LEJOG Day 14 - Helmsdale to John-O-Groats...I DID IT!!!!

Can I just point out that JOG is at the top of a 51 mile hill that starts steeply out of Helmsdale. Or a 55 mile hill. Depending upon whether you believe the book or the road signs. As you will recall, I clocked the economy with truth that the Book must observe. Only Type A's can deal with the REAL truth.

At 8am and minus two degrees, hopping out of the car and getting straight on the bike was probably my worst mistake of the Tour. I suffered a lot for not warming up. Stupid idiot, Little Lady Lead Legs that I am.

I barely slept in case it snowed, hurricaned or the bike got stolen. I'd done a deal with myself - no matter what - even if I had to walk with the bike. Today was the day.

As it turned out, my lack of faith or my newly found realisation that anything that could go wrong on the Tour will go wrong, proved to be unfounded. From before 5am this morning, the sky was clear and it looked as if the Shipping Forecast might be right for the first time in two whole weeks. It was right. But with Knobs on.

Those steep hills though. Bl**dy hell. I put in the last 10 undulating miles last night to Helmsdale thinking it would save my pain. Err. No. Flipping cliffs. Get in the way of an easy 50 miles.

I totally collapsed my right knee on the second hill. Total burn out. Shattered, no energy left in the tanks, I could really do without this last minute hitch. Having fought every weather and every doubt, I couldn't believe my body had given up on the home straight. Then I got a tweet from a chap who pointed out I'd already passed the point where James Cracknell gave up (on medical advice) his record attempt a few weeks ago and so I ignored the advice on the medical tin and downed a double portion of anti-saddle-sore pills and thought well - it hardly constitutes an overdose if these are the last ones I take.

Half an hour later, straight in to the blood stream (as I couldn't eat or drink anyway) it's amazing how the third hard hill was an absolute b*****d but Little Lady Lead Legs had turned in to Little Lady Light Legs. Perhaps I'm an addict, I don't know, but if you only had 30 miles left on the back of a 1000, I guess you'd self medicate.

After that, my new Tweet Mate said it was downhill. Not downhill in a look downhill sort of way but downhill in a not Cairngorms sort of way. Just in an uphill, not as bad as Cornwall and Devon hill sort of a way. Remember these guys are professionals. I'm just an amateur pretender.

We so know how to do Castles in this country. I have seen the most monumental places these last five days. Castle after castle after castle. Never mind they are semi-ruined, half-ruined or fully ruined, it occurred to me that if I'd been a Viking Invader having successfully navigated dangerous seas, I'd have pooped my pants at the sight of our East Coast Castle line. Every other step, another huge stone place full of hardy northerners. You'd have turned on your jelly legs and hoofed it home, surely?

Another thing we are Great at, is graveyards. I've been trying not to mention this as we are not good as a nation at facing mortality in any ethics sort of way - I will have to go to Switzerland shortly to put myself out of my misery unless the knee starts to behave - but the other day, I saw a grave stone by the side of the road. Not because someone had been buried there but because two white van men were up to no good in a layby. I know my civic duty should demand I capture reg no's and all that but I did a ready reckner and realised I was better off alive than dead to the Haven and sometimes having Fundraising blinkers can help.

I know that where there is a market, there is a market. They called me Lady Sugar at the Yorkshire Haven in September. My first day I said - right, what have we got to flog? They looked at me, looked at the bare cupboards and started singing nursery rhymes.  That'll be bare cupboards then.

Oop ere the graveyards are like Thai Temples. Careful, considerate memorials to the dead and life ever after, they are huge, well kept and eerily magnificent. Block after block after block. Presumably they needed a lot of people to build scary Castles and those folks were made of tough stuff and reproduced solidly down the ages.

We are also good at Mooses. Those giant red shaggy cattle cows that look like the picture on the McGowans toffee bars I consumed by the handful as a child. Now in the Headingley One Stop they will be considered sour and unsaleable but at Mile 3527, take it from me, I became my inner child once again. Amazing how a sound, a place, a name or a smell can transport you to a place of safety.

I'd like to say I rocked in to JOG full of myself but you will have guessed that the Majors needed attention and frankly I'm too exhausted to care less what the bl**dy sign post looks like. Just bring on the picture and get me back to Brora.

The ultimate irony or moment of suspend disbelief is that JOG was shut. So shut that there wasn't a signpost. Just a pole that you could hang the official photographer's signpost from. Only it was too wet, too cold and so last season, the photographer went home with the last ferry to the Orkneys so I had to hang my helmet from the top, wrap my High Vis around the post and try not to lie down on the base. God we are CRAP at our extremity - whether it is LE or JOG. Rumour has it, both are owned by the same company. Ah ha. No surprise there then.

To tell you the total truth, I was gutted. Between Helmsdale and there, nothing was open. Not even in Wick although it has an airport. I suppose it was Sunday and on most levels I shouldn't be surprised but actually I just felt mortally embarrassed. I can only imagine what european visitors think at either end. I described it as a 'Shabby Sh*thole' to Mum Major and for once didn't apologise for swearing. She didn't object either.

That 51 or 55 miles was the best, most rugged, most beautiful, inspiring, stirring scenery of LEJOG and yet to end like that in a pre-fab craphole was just the pits. The Majors thought I would be so proud of myself. I said 'Put the Bike on the car and please get me out of here.' 

I mentioned yesterday how I would feel and careful readers will know the answer. Empty.

I've arranged to send the Majors home with all the kit but I'm staying here in the comfort of the Royal Marine at Brora. They have a GP, a hospital and miles and miles of empty beaches for me to Chill-Ax in. Baby Girl says that to me a lot so I thought I would see what it involves.

In truth, I feel quite poorly. I have a temperature, everything that can ache does ache and if it doesn't ache, it hurts. The last time I felt like this I had to go back to work twice before and the very next day. As a leisure lady, I can listen to my beaten body and say that 10hrs in a car will probably cause me more bodily stress than is good for me. The Majors are feeling worried about leaving me but with a bed the size of Lichtenstein all to myself in a hotel and spa, surely a good lick and polish, Great Food, sleep and TLC for 24hrs will begin my recovery. Also there's a distillery and a 24pt heritage tour to do and that has my name on it tomorrow.

I've not been out for 2 weeks. I've spent 14 nights feeling like something from an alien movie. In June when I did the London to Brighton Bike ride with a Friend's daughter that was awesome, it was the nearest thing to this. Only I did it 14 times on the trot these past two weeks. With a lot of alien KNOBS on.

There are some points that I need to make. This bike ride will earn a lot of money. Not just through Justgiving but through a lot of other people. I would never have set off on it, if I had known what I now know but I feel duty bound to mention the following:-

(1) I've trained for this for 3yrs. Almost every day at 5am. I always get up and do my training. I'm not an athlete and I never will be - but failure to prepare is preparing to fail - I'm more fit than practically everyone I know. If you want to join me with Simon Coach at 7am on a Monday, I'm sure he will amused unless you are serious. As in totally.

(2) LEJOG has a 3months recovery time. Minimum. I thought it was exaggerated. Now I know I'm at the edge or on the edge and though my natural inclination is to shut up now and put up later, I've come to realise that listening to my Body now will aid my recovery. When in doubt, my knee KILLS so at least there's no marathon due on that. This week.

(3) We all have different talents. Mine is to get on. Others listen. Others support. Others wade in. Our talents are unique and we should never play to our weaknesses. If this is not you, it is not you. It is not me either but I'd be a Master at Japanese Water Torture otherwise. On myself.

In summary, my dear LEJOG Blog readers, it has been my pleasure to sweat the small stuff for the past 14 days. I'm not big, I'm not clever and actually, I'm a total bl**dy misery. But fundraising isn't always a piece of cake and usually it's smelly and hard.

The Good News is that someone had better tell George to get the morning kettle working. I'm away to the spa in the Maldives but after that, I'm going to ambush him. I had 51 or 55 miles to consider how it can be done and BOY do I have a Good Plan. No cycles, no stealth and no magic or mirrors. The poor Man won't know what has hit him in that Window. I know you can imagine.

In Loving Memory of Albert Frankland RIP. 24th September 1924 - 1st December 2010. The most courageous, loving Man that I will ever know. I hope you would be Proud. XX

LEJOG Day 13 - Daviot to Helmsdale

Gave in to Dad Major last night and agreed to stop looking for the Inverness I recalled from a 10K a few years ago and ended up on some out of town circular road. To be fair, it was alright. Next to the Old Distillery pub it was more mouth than action (nothing new in my life) but the food was OK and although retreating to the room wasn't exactly a holiday pleasure, there have been a lot worse places on this Tour. As you know.

Sent the Majors on a task to find the Inverness I knew though, with map (no Sat Nav), camera and detailed instructions. They found it, they say. I will need to see the alleged photos to check. But not today.

Ever since Albert took over as Admiral of HMS Ruston in Stirling, I've felt very calm. Except when I cry. I've cried oceans the past four days as I've been mostly by myself in huge swathes of Scotland. Luckily, one of the doctors that had the pleasure of my unsmelly self earlier this year gave me 'Permission to Cry'.

As I declared my impatience with myself for blubbing (as a trait I didn't recognise in myself) he said it was good to cry. Talking helps get out the words (I had a lot of counselling earlier this year) but crying gets out the emotion. And I seem to have had a lot of that these past two weeks.

People keep sending texts asking me to talk about subjects on this Blog. The trouble is, I'm a really private person and I don't do talking about private stuff. Never mind emotion. On the other hand, I'm happy to share with (the world) on this Blog my ups and downs on this 3rd challenge.

Feel very aware there wasn't a lot of up and it all seems like I've whinged a lot each night - so lots of down. It's odd because I've always been described as 'Happy-go-Lucky' since I was a small child. I can usually find a positive in any experience. Or at least stretch one.

I've been told that a lot of people are reading this Blog so I'm also concious of trying to preserve a degree of anonymity for those people that are my real life that spill over in to this place and would rather not. Which makes me sound like a fictional character in this Challenge. Sometimes you can't win for losing.

The trouble is that we are mostly defined by our relationships - good or bad - and it's hard not to think about folk when you've been cycling for 1000 miles, give or take a 1000.

Mum Major asked me what I think about as I cycled along, the other day. Mostly, I have to concentrate and there isn't a lot of thinking time. I've fallen off the bike a zillion times in the run up to this challenge over the past 18 months. My worst fall was at the end of an evening in London just back on the London Bridge side of Tower Bridge. I normally fall in to the kerb but this time in a lot of traffic, you can imagine, I fell in to the road. I broke my ribs on my wedding day years ago (more accident prone than my daughter, Babe) and having a jolt on weak wounds in full traffic did for my confidence in a way that is difficult to describe.

Except, believe it or not (and I know most people that meet me would not believe me) I don't have a lot of confidence. I have to make it. Every single day.

When Dad Major asked why I didn't listen to music as I bumble along on the bike, I don't think he could quite believe that I need to watch and hear the traffic all the time. It's my biggest danger because I'm not a natural cyclist. I'm punching leagues above myself in this Challenge and even I don't know when I will make a complete F*** U* of it. Although I guarantee you, I will. I'm really good at failing. 

I think in life, if you were to ask me what I'm really good at, I'd say failing. I'm not competitive. I don't get it. The only person I compete with is me. A lot of people don't understand that about me. If I had to choose a sport to compete in, it would be a time trial. Me against me. Any arena you like. Put me in on a line with other contestants in a competition and I'm sorry but no. I'd rather not waste your time. It doesn't fire my cylinders.

Which brings me to the question everyone always asks. So, why do you do this?

The short answer is money. People (and Men in particular) give me a lot of money as a result of these challenges. When a bloke gives you £50K - no strings - you're hardly going to say 'Thanks. But no thanks'.

The long answer - I doubt anyone has time. I've had an extremely privileged life. I've travelled the entire world endlessly. It started as a child and it didn't end until lately. I went off looking for something and I searched and I searched and I searched. Every temple, every site, every place - ask me. I'd been there and looked.

I didn't know what I was looking for until recently. I thought I was admiring civilisation - Angkor Wat killed me. Over and over and over. But I like most places for what they are good at. For whatever they are good at. It doesn't have to be much and often, in the wilds of the world, it hasn't been a lot. But the human spirit always prevails, no matter where you go.

Today was the best weather day by 12 days. The greatest thing about staying in the Premier Inn Inverness is leaving it at 7.30am. Going south back to Daviot was a pleasure. Following an inland route in the early morning frost with no traffic on a Saturday morning at 8.00am was a triumph. I think the Majors will prove that in their photos. I really hope they do.

I admire people that have courage. I don't have any of it. Yesterday a friend advised me to visualise what it would feel like to have finished. I'm not sure what you will think I will say but I think you'll be surprised when I say this.

Empty.

That's how I've felt after the past two challenges. Cleaned out. Scooped out. Raw. Never proud. Which is the word that all the people I know mention. Pride. Now there's a word that can get you in to a lot of trouble. I don't get a post exercise buzz. I'm not sure what people mean when they talk about endorphin rushes. I've never felt that. Although I do like feeling like I did what I say I would do. If you get me to sign, I will never let you down. A lot of talking never impresses me. I'm action, no words. THANKS.

Perhaps it's my training but I'm not a natural risk taker. I see risks, I understand them and I can advise you whether to take them or not. My job is to be risk aware but not risk adverse. That's your job - to decide the level of risk you are prepared to take. I'll take risks to raise money but I'll tell you right now that if I weren't raising money, I wouldn't be here tonight, 55 miles short of target in Brora having backed up 10 miles from Helmsdale in the dark. If I weren't raising money, I'd not have completed two challenges so far and definitely not this one. It's too hard.

I have no courage. I'm a spineless no hoper. Sorry but no myth to dispel there!! I've been hugely, amazingly, lucky to have had the pleasure of amazingly courageous people in my life. All my life. I'm a poor imitation of life and art. But I try. And God loves a trier. Usually.

I think, I hope and I'm planning to get that picture at JOG tomorrow and to leave an old life behind tomorrow. The thing I looked for all my old life, all over the world in places most people couldn't spell, never mind visit, isn't all that easy to say on a Blog or outloud. It's about being brave. So perhaps I'll down a Medicine or two before fessing up.

80 miles at least today, in blue skies, on empty beaches and in cool temperatures, Albert had it all arranged for me. Planned down to the last 55 miles. All that rain, wind, sleet, frost, traffic and un-fun for 900 miles and then his moment has arrived. You can't argue with the scenery or the route. And there is Albert. Mr Scenic Route.

I went looking for me. I looked and I looked and I looked. It took my oldest Friend to point out 3yrs ago that I wasn't the Sarah he knew. The real challenge is to find who she is. Perhaps tomorrow, is a step closer. Though I think it's a time to go away for a while so though I will report on what I expect will be the end tomorrow, I think you will have to wait for next year's Challenge Blog to know what really happened next.

XX

LEJOG Day 12 - Blair Atholl to Inverness

Well, I have to hand it to Scotland or the High Lands or wherever we are. They built me a road.

Exaggerating, only a little, about 10yrs ago they worked out I would turn up - one day - and when I did they'd built a new A9 for the cars, the trucks and the 40fters so that I could cycle 80 miles all by myself in the forest. It rained a bit but not in a Cornwall or Devon type way so that was easy to ignore.

Except, I was late setting off. Last night when I did 10 miles for the road, I had to take all my courage in my hands. It was scary. Fast, furious and very unforgiving but I'd saved up all day for that hour and having done it, retreating back 16 miles to the Blair Atholl Hotel was like a piece of bliss. Now that is an awesome place.

On check in, I got an attic upgrade to a very large bath apartment and I thought I'd died and gone to LEJOG heaven. Because I had. Quick change and in the pub that adjoins, I had a fabulous fish pie and the Majors declared their best meal of the Tour.

I was shattered so I tried for an early night but up in the attic it seemed like the best thing to do was go back to the pub. I did. But it was odd. A lot of local folks and the man behind the bar who said very loudly (word travelled before me) in a super scottish accent:-

'Are you mental?'

That's the most direct attack on LEJOG so far that I've received. I'd like to say I batted it off and didn't feel a thing but it would be a lie. It cut close. The other thing I've struggled with is that the other day, I walked in to a pub in the middle of no where without the Majors and when I said I'd like a beer and would it be OK to bring in the bike because of LEJOG the lady behind the bar said 'is your name Ruston?' I looked at her and felt WIERDED out. When I said yes, she said 'Sarah?' and then I felt entirely WIERDED out. How on earth.. 'Oh', she said. 'A lot of people are tweeting about you'.

Good God. How does that work? A complete stranger knows my name before I order a pint of medicine. I NEVER want to be famous.

I was dreading the A9 all night. I woke in a sweat and I refused to get up for breakfast until 10 mins before but I was all for taking time and didn't actually go back to last night's late end until 10am. And then I got a stroke of luck. In the dark, at Glen Garry, I thought I saw a Sustrans cycle logo but it was dark and I'd just done 10 miles against the road until a man yelled out of a 'Highway Maintenance' lorry 'Be Careful' in a way which you know means BE CAREFUL.

In the light, I sent Mum Major down the downhill to check if I was right. And I was. There was a cycle route. Good God. What a result. The trouble was that only 10 miles later in Dalwhinnie Distillery, a great coffee spot and half an hour late, they donated a great bottle of Whisky for free.

So it was a slow late start to a slow late day. It went on in the same vein all day. The replacement cycle route should be taken over a week. One day in the not too distant future I will get the train to Inverness and do a week to go back to Pitlochry via every single stop it is possible to do. It's a dream. And no, it's not day 12 blues. Day 12 realism actually.

Meanwhile the Majors were drunk on taking pictures. Newly free - I insisted on being responsible for myself - they were seen taking hundreds of pictures. So many so that at one point in the day, in the middle of the road with all blinkers on, there was the Major's car with Mum Major standing by saying, 'Your Dad's taking pictures'. I kept on. As it turned out, Dad Major was so busy taking pictures he fell in the Loch. Loch Moy to be precise.

You have to laugh. Little Lady Lead Legs is at the end of all trying and Mum Major is pulling Dad Major out of the Loch. I guess it's a holiday on one level. Although on this level it's not very funny. I'm a lot fed up, a lot tired and a lot at the end of my patience.

Ah well. Today was a result day. I did it. I didn't want to. But I did it. Sometimes, getting through it is a good day.

Today, I got through it.

XX

LEJOG Day 11

Crieff is a great place. The first place I saw before the Majors resorted to the Great Sat Nav Con was the Mayflower pub that said accommodation.

Walking in with newly lit up bike, sponsored by Blackpool Illuminations (Dad Major had too much time in Halfords in Stirling by himslef), it caused quite a stir. It was like a scene out of American Werewolf in London. Everyone looked up as though an Outsider was in the room.

Asking for two rooms, I got an incredulous 'yes' which should have been a clue to the State of the Rooms but I couldn't have cared less. Last Friday in Ironbridge marked a lifelong low in the dodgy rooms stakes. At least the locals were nice. Less than 10 seconds later, a Lady sat beside the bar had bought me a large G&T and sent the collection box round the pub.

Get in. We were sent around the corner to the sister pub, the Caledonian, for dinner and it was great. Just enough time to take in all the closed shops. Really interesting, old fashioned proper shops. Not many chain stores and generally speaking, a great high street.

Back at the bar of our abode, I threaten to send the Majors home. The responsibility of having over anxious Parents is ridiculous. We should get Parental Guidance lessons when we leave home - to clue us up for what is ahead when the Majors join in LEJOG day 7 at Warrington and forget 22 years have passed since you last darkened their door.

Not being mean but neither of them can read a map and the Great Sat Nav Con doesn't help. Clearly there is a consortium arrangement between road building companies, petrol companies and car companies. How to send everyone always in the wrong direction to somewhere they didn't want to go, via somewhere they definitely didn't want to go to, must be a cartel. Surely?

After a few for the Great North Road, it was a inbetweeny night. I woke early and was ready to rock at 8.00am. Sometimes a Girl just wants to have fun. On this occasion Little Lady Lead Legs knew she was in danger of never getting going. Again. Ever.

The road out of Crieff was a bit hard. For starters, you had to pass all those lovely shops. Shame it was before 9.00am because they didn't open until 9.30am and there were some gorgeous pink fur lined wellies which really would work well for me.

Then, just as you set off, out of breath up a long hill, you turn hard left and really get out of breath. It's a long hard slog up the Glen. Now there's a clue. Glen. Like Fell, it has another meaning. Just not flat.

But from there on in, for 60 miles it was completely awesome. Barely a car, a truck or a person. Just me, the forest, the Glen, the animals and trees. We so know how to grow trees in this country. Don't get me wrong. Little Lady Lead Legs was a misery but it was hard not to be uplifted by the sounds, smell and peace of nature. At odd points the sun almost shone between the raindrops but it didn't matter. I was lost in it.

Sometimes you have to re-compile your disks. I used to be responsible for IT as one of my duties. Not long before I was able to relinquish the responsibility, earlier this year, we had the first ever Catastrophic Failure. I take my responsibilities seriously and for 48hrs, I didn't sleep, I didn't eat and all I could do was sit and wait for the discs to re-compile. They did. But it was a lesson in IT failure.

When I became very unwell in June and the Doctor gave me a sick note for a month, I couldn't believe it. The last time I had a month off work was when I was at school, too young to get a job. I've always worked, I've always had children and I've always had responsibility. Usually, a lot. For many years, I received around 2000 emails a week. They weren't my workload either.

It was always unsustainable but I always kept going. When the Doctor took away my phone and my Blackberry and said no work, no emails and no nothing until at least one month, it was a shock. A whole month. How on earth would I survive? I began to sleep after a hiccup with dispensing my medicine and then I couldn't stop. It was as if my body closed down. Probably, it did.

And then another month although I was then 'allowed' a private mobile number but no email and no internet. By the end of August, I'd not been out other than to the Doctor or very close Friends for two months. It's life changing.

I know people talk about being 'burned out' but what happened with me is that I blew the body's fuse. After three years of prolonged and intensive stress, my Limbic fuse blew and no matter how healthy I was, no matter how exercised and no matter how determined I was to get back to strength, I couldn't. The fuse has to be re-set and there is only one way. To step back and to step away.

I don't believe in drugs. I've never smoked anything dodgy, taken anything dodgy or considered it. I'm at my limit with painkillers. I was determined not to take any prescription drugs because I didn't believe that they would help. Drugs are bad and I don't need them. Wrong.

As it turned out, I did need some prescription medicine help to sort out my sleeping. Boy did it sort it out. Not sleeping tablets because they are addictive but non-addictive drugs that made me feel me again. It's hard to explain what it feels like when you've blown that fuse but it's like feeling you do not belong in your own skin. And worst, will never belong again.

Looking back, I recall how that felt but it was so awful, I couldn't believe I would ever get better. During September and October this year, I began to feel more and more back to myself. This bike ride has been for me about marking the end of that time and starting anew. It's inconceivable that anyone can go through three years of extreme stress and not have a physical reaction to show for it. I can say that now but I've had a whole day in the World's most Gorgeous Forest.

When your discs re-compile you see things very clearly. I can see that my body needed time to rest, time to heal and really just a lot of time off. Today, surrounded by the wonders of the Glen and the Forests, you see nature as a force not to be ignored. No one is designed to read 2000 emails a week. No one.

I'm sure there will be LEJOGers that will claim that JOGLE is the only way to do this. There's a virtual club that I should shortly join where you have to be seriously Type A or seriously Charity Nutter to be a member. Still, in that club, there will be rankings. At the top of the Mountain, Type A's look at your feet before your face (to see whether you have this season's boots). In Ironman they look at your bike before they look at your face (to see how many thousands of pounds serious you are).

In LEJOG, there's no one here to look at your face unless you are with a mate. And I'm not. In LEJOG it's about you and your determination not to give up and I expect that in the many thousands of lunches and dinners ahead of me, fellow LEJOGers will reveal themselves as nicely smelling Type A's. I won't be interested but know I saw their world.

After 65 miles of Glen and Forest, it was time to hit the A9. Yesterday's readers will recall I swerved it just north of Stirling and went to Dunblane. Albert was calling it and I was glad. Albert always took the scenic route in case today was his last day. And today's scenic route was in his name and to his eternal credit. I loved it, no matter how hard. The last 13 miles on the A9 was for me. Not easy, not pretty and not without a lot of danger. But they were north and there isn't a lot more of north left to do.

Thank God.

LEJOG Day 10

I gave up today, before I set off.

Unfortunately, the Poppinjay Hotel was fabulous. Newly taken over by its self from Best Western, it's a choice place to kill a few nights.

This morning by 6.00am all my kit had been washed by a gorgeous woman and dried. Get this. When I got in Dad Major's car to back up two miles, I said to Mum Major 'Can you smell washing powder?'. We all could!!

Good start. Unfortunately, that was about the best of it. Rosebank, backed up two miles was fine. Grand Designs had taken over the local Laird's Palace and both South and East Lodge looked like something you would kill for. Never mind the Castle. I told Dad Major to take some pictures but he was already lost. Sat Nav Con works again. Already on the way to Abu Dhabi, both parents were 25 times round the local roundabout. Meanwhile I'd absconded with the Laird.

The trouble with a road to Stirling is that all A roads in Scotland are now Motorways. Via Motherwell, I realised I'd gone terribly wrong. Meanwhile they'd scrambled the Perthshire Helicopter Air Ambulance Team to the War of the Roses - Mum & Dad Major had lost me for the 25th time in the first hour and there was a cardiac arrest situation.

Only an hour on, no progress made, the road to Stirling was still closed. Basically, the Scots want to be independent and good luck. What I suggest is that we withdraw all the Inland Revenue from Cumbernauld and rename it Desertville. That way, the roads would be empty and I'd not have spent three hours navigating the local displeasure.

I started a new petition today. People who drive X5's or Kevins should take a special driving test. For starters they have too much cash to flash and more money than taste. They clearly need every window blacked out so they are up to no good. Plus they drive like w*****s and have no respect for traffic. I bet if you checked their tax returns, as a new owner or an old one they are taking the driving p**s. In Cumbernauld, this sort of information is important. Especially if you compute taxes. Particularly if you compute taxes.

Oh yes. Meanwhile I was cycling. It was miserable. If you turn all A-roads in to M-roads, you will send me wrong. I reckon I did 40 miles in the wrong direction today - give or take 50 miles - so it was the sort of tricky in a tricky sort of way. I mean, I've done a lot of miles and who seems to care? 

When, eventually, I arrived in Stirling where I should have been last night - four miserable hours and nothing to show for it later, I thought I'd arrived at the Castle. Told Dad Major the road and tweeted and caught up on the mail traffic while I waited. Trouble was that the Great Sat Nav Con had taken the Majors to Halfords or Loch Ness or Somewhere.

When they arrived having saved £4 they said they'd donate it because they didn't like the look of the Castle above me. Of course, I'd been downing the Medicine while I waited in the Hendersons @ the Albert Halls. Dad Major chained the bike to the local Castle when he arrived, just in case someone nicked the Castle.

So with 9999 miles to the next pit stop - of course I set off anyway and went the wrong way. Having gone wrong by another 10 miles in the first hour, I'd had ENOUGH but this is a charity nutter bike ride you know and I have to make some progress. Even if it's not straight forward.

I make an executive Admiral Shipping Forecast decision which is - I don't like the look of the A9. The M9 finishes somewhere in Scotland on the way to JOG but when 3 lanes change in to 2 and in to Dunblane, I opt for Dunblane. The B road goes North and would leave me as far north as Perth in half the distance. Albert (My Granddad) was talking and he knew. Never mind that no one talked yesterday. I heard what I needed today and found what I needed to see.

It got dark, it got lonely and I ate my last Dursley Masters of the Cycle Shop bars but I needed it. Big Tears Girl today. Want to stop. Hate it. Can't do it. Enough is enough.

Then Admiral of the Shipping Forecast says you will find it in you. Just keep trying. So I did and I do. Get to Crieff. Tomorrow is tomorrow and there's another way to jig around over the mountain.

Only 3 more days. Bring it on.

XX

LEJOG Day 9 - Gretna to Stirling

I've been at war, all day, with the road. Not only did I fall straight in to a bath for the third night running last night but the lovely young man that handed me a large G&T last night was also prepared to put my bath washed minging clothes in his industrial strength drier. After full fat Lasagne, he knocked gingerly at my room door later with all the items folded carefully. Obviously he didn't know they were destined for the bonfire on Saturday.

They are. Having not been able to dry them properly by Lancaster yesterday morning, I had to put them on wet. In spite of that or maybe because of it, I didn't worry too much because it was a wet day but taking them off again last night, I've clearly begun their internal fibre combustion process anyway and if I make it to JOG will resemble Wurzel Gummidge and smell like Stig of the Dump.

I've already worked out how to add an hour of sloth to the Sergeant Major's alarm clock. For starters, breakfast didn't start until 8.00am because they'd have to have woken up the other 5 guests an hour early which wouldn't look good on the labour hours KPI. Then there were all my bags to re-pack and load up. But the the bike needed its tyres checking. Out came the newly purchased Industrial strength foot pump and I then needed to plot the route on my map.. then there were photos sat on an anvil and before you knew it 08.50am.

As I was to discover today, one hour in the morning is worth three in the afternoon. Mr Shipping Forecast had given me the strength to stick to my guns so instead of going via Edinburgh, I stuck to my planned 'hoof it' to Sterling itinerary, confident on the back of yesterday that barring disasters, it was a done deal.

Just as I KNOW there's no such thing as a free lunch - the quid pro quo is often a harder bill to swallow - I know there's no such thing as a done deal. Half an hour later, I'm looking at my newly engorged tyres and wondering where Lady Little Legs power has gone. Yesterday, I behaved like a cycling class act. Today, it was uphill, but it might as well have been Scap Fell. Eh??

Berating myself a zillion times, I can't understand it. I declare hostility against the inner voice which is already starting to say 'you can't do this' but know, at this rate a war is going to emerge. You only have so long before that voice over hauls reason. Especially on Day 9. At mile 540.

I looked at my clothes but they were dry. I looked at my tyres but they were pumped to 80 whatsits. I looked at the chain but it was working. I decided some fool had secretly broken in and messed about with the gears and they weren't working properly. But they were. The Cycle Masters of Dursley know how to do a proper job.

Around an hour later, I started to feel sick. Not just eaten too much, drunk too much (never sick with these) sick but seriously like vomiting unrelentlessly. It'd be an immaculate conception if it was morning sickness and it couldn't be food poisoning so I must have contracted a scottish superbug. Shame. That's that then. Will have to go home.

Went to the loo in Lockerby and felt terrible until I saw the water had turned green and then thought, that's it. The end is nigh.. until I recalled drinking five gallons of Alpine Dew or something yesterday which did look alien green so sadly, it wasn't all over yet.

Got back on the wagon, hit the cyclepath and re-joined the hip of the M74 and seriously, I thought I'd got something seriously wrong with me. I felt like someone was wringing me out to dry after 8 days of being wet. They were. I just hadn't worked out how.

I suffer really badly with motion sickness. On a London train, I have to sit in the aisle travelling backwards. On North Sea Ferries from Hull to Rotterdam, I have to be asleep before the superliner leaves its berth. On planes, I have to be asleep before it takes off. In cars, I have to drive, sit in the back middle or be anxious in the passenger seat. Don't even think about putting me near a canoe, dinghy, sailing boat or anything else. I'm 1st class, gut wrenchingly ill.

So, where does that leave us? Well, it was raining in Gretna this morning when we set off and until Lockerby, it was relatively village people and so some degree of urbane life. After that, we were intimately entwined with the M74 and in fact, Scotland has boasted of it's Route 74 national cycleway all the way here to Rosewood.

That intimate connection is borne of the history of these parts. Before a full motorway, before a main road, before a horse and carriage, William the Conqueror or someone beat a path up through a lot of hills from Gretna to Glasgow. In modern times, we got sick of undulating and blazed a dirty great motorway through some of the most spectacular scenery that is neither Cumbria or Yorkshire.

Leaving behind it a full litany of villages and towns, it was decided that we would class the old 'new' road as a 'B-road' and henceforth whenever anyone fancied driving from Gretna to Glasgow without insurance or a tax disk, they could use said B-Road and terrorise anyone mental enough to be cycling up said road.

All of this took me a while to work out. I'm not a natural chucker. Like my son, it's on one hand in my lifetime. I get terribly nauseous but I don't generally deliver. Unfortunately, nausea can last for days and sometimes weeks so sometimes, I'd actually prefer it.

Meanwhile, I'm beginning to wonder what to tell Mum & Dad, considering they are newly broken in as support and I've already eaten pocket rocket fuel from the Treacle Tart Tin and Mum might think I'm being rude... not to mention the fact Dad has had to use a week's holiday to see me safely to JOG. Right now, I'd like to stay stuff it and be home in twoish hours..

And then suddenly, I realise I keep being distracted by a terrible din. Not by my outer voice expletives or inner voice yellings but by an almighty din. I look at myself and the surroundings and it just all seems so wrong. No traffic. Not a lot of wind. Not a lot of rain. No animals or half-dead, side of the road animals. And then I realise what it is. It's my front saddlebag. Vibrating ten to the dozen every time I turn the wheels.

I stop. Get off and think, well, that's that. The relief is audible in Leeds. Thank God. The bike is broken. Completely and utterly broken. Not just punctures or gear failures but dirty great suspension breakages. Laid on the ground, looking up at the blue sky, I think 'thank you' but all I get is a silence. A blue, no return message, dirty great big silence.

Err, it says in 'Eat, Pray, Love' that she got told to go back to bed. The least I could be told is 'Go back to Yorkshire'. Silence. For goodness sake. Didn't anyone realise this is a film.. well, maybe a book at least.

I lay there having given up and luxuriating silently in the feeling when I realised that the saddle bag isn't making a noise anymore. As in, at all. Trying again for a few more hundred yards, the same hideous noise. What on earth???

And just then, I looked at the road surface of the 'B-road' and realised it wasn't an 'A-road' or an 'M-road'. It was a B road and it was made from hardcore pebbles. As I said, William the Conqueror or someone laid it and was last known to mention budgetary constraints as a reason not to resurface it.

By 4pm this afternoon, I'd done 7 hours on the equivalent of one of those power plate thingys. I cannot believe they work in ten minutes in a gym as promised because after 7hours on one, I cannot see where or how they worked. Clearly, I would like to report that I got off looking like (in no particular order) Kate Moss, Liz Hurley, Catherine Zeta Jones or Penelope Cruz. Only I didn't. I presume said A-List know a thing or two about looking like they look and 7 hours on a B-road isn't an efficient use of their bony bums.

Instead, at the last minute, Mum Major sensed Stirling wasn't an option as we were 30 miles short and Dad Major thought he'd crack open the Sat Nav to the nearest Best Western in Carluce. I thought it sounded Italian and was up for it until I couldn't see the support car and stopped to re-sort pigeon maps which I've relied on since LE.

White van man whistles out from behind a corner and is less forbidding as its Tuesday and he isn't 17 or driving a van full van of 17yr olds. 'Are you lost?' he says. You have a choice but I usually get when its best to flow so I lie and say 'Yes' because its expedient so to do. 'Where you headed?' I think about fibbing but there's only half an hour of decent light left, I feel like I've done a force 10 gale for hours and tbh, I've lost the will to live. He pales (yes - even in twilight) and explains a tortuous route which will clearly take a lot more than half an hour. Oh dear. Having given up about six hours ago, it all feels a bit mean really.

Well, it was, really. Five miles of fast and furious B-road rush hour traffic later, I realise my life is in my hands and practice every safe technique I had learned in the past 9 days. It made Japanese water torture seem like a playground. Hell hath no fury than a woman at war with the pavement for 7 hours.

And so it was that I gave up at Braidwood only to find that the Great Sat Nav Con delivered us back to Rosewood, less than two miles from White Van Man's prophecy. I only have to back up two miles and it won't feel like cheating. Even though I did an extra 10 in terror.

The Good News is that having berated myself all day for lack of progress and tonight for missing target (Stirling) it would appear I did at least 90 miles today and considering all other things,  that at least is something to be pleased about.

And so is this. Today was LEJOG Day 9 but count down Day 5. I intend to finish on Saturday and chuck everything except the bike on the Bonfire. My sweet, gorgeous little bike is looking at me smugly from the corner of the room. Who needs a pet when you have the Ruston Rocket?

XX

LEJOG Day 8 - Lancaster to Gretna

It was nearly a LEJOG SLOG Day 8 but today was my best ever cycling day in my short 24 months of serious cycling since I was a kid. Not because it was easy, not raining or not hard but because it felt great. On some level.

It was an early start. Dad was out in the car park before 8.00am so no pressure but clearly the days of late starts are over. Bear in mind that my Mum has been to buy fresh milk and checked I was up at 7.15am... not that it's LEJOG boot camp but let's face it, it's about finishing now.

So we set off at 08.30am and hatched a plan for Gretna. The first 30 miles or so up to Kendal were passed in a haze of early morning itus - it looks OK, it should be OK and apart from the undulations, it was OK.

Kendal is definitely another overnight weekend when George smells the coffee. It looks interesting and secretive. It looks like you could mooch and not get bored. Or if you did, well, plenty of places to hole up against the rain. If you get me.

Lulled into a false sense of security, I should have read the clues in Shap Fell. As is, when you get the first roadside severe weather warning of the Tour, it gives you the idea that it might be a bit chilly up there. I decided to lunch at Shap, having failed to notice the contours of the next 15 miles. One idea would have been to have googled the definition of 'fell'. It clearly means Ben Nevis or Kili or something. Two hours later those 15 miles to the top of Shap were tough hard on Lady Little Legs but can I point out I didn't once get off and walk - even when my chain gave out for only the third time, the first two times being in Cornwall, 500 miles ago.

THANK GOD the Greyhound Inn was open in the drizzle/ deluge at the top. I thought my hands would drop off but warm food later (and a Pint of Medicine) spirits were restored. The very lovely lady behind the bar gave an unsolicited donation and I began to feel as real about being at the top of my game as I have in months.

There was another extraordinary rainbow but mostly it was me and the 1000 sheep salute. They get bored but all look up and nodded as I passed. If you don't believe me, check. Though take your Northern Exposure kit. The weather was seasonally mild until the wind and rain hit hard on the tops and I looked as bedraggled as I felt when checking the mirror. It was halloween but it was like one of the freaky mirror shows we used to have as kids at fairs - you just would rather not look.

Past Shap, I wanted to push past Penrith. Carlisle looked more interesting. Winding too and fro across the M6 it made me think a lot today about my adventures over the past three years in particular. It's been a funny and unpredictable ending to my storage story but I'm glad I did it. All of it. Making the most of it is all about what will happen next.

Casting an eye back to three years ago, I had no idea what was ahead. None of us know what will happen next but unless it's drama we generally deal with it, whatever it is.

I'm glad I didn't know. I wouldn't have dealt with it all had I known. But this is one of the amazing things that happens when we grow strong and live beyond our trials - we feel a bit more able to cope with an awful lot of stuff.

My Best Friend M says 'this is Sarah World - where anything may happen (and usually does)'. Put like that, riding on to Longtown and then Gretna as light fell was easy. It wasn't but I had turbo charged Treacle Tart legs to deal with the last 15 miles and that was certainly the right decision.

Crossing the border into Scotland as twilight came down, I felt like the cat that got the cream. A lot of hard miles under my belt but a huge amount of satisfaction. I guess my Bronte homelands do look spectacular and amazing from Whernside or looking back but Home is Home. Where ever Home is.

I lasted until the first turn on the left from the 'Welcome to Scotland' sign. Dad took my picture in the dark and said we could get another one in the morning. You must be joking. I know you sometimes have to go back to go forwards but right now, I need to go to forwards to go forwards.

I've made an ambitious plan for Sterling tomorrow. Better to over-reach and fail than not reach at all. We'll see but Mr Shipping Forecast agrees with the Sally Traffic summary that tomorrow is a mile munching day so my optimism knows no bounds. Although clearly, tomorrow is just another day.

XX