Sanny contemplates the joys of changing plans on the hoof and how sometimes the best rides are the ones that don’t follow the script.
Words and photography by David ‘Sanny’ Gould
“Ah…”
“Ah…” came the slightly concerned voice from somewhere in the depths of Kevin’s van. “What do you mean, ah?”, I enquired as I stood outside in minus seven, chittering somewhat while he readied himself for a day of snowbound adventure. “I think I may be having shoe issues,” he beamed as he proceeded to show me his fancy winter boots, sole hanging off like the melted clock in Dali’s painting Persistence of Memory (or Dogpool’s tongue for you Gen Z’s). “They are only about ten years old!”, he laughed, as we set about fashioning a repair using a bit of animal cunning, gaffer tape and a Voile Strap. You know the old adage about cobbler’s shoes? I reckon it also applies to bike shop owners, Kevin being co-owner of Ghyllside Cycles in Ambleside.
Undeterred by what some might take as a sign to change plans, we were soon all loaded up in my car and heading along the shores of Ullswater on a crystal clear January morning, the surrounding fells resplendent in their heavy coat of white. After a slightly too close for comfort call with a gritter who apparently did own the road, we were readying ourselves by the roadside near Troutbeck. Joining us on our fat bike adventure was Kevin’s friend, James. A model boat builder by trade (how cool is that?), James is an experienced outdoorsman who is well practised in the art of travelling over snow, whether on foot, by ski or bike. Resplendent in full winter gear that a mountaineer would be proud of – salopettes, knee-high gaiters, winter walking boots and quite possibly the thickest (and warmest) fleece-lined smock this side of that ’90s favourite, the Buffalo, he looked like a throwback to 1985. All that was missing was a period original Saracen Kili Flyer. Hefting his generously proportioned rucksack over his shoulder, he outlined its contents, which included a pair of 12-point crampons. I thought I was Mister Prepared but James was taking it to a different level as he enquired whether he should bring his ice axe. It would not have surprised me if he had pulled out a ‘just in the off chance I might need it’ flame thrower, should we get trapped in a storm and have to fight our way out of the mountains.
Prepared for everything except…
Mounting our fat bikes, we made our way down the ice-covered tarmac that would take us through Limefitt Holiday Park. Well situated in the heart of Troutbeck it cut a slightly eerie and forlorn figure, bereft of the holidaymakers and owners who give it heart and soul in the warmer months. The whole place was immaculate but the solitary snowman lent a curious sense of melancholy. “Don’t you be twatting yourself on that ice!”, I shouted over to James. Having forgotten his helmet, he opted to ride like it was indeed 1985. He seemed appreciative of our supportive comments that if he came off and he needed rescuing for a head injury, we’d wait for him at the nearest available pub. If he was lucky, we might consider giving him a small piece of Kendal Mint Cake, albeit the strangely brown and not chocolate-covered one, to sustain him while he awaited the Mountain Rescue. We aren’t cruel, you know.
Heading along the bridleway that would lead us to Troutbeck and the stiff ascent of Park Fell, we bumped into a fell runner and his two collies slipping and sliding their way over the increasingly frequent sections of sheet ice that peppered the trail and added a bit of spice to our day. In hushed tones, James told us that said fellow traveller held the truly awe-inspiring record for the fastest known time to do all 214 of the Wainwright fells captured by the eponymous Alfred in his Pictorial Guides to the Lakeland Fells – less than six days, in case you are wondering. Our planned adventure of a point-to-point traverse of High Street in the snow and ice seemed just that little bit shit in comparison but, no matter, comparing yourself to others is a fool’s errand. Besides, we were on fat bikes and he wasn’t so I call that a moral victory.
Blowing hot and cold
Pressing on, the trail got progressively icier. While James and Kevin proceeded with caution, I was somewhat gung-ho in my approach. It is amazing the difference that 656 tungsten carbide studs in your tyres can make to confidence levels and also the enormous Mark Knopfler-esque blister on your thumb that comes from fitting them by hand. The sun had yet to rise above the fells and cast light into the valley but as our gaze lifted to the white peaks ahead, it became immediately clear that our ascent was going to be a brutal lesson in post-holing and World Championship standard muttering and cussing. No sir, no fish today. Plan B was called for.
All being intimately acquainted with the trails in these parts, we agreed on Garburn Pass as a good alternative. There would be significantly less pushing and a more gradual ascent. Retracing our tyre tracks, we made decent, albeit not rapid, progress. We were grateful for those walkers who had trampled down an easy to follow trail through the increasingly deep snow banks we battled our way through. On a normal day, the Pass is a lovely test piece climb with some challenging sections of exposed bedrock to gauge the limits of traction and skill. However, throw in a heavy blanket of snow and the rules of engagement completely change. Stripping off multiple layers, Kevin and James dumped the sauna levels of heat that they had built up on the first part of the climb. I suspected that another five minutes of riding would have turned them into human prunes. It would be quite the look and illustrate the challenges of winter travel. It is a fine balancing act of being warm without tipping over into sweating profusely and cooling down rapidly. Be bold, start cold although in my case it felt more like be bold, start by shaking like a shitting dog. Not exactly Shakespeare but you get the point.
In the white room
Long sections of riding where our fat tyres made the difference between riding and pushing alternated with clambering through short banks of deep snow. We covered ground in a slow but steady manner. The sky being by now an azure blue, our relaxed pace afforded us time to take well-earned rests and soak up our surroundings. There was nary a breath of wind and the landscape enjoyed the deadened silence that comes with a thick covering of the white stuff. Everywhere was white. In every direction, we could see nothing but snow. The distant fells of Coniston came into sharp relief against the achingly blue sky. If you are a regular visitor to the Scottish mountains in winter, this is a familiar occurrence but it is a little rarer down here. We were truly in winter wonderland territory and the perceived folly of taking bikes out in such conditions did not bother us a jot.
Cresting the saddle at Garburn Nook, our plan had been to drop down into Kentmere and ascend Nan Bield Pass before a short carry on to High Street. However, Nan Bield tends not to get the same level of foot traffic as Garburn Pass in winter and our hoped for windblown tops had not materialised. We had a decision to make. Retreat, or press on by breaking trail through some four kilometres of mostly trackless deep snow. We could hope that by the time we reached the heights of Thornthwaite Beacon, the 35mph winds of the day before would have stripped some of the deep snow and make for a much more rapid traverse and descent back to Pooley Bridge where Kevin had left his van. We opted for hope.
Despite the lack of even the vaguest hint of trail to follow, we pressed on. What could possibly go wrong? Passing the odd walker or runner who were all singularly happy to be out on such a magnificent day and positively encouraging in their praise for our devil-may-care approach to travelling in the mountains, I couldn’t help but reflect on how lucky we were to be there in such perfect winter conditions. I had been keeping an eagle eye on the forecast for a week and had circled the date in my diary. Amazingly, the stars had aligned. I found myself donning my ski goggles as the wind picked up a little. Finally, a use for goggles that is not fashion-led.
Less jelly, more frozen baby
Alternating between riding, pushing and carrying depending on how deep and compacted the snow was beneath us, we were burning through the calories at a fair old rate. Old favourites such as Peperami and Jelly Babies were soon broken out. Such was the intensity of the cold that my babies were more teeth-shatteringly hard than jelly. Navigation was done more by feel and looking at the map to see what felt right than having any trail to follow. Passing an old cast-iron fence post that is usually well above my waist, we determined that the snow was easily three feet and deeper in places. Crossing one section Kevin promptly disappeared up to his waist, which confirmed our suspicions. The snow was heavy, not spring snow heavy, but that in-between stage where it alternates between crusty, powdery and soft. “You know what we should have brought?” I called out in a moment of wise reflection as Kevin struggled to extricate himself from his snowy predicament: “Snowshoes.” It was a theme that was to continue as we continued ever upward. Also on the list were touring skis, a split board, parascending kit, walking poles and a jet pack. I’m not convinced the last one was a serious suggestion but worth considering nonetheless.
“How about a new pedal?” suggested Kevin. Turning around somewhat puzzled, we were greeted by the sight of his right-hand pedal attached to his strapped-up shoe but not the bike. “How unfortunate,” I commented helpfully. I felt bad because the pedals that Kevin was using were mine as he was riding the test fat bike I’d loaned him for the adventure. Not one to be hindered by such things, he just smiled and pressed on. They make them tough in the Lakes!
I’d like to say the summit came quickly into view but that would be a lie. As we made our way over the last section of rise, the wind now blowing in with renewed vigour, I glanced at the time. It had taken us the best part of five hours to reach a summit that can normally be reached in less than half that time. Placing our bikes down at the beacon, we found a spot in the lee of the wind and broke out the supplies. For my part, it was an extra-large bar of Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut; James went for the Indian bread option, while Kevin smashed it out of the park with home-made Christmas cake. Normally, I wouldn’t thank you for it, but on the top of a mountain on this day, it was spectacular. Perhaps the cold had heightened my senses but it tasted like the best Christmas cake ever. Despite the biting cold, I could have happily stayed there for hours and simply watched the sun go down over the distant fells. But we were on the clock and had to get to Pooley Bridge… or not. Progress had been impeded by the conditions and looking over towards High Street and beyond, it didn’t look like we were going to find the going any easier nor quicker. I looked at the boys, then made the call. One working shoe and pedal down, it was too much to ask or expect of Kevin to keep going. I have no doubt he would have done so but sometimes you just have to change plans and lean in.
Snatching victory from the jaws of defeat
Turning tail and heading down the way we had originally hoped to come up, we made remarkably rapid progress over the initially gently descending slopes. With a wind to our backs blowing spindrift up, the fat tyres, particularly the 6.2-inch monster efforts on Kevin’s rig, floated over the snow, whereas when walking we’d sunk in up to our knees and deeper. Balancing the temptation to go full gas with the practical reality that the snow covered many a rock and wheel-swallowing dip, we must have looked quite the sight as we slipped, slid, rode and endo’d our way down the side of Park Fell. Graceful we were most certainly not as we took turns to break trail. There is something uniquely fun about riding your bike down a mountain in deep snow. Skis or a split board would be faster and more efficient but I am not convinced they would be more fun. We were arguably on the wrong mode of transport but, to my mind, it was assuredly the right side of wrong. We were three middle-aged weans and behaving as such. Snowballs were launched and windblown banks of snow jumped into; all to a chorus of giggles. At one point, James opted to skite down the snow on his proverbial buhoochie, his bike acting as a very expensive carbon tiller. It was quite frankly a joy.
Eventually hitting the valley floor, it was apparent that we had definitely made the right call when it came to route choice. Had we ascended as planned on the route we had just come down, it would have been a battle and would have made for a long one at that. Our flexibility had paid off and we would not have experienced it had we not made the call at the summit to retreat. Back on discernible double track, we raced the setting sun as we headed back to where we set off from. The golden light gently caressed the tops now high above us and made for a fitting backdrop to the last section of our ride. As we had anticipated, the trails were at times more ice than snow. As I forged ahead at pace, I had to remind myself to stop regularly and wait for the guys as they did not have the luxury of ice spikes. Despite the challenging conditions, we made it back safely in one piece just as the sun dipped below the horizon, save for one boot and one pedal. While it was not what we had planned, it had been an absolutely stellar day out in the mountains. The fat bikes were the weapon of choice. We definitely found their limits but rode where normal bikes would have floundered. We had not completed our planned traverse of High Street. In terms of best-laid plans, we had failed but in truth, our day was all the better for it. Sometimes the best rides are the ones that don’t follow the script.
Bike check
A big snow adventure requires a big bike. While James and I stuck to 4 and 4.8-inch tyres, Kevin went all in and rode Surly’s latest fat bike, the Moonlander 2.0. Everything about it positively screams more. From the mahoosive 6.2-inch tyres that make anything smaller look almost cross-country skinny, through the long tail design and culminating in a nine-speed Pinion gearbox, it is a bit of a beast. Lighter than you would expect, it excels in extreme conditions.
It was interesting to watch and follow Kevin’s line choices. Where he effortlessly floated, both James and I occasionally found ourselves breaking through the top layer of snow. On the ups that were too deep or steep to ride, I watched as Kevin was able to distribute his weight over the front of the bike as he pushed it, meaning that he didn’t sink into snow pockets as frequently as we did. On the descent, he was able to pile through, whereas we had to be more considered and measured in our line choices, trying to read the snow for telltale signs of hidden obstacles ready to catch out the unwary. Hikeabike was skewed towards pushing rather than carrying. The long tail design made weight distribution more of a challenge, and the lack of spikes proved its undoing on sheet ice, but overall it was arguably the best tool for the job.