Everyone loves a graph

Even a bad one, like this:

RAB write-up, day 9: Kyle of Sutherland to John O'Groats

Planned route: 104.1mi, 4,541ft
Actual route: 104.26mi, 4,757ft

Day 9 is the earliest start of all, with the gate opening at 6am. The theory behind this is that people want to get to John O'Groats as early as possible, celebrate in whatever way they see fit, and then make a start on their onwards journeys. I was no exception to this rule; up, dressed, fed, packed, out of Blue 98 (farewell, little tent), on the bike and on my way by 6.15. Occasional light rain was forecast for the day ahead, but it was a cold, dry start in the dark. It was very pleasant, though - quiet, narrow roads, winding through mostly empty space, following waterways to Lairg and from there through Shin Forest. In places there were definitely clouds of midges to cycle through - not bad, that early in the morning, but noticeable. The big opening on the front of my helmet is designed to scoop air in, to cool the head; of course this means it was equally adept at scooping in midges, and I had to stop a couple of times to take the helmet off and run a hand through my hair.

At the previous night's briefing we had been warned that day 9's first pit stop, at Altnaharra, was notorious for midges... and they weren't wrong. They swarmed everywhere, the second you got off the bike. The pit crew all had nets on, of course, but it still can't have been very nice working there for a couple of hours. Some riders tried going into the tiny hotel bar there, to escape the plague, but it made no difference - they were everywhere. It was my shortest pit of the whole ride, by far, fed, watered and back on the road in five entirely unpleasant minutes. And if you're wondering why have a pit stop there, if it's notorious for midges, the answer is that there are precious few other areas on the route that are big enough to accommodate a pit stop at or near the right distance. And for few, read none.

I spent most of the next ten miles or so wiping midges off my legs - it felt like that anyway. I had applied insect repellent that morning, along with the usual round of Rock Tape and plasters, and I told myself it made a difference. Certainly I didn't end up with legs covered in midge bites, as one or two others seemed to have. But put it this way, if I ever did RAB again I would probably not stop at that pit at all.

From there, the route followed Lock Naver for a while before turning north and heading for the coast and, for me, perhaps the most beautiful stretch of RAB: wild, isolated, mountainous, fresh... all the way through Langdale, Skail and on to Betty Hill. Approaching Betty Hill gave the first glimpse of the sea and, in the distance, the Orkneys. Also a stunning beach that, on another day, I would have had to explore:

The approach to Betty Hill was also noticeable for the large number of sports cars, classic cars and camper vans coming the other direction, as our route coincided briefly with the North Coast 500 driving route. This led to a very sweary (and unintentionally funny) outburst from a Scottish cyclist in the RAB pack, who labelled all the drivers "f***ing c***s" and decreed that the North Coast 500 was the worst thing that had ever happened to his country.

Getting to the coast was a real boost - the midges had been left far behind and, psychologically if not actually, the end was now very close. It wasn't, of course, as Betty Hill was 50+ miles from John O'Groats, but that's how it felt. I also knew that the worst of the day's hill climbs were behind me. It was just a question of getting my head down and getting on with it. And for me, the twenty miles from Betty Hill to the day's second pit stop, at Reay, were some of the most enjoyable of the whole nine days; the wild, rugged coast nearly always in sight, the air fresh, the weather dry and cool, the hills very manageable, and all the while knowing the end was getting closer and closer. Even when it threatened to rain, a few drops only fell whilst I was actually stopped at Reay, stuffing my face with the last helping of chocolate, flapjacks and other snack treats. The second pit was such a pleasant contrast to the first, as I sat in a comfy chair to eat whilst watching golfers at the neighbouring course. It would have been easy to dally, but I was keen to get on... and just as well, because getting going again was hard. I have to admit that day after day of exertion was really taking its toll on my power output - I wanted to press on but had to content myself with plodding. And it really felt like a plod, especially when, very shortly after resuming from the pit stop, the route turned inland, away from the joyous coast road. Whilst still on quiet, peaceful roads, everything suddenly felt a bit ... less, there's no other way to put it. I found it harder to keep my speed up. The remaining miles seemed to tick down more slowly. Maybe psychologically I didn't want RAB to end, however much my body needed respite. During those last 20 miles I became obsessed with not having a puncture or mechanical problem, and started working out how close I'd need to get before walking to the end became an option. That's just how my brain works: pessimistic but problem-solving, and with a tendency to turn problems into equations. But there were no punctures and no mechanical problems... Thurso came and went, and from there it was just a matter of keeping the wheels turning along a series of unclassified roads, until John O'Groats hoved into view.

I think I wasn't alone in finding an extra little burst of speed approaching JOG - not a sprint finish, or anything like it, but an extra few watts of power from somewhere. There weren't huge crowds lining the approach, of course, but there were people at the roadside, and they were all clapping and cheering. I can't really articulate how good it felt: to know that I had done this, and carried on when I thought I couldn't; to know that my clapped-out old bike had made it, barely putting a wheel wrong for nearly a thousand miles; to know that respite from the catalogue of physical issues was at hand, that my blisters, knees, hip, feet and hands could soon all have a rest; and to know that the journey home would soon begin, to see the family that I had missed so much. But this was tempered with other feelings too: sadness that the experience would soon be over, that the fabled RAB bubble would soon burst; and pain, knowing that my body was battered. That's why, as I rolled over the finish line, twisting my painful right hip one more time to unclip from the pedal, I didn't look jubilant or celebratory, as most riders probably did, but pensive. I had managed to find a smile by the time I got to pose in front of the commemorative RAB banner though and, as previously instructed by my son, hoisted my bike into the air for the traditional "bike as trophy" pose:

Wish I'd taken a moment to straighten my gilet for this picture. The medal is a cracker, though.

There was an enormous queue to get a selfie with the John O'Groats signpost, the estranged twin of the one I'd posed with at Land's End on day 0 ... so enormous, in fact, that I didn't bother. I was keen to press on, and start the next leg of the journey - a coach back to Inverness.

First things first though - I rang home, wanting to let the most important people know that I had finished. An awful lot of riders seemed to have family and friends waiting for them in that John O'Groats field, and I was envious of that. Then I had to say goodbye to my bike for a while, handing it over to a courier company who would wrap it up, stick it on a lorry and deliver it back to my house five days later. Is it silly to say I felt a bit emotional handing it over to the couriers? We'd just been through so much together, me prepping and fettling it ever day, it keeping me safe and, most of all, moving. Sure, there were plenty of times I'd wished I had a better bike on RAB - better equipped and better suited - but my hodge-podge collection of disparate parts, my Trigger's broom of a bike, had got me there. I guess emotions were running high. Whatever, I feel like the bike deserves a plinth now...

Anyway, once the bike was stowed on a lorry, I found my kitbag and went to get changed. There were showers available, for which there was also a big queue, but I figured I would wait for that until I got to my hotel room, safe in the knowledge that other passengers on my coach would be wearing face masks and so wouldn't be able to smell me if I was rank. After finding an empty tent to get changed in, I went to claim my complimentary bottle of beer (which, let me tell you, barely touched the sides) and, from there, to find my coach. I was notionally booked to be on the 1710 but somehow blagged my way onto the 1645. Then, what had taken a day and a half of cycling, sweat and toil to do took less than three hours of motorised comfort to rewind, and before I knew it I was back in Inverness, deposited at the bus station. From there, it was a very short walk to a Travelodge, where I had a room booked. At check-in, another RABber ahead of me gave his booking reference to the receptionist, only to be told that it was a Premier Inn reference and that, in his tiredness, he had gone to the wrong hotel. No such problem for me though, and within minutes I was esconced in my second-floor hotel room.

And that's when it really hit me, I think. Suddenly, a basic Travelodge room felt massive, compared to the confines of Blue 98. I had an en-suite bathroom: no more campsite loos or queueing for a shower. It was quiet: no more grunts, burps, farts or snores from surrounding tents, no distant rumble of generators. And I had a double bed and duvet to stretch out on: no more sleeping bag and air mat. On top of all that, I suddenly had an evening to myself: no bike prep to do, no trip to the medics' tent required, no visit to the stretching area, no clothes to wash and dry, no briefing to attend... it was over, basically. All over.

I got so carried away with just lying around on a massive bed and phoning home that I almost forgot that I had to feed myself now. And that it was Sunday night, and Inverness was full of hungry RABbers. Places were starting to shut, or close their kitchens, at least. I walked round and round, and was turned away from many nice looking places (including a pub that had a really good schnitzel-based menu that made me salivate). I was just on the verge of giving up and buying sandwiches from the Co-op when I happened upon the Black Isle Brewing Company pub, with wood-fired pizza and real ale: perfect. Here's what a pint of 21 Pale and a venison pizza look like:

...all of which tasted even better than it looked. From there, it was a blessedly short walk back to the hotel for an early night. The next day promised an early start by normal standards, though late by RAB standards, as I would be on the 7.55 train to Edinburgh, the first of four trains and one taxi that I would need to get home by Monday evening. I'm not going to write about four trains, suffice to say that it was nice to traverse the country without having to pedal for a change. Other than that, the story ends here really.

What have I taken from RAB? That I am stronger mentally than I thought, for starters: I cycled most of LEJOG alone, and that is hard enough, without factoring in physical pain. There were times when I thought I couldn't carry on (most notably after day 1 and before day 8) but I always did. I also powered myself every inch of the way, something far from everyone was able to do. I also realised, more than ever, that pride and happiness sometimes come not in the moment but in the aftermath, the recollection; it's no coincidence that as my various aches and pains faded, so my sense of achievement increased. There were simple life lessons too: control what you can control, don't stress about what you can't; if there's a lot to do, impose a routine; mitigate risk; and, above all else, prepare, prepare, prepare. And of course RAB also reinforced my existing view that sure, challenges are great, raising money for an important cause is something to be proud of, and cycling from one end of the country to the other in nine short days is a monumental achievement ... but the support and encouragement of the people you love is far, far greater, more significant in every way. I could not share RAB with my family in person, but I could not have done it without them. I hope I made them proud.

And what next? Several times during RAB, I opined that I would never do it again, that I was definitely "one and done". Now I'm not so sure; I can certainly see ways in which I could do it better next time, how I would change my preparations, how I could suffer less pain and, as a result, enjoy it more... is that enough of a temptation? Maybe, maybe not. I wouldn't take a charity place again, as the fundraising is hard, and a regular place is toe-curlingly expensive, so maybe I am "one and done" after all. But there are other events. Maybe I'd get a more suitable bike first, then have a think about where to ride it...

Thanks for reading. If you're thinking about having a crack at RAB yourself here are some links that might inspire (or deter!) you:

• The Sportograf official photography gallery (click the "Best of Gallery" link)
• RAB21 rider Pete's video montage of his ride
• RAB21 rider Andy's Relive route video really puts the distance in perspective
• The official Threshold Sports Ride Across Britain page has everything you need to know about the event, including the sign-up page ...

And that's probably it for this blog too ... unless I sign up for something else in the future. Until then, did I mention how great the RAB medal is...?

RAB write-up, day 8: Strathdon to Kyle of Sutherland

Planned route: 109.3mi, 6,735ft
Actual route: 109.61mi, 7,093ft

On paper, day 8 was a bit easier than 7: three miles and 600ft easier. But that's just on paper. In reality, I'd say it was harder.

It was another early start, which meant I was awake as usual at 4.45. But the rain was coming down in stair-rods, my knees hurt, my hip hurt and my saddle sores had been weeping all night. All that, and I was worried about the Lecht too. I'll be honest, I did not want to leave the confines of Blue 98, let alone get on a bike. I sent my partner a forlorn text message at 5am, which said:

Weather here is atrocious. Am actually scared of descending the Lecht if this keeps up as my brakes won't stop me that steep in the wet.

So there you go: most people were worried about getting up the Lecht. I was worried about coming down...

On the plus side, the Lecht came right at the start of day 8, so at least it was over and done with. The first section is the steepest, a genuine 1-in-5, and I felt no shame in getting off and walking up that bit. I'd say nearly half the field did, from what I saw. Getting back on was hard though, as the hill went on a long way from there, though not so steeply. All the while, it was raining which, as I've mentioned before, is not great for the spectacle-wearing cyclist; it's one thing walking up a steep hill when you just can't see, but when you then need to come down the other side... suffice to say, I had been right to be worried. I could basically see blocks of colour, grey and green, to differentiate the road from the hillside. Could I have seen a pothole if there'd been one in front of me? I very much doubt it. Could I have stopped in a hurry if I'd needed to? Well, at one point I had both brakes full on and was still descending at 30mph, so no, I very much doubt that too. Did the lashing wind and rain make things even harder? Oh yes. And was I mightily relieved to reach the lower slopes of the descent, and feel that I had a modicum of control again, and that I hadn't just died? You betcha.

Heavy rain spoiled a lot of what came next, sadly. The route passed through "whiskey country", and I certainly clocked the Glenfiddich distillery. But from there it was supposed to be wide-open vistas all the way to the first pit stop in Grantown, and it was... it's just that they were grey, sodden vistas, which was a shame. Increasing windy too, the dreaded headwind. And the rain was so heavy that my footwear finally conceded and, overshoes or not, I got very wet feet.

After the first pit, it stopped raining! And the headwind meant that I soon dried out, from the ankles up at least. And from Grantown, the route moved onto narrower, quieter lanes, and the picturesque river crossing at Dulsie Bridge... which is where the near miss to end all near misses happened. I had stopped to take a picture or two - as I said, it was very picturesque. Many other riders had done the same. Whilst I had cleared the bridge and pulled off the road, others had stopped on the bridge itself ... and were on both sides of the road, chasing photographs. Probably not their best decision. Now the approach to the bridge is a narrow blind bend, and the exit from the bridge is an even tighter bend straight into a short but steep climb. So when a group of riders, led by a chaperone who perhaps should have known better, came barrelling into the first corner at speed and on to the bridge, well, it's amazing they didn't hit anyone. And it's not surprising that they didn't all make the turn out of the bridge either: one rider chose to go straight on and brake hard. He ended up in the hedge. Another rider got around the bend but then came off, fortunately having scrubbed all her speed off first. Neither rider was seriously hurt, and both continued quickly on, with every one of their group swearing loudly about the stupidity of people stopping on a narrow bridge. But both groups were at fault, for the group that came onto the bridge were going way, way too fast into a narrow, blind bend, prefaced by multiple brown tourist signs warning of a viewpoint ahead. Easier to blame others than admit even partial culpability oneself, I guess. Still, no-one was hurt, that's the main thing, right?

The route then passed the Culloden battlefield and an unexpected visual highpoint: the Culloden Viaduct, pictured here with another engineering marvel, my clapped-out old bike. As you can see, it might have stopped raining but it was still pretty grey.

The day's second pit stop followed shortly after, in Inverness, one of my favourite towns in Scotland. But I didn't enjoy the pit. I got cold quickly, and found it really hard to get going again. I took some small comfort in the knowledge that John O'Groats was only 150 miles ahead, but even so I found myself stopping within a mile of the restart, just to try to get comfortable on the bike. Despite that, because I know and like Inverness, I was looking forward to cycling over the Kessock Bridge, to cross the Moray Firth. It's a route I've driven many times, but cycling over would be a first. And what a slog it was! The headwind had really picked up, and it almost felt like I was going backwards on the bridge. But I made it. And from there the route took a very quiet (but not particularly well surfaced) route through to Culbokie, where it joined the A9 to cross the Cromarty Firth. Again, this was a crossing I had made many times by car, but never by bike. As I cycled across, a car overtook me, then slowed as the front seat passenger wound down his window. I was expecting a shout of support, as had been common throughout RAB from passing motorists. Instead, the passenger pointed angrily to the footpath (which was not, I hasten to add, a designated cycle path) and shouted, "You should be over there, you c**t!" Welcome to the Highlands, eh?

The next stretch, on the A9, felt brilliant though, turned away from the headwind, on a smooth, flat(tish) road, it felt like I could really get the power down for the first time that day. Rightly or wrongly, it felt like a few easy miles, and I certainly needed them, because as soon as the route left the A9, it started to climb again, towards The Struie, which yielded breathtaking views of the Kyle of Sutherland. On a sunnier day, many photographs would have been taken. As it was, time was ticking on: the slow ascent of the Lecht, my second pit stop restart problems and the headwind had all taken their toll, and I was once more worried about the broom wagon. Thankfully, a brilliant descent to Bonar Bridge helped move me along. I had to slow to take a photograph for my son though, as I approached the eponymous bridge, because he's at an age when bonar/boner is funny. Ho ho.

I rolled into the final RAB basecamp at ten to six, 11 hours and 20 minutes after I'd set off, with ten hours moving time recorded. The Lecht meant I posted by far my slowest average speed of the whole event, but I didn't care. I had completed the back-to-back tough days of 7 and 8, and knew that I could finish RAB now... couldn't I?

Maybe. Maybe not. To add to blistered saddle sores, swollen knees and hip pain, I could now add RSI in both thumbs, and numbness in both feet. The RSI came from shifting gear so often, and was a direct side-effect of having a flat-bar bike with thumb shifters. If I'd had a race bike, with drop handlebars, this would not have been a problem. But towards the end of day 8, changing gear was starting to become difficult, and the weakness in my thumbs had become so pronounced that I struggled to tear open a bag of sweets. As for the numb toes, I guess that just came from pressing down on a carbon-soled shoe into cleats so hard, so often, for so many days in a row (and I can add that this still hasn't completely gone away, more than three weeks after RAB). Anyway... my daily trip to the medic was no longer than usual, but I did take one of the giant Ibuprofen that evening. I also snagged extra Rock Tape, so that I could reinforce my thumbs for the last day.

RAB write-up, day 7: Edinburgh to Strathdon

Planned route: 112.3mi, 7,332ft
Actual route: 112.4mi, 7,595ft

Another long day, another hilly day, and another early start in moderate rain. At 6.28am I set off, lights on, waterproof jacket on, overshoes on ... and, most importantly, Rock Tape and gauze pads in place. I'd like to say dressing your own saddle sores blind, in a tiny tent, in the dark, gets easier the more often you do it, but it doesn't. On the plus side, the discomfort I'd been feeling in my right hip at the end of day 6 had abated, and I was looking forward to what, for me, would be one of the highlights of the whole event: crossing the Forth bridge.

Unfortunately, the rain quickly upped the ante, from moderate to lashing down. Here's the best picture I managed crossing the Forth:

It's blurry because the weather was so bad, I didn't actually stop to take the picture. That, and the lashing rain, obviously. You can make out the new Forth road bridge in the distant murk on the left and, if you look closely, you can just about see the tops of the iconic Forth rail bridge on the right. On another, brighter day I would have stopped and got some decent pictures but instead, as with crossing the Severn on day 3, the Forth crossing left me feeling short-changed.

Crossing the bridge was also the only time on the whole route that I (and the cyclists in front of me) lost the route, so we ended up clambering over barriers and finding our own way back to the trusty blue and white route markers. I'm going to blame the weather... that and the natural tendency of cyclists on a big event to just follow the cyclists in front of them.

Fortunately, the rain soon eased off, though the jacket stayed on for a while as it was a cool morning. It was a day of many different layer combinations, actually, because later in the day it got cool enough to warrant putting a gilet on over my long-sleeved jersey. Anyway, after the Forth there was quite a long drag through to Kinross and Lock Leven, and then Perth which, even in the gloom, looked grand.

And so to the day's first pit stop and RAB's third racecourse, just north of Perth. In case you were wondering just how much got eaten at a pit stop, I took this picture there:

In my defence, I should point out that not everything shown was for immediate consumption - some of the things that wouldn't melt (the gingerbread man and flapjack) were stowed in a jersey pocket for eating during the next leg of the ride. However, full disclosure: this picture doesn't show that I also ate half a pork pie and a pain au chocolat at Perth Racecourse...

From there, the ride got increasing scenic and, more specifically, with my kind of scenery: hills and mountains, isolation, altitude, water. Blairgowrie and the River Tay were a prelude to the Bridge of Cally and then Glenshee. I've mentioned before that all the worst hills have names, right? Well, Glenshee is long and hard, generally grippy and, in places, properly 1-in-how-many steep. But the biggest challenge it presents is its length - it just seems to go on and on. Still, no walking was required, though I did stop for a breather half way up, the flapjack got eaten and a Blue Fuel gummy too. If I tell you that the ascent leads to a ski centre, you get the gist of how high you have to climb up Glenshee, with the kicker being the very last section which GPSs fancier than mine recorded as a 17% incline. That's tough when you're fresh, but when you're on day 7 of a ride and you've just climbed to an altitude of more than 2,000ft is very hard indeed - I thought my heart would burst from my chest... but it didn't, and I made it, to be met by the familiar Deloitte cheer squad with their flags and cow bells. Much appreciated, as was the day's second pit stop that immediately followed, at the ski centre.

From there came what, for me, was the most enjoyable descent of the whole ride, with spectacular views on the way to Braemar. The route then followed the River Dee towards Balmoral, the most obvious indicator of which were signs prohibiting parking in lay-bys. I kept an eye out for Liz, but didn't see her; there were a few jokes floating around about Nonce Prince Andrew lying low in the area too, but I didn't see him either.

What I did see were a couple more grippy hills towards the end, the rewards for which were isolation and striking views. From there, it was a long drag, counting off the miles, to Strathdon showground and the next basecamp.

The day's rain meant there was now another activity to add to the evening's itinerary - clean the bike. Really important if you wanted things to keep working well in bad weather. I also got a mechanic to give my brakes the once over, being concerned that so many steep descents were taking their toll. But with only very minor adjustment, they were given the all-clear; I have to admit there were plenty of times I wished I'd had fancy disc brakes on RAB, but my old-school rim brakes had performed admirably to that point. Little did I know their biggest test would come the following day.

Once the bike was cleaned and racked, I fell into my usual evening routine: shower, wash and dry wet cycling clothes, call home, update socials, eat, attend the briefing, prep the bike, do some stretches, obtain medical supplies... I say supplies because it was no longer just Rock Tape and pads that I needed. I happened to mention to a medic the latest addition to my catalogue of pain, swollen knee joints... and he gave me two of the largest Ibuprofen I have ever seen. Take one tonight, he said, and one in the morning. Would they upset my stomach, I asked, knowing that brufen-based drugs haven't always agreed with me. No, I was assured, as long as I took them with food. But since I'd already eaten that evening, I went off with the meds untaken, burning a hole in my pocket, and went to sit in the stretching area with my legs in the air for a while instead. That seemed to help a bit, as did wearing my compression calf sleeves overnight. That's what I subsequently told myself anyway. Little did I know those Ibuprofen would have a role to play later...

RAB write-up, day 6: Carlisle to Edinburgh

Planned route: 105mi, 4,144ft
Actual route: 104.45mi, 4,144ft

As it turns out, applying gauze pads and Rock Tape to your own saddle sores, in the confines of a small tent, in the dark, at 5am, is not easy. I must have resembled a stranded turtle, lying on my back with all my limbs in the air. But I got it done, and that's the main thing. Getting tight overshoes on wasn't easy either, but they were needed, as day 6 began with the threat of rain... and then rain. Thank goodness for my excellent Altura NV2 jacket - dry, warm and breathable. Nearly everyone else seemed to have Gore Shakedry jackets, and good for them - they are certainly more packable. Shame they are also four times the price. But I digress. Day 6 was the last late start of RAB, late being the start line opening at 7am. I was on my way, Rock Taped and rain-coated, at 6.54; quite a blunt start to a birthday, if ever there was one.

It rained for most of the first hour, if memory serves, during which time the route made its way through a blissfully quiet Carlisle. From there, it seemed like quite a short hop to the Scottish border, and the third country of the ride. It had stopped raining by then, but was still grey and cold. I didn't fancy the long queue for a selfie with the sign, but I did manage to capture it (and the gloomy weather):

From there, the route passed through Gretna Green, where I resisted the urge to get married. Thereon, it was simply a case of following the straight, featureless road adjacent to the A74(M), all the way to the first pit stop, in a lorry park at Lockerbie. Glamorous, right? But much needed, on a damp and dingy day. The route was a bit dismal too, the road just ploughing on, and all the while right next to a very busy road, so there wasn't much peace or tranquility to be had either. There were lots of wind turbines to look at though, and they would have made for some great photographs on a brighter day, but never mind. At least the road was pretty flat, for the first 45 miles.

That didn't last, of course, and things started to get hillier. The weather had, at least, dried up, though it remained murky all day, and I was still glad of my choice to have worn a long-sleeved jersey for the first time.

Finally, at Abington, the route left the A74(M) behind and headed towards the Lowther Hills and Edinburgh! The day's second pit-stop was such a contrast to the first, being in a tiny village called Quothquan (a great Scrabble score right there), and very much needed since day 6 was the day I forgot to take a packet of Blue Fuel with me. Blue Fuel are cola-flavoured caffeine energy gummies, and I had been using a packet of ten every day of the ride as my tea substitute. I drink a lot of tea, every day, and sometimes if I have to go without for any length of time I get crippling headaches that I attribute to caffeine withdrawal. If you think that sounds like an addiction problem, you're probably right: I am a tea addict. I guess that made Blue Fuel caffeine gummies my methadone, but whatever. I'd gone a day without them, so was relieved to see caffeine energy gels and isotonic drink supplements on offer from the High-5 stall at the pit stop. Not tea, but good enough to keep me going.

From Quothquan, it was an increasing scenic plod on to Livingston. Sad to say, however, that Scotland's road surfaces on day 6 were terrible, almost as bad as Cheshire's, and I found myself getting quite sweary again. The increasingly wild and empty scenery was a compensation but my saddle sores were complaining, Rock Tape or not.

Cycling through Livingston gave me cause to reflect on how much my life has changed in recent years. In a previous job, I was responsible for looking after a computer system supplied by a company based in Livingston, and I reminisced happily about past trips there, user group meetings and the like, evenings out in Queensferry, all of that. Seems like a different lifetime.

Anyway, day 6 basecamp was on the Hopetoun estate, just to the west of Queensferry, where the weather was grey and grizzly, and the mobile phone signal was next to zero. The evening's activities were, by now, routine - shower, phone home, eat, prep bike, get medical supplies. To this, I could now a new activity - visit the stretching area, for a session with a foam roller to work the lactic acid out of my tired legs. That's what I told myself anyway, though what was starting to trouble me now, more than legs, was my right hip. In retrospect, I wonder if this was caused by the unusual and unnatural movement required to unclip pedals - I always unclip my right foot at junctions, leaving my left clipped in. Whatever the cause, my hip felt a bit glassy, and I was glad of the opportunity, however inexpertly executed, to stretch out on my yoga mat and move about a bit. I tell myself it helped - a placebo effect is still an effect, right?

Highlight of the day, of course, was phoning home - it was my birthday, after all, and I was missing my partner and son desperately. I phoned my parents too. These phone calls, in terms of motivation and positivity, were more important than stretching and eating; adversity may well introduce a man to himself, but it reminds him of what is really important even more so.

Day 6 ended with a cup of tea and an early night, as day 7 would see the resumption of 6.30 starts. And it ended with occasional light rain too, pitter-pattering down on the roof of Blue 98...