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.’
Chapter Eleven
Jenna
513 miles to go
Ican hardly bear to watch this ...’ Jenna murmured.
She was perched on the edge of the sofa, watching the very tail of the national evening news. It was meant to be the ‘uplifting’ coda to the misery, doom and gloom that had preceded it.
But Jenna didn’t feel uplifted. She felt sick.
Cam had been filmed struggling up Shap Fell in Cumbria, through thick mist. The camera operator had captured every anguished grimace and contortion of the climb. Later, he’d been interviewed at a hotel, looking shattered, with a can of Irn-Bru in his hand.
‘I won’t give up,’ he said chirpily, into the camera. ‘I may be a bit sore but nothing could hurt more than what Sholto and his family have been through, or any of those affected by this genetic condition. If I can raise awareness and more funding for research, every mile is worth it.’
The camera cut to Sholto at home in a leg brace, wishing Cam all the best.
Jenna got out her phone and messaged Cam.
Just saw you on the news. You are absolutely amazing. I can’t tell you how much this means to me – to everyone. I can’t wait to see you at Land’s End. Love, Jenna x
