Its a one-man mission from Land's End to John O'Groats
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with nothing more than a tank of diesel and some questionable foodstuffs, but will a hungry co-driver and a dealership detour derail the economy mission?
Words: George Barrow Images: Daniel Pullen 837 miles to go,-I say, as the diesel overflows from the neck of the fuel tank. They tell me the Cornish have over 50 words for a pasty, or is that Inuits for ice? Either way, there'll be no ice or pasties where we're going — well, maybe there'll be ice. The navigation says John O'Groats is 14 hours away. We could do it in 10 if it wasn't for speed limits, but the way we'll be travelling the law won't be bothering us. This is eco-driving.
"They say we could do it on a single tank," I tell the man guarding the famed signpost at Land's End where Britain meets the Atlantic head on. His wild hair and wind-battered face convey contempt, disbelief and disinterest in equal measure at the endeavour. "People cycle and walk it," he scoffs, his tangle of hair buffeted by the wind that is sweeping it high above his head. "One tank of fuel is nothing," he protests.
"Don't be a fool, that's 63.4mpg we've got to do. The roads in Scotland will eat us alive and we're miles away from a motorway here. We'll be lucky if we make it to Penzance," I counter.
The photographer has finished, it is almost sunset, and we still have more than 200 miles to go until our first stop. They will be tough miles. A collection in Truro, navigate Bodmin (and its wildlife), avoid Exeter and negotiate traffic as we pass Bristol. We might as well be driving non-stop to John O'Groats, Gloucester seems that far away.
Complex carbs My co-driver has already put his coat in the van, a dazzling white Mercedes-Benz Citan with just a hint of diesel overspill dribbling down its left rear flank.
"I'll ride with you," says my co-driver.
I wonder what his purpose is here. Will he do the driving for me? Will his extra weight slow me down? How will we keep up hours of conversation? Will there be enough pasties for the both of us? The fear and loathing of a road trip, distilled between a glass windscreen and a steel bulkhead.
The only way to prepare for a trip like this is to pack yourself full of carbohydrates. Complex ones. The sort that take a while to dissipate through a motionless body locked in a battle of wills with the average fuel consumption read-out and everdecreasing range indicator. A Cornish pasty qualifies in this regard.
My companion, a man of eternal optimism and encouraging words, is here to help achieve the best fuel consumption. An economical chaperone. The van is claimed to do 61.4mpg, leaving us somewhere north of Inverness, a prison sentence for an Englishman at the best of times, a golfing holiday at the worst. We'll have to behave. "Pull away in second," he instructs. "And when you have to slow down, don't change through the gears."
A constant speed is also good for mileage. On a trip like this, one must be careful about fuel consumption. A steady 52mph seems right for a dual carriageway, enough to keep ahead of artic lorries and away from sales manager saloons.
We race, steadily, towards Truro, sheltering behind larger vehicles on the long, drawn-out straights, and pulling into fast traffic only to bear the full force of the headwind on the inclines and descents. I reach for sixth gear. There is none. Five will have to do. I grope about the steering wheel in the hope of activating cruise control, my hand meets only plain plastic. There are no tricks here, this is standard issue. Fuel shortage We don't know what's waiting for us at Mercedes-Benz Truro: there were no code words, no job sheets, I am told to just arrive at the parts counter and say my name I consider using a false one, but common sense tells me to play this one straight. The resulting package is enormous. What's in it? No one knows — or wants to tell me. "That won't be any good for our fuel economy," says my co-driver.
By the time we reach Taunton the effects of the pasties start to kick in, settling in the pit of my stomach, creating a lethargy that only the digestion of potato, meat and stodgy pastry can ever bring on. My co-driver is suffering too, it's been more than an hour since our last meal, blood sugar and fat levels are beginning to normalise and the small talk is precariously close to drying up. The photographer left us for dead at Truro, cruising comfortably at the speed limit, to our overnight accommodation. He calls, knowing nothing of our Cornish delicacy shortage, and informs us food will not be served past 9pm. Thirty minutes. It will be close. "The restaurant is closed," says the waitress in an accent not native to this island.
"Don't you know what we're trying to do here?" says my co-driver. "Land's End to John O'Groats on a single tank of diesel is not easy. We need fuel."
"You're confused and full of pasties, you fool," I say. "We don't need fuel, we need nourishment."
"There's a filling station around the corner," replies the confused young lady.
We gorge doubly on Gloucester cheese, temporarily quelling our hunger and the taste for meat and pastry. The van is below our target — averaging 55.8mpg over 230 miles of easier-than-expected roads. \ Gains must be made tomorrow on the motorways if we are to reach the finish and make up the 100-mile projected shortfall currently displayed. A night between polyester sheets, full of dreams fuelled by saturated fats and dairy products, lead to an early start. The Citan, once gleaming white, is now coated in a dirty grey film and ready to take on the traffic lights of Tewksbury and its bleary-eyed, caffeine-addicted commuters edging their way slowly, in a single line of resentment, towards the on-ramp of the M5.
We push on past Birmingham, dissect Liverpool and Manchester — choosing neither as a preference — as we roll, slipstream and power our way north towards the Lake District, passing halfway and half a fuel tank.
Then Carlisle. The final frontier. The last chance saloon — change your money here for a better exchange rate. The world's most dangerous border town. The Tijuana of England. We pass through peacefully, save for my co-driver complaining bitterly after consuming all of his Kendal Mint Cake.
My co-driver and I part company not long after entering Scotland. His weight, and appetite for deep-fried battered Mars Bars, is slowing me down. We'll see how the cameraman likes the eco-babble in his car. The mpg has already risen but, 12-stone lighter, the Citan makes even greater progress, surpassing our 63.4mpg target and continuing to increase with the steady pace of Scottish motoring. Spurred on by rising cholesterol and fuel economy, the Citan reaches Perth, our stop for the second night, with a 65.9mpg average.
A friendly local — there is no other sort — directs my co-driver and me to a chippie, the likesay which ye cannae scarce believe. Mibbe it's the grease, but a pizza crunch whit curry sauce is all ah need tae feed ma body afta ah long drive.
Journey's end The package is still with us, resting snugly in the longwheelbase Citan's loadspace — its time will come at Mercedes' Inverness dealership, making the longest possible journey for a spare part in its network.
Unburdened by the package, the Citan trip computer slowly clicks on to 66mpg, and even with my co-driver back in the passenger seat, it continues to rise. Snowy peaks appear in the distance as we ride the rollercoaster of roads. Their white summits soon pass, and make way for a sparse landscape punctuated by heather and the occasional dishevelled pony. With 100 miles to go on the range computer, the van's display goes blank. The ominous glow of the fuel warning light derails the spirit of my co-driver, who is on a substantial fried food withdrawal, yet we are just 60 miles from John O'Groats.
We expect the journey to get tougher, so estimate our further progress will involve as much luck as finding genuine beef in our next low-rent roadside meal, but the van continues untroubled by the fear. Its seats remain as comfortable now as 800 miles ago, its dash — a shade greasier — but as smart as it was in Land's End. We've barely noticed the comfortable ride, such has been the hunger for the journey, and had the conversation not dried up south of Bristol, we'd still be talking, not shouting, over the quiet of the engine.
But the magical 837th mile arrives and passes, and still the journey continues. The magnitude of yesterday's batter binge rests uneasy in the stomach.
"The signpost did say 874 miles," remarks my pallidfaced co-driver, yet John O'Groats and the end of the journey prove illusive for a further 13 miles and, despite our arrival, its famous signpost remains unaccounted for. We settle for driving to the northern-most visible point — the narrow end of the harbour walkway — 850.2 miles from Land's End. I turn off the ignition. My co-driver vomits into the cold North Sea. •