At 3:14AM, just before the phone alarm announced the appointed time, I got up and made preparation for the final push to John O’Groats. Surprisingly the joint aches and sinus congestion evaporated like water droplets hitting a hot pan. I suited up and walked out to my bike to prepare for the final push to John O’Groats, another 180 miles to go.
With a protesting stomach, Mimo and I met to leave at 4:00AM. Late last night Expat Matt made it to the Argyle Guest House. He was just starting to pack up his saddle bag as we mounted our bikes… waiting. “It’s 4:04 now” I announced in a very noticeable tone of aggravation. He told us to go ahead and would catch up to us. We clipped in and left Tomintoul.
It was comfortable riding into the sunrise. The silence of dawn was only broken by the ratchety whines of our freewheels when we were descending. Not long after leaving Tomintoul, light pierced through the horizon, giving new hope.
This region of Scotland was blessed with extraordinary natural rugged beauty. We would ride through heather and grassland plains followed by densely wooded forests. Gentle rollers were ahead and behind us. About 30 miles into the day’s journey, I spotted the sign pointing to Cawdor Castle. I imagined Macbeth, after his elevation to Thane of Cawdor, walked the castle’s hallways pondering pensively as Lady Macbeth. exhorting him to “screw your courage to the sticking-place and we’ll not fail” before that fateful decision to pursue his murderous deed.
“We’ll not fail!” I murmured to myself. Instead of being one murdering, the pain in my back and soreness in my ass increased with intensity, amplified by a needy stomach, was murdering me. Lael Wilcox, when asked about facing physical discomfort during any endurance race, said, “I tell myself that the pain won’t last forever. I check in with myself to see if I’m doing my best. Even if I feel terrible, if I’m trying my hardest, that’s all I can do. For the most part, I really enjoy being out there – seeing the natural beauty, spending time alone with my thoughts and pushing my physical limits.” I kept reminding myself: screw your courage to the sticking-place!
We finally reached sea level when the Firth of Moray came into view. Not long after, the distance sign to Inverness appeared. Pedaling west, our exhilaration shot through the roof when a sign for Tesco emerged. Pulling into the parking lot, we dashed to the store, dismounted and ran in to start our hoarding, after logging 47 miles since 4:00AM. I spotted Tesco’s Café just opening and went in to order a good old fashion British fry up of eggs, bacon, black pudding, potatoes and toast. Type of cholesterol and impact on health was not a selection criterion when starved of calories.
We arrived at Kirkhill control by mid-morning. Upon entering the community center, the worker who sternly ordered me to sleep was there. When she saw me enter, a beaming smile erupted from her face. She marched right to me and with the warmth that could cure cancer exclaimed “I knew you can finish this!” I felt like a failing student now being praised by the teacher for turning around.
When I lost faith in myself, her stern insistence reset my expectation. I became fixated on how far I fell behind. She helped to change my mind set to focus on the progress I made the next morning. She became my Lady Macbeth, exhorting me to murder my doubts so that I would not fail.
Still full from the Tesco feasting, we left after getting our brevet card stamped. The roads were fairly flat as we followed along the coastline, crossing various firths and rivers. With about 100 miles left, the route took us off the busy A9 road to find respite spinning through the quiet country roads.
While reviewing the route during preparation, I spotted the Glenmorangie distillery just north of Tain. I promised myself that I would stop to have a shot of whisky to celebrate my last day. When Mimo and I left Tomintoul, I promised him that we would enjoy whisky tasting this day.
Once we rejoined the A9 at Tain, I spotted the sign for Glenmorangie. We found the gift shop and tasting room with small plastic shot glasses filled with the Highland elixir. Practicing good Scottish economy, the volume was small for it was free. We each grabbed a shot, took that ceremonial selfie and downed it. It was enough to wet the tongue. Any more would be imprudent in our current state. Satisfied with the ceremony, we pushed on for the finish.
The 68 miles to Wick was a gauntlet of passing cars, RVs and occasional freight trucks. Any majestic beauty was lost to the vehicles passing us. British drivers were frustrated by us delaying their journey to their holiday destination but followed British traffic law that required motor them to pass on the other lane. Continental drivers, perhaps ignorant of local regulations or felt they could misbehave in a foreign country, were less generous. Twice I was buzzed: one car with a German license plate, the other French. In the organizer’s defense, perhaps there was no other way to avoid hell’s highway to keep the 1,400 km distance.
Dipping down to the mouth of River Helmsdale, the climb out was a struggle for the steepness, my lethargy and passing car traffic. I expected this section to be flat. Portions of the eastern Scottish coast brought back the horrible memories of Cornwall, as if I were suffering PTSD.
Passing Wick, traffic diminished significantly. The road was flat and farm fields dominated the landscape. At this point I was spending more time looking at my Garmin watching the distance to the finish tick down. The adage that “a watched pot never boils” applied to distance counting: a watched Garmin never reaches the finish. Painfully slow, compounded by the physical pain returning, I held on to Mimo’s wheel as we approached John O’Groats. Descending into the parking lot to see John O’Groats and the North Sea, I felt that insurmountable relief rather than joy to see Andy and Michael waiting for me.
Grand randonnees always start with a roar and finish with an anticlimactic whimper. LEJOG was no exception. I handed Andy my brevet card with the stack of receipts I collected. He looked at his watch and wrote down: “109” for hours followed by “30” for minutes. He congratulated me, pulled a black suitcase out of his van, unzipped it and handed a commemorative water bottle: plain white with “LEJOG 2024” printed in black letters, symbolic of his unadorned nature. He took a photo of me standing at the John O’Groats sign as I asked for a photo with him. I picked up my drop bags, thanked him for organizing this amazing adventure and bid farewell. Mimo took off in a hurry as his lodging was back at Wick, adding another 15 miles before he could unclip and take off his shoes.
Michael congratulated me. I thanked him profusely for all his aid during my darkest moments. With nary a fanfare we walked to the Airbnb we booked at the caravan and camp site just 100 yards from the parking lot. After a nice long hot shower and putting on fresh clothes other than cycling kit, we walked to the John O’Groats Brewery to have a few celebratory pints.
With each sip, that oppressive weight of pushing forward finally lifted. In another room a larger group of LEJOG finishers were celebrating boisterously. I opted to share this quiet moment with a friend. It was a bittersweet exchange. That triumphant feeling we both shared at PBP 2019 was instead replaced by an underlying regret I felt that the same triumph could not be replicated. Michael whole-heartedly celebrated my finish; I thanked Michael for all his help. No less heart-felt in either direction, yet it felt asymmetric.
Soon the sunlight slipped into the cover of the North Sea. As we walked back to our Airbnb, we began to discuss about the next randonnee with the right mix of Homeric adventure sprinkled with good bits of Quixotic ambition.
For tomorrow, the sun also rises.
- 179 miles / 288 km
- 8,141 ft / 2,482 m