Singletrack Issue 127 | Making it up in the Lake District

It was my fault, of course, and even on my regular trail bike, the sight of yet another straight, slightly uphill tarmac road was beginning to wear me down. And we’d not even got to the steep off-road bits yet. Or was that the actual problem?

The last time that Nigel and I had done a long ride together was our West Highland Way jaunt (see issue 89) – a hundred-mile trip that we’d done over two days. We got away with it (just). We swore at the unrideable sections of Loch Lomondside and the endless pebbly scree of the Devil’s Staircase, finished after dark the first night, and needed friendly local encouragement on the second in the form of Fort William locals Alasdair MacLennan and Spook Munro who effectively rode out to find us and guide us home. At that time, I’d brought a knife to a mountain biking gunfight, in the form of my drop-handlebarred adventure bike with a minimally sprung (and damped) Lauf fork. Nigel had ridden his enduro-ready Nukeproof Mega. This time round, my choice of bike had changed to a regular trail bike, while Nigel had simply grabbed a newer Nukeproof Mega, complete with race-ready, prototype sticky rubber, fitted for one of the EWS rounds that he regularly competes in. That choice was proving to be a little ambitious for the smooth, flat roads in the early stages of my route. 

• 

• 

Famous Five-minus-three.

I say ‘my’ route, because Nigel hadn’t had a say in it. He’d been busy working as Team Chain Reaction’s team manager for the EWS and had trusted me to find a fun and interesting trip for us to do this time round. Our West Highland Way trip had been a stretch of both of our senses of adventure and experience. Neither of us had any particular cycle-touring credentials and much of our gear and food choice had been made up as we went along. But despite our Famous Five-style of ‘hope and see’ adventuring, we were both impressed by our ability to cover distance and accept the ups and downs of route finding, refuelling and loaded riding without wanting to kill each other. Every time we met up after the West Highland Way, we would always ask ‘What’s next?’.

Both of us are flat-out busy every summer and reasonably busy after the race and show season ends, so any adventure would have to be squeezable into a few days (so that ruled out the Kokopelli Trail or the Turin to Nice…) and doable in early October before the clocks change. 

• 

• 

We’d considered the off-road Coast to Coast, but the ‘getting there and back’ seemed a pain, so I suggested a Lake District jaunt. Years ago I’d ridden a five-day loop round the Lakes with CycleActive, but that would be too long. So how about an end to end? Everyone loves end to ends, right? I have a big screen and a subscription to the Ordnance Survey website – the modern version of spreading a load of maps over the living room floor and setting-to with a highlighter – but my internet search didn’t really turn up any suggested routes, so I got plotting.

There’s a reason no one else does it.

My pin-in-a-map plan was to start at the Solway Firth – at the water at the very north of Cumbria, and head through the Lake District, over Skiddaw, over the length of the mighty whaleback of Helvellyn and through Grizedale to the first bit of salty water we’d come to at Greenodd. This choice of route was entirely arbitrary; subsequent examination by ‘those who know’ has shown up a few flaws in the plan – and the reason for so little evidence of other riders taking the same route. 

The logistics seemed simple (and again, that would come back to bite me) as we’d stashed a van in Greenodd on our way up to Carlisle, bagging a camp bed at photographer James Vincent’s place. We’d simply drive back up and get the second van that we’d leave in Bowness on Solway.

Our first day was planned to be around 55km, with only the pull over the back of Skiddaw giving us much to sweat about. The start would all be on flattish coastal roads… for about 20km. Meaning, at least an hour or so of listening to Mr Page’s tyres melting themselves into the pavement as we rode south.

Slowly, slowly, the bulk of Skiddaw and the other peaks around it grew in stature and, finally, our road purgatory ended with a pleasant jolt as we took in our first off-road descent down Park Wood into the village of Bassenthwaite (home of Bassenthwaite Lake, the only actual lake in the Lake District, fact fans). The first fun descent took a bit of getting used to – not just because it was our first taste of dirt after an hour or more of the buzz of loaded knobblies on tarmac, but because we were riding trail bikes encumbered by seat bags with bodies encumbered by rucksacks. Neither of us own much gossamer-light bikepacking gear and neither of us like going without too many of life’s essentials, so our bags held jackets and extra Buffs plus camera lenses and chargers in mine, dark chocolate Digestives in Nigel’s. 

We’d tried to keep our seatpacks light and small so that we retained at least some of our dropper post ability, and we’d both added Mudhugger rear guards to stop our rear tyres from eating our seat bags on full compression. This led to comedy slapping noises on every descent as loaded bags slapped mudguards onto the rear tyre at every bump. At least no one was watching. 

It was going so well.

We were a couple of kilometres from the start of the gravel climb that leads up past Dash Falls to the back of Skiddaw, yet the map showed an appealing bridleway that went the way we were going, cutting off the smallest of corners to get there. 

• 

• 

I like to think that we now look back and laugh, but that endless mile of slightly uphill, boggy field tested our combined good humour. When we were finally freed from the grasping, soft, sucking wet grassland, the thought of firm, steep, uphill gravel seemed luxurious. 

NOW we were getting somewhere. The climb kicked up, but we kicked to meet it. The presence of spectators just at the steepest bit spurred us on – just like every appearance of a camera brought out Nige’s wheelie impulse, or the rocking of the horns hand sign. The dreary start to the day on the coast had eased into beautiful autumn sunlight, where the low light enhances the colours and brings a sparkle to the air, but without the worry that you’ve only got five minutes until it gets dark. We still had plenty of time to enjoy the narrow tracks through the heather on our way to Skiddaw House YHA. It was time for second lunch and we munched on our sandwiches as we took in the glorious autumnal colours.

Back on track again and due into Keswick, our first overnight stop, in daylight. This was a little better than our Scottish adventure! 

The Lonscale Fell singletrack is both beautiful and intimidating, with plenty of exposure and more than a few slabs of everwet™ Lakeland rock to tempt a fall – as I found out going up a rocky step. My rear wheel slid and I found myself flipping over my handlebars, breaking my Garmin mount with the camera bag that was strapped to my chest. All very awkward.

No such awkwardness with Nigel Page who is always a joy to watch as he pumps and pushes on the terrain, seemingly bending it to a shape that suits him. The wet bedrock didn’t seem to faze him and he could finally use those extra-sticky Michelins he’d been dragging around all day. 

Keswick ho!

Our goal of Keswick lay ahead, and it really would be downhill all the way. The descent into Keswick is fast and fun, popping out almost in the middle of town. It was a bit of a shock to suddenly be surrounded by man-made houses and roads and cars after our hours of relative isolation in the hills. Fortunately, the built structures in front of us included the relatively new Keswick pump track, and Pagey shucked his pack and obliged with a few hot laps for the camera, to the delight of the bemused locals.

• 

• 

• 

It was time to find our accommodation and being one of life’s cheapskates, I had brazenly invited us to stay at Amos Doran’s house in Keswick. Amos runs Keswick Mountain Bikes and he had once, casually, said that I was welcome to stay if I was ever in Keswick. Those remarks are never forgotten (by me at least) and I’d contacted Amos a week or so earlier – to find that he was on a classic motorcycle tour of Spain. Not a problem apparently; he’d let me know where the spare key was. 

I suspect that Amos has many similarly cheeky friends as his neighbours stood and chatted with us while we fished the key out of its hide and let ourselves into the vacant (and immaculately tidy) house. 

My cunning plan for packing light on this trip, and offsetting some of the space taken by camera lenses, had been to only pack one set of riding gear, and one of evening wear. Knowing that I was going to be staying with friends, I’d poach their washing machines, dry my gear overnight and appear fresh and shiny every morning. That worked, apart from neglecting to pack any non-riding shoes. And not realising that Amos had turned his heating off, so my clean but damp clothes would remain damp.

We made our way into town, Nigel dressed ready for a night out in Wigan and me in a pair of Amos’s stripy rubber gardening Crocs. At least it was dark as we made our way home for a restful night before an early start. 

Going Cornish.

We were up and out early, wincing in slightly damp gear as we rode into town for coffee and pastries in a genuine Lakeland, Cornish pasty shop. Today’s route was up and over the whole Helvellyn massif, north to south. I’d seen a couple of options for this when I planned the route, sitting in my warm office weeks before. There were a couple of shorter, steeper pushes, but we’d opted to ride as much as possible, so we chose to ride the Old Coach Road until we ran out of options and then start the long schlep up to Great Dodd, at 850 metres. 

It took some of Nigel’s famous McVities Chocolate Digestives to keep our strength up on the long wet trudge up to the first summit, but our humour remained reasonably intact as we pushed on in silence, once again being treated to a slow-starting, beautiful day. At the top of Great Dodd, we could see the (uphill) rollercoaster of the rest of ‘the Dodds’ and up towards Helvellyn itself – and the highest bridleway in England. 

The pattern for the next hour or two was set as we fought our way towards the summit. We would set off on those wide, loose gravel corners they seem to love up there, gaining speed and losing control, all the while trying to keep momentum for the rise on the other side. Soon we’d have to get off and push up towards the sky until once more we’d see the view ahead and we’d set off again.

Fortunately for our egos, the summit plateau of Helvellyn is a rideable grade and surface, so we arrived at the summit, looking as casual as we could for the benefit of the astounded walkers, as if this was something we did every day.

When asked why we’d lugged bikes all the way to the top, we could only reply that we’d be home for tea before they were. And we hoped we were right, as we set off for Dollywaggon Pike and its newly and aggressively stone-pitched descent. 

• 

• 

• 

The descent is a zigzag jumble of set-in stones and water-bars that are deep and often a wheel’s width wide. Apparently, when repairing the descent, the conservation volunteers didn’t imagine that anyone would ever want to ride a bike (let alone a horse) down it, so their trail design didn’t bother accommodating them. For me it was another lesson in Page riding; that assertive style of riding that expects the worst and is ready for it with a hop or drop. My riding style on a loaded bike expects the worst and usually gets it.

Treats on the terrace.

With Dollywaggon despatched, we were on our way towards Ambleside. A bit of haphazard route finding put us onto the wrong path, but in the right direction and bit by bit we got closer to Ambleside and our second overnight spot. Again, it was getting a little later in the day, so we were treated to the dual joys of Loughrigg Terrace in the setting sun, with no pedestrians in sight. And if we were really lucky, we’d have food and heating to look forward to in Ambleside.

Our hosts for the second night were Andy Stephenson and his partner, Catherine. Andy ran Biketreks in Ambleside for years and I’ve known him since the very first NEMBA races I attended in the early ’90s. Having sold the shop, he’s now building an underground bike workshop (and bunker/wine cellar) in the bedrock beneath his house in Ambleside.

We caught up on building news and local gossip as Andy kindly cleaned our bikes for us. He then proceeded to pull apart my route plans for our third and final day with the kind of biting criticism that only a lifelong friend and Lakeland local rider could. “Ah, I can see why you thought going this way would be good, but everyone knows that this way off the crag is more fun and better drained…” He drew a breath and sucked his teeth: “Ooh, no, you don’t want to be going that way up that trail…”

In the end he decided that we had no possible hope of finding our way to Greenodd and our waiting van and duly despatched Catherine to be our guide for us for the final day. 

I’m always happy to accept local knowledge and, given that it was due to hose it down and she would know all of the good cafés, I was looking forward to being led on our way south – it was one thing less to worry about.

A bit wet out…

Completely ignoring my original plan to go through Hawkshead, we set off after breakfast in the rain, heading for second breakfast in Coniston. But this was going to be no ‘take it easy, it’s raining’ straight line as we took in Iron Keld (which always seems to be wet when I ride it) and Holme Ground before we dropped into Coniston. The newly opened Herdwicks café bravely welcomed us and let us spread wet gear across all of their radiators as we tucked into coffee and bacon products. 

Although the weather had gone suitably autumnal-grim, the mood was light. We had waterproofs, we were heading vaguely home, with a local who knew all the good shortcuts, and there would be another café in Greenodd.

A trip to the South Lakes wouldn’t be right without a climb up to Parkamoor and its fab view of Coniston Water, even in the mist. After another descent trying to follow Page’s ‘adventurous’ lines, it was almost a relief to get to the waiting lanes beyond. It was now a formality of country lanes (going past the guy who has a 1960 jet fighter in his garden) before we made it to Greenodd, dry clothes and slices of cake the size of our heads. Andy came down to meet us and to collect Catherine, and we had to promise to let him know when we were coming back so that he could do us a ‘proper’ route.

We were happy enough to have done it though – 140km through the Lakes, with over 4,000m of climbing. And while I probably won’t jump at the chance to do it again, my knowledge of Lakeland geography is now so much better…

And, as Nigel still said after it all… “What’s next?”

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

•