Straddling a rocky arête, I’m slowly edging along on my backside in bright afternoon sunshine, with one leg dangling either side of the knife-edge ridge I’m in the middle of traversing. I’ve travelled to Keswick for the weekend, principally to participate in a Rather be Cycling organised cyclo-cross bike event, but right now I’m a little stuck and not too sure I’ll even make the start.
Having driven from the south of England I was keen to get out of the car as soon as possible and get some dirt on my boots. I pulled off the A684 and parked up beside a dry stone wall, grabbed my backpack and set off.
I’ve never climbed Blencathra, a mountain described by Wainwright as ‘one of the grandest objects in Lakeland’, and one that ‘…compels attention, even from those dull people whose eyes are not habitually lifted to the hills.’ With such praise from the orator of all things Lake District, I thought it time to put that right.
Soon enough I was trudging through a farmyard, receiving a wave from a farmer giving some much-needed love to a very old tractor, before an initial steep climb through a hillside of heather.
The October weather was being kind, and while the sky was full of clouds, the sun’s rays broke through here and there, causing a series of heavenly spotlights to beam down to the valley floor.
I’d chosen to climb Blencathra via Hall’s Fell, which is an easy scramble that kicks in about three quarters of the way up.
A scramble is always the perfect way to, quite literally, get back in touch with the mountain, and it was great to get some dirt under my nails, as well as on my boots. It wasn’t long before I found myself at the top enjoying a majestic view across the lakes, and agreeing with Wainwright that ‘this route is positively the finest way to any mountain top in the district.
Not wishing the excitement to stop at the summit, I chose to descend to the north by the Sharp Edge, a rocky knife edge ridge that falls steeply away to both sides. I’d started on my feet, but after skidding on the wet rock, and only stopping my fall with some fancy footwork, I decided to tackle the rest of the Sharp Edge on my backside. Safely down, all that was left was a gentle yet long hike back to the car. What a great way to mark my arrival in the spectacular Lake District!
Starter’s orders
Despite such a wonderful warm up, early the next morning, as I made my way to the start of the ride through Keswick Village, it was freezing. My fingerless gloves were doing little to keep any part of my hands warm, as I entered Lower Fitz Park to join the other waiting racers.
There is always a real buzz at the start line of any event. It’s part relief that it’s finally time to start a much-anticipated race, and part trepidation of the unknown ahead. Have I done enough training? Was it the right sort of training? Will I make it round? Can I break that time I have in my head, the one I plucked from a past race, or maybe even from thin air?
Not that the Lakeland Monster is really a race anyway. You can’t actually legally race head-to-head on bridleways in England, and as such the 800 Lakeland Monsters riders aren’t given a set start time. Instead they are split into small groups at the start, and then set off against the clock.
I join the back of the short queue at 8.00am, and in no time at all I’ve shuffled my way into a group of mountain bikers at the start line. All conversations stop as we listen attentively to a final brief from Cheryl, one of the ‘Rather Be Cycling’ organisers.
“There’s been a lot of rain recently, so if there is a bridge across a stream; take it! The route is well signed, other than in Cockermouth where some drunks messed with them last night. Those of you on cross bikes…” That’s me, and being the only one in my small starting group, I attract a lot of glances from the mountain bikers, especially as I’m on a brand new shiny Genesis Croix de Fer, which I’ve only ever ridden on road, “…dance your bikes down the off-road sections, the stones here are unforgiving and you will get a puncture, be warned!”
I’ve no time to wonder if I’m on the wrong type of steed after all, as the tape is dropped and we’re off, past a marshal of impending doom, who shouts, “Nothing but pain and suffering awaits you! Oh – and don’t forget dirt and despair too!”
I soon find that my Croix de Fer and I are speeding along a riverside path, dappled with the morning sun as it shines through the autumnal leaves that still cling on with the last gasps of a summer long past. It’s a joy to be out and in the saddle so early and on such a beautiful day, and it’s also a joy to be surrounded by like-minded people.
Some of these like-minded people are taking the whole thing ultra-seriously, head down, pedals rotating at speed, while others sit upright, laughing and joking their way through the morning chill.
Before too long I’m zipping past long sections of drystone walls, covered in greeny-grey lichen, on single-track roads below yesterday’s peak of Blencathra. Finally dispelling the chill from my bones, I ride past a lone farmhouse.
The owners have left the warmth of an open fire – evidenced by the smoke wisping skyward from their chimney - to offer encouragement at the head of their long drive. A middle-aged woman in her dressing gown, cupping a warming mug of tea shouts, “Well done, keep going! The worst bit is just coming up!”
Unsure if she’s encouraging or gloating, I smile and ride on - only to find out that she was most probably right.
Rounding a bend I see a snake of lycra disappearing, up a rough hillside. Unperturbed I hit bottom gear and join the snake, marvelling at the ever-increasing view of Ullswater and beyond.
Following a level section of trail north towards Mosedale, I sweep around a blind bend at speed to find a small but deep stream. It’s impossible to see the stream bed, so I make the split second decision to go for it.
Halfway across a guy next to me hits something below the water and, with an expletive, comes to an abrupt stop, falling sideways into the cold water. Making the other side unscathed, I turn to see a cold, wet cyclist picking himself up. Unhurt, he pushes his bike out of the stream, while his friends who’ve stopped try not to fall off laughing.
Thus far my bike has been brilliant; it has tackled road, very rough trail and even stream crossings without incident and at a good pace, but I’m about to find its weakness.
Hitting an almost straight stretch of steep, wet, grassy hillside, after one small tweak of my brakes, I start skidding speedway style.
To stop the skid I ease off the brakes, but then start to pick up an alarming pace.
This isn’t good: I’m locked into position, unable to stop pulling the brakes but also unable to pull them hard enough to stop.
It’s at this stage I start an uncontrollable nervous laugh, as the tail end of my bike whips around. My laughter spreads to others, as many a mountain biker speeds past in complete control, while cracking up at my amusing lack of control, and admittedly, skill.
The next section of the ride is spent winding through farm yards, and along undulating back roads, before a long climb up to the Whinlatter Pass and Forest Park.
The Forest Park is bustling – hikers emerging from trails, and mountain bikers from the 19 km, challenging Altura Trail.
I’m not sure if it is all the mountain bikers, or my joy at nearing the finish, that makes me speed up, forgetting the advice to dance my bike down the rough trails. But forget I do. Bang! My back wheel blows out like a gun shot, and a new inner tube has to be finished out and fitted to see me to the finish line.
Only an hour later, bike washed, clothes changed and stomach refilled, I’m back in the car. It has been a flying visit to the Lakes and as I head south on the M6, I recall the words of Wainwright: ‘The fleeting hour of life of those who love the hills is quickly spent, but the hills are eternal.’
