Sanny and Mark revisit a trail of previous misadventure and hope for a very different big day out.
Words & Photography Sanny
It is fair to say that when it comes to friendships, there are perhaps some shared experiences best forgotten. Case in point: a ride Mark and I did way back in the early days of the magazine. It all started so promisingly. My uncurbed enthusiasm to tackle a point-to-point ride in the Lake District saw me suggest that we take on the two classic challenges of High Street and Skiddaw.
Blessed with an unerring ability to persuade Mark to join me on adventures that his common sense and experience should suggest not to touch with the proverbial barge pole, we set out one blustery and grey November day. Within five minutes, things for Mark started to go south. The tell-tale tummy grumbles should have been the sign to call it quits from the off, but, being made of sterner stuff, my increasingly green-looking companion kept going despite his pace slowing perceptibly with every turn of the pedals. By the time we reached the summit of High Street we were far behind schedule, but the fact that we had left our transport in Keswick meant we had no option but to keep going. Being November (because why wouldn’t you want to tackle a big summer ride when the trails are wet and the days short?), by the time Mark and I reached the comfort of the car it was pitch black and approaching freezing. Skiddaw was well and truly a bust, as was Mark. Definitely a memorable day out, but not necessarily for the right reasons.
Fading memories
Then and Now
“Fancy attempting High Street and Skiddaw again with me?”, I asked cheerfully. To my astonishment, the bad memories had inexplicably faded and Mark agreed to another attempt. So it was that we found ourselves in a lay-by in Troutbeck on a warm and sunny first day of autumn getting ready for a grand day out. Joining us was racing snake Nick Craig. Always up for an adventure, he needed zero persuasion to join us.
What could possibly go wrong? With our ‘learning experience’ on the Four Passes, (another) ride where Mark experienced a(nother) long dark teatime of the soul as the realisation hit him at the very furthest point from home that e-bikes can sometimes make a ride much, much harder, our threesome was better educated and prepared this time.
I was determined that Mark was going to positively enjoy the experience. Running out of battery power? Not eating and drinking enough? Taking on too much climbing for a day out? Pish posh. I had a plan and it was a good one. Mark would ride an e-bike and he would have spare batteries. There would be regular food stops. And we would do it when the weather was nice and the days were long. If fitness fell short or our ambition too great, we would simply change the plan. No fear of failure. No pressure. The aim was to simply have fun and enjoy ourselves. Success would be measured in smiles per mile, not how fast we could get from A to B for therein lies madness. Or racing round a muddy field in the pissing rain for an hour every Sunday on the wrong type of bike…
An early minor navigational cock-up aside, our ride started as it didn’t mean to go on… gently lulling us into a false sense of security. Rolling along the steep-sided valley floor, a warming sun for company, the trail rose and fell in unhurried manner while affording us tantalising views of the challenge that lay ahead. A beck crossing, an old stone and slate barn, Herdwick sheep on the hillside – there could be no doubt that we were in the green and verdant heart of Lakeland. Passing the curiously named ‘The Tongue’, a minor hillock that stands sentinel guard to High Street proper, our idle chatter was silenced as the route ahead suddenly took a turn for the steep. “So just how heavy is that lightweight e-bike of yours then, Mark?”, I asked as I took great delight in hoiking up my trusty old Turner full susser and balancing it effortlessly on my rucksack, leaving me free to snap off a few photos. Nick with his practically featherweight ride did the same, while Mark resigned himself to e-bike shove mode. Given that Mark had two range extender batteries with him and a third one strategically available for him for if and when we reached the bottom of Skiddaw some 50 kilometres and several thousand feet hence, I felt it only right to start the mind games early as I was pretty sure I would be on the receiving end later on.
Engaging walk assist, Mark had a look of smug contentment as he let the motor take the strain. My Max Fun Plan was clearly working. Last time round, Mark was quietly turning a queasy shade of green by this point. He should have called it quits there and then but he didn’t, some strange notion of pride and not wanting to let me down. In cycling, particularly in the likes of the Flanders classics and the high mountains, we practically fetishise the pain and suffering of rider against rider and against the elements. A ride for the ages is where triumph comes in the face of adversity and misery. It can be utterly compelling, but, if I am honest, while undergoing the experience it can be a truly shit place to be. Wisdom is the hard-earned knowledge that sometimes it is better to retire and come back another day than keep pushing on. This was that other day.
Nick will be your tour guide
As we gradually gained height, the whole of the South Lakes plus the third best county in England (Lancashire – a distant runner-up to Cumbria and, of course, Yorkshire) opened up behind us while the neighbouring peaks we could spot grew exponentially in number. An awkward carry up a stone section afforded Mark a moment for a bit of Zen-like cross-legged contemplation. Nick gave us a masterclass in sheer, bloody-minded determination as he fought his way up a particularly steep section of grassy trail. There may have been some less than helpful words of, err, encouragement and commendation being uttered when he finally spun out. Catching up with him, we pondered the question of why the Romans went over the mountain instead of through the valley far below. Nick revealed a hitherto unknown David Starkey-esque side to his character, waxing lyrical with tales of how the landscape was formerly a jumbled mess of forest and bog meaning ambush from ticked-off locals was an ever-present possibility. Culturally enriched, it felt like no time at all that we attained the saddle between Beacon and Thornthwaite Crag. With a vertiginous drop down into the undeniably impressive Kentmere Valley far below, we were reminded just how high we had come as the wind whipped in across the tops, lending a chill to the proceedings that none of us had experienced for many a month. Pressing on around the edge of the hillside on a precipitous section of singletrack from which a fall would be in the decidedly consequential column, we took turns to re-ride one particularly challenging section which ultimately none of us managed to clean. I am surprised that our helpful comments such as ‘Try not to f**k it up as it is a loooong way down!’ and ‘Remember to throw your bike to safety when you are falling, yeah?’ did not aid our passage. Curious.
Thornthwaite Beacon stands at the head of several valleys, which made it the perfect location to stop for a well-earned break in proceedings. Settling for the comfort of an old dry stone wall to shield us from the chill wind, we chatted with a couple and their young son who were clearly having a great day out on the hills. I smiled at the thought that just like us, they had planned their day and things had come together rather nicely. Unprompted, Nick launched into another historical masterclass. “Did you know that they used to hold fairs up here in the 18th and 19th centuries? There was horse racing as well as games and wrestling. The summit is still known as Racecourse Hill.” Mark and I stared at Nick in dumbfounded silence as he spoke with authority on the presence of fell ponies using the land to graze and that the route we were following is the highest Roman Road in Britain. “How on earth do you know all this?”, I asked somewhat mumblingly, a half-chewed Rocky Road still in my gob. With trademark cheeky grin, Nick cracked and confessed his accountant is a history buff and had given him a lesson in the history and topography of the area. I pondered how many people had criss-crossed these fells over the years. As mountain bikers, we tend to think of ourselves as some kind of modern day adventurers treading new ground and it is easy to forget or simply not be aware of all that has gone before. I made a mental note to find out more about the places I ride as there is clearly a rich seam of knowledge waiting to be tapped into.
On the upside
Remounting our bikes, we set off on what was to be a repeating pattern of descend and climb ad nauseam. Rather like an Escher painting, the farther along the ridge you go, the further you seem to be from dropping down off it. In the immortal words of the Coen Brothers’ finest creation, Ulysses Everett McGill: “Ain’t this place a geographical oddity!” High Raise, Wether Hill, Loadpot Hill – all passed with relative ease, despite us all experiencing a peculiar feeling of constantly climbing. Perhaps it was the immersive and expansive vistas that were on offer. Or perhaps the fact that High Street, normally a slough of despond and boggy disappointment, was for perhaps the first and only time in history, actually dry. Nick recalled with a slight shudder the mountain bike marathon route that had taken him up this trail on a foul, wet and miserable day. Out of the blue Mark declared that he had no intention of riding High Street ever again. Given that he was clearly enjoying himself and laying the ghosts of that last fateful ride to rest, we were puzzled. “Face it – it’s never going to be as good as this ever again.” His logic was impeccable. We all acknowledged that what is considered a classic route can, on the wrong day, easily become an object lesson in zero fun mountain biking. Perhaps Mark had a very good point?
Passing a tiny tarn, I have to admit to getting more than a little excited as I realised this was the exact spot where my path to zero riches and even less glory started as a cover model for issue 8 of this venerable publication. “Quick! Take a picture!”, I shouted to an obliging Mark. My excitement was tempered by the fact that about a minute later we found the actual tarn where Mark had taken the shot first time around. Doh! Approaching mid-afternoon, white fluffy clouds were peppering the sky while the sun shot rays of golden goodness on the tinder dry grass. We were making decent progress, although Skiddaw seemed no closer than it had been two hours previously. Upping the pace a little, we continued our holding pattern of climb and descend until we finally saw Pooley Bridge in the distance, signifying that our 20-odd kilometre traverse was finally heading in the right direction. It’s no exaggeration to say that we were all pleased to reach the bustling little village as part one of our adventure had proven successful. Mark wasn’t ready to puke, his e-bike was proving to be a real ride improver and we were all having fun. So far, so very good.
Dinner for one
Following the bridleway along the picturesque banks of the River Eamont, we soon broke off and made our way along the lanes and backroads of the North Lakes. We continued the day’s theme of climb, descend, repeat. Dacre, Sparket Mill and Hutton passed with ease – especially when I grabbed onto Mark’s bag so he afforded me a short benefit of powered assistance. Or at least he did until the rotter that he is took off in a sprint up the 12% section of road where I would have welcomed the extra few watts of power. And to think I pushed his sorry ass up here last time round eh? The bounder. “It’s nice in the daytime, isn’t it?”, I stated somewhat obviously as we regrouped. Mark smiled (it could have been a wince, or wind, mind you) as we reflected on this section previously having been a real low point. It had been well and truly past dark o’clock and the gauge was reading zero both in temperature and Mark’s level of reserves. Almost Pavlovianly, our talk of such things prompted an immediate hunger pang in me and occasioned a food stop. When I get hungry, I become fixated, which probably explains my choice of stopping point – immediately beside the A66. As al fresco dining spots go, it has absolutely nothing to commend it, although at the time I was more interested in seeing just how many Peanut M&Ms and BBQ flavour coated peanuts I could shove into my mouth at one time. As it transpires, three handfuls.
Suitably replete, we waited an age to cross safely before remounting and finally being rewarded with more down than up for the first time that day. I’d promised the boys a mid-ride chips and cola stop at the White Horse Inn at Scales, but time was marching on and the call was made to keep moving. We made easy progress along the National Cycle Route that follows the line of the old railway into Keswick with the River Greta a constant and very welcome companion. Despite being September, the temperature in the dappled evening sunlight streaming through the canopy of trees we passed under was positively summer-like. Is there a finer cycle route in the world? On this occasion, most assuredly not. We were enjoying true trail perfection.
Skiddaw – part deux
Reaching our rendezvous point, we met up with Vic and Sarah, Mark and Nick’s other (and let’s be honest, significantly better) halves and putative pit stop crew. Why carry lots of heavy kit and supplies when you can have a mid-ride refresh? Sustenance was proffered while Mark availed himself of his second booster battery – show-off bastard that he is. Jalouse? Moi? Pas du tout! Ok, maybe just a little. With sunset scheduled for less than an hour and a half hence, pressing on was the order of the day. We had the not so small matter of one of the largest mountains in England to ride up and down before dark. We were now well into golden hour territory – that glorious period of late evening sunshine that gives you a sense of hygge happiness and inner warmth even when the temperature is well below zero. You could call it luck, but it was all part of the plan. Being at the top of a mountain at sunset is a very special place to be – it engenders a sense of childlike wonder at the beauty all around us that we often take for granted. For me, it serves as a welcome reminder of the bigger world in which we live and that it is not how much money you earn or what car you drive that matters in life, but health, family and friendships.
Riding up round the side of Latrigg, we singularly failed to resist the temptation to take our time and just enjoy our surroundings. I have never been a great fan of poetry, but I reckon Wordsworth nailed it when he wrote “I gazed – and gazed – but little thought, what wealth the show to me had brought”. We were seeing the Lakes resplendent in their early autumn finery, rendering the climb a pleasure to be enjoyed rather than endured. While Mark ramped up the power and Nick cranked up the steeper sections, I was content to carry my bike, leaving me free to properly focus on the beauty all around me.
Reaching the levelling around Broad End, the air grew chill. The wind was getting up, which although it gave a welcome assist on the final section of the climb up onto the moon-like summit of Skiddaw proper, it also cut through us. The season was definitely on the turn. With the sun sinking slowly behind the horizon, we were rewarded with expansive views to the Isle of Man and beyond. We huddled round the weather-beaten trig point, celebratory photos and video being taken of what for Mark had been a truly exceptional day out on the bike. We came, we saw, we enjoyed.
“So how do you feel? Did you enjoy that then?”, I enquired of him. “You know, I think this has been my ride of the year… although can we go home now as I am bloody freezing and want to get off this mountain while I can still see my hands in front of my face.” Which is exactly what we did. With light still in the sky, we made our way back down the bridleway at pace. With great sight-lines and nary another soul on the mountain, we were free to go as fast as we dared. It was, in short, brilliant and, as a way to round off a big day out, almost perfect. All it needed was for Casa Bella, my favourite pizzeria and gelateria in Keswick, to be open and still doing ice cream starters – which they were. As I sat in my car, a sweaty mess heading north of the border, classic ’80s pop blaring through the stereo, my mind was buzzing and already planning future rides. West Highland Way in a day on e-bikes perhaps, chaps?
Reflections on a theme
So what did we learn? You cannot guarantee that every ride is going to be great but with a bit of planning, having an eye to the weather, being able to temper your ambitions and change plans as circumstances dictate, you can definitely stack the odds in your favour. Luck definitely can play a part, but if you pick your trails and your days carefully you will find that you are luckier a lot more often than you might think. Our ride was definitely on the ambitious side in terms of distance and height gained, but ultimately they are just numbers – our day had been epic in the truest sense of the word because it had been enjoyable from start to finish. Mark’s e-bike had been a real leveller for him and we had all come away smiling and eager for more. I reckon you could not ask for better than that, could you?
The Route
Note: This route ends at the SUMMIT of Skiddaw and does not include the return back to the car park above Keswick. The descent back down to Keswick is an additional 6.5km.
The Gallery
