Day 7: Carlisle - Ayr

To catch up, Rod and I head out early in the morning on the bus back to Plumpton. It's a bad sign when Rod's tyre blows out after a few yards, and matters get worse when we re-enter Carlisle.

I'm suffering badly from bruised and chafed hands, so have taken to wearing two pairs of riding gloves to reduce the discomfort. I'm also keen to avoid the vibration caused by rough road surfaces, like that now on the A6. I swear the 'Temporary Road Surface' sign was left behind by the Romans....

So naturally when I see a stretch of smooth pavement I head for it, only the angle's too acute and I'm soon collecting my own impression of the aforementioned Temporary Road Surface in my leg. Luckily the bike's relatively undamaged, my wounds aren't as bad as they look, and we meet others back at the Travelodge.

Taking the A7 northwards I'm reminded that there's a fair bit of England between Carlisle and Scotland. John joins us at the border, having slept in again, this time at his aunt's, and used local knowledge to take a service road alongside the M74.

Westwards now to Dumfries, flat featureless landscape not improved by constant drizzle. We meet up, and I heed John's dietary advice at lunch, going for the carbs of macaroni cheese and a raspberry milkshake with ice cream.

Forcing ourselves out into the rain again we take the A79 and B729 out of Dumfries, to Moniave. Then up into the forested hills to the west, where we are joined by Our Leader, who reaches the summit first, then disappears from sight. As does everything shortly after, as the heavens open during our descent. I'd shelter if there was any suitable refuge, but this is a remote place and I'm soon soaked through, so carry on and wait for Rod at the bottom of the descent.

Joining the A713 wet, cold and tired, a sign showing a further 36 miles to Ayr does nothing to raise spirits. Rod and I are growing increasingly concerned about the whereabouts of Our Leader, especially as there's no answer from his phone. Hypothermia is a real possibility in these conditions.

We dig deep and slog it out along awful roads to the River Doon, which the road now follows, and I go into evening riding mood, when everything seems better. I've worked out that I'm OK when soaked as long as I keep moving, because my sodden clothes work as a crude wet suit. Now the proper cycling clothes worn by the more experienced riders start to make sense.

We meet Alan in the bus at the A77, out looking for Our Leader, with a worried Angus. Reaching the Ayr Travelodge with no sighting, Rod calls the police, only for Our Leader to appear minutes later, claiming to have diverted to give the Western House Hotel a piece of his mind over a booking cock-up.

112 miles in 10 hours.

As I soak my tired and battered legs it's all I can do not to fall asleep in the bath.