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 He had been replaced by absolutely no-one at all, which made checking out a simple process otherwise known as running away.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.