On most days we are the antihesis of the British Olympic cycle team. Our nutritionists fill us up with pork pies, banana and cream sarnies, eyes are turned to the odd cigarette, and we ride different types of bikes in random formations. At our best we can ride within 10 yards of each other in a pursuit style, often that stretches out to 2 miles, depending on our loose interpretation of riding together, the highway code (Veljko) and bladders (mostly Mark). The Olympic spirit is really only alive and well in the Little Chef breakfasts.
Shap Fell is the stuff of legend, and on our training rides just a month ago we would never have left the Travelodge let alone climb the thing. In the days, weeks approaching the day of the 7 mile trek we began to believe all the Shap whispers - this was the hill to the moon, even Lance Armstrong had to walk, 'find a good chemist', 'get a note from your Mom'. We even approached the thing with a degree of trepidation. We forgot just one thing - somewhere during the last month, realistically during the last few days we had become cyclists. Maybe not the Olympic kind, maybe we wont ever wear Yellow - but cyclists none the less. So casual is our approach that we were in danger of dismissing one of our greater achievements. After a cup of tea I reckon a couple of us would even say we took a wrong turn - we hadn't conquered the big hill, but we did, and we did it pretty bloody well.
Gutted that Becks and Eddie missed out - they barely have two functioning knees between them - so for them just a few miles is a simliarly big achievement.
Day 7 done, tomorrow 75 miles, then another 81 and 3 more days take us to John O'Groats; distances many of us wouldn't have imagined a month ago.
Andy
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