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...?