Arriving (Day 0)

On Sunday, we left the family behind and threw the bikes into Martin’s van. His mate Jez joined us for the 4 hour journey to St. Bees. Martin was buzzing, he’d driven most of this journey hundreds of times with work, dreaming of riding coast to coast. He didn’t say much, but there was an air of excitement around him that almost hummed as he urged the van to go faster towards our starting point. I was quiet too, wondering what I’d let myself in for. After the Mournes I had no confidence that I’d be able to ride across even moderately challenging terrain, Despite the ordnance survey maps and satellite navigation, on my phone, the compasses, the maps, I was sure we’d get lost. Would my bike hold up, would the new tighter chain stop the ride on the first day? Would I fall off at the simplest hurdles like in Woodburn? On one hand, I was full of doubt. On the other, I was desperate to get started, to put all the problems I’d encountered in my training behind me, and get stuck into the adventure I’d been preparing myself to undertake.

Jez somehow managed to keep a conversation going single handed for the whole four hours. He covered yoga, conspiracy theories, freemen of the land, corporate greed, water filtering techniques, hydroelectric cars, drug use, the UK court system and wireless electricity. Oh yes, and he talked about mini cooper cars, property ownership and human anatomy too.

When we got to stonehouse farm Carole showed us the excellent annex/bungalow where we’d be staying. A bedroom, a shower room, and a living/kitchen/bedroom. We offloaded the bikes, changed from our jeans and shirts into the cycling shorts and tees that we’d be wearing for the next week, and Jez turned around and drove the four hours back to Martin’s house. I can only guess what topics the conversation covered on that journey.

While Martin prepared a pasta carbonara for us to eat, I borrowed his bike and rode down to the water’s edge. Tradition dictates that anyone riding coast to coast should dip their back wheel into the water in St. Bee. I’ve done it, and Martin’s bike has done it. I also selected a more permanent proof of the journey, a pebble from the beach which I intended to carry across the country with me to the other side.

Back at the B&B, my headache, which had been developing most of the afternoon, got quickly worse, and I was only able to force half of the pasta down my neck before stumbling to the bedroom and collapsing into a fitful sleep.