of huffing and puffing we came in with a personal best time of 7 hours, greeted by the manicured lawns and slightly disapproving looks from the grounds staff of Hamilton Park Racecourse. I was then promptly admonished for walking on the grass and trying to dry my shoes in the dining room. Fair enough.
Tonight's briefing for tomorrow's ride took a more somber air than previously; it was already the longest stage of the event at 127 miles, but has now been extended due to a landslide on one of the roads. It now stands at 134 miles. The weather will be "challenging" with winds of 24 mph blowing us back to where we came from and rain washing the smiles from our faces. As I sit composing this update, the forecast gales and wet weather are already buffeting my "luxury" tent.
It's going to be a long, long day; maybe 12 hours.
It's going to be a "bit of a nightmare".
It's going to be OK, I have my wife's flapjacks...

Thanks for reading.

Limor

 

Day 7  Hamilton to Fort Wiiliam
134 miles
Friday 14th Sept

Le Tour d'Armageddon

The humming flood-light generator stationed directly above my tent performed a soporific duet with the incessant tapping of the rain inches above my head. Against this backdrop I spent a fretful night going through the "rider challenges" enumerated at the evening's briefing: what to wear to stay dry, but keep cool on the climbs and warm on the descents; fuel up on food to get to the end, but don't eat so much your body's digesting, when it should be powering the legs; take time to enjoy the ride, but it'll be "character building" stuff with little time for sightseeing. With too many contradictions clogging up my synapses, I closed my eyes and metaphorically crossed my fingers - hoping God would just be too busy to visit Armageddon on us tomorrow.
By morning things had moved on; riders had a more "focussed" approach with banter centred around wind speed, likely hill gradients and looking out for each-other if riding became "hairy".
Groups were setting off early (from 6am) to help ensure arrival before dark. We left at 6:30, wrapped up like Lycra mummies, our lights flashing in the early morning gloom.
It was raining lightly, but of more concern were the trees; ominously bent in the gales that would accompany us through the ride.
The first 70 miles were the expected "slog", along B roads and through small villages. We were spared dicing with death during the Glasgow rush-hour and headed straight for the Glens Ogle and Coe.
Glen Ogle was our first taster of the impending mix of stunning scenery, punishing gradient, and gusting headwinds. Whilst taking a minute away from the pain to enjoy the surroundings, I noticed a familiar waft in the air, but couldn't quite place it. It then all became clear: I was being overtaken by the base camp portaloos, speeding on to Fort William. At this point I am at pains to indicate that the aroma was of strong disinfectant, rather than of anything else - the portaloo profession does have its standards.
The dreaded climb up to Glen Coe came at the 90 mile mark; long, steep, windy and windy (you work it out). Mangeable on a fine, clear day, the hour spent crossing Glen Coe was grim, grim, grim. 25mph headwinds conspired to bring tears to our eyes and lead to our legs. Our so-called racing bikes were transformed into old bone shakers and all our high-tech wind proof "athletic cladding" was blown through like so much tissue paper.
Heads down, heart rates up, we ploughed on through the valley of (near) death and emerged bedraggled, puffing and slightly smug out the other side.
We reached Fort William base camp around 5:30pm, having been on our bikes around 11 hours.
As I write this 2 1/2 hours later, riders are still coming in. The Broom Wagon (or Grim Sweeper) has been busy today, although the mood at dinner is a heady cocktail of relief and achievement for those to have made it.
But there are 2 days left, with JOG so close, but still over 200 miles away.
I'm not counting my chickens, but l am daring to decorate the chicken coop.

Today in numbers:

Broken thumbs: 1 (Member of my Group that collided with the Tarmac)
How many times my chain came off: 2 (boring, but oh so annoying)
Cumulative time spent on the bike this week: 60hrs 20 mins

Thanks for reading,

Limor

 

Day 8  Saturday 15th Sept
Fort William to Kyle of Sutherland
111 miles

The morning after the day before, to coin a phrase, was a mixture of emotions: energy levels low, but spirits ups. Rather than counting the mileage from Land's End, we were now talking in terms of distance to John O'Groats.

After yesterday's heightened state of alert, "normality" had been reinstated; breakfast at 5:30am, set off from
7am - the weather forecast was even looking promising
Today was a tale of 2 Forts, the start at Fort William, and the bruising reality at Fort Augustus.
The exploits from day 7 were rapidly becoming legendary folk lore at the Fort William base camp: 25mph headwinds were now 60mph gusts uprooting small trees, children and sending sheep flying into the air; the blustery conditions went from being chilly, to causing frostbite and inducing hyperthermia within minutes to any unprotected part of the body. Taking on Glen Coe and making it out the other side made us all feel good.
Fort Augustus didn't. It was one of those interminable climbs that reminded me I was 20 kilos heavier than Bradley Wiggins.
So, for the first (and last) time this week I climbed wearily off my bike and trudged dejectedly to the top of the climb. So much for the legs saying "yes"...
However, as the weather brightened up, so did the scenery and our pace. We positively whirred along the banks of Loch Ness, and drank in the ever increasingly  dramatic backdrop of the Scottish Highlands.
Base camp tonight was at The Kyle of Sutherland. Nestled at the side of a Loch, it was bathed in warm sunshine as we arrived, ticking off day 8 and another pedal turn closer to the now mythical John o'Groats (small "o" apparently, as I found out on day 9).
However, the week was beginning to take its inevitable toll on my body, which had now recovered from the brutal shock of day 1 and was now complaining quite vociferously about being dragged out each day when it would much rather plump for the sedentary lifestyle it was used to.
My knees and calf muscles were tight, and I was worried that cramp may set in. My "undercarriage" (for want of a better description) had been through the wars and was ready to throw in the towel.
Only day 9 to go, but it was going to be through gritted teeth, and at least 2 pairs of cycling shorts...

From a midgie tent In the middle of nowhere,

 

Day 9  Sunday 16th Sept
Kyle of Sutherland to John o'Groats
104 miles

The Grande Finale

I wake up with niggling worries about the final day: my calf muscles are tight and thighs painful from the lactic acid built up during the week. People are emerging in the early morning gloom, the head torches lighting up specs of the campsite like so many sluggish fireflies. But the atmosphere is upbeat as talk centres on "one final push" and even photos at the finish.
It should be "one of the more straightforward" days: long, but gentle climbs, a relatively  benign weather forecast and even a tailwind to help blow us over the finish.
It's a day of "lasts"; last rider briefing ("...easy course today, but don't get overexcited..."), last pitstops en route (chocolate bars, flapjacks, jelly babies, with a special guest appearance from Ginster's ham and cheese slice to mark the occasion), and the last day I sit on Jimmy "La Guillotine" Saddle for a good few weeks.
As I set off I quickly realise that today's ride is not "in the bag": not only is my body telling me that I'm living on borrowed time with legs, arms and backside ganging up to offer me "one last day before meltdown", but my bike joins in the fun with break pads now rubbed dangerously low and my front derailleur gears seizing up altogether. Even the miracle Halfords boys can offer no better assistance than "...you can change the gears with a bit of a kick, which should get you through to the end of the day". There goes my Champs Élysée and champagne final day.
My spirits are lifted, however, as I receive news that my wife, friends and family are topping up my fundraising efforts back home; even Oscar, my 8 year old mini Messi, raided his piggy bank for the first time on record (having negotiated a matching contribution from Mummy first). I think of Tom, whose Parkinson's charity I am fundraising for, and who walked what I am now struggling to ride, and decide that a sore bum and dodgy gears aren't much of an excuse to whimp out now.
Dreaming of seat cushions and well-upholstered occasional furniture, I notice that we're now cycling smooth and fast, bordered to one side by the picture postcard Loch Shin, and to the other by remote, highland hills, and my mind starts to wander. Am I more of a Miguel Indurain, strong on the flat with diesel engines in his legs, or more a Mark Cavendish, who can rise out his saddle and accelerate past a peloton to give the illusion of it going backwards (you can tell I'm getting slightly delirious at this stage...). I'm brought out of my self-aggrandising reverie when I read a sign saying ...."Lammer auf der Stasse" (sheep on the road), reminding me that I'm on a tourist route in Scotland and not the home sprint of the Milan-San Remo day race.
"John o'Groats 50 miles" shouts the next sign, which 2 weeks ago would have seemed like an eternity, but which now represents a strangely compressed and very manageable few hours of cycling, legs permitting.
We get to the coast at Betty Hill (no relation of Benny) and turn right, breath taken away by the long, sweeping coastal views, and gently blown along by the promised tailwinds.
The last few hours are flat and fast, the result of 8 days' practice and learning as we went: no mechanical disasters, no energy "bonks", no peloton pile ups.
The finish line comes after 7hrs 7 mins.
Music, smiles, medals given out (to be stored in the attic and brought out for the grandchildren).
Done, over, never to be repeated. To paraphrase: "If you ever see me near a bike again, you have my permission to shoot me", but you know what happened to Mr Redgrave...

My Ride Across Britain in numbers:

Money raised so far: £2,142 (target £2,500) www.justgiving.com/LimorFeingoldRidesAgain;
Miles ridden before using a designated cycle path: 250
Bottles of water drunk: 75
Dinners eaten over 9 days: 16
Pitstops: 19
Total riding: 75 hrs
Longest day in the saddle:  11 hrs
Shortest day in the saddle: 7 hrs
Punctures: 1
Times I wanted to give up: 0

Thank you all for your support,

Limor (official LEJOGler)