Three Rides And A Walk.

Funny how life works out, one minute you’re enjoying Spanish sunshine, a week or so later it’s a touring site in the English Lake District, surrounded by people who look as though their only attempts at an erection are the awnings on the side of their caravans. Me and The Breadlad had been brought in to lower the age profile of the site before the coffin-dodger van came collecting and one of us isn’t exactly young. We felt like youths, objects of curiosity for the beige people to curtain-twitch at, fat-tyred bikes and colourful clothing, as though they had suddenly caught a glimpse of the twentieth century. To be fair, the sun had followed me from the Costa Del Sol, turning the Lake District into the perfect corner of England. We had come for three rides and a walk - yes, a walk; anyone who knows me will be well aware of my aversion to the whole red socks and map cases thing, having got all that nonsense out of of my system by my mid-twenties but it was for a good cause, a sponsored jaunt up England’s highest mountain in aid of Cancer Research. 

Day One - route 

Once we had attached all the umbilicals to The Breadlad’s little home from home; who’d have imagined there was so much to do just to stay a few nights in a caravan, like a space shuttle just before take off, doors, sockets and ports all waiting to be connected to some service or other: water in, water out, electric in, bodily fluids out (no solids) and the all important TV aerial because the greatest pleasure of a caravanner is to sit in a field and watch Coronation Street. 

We were in no rush, our ride for today actually started just across the A66, in Threlkeld, an old favourite route, a pedal along the Glenderaterra Beck valley, that gargantuan cleft between the mighty Skiddaw and the slightly smaller but equally majestic Blencathra. But first we had the road climb which passes the Blencathra Centre, a heartbreaking start to any ride, steep tarmac which mellows to become only slightly less steep tarmac, tarmac turns to gravel after a small car park but still keeps climbing gradually upward. Eventually it levels out, dropping for a speedy descent to the head of the valley, where we perform a U turn and climb up to the the singletrack on the opposite side, a ribbon of gravel, hugging the elephantine flank of Skiddaw, high above the beck, beckoning us onwards, goading us to go faster regardless of the drop to our left. Towards the end, gravel is thrust aside by slabs of jagged rock, off-camber igneous eruptions trying to push us into the valley below, riding on a clifftop, Lonscale Crags, no coming back from a tumble over this edge, just a few lines in the mountain rescue book. Will discretion be the better part of valour today? I’ll leave that for you to find out. 

Turning a corner, the trepidation evaporates and a wide, fast track drops us to a stream crossing and the inevitable climb back out again. A couple of hundred metres later we are in the Cheat’s Car Park, between Latrigg and Skiddaw before heading eastward down the long spine of Latrigg, back to Threlkeld. A perfect little mountain bike ride, compact but not without adventure, away from the masses, a whole fellside to ourselves even on a Sunday afternoon.

Day Two - A walk.

Went for a walk. Enough said except to say walkers are friendly folk if you are not on a bike.

Day Three - route.

Whinlatter, some days it’s just nice to have a trail centre day, no route finding and steady climbing. Numerous diletantes came crawling from their winter hibernation, lured by the promise of graded trails and predictable riding. 

Even though most of us have done Whinlatter more than a few times, it is still fun, the climbs are reasonable and the downhills are superb. Our usual routine of Blue Loop, North Loop, South Loop, cafe was followed, dry tracks, sunshine and plenty of rests while we waited for “much improved” (his description) gym-rat Benny The Brawl to catch up. 

The trauma of actually being outdoors seemed to have interfered with the ability of his legs to maintain an actual cadence; or perhaps, this being his first visit to the Lake District in his short life, the awesome vistas unfolding before his peepers were awakening an appreciation of life beyond the Playstation. 

Day Four - route.

The final day of our mini-break and the excellent weather is continuing, me and The Breadlad decamped the caravan while Rod was enjoying a full english in his B&B. Owing to the Open All Hours shop in Keswick being shut by 10pm, our breakfast was a rather frugal affair but fasted riding is in vogue at the moment so we soldiered on. A short drive took us to Ings, a small community scattered each side of the A591 but with a microbrewery and pub serving food all day - most important for our return. We had came to have a crack at Garburn Pass, a lakeland classic, so they say, then again, they say that about the Ullswater lakeside path and we would rather stick spokes in our eyes than venture there again. Following a route from VP Guidebooks’ Lake District Mountain Biking, we crossed the road and followed the instructions, whose bland words gloss over a lot of graft, for example, follow the bridleway, climbing easily at first but then with more difficulty near the top, or, more realistically, virtually unrideable rock-filled chute. 

We carried on, ascending gradually and negotiating gate after gate. Do farmers get buy one, get one free on gates? Three miles in some short, steep ascents elicited disturbing noises from The Breadlad’s back end, nothing to do with last night’s beer and everything to do with his freehub, which withdrew its labour shortly afterward. The usual two B’s, bouncing and braying, failed to re-engage the pawls, so for him the war was over, luckily downhill back to the car. 

Me and Rod continued as a duo passing through a few more gates until we eventually reached the descent to Kentmere, which is loose, rocky and fast, we juddered our way downward, standing on the pedals and scanning the way forward for pedestrians. We reached tarmac at Kentmere church, where we turned left (eventually, the moral of that story - don’t let the one without the map go in front) and headed up Garburn Pass. Some pedalling may have been involved at first but that soon gave way to carrying and pushing up the scree and loose rock tumbling down from heights as yet unseen, onwards we plodded, covering (for the North Yorkshire riders) three Turkey Nabs, we reached the top, before realising we’d only surmounted the foothills and something akin to Ingleby Incline stretched out ahead of us - it was almost rideable at first but bedrock shouldered its way through the gravel, giving birth to small boulders as it reared upward.  

And then we really were at the top, sandwiched between grassy fells, the track leveled out and our remaining Scooby Snacks were munched while breathing returned to normal, both secretly hoping the descent would not be in similar condition to the ascent we had just dragged ourselves up. We wanted flowing and fast riding not brake-jerking, technical, over the bars, bonce boulder-bouncing. We needn’t have worried, the descent is worth every back-breaking moment, brakes off, fast as you dare, watching out for my new friends - the walkers. Like all good things it came to an end, inevitably at another gate, the book recommends turning round and reversing the route, our stomachs recommended a swift return to the pub. Stomachs won.