Day 11: Carbisdale - John O'Groats

Nearly there!

By now I'm convinced I can do it physically and mentally. So my new big fear is having an unforced crash, or injuring myself getting down from a bunk bed or climbing over a gate for a spot of 'quantitative easing'.

We take a path beside the railway and a metal bridge to reach the road, only to set off in the wrong direction...

Then it's on to Lairg, billed as 'The Crossroads of the Highlands'. Have they ever seen Adam, Jill & Co. I wonder...

Ever northwards on the A 836, and ever more remote. The main traffic is Dutch and French tourists, plus farmers towing trailers full of fleeces.

Turning right at Altnaharra it's a great ride along Loch Naver and on to Bettyhill, being passed on the way by a blur we feel must have been Rob. Steve joins us for a while, then surges ahead, just as we enter another deluge.

As always, there's only one answer to the 'stop or press on?' question, and I begin to fantasise about a pie emporium at Bettyhill, on the north coast. When we arrive it's beautiful sure enough, but the only food is at the village shop, a great disappointment. The ride along the coast is hard - very little flat, and I'm now riding for a finish, with great support from Alan, who shepherds us past the spookily deserted Dounreay atomic power station.

Thurso arrives as a great relief, 22 miles from the finish. Rod has done some scouting, and leads me to a street with two chippies facing each other. Basic research leads us to chose Sandra's, a bizarre establishment, but a real find, despite the fact that Sandra appears to have a beard.

Keen to sample the haute cuisine of the region, I order haggis, with a deep-fried Mars bar for desert. When in Rome...actually it's just what the doctor ordered, full of calories and strangely different to a normal Mars bar.

Suitably fuelled, the final ride is a pleasure, though the ten-mile excursion to Dunnet Head, the most northerly point in Britain, is ruled out. Calling at Canisbay youth hostel, our final stop-over, we meet up with the rest of the group, don our CRUK T-shirts and then crazily race each other to John O' Groats.

Not the most lively place, the tourist signpost has gone home with the photographer by the time we arrive, so we find suitable photographic locations and snap away.

Rod, Tach and I celebrate quietly with bubbly, Leffe and Guinness.

110 miles in 9.5 hours.

1,025 miles altogether.....