Wednesday AM. This Is Why We're Here

3am and the alarm goes off, a drum and bass cover of a Manu Chao song and wildly inappropriate for this time of the morning. I'm not sure how much I've slept but it's time to get on with it. Shower, coffee and food, then outside to get ready. It's drizzling and everyone is grinning but also there's the odd worried look when faces are turned away, it's quite a monumental task we're about to do and very few of us have attempted it before. Rain will make or break us today, and after the weeks of wall to wall sunshine the last few days of water from the sky has been as welcome as a fart in a spacesuit...

Strap the tiny amount of luggage onto the bike, check the fuel can is secure then throw a leg over the ringing wet seat that'll be my perch for an unknown number of hours. It fires up at first stab of the starter with just a pinch of choke for which I say a very rapid if unorthodox prayer. Dead on 4 o'clock I file out of the car-park in the not quite darkness along with the 30ish other bikes and get on the road for the first of many miles. There's a speed camera not far up the hotel and everyone is being as good as gold, but we soon spread out into little clumps of riders running at a similar speeds. I spot Dave from Redruth on the road and try to sign to him that his rear light has given up the ghost with limited success, thankfully he's wearing a high-viz tabard.

Through the roadworks that's caused so much frustration to the cage drivers for years, past turn offs for the town where I take my son swimming, where I shop, where I surf. There's well wishers waving at us from a couple of overpasses that causes me to shout "thank you" and wave despite them never being able to hear, or possibly see me in the dark. And then it's grind down the miles time.

It's funny, as you're riding you are less isolated from what's going on around you, the sun, the sky and more importantly what the clouds are about to do to you. But in some circumstances you can almost block it all out and purely concentrate on getting further and further up the road. For me I was focusing on the next obstruction, the tail lights of the next car, the spray from a truck to be avoided and passed as swiftly as (legally) possible. But the scenery around me was a constant mild distraction; the hundreds of wind turbines lazily spinning in the crisp, early morning air. Each turbine nonchalantly turning against a pastel backdrop of green, blues and purples. Over the top of Goss Moor, Bodmin Moor, the hills in the background gradually gaining more definition as the world gets lighter. The signs on each bridge crossing a river, most important of all the one announcing crossing of the Tamar.

Finally we've left the county and are heading to Exeter and the wild bounds of the far North. Well, Devon. Off the A30 and into an industrial estate so we avoid the sensible route of the M5 and I get stuck at a set of lights as the bike isn't heavy or ferrous enough to trigger the sensor. I tag onto the back of a group and they lead me through the narrow lanes and housing estate that takes you onto the A30 and the A303. I leave them behind me, grateful but not that grateful as this is a road I have driven countless times. Onwards and onwards, the rain now stopping and after 156 miles I turn into a petrol station just outside Ilminster. Ten litres of Shell's finest and I'm off again with a few quick but friendly words to another LDU'er who's decided like me to top their tank. A little while later and we leave the A303 to head North. I make my first navigation mistake on the outskirts of Warminster, I'm trying to filter through queuing traffic at a roundabout and end up taking the exit to go through the centre of the town rather than around the bypass. I don't particularly trust my SatNav, mainly because I've only used it once and I'm unaware of it's nuances and limitations, something that'll cost me time on a number of occasions, but this was my fault. I stopped to check my phone and had a welcome stretch but soon I was back on the correct route to Cirencester and the first pit-stop.

Just gone twenty past eight in the morning I roll into Cirencester services to see Al, Duncan and James, amongst others, wonderful people armed with food, cleaning gear and tools to help in any way they can to get you further up the road.

I stop for what feels like less than two minutes but the timings say just over a quarter of an hour. Flapjack and bananas are hoovered, a hot coffee is guzzled and a quick wee behind a truck meant I was feeling lighter. Meanwhile the pit-stop army have lubed my chain, checked over the bike and cleaned the visor of my helmet. This event would be utterly impossible without the dedication of the pit-stop volunteers, they're amazing each and every one. Time to head due North, the day's wasting away.

Next pit-stop is just over 100 miles away, and it's a wriggly lot of miles up through Tewksbury, Worcester, Kidderminster, Bridgenorth and Telford. I remember recognising a few of the place names, and gawking at a beautiful cathedral somewhere on the route. By now though I was suffering from tourist fatigue and was just trying to get on with forging a path north and on towards the next time I could stretch my legs, give my right wrist a rest from constantly holding open the throttle and get my helmet off so I could blow my pollen hating nose.

I said hello to Paul, scoffed some more flapjack, bananas and water whilst the bike was getting looked after. We were pretty much level with Nottingham, just 360 miles ridden which is enough for anyone really but for us we'd barely made a third of the distance we needed to.  As soon as I could it was helmet on and keep heading north for one of the hardest legs of the journey. Liverpool awaits...