Mountain Bike Ride
Rod, The Pensioner
Heading west away from the drizzly North East of England, things were not improving on the weather front until the summit of Stainmore Pass revealed a tear in the clouds and a sunny Lake District glowing gold and green below as we descended from the murk. Convention week in Keswick, some God Squad thing so most of the car parks were filling up fast as we unpacked our bikes in Fitz park, a few ominous clouds scudding in from Skiddaw were soon burned off by the sun, yes sun, in Keswick. We made our way through the town and began the steady of ascent of Walla Crag, a more interesting start to the Borrowdale Bash. It was a sweaty business, involving pushing, carrying and the dispiriting sight of The Pensioner cruising up a hill we had pushed our bikes up moments before. Once on the rocky summit, the arduousness of the ascent was wiped from our minds by the view, Derwentwater, Bassenthwaite and the surrounding fells, a panorama of greens and blues, clear of cloud and haze reminding us why we really come to the lakes.
Our payback, the descent to Ashness Bridge, followed, mainly dry apart from the stream crossings, loose and rocky as only Cumbrian trails can be, loamy singletrack is a bit sparse this side of the Pennines. We made it down without incident, emerging from the fellside at the picturesque Ashness Bridge, tourists splashing in the water and generally having fun in the sun. We began the the tarmac climb up to Watendlath Tarn - not fun in the sun, sweat dripping into our eyes as the road reared up and The Pensioner disappeared into the distance ahead of us. At the tarn he managed a nice long rest before we caught up and began the truly gruesome ascent of the bridleway to Rosthwaite, electric bikes are no advantage when the track turns to a rocky jumble and soon The Pensioner found himself being overtaken others of his clan as he tried to manoeuvre 22 kilos of bike in an upward direction. The rest of took the opportunity for some sunbathing at the top. The descent is still loose and rocky but (if my memory serves me correctly) seems to have had a bit of work done, especially a great many water bars, one of which took out Rod’s tyre in a spectacular fashion. Another bit of sunbathing ensued between turns on the mini pump, chatting to friendly but curious walkers, the majority questioning our sanity for even attempting to ride down the track. Back on the move again, a little more cautiously in Rod’s case, we took the Frith Woods finish for a change. This proved to be a nice descent, weaving down through bracken and over tree roots, with a couple of truly technical sections, which were attempted with lack of style only surpassed by the lack of success.
The awfulness that is Honister Pass came next and it was not long before I was wishing i had never ditched the granny ring, eventually my puny legs would no longer turn the pedals and the walk of shame was upon me. Breathless and sweating, we eventually reached the bridleway turn off and panted for a little while before reversing our ride and heading back north, following the undulating and varied Allerdale Ramble to Castle Crag where things begin to go more steeply downhill on a track designed for longevity not comfort, leaving us bouncing over pillow-size blocks, letting the suspension take the hits and trying to avoid pinch flats. Forearms aching from braking and shoulders tense from fighting the handlebars, we reached the gate and more amenable riding through Hollows Farm campsite and into the village of Grange. In a change to the advertised programme, we gave the cafe a miss and pressed on back to Keswick, via the Catbells bridleway, easy riding but spectacular views across the lake, Skiddaw to the north and our initial summit, Walla Crag on our right.
Keswick was thronged as we made our way through the town to the cafe in Fitz Park to replenish today’s spent calories, all 1,408 of them according to my gps device. Sitting outside in the blazing sunshine, mud-spattered and sweat drenched, smelling like a nest of weasels, we shoved food and drink into our faces, trying not to look too smug as the legions of shop-wanderers milled about us.
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