September Cumbria Tour.
My first origins as a cyclist were born from being a tourist. I've morphed into many different genres of bike rider since then and very much enjoyed the diversity over the years, but it was good to get back to were I started when we headed north for some traditional touring around the Lakes and Pennines. The bags that I have owned for so many years had lain dormant in the loft for endless eons and opening them up now and slinging them over a rack brought back many memories. Things I haven't thought about for many years and stuff that I can't even imagine being me. Going on a weekend tour again was to be a nostalgic journey into my mind and back to the country.
Will had been eager to put his touring bike to some proper use as it had been hanging in his garage, unused since we built it two years ago. It is a beast of a machine with oversized steel tubes, wheelbase like a Rudge, enough braze ons to sink a ship, 37mm tyres, triple chain wheel with a Q factor like a horse and enough weight to put a smile on any scrap metal mans face. Where on earth can there be any pleasure in riding a monstrosity like this?
Bob was riding a customised Ridgeback with narrow tyres and solid forks whilst Harry was riding his Mercian that refuses to lie down despite its history of abuse dished out by his former wife. Phil was riding what his dad had provided for him whilst Vince was still testing the water with some borrowed bags and his winter bike. I had pulled out of the loft a bike I didn't think I'd ever ride again and if I keep going on these cycling holidays, it will probably end up a victim of domestic violence not dissimilar to Harry's Mercian.
The best plans always fall foul at the last minute and by the time we reached Ambleside in Will's very utility vehicle, the rain was pouring out of the skies and cloud hung very low across what is usually a stunning landscape. The Kirkstone Pass came and went without its visual panorama to stimulate the brain and the descent to Ullswater was also a bit low key as wet tarmac made it too risky to let the brakes off and go much over 40mph. The road along the lake wasn't overly busy but people drive too quickly and just before Pooley Bridge we were fortunate to have just missed a nasty collision that was about to cause traffic chaos as the cars began to tail back and the emergency services rushed to the scene.
We crossed the M6 just beyond Lowther Park and left the Lake District and its miserable greyness for the brighter outlook that Westmorland had to offer. The rain fizzled out and occasional rays of sunshine found their way through the breaking skies to dry our sodden souls. The lanes are narrow and shrouded in greenery. The road drops down quickly and an idyllic river makes its way across the ford at Kings Meaburn. It's not a deep crossing but maybe 30 metres across and covered in the usual green algae that thrives under these conditions. Will was first on the scene and skilfully lifted both feet off the pedals to avoid any wetness from the spray coming up from the gurgling waters. It would require a fair bit of speed to cross from one side to the other with your feet on the bars but the acceleration provided by the preceding descent seemed sufficient to fulfil the requirements. It should be pointed out at this point that Will is one of our more flamboyant riders and uses his natural bike riding abilities and experience to regularly impress us all. He can scoop things off the road at speed, pull wheelies, spot a discarded fiver from a mile away and always manages to pull off that bit of off road or clever riding that most of think twice about. I've seen Will cross fords on many occasions and he usually does it with style and confidence whilst the rest of us scuttle over the alternative pedestrian facilities that are usually on offer. I've also seem many people come a cropper in fords and non funnier than that of Alistair Rutherford going down hard whilst riding through a water feature with no hands on the bars and gesturing two fingers at the walkers amongst us. As I saw Will gracefully, and with confident composure glide across the shimmering waters I had a very strong feeling that his luck was about to run out. It's as though you can see into the future and you know what's about to happen as though it had just happened. He'd got a good two thirds of the way across but the line of his bike faltered, maybe one of the wheels slipped on the green stuff or maybe the quick flowing waters unseated his balance. At first, the deviation in direction looked as if it might be correctable. But as the back wheel began to lose traction and balance deserted him, he went crashing down into the water. The splash was followed by the inevitable roars of laughter and side splitting mirth as we rushed across the bridge to see if Will was ok. Some bruises and a little ripped bar tape was the only consequences of the event and as we rode away you knew that you couldn't have wanted to fall off in a more beautiful place.
Bojangles was completely out of place in the small and very quaint town of Appelby in Westmorland. It's coffee bar image, varnished floor and over use of down lighters were not in keeping with the surrounding shops and historical buildings and the prices were most certainly not in keeping with the pocket of your average bike rider. In fact I bet it is listed somewhere in the tight wad book of cafes not to visit on tour. Five very wet and no doubt slightly/very smelly cyclists might otherwise have been turned away but the grey day was not a plenty with tourists and our money was good, if not a little damp. Pools of water flowed from our clothes and formed a lake on the shiny floor whilst we filled our bellies with Panini’s, cakes and trendy coffees.
Loosed of our money and well replenished we headed south east and retraced the route of a ride we did in 2005 through Brough and on to Middleton in Teesdale. From Brough the road climbs steadily for maybe four miles before cresting the Pennine ridge. The road was awash with cyclists taking part in the Hell of the North cyclo sportif that started from Darlington. One by one we passed the exhausted riders who were crawling up the climb in their lowest gears. I caught up with a young rider who was going well and together we rode to the top. Whilst he spun his low gears and pushed his carbon fibre steed smoothly along I was forced to grind up in a bigger gear dragging 50lbs of steel and pannier bags behind me. I took great pleasure in putting half a wheel ahead and chatting to him about the days events but I was glad to let him go at the top where I waited for the rest of us to catch up.
Middleton in Teesdale was a great place to have coffee and teacakes after a scorching descent from the top of the Lune Forest. Continuing up the valley towards Alston we made our way north to the junction at Langdon Beck where we retraced our route from last years end to end ride. It's a good pull over Langdon Common and the road rises to 627m before a steaming descent down to Weardale where Will clocked the best speed at 53.7mph. Vince was tiring and ready for his tea but there was another climb to come on the way out of County Durham. I remember the road well and can still see Jimmy Rutherford pedalling like a lunatic trying to out sprint Jimmy Froggatt and Will to the summit last year. I reckon if he'd actually ridden in a straight line he might have done it.
At the summit was a wall of wind in your face and it made tired legs groan painfully. The temperature was dropping and it was getting late. With only a mile or so of descending to Nenthead we clung to the idea that there would be somewhere warm and cosy to eat before the last leg of the trip took us to the Hostel. We were in luck and despite the "Great Nenthead Fudge Cake Drought " we were heartily satisfied at the Inn with generous helpings of pie, chips and a good throat warming Shiraz. It was too late to sit and talk for long and as dusk closed in and the light faded we charged up Black Hill like idiots and dropped along the course of the West Allen River to the little settlement of Ninebanks. The wind was gone and the looming night skies were clear and starry. The final short climb up to the hostel was all but finished in the dark and we had arrived in the nick of time. We met up with Harry who had arrived earlier that evening after riding the Cumbria Challenge Audax. After such a good days ride, you couldn't ask to be in a better place. The recently improved hostel had lost none of its rural charm since we were last here and remains a favourite destination for a good bike ride.
Monday morning saw sunlight shining through the bedroom window and lighting up our bunks. The ghost of "Fat Dick", highwayman and cutpurse, had not put in an appearance and after saying goodbye to the goat we headed up the long drag toward Alston. Turning north just before Alston we traversed the steep sides of the South Tyne valley and once again crossed the river at the very steep bridge that we had last crossed in May 2006. Vince had been looking forward to some respite from the hills on this flatter of the three days but it wasn't to be just yet. The rolling terrain saw us ready for a tea stop after only 20 miles and before you know it we were tucking into bacon sandwiches and some very luxurious home made treacle tart. It was a good job too because we didn't stop again for another 60 miles.
Carlisle was the start of the flat terrain and we followed national cycle route 72 around the banks of the River Eden and out of the city. Riding west along the Eden estuary to Bowness, the flat roads and views of Dumfries and Galloway were bathed in warm afternoon sunshine. We turned a full 180 degrees around the headland before following the Wampool estuary east along its northern bank and then west along its south bank. Harry was gagging for a cup of tea and going full cold turkey. Vince was desperate for a mars bar and all the time there were signs to tell you how deep the water would be if the tide had made it this far. With spirits sinking into the afternoon heat and the flat lanes seemingly going on forever, Abbey Town provided refreshment by way of a village store. Although our tea stop wasn’t too far away, let loose in the shop with such hunger pangs was just too much to ask of even the most disciplined character, apart from myself that is, I only had a tin of coke and a bottle of water. Bob filled his face with a double helping of sausage rolls and chocolate bars and Vince too gorged as though it was his last meal before gallows pole. Five or six miles later and we were sat in a salubrious fish and chip restaurant eyeing the menu for a greasy portion of loveliness. Harry went for a double whammy and ordered haggis and black pudding with the obligatory chips and mushy peas. Not to be beaten I matched the order. Fortunately, Harry and I both carry donor cards leaving our colons to the fishing industry.
We spent the evening at Allonby in a beautiful six bedroomed farmhouse. The trees were filled with crows and the farm yard was surrounded by old barns, one bearing a date from the 18th century. It was a very atmospheric place to be staying and the comfortable beds ensured a good nights sleep before the finale ride.
Uncle Harry cooked us a fine full English before we left and sunshine once again splashed across the sea as we headed south along the coast road. The hills and mountains of the Lake District loom ominously in the distance and every turn away from the sea climbs gently across the rolling fields that lie before the big fell country to come. Scaley Moss climbs up to around 220 metres and gives you an excellent birdseye view of the Sellafield nuclear plant. The terrain rolls relentlessly but the road to Wast Water is the most glorious of routes by bike. The crags of Buckbarrow tower over you whilst Lingmell Gill running up onto the top of Scafell Pike and the awesome mass of Great Gable come into clear view as you descend quickly along Greendale to the lake shore. A quick photo with the high scree slopes behind us and the search for that much needed cafe begins.
It's not long before we are once again filling our face's. Harry scuppers his chances of being first to the top of the big hills to come by going for the double cake whammy after his meal. Santon Bridge woodland cafe was a worthy stop but time was ticking by and the pannier bag showdown on the Hardknot would wait for no man.
A high speed blow out just before Eskdale Green saw Bob very nearly fill his shorts and gave Vince the bit of head start he needed before the big climb of the tour. We’ve climbed the Hardknot on a variety of occasions from the east side but this was my first time from the Eskdale side. The river turns north whilst the road carries on in an easterly direction immediately ramping upward. The first little bit is steep but we stayed together until the first of the savage bends that turn you inside out. Will put a big effort in straight away and opened up a significant gap as we passed Vince who had dispelled any ideas of riding this difficult obstacle. Spinning a miniscule gear Will was going well. The road becomes very uneven and the descending vehicles, stinking of burned clutch plates and brakes, force you into the steep inside curve of the bend. It requires a huge effort to just keep the bike moving and staying upright. Pushing 34 X 25 gear was hard but as long as I could keep it turning Will wasn't going to get that far ahead. The first 30% section eases for a couple of hundred yards and Will put the bigger gear in and rode away quickly with my chances of catching him seemingly slithering down the sweat on my face. When I hit the lesser gradient it was all I could do to recover from the last effort in preparation for the next series of savagely steep bends. Another lung bursting effort nearly blew the vein on my forehead and some stupid comments from a motorist made me rage on the pedals. I clawed Will back quite considerably but it was too little too late and I had to concede defeat when the easier last section of climbing to the summit allowed him to put the bigger gear in and ride away. As I crossed the cattle grid he was stood upon a rocky tump jumping up and down like a gorilla on Viagra.
Bob was next up to the top followed shortly after by Phil. Harry had stopped and found it almost impossible to restart on the wickedly steep and lumpy road surface. With a face that said it all, Harry was not happy with his performance on the nasty ascent but what do you expect when you’ve been eating double portions all weekend. Vince wasn't too far back and much more composed than any of the idiots who'd persevered with pedalling up the insanely steep and treacherous Hardknot Pass.
The climb ascends some 310m in one mile which is why it is so steep. I've always found the Wrynose from the east side harder but the valley that lies between the two passes is high up and the ascent to the summit is considerably less of a struggle. Bob was going well and with the top of the climb in sight I took off for the minor victory. I knew he'd be coming but I was very much hoping that the moment had been right and that I'd got the gap. Just as the gradient eases and the finish line is so close, I was passed and spat out as Will took the win for the King of the Mountains again. Another loony dance in my face was probably an amusing sight for the gathered walkers and sightseers at the summit but that's what pillocks who race up steep hills on 50lb steel bikes do.
It's a rapid and very lumpy descent and it takes very little time to drop down to the bottom. It's not long before we are approaching Ambleside and the final bit of stupidity begins with a wind up of pace on the way to Windermere and the YHA car park. Will comes through for the last mile or so and the pace becomes very uncomfortable. Harry’s face is a picture but he certainly wasn't about to be dropped by a "cheeky xxxx" like Will, especially after the "you looked good there for 30 seconds Harry" comment on Monday.
CR.