A Day in the Lakes

Too quick off the mark

Don’t answer an email when you are drunk.  The email I answered was an invite to take part in an event titled “A Day in the Lakes”.  Baz, living in the Lakes, had this on his doorstep and told us “this is going to be my crazy challenge this year” and threw out the invite for the rest of us to join.

Being drunk, I replied to the email with a snapshot of my confirmation of entry from the organiser.

This was in December.  As we ticked into January of 2015 the blood in my veins turned cold.  I had signed up for this quaintly named event in the Lake District which was actually a half Ironman or 70.3:

If you have followed the adventures herein you will know that despite being an avid and almost professional drinker I can also turn the pedals of a bike.  My love is for the dirt, tree and rock that threaten to smash my bones when I fail to respect them, like a slightly suicidal but healthy mid-life crisis.  I have also dabbed more than a toe in the world of the Tarmac T-Rex. 

It has always been my ability to endure “pain for the pint at the end” which has seen me through the road jaunts and also my love of being with the Wolf Pack, but here there was an issue.  Baz had signed up, Dan had signed up, Paul was now living in Seattle and Mark wisely refused.  The pack was reduced from the start.  So was I to have two comrades?  Not even, because these events are about you against you, trying to defy your own limits.  The fact that you are in a crowd is neither here nor there.  Not that I would see the crowd because Baz and Dan were already supremely better than me at tarmac cycling and the rules of no drafting made it impossible for us to ride together anyway.  Baz also ran like a Gazelle, so I was on for the hardest challenge I would ever face and it was for all intents and purposes, solo.

Solo was not new of course; Prudential Ride London was solo, Mitie London Revolution was solo and the Gorrick cross country races were solo but these were all on bikes.  What I needed to do was learn two very important things.  I had to learn how to run and how to swim.  I also only had 6 months left.    

Forming the Man

Readers should know that I am not the source for training advice or kit recommendations and that trend continues.  I looked at apps on the iPhone that coached a person from couch to 5k or 10k in a 12 week programme and decided that was a little too long into my journey, so on the 4^th January I stuck on a pair of shorts, trainers and shirt at work and ran 5k in a lunch break. 

I couldn’t walk up stairs for 3 days without wincing.

Once the legs worked again I ran another 5k at lunch.  I kept this process going until it stopped hurting and support from my colleagues led to a running group on Wednesdays which kept the miles rising.  After a short while I tried a 10k at lunch.  This hurt a little, but nothing like the first 5k.  Then I found a morning that was free on a wet weekend and I ran a half-marathon on the heath behind my house.  I had gone from couch to half-marathon in 4 weeks, but more importantly, I had completed the distance that was required of me.  A mental wall tumbled down.

As for swimming, the furthest I had ever swum was 1k and this was in a lunch break at college.  I used to go once a week to the pool next to the grounds and I could knock out this distance in just over 20 minutes, but at the time I was 19, thought smoking was the devil’s weed and was too poor to drink to destruction.  Much had changed over a decade, but I hoped swimming was like riding a bike and booked a day off work, calculated the distance in lengths of the 25 meter local pool and swam 1.2 miles in just under an hour.  More of the wall came down.

All the advice to train for this distance in both run and swim is opposed to what I did, but getting my body ready for it was not what drove me.  My body has been abused enough to recover from most things, but the key I needed to turn was whether or not it could get through it at all in order to then repair rather than fall apart during.  I was fighting fear, not fitness and although my legs took a beating in that first month and my eyes looked as if they might bleed because I had no goggles when I swam, I knew the distance was possible.  The bike was never an issue as I knew how to winch up a climb and I knew how to descend to make up time.  When you stop cycling you roll for a while to get your head back in the game, but when you stop swimming you stop.  When you stop running you stop.  Now I knew I didn’t need to stop and I was brave enough to start!

Only after the wall was down did I start investing properly, buying running clothes, joining the Garrison 50m pool to cut out half of the turns and to utilise the dead time between 9pm and 10pm so I missed no time with the boys and gave my wife quiet time to watch “Home & Away”.  The fear was dead and I had benchmarks of known ability.  All that was left was to improve them and to string them together, scouring websites for form advice, but more importantly, believing I could do it and to do it well.

As a man of finance this became a spreadsheet, but the plan was rather simple.  First I copied a Personal Best Iron-man training plan that spanned 12 weeks.  I halved the distances of each workout and added a new set of columns I named “Reality Plan”.  This was every week I had left, so in my first batch of weeks there was no Personal Best plan to compare it to, but that didn’t matter to me.  I was interested in the distances rather than the intensity and once I had booked out all the days I knew I couldn’t train on, all the weekends where family time trumped all, stuck in the few lad’s adventures that had been talked about, I finally had windows of opportunity.  In these I stuffed a little more distance in each discipline than the Personal Best plan had.

It was basic, but I lived to it with only a 20% slippage in Swimming and Running (whereas cycling fell to the wayside often)

·         Monday lunch                  -              5k

·         Tuesday lunch                  -              Weights

·         Tuesday evening              -              2k swim

·         Wednesday Lunch           -              5k

·         Thursday Lunch               -              5k

·         Thursday evening            -              2k swim

·         Friday Lunch                   -              Core and stability (almost Pilates, but not)   

·         Weekend                          -              Family time but with a monthly Half marathon thrown in

Weekends were my place holder for when to cycle in the plan, but it wasn’t happening.  I took the bike to work a few times for hill repeats but probably made no real difference.  I also had a trip to the Ridgeway with Mark for a 50 mile off-road blast and a Peak District two day epic on Mam Tor with Mat and Mark, but cycling was the middle child – forgotten.

The other disciplines received great focus and the Goddess also saw fit to look after her own again.  As a family on an outing to the Guildford splash pools we passed posters advertising cold water swimming at Guildford Lido.  This was February and my adventure there was the first swim in a wetsuit.  It may also have shortened my life a little; such was the cold that penetrated my soul.

Through work I also found a friend who was a GB triathlete.  He encouraged me to join him one Tuesday night at Reading Lakes, introduced me to methods such as drafting and also took me for a run which killed a little bit more of me; such was the pace he set.  I simply trusted fate and took these chances when family life allowed and every little piece of experience was something new, bolted onto the man like pieces of armour.

Sadly we lost Dan during the training process leaving just me and Baz in the running. Strava told me I was on for a loss against him, but that would be decided on the day.

The drive up

The day was as quickly upon me as I had feared it would be, but in another way it felt a little later than I had wanted.  I had felt for a few weeks that I was ready and then entered the tapering stage, but rather than being able to convince myself that this was helping, the loss of the constant training set a fear growing in me that I was losing my best.  Whether true or not, I could do nothing about it and set about my usual routine for any event, with multiple lists of items required, allowed my son to decorate what would be my transition box, wrote down what I intended to do in transition to commit it to memory and set about packing, ticking off and preparing to drive.

I dropped the children at nursery, did a quick shop to stock my wife up with goodies and set off for Cumbria, with the plan to collect an eBay purchase of a pram from Stockport for Baz on the way.  This should have been a 6 hour journey, but was 9 hours after the M6 and three trucks had a say in the matter.  That confirmed my wisdom to travel on Friday and not the day before as it simply didn’t matter what time I arrived. 

I actually arrived just in time for dinner and a quick meet and greet with the newest Simpson before he was taken to bed.  Homemade burgers and real ale I had picked up from Tebay services closed the day beautifully.

Saturday was a lazy day, drifting over to the staging site to sign in and receive our tags, all in glorious sunshine we both knew was not going to hold.  Baz and I could see the fells that would be the course for the run and stood on the banks of the lake wishing the buoys had already been placed, but overall we were quiet, thoughtful and if I am honest; bricking it.  

I was quick to order a pint when we stopped for lunch at the Punchbowl in Askum and I started on what was left in the house when we returned.  Mention of a quick ride out on the bikes filled me with dread and I knew there was no turning back.

That night we prepared first in silos, dealing with our own rituals and packing our own transition boxes.  Mine had been decorated by my son for luck and I spent a while collecting stickers from Baz's kitchen floor.  

Baz then cooked us a meal to put balls between our legs for the day and I wondered whether it actually had balls in it:

Regardless - it was scrumptious and while it sank down into our guts we stood together and talked each other through our race plans whilst ticking off the kit as packed when we mentioned it.  I had thought about it so many times and had now been at the lake edge so could summon the image of the race clearly.  Whereas a few hours ago I was terrified, suddenly I was ready.

Being ready does not mean I was able to sleep.

The Race

We were up at 6am and in the pre-packed car after a swift coffee and bowl of granola by 6:30am.  We were quiet in the car as we drove the 45 mins to the start, both looking at the head of a storm that had already broken ahead of us.  Views of mountains and green had already been replaced with grey sheets of falling rain.

The rain eased a little before we parked up and moved our kit to transition.  The wind did not and nor did the sky have any intention to clear.  The organisers had told us to be ready to go down to the water at 8am for the start, but during the briefing he told us that this was to be delayed.  The wind was so strong at the far end of the route that the safety kayaks were having trouble in the waves.  Instead the buoys would be moved and the course would be a two lap effort, still 1.2 miles, in the less deadly waters.

Standing in the water I looked at the amount of people waiting to start.  The first wave set off at the siren and it was a frantic foray of splashes around the purple caps.  Very soon it was time for us orange heads to move out to the start for the second wave where it was deep enough to have to tread water.  Confident in my abilities I moved to the front.  Wise to triathlon, Baz stayed at the back.

Our siren sounded.  I swam hard towards the first buoy and was in the lead group, but not far enough ahead for it to matter.  I came too close to the buoy and couldn’t turn quick enough.  The swimmers behind me began to clamber over me, pushing me down and letting me taste Ullswater’s offerings.  I tried to get out of the way and was pushed under again, coming up afterwards gagging and watching as the field of athletes, including Baz, crept away.

It was over for me at that point.  I swam behind the group, catching up with Baz, but feared getting close to people or even putting my face down into the cold water.  I felt defeated five minutes into a day’s long race.  I tried calling out to Baz, trying to convince myself that this was a fun day and his reply would make me laugh, but he had his eyes focused forward and earplugs sealing his ears shut.

I slowed down further and they crept away.  I passed the second buoy, still head up and wondering what I might do while Baz was out finishing the race.  He had the keys so I couldn’t pack the car so I would have to linger which I convinced myself would be fine.  I had money for coffee…

…but as I came to the last straight of the square I could see people exiting the lake.  The water was choppy, malicious and brutal.  The toll from one lap was hefty and suddenly I could not allow it to be me as well.  I had not trained for six months to be beaten by doubts.  So my face slipped into the water and within two clean breaths I was on the inside line of those reaching the buoy where it had started and where it had all gone wrong.

I cut around it with only a few bodies to navigate around and tried to sight the next buoy.  It was grey cloud ahead and nothing else, so I moved further inwards and used my breathing as a means for checking my progress through the water.  One head, two heads, three; I was faster than the back of the pack and didn’t belong there.  Four, five, six and more; I was catching bigger groups and I was passing them.  The third buoy was behind my shoulder and I had one more to reach before I could climb out of the water and begin the journey to completing this thing.

I swam that last stretch hard and scooped a handful of gravel in the shallows.  This alone let me know I was there and I stood up intending to run to transition, but the world tipped and met me on the left.  I laughed, gathered myself and stood up again.  People were looking at me so I called “am I winning?” to lighten the mood.  A step forward towards the laughter and I was down again on my left.  My balance was gone so I crawled to the shore, stood again and was suddenly being held by the shoulders.

A guy in a wetsuit, but not a competitor, had me.  He looked me in the eyes, checking if I was okay.  “That was a good swim” he said with a smile and I thanked him.  “You need to wait here for five minutes,” he added and I had to ask him to repeat what he’d said.  Once I understood at first I was annoyed, but quickly realised that this was someone caring for me, wanting me to be okay and wanting me to finish.

Five minutes later he let me go, insisting I walk and not run, which I did.  On route to the bike I removed the top of my wetsuit in the fashion I had learned from Gareth, my triathlete mate at work.  I also chuckled as I remembered a conversation I’d had with another work mate, David, during one of our runs.  He had said that people are affected differently by the swim and some come out of the water fine while others have no legs.  At the time I had said how I would be fine, but now I knew the truth of it and the memory removed any doubt that I could continue.  It was just how the water had affected me.

Back at the bike I saw people racing through their transition, going out in just a tri-suit into what had become a lashing cold rain.  I had hoped to finish within seven hours, but now I just wanted to finish.  I had been through my greatest battle in the water and it had been against my own mind.  Now was the time to let my body do the rest, so I sat down, dried my feet, dressed for bad weather, said hello to Baz as he left transition and set off when I was ready.

I rode hard, but the weather was brutal.  On the first stretch beside the lake where I had hoped to gain time I was faced with headwinds and rain that blinded me.  This was also going to be the story for me until I was at least half way through the route, so I backed off a little, considering staying on the bike more important that blasting against it and popping my legs.  After all, I had Kirkstone Pass, Shap Fell and a run over a mountain yet to complete.

I was not to be defeated by weather on a bike.  I had conquered the Prudential Ride London in a hurricane and that one was twice the length.  The miles just needed to be churned out and that is what I did, getting out of the saddle when I could and sitting down when I had to.

The Kikstone climb that I dreaded a little seemed to come very soon into the ride and the weather was not letting up.  I was looking forward to seeing the pub at the top which marked the end of that part of effort, but I entered the clouds halfway up and spent my time worrying more about the coaches and cars coming down the pass against me rather than the effort for me to get up.  Without even seeing the pub I was suddenly descending, with that headwind still prevailing and lashing my face with cold rain.

I had been passed by one and gained on three by the time I hit the bottom of Shap Fell, but I had expected this climb to be on a narrow winding road.  Instead it was a wide, boring and monotonous beast.  It was so different from expectation that I was completely shocked at the top when a man stepped out of the mist applauding me, saying “you’ve got 100 meters of Shap left and then it’s all downhill.”

It wasn’t all downhill, but it wasn’t climbing like I had experienced to that point.  I also had reached a point where the wind was now with me rather than against me and I started to clip along nicely, taking another three places and losing one when I needed to stop for a pee in a bush.  By the time I reached transition again the sun had broken through and I was smiling, knowing I was a run away from being a half ironman.

I treated transition the same as I had before, changing into dry jersey and socks and being comfortable before I set off.  Meanwhile a city type was throwing a fit about his time, screaming at his wife or girlfriend to go home because he was going to be hours before he finished.  She ignored him and although I had the urge to advise him to calm down I kept quiet.  That was his race and mine was mine.

Due to the weather at the start we were told we had to carry safety kit with us, so I was carrying a bag into the run with full body cover, a map, a compass, a whistle and rescue blanket despite the dramatic change in weather.  Rather than raincoats it seemed we were more likely to need sun cream!

    

I set off at a gentle pace and ran the small section of tarmac to the start of a steep climb into the fells.  Here I caught up with a lady called Helen and as she walked beside me up the rocky slope I shared out the wine gums I had in my bag.  At the top of the climb we ran together but it became apparent that my pace from ability to descend on loose rocks and shale was a touch faster than she was happy to hold.  I left her behind and before long reached the cut-off point and drinks station I had feared not getting to in time.

After all that had happened I was there in ample time and started off on the true climb of the run.   This took me up a broken trail, beautifully way-marked with small red flags at every hint of a junction.  I passed through streams, cut around broken down stone shepherd huts that had long lost their roof and then was directed over a bridge away from the mountain I thought I was going to climb.

Perplexed, I kept going and soon realised that there was a tremendous ridge joining the two.  I passed along this and then began the proper descent back to the drink station I had passed a while ago. 

I skipped down the side of the mountain with a flow that belied what I had already been through.  Six people fell behind me as I descended and these people had not even been in sight when I started the climb.  I was flying and so much so that one woman stepped aside and cried out “go on Mountain Goat!” as I passed her.

Back at the drink’s station I was led along a road for a short time, back up onto the fells for a little longer along a false flat and then down onto the road beside the lake.  A sign marked 5K to go and I plodded along, overtaking another two people before seeing the turning back into the field after what had seemed the longest 5k of my entire life.

My plan had always been to cross the line running and I stuck to this, but I did so wearing a stitch in my ribs that decided to strike in those last 10 meters.  Baz was stood waiting, having finished an hour and a half before me.  

We hugged, laughed, helped ourselves to the free offerings and then I grumbled that I had not been given a medal!  You get a medal nowadays for crossing the line on a fun run and I had already promised it to my eldest son to put in his dressing up box. 

It is surprising how small things can mean so much after trauma, but there it is.  I was annoyed for the whole time it took me to change into civvies in transition and to walk my stuff back to Baz’s car.  Once I sat down in the passenger seat the gripe had flown and our chins wagged as we shared each other’s stories.  

That night I packed the car and we ploughed through a reward of spicy pizza and expensive specialist beers before having one of the best nights sleep ever, partly because I think I died a little after making a good go at my beers on top of all we had done.

The next morning was an early start and  long drive home for me while Baz went to work.  I feel I had the better deal as I was able to collect the boys early and take them to the pub to enjoy the splendid sunshine.

So it was a long time coming and then over in eight hours and twenty four minutes.  I had been almost drowned in a lake, cycled through gale force wind, lashing rain, climbed two of the top 100 climbs on a bike and completed a half marathon on my first experience of fell running.  All in, it was a rather bold event to jump into without having any experience…

…but I am glad I did.  It wasn’t a race; it was a journey that started on the 4^th January and it is a journey that will now continue.  It was lonely at times, brutal at times, exciting and fabulous.  It was an experience shared with Baz even if he did have more than an hour between us by the end.  I knew the pain he had experienced because I had weathered it too.

So we were half ironmen and Baz is already talking about the full ironman status.  I am tempted, but I also learned that commitment to such a task requires sacrifice somewhere else.  A lot of training and a sprinkle of bloody-mindedness got me through this Day in the Lakes, but a full Ironman commanded a little more so maybe my journey will stray a little from Baz next year.

But there is always a mountain marathon to consider…

2013 - Going Full Circle (C2CR)

Summer of 2013 saw us going full circle, returning to where it all began with the Coast to Coast, only this time we were cyclists rather than bumbling fools on bikes.  Already this year I had conquered two cross country races, the South Down’s Way and MTIE London Revolution (I am amazed still that I got this many passes) so felt totally ready.  The very idea of slamming a route that had previously broken us and then riding back to the start on a partially off-road route called the Rievers may as well have been the plot for a Hollywood movie for me.

I was actually not in control of organising this one, but I did book us Southerners – Me, Mark, Paul and Dan – into a wonderful place outside of Cockermouth called Grayonside Inn for both the first and last night of the epic adventure.  I had stayed there with my family for Baz’s wedding back in 2012 and then shortly after returned for a family holiday.  Jeanette who ran the place is most likely the friendliest and loveliest B&B host I have ever encountered.  As for the remained of the stops, this was left down to Mark. 

He delivered his outline plan:

Fri 26th July:  Congregate in and around Cockermouth ready for off

Sat 27th July:  Workington to Alston (Day 1/2 C2C)

Sun 28th July:  Alston to Tynemouth (Day 2/2 C2C)

Mon 29th July:  Tynemouth to Bellingham (ish) (Day 1/3 Rievers)

Tue 30th July:  Bellingham to Carlisle (ish) (Day 2/3 Rievers)

Wed 31st July:  Carlisle to Whitehaven (Day 3/3 Rievers)

All in this was a 313 mile romp over some of the most challenging climbs the country has to offer, but we would be travelling light and staying in B&B’s instead of camping like we had on the first attempt.  So when we checked into Grayonside on the Thursday night (and cracked open the first bottle of Lakeland) spirits were deservedly high.

Baz had to drop out of a couple of sections of the route for reasons that were unavoidable and the first section, travelling from Whitehaven to Cockermouth, was just for the Southerners.  We parked up in Whitehaven on the driveway of Mark’s university friend and rolled down to the start at the waterside, feeling a little strange.  We had been such different creatures heading to the same place in 2008 and as Dan would concur, far less sober at that point in 2008 as well.  On this occasion I felt like a coiled spring waiting to unleash and once we set off that is exactly what happened.

Whitehaven to Alston – 80.2 miles with 6,546 ft climbing

The wonderful 5 mile false flat cycle path out of Whitehaven was polished off in a matter of minutes rather than slogged out over the space of an hour requiring a break midway to catch our breath.  Then we were into the fangs brow and descending into the shadowy foothills of Winlatter before the morning had even had a chance to realise we were on our way.  This is where we met Baz, kitted out in his King of the Mountain Jersey and looking fit as a fiddle despite being referred to as “Mr Blobby” by his wonderful wife.  We hugged out the emotion we all felt at being back together and set off up Winlatter at our own pace which for Baz, Mark and Paul was breakneck speed. 

I was wearing a heart rate monitor up until this point and tracking the ride on Strava.  I was not so much struggling with the climb, but for some reason could not handle the strap around my chest.  The restriction was just too much under the scorching summer sun so the stats when viewed afterwards look like I died, with heart rate peaking at 196 and then flat lining as I ripped off the sensor.  The truth is that I found Winlatter hard, but manageable.  The top came much quicker than it had in 2008 and although our route back then also incorporated some of the off road sections, by being on road there was still worthy challenge to note.

The descent down the other side became a flat out race between Paul and Baz and was very nearly the death of one or both of them.  With a speed clocked in the realm of 60 mph by Baz on the twisting lane it was no wonder that the rest of us fell back.  Then Dan and I lost sight of the leading three when we needed to get out of the way of a van and took a completely different route from the others down into Keswick.  A few phone calls later and a pub was decided upon as our lunch stop and place to regroup.  This was also the place we would say farewell to Baz until later that week.

It was strange to think that we were having lunch on day one beyond the point it had taken a whole day to get to in 2008.  Our plan for the rest of the day was to get to the point we had reached after two days riding and we all knew what stood between us and there; Hartside.

Having said our goodbyes to Baz, the rest of us set off for Alston.  We passed through Greystoke and Penrith without pause and straight into Renwick where we did stop.  This was not to rest, but to stand on the corner where Dan and Mark had surrendered previously.  Paul, who had not been on the first expedition, could not connect to the bewilderment the rest of us felt and he was also lacking in the knowledge we had of the climb ahead.  When we finally rolled out he got it in his head to put pay to his brother Mark and so the battle began.

As for me and Dan – we went at our own pace.  Mine was a little faster than Dan and a lot slower that Mark and Paul, but regardless, it was rocket speed compared to 2008.  My main focus was to not put a single foot down until I reached a café at the top and attempted to ignore the local riders dancing up past me, looking me up and down as they did.  I fought the urge to shout out “did you start the day in Whitehaven?” because the miles preceding this were my justification for the speed at which I climbed.  What held me back was the very real possibility of one of them replying “yes!”

Having before mocked Mark’s love of climbing as sadistic, I started to actually understand it as I progressed along the zigzag road.  Each pedal stroke seemed to be a reward and badge of honour, while each session standing up and putting down a little more juice before sitting back down and maintaining the new flow sang of personal ability and a little bit of validation for the effort that had gone into becoming this much better (I dare not say “good”).  My focus was still on  looking fluid and comfortable, with good form over speed, but speed was a consequence and before I knew it I was at the summit.  Here I sat with Mark and Paul and listened to the tale of defeat Paul had suffered against his brother and not long after Dan was with us too.

So day one ended with a roll into Alston and checking into the YMCA hostel.  We showered and ate in the same place we had eaten back in 2008 – this time not needing to beg the kitchen to stay open because we were not arriving near closing.  We also drifted into the supermarket and I purchased a bag of ale that I shared with the owner of the hostel beside an open fire while the other three went to bed.  While they snored I was regaled with stories of the Great Divide – a trip that may one day become a reality for me too…

Alston to Newcastle Upon Tyne – 57.2 miles with 3,902 ft of climbing

My one set of casual clothes hummed of wood smoke as I repacked them into my panniers.  Breakfast happened quickly and we rolled out of the hostel onto the cobbled road climb.  Starting any day with this would hurt, but with 80 miles and 6,546 feet in the legs from the day before it really hurt.  However, it was a sign of our new fitness when soon enough we had loosened up and were eating miles.  We dashed up Allenheads, offering nods of respect to the immensely steep section at the top, before racing like men possessed down through Northumberland on roads that were clear for mile upon mile as they stretched like black ribbons through wilderness.

A few minor mechanical issues forced us to stop in Rockhope which had been a most welcome stopping point in 2008.  What could be fixed was fixed and we set off again, but from here our route would change.  Before, we had walked our bikes up the steep bank and eventually picked up the Waskerley Way, but this time we would stick to tarmac and push up and around the moorlands.  One might be forgiven into believing that this was a blessing, but after setting off we quickly realised that it wasn’t.  With a 20% climb greeting us and road works at the top forcing us out of the saddle to work our way through, none of us came away with fresh legs.

Beyond this climb it was all downhill to Newcastle.  We kept a cracking pace going onto the Derwent walk which resulted in a puncture for me and then a quick stop at the Derwent Walk Inn for old time sake.  We passed over the suicide bridge which had now had the sign removed and beyond was just the urban route to the blinking eye, a couple of sprint challengers against Mark despite not really having the legs for it and a sneaky pint of continental lager at the Pitcher and Piano on the waterfront before dipping the front wheel in the water.

Two days to complete the C2C was a massive achievement.  140 miles and 10,448 feet of climbing done and still three days of cycling left to enjoy, but first a night in Newcastle Upon Tyne in a B&B Mark had booked for us with a host that considered himself a comedian…  but wasn’t.  We met our host in the nearby pub that looked like it could get nasty very quickly and then followed him to his house where our bikes were chained together for safe keeping.  With the sky open above them and a wooden gate between them and the road I wondered what we might be using to get back to Whitehaven.

We followed Paul out to a curry house and met a couple of his friends who lived nearby, but this was not the night for a drink-fest.  The next day we would be starting on the Rievers route which was new ground for all of us and not without its climbing to get us to a pub in Bellingham where we were staying.  For this reason it was a brief visit to the scary local and then off to bed.

Newcastle Upon Tyne to Bellingham – 76.2 miles with 3,370 ft of climbing

We rushed breakfast and were all relieved to find we still had bikes.  It didn’t take too long to get out of Newcastle, but we were now on strange tracks through areas of industrial history which completely jarred with the surroundings of the two days before.  We picked our way along the Reivers route through a rabbit warren of bridleway and cycle path and it was impossible for me to ignore the odd drop off and kicker regardless of riding a bike not built for such games.  Before long I had an annoying click deep inside my bottom bracket, but because the wheels were still turning I simply ignored it.

When we finally did step off these gritty tracks onto roads we were blessed with a complete absence of traffic.  Our pace remained good and we took the hills in our stride.  What really sung to me on this day was the descending which at one point got so fast as to throw my cats eye tracker into failure.  A check later on Strava revealed my top speed as being 57.6 mph and put me as 7^th in the rankings for that section.  I am still yet to beat that speed and believe I have also now been removed from the rankings by locals, but what Strava does not show is the utter joy of those sections. 

A slight headwind played a part towards the end of the day, but knowing there was a pub at the end pushed me on.  I had a touch of pain in my foot (presumed by the group to be gout from my love of real ale) but the two days riding before this one had set my body into work mode.  Paul set off on a break with 5 miles to go and I gave chase.  It had been a game we had been playing throughout the day and never got tiresome (except for the game between Mark and Paul which involved being at the top of every single little bump in the road).  I managed to keep him in sight, but never to catch his wheel.  I met him in the car park of the pub and was sat with a real ale in hand as Mark and Dan entered not long after.

Once checked in our bikes were locked in a secure outhouse and the rooms we were shown to were beautiful.  After chowing and changing into my smoke scented clothes we gathered in the restaurant and devoured thousands of calories.  During desert a real treat arrived at the table…  Baz! 

We fed back on our last two days without him, including the tale of Paul’s slaughter on Hartside against the almighty legs of Mark and waxed lyrical about the open roads of the first day of Rievers.  The next day we would be passing through Kielder, which we were all excited about, but I was also excited about the night ahead.  We had the full group back together and were in a pub that served quality ale and quality scotch!  A room key tab was all we needed to get going and although Dan and Paul retired to their comfy beds, me, Mark and Baz went at it like men possessed.  

Bellingham to Carlisle – 69.9 miles with 3,543 ft of climbing

I had been carried back to the room the night before and woke up with a little apprehension for the long ride ahead.  A great breakfast served only to sit on the sloshing grog in my guts and make me feel worse.  Stepping out to get the bikes in the pouring rain and realising that I had a puncture on the rear wheel before we even set off added to the negative mood.  But I had been here before (as heavy drinkers often are) and had a strategy.  This was to take the lead of the peleton and to sweat out the sins of nights gone by and the route ahead offered many opportunity to sweat.  Long climbs followed by long descents straight back into long climbs helped me zone into the riding, although I detached myself a little from the group.  The rain worked hard to wear us down, but we managed to keep going.

The road above Kielder water was absolutely stunning.  The drifts of misty rain coming through the firs and the dark, still waters below made us feel utterly remote and the air we breathed was crisp and cool.  Any sign of hangover melted into the histories.  We then came down to the water on a long swooping road and crossed over the dam.  By the time we rolled over the border into Scotland and down the high street of Newcastleton all I could think about was coffee.

It was not an ideal stop, being stood on the pavement outside of the coffee shop because we were all too sopping wet to sit inside.  Our average speed also took a dent and began to stress Mark out, but for a moment I had to be selfish and get my fix.  I knew that the void in my head was self-created, but I also knew that ignoring the need for caffeine would just roll into the rest of the day.  It really wasn’t as if we were going to get any wetter.

Rolling out of Newcastleton, the rain stopped and we crossed back into England on truly remote roads that took us through Bewcastle and into Mollen Wood, here roads seemed almost out of place and we monkeyed around with small sprint challenges and hill climb races with no fear of needing to share the road with anything more than a couple of sheep.  That was until Baz and Paul raced up a hill and were almost swallowed up under the wheels of an Asda delivery van that came hurtling over the ridge and down to us.  It seemed he had as little expectation of seeing us as we had of seeing him.  I still do not know how Paul managed to stay on the road rather than flying off into the fields below.

We encountered some incredible climbs through this stretch, with switchbacks that increased in gradient so quickly as to feel like slamming on the brakes.  The only way up was to bench-press the pedals and at the top of each of these we would find ourselves surrounded by trees and engulfed in a world were only we existed.

How strange it felt when this slowly slipped away and transformed into the outlying urban sprawl of Carlisle.  Following traffic heavy roads into Carlisle proper, past industrial estates and shopping centres was like losing something special.  In Carlisle we were booked into a university dorms and I was struggling to keep pace and had been for a while.  The stretch through Mollen Wood with those incredible climbs had combined with the excessive drinking of the day before to allow weakness to return.  When the group finally stopped at a crossroad to allow us all to regroup I took up one of my water bottles and squirted Baz and Paul's their legs in a mini protest only to see their faces transform into utter shock.

They had been pushing hard and always leading the group for this last stretch of many miles.  This pace had barely allowed me to keep them in sight let along ride with them, therefore I had no way of knowing that they had both exhausted their water a long time ago and were gasping for a drink.  In their eyes, me wasting the precious drop on their shins was akin to punching them both in the face.  I admit I didn’t care too much.  If nothing else, it was a lesson in the benefits of group riding and certainly a reminder to communicate.  As a side note, it was also evidence that I am not very skilled at staying hydrated which might also contribute to my inability to keep up in those final hours.

We had a quick beer in a local bar and then checked into our dorms.  With local knowledge in hand, we followed Baz out onto the streets, played a few games of pool and again drank a little too much before treating our weary souls to a hefty Nados.  We all refused to think or talk of the simple fact that only one day remained of our adventure.       

Carlisle to Whitehaven – 61.1 miles with 4,391 ft of climbing

We breakfasted in the local Asda and it was a most unsatisfying meal.  Our route from this point would take us back onto the C2C which was partially shared with the Rievers, but Baz suggested a slight amendment so that we could experience the infamous Newlands Pass.  It was quickly agreed that we hadn’t come all that way to shy away from a challenge, so accepted and geared up for the off.

Our first hill out of Carlisle was a monster and Skidaw grew and grew on the horizon beside us.  It didn’t take long to step back into more rural zones, but more often that before we found ourselves drifting back through small towns.  This proved a good thing when Dan’s brakes packed up altogether because we were able to slip into Keswick and see the genius crew in the bike shop.

Then there was the pass; a long road that would end with a wall of gradient which was enough to break the most skilled cyclist if he was not having a good day.  Even miles out from this giant we talked of going our own pace which meant Baz, Paul and Mark vanishing from sight almost instantly.  Dan then dropped back a little from my pace and it was back to how it usually was, cycling on my own through the silent Lakeland wilderness.  I do not mind this as I’m aware it is my own lack of fitness that creates the situation.  One day maybe I will be the king hill climber, but right now I have to accept my limitations and the situations it creates.

Right there and then I was not worried about speed.  I had not yet put a foot down on the route (excluding those moments when we had all stopped to either lunch or regroup).  When I speak of feet going down I mean in terms of legs giving out on a climb and forcing it.  This was something I wanted to maintain and I pushed on hard over the ever climbing route towards the wall.  One corner beside a farm, hooking at a right angle and ramping up to what had to be nearly 30%, very nearly ended this but through pure grit and determination I kept the bike moving.

The run up to the wall was a long open road along the side of the mountain and off in the distance I finally got a sight of Mark, Baz and Paul as they crested the wall.  From where I was they were just dots.  By the time I reached the beginning of the slop my legs had already taken a battering and the very sudden increase in gradient had me out of the saddle in seconds.  I pushed down on the pedal, one after the other with all the force I could put down and yet moved in almost minuscule increments to a top that was 200 yards away but seemed a mile.  As I began to weave from one side to the other of the road the fire set into my thighs.  My lungs burned and I felt control slipping away.

My foot went down.  I slipped off the bike.  Considered getting back on and pedalling.  Thought better of it and walked up to the top.

Dan reached the bottom of the slop a little after me and seemed to have made a deal with himself not to walk up any hill, therefore he pedalled to the top of Newlands pass, but it was a game of many sections, with his gears set very low and his legs spinning like roadrunner to make a score of yards before stopping to recharge.  SPIN, stop, SPIN, stop, SPIN, stop in a method that looked a little insane from where I was sitting, but I had to applaud him because he never broke that deal with himself and made it to the top without walking.

The Newlands descent was a beautiful reward for efforts made.  We had to dance around a few cars coming up the other way, but the exhilaration from the speed and twists of the route filled us with joy.  We then entered country lanes and we nearly lost Mark and Paul as they carried their momentum from a downhill into a climb, barely avoiding the little silver Micra coming down and giving the poor old woman behind the wheel a heart attack.

Baz left us here to return to Cockermouth and we pushed on to complete the run back to Whitehaven.  This was of course on the designated cycle path and although my legs had reached a point of no return, being able to spin but apply no real power, Dan’s legs were at the opposite end of the spectrum.  I watched in wonderment as he took a place at the head of the group and pushed on like a man possessed.  There was no way I would keep pace with them so drifted on at my own speed, solo riding safe in the knowledge that I couldn’t get lost.

Soon enough it was all over.  We dipped our wheel for the third time (having refused to dip the back wheel when setting out from Newcastle) and found a pub.  Without any pride left to lose, I passed my keys over to Mark and asked him to climb the awful hill back to the car.  I cannot express how grateful I am that he said yes to this.

After driving back to Grayonside we cleaned up and drifted down the hill on foot to have a BBQ at Baz’s house.  It was not as late a night as it could have been, partly to reduce the inconvenience five big blokes cramming into a house can cause for Baz’s wife.  There was also a large desire for most of our group to go to sleep and a cab was called to assist us back to our lodgings.

From then on it was just the logistics of getting home, which always seems to add a tone of depression for me.  I know it is not possible, but I always wish for the adventure to continue.  Life and the trappings of work and responsibility have a strong influence on it not continuing, but as long as we keep dreaming maybe one day we could just keep pedalling.  Until then it is back to the planning of the next adventure and treasuring the memories and self-pride of not only doing the coast to coast better, but smashing it out of the park and then riding all the way back.

To most I am sure we are just a group of weekend warriors, but amongst ourselves we are legends.