Day 14 done: Altnaharra to John O'Groats

Before we start the monumental description of today's leg we first must return to yesterday evening. Our proclamation in yesterday's blog of Dad's perfect day in the support vehicle turned put to be somewhat premature. 

The Altnaharra Hotel hap provided one of the best evening meals of the tour. Fabulous steak, snapper and pork had been washed down with Big Mike's carefully selected Malbec. We then retired to the lounge to sample a couple of the local single malts. Talk turned to the plan for the morning. I suddenly had a lucid moment. What did we do with the keys when we locked up the bike? I had been pretty careful with them on previous occasions but I had absolutely no recollection of what I had done with them. A comprehensive retracing of events rapidly homed in on the fact that Big Mike had been complicit  in the locking up episode. The second kangaroo court of the tour pointed the finger at Mike for being the last in possession of he keys. He was quick to deny the charge. A check of his room and my worries began to mount. We then spent the next 30 mins searching the bike shed in the near pitch blackness to no avail. Key-gate was in full flow.  Talk of whether Altnaharra have a fire brigade to cut through our locks took on a pretty serious tone. Finally we deducted that the only place they could be was back in the glove compartment of the car. Thankfully our last resort proved fruitful and Dad's only defence of amnesia was not particularly well received. 

Ian's prediction of the procession to John O'Groats was living up to it's promise as, minus the pesky midges, we were faced with with rolling countryside and scenic lochs for the 20 mile ride to the northern coast.  Various LeJog tourists seemed to converge as the alternative routes were disappearing by each passing mile.

20 miles in we were all dreaming of ticker tape parades and keys presented by the Mayor of John O'Groats.   Then suddenly the wheels started to come off and the blasé approach of the group proved unfounded and exceptionally premature. Who would have thought that the north east coast of Scotland would be so unforgiving... 

The village of Bettyhill passed in the blinking of a hypnotised Crocodile's eye and we realised the procession onto JoG was in fact a procession of mountains.  Multiple climbs later and the intrepid explorers were gasping and banging on the door of the Starsky Inn 10 minutes before their opening time of 11:30. During our emergency regrouping over a pint of Orkney, the proprietor confidently stated that the next 8 miles would be tough, then the final 36 would be the cake walk we were aiming for. 12 miles of climbing later  down his supposedly flatter, short-cut and we realised that we were already manually supping ales and whiskeys in JoG. Our next rendezvous with the support vehicle was scheduled for Thurso and  never had 20 miles felt so far! By this stage we were feeling every bump and rivet in the road.  

Rather than chastise ourselves, and like any group of men, our attentions turned to blaming others. Could the very same John Bigley (JB), who was our Samwise the brave from his three day stint as a tourist, prove to be our nemesis. If your are reading JB where are the rolling roads, the pancake flat plains and shimmering bogs that were promised? 

A refuel at Thruso in the glorious sunshine and we were all set for the last 20 miles. One or two testing hills still lay in front of us but we were now back in full peleton formation and counting every mile down. Before we knew it we were down to single fingers of miles left to ride. The famous JOG signpost was  imagined around every passing bend. Surely it is around the next one?! Eventually a cluster of odd looking buildings were spotted down toward the coast. Ian came out with a usual instantaneous remark, 'it better not be that dump'. Well of course it was and we reached Dad who was waiting for us at the signpost marking 1/4 mile to 'the end'. 

Suddenly our sails were once again filled. Dad was sent ahead to capture the final action sot of the three musketeers riding in. We we all set and already practicing our poses for the signpost shot we had cycled over 1,000 miles to get. Everything was ready and we slowly drew three abreast for the key moment of the tour. Just as Dad was ready for the shot an old dear suddenly pulled out in her 1997 Ford Fiesta and the shot was missed. We were not too disappointed as we free-wheeled on the remaining 150yards to 'the end'. We rolled in at 4.35pm to be greeted by a cheer from the handful of LEJOGers who had already finished. Our joyful expressions soon turned to confusion as we could not spot the famous signpost. Our fellow LEJOGers filled in the gaps to explain that the signpost is removed each evening at 4.30pm. The only feasible explanation given was theft or vandalism. It hardly seemed possible. We had cycled over 1,000 miles for two key photos and came away with neither! 

Fortunately a second, but less impressive, sign exists and we got our finishers piccies. Better news followed as Dad produced a bottle of bubbles from the support vehicle. The cork was popped and we enjoyed a very refreshing glass sat on quayside of John O'Groats harbour.

Now that the LeJoGers were over the line it wasn't the time to clock up further unnecessary  miles. We were all ready for beers and whiskeys after being home and hosed. Besides, who could get lost in then anti-metropolis of JoG? The answer: Ace! A few trips up and down the main strip, with Ace protesting that these the clock should stop for the 'over count' sweep stake, and we finally rolled into what looked like a single story shack. Finally, the mileage clock was stopped for the last time. As the votes were counted, it seemed like Westminster isn't the only house that has a hung parliament. Deano is our very own Labour party, out of power and sat on 19 excess miles, whilst Ace and myself formed an unwelcome coalition, each clocking 18 excess miles for our sectors. Who would have thought that out of 1118 miles we would only miscalculate by 55 miles with a spread of 1 mile between the worse and best estimator. A good effort all round and an honourable draw. 

Another welcome result was meeting Alastair, the proprietor of our digs for the evening. He greeted us with our second bottle of bubbly care of the Finns. We were now getting  the taste for the good stuff! A quick shower and we wandered down the road for a good feed at the Seaview Hotel. Discussion over dinner naturally turned to the next challenge. A 70.2 half ironman has already been pencilled in the diary and more ambitious future tours have been muted. Negotiations at home may need to begin.......

We have decided to try to put together something of a round up blog during the 690mile journey back to London via Blackpool. 

So to the stats of the day:

- mileage covered: 77
- total miles: 1,118
- unaccounted miles: 2
- nuclear power stations passed: 1 (Dunrea)
- birds of prey: 1 (maybe an eagle but unconfirmed)
- falls: zero

And most importantly, miles to go... 0!!!

Attention turns to the two big outstanding trophies of the tour, the Finn Beer trophy and the Dickinson Whiskey Cup. 

The beers have remained steady if unspectacular. We have started to realise Scotland is a little lacking on the village pub front. We were a little unsettled when confronted with Boddingtons on tap in our lunch stop but have enjoyed the Orkney Ale served at the Seaview. 

As for the Whiskeys, well we have had a flood of tastings over the last 24 hours. We will sumarise here to prevent boredom (and accusations of alcoholism). Ace has developed a taste for the Islay and has decided his firm favourite is the Laphoaig. Ian almost chocked when he tasted Phil Mawdsley's recommendation of Bruichladdich. The general consensus was that the noise smelt of silage and it tasted like something that was produced by an Angus heffer. Other favourites have been the Balvenie, Bowmore and Craggnmore. 

Our final Scottish meal saw plenty of haggis and steak being washed down by one of Big Mike's recommended Malbecs. 

The 400 mile road trip to Blackpool tomorrow could be a long day (for Dad). I think Paul, Ian and I will sleep very well in the knowledge that we will not be having to get on our trusty steeds and into the saddle! 

TTFN