Lands End. At this point we were all still full of hope and naivety, and looking forward to our breakfast (which we’d find 10 miles down the road, in Penzance, which we’d ridden through in the dark the night before).
Someone had nicked the actual sign – or, rather, it looks like you only get one of the classic touristy photos if you’d willing to wait till 10am, queue up for your turn, and pay a lot of money to a professional photographer, which we weren’t.
It was round about this time that we ran into a couple of groups of men in lycra, on flashy bikes, who were obviously just about to set off for John O’Groats, with their support cars wives in tow, having clearly been in training for this moment for months. I felt a little embarrassed by how underprepared we looked in comparison, not to mention the comparative shortness of our endeavour. But then again, we were doing it without support, without credit cards, without several grand’s worth of bike, and after a week on circuit.
And so we set off. It was a lovely, bright, breezy morning, and we had no idea of the pain and suffering in store.