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Lands End to John O’Groats. 27th – 28th May 2011

David Faithful

Leaving Home

I set off from my home in Blandford in Dorset at around noon on Friday 27th May. The sun was out and for the first 50 miles the ride was a pure joy. I had bought the 1990 Honda NTV 600 for £500, although I had done work to it to ensure it was mechanically capable of the trip, and safe to entrust my life to.

My first stop for fuel was at Okehampton. Like many older bikes, there is no fuel gauge so when you run out of fuel the engine tells you and you have to flick the petrol switch to reserve to keep going. This happened earlier than I had expected, and happened again before reaching Land’s End, so I was getting fewer miles than I had planned for. However, I am sure that this was simply a reflection of my riding style – fast and energetic in wonderful weather.

I caught up with several Harley riders on the A30 and rode along with them for 10 miles or so. They seemed a nice bunch and appeared fine with me tagging along – we did the typical motorcyclist thing of swapping who leads and who rides on the inside or outside. But after a while, their pace slowed and I carried on without them. In the world of motorcycling, it is sometimes nice to know you belong. On the journey to Lands End I passed many motorcyclists, all of who gave me the nod or the flash of the light and I always reciprocated.

As the A30 becomes a single lane, queuing traffic and slow caravans slowed the journey. It was obvious that choosing to do this journey the Friday before a bank holiday was probably not such a great idea.

Lands End

Arrival at Lands End was relatively uneventful. 4.40pm Friday, 200.1 miles done. It was open and the sun was still shining, but there was a strong wind from the coast and there were only a few visitors. I took a few photos and had the official photograph taken at the landmark sign, then had a sandwich and rested for a while before getting the official stamp in the Lands End Hotel. I asked the receptionist to note the time on the form, but he refused stating they did not do that as it may encourage “record breaking” and for legal and safety reasons they do not note the time.

5.45pm Friday and I set off for John O’Groats.

Like all long journeys, the first hundred or so miles are a mixture of enjoyment, naivety and excitement. It can’t be that hard – lots of people do this every day.

The ride up through Cornwall, onto the M5 and up towards Bristol was relatively fine. No major incidents, the bike is performing well. I stopped for fuel at Collumpton services, a few miles north of Exeter at 8.15pm. 339 miles ridden and 703 miles to John O’Groats. At this rate it would be easy, although now the sun had gone it was definitely starting to feel colder.

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Lands End, Friday 27th May 2011

At Strensham Services, Worcestershire (north of Cheltenham) I filled with fuel again at 10.10pm, and again at 1.04am at Charnock Richard services on the M6 in Lancashire (north of Manchester and Warrington and almost at Preston). However, I pulled into a service station between these to add clothing as the temperature had really dropped. Wherever that was (just north of the M54 junction with the M6) I noted that I had done 498 miles with only 548 miles left to John O’Groats.

By this point, I kept checking the SatNav that had a mileage countdown to John O’Groats. I would get excited when the countdown hit 600, then 550, 500 and so on. When you are riding constantly, there are a number of factors that you constantly thinking about: have your legs seized yet, are your fingers numb, is it still safe to ride or are you too tired, has the rain got through to your under-clothes, how much fuel do you think you have, and importantly, how many miles left to go. This becomes your life. It is all you care about, and nothing else matters.

Problems at Penrith

From around Preston, the journey took a new turn. The heavens opened (and I mean really, really opened) and riding conditions became atrocious. On some stretches, I was down to 40mph just to support visibility. The rain and the wind became so bad that I was trying to keep behind lorries just to reduce the weather impact by lying low in their slipstream.

The roads became slippery and, as any biker will tell you, white lines and cats eyes become dangerous, as they have no grip. It is also worth mentioning that the inside lane on motorways these days often have tyre indentations where trucks constantly drive. On a motorbike in the wet, if you get stuck in these ruts it is extremely hard to get out, and when

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you do the back-end slips. This became a constant focus of mine to avoid or escape from – something that, as a car-driver, you would never consider.

From Lancaster up to Penrith, a new problem began. It actually started before my 1am fuel-stop, but I thought it was a one-off until it turned into a worse case scenario. From around 1am until around 3am, my headlight would flicker and then turn off for a few seconds of it’s own accord. On a scale of things, this was not a major issue – I was making every effort to travel behind a lorry, and although the rain was lashing down in the darkness, the majority of the motorway network is well lit. However, north of Lancaster (and probably all around the UK in this new world of ecologically-sound thinking despite repercussions) there are signs to say there is no lighting between Midnight and 5am. Quite how much money this saves is unknown to me, but I can tell you that (even if I had a fully functioning headlight) the increase in danger in adverse weather is enormous. But I digress.

By around 3.15am on Saturday, my headlight had stopped working entirely and I pulled off the motorway into Penrith to see what I could do. After what must have been only half and hour (but seemed like hours in the pouring rain), it was clear I didn’t have a clue what to do. As I pulled at the wiring and generally disconnected and re-connected everything I could grip, the headlight would switch on and off thus signifying that it was not the bulb at fault but a wiring issue.

I should point out that I had fitted a 12v-charging socket to the bike before the journey to run the SatNav from. When I bought the bike, it came with heated-grips that were not working, so I removed the grips and fitted the 12v socket instead. I still maintain that the bike would have done the entire journey with no issues had I not tried to be clever and fit this socket. It was categorically the only issue the bike had on the entire trip, and was almost certainly self-inflicted.

This journey was intended to be non-stop other than for fuel stops. But at 3.15am in Penrith, in lashing rain and complete darkness, it was clear that I would have to wait until sunrise before I could continue the journey. Even then, I was worried about having no headlight, but in the meantime I needed to find somewhere to shelter from the rain and the cold for a few hours.

Carefully riding into Penrith (which fortunately was not struck with the penny-pinching madness of this modern world and continued to light their streets at night) my heart was lifted by the Travelodge sign. My lifted heart did not last long as the receptionist stated they were completely full. No extent of my considerable negotiation skills would allow me to stay in the Travelodge and wait until the sunrise, but the receptionist suggested I head down the road to the North Lakes Hotel and Spa, which I did.

The night porter was nice enough, but this jumped-up Premier Inn style motel obviously had extremely high standards, and the sight of a biker (soaked through and probably looking pretty miserable having just ridden 643 miles) was not something he wanted hanging around his reception. In the end, I paid for a room (there was absolutely no negotiation – full price for a room for no more than three hours!) and spent half an hour negotiating myself out of my wet gear and hanging it all around the room as close to the radiator as I could get it.

I collapsed onto the bed and set the alarm for 5am (assuming the sun would rise by then), but at 5am it was still pitch-black outside and still, of course, pouring with rain. I re-arranged my wet gear to try to dry it some more then must have collapsed again because I didn’t wake up until 6.40am. The darkness outside had turned to a dull grey, so I got my gear on and headed for the bike. In the lift down to reception (bear in mind I was carrying my rucksack, my tank-bag, my SatNav unit and my helmet) I pressed the button for the ground floor and inadvertently pressed the emergency alarm button with my helmet visor. I stepped out of the

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lift pretending the shrill of the alarm was nothing to do with me and quickly made my way out without any side glancing at reception.

By the time I had loaded up the bike and set off it was almost 7am on Saturday and just outside Penrith I saw that some guys were opening up the shutters at a garage or truck stop. I pulled in to see if they would help with the headlight and sure enough after half and hour they had managed to re-wire and tape up the electrics so that the headlight worked but the 12v charger for the SatNav would not work. I would have to continue with my old-school map in the tank-bag.

Scotland and Onwards

Heading north on the M6, which for some reason becomes the M74 north of Carlisle, the motorway seemed never ending. After a 9am fuel-stop near Gretna (691 miles ridden, 365 miles to go until John O’Groats) rain was lashing down and I was constantly hit with very strong crosswinds. The strain on my arms and shoulders to keep the bike going was immense, and I was constantly leaning the bike over just to keep in a straight line.

Reaching the outskirts of Glasgow was a big personal milestone for me, but the complex roadworks I had to navigate to get the other side of Glasgow and onto the A80/M80 to Sterling was a major set-back on my timings. The rain became worse whilst the speeds slowed to 20-30mph as traffic and queuing in coned-off single-lanes meant there was no avoiding getting a good soaking. By now I was once again shivering in the cold and wet, cursing my expensive gear for not living up to it’s advertised 100% waterproofing.

Severe crosswinds and torrential rain bogged the ride to Sterling, but then I had completed 798 miles with only 263 miles left to John O’Groats. A fuel-stop in Sterling at 11.18am gave me the opportunity to check the map. It was dis-heartening to see the scale of the ride still ahead.

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Scotland. Looks a lot of miles still to cover when you are only at Sterling.

I know I have already complained of the crosswinds, but the A9 from Sterling to Perth had some of the worst I had experienced, and reaching Perth and continuing north on the picturesque A9 to Inverness was a relief. Although the rains continued, they became lighter showers mixed with the occasional 10-minute interlude of bright sunshine, and the wind reduced as parts of the A9 were sheltered by trees and mountains. The scenery was stunning, and although the road was busy, it made for some fabulous riding and, for a while at least, the joys of motorcycling returned.

As I neared Inverness, the heavens opened and the skies turned a very dark grey. I was so pleased my headlight was fully functional, and bizarrely (perhaps because of the reduced rain) my SatNav starting charging itself again. Filling with fuel again at 2.15pm just before Inverness, the SatNav stated I had ridden 906 miles and had just 158 miles remaining. But I was about to reach Inverness and the Kessock Bridge, and the weather was at it’s worst.

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A9 Perth to Inverness. Mile after mile of beautiful scenery.

For those who do not know, the Kessock Bridge crosses the Beauly Firth at Inverness. To avoid the bridge would be to add another couple of hours to the journey. But to cross the bridge on a bike, in high winds and in torrential rain would be daunting.

I should point out at this point that I have two fears in life: heights and cliff-tops. The latter would come later, but in the meantime I parked in a lay-by at the foot of Kessock Bridge to prepare myself for the crossing. What I actually did was have a mild panic attack – from the Google Map images the bridge looked fine and not very high. From the comfort of my lay-by, it looked horrific. It still amazes me to think that I spent over 20 minutes in that lay-by trying to get myself to get back on the bike. When I finally did, and rejoined the carriageway, I had such a feeling of dread but there was no going back.

As predicted, the bridge crossing was one of the most awful things I have ever experienced. Leaning the bike into the wind to stay upright, I was convinced I would be forced over the edge by the wind and plummet to my certain death. After what seemed like an age, but in reality was probably only three minutes, I reached the other side and was literally filled with joy that I was still alive. Looking back, as one can on these types of events, I can obviously see that I was worrying about nothing. But at the time this seemed like my biggest challenge of the trip. As it turned out, worse was yet to come.

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Kessock Bridge, Inverness.

There was two more bridge crossings before the A9 reached its final leg: the Cromarty Bridge (which as it’s name suggests crosses the Cromarty Firth) and the Dornoch Firth bridge. Neither were really a problem, but obviously I had convinced myself that every bridge would result in my certain death, so there was an amount of angst and dread with each crossing.

Once over the Dornoch Firth the A9 largely follows the northeast coast of the top of Scotland, and on the map looks like fabulous riding. The rain had turned to occasional showers and with glimpsing sunshine there were indeed many miles of fun riding (albeit in wet gear and still very, very cold). What I did not realise was the extent of (my worst fear) cliff-top roads. Once again, my now familiar riding colleague, the wind, was in full force, and with mile after mile of A9 running dangerously close to the top of cliffs I found myself again on constant alert of my impending doom around each corner.

As the A9 became the A99, I knew I was only a few miles from John O’Groats. Checking the time on the SatNav, it was just coming up to 5pm – just under 24 hours since departing from Lands End at 5.45pm the previous day. For the first time, I actually became worried about not getting there quick enough! As it turned out, the final stretch was easy riding, and the grey skies held the rain back until finally the John O’Groats sign appeared.

I pulled into the John O’Groats harbour at 5.32pm according to the SatNav – just 13 minutes before 24 hours, although I had lost roughly four hours due to the headlight. I had ridden 1068.1 miles and the SatNav stated that I had reached my destination.

John O’Groats is quite a confusing place. The car park was empty but for one coach which was loading a dozen or so people. There were a couple of visitors but they all had the same confused faces as I had – we were all wondering what all the fuss is about! There was a knitwear shop that was closed, the famous Journey’s End Café Bar (also closed) and the First And Last Gift Shop (which looked open but on closer inspection was un-manned).

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John O’Groats, Saturday 28th May 2011.

I stretched my legs and took a few pictures, and then headed up the road to the Seaview Hotel, which is the official Certification location if the Journey’s End Café is closed. The hotel receptionist politely stamped my card and signed it. By now of course, I was completely exhausted and enquired whether they had a spare room for the night, which they did. However, I decided I would start the journey back, hopefully reaching Inverness once more and finding a Travelodge for the night.

The Journey Home

Within an hour or so of riding back down the A9 from John O’Groats, the rain and winds started up again, but I had a huge sense of relief that I was now heading home. This was mixed with a strange feeling of pride that I had made it to John O’Groats, and disappointment that John O’Groats was so dull. For some reason, at several points of the ride up I had imagined John O’Groats to be a place of wonder, where welcoming committees greeted the weary travellers with cake and tea. No such luck.

I mentioned earlier that the last leg of the A9 had some cliff-top sections that made for frightening riding. Well, on the journey back a few of these seemed even worse as the wind and the rain battered down on the bike and me. But I carried on, high on the feeling of my accomplishment so far.

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A9 southbound from John O’Groats. One of the cliff-top moments.

The journey to Inverness seemed to be never ending. On a scale of things, the distance is similar to travelling from London to Bristol, but the ever-challenging roads and the weather combined to make the journey both hard work and time consuming. By now of course the time had passed 9pm on Saturday and I was physically and mentally exhausted. But I had to keep going.

And then of course I was approaching Kessock Bridge for the second (and last) time. I had filled up with fuel roughly 20 miles earlier at 10.17pm, so I suppose the time was now just after 10.30pm. The wind still seemed strong and time there was no lay-by on the southbound carriage for my pre-bridge contemplation. I just had to press on, always with the underlying assumption that I would not make it to the other side, but just as relieved as before as I once again reached terra firma.

Riding out of Inverness, I saw the Premier Inn on the other side of the dual carriageway and intended to double-back at the earliest opportunity. As is always the way with these things, the road continued with no turning opportunity for what seemed like miles, and eventually I decided I had gone too far to warrant turning back.

Another 10 miles or so and I was regretting the decision. I knew I was about to embark on the never-ending A9 from Inverness to Perth, and I could not remember seeing any hotels or B&Bs on my route north. Just as I was considering my options, a “B&B 1 Mile” sign appeared, and I felt a huge relief. But for the next few minutes I feared the worst – they would be full.

Pulling in to Torguish House at around 10.45pm, I was relieved to see the lights were on. I kept my helmet on and rung the doorbell, fully expecting a “sorry, we’re full”. If that was the case, I planned to get straight back on the bike and head southbound for 100 miles until I reached Perth. But Mike, the Hull-born owner with his white-beard happily said they have a

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room, and he helped me put the bike under their purpose-built motorcycle store and we unloaded my gear. Mike and Angie, who had owned the B&B for five years, gave me a wonderful cup of hot tea and a biscuit and settled me into my room for the night.

It turns out that Torguish House was previously the childhood home of Alistair MacLean, the Scottish writer of movie greats such as Where Eagles Dare and The Guns of Navarone. I would certainly highly recommend them as a great place to stay. I planned an early start, but was also conscious that I needed some good rest. Once I had removed my gear and got into the bed (with two additional blankets provided by Angie) it still took me over an hour to get to sleep. My head was buzzing and every part of my body was frozen to the bone. I shivered under the blankets until I must have fallen asleep with the exhaustion.

I wanted to hit the road early so was up at 6am and heading south on the A9 by 6.45am. I did my best to leave Torguish House as quietly as I could, letting myself out and tip-toeing to the bike store. Only when I fired up the 600cc V-twin motor did I realise how pointless that had been; the bike store shook with the vibration from the bike.

The winds on the A9 were high but the rain intermittent, making for a largely pleasant 104-mile ride down the scenic road to Perth.

Crosswind Hell

A 9am re-fuel at Perth started the trip to Sterling and onto Glasgow. The sun was out at Perth, and I was looking forward to getting south of Glasgow. I had no idea what lay ahead.

Crosswinds are difficult on a motorcycle. To the inexperienced, they can suddenly push the rider and his bike several feet, and the rider risks being forced into other traffic or off the road entirely. I have been riding motorcycles for almost 25 years, and happily content that I can handle any crosswinds with skill and experience I headed off to Sterling.

The trick with crosswinds is to lean into the wind as if you are going round a bend. Leaning and putting all your body weight to the side, into the wind, forces the bike to stay on the straight, but to the rider it can be a disconcerting experience – to be leaning but heading in a straight line for long periods is extremely odd.

The crosswinds pushing me across the A9 and the A80 were like nothing I had ever experienced. The force and the might of the winds required constant battling to control the bike and the lean to ensure I could keep going. The pressure and the pain on my arms and shoulders were immense, and the crosswinds so sudden and forceful I began to doubt my own ability.

On two occasions, neither the bike nor myself could push against the force with enough strength to maintain our line. The first time, I veered onto the hard shoulder by several inches until I could recover the bike back onto the main road. This was extremely unnerving and I kept the bike in a low gear for the next few miles. It was hard to determine the optimal speed for these winds, but I kept at an average 40mph hoping this would be the most stable.

But on the A80, a crosswind with such ferocity hit me that I was once again forced onto the hard shoulder – this time almost to the inside edge – several feet from the main carriageway. In all my years as a biker, I have never had an accident and never fallen from a bike. I have had a few near misses as we all have on the UK’s roads, but nothing that really frightened me. But I will forever remember my journey from Perth to Glasgow as categorically the most frightening experience I have ever had on a motorcycle. In less lucky circumstances, I could easily have been killed on that road.

I reached the services just south of Glasgow at around 10.20am on Sunday. I had travelled 1,366 miles and had 419 miles left until I was home. I was actually quite shaken from the

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crosswinds, and had agonising aching in my wrists, arms and shoulders from battling the bike through the wind. But I was keen to keep going. Longing for home.

The M74 southbound from Glasgow to Carlisle was relatively uneventful. Rain came and went several times, and the wind persevered. Quite bizarrely, there were several signs through Dumfries to Carlisle warning of crosswinds, but they were nothing compared to the events of earlier in the day.

England

From Carlisle, through Penrith, Kendall and southbound, the riding was relatively fast and easy-going. I remember seeing the Welcome to England sign, though I could not pinpoint it on a map now. Mile after mile of motorway riding all becomes a bit of a blur after several hours, and once again my focus was almost entirely on how much fuel I had, how many miles until I am home, and how much longer can my hands, arms, shoulders and legs last before I simply must stop again to bring them back to life.

As each mile passed, so the time between stops got shorter and shorter. I do not know exactly how many times I stopped on the journey back, but I was stopping roughly every 50 to 70 miles for a couple of minutes just to get off the bike. The process of getting the bike onto it’s side stand and heaving my strained body off the bike was getting harder and harder each time. I had numbness in many places (some I can not mention) and by now I knew I could not relieve the tiredness just by stopping for a rest. I had to keep going as safely as I could to get home.

The southbound M6 is a tedious road, passing through Lancaster, Preston, around Blackpool, Liverpool and Manchester until you pass Stoke-On-Trent. Finally Birmingham was on the road signs.

For some reason, Birmingham seemed a landmark on the journey home. I suppose in my mind that was a sign that signified the last stretch. After all, we could all drive or ride to Birmingham and back – that journey would seem very achievable. But by now, even from Birmingham, my home in Dorset seemed a very long way away. With 1,656 miles travelled and only 137 miles to my home, the end was in sight, but still a far way off.

South of Birmingham and past Cheltenham, I took the A417 to Swindon but turned off on the B429 to Junction 17 on the M4. I cut straight across the M4 and got on the A350 through Chippenham and Melksham. The A350 goes all the way to Blandford Forum, where I live, so this point really felt like I was on the last road home.

The sun was out, there was no noticeable wind, and my hands had started thawing out. The ride through Westbury and Warminster through to Shaftesbury was a joy. For a while I rode along with two other motorcyclists who kept up a good pace. But I soon wanted to press on and left them in my mirrors with a friendly wave.

At 7.45pm on Sunday, I arrived in Blandford to the welcome I had only dreamed of for the last few days. Heaving myself off the bike was a challenge, but the loving hug and the hot tea made it worthwhile. I had travelled 1,790 miles over the weekend.

When I look back at the challenge, there are things that went well and things that did not go as I had imagined or planned. The bike was outstanding. The electrical fault was, I am certain, because I had meddled with the electrics for the SatNav. If I had left well alone, this 20-year-old Honda would without doubt have taken me to Lands End, up to John O’Groats and home again without a single issue. And I am sure the bike could do it all again tomorrow with no issues (I, however, could not).

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I had not spent enough time planning for the journey, and for the weather. If I had spent more time planning for eventualities I would have taken additional clothing, warmer under-clothes and more changes of warm clothes to enable me to spend more time dry and warm. As it was, I spent 80% of the weekend soaked and frozen.

Despite the issues though, I am pleased I did the challenge. The feeling of arriving at John O’Groats was hugely rewarding. The money raised for the Motor Neurone Disease Association will hopefully help the sufferers and carers of this awful disease. And the feeling of coming home reminded me of what, and who, is really important in my life.

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