Day 1

We're doing this for FUN. That's the name of the charity. It isn't synonymous with the experience. Most of us are using muscles we're still pretty sure we don't have and some of us are using bikes we know we didn't have when we started.

Friday night - rocked up to the first of our many Travelodges at 1.30 am. First of far too many Rubbish Chef's for breakfast.

Day 1 - The popular and well trodden ascent of Snowdon is never quite as relaxing as we remember it to be. The train is out of action from the half way point so that wasn't an option. This having been the first time most of us had walked up hill for some months, the amount of isotonics and dextrose imbibed was probably not medically advisable but in the absence of fitness, it was all we had. We gathered some chap called Mark along the way and spurred him on to complete the walk, although we then left him and didn't see him again, so not sure he survived. They're rebuilding the cafe at the top, a striking modern design, so there was no stopping for more than the obligatory photocall. There's old hut half way down that's been taken over been scousers (like much of North Wales) and they've added to the conviviality of the walk by plastering one of their walls with stories of people dying because they were wearing flip flops and hotpants, and that was just the men, haha! Back at the bottom and disappointingly the van was still there. John's clever ruse to avoid the cycling by spending £8 on his bike immediately paid dividends when the brakes wouldn't let his front wheel go round at all. Fraser nobly donated his bike (his turn to drive) and we set off. I spent the first mile or so desperately trying to get my feet out of the clipless pedals so that I didn't smash my knees on the tarmac and John ploughed on ahead, demonstrating remarkable physical prowess for one so seemingly sofa bound. These distractions enabled Matt to slip his hand gun out of his pannier bag and shoot his front derailleur. Sadly for him, that meant he had to retire for the day and head in to Bangor for repairs. Waterhouse maintained a gruelling pace to Colwyn Bay, which nigh on killed me, but we made it. Colwyn is one of Wales' many town which hope forgot so we counted ourselves lucky to find a pretty decent pub for supper. Michael, our hotelier, kindly scrubbed our clothes for charity, a task I wouldn't have undertaken for any price.

Whilst this foulness was being undertaken at the hotel, we indulged in the finery of a local boozer where we made an attempt on the "eating fatty crap" world record. I think we did quite well, particularly showing a desire and aptitude for eating garlic bread which has proved a new skill for us all. The night finished as all great nights out do: in a quiet bar with some weird locals watching "Match of the Day" on a tiny telly at an awkward viewing angle. I think it was a highlight for us all.