Day 9 – the afternoon: Last 30 miles

I pushed on, heading for Wick, 12 miles away. Wick has always held some interest for me as it shares the same name as the small village in South Wales that my grandparents live in. It was nothing like it though, it was quite a thriving town with its own out-of-town retail centre and high street stores. Something I hadn’t seen since Inverness, over 100 miles away. Unfortunately Wick had no obvious bike shop. “Only 18 miles away now though – keep going, forget about the wheel.”

Time was ticking by so slowly, as were the miles. The wind was reducing my average speed to 14mph. Despite feeling strong I couldn’t pick up the speed in that wind. At this moment I would have been glad to have last Friday’s riding companions again – for both the company and the shelter from the wind. These last miles were lonely and hard.

I was alternating between sweating on the uphill slopes and zipping up against the wind. I was also standing up on the pedals every mile or so to ease the saddle soreness I had (despite double-padding with two pairs of cycling shorts). All the while I was counting down the miles, trying to work out how long it would take if I had to run or walk the final miles with my bike. There was no way I wasn’t going to complete this journey under anything but my own steam.

My speedometer showed 70 miles. Ten miles to go. A distance that I could run if I had to. At an average speed of 14mph I still had 45 minutes of fighting left to go.

I passed craggy peaks and abandoned Crofters’ cottages along cliff tops for miles. Even though John O’Groats is at sea level it seemed like there was another up hill around every corner.

I got out the saddle to pedal up hill. TWANG again. Probably another spoke gone or another crack in the rim. My wheel was still turning though so I didn’t care. Head down, keep fighting.

Finally I saw the sea. The gradient started going downhill. I switched on my helmet camera for the final time. I barely even pedalled. I coasted along a remote street, lined with street lights on one side, and absolutely nothing else to the left or right.

Straight ahead a car park. “There’s the van and something hanging from the window - a celebration banner!”

A kiss, a cuddle and a small bottle of sparkling wine from Helen and some commemorative photos by the harbour wall.

Ninety miles in 6 hours 20 minutes at an average speed of 14.2mph.

It was 5.30pm and already freezing cold in the wind, which I later found out had been gusting up to 24mph. We packed the bike quickly, laughing at the state of my back wheel, now with two broken spokes, and drove 60 miles west to the small seaside town of Tongue.

The view of golden sands, a shimmering loch and high mountains from our hotel window was almost a perfect end to our nine-day adventure. Almost, but not quite. Dinner was waiting at the Tongue Hotel across the road. An exquisite dinner of pork medallions in a rich mustard sauce, mashed potato and the most delicious black pudding made up for nine days of cycling. I’d cycle 900 miles for that meal anyday!