Caution: slightly sweary post. I’m not normally a fan of strong language, but there’s a fair bit in this post. not really sure why.
After my last post it was pretty obvious that things weren’t going entirely to plan. To summarise, I’d been feeling progressively worse and worse for a few months, culminating in a scary moment on Kirkstone Pass where I honestly thought for a second or two that I might not make it down the other side. But of course, I did, and when I got back home, I did what any sensible person would do.
I drunk a bottle of wine and felt bloody sorry for myself.
Of course, the next day I phoned my doctor, and explained what had happened, and got the next available appointment – which was eight days away. I thought it probably best not to ride my bike for that time, just in case something truly serious had happened to my heart, so I sat around in a sulk, and generally wasn’t a nice person to be around. I mean, I’m not that nice normally anyway, but I’ve noticed that if I’m off my bike for a few days I get even more tetchy than usual. I’m sure that there’s some physiological reason for this, but in my mind, it’s just a total pain in the arse. Anyhow, the doctor finally saw me, I explained carefully what happened, she took an ECG, and then did something that made my heart sink even further. You know that noise when you call an emergency plumber because the pipes in the loft have burst, and he looks at the carnage, sucks his teeth, and you know the next line is going to be “this is going to cost you”. My doctor looked at the ECG, made the same noise…
“I’m going to refer you to the cardiology unit at Addenbrookes.”
“Can I still ride my bike until then?”
“No. And I want you to carry a glyceryl trinatrate spray with you eveywhere you go from now on.”
Fuck. Fuckity-fuckity-fucksocks. I really didn’t like the sound of any of that. I’m only 45. I’m not ready to be put out to pasture yet. Besides, I’ve found something that I really really enjoy doing. Something that makes me happier, healthier, and a nicer person for my children to be around. Suddenly being told I couldn’t do it was really not in the plan. I’d never have got on a bloody bike in the first place if I’d known it was going to end like this. I got home from the doctors, and did what any sensible person would do.
I drunk a bottle of wine and felt bloody sorry for myself.
Next day, I realised, I needed a plan. And the best place to formulate one was on my bike – so I went out for a ride. And I think this was absolutely the best thing I could have done. I pottered through The Fens, enjoying the sun on my back, and listening to the birds singing. And I decided at that point, that I needed a bit of a change of direction in my cycling plans. You see, just prior to riding the Fred Whitton, I’d been making plans to ride the Haute Route. Which is essentially something like eight Freds in eight days through The Alps. It’s about as tough a challenge as you can get really. But, riding through The Fens, gently, enjoying the feeling of just being outside, put things back into perspective. And I made a simple choice. No more organised rides [1]. The last few I’d done had all been about chasing some goal that I didn’t really care whether I reached or not. And it had driven me to somewhere I really wasn’t comfortable. Namely necking two bottles of wine to try to stop feeling sorry for myself. And since then, I’ve been out for several rides, all of them with no particular goal or target, and all of them brilliant.
And today, I went to the cardio unit at Addenbrookes, and was stuck on a treadmill with loads of wires stuck to me (sadly, I’m rather hairy, and so now have two holes shaved into my chest hair where a pair of electrodes went. I’m going to draw some googly eyes in there) and told to run. And I ran, and ran until the sweat poured off me. The consultant looked at the resultant ECG, and said “You’re fine. Get back on your bike”.
Seven of the best words I’ve heard all year.
[1] With one exception. The marvellous Shropshire Hills ride. I’ll still do this every year, as long as I can.
As last year, Sol has also written about his experiences with The Fred Whitton challenge. And as he still doesn’t have anywhere to store it, I’m going to keep it here alongside my own. Thanks dood – it was a great day out. Here’s to our next adventure. The following words, and the title for this post are all Sols:
The build up to this year’s Fred Whitton event has been a difficult one: the crap weather this year on every (and I mean every) training ride or sportive; the resultant water damage to the bike’s bearings needing last minute repairs the week before the Fred; poor availability of parts on multiple internet shopping sites; and the last week at work, dragging by, as the keeness to get out in the hills on two wheels builds.
Eventually the car is packed; Neil and I head to the Lakes on what feels like our annual pilgrimage. Simon Curry, together with his mate Rich are joining Neil and I on the ride this year. As first timers they both have an expectation and excitement obvious as we sign on Saturday afternoon.
Simon’s folks live in the Lakes and have kindly offered lodging for the weekend. Saturday evening is filled with conversation and pasta. Conversation rarely strays from “the event” as Simon, his wife, his Mum and Dad, his Sister chat constantly. His wonderfully engaging niece has a minor sulk when she can’t bring the adults’ focus back to her holiday in Ely. It dawns on me how matter of fact Neil and I are about the Fred – it’s our third year. As old hands we are perhaps being unjustly afforded some minor celebrity status. I wonder if we are perhaps occasionally exaggerating the suffering of 10 hours in the saddle for effect and tales of daring do! I make deliberate effort to downplay how hard Hardknott is. Besides, as the conversation moves around the dinner table I drift back to last year, I don’t remember the pain. I try to picture it, but it’s not there – all that remains is a sense of labour, and achievement, of being part of something rather special – the challenge amongst the beauty and grandeur of the Lake District National Park, the shared camaraderie, the bloody awful weather.
“If you can ride Hardknott, you can ride anything!”, Neil offers Simon across the table. It brings me back into the conversation and in that one statement I’m reminded me why we are ostensibly here again. Last year I had, Neil hadn’t. I was back, at least in part to share in the fully expected success of us both completing the Fred again, and for Neil to tick his “I didn’t walk” box.
The following morning, having woken before our alarms, we eat more porridge than it’s possible to eat at 5am. By 6.15am we’re finally there. Suited and booted. Lined up. Sat astride our bikes watching a drone in the sky filming the start. Pulses of bikes heading right from Grasmere off down the road. Sedate pedalling is the order of the day. As we move off together, we soon find a nice tempo. My heart rate is good. I’m warm. Even the drizzle can’t pull at the sense of wellbeing and readiness.
As Simon and Rich pull ahead. I smile. The impetuous of youth. It’s a long way to go … no use pushing harder at this stage. They’ll learn. Neil and I are obviously on the same page as we just plug along the Windermere lakeside content to keep tempo. As we turn left up Holbeck Lane toward Kirkstone, the legs make their first complaints of the day and my heart rate climbs. I ease back a little but still the climb eats away at my comfortable heart rate cushion. As we reach Kirkstone. That lost memory of the discomfort and labour comes back, and in comparison this year seems harder. That climb just seems to go on and on and on! My heart rate shouldn’t be this high. Blimey this is hard! Neil by now is dropping back, but I’m in the zone and we’ll meet on the descent.
As I finally crest the top of Kirkstone and start my descent, I cast a quick look back and see Neil is not far behind. I look down at the descent and smile at the memory of speed. As I squeeze the brakes the first time I know fear. Bloody Hell! I squeeze with all my might and there’s a momentary pause before rims generate some heat and the bike starts to retard the urge of gravity hurling me downward. I can’t let the brake go again. The wet road, the rain, the carbon rims contrive to rob me of a fast descent. It’s all I can do to contain speed to a level that the brakes can cope with.
As I reach the bottom I swear not to use carbon rims again in the wet, and settle to wait for Neil who joins me shortly after. As I start to tell him about how crap carbon brakes are, intent on sharing an understanding I now have as to why he has such a bad time descending last year, I see he’s not listening. He’s pedalling, but he’s not engaged in what we’re doing. His mind is elsewhere.
It might be the fact we’ve ridden together for years. It might be the fact that on the training sportives we’ve done this year he’s struggled on occasions, his heart rates have been comparatively higher than normal. It may have been the fact that I‘d crested Kirkstone ahead of him – I don’t out climb Neil! It may have been that he just looked like shit. Instinctively I think I knew right then that Neil could be thinking about bailing. As innocuous as “You alright mate!” can sound to anyone else listening, it’s the history and friendship behind the hours of stuff we’ve done together that’s hidden in the meaning that counts. I could tell he was struggling, and I knew right then he’d be burdened with the potential of bailing.
He confirmed he wasn’t well. He’d had some chest pains on the climb, and was obviously scared. After a few mins of questions and answers, we agreed to idle, gather our thoughts. He felt a bit better and we continued through Patterdale and as the miles past, we settled to a steady easy pace. With Matterdale approaching – the second climb of the day, I asked Neil again how he was feeling. “Lets just see how we go!”
At this point I wasn’t sure if he intended to dig in like so many times before. I worried, he’d make the effort and ditch further round the course with no way back. But with the exertion of climbing, you just get lost in your own efforts unable to think about anything else. As we descended and rejoined each other we had another catch up, he was non-committal. We worked through our eta to the first feed station, and cut off times. We worked out we could make cut off easily at the rate we were going. But the dilemma we were in was mounting. For my part I wanted to make it, but didn’t want to drop Neil. For his part he didn’t want to bail, but he’d had a definite warning sign. Best to play safe.
Simon’s family had confirmed he was a few mins ahead as we’d crested Kirkstone. We’d travelled at a very easy pace for some miles since then, and no doubt they were further ahead by now. While Matterdale had passed without further complaints from Neil, we had a long way to go.
“Neil mate, I can’t make any decision for you … only you know what’s happening in your head and how bad things are. But you know we’re going slowly and we have a long way to go!”
Keswick was some miles ahead along the A66. Neil just said, “Come on!” and started ramping up the pace. We worked together down toward Keswick. Jumping groups of riders, and sheltering behind others where needed. Sharing the lead, and swopping back and forth as we individually flagged. I didn’t know it right there and then that he’d made his decision to bail at Keswick (in hindsight it was the obvious place to bail as it’s the nearest place back to the start on the course). As we ate up the miles down the A66 I figured he was kicking his heels in and was making up for lost time.
As we peeled off the A66 and I spotted Simon and Rich up ahead I was sure Neil was with me. But when I looked back to a tail of riders drafting me, I couldn’t see him. I figured it best to reach Simon and Rich, and when I caught them I explained what had happened and asked them to wait. Some 5-10 mins by the side of the road Neil hadn’t turned up. I was concerned, and with no idea whether he’d bailed, or had a puncture, or something else unforeseen, we realised we just needed to get moving. It was pelting down with rain. We were getting cold. It felt harsh. Did I make the right decision? It continued to weigh on my mind.
At the finish line some five hours later, I accepted humbly that Neil, having realised he would bail, dug in on the A66 and decided to help me get back up with the other two? Having spent himself along the A66 he’d seen me pulling up towards Simon and Rich, and had quietly dropped off the back, unable to stay with the group in the final drag to the reunion. A typically selfless Ronketti act – I would have preferred to have had a definite, “See ya later!” as I wouldn’t have worried so much. But in reflection, it’s not his style. I can only imagine the disappointment, and the last thing you need is to be forced into bearing that disappoint to three others who still have some 5 hours of hard cycling ahead.
I could write on about the remaining five hours I sweated and laboured up and down fells. Of the challenge of riding on into some of the heaviest rain I’ve ridden through. I could tell you about the air ambulance, which held us up on the descent from Wrynose and the thoughts for the poor soul they were recovering from that descent. Or the pleasure of completing the event for the 3rd time – of not walking the hardest climbs in the country, or the money that’s been raised for charity. There’s no need – it’s explicit. The Fred is always a physical challenge that demonstrates obvious and real rewards for participants. However, it’s the implicit, the hidden, the subtle stuff that the Fred Whitton throws at you each time you’ve done it that draws you back. All that stuff that’s hard to write about. In truth I don’t need to write more – the story’s been told in the preceding paragraphs. Search for it in the difficulties of outwardly riding but inwardly needing to support a mate. It’s what matters. It’s the real reason you should get on your bike and try out something this hard. It’s not just the physical challenge that makes riding the Fred so hard. Simon and Rich now know it … I could see that shared experience and knowing in their smiles and hear it in the chatter at the end. The real story is in the friendship that hours of training build. Of common unsaid understandings.
I know there are many more stories out there born May the 11th 2014. Ours is such a small part of an event this big. Go make your own stories. It’s what makes life such an adventure.
Pain shot across my chest. What on earth was that? I looked at my heart rate monitor, it was reading zero, as it was broken.
BOOM!
Another shot. Spots in my vision. Loud whistling in my ears. I look around at where I am, and what I’m doing, the indescribable beauty of the location. I try to understand what’s happening, and every avenue I turn down leads to a dead end.
BA-BOOM!
More. I can feel my chest tightening, and my breath rasping. I’m scared now. Properly scared. I want Faye. I want my girls. I want this to end. Is this it? I don’t want to leave everything here, on a windswept Lakeland pass, there’s still so much left to do. Could this be the end?
But let’s go back to the beginning. Not the end. It’s not a nice place to dwell. I’d travelled up with Sol to the Lake District early Saturday to have another crack at the Fred Whitton Challenge. This is, I’d guess, the most venerated of all UK cycle rides. 180kms, 4000m of climbing, and gradients exceeding 33% in places. But to distill it to bare numbers removes the beauty of the scenery, the companionship on the road of the shared pain, the sharing of food and stories at the end. It’s like trying to simplify the feeling of your first kiss into the chemical formula for adrenaline and endorphins. Sure, that’s what’s going on at a basic level, but there’s so much more to it than just the numbers and data. We got up to Kendal to meet up with Simon, who’s parents were to take us in for the weekend, and treat us like kings. I don’t suppose that Mr & Mrs Simon’s mum and dad will ever get to read this, but just in case, thank you for everything. You made the weekend so much more memorable for me with your kindness and hospitality.
Stage one of the weekend was to get signed in at the new start/finish location at Grasmere. The weather was, well, pretty normal for the Lakes really – wet, windy, and very changeable. This was due to last the whole of the duration of the event, but after last year, anything was to be an improvement. Signing in was quick and easy, and we returned to Kendal, where we were presented with our bodyweight in pasta to eat, and the entertainment was provided by Oscar the cockerpoo puppy chasing Bumble the kitten around like an out-take from a Tom and Jerry cartoon. Every five minutes the kitten would be cornered, at which point it would deliver a sharp paw to the nose of the dog, the dog would run away, and the whole process would start again. I’m getting slightly ahead of myself here, but I feel I must also apologise on Sol’s behalf for any trauma caused to Bumble in the course of the weekend – this morning, I was wasting some time just idly playing with the kitten, when Sol released a truly magnificent twelve-second three-octave fart. The cat froze for a split second, looked at me with terror in her eyes, and shot out of the door.
Back to the main plot. We set alarms for 04:45 Sunday, and crashed out for the night, full of expectation and a certain amount of apprehension. A sign of just how much apprehension is that both Sol and I were awake before the alarm went off next morning. We both climbed into our cycling kit in silence in the darkness, and crept downstairs. And although I knew I had to eat a hearty breakfast, my mouth was dry, and my nerves had killed my appetite. Still, I got stuck in, and forced down as much as I could, along with some coffee. We’d loaded the bikes into the car the evening before, so all that was left to do was make up the drinks for the day, and throw our bags with spare dry clothes in the boot, and hit the road. The journey was completed with animated discussion of what was to come. Sol and I offering advice to Simon, who had never ridden The Fred before, and Simon’s enthusiasm to get stuck in feeding back to us. By the time we reached Grasmere, we were all eager to get going. We’d arranged to meet up with Rich at the startline, and by a quirk of fate we ended up right next to each other in the queue to get in. We unloaded the bikes, attached the race numbers (even though this isn’t a race, they’re referred to as race numbers, and the fastest finisher is traditionally declared the winner, so I’m not about to break this tradition) and queued up at the start line. By 06:30 we were off. Spirits high, we pedalled lightly down through Ambleside. I was apprehensive of the day, as I remembered well the pain from the previous two years, but also incredibly optimistic about the day. Everything was right. The weather was OK. I was feeling good. The four of us were riding well together. Everything was perfect. Everything in it’s right place. I smiled, happily content with the situation, totally in control. We swung off the main road into the ascent to Troutbeck, and then on to Kirkstone Pass.
And this is where things started to go wrong. My legs felt good. And for the first part of the climb, everything felt fine. I could feel my breathing becoming laboured, but nothing to be alarmed about. I mean, it’s a 450m pass. It’s going to be hard, right? I should expect to have to work at it. The next thing I remember coherently was fighting for breath, wondering what the hell had just happened, and looking around to see where I was. I was still upright. Still pedalling, but completely empty. My chest hurt. My lungs were burning. I was, understandably, feeling rather disorganised. Just ahead I could hear the cowbells and cheering and clapping at the top of the pass. I remember thinking “just reach the top. That’s all you have to do now. Just reach the top”. I didn’t have a plan any further than that. I didn’t know if I’d need one. Totally spent, slumped over the bars, gagging for air, I got past the top, and thought about dismounting there and then. I thought about Louison Bobet, abandoning his final tour on the Col D’Iseran.
A little voice at the back of my head was telling me to carry on. Where to? Where was I going? Why was I going there? What would I find when I got there? I didn’t know. But there was only one way to find out. I clicked into the tallest gear, kicked once to get over the crest, and hung on. It’s probably fair to say that I may not have been totally in control in some places on the way down. 75km/h on wet roads, with cold brakes, wearing lycra, and only a slightly fuzzy grip on reality really isn’t recommended. In fact, it’s bloody stupid. It did the trick though. Adrenaline coursed through me, re-awakening my senses. At the bottom I joined up with Sol.
“Bloody hell mate, you look rough. You OK?”
“Um, I may not be up for this…”
We talked about what just happened. Sol is a great motivator, and will always get the best out of a situation. In this case, he agreed that things didn’t sound good, and that I needed to have a think about things. I made the decision that getting home in one piece was more important than anything else. It wasn’t a tough decision. It wasn’t really a decision at all really. The first thought when things were going badly was for Faye and the girls. I needed them now more than ever. I was going to bail out at Keswick, and ride gently back to Grasmere. I was going to abandon. To fail. Of course, like all good plans, it didn’t quite work out like that… I wanted to make sure that we caught Simon and Rich, by now a minute or so ahead of us, so Sol didn’t have to complete the course on his own. We finally caught them just past Keswick, and I slipped gently away. A spent force. I rode some way down Borrowdale until I could no longer see them ahead, then stopped, sat by the side of the road in the rain, and cried.
The ride back to Grasmere was something I’ll never forget. As I’d already gone past the turning from the A66 I had to ride back the wrong way along the course for a few miles. Hundreds of Fred Whittoneers rode the other way. Some waved. Some asked if I was OK. I couldn’t answer. And I’m sorry for that. Really, if you were one of the good people who asked me if I was OK, and I ignored you, I’m truly sorry. You deserve better than that. Truth was, I wasn’t OK. But I couldn’t get the words out. By the time I got back to Grasmere I’d composed myself somewhat. I rode back over the startline, reported my number to the startline marshal so he could record my finish rather than send out a search party when I didn’t arrive at the first checkpoint, and tried to apologise to Lofty, the organiser of the event.
“Don’t be so bloody daft lad (it always makes me laugh when I’m referred to as “lad”. I’m nearly 50). I’m just bloody glad we didn’t need to send out a rescue for you”
As I didn’t have the car keys I had to sit in the tent for a few (well, five and a half actually) hours to wait for the arrival of the other three. And slowly, the tent began to fill up with finishers, and as I spoke with many of them, I started to realise that of course, I’d done the right thing, and of course, the event will be there next year. There was also a steady stream of walking wounded coming back in, victims of the brutal descents, particularly Hardknott and Wrynose. And then something more worrying. An air ambulance was required to lift someone off of Wrynose, a faller on the descent, with head injuries. This was about the time that I was expecting the other three through. It’s fair to say that Simon probably wasn’t expecting the big hug he got when I saw him cross the finish line. As I write this, I’ve not heard anything on the condition of the fallen rider. Fingers crossed.
It’s easy for me to get overly analytical about my performance. I thought I was ready for The Fred, but I guess I’m lacking fitness. First port of call for me will be to see a doctor before I take on any more strenuous rides. I don’t know what happened on the way up Kirkstone Pass, but obviously it wasn’t good. More profoundly, it was the first time that my body has let me down, and prevented me from doing something I want to do. This is a big moment, psychologically, for me. And I’m not sure yet how I’m going to handle it. I’m OK at the moment, but remember what I said earlier about plans? I still have them. Lots of them. And I don’t want to lose them yet.
Oscar, the dog, had a far more succinct view of my performance on the day however, and decided to show me this by leaving me a little present on my cycling jersey after I had got changed:
I’m just glad he chose the jersey rather than the helmet next to it.
Postscript. As of 14-May, we’ve reached our £1000 target for MacMillan Cancer Support. http://www.justgiving.com/fredwhittontake3 – thank you all, you’re all lovely lovely people.
Forgive me. I don’t often quote Nietzsche. Mainly because I don’t understand a lot of it. But I like that one, and it seems to make sense right now, as I’ve spent a lot of time searching within myself for the strength I’m going to need next weekend on for the Fred Whitton ride. And the longer I gaze into this particular personal abyss, the more I realise that I’m searching for something more fundamental than whether I have the strength to complete a bicycle ride. But that’s enough of the philosophy for now.
In purely practical terms, things are actually looking pretty good. We’ve got accommodation sorted out (cheers Simon), I’ve got the Monday booked off work for the journey home, and the bike is all set up and ready to go. My personal training is pretty much done now, I’ll probably just pop out for one more longish ride this weekend in order to just keep my legs turning over. I guess that now would be as good a time as any to mention the last training ride too, as it had it’s ups and downs, but was a pretty good day out all in all.
Sol, Simon and I had agreed to use the annual Cambridge 100 as a good way to get a few extra miles in our legs in the lead up to the Fred. Sol and I did this ride last year, and kind of misjudged our pace a little… We got a really good tow around the first half of the course courtesy of some chaps time-trialling their way around in preparation for an iron-man competition they were doing. These guys didn’t want us to do any work at the front, as they’re not allowed to do this in the ride they were training for, but they were cool with us riding in their group. However, keeping that pace killed us for the second half of the ride, and we both suffered rather. This year, we were determined not to do the same thing. Besides, I was struggling with a recently broken rib, which didn’t bother me most of the time. Only when bent over, or breathing deeply. Dammit.
So, we got away smartly at 7am, and immediately settled into a nice routine, swapping the lead, enjoying the beautiful scenery and morning stillness as we rode out from Cambridge towards Fordham. I guess that we were doing a pretty good job, as when I looked over my shoulder I also noticed the other 18 riders lined up behind us, steadfastly refusing to take a pull at the front. This went on for quite a few miles, and eventually I rolled off the front, and went right to the back of the group, just to see if anyone else fancied doing some of the work. Nope. Sol and Simon kept swapping the lead, and not one other bugger would do anything to help out. I mean, it’s only a bike ride, and not a race at all, but still, it’s pretty bad form to just sit there, and not even offer a couple of hundred metres with your nose into the wind. I rode back past the line up to the front, and could sense that Sol was also getting a bit fed up with this, so we had a quiet word with Simon, pulled out of Isleham onto the Prickwillow road, and went for it. 10kms later, we’d dropped our chasing pack. Sadly we’d also comprehensively knackered each other in the chase, but it was good fun while it lasted. The rest of the first half of the ride was pretty uneventful, other than the stark beauty of the scenery. I know I’m in a minority of about three people, but I really do like the bleakness of the Fens.
Just before the halfway point I had a bit of a wobbly leg moment, probably due to trying to keep up with Sol, but also, I like to think, because my ribcage was properly bloody sore now, and I was struggling to maintain a constant breathing rate. This, happily, coincided with the first rest stop, so we took the opportunity to sit down, have a cuppa, and I wanged down some Nurofen to try and take the edge off the pain. Once we’d finished the tea, we set off again, and had a lovely few kms with the wind right behind us, and sun was now getting up, and the road surface was good. We span along lazily, holding about 40km/h with ease. Until Simon’s saddlebag exploded, which gave us another short break while we recovered bits from the road and bodged it all back together again. A few miles further on, into Outwell, and we caught a group of four chaps from a local cycling club. Being the polite chap I am, as asked if we could sit with them for a few miles.”No problem!” came the cheerful answer.
74.2 metres up the road, and the miserable git turned around, and spat “are any of you going to come to the front then?” at us. My normally placid attitude kind of snapped a bit at this point, and I just rode to the front without saying a word. Sol, considerably less placidly than me, decided that the best thing to do was just to drop them, and get on with our own ride. (I later noticed at the end of the ride when we were sitting down with a cuppa and some food that the same group were pointing at us, and talking to their clubmates. Hopefully we had transgressed some unwritten rule of the cycling club. If there’s one thing that bugs me about cycling it’s the stupidity of the unwritten and unspoken rules on the club run. Have a read of Richard Smith’s excellent book ‘recycled’ for a withering appraisal of why an awful lot of road cyclists are complete knobs).
Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes, Just coming into Ely. I like this bit of the ride, as there’s a really good atmosphere in the city as it’s one of the major foodstops on the green in front of the cathedral. And also, just because it’s an absolute pleasure to ride through such a beautiful city. The ride out the other side is also a real laugh, as the ‘serious’ 100 mile ride meets up with the route of the shorter fun ride, and suddenly, it’s just like being a kid again, riding out with a bunch of mates on a Sunday afternoon just for the fun of it. That said, there’s still a good 10 miles to go. Most of it into the wind. Some of it uphill. And on one memorable occasion, accompanied by a massive crash that sent one hapless rider headfirst into a drainage ditch, and had Sol and I skidding sideways up the road trying to avoid the wreckage.
5’57 mins after we started, we crossed the finish line. Which wasn’t a bad time at all, give that we were stopped for 30 mins in total, drinking tea and rebuilding Simon’s luggage. In terms of preparation for The Fred, that’s pretty handy, as I reckon that I’ve finally got some strength in my legs. My rib is a bit of a worry, but I’ve still got a few days, and it’s getting less painful every day. A few painkillers, and I’ll be just fine.
So when I see that abyss on the day, I’m going to give it a damned stern talking to, and ask it what it’s staring at.
As should be obvious by now to anyone who knows me, or has read any of these pages, I have a bit of history with the Fred Whitton Challenge. Widely regarded as one of the toughest one day cycling challenges around, last year saw me nearly being carted off, hypothermic, in an ambulance. Thanks mainly to Sol, but also to many cups of tea and some good Northern common sense, that didn’t happen, and instead I went on to finish in a little under 10 hours.
Just think about that. 10 hours. My average heart rate was somewhere in the high 150s. I’ve seen it written that this ride, in terms of time and calorific expenditure is the equivalent of two marathons back to back. As I’ve never run a marathon I have no idea whether this is true. If it is, my heart absolutely goes out to the thousands who completed the London marathon today, as I know just how much it hurt me to get even half way round. The second half was just a case of blind stubbornness on my part, a lot of support, and several Really Good cups of tea.
Anyway. I said at the end of last years event that I’d never do it again. Actually I said it about half way around, but even I didn’t really believe that at the time. So of course I entered again this year. After all, it would take an immense stroke of bad luck to have my entry accepted for this massively oversubscribed (no, I don’t know why either) event three years running. To coin a well overused phrase, if it wasn’t for bad luck I’d have no luck at all, so obviously I got an entry this year, and so for the past few months I’ve been racking up the miles around The Fens, and generally letting the thing prey on my mind to the point where I started dreaming about the run through Borrowdale and into Honister last night. It wasn’t an unpleasant dream oddly enough, but it does show that I’m starting to think about this thing probably rather more than is healthy.
The first big test of the year came in the fantastic No Excuses sportive. Sol & I teamed up with Ironman Andy and The Hillingdon Locomotive Craig for this one. And Craig, after selflessly towing us all round for most of the ride, paid us the great compliment of saying “I dunno how you can do that given that your training just consists of ragging it around The Fens every now and then”. I walked away with a good finishing time, a belly full of tea and pastie, and an enormous smile. Things were looking good. And then came the Newmarket Spring Saddle sportive last weekend. This was a bit more serious, and 162kms, and a fair bit hillier. And I was recovering from a nasty chest infection (yup, I’m just getting the excuses in now) as well, which didn’t help. And although I was feeling positive before I turned a pedal at the start of the ride, it was immediately apparent that I was going to have a really really bad day. I died a thousand times. I ran out of energy about 2hrs and 50kms in, and just had to suffer the rest of it. The knowledge that I felt absolutely awful, but it was only going to go downhill for the next 4 or 5 hours was just crushing. The inevitability of the rest of the ride panned out in front of me, and I just had to hope for the best. It was also very apparent that Sol had set his sights on a sub 6hr30 time. Which sounds pretty easy really, but given that we did the same ride last year in 7hr30 when I was healthy, that should give you an idea of the size of the task. I swore in 13 different languages. I cursed. I made comedy groaning noises. I was probably gurning for queen and country. I was certainly frothing at the mouth and leaving trails of snot in my wake. But, slowly, it became apparent that I was going to make it. 6hrs16. And it’s probably safe to say that the tea and bacon butty at the finish line were the most enjoyable things I’ve ever put in my mouth.
Compare that with today. I’d not sat on the bike since that ride. So today, I popped out for a quickie with fellow Fred Whittoneer Simon. (Not that Simon. Another Simon). We slipped out of the town, and into some of the more sparsely populated parts of High Suffolk. My senses were almost overwhelmed by the vibrancy of the smells, colours and sounds of the countryside. The heavy fragrance of the rape seed coated everything, and the contrast between the yellow of the fields, the deep blue of the sky, and the red of Simon’s shirt would have made a beautiful photo. It took me straight back to my childhood. Riding a bike just because it’s fun. Turning the pedals for the sheer joy of building as much speed as possible down the hills, revelling in the freedom of it all. When I was a child I used to dream of flying – skimming silently above the ground, no effort, just enjoying the act of moving effortlessly. Swooping through corners, diving into gullies, feeling the rush of the air on my face. Today was as close as I’ve ever come to that feeling whilst being awake.
And when I’m suffering (and I will, no question) during the Fred Whitton ride, I’ll try to take my mind back to that feeling. The euphoria of my childhood dream.
Finally, and it seems rather churlish to bring it up here, but one of the reasons for doing this again is to try to raise a few bob for charity. Actually, no, that’s a lie. It’s not of the reasons for doing it. I’m doing it because I want to. But it’s a handy way to publicise some fund raising that we’re doing on the back of this. http://www.justgiving.com/fredwhittontake3 if you fancy chipping a couple of quid in.
[1] Apologies obviously to Yeats. I doubt he ever thought that one was even a possibility.
Occasionally, just occasionally, I find my mind and body to be in harmony with each other, and the environment. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I try to make the most of it, and today was one of those perfect moments.
Regular readers of this blog will know of my previous form with the Fred Whitton ride. It’s safe to say that over the past couple of years I’ve suffered on this, quite a lot. And so I did the only sensible thing, and entered again for this years ride, just to confirm that I’m not getting any fitter, and the Lake District isn’t getting any flatter. And so, over the past week I’ve been attempting to get some miles in on the cycle, to try to shock some early year fitness into my aged carcass, which is still recovering from Christmas gluttony. By and large, the rides have been pretty character building rather than actually enjoyable. I mean, I enjoy the feeling after the ride, and the anticipation of the ride, but there’s not a whole lot of fun in grinding along into a Fenland headwind complete with driving rain, slithering around on a carpet of mud that has been thoughtfully spread across the road by the local farmers.
Today, however, was different. The wind had dropped. The temperature was down a few degrees, but the sky was gin clear. The roads have dried out a bit. I kind of knew it was going to be a Good Ride pretty much from the off, but I didn’t realise quite how enjoyable it was going to be. I span lazily out of town, not really thinking too much about how fast I was going, just avoiding potholes and homicidal tractor drivers. After a few minutes I was off the main road, and had a wonderful moment when I realised that I was laughing aloud. I mean, properly laughing. Not just thinking of txting ‘LOL’ in response to a video of a cat dressed up as a shark sitting on a vacuum cleaner. This was genuine, completely unexpected joy at just riding my bike on a nice day, the kind of feeling that you see in children all the time. The low winter sun wasn’t doing a great job as far as the temperature goes, but I think was at least partly responsible for the feeling of boundless enthusiasm and energy. I decided to give my legs a workout, so attacked the bottom of the only hill around here with rather more gusto than usual. I kept an eye on my heart-rate monitor as I hit the hill. 165… push… 170… push harder… 175… I could hear my breathing becoming heavier. 180… legs hurting now, but don’t let it go, keep pushing… 185… Ahead of me an F15 from Lakenheath screamed past, afterburners ripping apart the air, shattering the stillness. I visualised the enormous air intakes, greedily devouring the cold, thick air, feeding the engines… 185… starting to feel dizzy, gulping as much air as my lungs could use… 190… every shred of me wants to stop this, but I’m still in control, the top of the hill is only metres away now… 193… waves of pain and nausea fill me as I slump over the crest of the hill, totally spent.
Once I’d regained my composure (which to be fair, had taken a bit of a battering on the way up the hill) I took stock of the situation. My senses felt more alive than usual, the same cold air that I’d been grasping at on the way up the hill now felt cool and refreshing. The first draught of a cold beer on a long ago summer afternoon in my youth. The noise of the F15 had now gone, replaced by birdsong. High above, a solitary kestrel hung, still, silent, watching the ground. My whole body was tingling. My mouth was filled with a metallic taste as a result of the previous few minutes exertion. Sadly my heightened sense of smell alerted me to the presence of a large pile of manure in the field I was riding past. Dammit, it was *so* nearly perfect.
The memories of this moment will fade with time, no doubt. But the urge to use my body while I’m still able will remain. And if I get an entry into the Fred Whitton ride this year, I’ll try to remember this as I hit the ramps at the bottom of the Hardknott Pass, to prepare myself for the onslaught ahead.
I’m sitting here, at my desk in the shed, and in the corner of my vision is my bicycle. I keep it in here mainly because I like looking at it. It embodies everything that is good about design. It’s beautiful to look at. It’s made of the best materials. It’s light. It’s superbly functional. It’s well proportioned. Everything about the design, and the execution of that design is, in my eyes, just about perfect. Would I change anything? Well, possibly the I’d swap the handlebar for something a bit lighter. But this is understandable, seeing as I picked that up on eBay a couple of years ago as it was cheap. I mean, it’s not a *bad* handlebar. It’s just not up to the standard of the rest of the bike.
I draw inspiration from this, which is one reason I keep it in my office. I can look at it, study it, and try to apply some of the thought processes that have gone into it’s construction into other areas of my life, both professionally, and personally. If ever I think about doing a half-arsed job on something “just because it’ll do”, one look at my bicycle is enough to stop that thought in it’s tracks, and convince me to do the best job I can do with what is at hand.
And so it’s becoming with project ZXR. As I’m diving into it, I’m already starting to work out ways to improve what is there, and to lose weight, and improve the handling. The engine has already been treated to the attention of the best four-stroke specialist that I know, and as already mentioned, it’s healthy, and producing good power. In terms of handling, the scope for improvement is actually pretty limited. Fork seals are being replaced and the oil levels checked, and I have a new rocker linkage to replace the standard one, as the rising rate curve on the standard one is more suited to flat smooth racetracks than pothole-infested Fenland roads. Other than that, it’s just a case of setting the ride-height and damping, and enjoying it.
Weight reduction is something that there’s a bit more scope for improvement. The ZXR isn’t the lightest of 750s, and by modern standards, is a bit of a fatty. A few things are so easy to improve that it doesn’t make sense not to. For example, the fairing infill panels. I mean, I can see the point of these on a big touring BMW or something where it all needs to look nice and symmetrical. But they have no function other than to look nice. And what isn’t there can’t weigh anything, and can’t fail. Nor can it turn into a festering lump of rust which is impossible to get rid of. So, they’re already sitting in the spare parts bin. Next up, I’m not really looking to carry pillions on this, so the pillion footrests can come off. This is made slightly more complex as one of them also doubles as the exhaust hanger, but I’ll replace that with a nicely made aluminium one. This, in itself will save about 5 kilos. And if I’m not carrying a pillion, I can fit a lightweight race single seat unit, to save another few kilos. This is something that may involve spending money, however (there’s one on eBay at the mo for seventy quid, which is pretty cheap for what it is, but sadly about seventy quid more than I have in my wallet right now), so it’ll have to wait. And also there’s the swinging arm. I want to swap out the one that’s in there anyway, and I have a spare sitting here next to my desk so I can do that. But… if I can get one from an H2 it weighs about 5kgs less, and just fits straight in. Then I can sell the two H1 swinging arms that I have to hopefully offset the cost.
So, plenty of scope for things to keep me busy over the winter. And if ever I run out of enthusiasm, all I need to do is pop into my shed to sit and stare at my bicycle for a few moments. That will inspire me, both to pursue engineering excellence and also to think of the good times to be had next summer. Can’t wait.
Postscript: Decided to buy the single seat unit anyway. Thanks to The Lovely Faye.
One question that comes up with worrying regularity when I tell people of my interest in cycling, is that of legs. Specifically, do I shave them? The main reason I find this worrying is purely one of taste and decency. It’s unhealthy for people to have an interest in my legs, for reasons that will become clear. So, without further ado, and to set the record straight, I do not shave them. There. That should at least stop people wondering what they look like, which if it doesn’t immediately make you feel better, just stop and think about them for a minute. There, I bet you don’t want to do that again do you? And now you no longer have to.
And of course, I have good reasons for not shaving them. These are, in no particular order:
Practicality: I’m not very good with a razor. Really, when I’ve had a shave of my normal man-beard, the rest of the family recoil in horror at the bloody mess left in the sink and the sight of dad looking like the victim of a horrific attack with some form of powered gardening implement. If I were to attempt to shave my legs, I think it would take the paramedics a good few minutes to staunch the flow, and then I’d have to endure the ride in the air ambulance, and I’m not good with flying.
Knowledge: So, say I weakened, and decided to shave my legs. How far up do I go? I am luxuriantly hairy downstairs. (See? I did say you didn’t want to think about this too often). I mean, do I go *all* the way up? Or stop just above where my shorts come to? If so, I’d end up looking like I was wearing a pair of shorts made of the finest wookie hide. I don’t imagine that The Lovely Faye would be impressed with this.
Rebellion: To (mis)quote Groucho Marx, I don’t want to belong to a club that would accept people like me as a member. And it’s fair to say that the only reason that 99.9% of cyclists shave their legs is to demonstrate that they belong to a club. This is apparent at the first event of the ‘season’, even for a hopeless knobber like me who doesn’t do anything more competitive than the odd sportive. Here’s an example – the first organised ride I did this year was the No Excuses sportive, back in March or April or something. It was cold. It was raining. It was windy. It was muddy, it was miserable, it was really not the place to be showing off your legs. However, there were three classes of people there: Firstly, normal people, who hadn’t shaved their legs, and were just out for a non-competitive ride in the country. Secondly, the potential members of The Peloton – you could spot them a mile off by the fact that not only were their legs still luminously white from the winter hibernation, but they were also covered in a nice mix of shaving rash, stubble, and dried blood from the attempts to remove the hair. Thirdly there was me, who, as mentioned earlier, just looked like a wookie about to saddle up and ride off into the middle distance. And that’s just fine by me. I don’t want to turn up for a ride and for people to form some kind of bond with me based on the fact that we’re both mentally unstable enough to want to shave our legs before covering them in mud and horse poo on a ride through Northamptonshire.
Self-Esteem: As anyone who knows me will confirm, I suffer from a low self-esteem. Well, not suffer to be honest. I enjoy it most of the time, it forms the basis for a lot of my outlook on life, and stops me becoming a pompous arse. So, the very thought of me looking at myself in a full-length mirror to check I haven’t missed any bits on my newly shorn legs just makes me laugh heartily at its improbability. And the chance of me asking The Lovely Faye to either do the shaving or check me out afterwards for unintentionally hairy bits is even lower. I’m imagining the look of withering disdain that I’d get. No, I don’t think there’s anything positive that I could gain from this approach.
[1] Readers of Douglas Adams will immediately recognise this as a Drebley.
Energy, I am reliably informed, comes in little bundles called quanta. These are very small indeed, but serve a vital purpose to make sense of a number of paradoxes, most of which end up involving infinite amounts of energy being expended in an infinitely short period of time. As I signed on to start the second running of the Shropshire Hills sportive I knew that at least ne of these facts wouldn’t be bothering me, as I reckoned I’d be in the saddle for about eight hours. Which is not an infinitesimally small amount of time by any standards. And to make sure that we didn’t accidentally finish the event in the blink of an eye, Sol & I got off to a good start by taking the wrong road out of town, neatly adding an extra few kms to the journey, and generating an entertaining moment of levity when Sol nearly managed to get into a fight with a neanderthal brummie, who actually uttered the words “coom ‘ere aand sai thaat” when he was quite rightly told to **** off.
Having escaped the urban hell of South Central Lower Bridgnorth, we set off on the right road at last, heading out of town on the road down toward Cleobury Mortimer. This is one of those places that is designed to catch out unwary tourists. I won’t spoil the surprise, but if ever you’re in the area, try asking a local for directions to the place. They’ll probably pretend not to understand until you spell it out for them. Anyway, Sol was obviously feeling strong, the wind was behind us, and we starting putting some miles under the wheels, punctuated by both of us dropping our chains off the chainwheels a couple of times. This was to be a recurring theme for the day, and it was usually accompanied by some fairly fluent anglo-saxon as one or the other of us coasted to the side of the road while trying to put the bloody thing back on. But, back to the main plot. The ride down towards the bottom of Clee Hill was lovely, with the temperature starting to get up, and the scenery happily not resembling The Fens in any way. The ride up Clee Hill was easier than I remember last year. Whether this is due to improved fitness, increased strength, or just a lucky wind direction I’m not sure. I strongly suspect the latter. The ride down Clee Hill was just marvellous. I engaged my highest gear, temporarily removed my brain, and just went bananas. The ensuing top speed of 74.5km/h was rather pleasing, as much for the cooling breeze as anything else. The first food stop at the bottom of the hill reunited me with an old friend – Bacon Oinks. We didn’t hang around long enough for me to eat more than one packet though.
The next phase of the ride, North from Ludlow to Church Stretton, was straight into the prevailing wind, and so we just got our heads down, and swapped the lead every few kms to preserve energy. Halfway through this section the character of the ride changes suddenly from fast open road to nadgery little badly-surfaced lanes full of gravel and potholes. And while I won’t say that I particularly enjoyed this segment, it was good to get it behind me as we rolled into Church Stretton, still with reasonably fresh legs and feeling good. The sun was now on the ‘hot’ side of enjoyable for what we were doing, but that’s fine by me – I don’t really suffer in the heat, and was genuinely enjoying feeling the sun on my back. That said, I was bloody glad that I’d plastered myself in Factor 30 before we headed out, as the hottest part of the day was coming up, and we were still just under the half-way point. North out of Church Stretton the roads open up again, before turning sharp left, and straight into the climb of the Long Mynd. I’d been looking forward to this climb all day. Well, all year in fact, as it’s just my kind of climb. Long. Very long. And with a vicious 20%+ ramp in the middle that gives you a sharp reminder that sometimes the hill will win, as you really need to have quite strong legs for this bit. Sol & I rode up this bit side by side, not talking, just pacing each other. And sweating lightly. All that effort was worthwhile though, as the view from the top of the Long Mynd must rate as one of the best in the country. Well, at least on the three days a year when it’s not raining. The only downside was the total lack of shade – the sun was now mercilessly scorching everything, and everyone on the top. I downed the best part of a litre of water on this section.
The descent off the other side is something I’d really rather forget about. Narrow, gravel strewn, single track roads with rush-hour traffic coming the other way, including the throughful chap in the convertible Jag who ran three of us clean off the road. Luckily I saw what he did to the two in front, so was able to call him a c**t as he then ran me off the road for good measure. Composure regained, we then started the last steep climb of the day, up to The Bog, otherwise known as The Stiperstones. This isn’t as long as the Long Mynd (no surprises there) but packs in some very punchy little 20% ramps on the way up to the top. My legs were feeling pretty empty now, but I knew the next food stop was just at the end of the last ramp, where I would be served a piece of cake the size of a football, with the density of a slab of Iridium. And so we rolled into The Bog visitor centre, and indeed, I was presented with a piece of ginger sponge that needed two hands to lift it, and a can of icy icy cold coke. After about 15 mins, we decided it was time to get moving again. The ride down off The Bog (I still have a little smirk to myself every time I write that) was fast, smooth, and good fun, and after a few miles we caught up with one of the chaps that we’d shared tea and cake with. As the next few miles were largely flat, and into the wind, we decided to work as a team, which was going well until we got to the first hill, at which point matey pulled out a 15 metre gap on the two fat idiots behind. I buried myself to get back on his wheel, only to watch it disappear again the next time we got to a hill. After a few kms, we swapped places, and I was glad to hit the front so I could get a bit of a rest.
The final food-stop of the day appeared at the 135km mark, and was very welcome indeed as I’d emptied another two bidons in an attempt to stay hydrated, but more importantly, there was a chance of more Bacon Oinks. So I wanged down two packs just to get my money’s worth. From there, a quick blast along the valley floor brought us to Ironbridge. As soon as we started the long climb out the other side, my legs just turned to jelly. Although it’s not a steep climb, it does go on for a while, and I was really suffering. I quite often go through a bad patch at about 120km on a ride, so I guess I should be glad that I made it 145km this time round before it happened. I just had to focus on the metre directly in front of the wheel, and keep churning away on the pedals. And slowly, but beautifully steadily, the top of the hill came, and all that was left was a run down into Bridgnorth, where the dancing girls and bands would be out to welcome us. Well, what we actually got was a polite clap from the good people of Upper Bridgnorth, which was every bit as enjoyable.
So that was that. 162km, and a smidge under 7 hours of riding time. Sol got through six litres of drink on the way round, while I made do with about 3 and a bit. I also managed to wang down another bag of Bacon Oinks after the finish, so all was well with the world. Big thanks to the organisers, as I reckon they’ve got it spot on with this ride. There’s a real family party atmosphere about the whole day, and the course is just the right side of too hard. I mean, it’s hard OK, but not brutal, like the Fred Whitton. And while there’s a definite sense of achievement with The Fred, there’s also an accompanying sense of apprehension. And about five days of recovery afterwards. The only thing I need to recover from after the Shropshire Hills is overdoing the Oinks.
Those of you who’ve endured these posts for the past few years will be well aware that pretty much every stupid idea I come up with, whether it’s cycling what is commonly held to be one of the hardest one-day rides in the UK, or climbing some dangerous tottering pile of choss laughingly referred to as a “sea-cliff”, tends to be done in the company of my great friend, Sol. After this years Fred Whitton ride, he wrote the following piece, but had nowhere to put it. So, rather than losing it, I thought I’d give it a good home. I’ve left it exactly as it was typed:
Part One
I can’t remember who actually pitched the question to whom, but I’m sure the stock joke Neil and I have shared continually over the last 10 or so years of exploits was uttered! “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Hindsight is such a wonderful eye opening thing. It appears that the difference between near hypothermia and being relatively comfortable is a pair of leg warmers and a string vest! But I get ahead of myself.
Having left Cambridge with constant chatter and excitement at the prospect of once again tackling ‘The Fred’, I reckon we didn’t stop talking about it for most of the journey. Our normal long journey conversations revolve around our shared experiences in motorcycle racing, climbing, cycling, and as you might expect with both of us having daughters of similar ages, the things Dad’s with daughters worry about. However, this journey’s topic of conversation while not atypical, was mostly focussed on the challenge ahead. Primary in our minds was the progressively worse weather reports our week long game of “weather forecast tennis” had suggested.
So as we rolled up to ‘The Fred’ HQ in Coniston to sign in, and get our dibbers for the following days ride, the rain spots, while not welcome, were not entirely unexpected. That night our conversation turned once again to the weather forecast and the frustratingly difficult choice of what layers to wear with a ride that has up to 500m elevation difference and a worsening forecast throughout the day. 8 degrees and a stiff westerly wind, with 90% chance of precipitation may sound relatively innocuous – but to a cyclist it means that if you dress for the valleys you’ll be cold up top, and vice versa if you dress for the hills you’ll be too hot in the valleys! That and the prospect of a day battling the Lakeland wind sounded character building!
With clothing sorted out, a plethora of gels, go bars, and Soreen Malt loaf laid out ready for the morning I hit the sack and had a relatively good night sleep except for the frequent bathroom visits caused by drinking way too much water the night before in an effort to be well hydrated in the morning. That and a weird dream about driving a double decker bus round the IOM TT circuit and missing the hairpin at the start of the mountain and ending up driving over a wooden bridge which collapsed and pitched me and the bus into a lake! Perhaps someone can psychoanalyze that one, but I suspect it has something to do with my sub-conscious reminding me that I may think I’m more capable than perhaps I am .. and I should just ride to my ability or some such!
Enough of the preamble … I should cut to the chase or I’ll never finish writing this account up. Suffice to say that we found ourselves incredibly excited to be lined up with most of the 1700 souls who had committed to the challenge this year. It seemed they all had also read the Met Office website and had realized an early 6am start was the way to avoid the worst of the rain. That pre-start atmosphere was filled with laughter – mostly directed at the poor embarrassed start line Marshall whose constant stabbing at the generator’s starting cord failed to keep the start line inflatable arch inflated for more than a few seconds. As 6am came it was followed by a comedy few minutes as the arch would inflate to the roar of a generator and a cheers from the riders – only to be quickly followed by yet more laughter and furious cord pulling as a few riders attempted to dib and make it through a collapsing arch.
Hawkshead – Kirkstone – Matterdale – Honister
Once on the road, it takes a no time at all before you are heading up Hawkshead the first of the 10 main climbs of ‘the Fred’. I can remember what a shock to the system this first hill was in 2012. Leaving me wondering what the hell I’d let myself in for. Last year I’d arrived at it’s summit with my heart bursting our of my chest and the rasping breath of a middle aged man who should know better. This year I was still chatting away as we climbed, hardly noticing the first ascent before it was over with barely a semi-excited heart rate and warming set of muscles eager to push me and my bike around the 112 miles. This boded well.
(c) AthletesInAction
Neil and I continued to chat out of Ambleside as we made our way . The early morning crispness and dense air seemed to emphasize the silence of the bikes briskly running out past the Windemere before turning sharply up toward Troutbeck and after a short but steep kick, you are into the first long 3 mile grind up the tallest of the climbs. Kirkstone pass just keeps coming at you. There’s nothing difficult here. No sudden steepening gradients to catch you out, just one long ramp that will send your heart rate soaring if you don’t pace yourself and keep you breathing and cadence in sync . Heart rate management and more particularly keeping your heart rate out of the penalty zone is the key to avoiding pain later in the ride. In other words – taking it easy is the way to ride 112 miles if you don’t want the last 30 miles to be purgatory.
The descent from Kirkstone is amazing … let off the brakes and gravity does the rest … stay off the brakes for too long and there’s a gathering of momentum that is butt tighteningly hard to bring back under control. I misjudged an s-bend and nearly exited stage left on this the fastest section. A reminder that the prospect of getting any of the multiple descents in the Fred wrong has some pretty serious consequences. Still 70 kmh on my ride log suggests I wasn’t too concerned at this stage!
The next notable memory from the ride was Honister. Neil had done his normal whippet impression and started to pull out a few tens of bike lengths on me. “Slowly slowly catchy monkey”, I thought and lowered my gaze to the few meters in front of my wheel. I wasn’t about to let my competitive instinct draw me into risking a soaring heart rate. Besides I’d catch him on the descent, and the pace so far had been well over our conservative approach last year. The previous section of the A66 to Keswick and Matterdale had seemed a relative breeze compared to last year (a mini peloton had formed which had aided us along nicely) in spite of a strong head wind. In short we were already on for a good time assuming we didn’t spend too long at the first food stop.
As the rhythm of one push leads to the next and your breathing syncs, all sounds of others and spectators around you disappears. The in and out of your laboured breath takes over. I’d enter this hypnotic state many time during the day, but on Honister the time in the comfort of my own breathing was being constantly interrupted by a chirpy chap from Brighton. My heart rate started to go up as I tried to talk and ride and the margin between comfortable and labored was crossed. However, by moderating my cadence and shifting to the new cheat 32 tooth rear sprocket, I was amazed to see I could bring my heart rate down on a climb. Something that was impossible last year. and pointed to the benefits of actually doing some training for the Fred instead of just rocking up and hoping for the best – this was the practicality of last year in spite of my intention to train!
As I was absorbing this new found ability in my riding I scanned upward for Neil. Bloody hell he was walking! What the hell is Neil walking for? He’s a better climber than me .. this didn’t equate! As I approached, I heard what I thought was him saying he’d lost a cleat, and my initial reaction was to curse the fact that our spares didn’t include one. My worries were unfounded as I got closer, he confirmed he’d had an unintended unclipping and had to stop. Unable to get going again on the sharp incline he’d elected to walk the last section of the ramp. I was gutted for him and could but reflect about how I’d feel in a similar situation – my own goal for this Fred was “not to walk” . I imagined he’d be pissed, so chose not to broach the topic – no need his face said it all as he caught up and he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Must of been some gravel or something in the cleat – never mind!”
As we rode on toward the first food stop at 60 miles …. the weather started to look like the forecasted rain was upon us … so a quick splash and dash was in order. I swallowed another gel, grabbed some water, and donned my waterproof. I’m so glad Neil drove me back to Coniston the night before to buy a waterproof layer! A decision that proved to more important than either of us could imagine.
Part Two
Newlands – Whinlatter – Fangs Brow – Cold Fell
I don’t honestly remember much of the Newlands and Whinlater other than we dibbed dibbers somewhere, and there was a fantastic descent where I was on the drops, arse in the air and throwing caution to the wind, which was now blowing enough to catch the wheels occasionally. I remember not losing much to Neil on the climb, and letting go of the brakes to overtake on the descent but being unable to get a safe pass. When the opportunity came I kicked the pedals through a couple of rotations on the longest gear and swooped round Neil, into a wet corner carrying brakes, and cut a perfect line. It’s such an amazing feeling on the Spin MkX when you tip into a corner and get it right. The handling isn’t entirely neutral, it needs a little positive steering, but the entire bike loads up against the forces, and carves a corner with the same sort of sensation a refreshly cut ice skate cuts ice, or a snowboard carves piste. It’s intoxicating, and I have yet to find the bikes limit before I hit my mental limit/braveness. Anyhow, as we let bravery and gravity build speed I remember sneaking a look back to see Neil slipstreaming – so reminiscent of the GP250 days, or one particular time a Cadwell on TZRs. He had the same look in his eyes then!
Once into the rolling countryside again I moved over to let Neil take the front for a bit. I was beginning to feel like I was towing us both along and doing a fair bit of time in the wind, and my legs were starting to complain. With Neil up front we slowed almost instantly and and after a couple of kms came alongside him. I could tell instantly he was hurting … he did his “pissed off with this” look, said something about his back was hurting – which if I’m honest sounded like a racers excuse No232 at the time – especially when you are also hurting. So I thought what the hell, I’ll take wind duties up front again and got my head down. After a couple of attempts to tow him along it was obvious he was having none of it.
We’ve had enough adventures over the years to know each other’s strategies for handling difficult situations – when he did pull over and said he’d be fine, just needed to rest for a moment, but struggled to get off the bike, I realised he just needed to stretch his back out. When he finally capitulated and took the advice it did seem to ease. We topped up on food again, had some ibuprofen and we were off again. That’s when things started to get really tough!
With me up front, and Neil not able to fully contribute to time in the wind, I started to drift into that hypnotic state cycling can induce. With us out onto Cold Fell, climbing into the low level cloud, horizontal rain, the temperature dropping to 2C but feeling minus something or other, I just blotted out everything and concentrated on the 20 metres of road I could see clearly enough to know it was road. The weather really was abysmal.
Every few minutes I’d check back and moderate speed to keep Neil and I together. WIth the wind so high, the cloud cover so thick, speeds dropped, and easier gears were selected. Consequently, the work rate reduced, cadence dropped, heart rates lowered, and so did our temperature. I knew Neil was continuing to suffer as there was no banter, no jokes, just the occasional complaint about cold hands, cold feet, can’t see. Each successive statement being slightly more worrying than the last until he really did worry me by saying he honestly couldn’t feel arms or legs. At this point my core was still warm but my waterproof was starting to fail badly, my gloves were next to useless and base layers were water logged. I figured my saving grace was my leg warmers, and my string vest which was trapping pockets of air under my water logged base layers. Neil had neither and was looking grey and pallid.
I’d been trying to work out how far we had to go to the next feed stop where I knew we’d have warm tea, food .. always good for Ronketti’s is warm tea … so suggested we only had a few more kms to go, not actually knowing how far the descent off Cold fell was, nor, when we’d get there. The damn low cloud and mist was robbing us of reference points.
About 5 mins later we started the descent, and 5 minutes after that we dibbed again into a feed station, and found to our gratitude that they’d opened up the village hall, which was now filled with steaming bodies, piles of sarnies and cakes, and a queue of cyclists a mile long waiting for the next large pot of tea to be poured into a precious few cups. We queued with everyone else and stood waiting for tea. Never has a brew been more welcome … and mine was half downed before Neil arrived with his tea cupped in his hands. The poor sod was shivering so uncontrollably that he couldn’t get the cup to his mouth. I was just pointing out that there was a warm room out back if he needed it, when he was whisked off by some young lady on a mission to wrap him up in silver foil.
We stood and chatted for a while and as his shivering started to subside and he could drink tea, I started to feel guilty taking up space in the warm room. So went for a wander to grab more tea, and ended up chatting with a few others who had mates in a similar situation. I popped in occasionally over the next hour and a half and could see colour returning to his face.
Hardknott – Wrynose and finish
It was tough to do, but I had to force the issue of continuing – there was talk of a bus coming with a large number of riders opting out of going out into the weather again. I’d checked the forecast for the next couple of hours and the wind was still high but the rain was “light”. I put on my perkiest , “you can do this” face, and popped the question, offering to ride and collect the car if he wanted to ditch. It took a few minutes to sink in, but to his credit, he opted to ride.
Stepping out into the cold again wasn’t quite as bad as expected, the temperature was up a few degress, and the rain had indeed eased. But the flipping wind was not playing ball and as we went into the successive ramps that lead to Hardknott pass I was suffering with the increased effort of fighting the wind. I knocked back the effort a notch, focussed on keeping enough work rate to keep me warm, and settled into the run up to the pass. Cyclists were coming past us with some regularity, but I didn’t care. Neil seemed comfortable at the pace, and I just kept spinning and watched the beautiful scenery slowly pass by.
As I scanned up the initial ramp of Hardknott pass, with 100 miles in my legs I knew I’d finish, I knew it with certainty. I started to consider whether I’d have enough juice to ride Hardknott – to be able to circle the “NO” I didn’t walk on the certificate at the end. As the ramp passed under my wheels and my heart rate stayed under the magic 160 bpm I need to stay out of trouble, I even allowed myself to believe I might just ride the full Fred Whitton. Once over the initial ramp I scanned ahead again, and the full magnitude of the ascent stretched out in front of me. That 1:3 section looms up above you – there were riders walking everywhere – I started to doubt I could do it.
“Slowly slowly catchy monkey”
(c) Steve Fleming
I checked my gear selection, dropped my sight to the front of my wheel, and started to breath, pedal, breath, pedal. All was good … this I could do! As I approached the famous Hardknott ramp I took a couple of deep breaths, and decided my low cadence approach would mean I’d be required to exert too much effort to make the 1:3 gradient with such a low cadence. I was virtually stalling the bike between each push – I needed to up cadence, go aerobic, and hope that on clearing the short section I could revert back to the low cadence and bring my heart rate back down.
It worked, my heart rated jumped close to my max and while it reached 175 bpm the 1:3 passed beneath my wheels, and as soon as the gradient eased, so did my cadence and my heart rate quickly recovered to 155bpm where it stayed until I crested the top. I’d done it!
With only Wrynose to go and follwoing so closely on … I elected not to wait for Neil at this stage and dropped down the descent from Hardknott – perilous is not the word. Gravel strewn, poorly surfaced, torrents of water – brakes were on constantly, barely able to hold back the gravity willing the bike to dive towards hairpins that suddenly switched back and dropped away. With arms pumped, back complaining, and a sigh of relief I reached the bottom, and pedalled gently on while waiting for Neil to catch up.
As I started the final big climb of the day the doubt came flooding back. Looking up at Wrynose is once again daunting – my legs were beasted, and the added pressure of just once more climb to do without walking weighed heavy. Once again I lowered my gaze and willed myself into the comfort of low cadence and breath, pedal, breath, pedal all over again.
“Slowly slowly catchy monkey”
Nothing mattered but watching the road, scanning for the readout on my cycle computer, “keep the heart rate under control”.
As I hit the steeper sections I’d bring my cadence up slightly, and wherever I could I’d revert to the comfort of breath, pedal, breath, pedal. Once I saw the descent warning board up ahead I started to smile … feck me! I’d just cycled all 10 Lakeland passes! Get in!
With the last nightmare descent behind me I spent a few minutes contemplating what an epic adventure we’d just had before Neil and I reunited for the ride into Ambleside. As we turned right on to the main road, wind once again squarely in our faces, the run down to the finish quickly past. With 9 hrs 57 mins since we departed earlier that day I was elated and looking forward to some well earned food.
As we crossed under the inflatable arch I was happy Neil had elected to continue .. it wouldn’t feel right unless we crossed the start and finish line together. Not on “the Fred”!
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