This was about the time we also came to realise that it was getting lighter and so the night was drawing to a close. A light mist arose over the fields and we started looking at the survivors of the night. We must have been holding a similar pace to a couple of other groups as we started recognising other cyclists stopped for food as the ones who passed us each time we stopped.

At one of these food stops it was time for another comfort break. Charlotte was the fist and returned with the statement “there’s one huge steaming pile of poo behind that hedge”. When it was my turn I stepped gingerly around the hedge. In my mind I had mostly a vision of a cow pat with a diameter of over a foot, or possibly some other animal offering. What I was not expecting was a pile of poo eight foot high 15 foot wide and a length that took it out of sight, and steaming gently all over! I nearly congratulated Charlotte for her contribution on my return, but somehow felt that my early morning surreal state of mind was not attuned to hers. In favour of a saving of half an hour or more of explanations I kept quiet and headed for the malt loaf.

It was time when some people were getting desperate to stay awake and were breaking out the emergency rations of red bull. It was amusing (bloody hilarious actually) to watch them shudder with disgust as each mouthful was swallowed. If the drink’s that disliked, why pack it and carry it for nearly a hundred miles? More interesting was the more instant revival brought about by some suspiciously coloured strangely tasting sweets that Charlotte offered around. Are those things legal? On an E number high we pedalled onwards. Even Andy who’d decided a grass verge was a very comfy bed suddenly decided to join us again.

Our loyal group of four or five (am I counting bikes or people here? Tandems really confuse things) headed on and picked up a couple of other riders. There was a moment of confusion as people wanted to rest and signposts not on the route sheet appeared. A break, a discussion, and a realisation we were still on track and on we rode.

The riding was getting harder as well. The hills were only small, but they were continual. A two minute climb, a one minute down and then another two minute climb. On tired legs these were taking their toll. It was particularly hard as our minds were telling us these were easy hills but our legs, now with that magic 100 miles mark under them, were telling us otherwise.

Now was the time when tiredness was setting in but we weren’t realising it. The route sheets said to keep going but those with maps wanted to turn off. We kept going, the signposts confirmed our sheets, those with maps agreed we could go this way. Then the sheets said to turn left after a church. We did, but then half a mile later wondered if that was the correct church. I suppose that had we been fresh this navigation lark would have been easy. In our state of mind it wasn’t.

Our states of mind weren’t helped by the few riders we were now passing who were coming in the opposite direction. At first we thought they too had mistaken the church and had turned back to go to the correct one, then we realised these riders had not only completed the ride but they were heading back!

And then, Dunwich was on the signposts! A cheer, a ragged cheer but a cheer none the less, went up. Our destination was in sight at last.

By now it was full light. I needed a comfort stop but there was nowhere private. Suddenly I spied a lay-by full of waste soil piled in mountains as left by the trucks. I checked for cyclists on the road behind and dived in. The last rider in the group we had found ourselves with cried out “What’s wrong with Tour-de-France style?” (meaning get somebody to push while I went). I was amazed to find that, bladder relieved, my legs had enough energy to turn my top gear at high revolutions. As I blasted past that last touring rider with my hands down on the drops and my arse in the air to rejoin my own group I cried “This is Tour-de-France style”.

And then I found myself following the signposts rather than my route sheet. Dunwich was in sight and I was heading there. I couldn’t take the scenery in. On a normal ride I would have enjoyed it but now all I could think was of Dunwich and the successful completion of the ride. Suddenly the destination was the key rather than the journey. Heather covered moorland passed either side of me and I was heading to Dunwich.