Uh-oh.

As I write, I’ve been back home one and a half hours. Job done. Total distance 91.7 miles, up and down the hills of South Lakeland. Average speed 11.7 mph, but who’s counting?

I have not fully recovered.

We were averaging a rapid 15.7mph until the first big hill of the day, but Grizebeck, just before Broughton, soon put a stop to that. (I actually had it down as the third big hill, but what do I know?) John shot up it at twice my speed, but despite me coming down at 38.9mph – my fastest speed of the day – we were back to more usual averages.

After Grizebeck it was up another steady hill to Broughton-in-Furness for our tea stop. It was a bit of a shock when I dismounted to find that my legs had turned to jelly. Tea at the cafe, then an absolute b****d hill out of Broughton got me walking for the first time. I don’t know what’s worse: walking with the bike or giving it your all with no spare gears to hand. My legs weren’t quite the same for the rest of the ride.

On we went through the Duddon valley, the ups exceeding the downs as we approached Wrynose. Lovely scenery and the day had been absolutely cracking – a perfect blue-sky day, not so much wind to slow you down, but just enough to stop you cooking. And thank goodness for factor 25; I came through the day relatively unburnt.

I didn’t in the end get as far up Wrynose pass as I would have liked. When I was taught to drive, many years ago, I was encouraged to give way to vehicles struggling up hill. These days few drivers see the need to offer this courtesy, and sure enough, just as I was getting to the limit of my reserves a descending Range Rover forced me to pull over. There was no way at that gradient I could get moving again, and so I had to walk the last bit. I didn’t have a lot left, but who knows? In consolation, even though by this time I was blown that was the last time I got off and walked.

Made it! The top of Wrynose

The downhill that followed was the worst part of the day by far. A 32-degree descent on a winding narrow road, with cars and motor cycles going past in both directions, and brakes smoking – quite literally – and unable to stop me. I don’t know if I’m just being a bit of wuss, but to pull on the brakes with all of your might and find that they don’t have the muscle to slow your progress is quite a worry.

We had done 58.7 miles by our lunch stop at the Three Shires pub, Little Langdale, and although we only had a sandwich, lunch was presented very nicely with a lovely dressed salad. We sat outside and the couple at the next table took our photo and gave a donation to my ARC charity, brilliant. I was at a low point and didn’t want to get back on the bike, but little things like this and other encouraging comments we had along the way helped make it bearable.

Lunch at the Three Shires

I got on, gritted my teeth and hung on for the remainder of the trip. Any speed I had had gone and minor hills that had been no trouble on the way out were now a torment. Getting back seemed to take forever.

Our finishing time was just short of eight hours. I was disappointed with my lack of stamina but delighted to finish.

John had adjusted the route. Rather than ride to Sawrey over a couple of severe hills, he had found a slightly easier route that also shaved four miles off the original. We avoided using the ferry but it was still up and down through Bowness and Lyth Valley before getting home to Carnforth.

John was terrific throughout, nursing and encouraging me all the way, especially towards the end. He got me home and that last climb up the railway bridge hill at Crag Bank was almost a pleasure. (I also think I’ve found the best road sign in the world: Carnforth 10 miles. I think I should register it with Guinness.)

Although he is 71, John was always within himself, and often waiting for me at the top of each ascent. And while at Wrynose even he pushed the bike for the last 75 yards, I suspect if it had been a race he’d have made it.

When we got home we watched the second half of the FA Cup final, and after just one cup of tea he was refreshed and ready to go again. Remarkable.

He is out riding again tomorrow. I think I’ll pass.

Tea: best drink of t'day

The best-laid plans, etc. Having consulted the runes, shaken the seaweed and as a last resort studied the Met Office weather forecast, John has decided the ride to Wrynose will happen early Saturday morning, and may the devil take the hindmost. On second thoughts, that’s likely to be me, so forget that last bit.

The bike is all ready to go, but am I?

A holiday on the Isle of Skye means training once more took a back seat this week. I really should take more holidays – back at work all has been running very nicely in my absence. Delegation is a wonderful thing, especially when your delegates are so good. 

But back to the bikes… Our intention, weather permitting, is to go for the ride this coming Thursday, 28 May. If the weather continues to defy us we will fall back on the option of taking the first day we can next week.

Decision made, we did a standard circuit on Sunday of around 22 miles to get back in the groove. A respectable average speed of 14.2mph, achieved without trying too hard. Training in the gym on Tuesday should be my last chance to hone my fitness before the big day.

You’ll notice, incidentally, that I’m not talking about my weight any more. These days I am pure lean muscle and sinew, and that’s my last word on the subject. Topic closed, thank you very much.

The end is nigh and the ride is imminent. Watch this space and be prepared to make a donation to a worthy cause or two.

Back in the groove: 26 miles this Sunday, up every col, down into every valley, and up and over every pass in the area, including the finale of Capernwray Hill. Average speed, 13.8mph. That’s not going to impress everyone, but these hills are my Alpe D’Huez.

The final goal is now in sight: Wrynose (or bust) within the next three weeks. The money for my chosen charities is trickling in, and when the deed is finally done we may generate a bit more interest and a bit more cash.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – many thanks to everyone who has kindly made a donation. I suppose I may have spread myself a bit thin by naming four charities at the same time, but in my defence this is the first time I have attempted anything like this. Next time I’ll get someone to project-manage the campaign, as they say on Grand Designs.

That said, I’m amazed at how much we’ve raised so far, and how many people we’ve reached. I’ve been out of touch with some of my donors for years. It has all been quite heart warming.

Onwards and upwards. As the big day looms larger, life is becoming all work and training and no play. Tough, but it’s not for ever. Thank you for your support.

Wrynose plans stymied by the elements, I took Sunday off to watch Jez run the line at Liverpool versus Newcastle.

By and large, football people are a great bunch, and true to form we had a good day out. A sandwich or two at half time, photos taken alongside the Champions League trophy, and shoulders duly rubbed with a few former players and a smashing guy who turned out to be the Everton scout. 

The game today wasn’t too clever, though. I don’t usually care who wins – we just go to be entertained and to support the third (and best) team on the pitch, the officials – but Newcastle were a total let down. Their most professional performance came from Alan Shearer, messiah-in-waiting (but don’t hold your breath).

There he was in his white shirt, like the white horse at Wembley, waving every time the ‘Shearer’ chant went up and scowling every time Liverpool attacked and exposed his team’s frailties. And all the time playing an outstanding game of Failing Manager Footsie with the fourth official.

All losing football managers do this: They deliberately stand just outside their technical area and wind up the fourth official. Usually the official will give the transgressor a few minutes to get it out of his system, before finally doing as required and telling him to keep inside his area. This typically leads to a ‘discussion’ wherein the manager questions the official’s parentage and with a lot of arm waving demonstrates to the arena that he is the most committed man on his team.

When the game is rubbish this sort of diversion is almost as good as when the rival mascots have a fight. And if you’re very lucky you’ll see your multimillionaire Armani-besuited manager go on to do his impression of Kevin the sulky teenager. Absolutely priceless.

It’s goodbye to blistering, sun-soaked April and hello to … February? 

This first week in May was going to be the week of the bike ride, but bad weather has got in the way. The forecast is for howling gales, driving rain and single-digit temperatures.

I may be daft taking on this venture, but I’m not stupid: We’ve postponed to the last week of the month. It’s a bank holiday week in the Lakes (oh, great), but hopefully spring will be back with us by then. And it gives you a bit more time to cough up some cash for my chosen charities…