The funny thing about Day 8 was that we all seemed to be of the opinion that once the cycling was over, we had pretty much finished the challenge. How wrong we were. It was almost like Ben Nevis knew we were relaxing and decided to make us work extra hard to finish…
We got up about 7.30, determined to get on the mountain early. We found out on Friday that Saturday was the day of the Ben Nevis race and therefore from 2pm it would be really busy. Working backwards from this, we thought that starting by 9am would give us enough time to get down. Therefore we skipped breakfast, packed the van and headed straight to the car park where many a 3-Peaker has headed off to start the highest mountain in the UK.
True enough, by just after 9am we were shambling off from the van, chock full of mars bar and ibuprofen and ready to tick off the last of the three climbs.
We should have known better. The weather was already pretty dismal and within half an hour the air was moist enough with a light drizzle to make waterproof jackets a necessity. We kept on a pretty good pace but the higher we climbed, the worse the weather got. It was clear after an hour that it was going to be wet but we trudged on without waterproofs, trying to keep up a good pace. However, by halfway we had to abandon any manly plans to push on through and we stopped to fully tog up. By now the wind was picking up too and it was getting colder, darker and murkier.
We pushed on but by now any trace of fun and levity had gone. We all were realising that not only were we really tired, but we still had a good two hours worth of climbing to go in increasingly unpleasant conditions. Everyone of us had something to whinge about: Matt was soaked through having had a mare with his waterproofs (Fraser had his trousers, the jacket stayed in his bag - was that really the best place for it?!); Jonny’s legs were causing him problems, John’s boots were leaking giving him sodden feet, and Fraser’s knees were playing up big time. In short, we were pretty miserable and focussing more and more on the heels of the person in front and nothing more than putting one leg in front of the other.
Those who have climbed Ben Nevis know that the second half of the climb is a long series of zig-zags over increasingly rocky ground until the summit plateau opens up with its breath-taking views and precipitous drops. As we trudged on, these zig-zags seemed to continue forever. I lost count of how many times I thought “this is the last one” only to look up and see another one through the mist. The rain carried on falling, the wind got stronger, we got colder, and kept on climbing.
After nearly three and a half hours it finally started to level off. By now the mist was so thick that we could only follow the path by walking from tor to tor. For the first time since we got on the mountain though, we were starting to perk up. We must be getting near the summit, and that kept us moving. The views were totally non-existent because of the mist and rain but luckily there were guides for the Ben Nevis race warning people away from the drops and they kept us on target for the summit.
Reaching the top was wonderful. We had gone into Day 8 thinking the hard work was done but Ben Nevis made us think again. But arriving at the ruined observatory truly was the end of the challenge and we all felt fantastic despite the horrible weather and the truly unpleasant sight of Matt taking off his top. He claims this was to add extra layers, but we are more convinced that he wanted to look tough for the summit video.
After about two minutes at the top, we beat a hasty retreat and headed for the warmth of the van. The descent was a joyous affair: not only had we completed our challenge, but there is little sweeter than walking downwards when you are passing lots of miserable looking people walking upwards.
Not long before we reached the bottom we saw a truly amazing site. We like to think we are reasonably fit boys in our 30s and we had had a good week of practice to attempt Ben Nevis, not to mention all the right kit. Twenty minutes from the bottom, however, we had to step off the path to let the 500 runners of the Ben Nevis race go by. What possesses these people is a mystery. We had got wet and cold in hiking boots and full waterproofs: these lunatics were running passed in shorts and vests. But the most arresting sight of all was their age: these weren’t just 20 year olds trying to prove their manliness, many of them looked to be in their 60s or even 70s. Truth be told, a few of them looked like they were about to expire altogether. It really was a humbling sight, but also one that makes you wonder what the hell these freaks were getting out of it. I don’t think there is enough money in the world to make me do that.
Once we had reached the sweet sanctuary of the van, we wasted no time in heading to the nearest boozer to get them to empty the contents of their kitchen onto our table via the deep fat fryer. We celebrated with whiskey, Guiness and mountains of carbs before getting in the van for the 10 hour drive back to London.
Monday, 10 September 2007
Thursday, 6 September 2007
Day 7
All going well, this should be our last day of cycling. After yesterday's heroic push we only have 80 miles to do to get to Fort William, Ben Nevis's neighbouring shanty town. That said, I know someone who motorbiked through these hills a few weeks ago and got tired doing 100 miles on a huge Ducatti. As we're desperately plugging away at 4 mph up hill with a 12 mph raining headwind, roads made from corrugated bastard, and the cumulative fatigue of a day and half of cycling and hiking engendered upon a frame far more accustomed to bed and wine, I notice how the motorbikes blitzing past us at 80mph seem to be having a considerably easier time of it.
Massively deterred, but committed nonetheless, we head off from the last of our Travelodge stays (ideally ever - although this was the first one not tied to a Rubbish Chef so had it's own far better breakfast laid on) and make our way to our end point from Day 6. Yesterday, the attentive will recall, comprised endless depressed towns and rotten conditions. Today, at least, promised to provide far better scenery, if not downhills all the way with tailwinds and massages.
The factors that make a ride harder are numerous - hills, road surfaces, headwinds, knackered bikes, knackered bodies. What you're riding through makes a difference too. And the benefits of this today were greater than any other time in the week. The A82 up past Loch Lomond and on through Glencoe is a magnificent road. Just lakes and mountains and trees and landscapes and scenery off huge and magnificent proportions. Still, there's only so much this can do to temper the prospect of a 10 mile climb of 900 ft. And even less it can do if there's a head wind too. One of idiosyncracies of winds over hills is that if it's blowing towards you, when you're heading uphill, it's lifted off over your head, providing lifts for hangliders and sparrowhawks, leaving just enough to impede your already plodding progress. But on the other side, when you've noticed the road dropping away below you in a moderate cadence, indicating chances of a good turn of speed with little pedalling, the wind's there to rain on your parade with it's road hugging full force meaning you have to pedal just as hard as you did on the way up! What a treat!
Ploughing on through the morning, we enjoyed the views but there was little respite from the climb. The 10 miles we'd been promised, was duely delivered, and not one of them was easy.
We cracked on past a restaurant touted as the best one ever anywhere at Tyndrum, assured that John had laid on a fine spread at the 40 mile mark. The desolate location of this luncheon sent us trotting back to the hotel we'd passed 3 miles back. A civilsed bowl of soup and John's magnificent sandwiches and chocolate drinks (apparently, cyclists can go further with these than if they took the wheels off their bikes and drank vodka) later, the afternoon shift began. With a hill. Upwards. With a headwind. Again. The relentless hacking of the morning continued for another 15 miles until we were well on the way through Glencoe when the mountains open up all around on a scale that needs to be experienced and the road dropped smoothly between them, the gargantuan structures providing a change to the prevaling wind that allowed to us enjoy every bit of it, rolling almost all the way down into Glencoe where, so engendered were we with a sense of conviviality, that we stopped for coffee and cake, confident that the plod over the bridge and into Fort William would present none of the heinous battling we'd grown accustomed to. In fact, the slightly spurious notion that we were on the home stretch (conveniently disregarding Ben Nevis tomorrow), endowed us with a pep not seen since our teens and we blitzed the last miles with gusto and pace unmatched for days and challenged only by the drug fuelled nutters that charge coaches and buses along these roads.
Finally, Fort William hoved into view, we chucked the bikes in the van for the last time, and we headed back to the King's House Hotel - a beautifully stranded lodge sat hopelessly diminutive and alone with nothing but the thousands of feet of the caledonians around it. Good tucker, moderate whisky, an undulating pool table, luke warm ale and plastic sheets were our adequate, if not slightly disappointing, shelter for the night, as we slumbered a little unprepared for the day ahead.
Massively deterred, but committed nonetheless, we head off from the last of our Travelodge stays (ideally ever - although this was the first one not tied to a Rubbish Chef so had it's own far better breakfast laid on) and make our way to our end point from Day 6. Yesterday, the attentive will recall, comprised endless depressed towns and rotten conditions. Today, at least, promised to provide far better scenery, if not downhills all the way with tailwinds and massages.
The factors that make a ride harder are numerous - hills, road surfaces, headwinds, knackered bikes, knackered bodies. What you're riding through makes a difference too. And the benefits of this today were greater than any other time in the week. The A82 up past Loch Lomond and on through Glencoe is a magnificent road. Just lakes and mountains and trees and landscapes and scenery off huge and magnificent proportions. Still, there's only so much this can do to temper the prospect of a 10 mile climb of 900 ft. And even less it can do if there's a head wind too. One of idiosyncracies of winds over hills is that if it's blowing towards you, when you're heading uphill, it's lifted off over your head, providing lifts for hangliders and sparrowhawks, leaving just enough to impede your already plodding progress. But on the other side, when you've noticed the road dropping away below you in a moderate cadence, indicating chances of a good turn of speed with little pedalling, the wind's there to rain on your parade with it's road hugging full force meaning you have to pedal just as hard as you did on the way up! What a treat!
Ploughing on through the morning, we enjoyed the views but there was little respite from the climb. The 10 miles we'd been promised, was duely delivered, and not one of them was easy.
We cracked on past a restaurant touted as the best one ever anywhere at Tyndrum, assured that John had laid on a fine spread at the 40 mile mark. The desolate location of this luncheon sent us trotting back to the hotel we'd passed 3 miles back. A civilsed bowl of soup and John's magnificent sandwiches and chocolate drinks (apparently, cyclists can go further with these than if they took the wheels off their bikes and drank vodka) later, the afternoon shift began. With a hill. Upwards. With a headwind. Again. The relentless hacking of the morning continued for another 15 miles until we were well on the way through Glencoe when the mountains open up all around on a scale that needs to be experienced and the road dropped smoothly between them, the gargantuan structures providing a change to the prevaling wind that allowed to us enjoy every bit of it, rolling almost all the way down into Glencoe where, so engendered were we with a sense of conviviality, that we stopped for coffee and cake, confident that the plod over the bridge and into Fort William would present none of the heinous battling we'd grown accustomed to. In fact, the slightly spurious notion that we were on the home stretch (conveniently disregarding Ben Nevis tomorrow), endowed us with a pep not seen since our teens and we blitzed the last miles with gusto and pace unmatched for days and challenged only by the drug fuelled nutters that charge coaches and buses along these roads.
Finally, Fort William hoved into view, we chucked the bikes in the van for the last time, and we headed back to the King's House Hotel - a beautifully stranded lodge sat hopelessly diminutive and alone with nothing but the thousands of feet of the caledonians around it. Good tucker, moderate whisky, an undulating pool table, luke warm ale and plastic sheets were our adequate, if not slightly disappointing, shelter for the night, as we slumbered a little unprepared for the day ahead.
Day 6
OK, so we didn’t make 100 miles. But what we did was easily the hardest day of cycling in the week. Day 6 was an absolute slog from start to finish. We began at a town with the comedy name of Auldgirth, but there the amusement stopped for the next four hours. We were cycling towards Kilmarnock and then Paisley so most of the morning was spent on the A76. This road combined hills with a rubbish road surface and, worst of all, a nasty headwind. The result was limited progress and a complete collapse in our spirit which was totally sapped by the wind. It seemed that no matter how hard we peddled we barely broke 10mph and were getting precisely nowhere.
This carried on for the next four hours as we slowly wound our way to Kilmarnock and our hopes of doing 100 miles in the day were evaporating. The wind was getting steadily worse and, at one point, we actually passed a sign advertising a new windfarm that was being built. At least that was well sited.
Anyway, by keeping pressing forward we managed to do 36 miles by lunchtime and stopped at a place called Mauchline where we had some pretty ropey food and headed back out to tackle the afternoon shift.
As we have found all week, this was a much better session. The wind had died down a bit and progress was good. We cycled through Kilmarnock and onwards towards Paisley. The roads got prettier, the scenery more interesting, the weather got better, and we got faster. Never was this more the case when we finally crested the last hill and say Glasgow laid out before us and a huge long downhill coast beckoned us to Paisley. There is a great video we posted of us halfway down this descent which was totally exhilarating. Matt was particularly delighted because he finally broke 40mph so gave Jonny a new target to shoot at.
Amazingly, despite the problems of the morning, we were now well ahead of schedule. It was only 5pm and we had already reached the destination point. This meant that we had a great chance to push on and try to cover enough extra miles that, combined with Friday’s ride, we wouldn’t have to ride on Saturday before climbing Ben Nevis. With that in mind, we headed towards Dumbarton and then onwards up Loch Lomond. Progress again was good and by 8pm when we finished, we had only 79 miles left to go to Fort William.
This was definitely the hardest day but we go the best reward: a full 12 hours in the saddle meant that we had a fighting chance of not having to cycle on Saturday which would be fantastic and make climbing Ben Nevis much, much easier.
Dinner on Day 6 promised to be a superior affair to the other nights. We were staying at Glasgow Airport so had the full range of airport hotels to choose from. Unfortunately we failed to strike gold in choosing the Italian restaurant in the Ramada. They were pretty quick serving the beers but the pasta and pizza we ordered took ages to arrive, were decidedly mediocre and then they had the cheek to try to chase us away from our table so they could set it for breakfast.
It was then off to bed for some well-earned sleep ready for Day 7 and, hopefully, the last leg to Fort William.
This carried on for the next four hours as we slowly wound our way to Kilmarnock and our hopes of doing 100 miles in the day were evaporating. The wind was getting steadily worse and, at one point, we actually passed a sign advertising a new windfarm that was being built. At least that was well sited.
Anyway, by keeping pressing forward we managed to do 36 miles by lunchtime and stopped at a place called Mauchline where we had some pretty ropey food and headed back out to tackle the afternoon shift.
As we have found all week, this was a much better session. The wind had died down a bit and progress was good. We cycled through Kilmarnock and onwards towards Paisley. The roads got prettier, the scenery more interesting, the weather got better, and we got faster. Never was this more the case when we finally crested the last hill and say Glasgow laid out before us and a huge long downhill coast beckoned us to Paisley. There is a great video we posted of us halfway down this descent which was totally exhilarating. Matt was particularly delighted because he finally broke 40mph so gave Jonny a new target to shoot at.
Amazingly, despite the problems of the morning, we were now well ahead of schedule. It was only 5pm and we had already reached the destination point. This meant that we had a great chance to push on and try to cover enough extra miles that, combined with Friday’s ride, we wouldn’t have to ride on Saturday before climbing Ben Nevis. With that in mind, we headed towards Dumbarton and then onwards up Loch Lomond. Progress again was good and by 8pm when we finished, we had only 79 miles left to go to Fort William.
This was definitely the hardest day but we go the best reward: a full 12 hours in the saddle meant that we had a fighting chance of not having to cycle on Saturday which would be fantastic and make climbing Ben Nevis much, much easier.
Dinner on Day 6 promised to be a superior affair to the other nights. We were staying at Glasgow Airport so had the full range of airport hotels to choose from. Unfortunately we failed to strike gold in choosing the Italian restaurant in the Ramada. They were pretty quick serving the beers but the pasta and pizza we ordered took ages to arrive, were decidedly mediocre and then they had the cheek to try to chase us away from our table so they could set it for breakfast.
It was then off to bed for some well-earned sleep ready for Day 7 and, hopefully, the last leg to Fort William.
Day 5
It is amazing that there are any wild animals left in Britain. Most seem to have met their maker on the roads we’ve travelled; the number of carcasses on the tarmac is shocking. Rabbits, foxes, hedgehogs, birds of prey, and probably yetis are all displayed in pressed pelt format. The freshest ones are certainly worth avoiding, especially as you have a fellow cyclist behind you as your rear wheel does tend to fling road detritus up towards face level. Worse than a mouthful of badger intestine, though, would be joining the ranks of pavement pancakes, and we very nearly managed that on two separate occasions today. More of that later.
There were no signs of the impending dangers at the beginning of day 5, which started out with a fantastic breakfast. The Bates Motel turned out to have a rather decent catering department and it was a welcome break (excuse the service station pun) to avoid the Rubbish Chef and sit down at an oak table to be served with a full English breakfast with Radio 3 and a bottomless pot of tea. However, best of all, the dining room also boasted a pool table THAT WAS FREE TO PLAY. What an innovation! What breakfast can’t be improved by a round of “winner stays on” afterwards? Genius…
So, suitably fortified, we drove back to Seathwaite (the other one) and got back into the saddle. The views were spectacular as we peddled through the Lake District and, for once, the sun was shining and all right with the world. If Wales had the villages that hope forgot, the Lake District has the villages and towns of the blessed. We passed through one beautiful spot after another, all of which helped to take our mind off the ridiculous number of climbs on the way to Carlisle.
We actually broke for lunch at Gretna which meant we had crossed the border. However, the last five miles to get there were absolutely terrifying and presented our first opportunity of the day to be killed by a random juggernaut. There are currently roadworks on the A55 so it is down to two very narrow lanes leaving nowhere for cyclists to go to avoid the lorries. That left the riders horribly exposed (Matt was nearly smeared over the carriageway by a Marmite lorry) and by the time we turned off for Gretna there were a lot of relieved faces that we hadn’t ended up on the menu at the Roadkill Café. Motto? You kill ‘em, we grill ‘em. Lovely.
After lunch we thought we were ahead of the game by using our Scottish intelligence provided by Fraser to avoid the deathtrap that is the A74. No problem for us: we headed out on the B-roads to enjoy the afternoon sun on a road renowned for its beauty. Of course, dear readers, you know that this won’t last and it didn’t: due to a navigation error, nine miles later we found ourselves back on the A74. This is where the second opportunity to get whacked by a juggernaut offered itself. Rather than doing the sensible thing and cycle back to where we took a wrong turn and go back onto the B-roads, we looked at the A74 and thought it didn’t look too bad and even had a small cycle lane. So, off we went on our merry way until about a mile later when the cycle lane disappeared and once again the trucks were thundering passed us about 10cm away. This time, discretion was definitely the better part of valour so we called Matt to come and save us; he drove us back to the B-road and we got back on with cycling with much less chance of joining the reams of squashed beasties splatted on the tarmac.
Thus we spent the afternoon thrashing along B-roads as we headed towards Dunfries and then onwards towards Kilmarnock. Progress was good although made more difficult by the poor road surfaces on the B-roads and a strong headwind that simply wasn’t fair on us poor fat boys. However, we made it to Dumfries and even had enough energy to push on another eight miles – so this evening we find ourselves a little bit ahead of the plan, which is great news.
A little less exciting is the cuisine on offer in Dumfries. We circled the town in our trusty van, looking for somewhere, anywhere that actually let you eat food in the restaurant. (Perhaps we shouldn’t have been surprised: it seems that you are not encouraged to linger anywhere here – we passed a couple of locations lit with a particular type of blue light that prevents you from finding a vein into which you might choose to inject heroin.) Eventually we found a rather good pub, and promptly ordered the chicken, ham and mushroom pasta bake (mmm, carbs). What we were served was three pieces of fusili, a couple of pieces of processed ham, several chunks of what we suspect was cat, all smothered in about a pound of cheese. Topped with the contents of a bottle of vegetable oil. Distinctly not what the sports dietician ordered. Dinner was productive, however: we formulated a new, highly aggressive plan for tomorrow which we hope will result in us chalking up 100 miles for the day. Ultimately, this would help us complete the journey a day early. Check back tomorrow to see if we made it.
There were no signs of the impending dangers at the beginning of day 5, which started out with a fantastic breakfast. The Bates Motel turned out to have a rather decent catering department and it was a welcome break (excuse the service station pun) to avoid the Rubbish Chef and sit down at an oak table to be served with a full English breakfast with Radio 3 and a bottomless pot of tea. However, best of all, the dining room also boasted a pool table THAT WAS FREE TO PLAY. What an innovation! What breakfast can’t be improved by a round of “winner stays on” afterwards? Genius…
So, suitably fortified, we drove back to Seathwaite (the other one) and got back into the saddle. The views were spectacular as we peddled through the Lake District and, for once, the sun was shining and all right with the world. If Wales had the villages that hope forgot, the Lake District has the villages and towns of the blessed. We passed through one beautiful spot after another, all of which helped to take our mind off the ridiculous number of climbs on the way to Carlisle.
We actually broke for lunch at Gretna which meant we had crossed the border. However, the last five miles to get there were absolutely terrifying and presented our first opportunity of the day to be killed by a random juggernaut. There are currently roadworks on the A55 so it is down to two very narrow lanes leaving nowhere for cyclists to go to avoid the lorries. That left the riders horribly exposed (Matt was nearly smeared over the carriageway by a Marmite lorry) and by the time we turned off for Gretna there were a lot of relieved faces that we hadn’t ended up on the menu at the Roadkill Café. Motto? You kill ‘em, we grill ‘em. Lovely.
After lunch we thought we were ahead of the game by using our Scottish intelligence provided by Fraser to avoid the deathtrap that is the A74. No problem for us: we headed out on the B-roads to enjoy the afternoon sun on a road renowned for its beauty. Of course, dear readers, you know that this won’t last and it didn’t: due to a navigation error, nine miles later we found ourselves back on the A74. This is where the second opportunity to get whacked by a juggernaut offered itself. Rather than doing the sensible thing and cycle back to where we took a wrong turn and go back onto the B-roads, we looked at the A74 and thought it didn’t look too bad and even had a small cycle lane. So, off we went on our merry way until about a mile later when the cycle lane disappeared and once again the trucks were thundering passed us about 10cm away. This time, discretion was definitely the better part of valour so we called Matt to come and save us; he drove us back to the B-road and we got back on with cycling with much less chance of joining the reams of squashed beasties splatted on the tarmac.
Thus we spent the afternoon thrashing along B-roads as we headed towards Dunfries and then onwards towards Kilmarnock. Progress was good although made more difficult by the poor road surfaces on the B-roads and a strong headwind that simply wasn’t fair on us poor fat boys. However, we made it to Dumfries and even had enough energy to push on another eight miles – so this evening we find ourselves a little bit ahead of the plan, which is great news.
A little less exciting is the cuisine on offer in Dumfries. We circled the town in our trusty van, looking for somewhere, anywhere that actually let you eat food in the restaurant. (Perhaps we shouldn’t have been surprised: it seems that you are not encouraged to linger anywhere here – we passed a couple of locations lit with a particular type of blue light that prevents you from finding a vein into which you might choose to inject heroin.) Eventually we found a rather good pub, and promptly ordered the chicken, ham and mushroom pasta bake (mmm, carbs). What we were served was three pieces of fusili, a couple of pieces of processed ham, several chunks of what we suspect was cat, all smothered in about a pound of cheese. Topped with the contents of a bottle of vegetable oil. Distinctly not what the sports dietician ordered. Dinner was productive, however: we formulated a new, highly aggressive plan for tomorrow which we hope will result in us chalking up 100 miles for the day. Ultimately, this would help us complete the journey a day early. Check back tomorrow to see if we made it.
Wednesday, 5 September 2007
Day 4 – Kendal Travelodge -> Scafell Pike -> Ulpha
Lance Armstrong was right: it is most definitely not about the bike. Granted, chain breaks, snapped front derailleur, faulty brakes, two punctures, two tyre replacements and countless other minor technical gripes have not helped us on our way. But these all fall somewhat lower down the list of impediments than our own mental weakness and physical inadequacy. Day four exposed these flaws with splendid aplomb.
We began, as usual, from the local branch of our strategic accommodation partner for the trip, Travelodge. We saw no sign of the helpful employee who, the previous night, had vigorously denied that he was at work despite standing behind reception wearing the standard Travelodge uniform. He had been replaced by absolutely no-one at all, which made checking out a simple process otherwise known as running away.
We had been warned that the leg of our journey approaching Scafell Pike would be the toughest, from a cycling standpoint. Thanks to the heroic efforts of Day 3, where we tacked on an additional ~14 miles to the original target, we’d given ourselves a head start on the distance. This was to prove invaluable as we ran into some monstrous climbs. Thighs still searing from Day 3, these gradients were about as welcome as the prospect of another Rubbish Chef breakfast/lunch/dinner. Unlike the Rubbish Chef, however, the Lake District did reward us with some fantastic views, some of which we’ve captured in still and video form and which we hope to post on this blog in due course.
Topography being what it is, most of these hills also have descents as well as inclines. The sensible touring cyclist would use these to conserve energy, freewheeling down whilst absorbing the spectacular countryside. Lacking much sense between us, we used them as attempts to set our personal land speed records. Jonny “King of the Mountains” Hartley currently tops the charts, clocking 38.4 mph on one manic descent (while Matt’s cycle computer insists that he managed a spectacular 48.7 mph, this is almost certainly a statistical blip – or the result of Matt towing his own bike whilst in charge of the support van). One highlight was keeping pace with a kestrel as (s)he swooped in for the kill on some unfortunate rodent.
We have all noticed that cumulative fatigue is at work, and today’s cycling was a challenge. At the same time, the sheer volume of Lucozade, Powerade, dextrose tablets, Mars Bars and, er, mints that we are put away made sure that we made it into Keswick – gateway to the National Park that is home to Scafell Pike – in good time. So to lunch: Cumberland sausage, chips, more chips, fruit smoothie to pretend that health is a consideration, then chips for dessert. We also located the first internet café we’d seen in days, which resulted in the first blog update of the journey. “At last!”, we didn’t hear you cry in unison. Over this fine repast, the morning’s driver decided the time was right to break the news that we had a problem: while the climb to Scafell Pike begins from Seathwaite, and we had booked our accommodation in Seathwaite also, it turns out that there are two Seathwaites and our Bed & Breakfast was in the other one. We decided after a few seconds’ conference that we should treat this issue as we had all others to date: chalk it up to poor planning, then ignore it. Off to Scafell Pike then, and to hell with bed time. We could sleep enough when we were dead, we declared bravely; perhaps it was only me who then looked at the clouds and mist moving in swiftly over the tricky terrain of Scafell Pike and thought, that eternal rest might not be so far away.
I was, as usual, overly pessimistic. Scafell Pike was definitely a far tougher climb than Snowdon: longer, steeper, less clearly pathed, and with a descent just before the summit that is as steep as it is unkind. We managed it well enough, pausing at the summit only for a photo that frankly could have been taken anywhere. Reaching the summit marked the halfway point of the journey, but any smugness was removed by a rather drawn out, cold, and knee-damaging descent. I’ve always laughed at walking pole users, but never again.
So, after a return visit to the same restaurant in Ambleside that we’d dined in on Day 3, we spent a good hour driving to the other Seathwaite in search of our B&B. It was one of those typically British institutions: ramshackle, unorthodox, and reminiscent of the Bates Motel. However, for once it was not a Travelodge and none of us had to share a double bed. Bliss.
PS: on the first day, we decided that we’d look far more manly in the photos and videos if we declined to shave for the duration of the week. Though not yet giving the Taliban a run for their money, we are now looking rather stubbly and I am crossing my fingers that the ginger bits don’t start to show.
We began, as usual, from the local branch of our strategic accommodation partner for the trip, Travelodge. We saw no sign of the helpful employee who, the previous night, had vigorously denied that he was at work despite standing behind reception wearing the standard Travelodge uniform. He had been replaced by absolutely no-one at all, which made checking out a simple process otherwise known as running away.
We had been warned that the leg of our journey approaching Scafell Pike would be the toughest, from a cycling standpoint. Thanks to the heroic efforts of Day 3, where we tacked on an additional ~14 miles to the original target, we’d given ourselves a head start on the distance. This was to prove invaluable as we ran into some monstrous climbs. Thighs still searing from Day 3, these gradients were about as welcome as the prospect of another Rubbish Chef breakfast/lunch/dinner. Unlike the Rubbish Chef, however, the Lake District did reward us with some fantastic views, some of which we’ve captured in still and video form and which we hope to post on this blog in due course.
Topography being what it is, most of these hills also have descents as well as inclines. The sensible touring cyclist would use these to conserve energy, freewheeling down whilst absorbing the spectacular countryside. Lacking much sense between us, we used them as attempts to set our personal land speed records. Jonny “King of the Mountains” Hartley currently tops the charts, clocking 38.4 mph on one manic descent (while Matt’s cycle computer insists that he managed a spectacular 48.7 mph, this is almost certainly a statistical blip – or the result of Matt towing his own bike whilst in charge of the support van). One highlight was keeping pace with a kestrel as (s)he swooped in for the kill on some unfortunate rodent.
We have all noticed that cumulative fatigue is at work, and today’s cycling was a challenge. At the same time, the sheer volume of Lucozade, Powerade, dextrose tablets, Mars Bars and, er, mints that we are put away made sure that we made it into Keswick – gateway to the National Park that is home to Scafell Pike – in good time. So to lunch: Cumberland sausage, chips, more chips, fruit smoothie to pretend that health is a consideration, then chips for dessert. We also located the first internet café we’d seen in days, which resulted in the first blog update of the journey. “At last!”, we didn’t hear you cry in unison. Over this fine repast, the morning’s driver decided the time was right to break the news that we had a problem: while the climb to Scafell Pike begins from Seathwaite, and we had booked our accommodation in Seathwaite also, it turns out that there are two Seathwaites and our Bed & Breakfast was in the other one. We decided after a few seconds’ conference that we should treat this issue as we had all others to date: chalk it up to poor planning, then ignore it. Off to Scafell Pike then, and to hell with bed time. We could sleep enough when we were dead, we declared bravely; perhaps it was only me who then looked at the clouds and mist moving in swiftly over the tricky terrain of Scafell Pike and thought, that eternal rest might not be so far away.
I was, as usual, overly pessimistic. Scafell Pike was definitely a far tougher climb than Snowdon: longer, steeper, less clearly pathed, and with a descent just before the summit that is as steep as it is unkind. We managed it well enough, pausing at the summit only for a photo that frankly could have been taken anywhere. Reaching the summit marked the halfway point of the journey, but any smugness was removed by a rather drawn out, cold, and knee-damaging descent. I’ve always laughed at walking pole users, but never again.
So, after a return visit to the same restaurant in Ambleside that we’d dined in on Day 3, we spent a good hour driving to the other Seathwaite in search of our B&B. It was one of those typically British institutions: ramshackle, unorthodox, and reminiscent of the Bates Motel. However, for once it was not a Travelodge and none of us had to share a double bed. Bliss.
PS: on the first day, we decided that we’d look far more manly in the photos and videos if we declined to shave for the duration of the week. Though not yet giving the Taliban a run for their money, we are now looking rather stubbly and I am crossing my fingers that the ginger bits don’t start to show.
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