Lakeland Monster Miles 2015

Cross Bike Ride

The Fireman.

4th October 2015 route.

An otherwise empty breakfast room in a Lake District guest house, one lonely lycra-clad figure chomping cereal and trying to drink scalding coffee as the clock ticks on at this unfeasibly early hour on a Sunday morning. Outside the window a cyclo-cross bike bearing a number, lubed and raring to go, more so than its owner whose quick pint before bed somehow extended to a second, then a third and maybe a fourth as the England rugby team were given a comprehensive lesson in how to actually play the game by the Australians.

A quick blast through Keswick, into Fitz Park to meet The Fireman at the start of this year’s Lakeland Monster Miles, a decent forecast, dull but windless - that’ll do nicely. We managed to jump onto the end of a batch of riders about to set off, seems to be a lot less entrants than previous years but maybe we just caught a quiet moment. And we’re off, directly onto the old rail line between Keswick and Threlkeld, familiar territory for us from other days mountain biking in the area. Twenty years ago, no thirty years ago, God was it really so long ago? We used to use this path as a shortcut into Keswick before it was officially a footpath, climbing through barbed wire to access the bridges before they were boarded over, just walking on the girders with the river flowing beneath our feet. We rode on, into Threlkeld, passing the Horse And Farrier and The Salutation, many a night of drunken excess in both pubs, The Salutation had an eccentric jukebox in those days, where the numbers chosen bore no relation to the song which actually came from the speakers. The slight rise leaving Threlkeld, catches people unaware, some already off and pushing; they are in for a hard day if they’re pushing now. Onward to Scales, then the lonely road to Mungrisedale, then Mosedale,  beneath the cliffs and boulders of Carrock Fell, most riders pedalling steadily all too aware of what is ahead. This is The Fireman’s first Lakeland Monster Miles, my third, I’m pacing myself to the point of indolence, through the ford, smile for the camera.

Then it’s upon us, the climb, in my mind, the first of three hard climbs the route offers - we are only doing the mini-massif - a loose track stretching upward as far as the eye can see, down through the gears running out of teeth too quickly, every year I vow to get a bigger cassette, never get round to it, still running the quirky traditional cross bike gearing which works fine at home but is no match for Lake’s gradients. The Fireman, running a triple chainring on his Giant, cruises ahead as I resort to a short stretch of pedestrianism. Back on the bike, still climbing but at a more amenable angle, we are soon at the summit and a grassy, greasy, lumpy, bumpy descent across a damp moor, mountain bikers getting revenge on the cross bikers as there more stable steeds fly down the hill. Back on tarmac for a while, passing the ridiculously picturesque Over Water, glistening in the sunshine, we pull up at the feed station for our first breather, eat a few carbohydrate dense snacks and do some half-hearted leg stretches to prepare ourselves for the second half of the route.

From the feed station, it’s straight into Sector Bogtrotters, this year almost mud-free but still a single file plod over slippery rocks, watching the back wheel of the rider in front flicking from side to side until he eventually manages a full blown, feet clipped in tumble which brings the whole line to a halt as he remounts. The second climb of the day looms, The Allerdale Ramble through the woods at Setmurthy Common, a climb which comes at you by stealth, one minute cranking steadily upward, then it becomes steeper, muddier and looser, one by one feet unclip and begin the walk of shame. Once again my gear choice lets me down and I watch The Fireman triple ring into the distance, little did I know it would be the last I’d see of him for a while. From the top of the woods, another grassy descent leads into Cockermouth and I’m regaining my breath as I hurtle down (hurtle down is of course a relative term when applied to a slightly craven bloke in his mid-fifties), scanning the riders ahead for The Fireman, of whom there is no sign.

The route continues through some residential streets in Cockermouth and onward to where the route splits. The marshall advises sensible riders to go straight ahead, the short route, that’s me and on I go, toward what I think of as the last climb of the day, the ascent from Low Lorton up to the summit of Whinlatter Pass. Not to put too fine a point on it, I hate this stretch of road, possibly even more than telephone cold-callers or music made by computer programmers, it saps energy, it drags, it goes on forever, a slight respite near the end where it drops down, losing height which must be painfully regained, eventually joining the main Whinlatter Pass road, which still drags upward, past another route split, the long route climbing an even more difficult track up into Whinlatter Forest. The visitor centre comes into view and happy switch is thrown, it’s done, in the bag, all downhill from here. Speeding through the forest on fire roads, down on the drops, too frightened to attempt moving my hands to the top of the bars, a quick flash from my right and I’m immortalised onto the photographer’s memory card. Do I look as though I’m smoothly cruising to the finish, or like a man on the verge of middle-age wondering how much damage coming off at this speed will do?

Rejoining tarmac at Thornthwaite all that remains now is to follow minor roads back to Keswick, bikers everywhere now, some ambling along; a few putting the power down, obviously intent on beating some Strava record; others riding only by pure determination, heads down, mouths open, shoulders sagging as they battle the last few miles. On the road between Braithwaite and Portinscale, a shout from behind and The Fireman appears, he’d been watering a tree at the top of the Setmurthy Common climb when I’d rode past, fourteen miles of chasing later he caught me up. We crossed the finish line together, rather disappointingly on foot as is the rule here, collected our medals, kissed our wives, refrained from kissing each other (we are proper Northern us like) and went for a cup of coffee. The Fireman went back to Teesside and I made my way to Saddleback Cafe for a congratulatory bacon sandwich, the equivalent to a protein shake for those of us old enough to be on solid food.