Why would anyone choose to cycle 1,000 miles across a country famous for its foul weather and love of cars? Why not, for example, spend the month in style, riding a Harley-Davidson across America? These are questions I have asked myself many times since I decided to ride from Land's End to John O'Groats.
All end-to-enders, or Lejoggers as we apparently call ourselves, are setting ourselves physical challenges, some more than others. Most people complete the trip in about 18 days, averaging a heftyish 60 miles a day. A seven-year-old is attempting the trip this year. One man, Andy Wilkinson, has completed the journey in 41 hours, cycling non-stop and reaching speeds close to 80mph.
I'm planning a relatively modest 40 miles a day and aim to complete the trip in just under five weeks. I hadn't been intending to break any records, but judging from the websites I've seen, I could be on course to complete the slowest ever documented bike ride up Britain.
Like most cyclists, I'm starting at Land's End and travelling north to take advantage of the prevailing tailwind. Contrary to popular belief this does not mean cycling uphill all the way. My route, supplied by the Cyclists Touring Club (CTC), is 1,018 miles - some 150 miles further than the most direct route. It follows quiet roads and avoids big towns.
I started preparing for this trip in January and found it relatively effortless to buy a shiny new bike and large quantities of Lycra wear. Training has been more problematic: successful end-to-enders say I should have been notching up at least 100 miles a week for the last couple of months. I've taken a more relaxed approach, with half a dozen leisurely Sunday rides and a couple of half-hearted sessions at the gym. As the trip is bound to be physical torture, I figured there was no point suffering in advance too. As the trip looms ever closer, that's starting to look like false logic.
In the last couple of days, as the rain pours down, the gale warnings hit Cornwall and I feel flu-like symptoms brewing, I've fantasised about abandoning the whole endeavour. Part of the reason I'll go through with it is that, like most people who undertake this challenge, I'm committed to raising money for charity.
The cause I'm supporting is Harmony Community Trust, a Northern Irish charity that promotes cross-community reconciliation in the province, largely through organising farmhouse holidays for mixed groups of disadvantaged Protestant and Catholic children. The organisation is not well known outside Northern Ireland, but I worked for them as a student and wanted to do a bit more now.
Then, of course, there's the pleasure of exploring some far-flung corners of Britain. My route takes me along the north coast of Cornwall and Devon, up the west of England and through the wilds of central Scotland. It passes through impossibly quaint-sounding villages with names such as Perranworthal, Blairnamarrow and Fodderletter. Perhaps these will turn out to be unsightly conurbations or motorway service stations, but they sound indescribably romantic. I also pass through Tomintoul, the highest village in Scotland. My cavalier approach to training is starting to look more and more foolish.
Finally there's the cycling. You don't grow out of the childish pleasure of a shiny new bike, and my silver Marin Pacific Heights is a joy to ride. Living in London I've had to give up regular cycling. I've had one decent bike stolen (a determined thief sawed through the cast iron railing to which I'd secured it), been sworn at by roadhogs more times than I think is nice, and found myself in a mangled heap in the middle of the road after being knocked over by a careless driver.
This trip will be a fantastic opportunity to remind myself, at leisure, what a pleasure cycling can be. Optimistically I picture myself with the wind in my hair, bright sun dappling through the trees, coasting between verdant meadows on a slight downhill incline for weeks on end. Now roll on Tomintoul.
