Travel Biography - Week 42.

At last, the 1980s made way for a new decade, the 1990s. A rather colourful decade when Travel mattered. As for long-distance cycling, as already mentioned last week, the charity ride from Newcastle-upon-Tyne to Reading, totalling 300 miles in three days, was completed successfully and on schedule. And the feeling of euphoria remained in the months to come.

Some Thoughts whilst Preparing for the Big One.

Hence, in the Spring of 1990, after overhearing one of my friends, Gareth Philips, expressing his ambition to ride a bicycle from End to End, I had an idea. That evening, soon after he had completed his training as a marathon runner with members of the Bracknell Athletic Club, I approached the club hut, back then, a new addition to the existing running track, and entered. Gareth was resting on one of the benches.

After commenting about the new club hut and all the club memorabilia displayed in it, I put this proposal to him:

Have you booked your summer holidays yet?

"No, not yet."

Well, this might sound preposterous, but how do you feel about cycling from John O'Groats to Land's End in two weeks?

Gareth's face lit up with excitement. Our holidays were decided there and then.

As I had mentioned a few weeks earlier in this Biography, Travel doesn't always involve the long haul. Not while some spectacular but more local views are worth visiting. And all that can bring up some rather geographical surprises. Like the time, back in the seventies, when a work colleague asked me (as he had asked others on the shop floor) which of the two cities was further to the west, Bristol or Edinburgh?

Why, Bristol of course! was my spontaneous answer.

He smiled, having received the answer he was expecting. Actually, Edinburgh is further to the west. Being aware that the Scottish capital is built near the east coast whilst Bristol is close to the Welsh border, brings out this subconscious illusion. This is relevant that our route southward from John O'Groats to Land's End will pass through both cities, with an overnight stop at Bristol.

The ride proved that long-haul travel is not a necessity for me to gasp, oo-aah! at a beauty spot. Yet, supposing that a young man named Jim was with a group of colleagues in a pub near home. He may say that he has been to Duncansby Head up in Scotland. A colleague, Jake, then pipes up, boasting of his adventures Down Under, visiting Byron Bay and making his way south to Seven Mile Beach, south of Broken Rocks Nature Reserve in New South Wales. With whom would the rest of the group be more impressed?

Looking South at 7-Mile Beach, NSW, taken 1997.

Looking North at 7-Mile Beach, NSW. Taken 1997.

I could be mistaken here, but I would get the impression that among those who had never travelled far and wide, Jake's story of his trip to Australia would bring out far more gasps from the group than Jim's story of Scotland. Yet, if asked whether each of them have photos of their respective scenes and those two showed them, Jim's pics would be of the Old Sandstone Stacks, along with the nearby deep cliff crevices of the Geo of Sclaites, while Jake showed photos of the stunt peninsula of Broken Rocks Nature Reserve at the northern end of a seven-mile-long strip of sand backed by a flat area of bushland. 

How many would gasp at Jake's pics rather than Jim's? Especially when he was there, a strong southwesterly gale blew northwards along the Pacific coast, bringing in dark, thundery skies and torrential downpours. The chances are, that the more local Duncansby Stacks would bring out more whistles than the faraway featureless, deserted beach in the rain!

But when it comes to long journeys, there's something romantic, perhaps even mystical, about travelling overseas. Arriving in a different country with a warmer climate, a different government, a different currency, a different flag, and most importantly, a different language. A trip to Rome, for example, would have been a desirable dream for many Brits during the fifties and sixties whose only encounter with the sea was at Bognor.

By using the CalcMaps website, I saw that the shortest route from my hometown of Bracknell to Rome is 907 miles. That is a dead straight line, which wouldn't quite exist in reality due to the curvature of the Earth. But whilst such a trip to Rome would most likely have concluded with endless chat with the neighbours, the straight line from New York City to St Louis, Missouri, would be 875 miles. That is only 32 miles shorter than the Bracknell-Rome route, which isn't much, yet such a journey confined within the USA would have little or no romantic or mystical impact as the European cross-Channel journey.

For further comparison, the shortest distance from my hometown to Duncansby Head, near John O'Groats, is 508 miles. That is further away from home than the French port of Calais (114 miles), or from the French capital (224 miles). John O'Groats is a tad further away from home than the Swiss city of Zurich (502 miles) or the French city of Bordeaux (454 miles). Yet, would it be worth the expense, the time, and the effort to travel 10,383 miles to see a featureless sandy beach under an overcast sky with the threat of rain? Yes, it is, when considering that it's only a small part of the whole Australian adventure, as we shall see in future weeks. 

The Duncansby Stacks, stock photo.

The Geo of Sclaites, taken 1990.

Oh, Please!

The word that we were preparing to take on the End-to-End challenge on our bicycles brought a reaction from members of my church (Gareth went to a different church.) A few of them came up to me asking whether we were raising funds for a charity. However, I wasn't in the mood to go around knocking on doors and asking for sponsorship and then dealing with any bureaucratic stickiness that comes with it. Instead, all I wanted was a holiday. 

But the all-time nadir of knowledgeable thinking came from one middle-class church member who was, and perhaps still is, proud to wear a shirt-and-tie in the office, therefore well-schooled and living far from a life of hardship. He approached me with the seriousness of the announcement that since we will be cycling from north to south, it will be downhill all the way! - hence hinting at a compromise in the challenge. At first, I thought he was merely teasing me, perhaps out of envy for not taking on the challenge himself. But as the weeks leading to our departure elapsed, this idea of gravitation was shared by other members of the church and even Gareth began to wonder whether it was true.

This occurred in a coffee bar in Exeter, Devon, one morning after leaving our hostel at nearby Topsham. Before proceeding on with the journey, we sat at the table in this city coffee bar. It was there when Gareth brought up the question of the centre of gravity and asked me whether there is any evidence that riding in a southward direction proved to be advantageous.

I tried to explain the centre of gravity is at the central core of the Earth and not at the Equator or even Antarctica, and everything would fall towards the Earth's core unless there's something to stop it from happening, as it's the case globally, thanks to the solid hard Crust, both on land and under the oceans. Hence, whenever the road we were on was heading skywards, our pedalling was so much harder and took greater effort. Yet, this was something I didn't learn recently, rather, I already knew all that since boyhood.

We're Off!

The day arrived when we boarded the train at Bracknell Station with our bikes and appropriate equipment packed in a holder strapped to our panniers. This would be the major difference between the Newcastle-Reading bike ride and this End-to-End, covering the whole of mainland Britain. Whereas at the former, all our equipment was carried in the van. On this holiday, we had to carry our own luggage, making our mounts extra heavy and requiring a greater energy output to keep moving. As for repairs, I also carried the basic tools needed for any repair, including a chain breaker, a pump, a spare inner tube, a puncture repair kit, and a can of WD-40 spray oil. Just as well. Gareth's tyre punctured at a remote spot between Aviemore and Perth.

From London Waterloo to London Euston, we cycled through London, passing Trafalgar Square, then into Charing Cross Road, Tottenham Court Road, and finally along the A501 to Euston, where we arrived well before our Inverness Sleeper departed with us and our bikes on board. During the first part of the journey, I stood at an open window, watching the world go by under the cover of night darkness. After a while, the guard arrived, and after checking our tickets, let down the two couchettes so we could bed down for the night. 

The train split into two at Edinburgh Waverley Station, two termini built back-to-back with a through line running alongside. Our train was at the through platform. When it eventually pulled out as we headed on towards Inverness, I saw that we were right at the back of the train, with the bike shed a few coaches ahead. Further on, breakfast was served and the couchettes were lifted back to normal daytime seating.

We eventually arrived at Inverness, and I saw that its station is a terminus. Our connecting train to Thurso, a village on the most northerly coast of mainland Britain, was to depart later in the afternoon from the same station. Therefore, we locked up our bikes at the station bike rack and we spent a few hours checking out the city.

When it was time to board the connecting train, we saw that it was packed to the hilt with people and bicycles, and it looked to us like there was absolutely no more room on the train for us and our bikes. Then an aggressive-looking conductor or guard arrived and asked us if we booked a reservation on the train. I felt shocked. I heard nothing about the need to book. Then the guard dismissed us with instructions to book a reservation for the next train which was due to leave in a couple of hours. And so, we watched as the train depart without us whilst we made our way to the ticket office to book our reservations.

At the back of the train near Aviemore, 1990.

Later, we prepared to board what we believed was the last train to Thurso. Unlike the previous departure, this train was practically empty. The guard, more of an elderly Scotsman with a friendlier temperament, welcomed us and our bikes on board without even asking to see our tickets or reservation passes. As far as I was aware, we could have boarded without making (and paying for) any bookings.

The train passed through the hilly moorlands of the Scottish Highlands, a barren, treeless, semi-desert country. After the train called at Helmsdale Station, the railway line hugged the east Highland coastline before turning back inland to pull into the little terminus of Thurso Station, our train journey ended.

We cycled the 19 miles to John O'Groats Youth Hostel which was on the way to the village from Thurso. By the time we checked in, it was beginning to get dark. This goes to show that the timing was perfect, despite missing the train we intended to board and the need to wait for the next one. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Week: The Journey South Commences.