Bordeaux is roughly as far.

And the wine would have been better. And the local dialect would have been easier to comprehend.

But there is no way that we would have had the same adventure and as much fun as we did on the Outer Hebrides.

For years, friends and I had been banging on about this incredible adventure race that was a South/North traverse of the Outer Hebrides of Scotland. The race typically took place every July over 5 or 6 days and the route linked Barra, Eriskay, South Uist, Benbecula, North Uist, Berneray, South Harris,North Harris and finished at the lighthouse at the Northern tip of Lewis. The highest points of each island were to be ascended with plenty of other "nearly highest" points chucked in for good measure. Mountain run sections would be connected by road or mountain bike and wet bits (deeper than your waist height) would be crossed by kayak or swimming.

Despite all the bluff and bluster, none of us had a history of regularly expending energy in training on legs or wheels and certainly not against the clock. So we just had another beer and mused over it a little longer, wondering what sort of masochistic nutter would actually complete this sort of race.

The idea that I could possibly combine this character building experience with raising some funds for Trust PA (established in memory of my good friend Paul Andre Blundell) finally crystallised my resolve at the end of 2008 and then the hunt began for fellow team mates with equal blind optimism that we could actually get ourselves from Barra to the Butt of Lewis without catching the bus.

After numerous interested parties, the two indefatigable team mates who stayed the distance were Angela Heeley and Tom Fraser.

6 months of kit accumulation. Learning how to swim something better than doggy paddle in murky cold water. Buying my first bike since the playground and terrifying myself in traffic on the way to work and rattling downhill in mud and rain. Regular long runs in alarming lycra gear whilst consuming toxic amounts of energy gels. Regular short runs up and down the baby hills of Warwickshire. Weekends away in the grown up hills of Wales and the Peak District. Generally reshaping my lifestyle around exercise with the blessing of my eternally patient wife, Jo.

All of these things and much more helped to vaguely prepare me for the epic that was to be the Hebridean Challenge 2009.

Until it was cancelled that is.

The recession had whittled away people's spending power and motivation to shell out for the hefty £350 entry fee, ferry crossings, fuel costs, accommodation, food and the plethora of gear necessary to race the Hebrides. Therefore vastly reduced entries meant that insufficient funds were available to stage this logistical monster of a race.

So, approximately one month before we were due to head north in 2009 we had to abort and unravel bookings and travel plans. Ironically, our support crew made it to the Hebrides that year whilst the team went their own separate ways.

One thing that I was not going to unravel was the kind sponsorship of friends and family thus far. I had also reached a point of no return with the hours of training and investment in equipment and so began another year of maintaining motivation for the anticipated Heb 2010 when everything would surely be better.

Training was a good form of therapy in many ways but a few interim goals were sometimes necessary to justify the efforts. An endurance open water and off road triathlon in September 2009 seemed an ideal secondary outlet for my new energy reserves and so, well in advance, I paid the entry fee, started more house renovations with what was left of my spare time, and then fractured my right elbow when I fell on a training run in August. I had been using the traditional method of running on two limbs, but it seemed four would have been safer and would actually have been good preparation for the Heb 2010 as it turned out. As I withdrew from the impending triathlon I started to wonder what wrongs I had committed in a former life to warrant such bad luck now.

The motor skills of my left hand rapidly improved and my right elbow finally healed well enough to get out in the snow for runs and biking on the rare occasions in winter 09/10 when it wasn't icy.

Angela and Tom mercifully committed to the Heb for a 2nd time and we somehow coordinated meeting up on a few occasions to motivate each other for hill runs and bikes. The height differential in our team verged on comical but amazingly we managed to adapt our bike selection so some sharing was possible.

Nearly 18 months had passed and I still felt under prepared for the Hebrides. I certainly wasn't prepared when we were notified just over a month before the race that for the second time in it's history the Hebridean Challenge was to be cancelled due to insufficient entry fees and lack of funding.

I was grateful that my 6 month old daughter, Eve, was out of earshot when I read the e mail. Slowly it dawned on me however that seasoned adventure racer, Joe Faulkner, was not going to allow everyone's hopes and expectations to be dashed. Under Joe's initiative we were invited to "Race the Heb for free!". Our entry fees were refunded and the alternative was still to be a dash from Barra to Butt (The Heb B2B) using human power but there would be no marshals to confirm our presence at checkpoints, no formal timekeepers to quantify our efforts and no insurance in case I resorted to self harming again. The route would comprise the best of the Heb classic stages over the years and we would need to photograph ourselves and mascot at the required checkpoints. Our times would be based on honesty and recording them ourselves.

So on a sweltering July day the three of us gathered at Henley in Arden in Warwickshire.

Saturday 3rd July

Nooks and crannies of the Ford Focus C Max (generously loaned by Mr and Mrs Hamilton senior) are rapidly creaking with Angela's and my own gear, plus miscellaneous items from midge repelling fans to picnic rugs for sweaty racers to sit on. A roof box would be useful but there is no chance with 3 cycle carriers already on top. Tom and his family arrive in an estate car absolutely rammed with exercise equipment, food and survival and camping gear. Tom's level of preparation is fantastic but even with my shaky grasp of mathematics I am dimly aware that 1/3 Ford Focus does not equal a whole Skoda Octavia estate. The next hour and a half is spent making choices such as airbed and electric pump or therma rests? Camping range cooker or hexalite block burners? We finally get underway and start heading north, wondering if the odd sounds from the roof will herald the departure of our bikes from the roof rack at any point.

After a short stop at a farm shop services in the Lake district we roll into Glasgow in the early evening and nervously park the laden car a few blocks away from our lodgings for the evening. The Lomond hotel had employed talented photographers and website builders who had done a superb job in concealing it's faded elegance online. It is fine for our needs but we agree that had you booked it for your honeymoon it would have been a short marriage. On the plus side they seem pretty relaxed about 3 dripping bikes being carried up the stairs and manipulated into Angela's room for the night.

Our evening meal is a few paces away at a swanky Thai noodle bar and the wilderness of the Outer Hebrides still isn't even vaguely real at this stage.

Sunday 4th July

Independence day and had I been slightly more independent of the Sat Nav we would have had more time on our hands. All we had to do was get to Oban and then sit on a ferry for 6 hours...

As we start drifting west and then southwest Angela and Tom raise their doubts about the route. The Sat Nav had got me around Brum fine the week before so I ignore their concerns and we have a lovely scenic tour of the coastline with a final destination point at Lochgilphead, which is at least 40 miles from Oban. Even with a small scale road atlas we feel that we can improve on a 40 mile margin of error so after some Haribo supermix to aid concentration we navigate the rest of the way to the ferry terminal with paper.

As soon as we get within 30 miles I start receiving volleys of texts thanks to my new found mobile phone signal. They are all from the ferry company, informing us that our sailing from Oban to Lochboisdale has been cancelled as a result of the escalating windspeeds. Sure enough, on arrival at Oban, our intended ferry is nestling at the quay with no intention of going anywhere. 

A heavy downpour sets the mood for the moment as further questioning reveals that our only chance of getting anywhere near the Hebrides before Tuesday is to drive to Uig at the northern tip of Skye and catch the 5.30am crossing to Tarbert on Harris on Monday morning. We have a running and cycling route to complete on Barra at the southern tip of the Outer Hebrides on Monday and so sailing into the northern island of Harris is not a great alternative.

The long road to Skye

4.5 hours of further driving gets us to a 70's retro style B and B in Uig after a late tea in Portree. The langoustines, beef and ale pie and local brew couldn't be faulted and while it is still hard to believe that we are in imminent danger of doing any exercise, it does feel like we are on holiday travelling, as the craic in the pub is all in gaelic.

Monday 5th July:  


28km road bike, 6km run, 350m height gain on runs

A few hours kip and we roll down to the ferry slipway for 5am and finally set foot on the Outer Isles after a crossing spent poring over maps and route planning.

Harris looms in to view at last

Tarbert is in bright sunshine on our arrival and we speed south, soaking up the wilderness that we are going to have to run and pedal through, heading north again. We have to make the 8.35am crossing of the Sound of Harris to enable us to get to Barra in time or Monday's route is a write off. Our booking is for a later ferry but we manage to blag our way onto the early crossing as the last car and we are still in with a chance of getting to the foot ferry to Barra in time. Down through North Uist, Benbecula, South Uist and onto Eriskay with a stop at a chip shop cum filling station to refuel with the highest priced diesel I have ever seen.

Last car on the 8.35

Barra, ready for the off!

A nutella sandwich sets us up for donning our bike/run gear and jumping on the Barra ferry around lunchtime. Our first few km on the bikes at the other end are into an energy sapping headwind, causing some consternation as today is meant to be the "easy day" - surely this can't be sustained through the week! Halfway round the loop of Barra we ditch the bikes and ascend the highest point. The high windspeeds on the summit do not detract from the incredible views looking across to Vatersay with an offshore castle in the foreground. 25 minutes to get up the hill and 10 minutes to get down is a good reflection of the gradient, although at 383m it's one of the smallest hills we will ascend all week.

Sheabhail, 1st high point of the week

Taxi for take off

Sheabhail trig

A brief sojourn onto Vatersay and we finally have the wind at our back to zoom round the beautiful Atlantic coast on the west side of the island, complete another secondary high point and make it back to the ferry slip with 20 minutes to spare before the last ferry back to Eriskay at 5pm. 

Add your own caption

We deserve a cup of tea for our efforts in the face of adversity and as we settle down to one in the little cafe, Angela starts a pocket patting frenzy.

Across to Vatersay

Where we had completed a run/bike transition 3km away, our only set of car keys were still lying in the long grass. The ferry is boarding and while Angela cranks the road bike up to desperate speeds to recover the keys in time, Tom and I face the even more unlikely task of persuading a Caledonian Macbrayne Captain to "just hold on a minute longer". A night on Barra in only our running kit is not how we want to end today.

Spot the keys

Have another go

Various exchanges between us, the First Mate and the Captain eventually sees the engineer despatched in a Ford Transit to collect Angela and bike. Tom is bundled into the passenger seat to direct, as the van is given a sound thrashing. 

As Tom put it: "There were some very lucky sheep".

Thankfully Angela has nearly made it back again and we scamper onto the ferry wondering how boats earn a reputation as a low stress form of travel.

The literary chef

Back on Eriskay we finally link up with the other Heb B2B participants and pitch camp, looking out to sea with the sun still unfamiliarly high in the sky by the time we crawl into our tents. The airbed inflates like a dream using the electric pump... and then deflates equally effectively during our dreams.

Tuesday 6th July:   


25km mountain bike, 84km road bike, 32km run, 1230m height gain on runs

Muesli first aid

It's wet. Very wet. And extremely windy. A whirlpool of low pressure on top of us results in Force 9 gales forecast for the Hebrides while the rest of the UK is cloaked in muggy, warm and still weather.

The Machair

I kick us off with a very short but steep mountain bike crawl on the road from the ferry slip. Tagging Angela sets her flying up the first hill of the day, Beinn Sciathan, and on her descent Tom then faces a buffeting on the road bike stage which veers to the south west side of South Uist - start of the unique habitat known as the "machair". This flat open expanse is where the calcareous deposits from the Atlantic manage to neutralise to some extent the acid peat bog that comprises much of the Hebrides. The result is land which is unusually fertile for this part of the islands and home to a good spectrum of wildlife, which you tend to hear rather than see when the blood is pumping in your ears as you try and grind your mountain bike through the sandy soft patches. Tom and I split the mountain bike stage through the machair and despite the weather, there is a real feeling of isolation and peace with the added bonus of no hills to speak of!

Our next transition on South Uist involves Angela and I heading off along what appeared to be a reassuring solid black line on the map but in reality turns out to be the very historic remnants of a fence with the wire long gone. The rain is persistent but the low cloud defies attempts by the high winds to disperse it. Navigation on the way up the 620m high Beinn Mhor (Big Hill) is therefore tricky and our summit hopes are falsely raised en route by a mist shrouded, trig point shaped rock which is actually still several hundred metres below the real trig point.

Ascending Beinn Mhor

Passing other members of the wider group on their way back down reassures us that we haven't gone too far wrong. We finally leap into the rocky shelter of the trig point surround and the NSPCC teddy bear mascot of the team we find within is considerably more photogenic than our own mascot, "The Gimp"!

Pseudo trig

And the real one!

A few imminent precipices and dismal visibility firms our decision to leave the summit of Hecla for another time. Angela takes a knock to her knee on a narrow ridge but thankfully it doesn't seem to impede her progress, despite the slightly dispiriting long bog hopping run back to the car after coming off the mountain. 

We then refuel with nutella sandwiches while Tom determinedly pedals north onto Benbecula, after which Angela blasts her way up and down the diminutive high point on Benbecula - Ruabhal, 124m high. It is then my turn on the road bike for a spell and as the route doubles back in a southeasterly direction I spend most of the time cursing the wind resistance that even my skinny profile offers. The aptly named Eaval, high point on North Uist, is next on the list and Angela leaves us sheltering in the car while she disappears into the downpour. After a spectacular piece of navigating through the absolute maze of lochans and somehow managing to avoid ending up on any dead end peninsulas, Angela scales the sides of Eaval to 347m and then loops north towards our next rendevous. In the interim Tom and I find a little shop where we locate something more savoury than chocolate spread and question the desire of the shop owner's cats to bolt through our legs into the storm. We then drive to the next point and wait while wind and rain batter the car, contemplating exactly what we are going to say to Angela's husband if anything goes awry. Our thoughts are interrupted by Angela's prompt arrival and I unfold my soggy limbs for the next bike leg.

This time severe sidewinds make things interesting and the extra turbulence and spray from the odd passing lorry nearly end wobbly attempts to keep my balance. The sight of energy gels taped to the bike frame are nothing more than torment as there is no way I can risk removing one hand from the handles to try and grab one. Tom takes control of the racer on the last stage of the day and, in the face of a tough day of energy depeletion, speeds home over a causeway to the last checkpoint on the tiny isle of Berneray.

Guttering for show

Arrival at Sealview B and B for the night is like arriving in the promised land. Warm, dry, windproof and with a plush room which we try to avoid turning into a wet sponge from all our gear strewn around to dry. The Hebridean electric grid suddenly faces a power drain from one little room on Berneray as a horde of cameras, phones and back up batteries are plugged in to charge. 90km gusts of wind sucks rain out of the gutters and blows it back up the roof but it doesn't matter because we aren't CAMPING!

Last food orders at the Lobster Pot cafe include some hearty leek and potato soup and fine Achilbuie kippers with just enough time for some vague route planning for Wednesday before retiring to bed.

Wednesday 7th July: 


19km mountain bike, 24km road bike, 18km run, 1200m height gain on runs

The sun is up well before we are although the bright view through the windows at breakfast time doesn't really do justice to the fact that the wind is howling still. We ignore our adventure racing morals in favour of a huge cooked breakfast and to round it off, our host, Andrew, very kindly makes a contribution to TrustPA.

First stage of the day for all three of us is a bike and then run up the high point on Berneray. 

We then return to the car and Angela gamely volunteers to complete the next stage to the ferry slip by road bike. She disappears from sight as Tom and I finish loading our bikes onto the rack and then prepare to jump in the car. Which is locked. And the keys are travelling towards the ferry slip at a good pace...

Dodgy blow dry on Berneray's highest point

We have to catch the 10.30am ferry and while we have built some time in for error, a wave of Monday deja vu washes over us. Tom jumps on his mountain bike and sets off to reclaim the keys whilst I kill some time, stalking seals with my camera.

Adjacent to Seal View

Idle moments outside a locked car...

Angela, with keys. About to take a seat on the

naughty step

The ferry leaves with us on board at last and we cross the Sound of Harris for a second time this week. Rain and sea spray have caused the bikes to rust before our eyes so we give them a good slathering of oil before I set off pedalling whilst Angela and Tom make a start on the first hefty hill of South Harris, Roineabhal - 460m.

The draughty Roinebhal summit

The wind is ripping over the mountains by now and the switch from cycling southeast into a headwind to northeast with a tailwind is a huge boost to my morale and speed. Soon I am on the "Golden road", moving through a lunarscape with plenty of switchbacks, peaks and troughs on the eastern side of the island. Despite numerous jaywalking sheep and craning my neck to take in the glimpses of striking coastline, I make it to Skoon art cafe without mishap, before the next downpour and with time to hoover up soup and cake. Leaving the cafe for the next stage is difficult, especially after hearing of the adverse conditions which the other two have faced on Roineabhal that morning.

The Golden Road

A team decision for the afternoon results in Tom and I attempting a "cut through" the middle of the island on our mountain bikes rather than one choosing a less exciting but much longer road bike to the same spot. We have it on good authority that it is feasible to mountain bike what looks like a subtle suggestion of a trail on our large scale map. The subtlety is lost on us soon after we start however, as enormous boulders, peat bog holes and tussocky lumps prevent us from making any real progress in the saddle for the first 2 km. On one occasion I stop cursing, to see how Tom is getting on, only to find his bike on one side, without rider in sight. His ejection into a (thankfully soft) gully had been accomplished without even a muffled yell.

Through the middle

Tom's Creek

No surprise that Cinderella lost her slipper

The bad design of mountain bikes for carrying becomes apparent until we meet Angela at the high point of the valley. She has run to the halfway mark and reports that our mountain bike dreams are about to become true for the 2nd half of the route. Sure enough, bog turns to rocky trail and a decent downhill gradient. The blast back to the car, aquaplaning through huge puddles more than makes up for our earlier frustrations.

Angela is not far behind us, on foot. Tom trades his mountain bike for the racer and Angela and I drive off in the car.

Over Tom's mountain bike.

We have spare tyres with us but nobody had anticipated that a new wheel may be required on the adventure. Tom's microscopic planning however, ensures that he has a list of all the bike hire/sale centres on the Hebrides and their phone numbers. In the meantime he cycles to the next transition and then unleashes Angela and I on the final trio of summits for the day: Ceann Reamhar - 467m, Beinn Losgaintir - 436m and Beinn Dhubh - 506m.

Ceann Reamhar

While I will my (by now pretty tired) legs to follow Angela up another misty mountain for a good windblasting, Tom manages to source a new bike wheel to be sent down on the bus from Stornoway to Tarbert this evening. The afternoon is pushing on and although there is plenty of light still, our pace over the hills is held back by the wind again, and even more so when we have to make the final ascent to the second trig point on 

all fours to avoid being blown over. We ultimately make it to the final descent of the day and drop out of the mist to see sunshine lighting up the Sound of Taransay and the  

huge golden expanse of Luskentyre beach. A few    

tumbles later we link up with Tom again at sea level.

First glimpse of Luskentyre beach

Coming down

Wheely bad luck

With hot showers and food in mind we drive to Tarbert where 50p in the tourist information building buys you as much shower bliss as you want. Angela heads to the Harris Hotel where the bike shop said the new wheel would be deposited by the bus. Reception are unaware of any wheel being left but one of the staff walks outside with her as parcels are occasionally left on the wall at the foot of the drive. The wall is bare but closer inspection of the main road verge on the far side reveals the wheel left, as promised, with a tag for "Fraser". It makes our day knowing that there are still places in Britain where unattended items don't grow legs..

Food for aspiring athletes tonight includes whisky and black pudding with some Hebridean beer to keep things authentic. We then drive back to Horgabost beach campsite where limited pitches remain by this time. Despite violin string like tension in the guy ropes, attempts to pitch the tents in the lee side of the car fail to prevent them inverting upon themselves all night .

Thursday 8th July:   


15km mountain bike, 35km road bike, 23km run, 1950m height gain on runs

From Clisham car park

A patchy night's sleep to say the least. Very difficult to find any vestige of air remaining in the air mattress again by morning. Lashing rain means that breaking camp is achieved in record time and Tom christens our route for the day by joining a peloton of bikers leaving the campsite on their way to the base of the Clisham horseshoe. The BBC "Countrytracks" cameras accompany this stage as Blue Peter presenter Helen Skelton has joined Heb B2B organiser Joe Faulkner for the day's journey.

While the cyclists snake round the tarmac onto North Harris, in Clisham car park Angela and I hastily replace Tom's banana shaped wheel with the new one and then leap back into the shelter of the car. Tom's arrival on the racer lets us set off on foot, heading up the highest point in the Hebrides, An Cliseam - 799m. We keep a steady pace and jump into the trig point surround 55min later. Visbility is shockingly bad and gale force winds with wet cloud are not conducive to staying static for long.                    

Gimp hydration

    Navigating the rest of the Clisham horseshoe in these conditions  
    is a challenge although we manage to tick off  Mulla bho Deas
    (743), Mulla bho Theath (720m) and Mullach an Langa (614m)
    on our route north. Again we are driven down onto all fours by      
    the wind on occasions and we have to retrace our steps from a
    misty, well disguised precipice while trying to cross the second
    saddle. As we make our descent into the valley of Loch
    Langabhat the cloud abates and we finally get the views that we
    feel we deserve by this point!

Mulla bho Deas in the gloom

The mist lifted for seconds to confirm that yes, we still had a long way to go

Bad hair day on Mulla bho Theath

To my untrained eye the remaining 10km on the map had looked like easier going - a FLAT run along the side of a beautiful loch. It turns out to be even more arduous than our mountain ascents of the morning. Peat hag and tussocky grass with hidden streams make for a constant string of energy sapping mantraps. However, the weather has warmed up and we are sheltered from the wind. Our location has an unparalleled sense of remoteness by now - far more than I had experienced in Snowdonia or the Peak District for example. The only other mammals we spot are a herd of deer, although my concentration is more on trying to keep my heart rate below 150. We finally leave the loch edge and find another valley to follow. Signs of human existence gradually become more apparent, with the odd tyre chucked in a hollow, to act as an untrustworthy stepping stone. My insatiable sugar appetite by this stage has nibbled through 5 energy gels, a Boost bar, Snickers, Mule bar and nougat bar. Eventually we break out onto a tarmac lane and lope home to the car after 6 hours of running and scrambling.

Loch Langhabat stretching away from us

Looking for the shallows to cross

Lochan lilies

Tom is waiting and has not been slouching in our absence. His morning has been occupied with thrashing his mountain bike around the classic mountain bike loops of Harris yet he still finds enough biking reserve to complete our teams route for the day and cycle the racer from the start of Loch Rog Beag to the campsite on the Bhaltos peninsula. Angela and I follow the same route, but in the car, admiring the pristine surf beaches of West Lewis.

We then leave the campsite in favour of our pre booked B and B for the evening. Mrs. Jessie Buchanan has the dubious pleasure of greeting three muddy gypsy types and allowing us into her home. We are painstaking to avoid dragging the Hebridean environment in with us and once we have made ourselves presentable again, Jessie arranges for us to enjoy some home cooked food at her friend, Marianne's place. Fatigue has set in by the time we leave, as a few metres of driving on the wrong side of the road demonstrates! Early bed.

West Lewis surf

On wall of our B and B. Who needs the Coastguard?

Sundown

Friday 9th July: 


81km mountain bike, 33km road bike, 5km run, 744m height gain on runs

Jessie is most upset at my request for a muesli and toast breakfast. I finally cave in and settle for some sausages rather than the enormous fry up suggested. Predictably the sausages are repeating on me for the first road bike of the day. The mandatory downpour is present and it is Tom and Angela's turn to get sodden at our first transition. They speed away on mountain bikes down a track with the high point of North West Harris, Mealaisbhal - 574m, to ascend before their return journey.

I wait in the car. Joe arrives looking slightly jaded. The bulk of the group staying at the campsite at the Bhaltos beach campsite the previous night had enjoyed considerably less sleep than we had. One of the team members, Dave, had failed to rendevous at the Loch Rog Beag transition after setting off from Clisham car park on Thursday morning. His intention had been to navigate a low level route around the mountains and then a similar route to the one Angela and I had taken alongside Loch Langabhat. His team mate suspected that he had set off with minimal extra clothing and survival gear and when he had not arrived at the expected checkpoint 12 hours later, a search ensued and the Coastguard was notified. The search is continuing with the aid of the rescue helicopter whilst Joe and I are talking this morning. Two other team members, Andy and Emma set off past us down the track to scope out another area where Dave may have drifted off course. As I resume my wait for Tom and Angela, the eclectic mix of music from Isles FM is periodically interrupted with Coastguard announcements urging people to help locate Dave's whereabouts. Thankfully by lunchtime, the helicopter has recovered him from the inhospitable land between Loch Morsgail and Loch Reasort. Luckily a chilly night in a survival bag did not cause any more serious issues and he is discharged from Stornoway hospital by afternoon. The cloud over our final day of heading north is therefore lifted, although it certainly focuses all our minds that the terrain of the Outer Hebrides demands respect, especially in adverse weather.

My second road bike of the day, retracing my route, is no drier than the first. It is however 33% quicker, thanks to a stiff tailwind.  Beyond this point our next target is the bizarre standing stones at Callanish. Tom and Angela are very considerate teammates and frequently stop the car to let me catch up and assess if I am still safe to be in charge of a bicycle. As the kilometres roll by I become aware of a wobble which I narrow down to the bike rather than my fatigued legs. Unable to pin point it I keep going until I hear a very definite sound of metal flicking on metal. I perform the quickest emergency stop that you can with wet V brakes, and despite my biking ignorance, it is pretty clear that the back wheel is going to need more than just a bit more air. 2 spokes are flapping about in the breeze and 14 more are loose in the wheel rim. I know my team are not too far ahead in our car but they are still too far to walk to, so I wait for the next car - potentially a long wait.

I am in luck and the promptly arriving next car contains two members of the Heb B2B adventure. They send my team back for me and Tom gallantly takes over spoke tightening in the rain while I gently steam in the car. The snake shaped wheel cannot be restored to a wheel shape and so Angela has no option but to pedal one of the mountain bikes for the rest of the way to the Callanish standing Stones. By the time all three of us have made it to Callanish it is time for a hasty late lunch.

Callanish

Tom grinds out some more tarmac based mountain bike miles and gets us within range of Beinn Bhraghair - our last ascent of the adventure at a comfortable 261m. Angela and I jump on the mountain bikes and aim them down a track towards this craggy lump. Then a very strange thing happens - the sun comes out. Our scramble to the top pays off, with expansive views across the relatively flat blend of rock and bog comprising North Lewis. The sea is shimmering in the distance and it is hard to believe that there are no more hills to climb before the Butt of Lewis.

Beinn Bhraghair

Beinn Bhraghair - Last trig point of the journey

Tom, Angela and I alternate in completing the last uneventful kilometres by bike as a glorious evening develops. Our final arrival at the lighthouse signals the end of a week of graft mixed with enjoyment and cameraderie. The panoramic view of the sea from the most northerly point of the Outer Hebrides is eerie in some ways but iss also a definitive full stop to this adventure. It is the end of 18 months of build up, organising and training. My toenails will never be the same again and I'm unsure if all my teeth will fall out from energy gels. I have accumulated a plethora of exercise equipment and a new resting heart rate of 47. What am I going to do with it all now? I have 10 hours of driving home to ponder this, but the priority of the moment is to find somewhere where we can all have a drink with alcohol in it and which doesn't taste like syrup. This we achieve at nearby Port Ness in the cool evening sunshine. Our final location for the night is at the Cross Inn. They kindly allow us to pitch our tents on their sheltered, bowling green lawn - a five star tent pitch by anybody's standards.

After eating rude amounts of residual pasta stocks we retire to the bar, and although it is July, the blazing peat fire is welcome and the local beer and Laphroig whiskey keep us feeling warm long after we stop drinking.

The Butt of Lewis!

Recovery drink

Not a Wetherspoons in sight..

We were privileged to have had such an experience in the Hebrides and there was plenty of fun along the way. The sponsorship raised for this venture and the memory of my good friend Paul- Andre Blundell were also major motivating factors for me. THANK YOU once again to everyone who very generously donated their time, money or logistical support. You ensured that we were successful and that Trust PA can continue to support the repair of spinal cord injury in a meaningful way. Thank you also to my wife, Jo, who was a rock and whose endurance surpassed mine when Eve was born, to Eve for enriching our lives at any hour of day and night, to our families for their support in a multitude of ways, to Joe Faulkner for making this event happen against all the odds and last but not least to my superb team mates, Angela and Tom.

Has anybody seen the car keys?

Some people will do anything for cake...