Professor Of Adventure

Cross Bike Ride

Alone

19th October route

Last day of our little Lakeland break and the run of agreeable weather is continuing, a pleasant  canvas of green, blue and grey  gradually being overlaid with the russet colours of autumn. I thought I had better give the cross bike an airing today, seeing as it has been usurped by the mountain bike and even, the walking boots, all week. Not content to stick solely to tarmac, it seemed today would be a good day to visit a Lakeland attraction I have been meaning to visit for many years - Millican Dalton’s cave. Despite the amount of time spent in Borrowdale over the past fifty odd years, I had never got round to finding it, or even looking for it, apart from the failed attempt earlier in the week, where we took the wrong path and found the wrong cave. 

Millican Dalton called himself Professor Of Adventure, a forerunner of today’s outdoor instructors, taking clients camping, climbing, rafting, scrambling and “hair’s-breadth escapes”. At the age of 36, he left his job as an insurance clerk to live in a hut in Buckinghamshire before moving to the Lake District. He began living in a cave on the side of Castle Crag in the 1920’s, dropping out of regular society, like the hippies forty years later, for a life of self sufficiency, making his own clothes, baking his own bread and following a healthy natural diet, if you don’t count the Woodbines cigarettes. He also designed and manufactured lightweight camping equipment. Contemporary accounts paint a picture of an engaging gentleman, a conversationalist, by no means reclusive or anti-social. He lived in the cave for the rest of his life, moving into a hut only in cold winters, until he was 79 years old, when the fags caught up with him and he died of heart failure and bronchitis. Although dropping out to live a natural life is now an acceptable choice in the 1920’s he must have been almost unique but his eccentricity seems to have been accepted. Although what the local quarrymen and miners, who worked in the harshest of conditions everyday, made of someone living, by choice, in a draughty cave, is anyone’s guess.

For the third time this week, I panted up the hairpin bend above Hawse End, passing the Catbells bridleway on this occasion, sticking with the tarmac all the way to Grange, pausing only for the mandatory bike, bench, lake pictures. Down the hill into Grange, swerving round death-wish walkers who don’t appear to grasp the danger of walking down the middle of a relatively busy road. I took the track beside the Steamy Fart Cafe and headed past the campsite and down to the river, looking a lot less fierce than the beginning of the week. Millican Dalton’s cave is off the track which runs between Grange and Rosthwaite and proved quite easy to find, although impossible to ride to on a cross bike. Well, impossible for me, I’m sure there are some people who might find loose and slippery rocks, vertical slopes and wet roots the sort of challenge they relish. Shouldering the bike, I plodded upward until the cave came into view, surprisingly large but not looking in the least bit comfortable. No trace remained of any adaptations which might have made things more homely, a hot tub would have been a nice addition, grand views across the valley to Bowder Crag. I didn’t feel any resonance with one of my childhood heroes in the cave, it is just a big hole in a cliff, with some signs from the council forbidding the lighting of fires. The efficiency of the signs can be measured by the number of stone rings filled with charcoaled branches spread around the area like blackheads on a teenager’s face. 

Rejoining the main track, I headed toward Rosthwaite, stopping here and there to look into lesser caves until the track became more rideable, in a sort of uneven rocks, vibration white finger, loose fillings, detached retinas, Paris To Roubaix fashion. From Rosthwaite, smooth tarmac led me back to Keswick, past our Borrowdale valley, climbing playgrounds, Black Crag, Shepherds Crag, Falcon Crags, then following the eastern shore of Derwentwater, trying not to be too distracted by the views and plunging off the road into the lake. Soon I was back in Keswick, a Keswick Millican Dalton would probably still be able to recognise from 70 years ago, it’s hard to imagine what a man who made his own clothes in a cave would have made of today’s “adventurers” wearing £400 jackets to wander round the shops before dirtying their boots with a stroll to Friar’s Crag.

It's Not All About Whinlatter

Mountain Bike Ride

The Youth

18th August route.

Just to show The Youth there is Lakeland riding beyond Whinlatter, a trip to Glenderaterra Beck was mooted. And what a perfect day it is for it, cloudless blue sky, dry trails, it's hard to believe places were being evacuated because of flooding four days ago. With the old rail track still out of action, we took the C2C diversion by Castlerigg Stone Circle, an extra climb but worth it for a look at the circle and it's scenic backdrop of Blencathra. The multitude of photographers evidently think so too, standing behind tripods, waiting for the moment when there are no tourists in shot, or bright red bikes leaning against the ancient stones.

Leaving the Joe Cornish wannabes behind, although I'm sure Joe Cornish would never be shooting landscapes in the midday sun, we rode through Threlkeld and began the ascent to the Blencathra Centre, one of those ascents which seem to blanked from memory until the moment you're anally breathing up the tarmac. We took a breather where the road turns to gravel and drank in the view across Derwentwater and down Borrowdale. Unable to prevaricate any longer, we set off along the wide track contouring Blease Fell, still climbing but more gently. Eventually things levelled out until we crossed a stream from where the track drops to the valley floor via a few more water-splashes. 

The next section, literally, loomed above us and it wasn't long before bikes were shouldered as we plodded upward, my dodgy MCL ensuring cautious progress, even though the last few days of walking and cycling seem to be improving things in the pain and flexibility department. Our ascent was interrupted by the arrival of some aircraft which excited The Youth to the point of gibbering, apparently they were not just any aircraft but top secret S.A.S. stealth fighting transformers which can fold into a helicopter or a gigantic metal lizard which can stand on its hind legs or something; they can’t be much of a secret if The Youth knows about them. Although... His long hair and straggly beard do give him something of a Taliban demeanour. Just saying, like.

We reached the singletrack which clings to the side of Lonscale Fell, a grey thread cutting through the green fellside, luring us onward in an awesome situation, the bulk of Skiddaw to our right, Glenderaterra Beck to our left, five hundred feet below us. The Youth was in awe, it makes trail centres look more than a little tame. We reached the “tricky” section, where discretion became the better part of valour and a dab or two may have been employed to avoid a ride in the big yellow helicopter. A few metres further on, the technicality disappears replaced by a typical Lakeland rocky path, heading in that friendly gravity direction we love so much. Too soon we arrived at the road behind Latrigg, a dead end universally known as The Cheat’s Car Park by those who don’t want to cut out a few hundred metres of ascent when walking up Skiddaw. 

For us there was more pleasure to come in the form of the track from Latrigg back into Keswick, which is, as Status Quo used to sing, down, down, and we cruised the whole track, savouring every lump and bump, twist and turn, roots and rocks in the autumn sunshine. Feeling fit, an extra loop was mooted and we passed through Keswick and on to Portinscale, ready for my second attempt in a week on the Catbells Bridleway, it’s all about the scenery, this one, being wide and gravelled with negligible danger of sudden death,unless you are especially maladroit; it’s a place to ponder a while, take photos and generally enjoy being let loose in the outdoors, while The Youth does youthful things like endo’s and wheelies in the golden glow of the afternoon sun. Another aircraft passed overhead, some kind of micro-light affair which looked like a bathtub suspended beneath a propeller, Last Of The Summer Wine meets Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines, I think I’ll stick to the bike. The final section of the bridleway, down to the road has a little more interest and we enjoyed a last blast of rocks and roots before we took ourselves back to the fleshpots of Keswick, riding along what has to be one of the most scenic roads in England.

Storm Callum Cocks It Up.

Mountain Bike Ride

The Little Woman

Monday 15th October route

This ought to have been a blog recording another heroic effort at the Lakeland Monster Miles but thanks to Storm Callum’s attempt to submerge the Lake District it isn’t. On Saturday afternoon, the organisers made the wise call to cancel Sunday’s event. We were in Keswick, the weather was atrocious, even by Keswick standards, the campsite was being evacuated and the flood defences were going up. With a cosy cottage booked for the whole week, we could afford to sit it out. Ironically, Sunday, turned out to be a fine day after some early morning unpleasantness. 

Ironically, Sunday turned out quite nice.

By Monday, the rivers were still running high but things were returning to normal, the Little Woman and me took to the highways and byways for a gentle pootle, mainly because my MCL is still very tender and any sort of sudden movement might leave me limping like a benefit fraud on signing on day. Leaving Keswick, we pedalled through the village of Portinscale, taking the road towards Catbells, Keswick’s friendly little fell and quite often, many peoples’ first walk in the lakes. Contouring Catbells’ eastern flank is a bridleway which makes a fine ride, nicely gravelled, no harsh ascents or tricky descents, fantastic views across Derwentwater and down the lake to Castle Crag and beyond, Borrowdale in all it’s verdant glory, hanging valleys of autumnal trees, golden in the sunshine, swathes of grey rock thrusting upward. This seemed like a fine way to introduce the Little Woman to the delights of off-road riding: she didn’t seem to find it quite as delightful as I did, appearing to prefer the anodyne smoothness of tarmac. Perhaps I’ve been living with a closet roadie all these years? 

We left the bridleway behind and made our way to Grange Cafe - or as it will always be known to us Terra Trailblazers - The Steamy Fart Cafe, so called because six years ago we had one of annual team assaults on the Borrowdale Bash, (details here)it was the sort of day when right-minded folk would never have left the pubs and cafes of Keswick, even though it was May. Reaching Grange Cafe, thoroughly drenched and frozen, The Pensioner ascended the cafe’s verandah ahead of us and let out a sneaky fart which emerged as a puff of foul-smelling steam, visible to all behind. One of those experiences which made all the preceding cruelty worthwhile, or perhaps we are just easily pleased.

Sitting outside in the October sunshine,  an antithesis of that day, relaxing with coffee and Borrowdale tea bread before returning (via the road) to Keswick, where we decided to extend the ride with a pedal along the old rail track to check on the progress, or lack of, with the repairs. This four mile track between Keswick and Threlkeld was made from part of the railway which once ran between Keswick and Penrith, an excellent, scenic and most importantly, flat route to reach the North Eastern fells. Floods in 2015 washed away two of the main bridges and left another in perilous condition and it is no longer possible to ride, or walk the whole length. Detours are in place but they involve some climbing. We rode about a mile and a half until a fence blocks the track, progress has been non-existent, other than a fund-raising effort but hopefully once coordinated, the path will be reinstated. The river roared past the stone abutments which once supported the bridge, even the kayakers were staying well away today. We reversed our wheel tracks back to Keswick for five hundred milliliters of the Lake’s finest vitamin and mineral re-hydration drink - Jennings Bitter.

Sidelined

Do you know what a medial collateral ligament is? No? Neither did I until last Friday afternoon when a perfidious union of wayward bicycle and slippery mud colluded in an attempt at me doing the splits. A resemblance between me and Rudolph Nureyev has never been remarked upon and my tight wearing days are long behind me - as was my left leg, a position no self-respecting gentleman on the verge of middle-age ought to find himself in. A sharp pain to the inside of my left knee took my mind off the ignominy of sliding, walrus-like, down a muddy slope in the rain bemoaning: the weather/lack of skill/sheer stupidity* (*delete as appropriate) of attempting to ride down a forty five degree incline greasier than a kebab shop floor.

Cautiously standing, it came as a surprise to find, other than some curious electric shock type feelings on the inside of my knee and a very slight twinge of pain, I could walk okay and ride a bike just as badly as I ever could. Another six or seven miles later, I was thinking I’d escaped lightly and we piled into the cafe in high spirits, smug to have done a ride despite the weather conditions. Getting up again after sitting for thirty or forty minutes, things seemed to have stiffened up a lot and I stomped around the cafe like Long John Silver after he has stood on some Lego. 

In the car, driving was pain-free, reaching home I was able to do the all important bike wash, before a stint in the kitchen. The seriousness of the injury only became apparent after a post-prandial lounge, when standing and walking reverted to cafe standards, clomping about as though piloting an invisible Zimmer frame. Oddly enough, things became easier after a few minutes of walking about, although still painful. Time for a conversation with my (barely) tame sports therapist, a long distance conversation while she enjoys some eastern European culture. Or possibly probably clubbing all night and sleeping all day. 

“Oh yes” she said “You’ve strained your MCL, it’ll really hurt in the morning.” Well, thanks for that darling daughter, you might want to work on your bedside manner a tadge. Something for me to look forward to then. The concept of collateral ligaments is not unknown to someone who has spent over thirty years as a rock climber, they are those annoying little things that go twang whenever a stray finger is loaded sideways. The knee variety are no different, merely thicker which helps stop your legs resembling a marionette which has been kicked down a flight of stairs in a fit of drunken rage when the puppeteer realises it is only a wooden doll and never really loved him. And mine was stretched but apparently still attached to all the bits it should be attached to and my knee wasn’t giving way, so I ought to be fine in a few weeks. A few what? In just over a week I have to ride a cyclocross bike up and around some fairly huge lumps of earth and rock in the beauty and tranquility of the English Lake District. With about seven hundred other cyclists. A few days rest ought to see me okay. 

Here is the regime I’ve been using - for anyone interested. Firstly, ice, for the first two days, twenty minutes every hour or two, this made a real difference, visibly reducing the swelling. After two days, use ice again after any exercise. Ibuprofen gel four times a day, we have a roll on variety, which is better at penetrating the skin because of the ball. Sitting normally, with the knee bent is the least painful but unfortunately not the ideal way to aid recovery. Be cautious standing up and beware of any twisting movements, save the tango for later and no squatting, which means the slut drops on the dance floor must be curtailed for a while. Once the injury has settled, the leg needs to be kept straight, walking is good but while resting keep the leg out straight, feet up on a table sort of style - fortunately, forty years as a process operator gave me a thorough grounding in this technique. Rehabilitation exercises are mainly straightening the leg and pushing the knee backwards, while clenching your quads. There are plenty of videos on the net. It is important to stick with the exercises, even when the injury seems better because once a ligament has been stretched it becomes weaker, think slacker, and more prone to failure. (Additional input from Becky Lavelle Sports Therapy)

And here we are one week later, I’ve tried a gentle ride on the CX bike and it was a lot easier on the knee than walking, although fully straightening the leg still causes pain, so I may not be getting the maximum power in my pedal stroke. Seeing as everyone else on Sunday will be either younger and/or fitter than me, it hardly matters.

The First Week Of October - Another 4 Rides.

CX Bike Ride

The Little Woman

1st October 2018 route

The month started with another gentle CX bike ride around rural Teesside, taking in those little villages which exist in countryside within sight of the chemical factories. Very pleasant it was too.

Mountain Bike Ride

The Sheik Of Bristol.

2nd October 2018 route

The following day, I met the Sheik Of Bristol at Danby to acquaint him with some of the fine riding we have discovered during his Middle Eastern hiatus. Not quite so fine was the brutal westerly wind, which gusted across the moors, giving us a bit of an extra workout. After the usual exchange of pleasantries in the car park, we set off up the hill and soon found ourselves being blown across the moor from Clitherbeck Farm on the wide bridleway. TTB 1, Wind O. The road to Danby Beacon gave us a sidewind, we’ll call that a draw. A slight pause to regain our breath at the beacon and we continued on tarmac, heading into the wind this time, the usual blast across to the Danby road somewhat slower than usual. TTB 1, Wind 1. Robin Hood’s Butts is even higher, always windier and giving us a more butch version of the same headwind. TTB 1, Wind 2. Luckily our route turned off across the moor to Sis Cross, from where we had a tailwind again, TTB 2, Wind 2.

The track from Sis Cross to Danby is in the best condition I have ever seen, the Sheik will be imagining it is always like this, he’ll be in for a shock when the peat hags reappear and wheel-sucking mud puddles are trying to drag us from our bikes. But today, it was merely perfect pleasure, carving through an ocean of heather on a track,  in places barely wider than our tyres, wind at our backs, beneath a breathtaking blue sky.  TTB 3, Wind 2.

Shortly afterwards, the same tailwind was pushing us up Ainthorpe Rigg as we headed for Fryupdale, TTB 4, Wind 2. Despite the sanitisation of the lower part of the ascent, the top is still slightly technical, with enough rocks to take your mind off the climbing. From the top it’s a fast as you dare plummet to the road, starting in a rocky gully, which opens out to a grassy track, still with the odd lump and bump to catch out the unwary. Today was dry and pedestrian free, so plummet we did, all the way to the Yorkshire Cycle Hub for refreshments. Satiated, we reluctantly took ourselves outside into the wind again and made our way through the fields from Stonebeck Gate Farm, also dry, a change from the winter mud slog it sometimes is. All that remained was a last bit of road work before we were back in the car park.

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad, The Sheik Of Bristol

4th October 2018 route

Two days later, the Sheik Of Bristol re-appeared along with the Breadlad at Sheepwash car park on a less windy but equally pleasant day. We picked our way through what can only be described as a herd of canines, along the shore of Cod Beck Reservoir before an attack of bladder weakness forced us to stop, my nether regions unaccountably moist until we discovered my trusty old Camelbak reservoir had sprung a leak, like a geriatric in a post office queue it was dribbling as we moved forward. A bit of bodging ensued and we were back on our way, climbing through the woods to High Lane, heading for the Dale Head singletrack. The track to the old farmhouse seems to have been flattened out somewhat, what used to be rocky is now merely gravel, the farmhouse itself is in a sorry state now, the roof has gone and the walls are beginning to collapse, just a few years ago it was almost habitable. The famous singletrack, named after the farm, is marvellous today, dry and bog-free, contouring the moor beneath the gloomy North face of Black Hambleton, plenty of technical features to maintain concentration.  We arrived at the gate with an audience of sheep staring at us like altar boys watching a priest.

And then the climbing began, up to Low Cote Farm, up to Hill End Farm, up to Arnesgill Ridge, there’s a theme developing here, some more up to Osmotherley Stones, all on sandy thoroughfares across wide open, deserted moors. Finally, Barker’s Ridge presented itself and we began to descend, payback time, scene of many accidents in the days of V brakes and skinny tyres, on modern bikes it barely registers. After the stoney delight of Barker’s Ridge, the track down Scugdale came next, from Stoney Wickes to Scugdale Hall, varied all the way down from loam to rocks and ruts, the surface constantly evolves as it heads into the valley below the climbers’ playground of Barker’s Crags. We regrouped at the gate, happy but aware that the way back to the cars involves a big hill.

A gradual ascent through the farmyard at Harfa House, which is actually a whole house and some years ago, scene of one of the funniest Terra Trailblazers’ incidents, when the Ginger One rode over a hidden obstacle and stalled in a farmyard full of knee deep slurry. We knew it was knee deep because that’s how far it went up his (bare) leg, an evil smelling feculent sludge even by the Ginger One’s standards, as we had all successfully negotiated the excreta, sympathy was expressed by loud guffaws and childish banter. Today, the farmyard is a much different place and we breezed through without even a cowpat to sully our tyres. Leaving the farm behind, we rode through fields to Clain Woods, before hauling ourselves and our bikes up the infamous steps. From the top it was only a short distance back to Sheepwash and even shorter drive to the Rusty Bike cafe in Swainby.

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad

5th October 2018 route

A fifty percent chance of rain, generally means a hundred percent chance of getting soaked and sure enough we did, we entered the cloud driving up Carlton Bank to Lordstones and stayed in the clag all day. The kind of constant drizzle, which, although not heavy, permeates every layer, laughs at claims of waterproofness and turns glasses opaque. Our actual route remains vague for various reasons, the main one being we maybe ought not have been in some of the places we (inadvertently) found ourselves. Suffice to say, it was wet and slippy, many fallen trees were negotiated in some woods and we found a few nice tracks before emerging somewhere near Faceby and sneaked back over Carlton Bank under the cover of  mist. Probably our slowest and shortest ride of the year but were not concerned, we’d got out and beat the weather, forced ourselves from the gravitational pull of the couch and had some (mainly type 2) fun despite the elements. And we were wise enough to bring spare clothes, the luxury of getting out of wet kit cannot be overstated on days like today.