We knew that there would be only a brief time for goodbyes at the finish. There is not a lot to do at the most northerly point of the GB mainland.
We have been living in a bubble for 10 days and bubbles have to burst. We will rush off to catch our transfers and carry on where we left off in the parallel universe where our normal lives exist.
So for one last time I haul myself out of my cosy sleeping bag and prepare for another 104 miles. A task that would have been a lot easier if I had not mislaid my head torch some time during the night.
Working by feel I locate my gear. I'd already resolved the day's only real decision to be taken namely what to wear. Get this wrong and you either freeze or boil. Despite the rain I gamble on it brightening up and choose to go light rather than have to carry lots of kit if it warms up. So a gilet, arm and knee warmers and a very light showerproof race cape.
Then stagger over to the catering tent and join the line of other Lycra zombies (good name for a band Steve?!) shuffling along to fill digestive fuel tanks with quantities of food that would be obscene in any other context but on planet RAB represent Darwinian necessity.
Porridge, honey, tea/coffee, toast, jam, full English (or in my case full Veggie) breakfast, croissants, juice, yoghurt. I skip seconds today as it is only a short ride...
Shuffle out for queue for loos (courtesy of the imaginatively named company WC in Fields), then a spot of communal outdoor teeth brushing.
Remember at this point to check which way the wind is blowing to avoid being the victim of collateral damage - also applies to roadside pee stops :-)
Fill water bottles with worryingly coloured fluorescent, radioactive looking Powerade.
Locate my tent. I have my wristband with today's tent number on it but can't read it in the dark and my brain is still on recharge. I can't remember if today it is Purple 82 or 53.
Even if I could remember all the tents are identical green pop ups. In the rain and in my semi comatose state it is akin to trying to locate one individual pebble on a beach.
Stuff the rest of my fetid belongings into my bag (I swear dirty clothes weigh more than clean ones) and stagger over to dump it with the ever hale and hearty UPS guys running the baggage transport.
Re-unite with my poor bike, left out in the racking overnight at the mercy of the wind and the rain after another hammering day. And this my new custom made Italian beauty that has performed impeccably this trip.
You should only be for Sunday best and reside indoors displayed as a work of art. How will I ever make up to you for this abuse?...
Roll out gently, no-one speaking yet, only sound is the mesmeric and strangely empowering 'whissh' noise as the high pressure tyres glide along the smooth, damp Tarmac.
We slowly increase speed and come to life. Snippets of conversation are caught as we overtake slower moving groups. Always try to greet everyone even if it's no more than a 'hi'.
We get up to cruising speed, someone starts singing to themselves, jokes from previous days are recycled. All peppered with shouted warnings and signals and marinated with deep meaning to other cyclists used to bunch riding. Must sound very odd to any pedestrian we pass. "HOLE", "ON YOUR RIGHT", "BUMP", "GRAVEL" etc. The various hand signals must look positively Masonic to the uninitiated.
The rain clears and my wardrobe gamble is vindicated as the weak northern sun pastel washes over the breathtakingly beautiful countryside.
We reach the sea and continue along a fairly 'grippy' cornich road. The water is a deep blue and it would be easy to imagine I was riding the south coast of Crete, familiar from previous trips, if it were not for the somewhat lower temperature and lack of olive trees.
Getting closer to the finish. First feed station at 35 miles then our trio agree we need a coffee stop at the half way point.
Knowing the end is so close is quite bitter/sweet. We are pretty exhausted and although by now are doubtlessly highly trained to cope with day after day of century rides, home and a different type of normality beckons.
We start our goodbyes there to the soundtrack coming from the juke box.
The track changes to Alicia Keys singing about New York and I am subsumed by a sudden sadness reminding me why am here at all.
This was the last song played at the end of Sam and Ali's wedding party. We all (including me of 2 left feet fame) had formed a circle and swayed together to the melody bringing to a close that very special day.
We saddle up and finish what we started 9 days ago, gliding on towards JOG with the sun still shining on the glittering water. Chris catches up with a friend on the final run in.
I hear the pipes droning and see the finish line ahead. People are cheering and waving at me. I feel very happy.
Vicky and I cross the line together at 2.35 pm followed by Chris. We hear our names being announced over the tannoy system. Vicky's mum is there.
There are medals hanging round our necks. Hugs all round. Pictures at the JOG sign.
The Crew are lining the finish area and performing a Mexican Wave style 'wiggle dance' as riders come in. I try to thank as many as I can before packing the bike and gratefully accepting a lift back to Inverness
I have done it!
In doing so I have now raised over £5,000 for The Sam Keen Foundation's fight against malignant melanoma.
Thank you so much to everyone for helping to make this happen.
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