Chapter Ten Cameron 1,014 miles to go
Chapter Ten
Cameron
Three, two, one!’ An air horn blew and Cam was off.
Hannah, Iona and Iona’s partner, Laura, were outside the pharmacy under golf brollies, along with a load of pensioners, some on mobility scooters, and parents with buggies, all cheering him on.
There were also tourists, lured by something to do on a wet Friday morning at the edge of the world.
As he passed the pub, his mates yelled helpful comments like ‘Not far to go!’, ‘You’re nearly there!’ and ‘How’s your bum?’
Cycling past the petrol station, the garage, the hotel, the gift shop and the bakery, there were very wet people calling out ‘Good luck!’ and ‘Go, Cam!’
And alongside him was Lachlan on his bike, shouting: ‘Come on, Uncle Cam! Everyone’s out to see you. Look! There are my friends.’
They passed the primary school, closed for the summer, yet with several dozen youngsters and their parents, all tooting air horns. A handmade ‘Good luck!’ banner hung outside the gates.
‘How did you do that?’ Cam asked, but his reply was swallowed up in the cheering.
A minute later, it was time to wave goodbye to Lachlan and all the villagers and it was just Cam and the road. The support van, with his spare bike, a driver/bike technician and his luggage, had overtaken him, to wait at his first rest stop twenty miles ahead at a roadside café.
Suddenly, he felt very alone. Except he wasn’t.
He had hundreds of family and friends – both his and Sholto’s – willing him on.
The charity was posting about him on social media and he’d seen their messages.
Carly had even made a very generous donation and promised to follow his progress at least a couple of times along the route.
The pledge total was already mind-blowing and Cam had barely left his own village.
But above all, Jenna had told him in a string of messages that she was right behind him. That, even if she thought he was completely nuts, he was amazing and brave, and she couldn’t wait to see him in Cornwall.
He’d treasured that message, and read it many times, even if at the end she’d added: The whole team will be at the signpost to congratulate you when you arrive. And finally, in her latest message: Even Nate’s impressed.
Cam was grateful to Jenna’s colleagues, less so to Nate, who he suspected wasn’t impressed at all, unless by his stupidity.
Pedalling along the lonely road, Cam battled the crosswind and lashing rain. He managed to check the bike computer and saw he had already done five miles.
Only one thousand and nine to go.
550 miles to go
‘OK, mate?’
The van driver grimaced as he took the bike from Cam.
Everything about Cam ached – his legs, arms, lower back, and as for his backside and thighs – despite an array of anti-friction creams, high-tech saddles and every anti-chafing technique the internet had to offer, he was impossibly sore.
He’d been cycling for eight days – eight!
– and he had only just left Scotland. People had no idea how big Scotland was – but Cam, oh, how he knew.
Crossing the border into England in the late afternoon, Cam had cycled along the higgledy-piggledy lanes of the Lake District – and more hills. By now, all he cared about was the wheels turning on the tarmac, getting enough to eat and trying not to think about how much his body was hurting.
He sipped an energy drink and unwrapped another power bar.
As soon as he clambered off the bike each day, he hobbled straight to his room for some treatment.
After the massage there was dinner – twice as much as he would ever normally eat – and then, even as he was trying to digest it, he’d probably fall asleep.
At six o’clock the following morning, he’d be off again, this time riding through the Cumbrian countryside and towards Lancashire, a route described by his van driver as ‘a bit wiggly’.
Cam had realised rapidly that the best thing to do was simply pedal and not worry about the horrors to come.
Hurrah! You’re in England.
Jenna’s message came through while the physio was unfolding a massage table in Cam’s bedroom in a small hotel in Cumbria.
And he still had to ride up Shap Fell, the steepest point on the whole route.
But he could do it. With Jenna’s encouragement and the rest of his team backing him all the way, he would do it.
The physio looked at him sternly. ‘Can you climb up here, Cam?’
‘I think so.’
Muscles screamed silently as he clambered on to the table in his boxer shorts. The kilt – a garment he now hated more than any item of clothing in the whole world – lay on the bed.
Putting his face through the hole, he silently asked the greige carpet why he’d ever thought that taking on this challenge with no formal cycling training was a good idea.
‘Where does it hurt?’ the physio asked.
‘Everywhere.’
‘OK. Well, I’m going to make it hurt more.’