A defining trait of any great cycle ride, is that which drags the rider back again and again to repeat its majesty, savouring a rediscovered view or delivering an improved statistic. The passes of the English Lakes command many repeat performances and have an uncanny ability to fade that "never again" feeling almost as fast as the lactic acid has drained from weary calves.
Any rider that has experienced the call of the Lakes will understand why four of us were assembled in Ambleside ready to take on the hardest British bike ride. However, the keen observer would have realised something was up. The peleton that left the car park consisted of two very shiny road bikes and a couple of mountain bikes with slick tyres.
Andy and I had ridden the route a year before. Inadequate gear ratios, fitness and nutrition had forced us to curtail our planned route and miss out the Newlands and Whinlatter passes. We had received our annual call from the Lakes and it was time to go back. I had upgraded my fitness and road bike, Andy had trained hard and decided that a mountain bike and wider gear ratios were for him. Ryan and Mark were dragged into our conspiracy and each decided to take a different side. Ryan proudly assembled his mountain bike whilst Mark held on tightly to his super light Litespeed racer.
Who would be quickest? Who would survive? Would the riders stay together? Who would walk the climbs? Thus began our great Lakeland experiment.
Our route had been meticulously planned using the latest digital mapping technology and downloaded to a GPS receiver. Paper maps were consigned to pockets as we left Ambleside following the electronic paper trail displayed upon our navigator’s handlebars. Our first objective on this crisp April morning, the Kirkstone Pass.
Amiable banter ceased as the road coiled upwards. After no more than 100 metres it became apparent that the road bike riders were to own this climb. The Kirkstone Pass is a relatively steady gradient. Mark and I eased up the block and climbed comfortably opening a clear gap upon the mountain bikers. Andy and Ryan had shot through the ratios and were spinning furiously but making little ground. As we neared the top Mark looked over his shoulder and the lack of mountain bikers in his view prompted him to turn to me and quip, "One nil to the road bikes".
We topped out and caught our breath. A whiff of temptation seeped from the Kirkstone Inn. Perched at 1500 feet, it proudly took its place as the third highest pub in England. A few minutes later the others arrived looking equally comfortable but a tad frustrated. Clearly the defining lesson of the day had been delivered early and we still had a further 90 miles and six passes to cover.
After four caught breaths Kirkstone threw us out at the bottom onto the gently undulating terrain that skirts Ullswater before climbing again through Dickray, Thornythwaite and Matterdae End. We worked well together as a group, swapping leads and pointing out the poor investments in the road surface. The sun gave the odd glint around the high cloud and all indicators pointed towards a fulfilling ride. Our route skirted the Northern Lake district and delivered us into Keswick via a feast of country lanes slightly tainted by a small portion of A66.
From Keswick we climbed easily above Derwent Water widely known as "Queen of Lakes". Our single track road clung resolutely to Cats Bells. Attempts at climbing heroics were suppressed as each of us sucked in the surrounding views and shared the vista mixed with camaraderie. This was without doubt the defining moment within the ride at which we were four cyclists rather than two roadies and a pair of mountain bikers. The bikes had worked well together and we had progressed at a respectable speed, all riders appeared relatively fresh.
We passed the 7th century hamlet of Grange which nestles below Castle Crag in the jaws of Borrowdale. Grange-in-Borrowdale refers to the "granary in the valley with a fort" and was one of the Northern granaries for Furness Abbey at Barrow-in-Furness.
With a tinge of regret we lost our height and descended into Rosthwaite. A flurry of bottle sucking and energy bar consumption signalled the impending grad ients of the Honister Pass. "I think this one’s a bit steep at the start" Mark euphemistically offered. We turned right and began to climb.
Kirsktone had lulled me into a false sense of security which was cruelly exposed by the 25% gradient at the beginning of the Honister Pass. I rapidly used all options on my rear block and watched with envy as Mark climbed ahead of me with apparent ease. Determination mixed with grunting saw me over the initial steep sections and I stayed within sight of Mark. Our mountain bike tail had been lost in a frenzy of upshifting and leg spinning.
The final right hand bend saw the end of the climb. I stopped, recovered and assessed the experience. Honister had turned out to be a steep, sweaty, uncomfortable climb with little opportunity for rest. Yet somehow it lacks real teeth, it’s on the verge of destroying the rider but suddenly gives up and lets them escape into the valley below with nothing more than a stern ticking off.
Suitably chastised we re-grouped and plunged down the valley. A few quick glances at Buttermere were grabbed before we were climbing again heading up over the Newlands Pass. A steady but exposed climb saw us sweaty at the top with the road bikers carrying out the ritual finger drumming whilst awaiting the offroaders. Our patience was extended by the spectacular view afforded by Moss Force waterfall.
In my mind the descent from Newlands was the best of the day. A fast, relatively straight road produced a very surprised motorcycle rider who shamefacedly acknowledged the waving road bikers who overtook him. Here, the cyclist has time to relish the speed whilst catching the scenery to the right, unlike many other mountain descents which tend to enclose the rider and suffocate their eyes.
From Braithwaite we headed up the Whinlatter Pass taking a shady road hidden from the sun by its evergreen wrapper. The gradient offered little challenge to the lightweight road bikers, however, Ryan was starting to flag. We stopped to let him catch up. No real damage done but the effort of turning smaller wheels on bigger gears was beginning to show. Andy masked a jealous glint at the road bikes and I said a silent "Thank you" to my strange geometry that prevented a halfway swap of bikes.
For some reason we had imagined the next 35 miles as a gently undulating ride, briskly skirting the northern fells of Ennerdale and an opportunity for respite before the horrors of Hardknott and Wrynose. Next time we’ll pay better attention to the height profile.
We climbed and descended, ascended, went down, gained height, then lost it, defied gravity, complied with it. In fact we messed with gravity so much that I’m convinced we altered some poor soul’s astrological chart. Catching sight of the climb beyond Ennerdale Bridge, we somehow convinced ourselves it was the Hardknott Pass and hung on to the vain hope that it’s gradient had shallowed over the past year. A further glance at the GPS soon shattered our illusions as the satellites confirmed it was a minor hill, well out of the Hardknott league.
In short these were 35 hard miles and halfway in Ryan gave the cyclists equivalent of the Captain Oates speech.
"Just go on ahead lads, I’ll see you at the car, I’ll be happier at my own pace".
How often have we heard these words and how often have we complied unwittingly consigning the lone rider to the further torment of headwinds, poor motivation and an extended time out in the open. We were having none of it. He was sent to the back and ordered to draft ruthlessly. We kept him on our back wheels up the hills and shared the thrill of the descents. Thirty minutes later motivation had returned and he was back with us.
We made good time to Gosforth. We covered the counter of the local newsagents in loose change in exchange for sugary drinks to prepare ourselves for the final two passes. Secretly I was considering defeat.
Up to this point we had ridden over 80 miles and climbed over 10,000 feet. My legs were tired and I felt for my mountain biking colleagues as my bike weighed some ten pounds less than theirs. I knew that the final two climbs were the hardest and I also knew that Hardknott was steeper than Honister. I envied the 32 tooth sprockets at the rear of the mountain bikes and cursed their granny rings. Conquering Hardknott was going to take more than muscle, oxygen and bone. I wasn’t sure I had it.
Time was up and Mark led us to the ascent and calmly set about the mountain pass rapidly opening up a gap on the rest of us.
This proved my saving grace.
On seeing a rider in front of me conquer the gradient, I knew it was achievable. I visualised myself guiding the bike up the path traced by Mark and found the climb was possible, even with tired legs, rasping lungs and a myriad of biological warning lights.
Let’s be clear. Hardknot was, and is, the hardest climb I have ever ridden on any bike. I’m a reasonably fit rider and it took every physical and mental reserve to pull my skinny frame over its 33% sections. I arrived at the top with nothing left at all. The ticking off given by Honister had been replaced by a full on thrashing by headmaster Hardknot. We all found it hard, even the mountain bikers with their advantageous ratios struggled to the top.
I collapsed over my bars. There's been a road through here for 2000 years, though it's had tarmac for less than fifty. The Romans were first, and they called this the Tenth Highway, linking forts at Waterhead and Ravenglass. I wonder if the Centurions complained as vociferously as my calves whilst climbing it.
Wrynose loomed a few miles beyond. We cut short our celebrations and descended towards the final pass of the day. The 25% gradients near the top were no joke, but somehow seemed less painful when compared to the struggle up Hardknott. The descent from Wrynose was punctuated with potholes and poor surfaces and my rear inner tube exploded in protest at the bottom. The puncture was hastily repaired and we ground out the remaining few miles back to the car park at Ambleside.
And so it was done. The Lakes had called and we had answered. We’d completed a classic loop with little incident. We’d clearly concluded that the road bike was by far the most sensible steed, yet we’d each revelled in that sense of achievement that comes from stretching the boundaries of a ride right up to personal limits. The Lakeland loop is a classic regardless of how it is ridden. It will call me again and I’ll be back. I’ve got a feeling that it’s one of those rides that can never be "done".
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