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2018 Fred Whitton Challenge

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[Editor’s note: this was written in 2018 just after I’d ridden the Fred Whitton Challenge for the second time. It details the experiences of myself and a group of fellow Tyneside Vagabonds Cycling Club members.]

Yes, I went back…

Report below (brace yourselves)…

As this is my first written report in a while let’s see if I can still operate a keyboard and produce some coherent words. Let’s start in the traditional BAFTA way (and, coincidentally, as I did in my previous report on the Fred in 2015) with the thanks.

  • Mrs W. Without her … well, let’s not go there.
  • Dorothy and Ernest (mum and dad). Same as above.
  • My coach. All the more worthy given some of the things that have happened across the past couple of years.
  • The six other brave and hardy souls who accompanied me this time around. In alphabetical order of first names: Alex, Alistair, Charlie, Chris, Gary and Paul. You guys are brilliant.
  • The organising committee and all of the volunteers of the Fred Whitton Challenge for putting on a fabulous event.
  • Sue Thorn for proving that, no matter how hard something is, that if you apply enough grit, determination and, occasionally, stubbornness, then you’ll get to where you want to be. Remember this, kids – it’s an important life lesson.
  • The weather.
  • The Beck Allans B&B, which was located about three minutes’ walk from the start and was most obliging when it came to making arrangements for the day.
  • Assorted clubs, teams and riders who we drafted across the course of the day. We did our share of the work too, mind, but it’s nice when there are other bodies to help you out.
  • Castelli for saving Gary. You’ll find out why later.

Moving on.

When I completed the Fred Whitton in 2015 I swore I’d never ride it again. It is a hard, unforgiving, event that didn’t inspire me to return. So how is it that I’m writing this? Well, being the altruistic type, when I found out Gary was thinking of giving it a go this year I volunteered to get involved and help him out. Between a canny bunch of us, we have a reasonable amount of experience on the event now and so it seemed rude not to pass this on as best we could. A few questions later and a group of us were interested in signing up as a team, or two, with a mix of experienced campaigners and newcomers to the event.

Some organisation and training later the Big Weekend loomed. A number of people were bricking it beforehand, but, for once, I was completely at ease with the prospect of riding up some of the hardest climbs in England. I was so blasé that I was beginning to worry in case I’d missed some aspect of the day or that I just wasn’t prepared. This is where a good coach comes in: my coach said I was in good enough shape to go around and enjoy the day so, when I loaded up Gertrude1 with enough cycling gear to start a competitor to Wiggle I was still calm about the whole thing.

The weekend for Mrs W and I began a day earlier than everyone else. It was our tenth wedding anniversary, so we’d gone over early to make it into a longer stay. Having dropped our bikes and luggage off early at the B&B (I did say they were accommodating), we headed into Ambleside for my traditional lunch at the Apple Pie Bakery, after which we wandered around for a bit, finding an excellent bike shop called Push Cartel in a hidden corner where we spent our frivolous funds on a couple of Sportful jackets that we weren’t expecting.

Having found our way back to the B&B, we sorted ourselves, and the bikes, out before heading for an excellent dinner at The Grasmere Hotel and failing to decide anything about what to do on Saturday other than ‘wander about’.

This worked well and, after a short wander, we ended up sitting outside a café in the blazing sunshine. So much for weather forecasts – it was supposed to be cloudy. Having sat around for as long as we felt we could without buying lunch, we decided to continue our wander to find another eatery for said meal when a ginger follicled gent leaned across from the driver’s seat of a Land Rover and said ‘Hi Jon’. Chris had arrived with the significant quantities of lunch that he’d brought to sustain him on the long journey across and was heading to the start to register. We confirmed the pub that we’d picked for the group evening meal, parted ways and continued on our hunt for lunch. In the end we simply picked another café by the beck and sat there for a bit, wondering mainly why there was a gate at the bottom of the stream, but also how to avoid being on the video recordings of some Asian tourists as they waved their smartphones and tablets about. At about this point I was beginning to get a little bit anxious about the following day, but I needn’t have worried: mental salvation was on the way in the form of a bombshell.

Gary had forgotten to bring his cycling shorts. We were typically sensitive to this revelation, as you’d imagine. I believe words such as ‘chafage’ may have been used, although we did seem to stop shy of ‘crusty’. I did offer to give Gary a lift to a bike shop on the way to the pub, but it turned out that he’d solved his own problem by purchasing a pair of the XXL Castelli shorts that were on sale in the registration marquee. Gary is a Castelli connoisseur, so, in and of itself this wasn’t so bad. Less useful were the facts that (a) these shorts were several sizes larger than his usual ones (a lack of stock on the part of the retailer) and (b) the chamois was brand new and had never been, er, bedded in. This was going to be interesting, possibly in oh-so-many interestingly painful ways, particularly for Gary. Not that he got any stick for it at all. Oh, no. We would never do that.

Much.

Mrs W and I wandered off to the registration point where we bumped into Alex and Gary, who’d both already been through the process. Sadly, Mrs W wasn’t allowed in to the secret process – all adults have to remain outside, apparently. The net result of all this was that I obtained another white envelope with our rider number stuff in it, along with a stem/top tube sticker with important distances on it, for example where the feed stations were.

We all made our way to Wainwright’s Inn for an excellent evening meal for which the focus was most definitely on carbs and protein. Gammon and chips, along with Chilli Con Carne were the most popular options, but we did have some major food envy when Charlie’s barbecued ribs turned up. Despite his best efforts (and ours by calling him a loser), he was defeated by the protein. I sense a challenge next time we go across to the Lakes – and I’m pretty sure the Club Run will go on tour over there again, although we’ll do something different to last time (I have an Idea.)

Eschewing too many drinks, it wasn’t long before we headed back for our beds: the 0445 getting up time was looking rather near and we had to at least try to get some sleep. Like most of the group, this didn’t work out too well for me – I was well awake by 0300 and lay there listening to the rain battering off the window pane. I hope it stops, I thought.

It did.

And then the alarm went off. Despite having put things out the evening before in the right order, I was still debating whether I’d made the right clothing choices. The forecast was typically unhelpful: rain very early, then cloudy until mid afternoon followed by sunshine. Assuming this was correct (it wasn’t), we’d start on wet/damp roads but with enough heat in the atmosphere to start drying them off leading on to be reasonably warm early on. I stuck with my shorts (I’d remembered mine), short sleeve jersey, base layer along with arm and leg warmers. A small dab of sunscreen on the back of my neck and I was away down to breakfast with what felt like half a tonne of stuff in my jersey pockets. Did my bum look big in that? Well, as per the Divine Comedy’s National Express, my arse certainly felt like it was the size of a small country.

A bigger bowl of cornflakes I have never eaten, and it was Good. As was everything else. Replete, but not bursting (or wondering when I’d next need to unload) I now had a wide front to match the extended posterior and it was touch and go whether I’d fit through the door to get out of the room. A couple of burps and twisting manoeuvres later and I was free.

After a small, but very necessary, crotch adjustment, I wheeled the bike away from the B&B and was about to exit onto the road when who should ride by, but Mr Gary. In a standing position on the bike. This did not bode well. For him. In fact, this was simply his surprise at us both being in about the same place at the same time and that, other than the legs of the shorts riding up a bit, he was having no problems – the application of significant quantities of ‘bum butter’ no doubt being a contributory factor. I was both impressed and slightly dubious that he’d elected to miss off the leg warmers, although it did represent the opposite end of the scale to Alex, who’d gone for the full ensemble including his winter boots. It will not surprise you to learn that he had very hot feet by the end of the day.

Our planned meeting time of 0545 came and went, but less than five minutes later we were all together. A bit like Gary’s butt cheeks in order to stop his larger-than-usual shorts riding up into places they were never designed to go. We spent the next ten minutes standing in the start queue trying to ignore the buzz of the drone overhead that was taking video of us all standing around.

The event start time of 0600 came, the horn sounded and the crowd went wild. Well, OK, the first riders were away and the marshals at the gate were giving them some excellent applause.

Five minutes’ later and we were onto the road and away. Due to the overnight rain, the road was a mixture of damp and wet, which was nice. After a couple of easy minutes, we caught one of the event support vehicles, which was trapped behind a group of cyclists travelling more slowly than we were: the long queue of traffic heading up to Grasmere for the start meant that it couldn’t pass … except in one short spot. And then cut up the rider that it passed, much to his displeasure. We spent most of our time sitting behind it – it was a free draft, after all – but had to make our own way from Ambleside as the truck turned off.

The climbing began a short while later as we turned left to Holbeck Ghyll. Following one of Chris Bush’s pieces of sage advice, I kept the power on round the corner and up the first part of the incline so as not to disrupt the flow of the others behind me. This was rather too successful and Chris, Charlie and I ended up dropping the rest of the group on the lower slopes. Oops. We soft pedalled a bit, but that didn’t work. Then we had a 15% incline to deal with, so soft pedalling was out of the question and we just got ourselves up it without spending too much energy (and passing quite a few people in the process – something that would occur quite regularly through the day, as would the reverse of having the fast people come cruising through like we were standing still.) In the end, we had to sit up completely once we arrived on the A592 main road until the others arrived, at which point Chris and I just continued to sit on the front and ride tempo.

Kirkstone, for those who’ve never ridden it from the Windermere side, is a series of short(ish) ramps with flatter bits in between. We kept it sensible on the ramps and kept it moving on the flatter bits (who says constant effort doesn’t have its place on hills?) This worked really well and we worked our way steadily past a good number of riders, even on the 16% section (with the sign that still reads 116% – some things don’t change.) As we reached the top, the group began to stretch and I began to get irritated inside with one lady rider. Chris and I had attracted a couple of followers who seemed happy enough at our steady pace, but this lady was grinding up the steep sections in a massive gear at 0.03mph, then time trialling past us as soon as the road flattened out, only to come to almost a standstill as she reached the next ramp. She would be dealt with later on.

At the top, we rolled straight over so that we didn’t stop and get cold; the idea was to regroup at the bottom of the descent. Chris was being cautious on the slightly damp roads. I had no such qualms and motored past not just him but everyone else I could see on the descent: it was so easy – and must have looked it, because one of the guys I passed started following my lines and keeping up: Cervelo C5, Schwalbe One Pro 28mm tyres, disc brakes and thru-axles FTW when heading downhill.

Once again, I sat up to wait for everyone and it wasn’t long before we were back together. It wasn’t long after that when a couple of guys rolled through past us just slowly enough that we could sit on their wheels (this made a nice change from previous sportives where we were the ones on the front the whole time – who says there’s no such thing as Karmic payback?) And then the annoying lady rider, and her male friend, came motoring through and began to ride off into the distance … and then didn’t. The gap pegged itself at 100m, then started to shrink. We weren’t going any harder – they were going slower and, after a little while, all of us latched onto their wheels. And stayed there until they both blew up.

There’s a lesson here, kids. Pacing is key: knowing when to, and when not to, expend energy is massively important – and the more severe the event, the more important it is. Blowing up before the climbing has really started on the Fred Whitton is a Bad Idea and will lead to a very long day in the saddle.

Anyway, with our tearaway friends learning an important lesson whilst hanging onto the back of the group for grim death, the rest of us ploughed on, before turning left up towards the other Troutbeck on the route. This proved to be the end of the two in front of us and, conveniently, they got out of the way and we carried on riding. The steady nature of this ascent – at least the bottom half – meant that we were all able to stick together and, in fact, pass time of day. When I say pass time of day, what I really mean is passing comment about Gary’s shorts, Charlie and his Lederhosen period along with the testicular stretching and peritoneal problems that this can cause and Chris’ adventures with a broomstick (bristle end first, apparently). We were in stitches, as were the group of riders sitting behind us being towed up the climb.

The first of the day’s supporter spots was at the top of Troutbeck as we were about to head onto my least favourite section of the entire event: the A66 along to Keswick. It’s a major road with quite a bit of fast moving traffic and it’s no fun at all. It also usually comes with a standard headwind, which was true on this occasion too, although nothing too much and it was a North Westerly, rather than the usual South Westerly. This would be important later. Once again, our, occasionally criticised, constant effort approach paid dividends as we made excellent progress without expending too much energy. That was until the massive chaningang came past us on the Kewsick bypass and Chris, who was on the front, decided we’d be better off sitting in their wheels and had to accelerate quite sharply to jump onto the back. This came at a price; somewhere along the way, one of Gary’s energy bars made a bid for freedom, but the rider behind thought it was his phone. By the time Gary had inspected his crevices and discovered that it was just, in fact, an energy bar, we were 200 yards down the road doing twice his speed. Fortunately, we’re a good team and know each other well, so the message quickly got passed around and we all sat up to wait for him. In the jiggling about that followed, Charlie landed on the front and began to apply the pressure on the front along the flat section by the side of Derwentwater and I had to just keep him calm (and remove his stash of red meat), because I knew there was a long way to go – and most of the climbing.

Part way down the lake there was a general discussion about needing the use the facilities, of which there were precisely none. I’d been wondering about this myself for a mile, or two, but had decided to try and put it out of my mind until the feed stop at Buttermere, which wasn’t all that much further. It turns out that I needn’t have worried as everyone else was in pretty much the same condition so, along with a number of other riders, we pulled into a small side road applied ourselves to the situation. It was a popular spot: there was even a ‘ladies’ behind a wall. And, then, in the way that real life can present you with something that you just couldn’t make up, we then had to wait for Alex to sort through his glove wardrobe before setting off again. I know that having a spare pair of gloves with you in the winter is a great way of keeping you warm as well as lifting your spirits, but to have three pairs with you on a dry day in May raised a few eyebrows.

And then there was the coach, who was struggling to get past, well, anyone. It’s a tight, twisty, road and that type of vehicle isn’t known for its sparkling acceleration, or razor sharp handling, so each rider was a challenge. He got past us on probably the only straight section in several miles, only to have to come to a complete stop in the middle of Borrowdale as another coach was coming the other way and there’s a pinch point that’s nowhere near wide enough for two. In fact, it’s right next to the point where the bus was reversing in 2015 and put its rear window out on a tree branch. We all took advantage of the slow motion bus dance (and the fact that the one in front of us had left a massive gap on his left) and rode straight past him again.

Chris was beginning to get nervous now: he could see we were heading into the end of a valley and the only way out was upwards – and steeply upwards at that. What he didn’t know was that you can’t really see Honister from that far away as the lower section is hidden behind quite a lot of tree cover. He’d find out soon enough.

Soon enough was Seatoller. The initial ramp at the bottom was longer than I remembered, but remainder of the ascent to the cattle grid was shorter. Chris pressed on a little bit, hamstrung a bit by his 34-29 lowest gear (the rest of us were running 34-32.) Charlie sat on my wheel as I winched my way past other riders, many of whom were walking. I have to say I found the upper section of the ascent a bit uncomfortable – I just don’t have the brute strength that I used to, a consequence of losing weight to be a better overall cyclist, but this is a little bit of a specialist event and it would have been handy – but manageable. Charlie tried to burn me on the really steep bit, but paid the price for it as the road flattened out and my endurance meant that I could keep going and he dropped off. It was then that I relearned something about the Fred Whitton: it recalibrates your brain as to what the word ‘steep’ means. Once you get past the cattle grid, you think the rest of it is quite flat and just a drag up to the slate mines and, indeed, it feels a bit like that too, until you look down and see 12% on your Garmin…

Over the top and down the other side. The descent of Honister is not for the faint hearted – at least, not if you want to let the bike roll. Marshals on pretty much every corner meant that I was constantly reminded to keep it rubber side down (sometimes I forget), which one rider had failed to do and was being attended to by paramedics. [Editor’s note: it’s still dangerous in 2020 – a rider was killed whilst out on their own very recently, although, from this report, the crash could have been due to a mechanical failure.] It didn’t take me long to catch Chris, despite him having picked up some confidence since Kirkstone, possibly as a result of the roads now being bone dry. And, given that the run in to the feed stop is, essentially, downhill from there, we just carried on – passing a group from Honister 92 along the way, which came as a surprise as they looked to have a bunch of big, strong, guys in there who should have been able to drop us like a hot potato along the flatter sections. No matter, we kept it rolling, although Chris wasn’t having so much fun on the uphill parts of the rolling terrain at this point, so I got off the gas a bit and we rolled in to the feed station together.

At this point I have some observations to make. As per the last time I rode the Fred, people were ignoring the marshals and just leaving their bikes pretty much anywhere, including out into the road. It’s a public road with other road users on it and they have just as much right to be there as the participants in the event: just because you’re doing something that, in our cycling world, is quite iconic, it doesn’t give you the right to disregard the event officials, common sense or, in fact, the rules of the road. Park your bikes away from the road – and don’t stand in the middle of it having a chat, either. Not everyone stops at the feed stations (as we found out about 15 minutes later) and you’re a hazard. You wouldn’t do it on your home roads, so can I ask that you don’t do it here, either – it gives you, the event and our sport a bad reputation that we just don’t need.

Having stowed our own bikes well away from the road (in my case, towards the back of the feed stop), it was time to take care of priority #1. A vacant Portaloo beckoned and, joy of joys, there was some toilet paper in there. Woohoo! I wouldn’t need to use any of the stash I’d brought with me. Much relieved (in both senses), I vacated, suggesting that the next person might want to ‘give it a couple of minutes’ and then running like hell so I could stop holding the rest of my breath. Clear of the fumigation zone, but disinfected using the hand sanitiser stuff, I immediately applied myself to the jam sandwiches that I remember from last time. Well, OK, they weren’t actually from 2015, but they were proper Fred Whitton jam sandwiches, of which I approve very much, something I communicated to the marshals by dint of stuffing them into my face as quickly as they’d go. It was at this point that I discovered that we’d lost Charlie. No-one had seen him since the top of Honister: we could only assume that he’d decided to press on in order to get back so that he could head away early, which we could understand. Replete and together again, we located our bicycles and got ready to go … and then found that we’d lost Chris. Paul C went to do a sweep of the area about 15 seconds before Chris appeared and we then had to wait for Paul C instead. Ali got bored and left, but, eventually, we made our way into the sunshine up Newlands Pass.

Newlands is (a) a timed climb and (b) has a profile to break everyone’s hearts. You hit the bottom of it and think that you can see the top. Nope. What you see is half of the ascent – as you crest this section, there’s a (relatively) flat bit, before it really goes up again at the top. Quite a lot of newcomers hammer the bottom part and then have to suffer that sinking feeling that there’s more. Chris and I were sitting at the front, but something was amiss – he couldn’t clip in on his right hand side. He’d been fine earlier in the ride, but now it was a problem. We got to the top of the first ramp and he had to stop, so I stopped too in case I could be of assistance. In the end, it was as simple as the bottom part of his toe warmer having slipped backwards slightly and thus preventing the front of the cleat from engaging properly with the pedal. Problem solved and we got back on the bikes and rode up to the guys. Chris carried straight on through, but I sat up and rode the top section with Gary and Paul both of whom were going really well – Gary especially.

Chris waited at the top and the four of us began the descent. it was clear, at this point, that Chris was looking to go a bit quicker, so I said to him that if he wanted to take a punt, then he was very welcome and that he should just crack on. He did. I decided to stay back with the group – after all, I was there to help people get round and being up the road wasn’t really a very constructive way of achieving this. The remainder of the descent was great – we passed a number of cars trying to come the other way, all of whom had stopped to let us through and were in for a long afternoon sitting there as there were plenty more riders to come after us.

Lots of supporters had come out in Braithwaite and quite a few up Winlatter, particular in the layby half way up and, of course, at the visitor centre at the top. There was much clapping and cowbell ringing, as well as one bloke who was shouting ‘allez, allez, allez, go, go, go!’ at every rider who went past. Monday was likely to bring a number of cases of sore hands, tinnitus and one of hoarseness. Paul C and I did pacing duty and set a tempo up the climb, dragging a few others along for the ride too. It’s not a hard climb, at least not by the standards of the Fred Whitton, but it’s a pleasant challenge nonetheless and we rolled over the top, closely followed by Gary and Alex.

Down into Lorton, Gary sat on the front and guided us down the slope and out towards Loweswater. By pure chance, we caught another rider only just going slightly slower than we were, so we tagged on the back and found ourselves being towed along. Suits me! A little further up the road, after one of the small kicks up, I had to sit up as the rest of the guys couldn’t hold the wheel. And then I had to stop completely to let them catch back up. Whilst I was doing so, it was time to ditch the arm warmers – the strength of the sun was beginning to tell now. Whilst doing this, assorted comfort breaks were had and food was ingested (not at the same time), and Ali rolled up.

One wardrobe sort-out later and we were away again as a five piece and rolled it all the way along the side of Loweswater. For anyone familiar with the route, this means that the next part is Fang’s Brow. For those not familiar, the information is the same, but I should add that Fang’s Brow is one of those uncategorised climbs that doesn’t make it into Fred Folklore, but it’s a right little git of a pull up. Like Newlands, it comes in two ramps, but, unlike Newlands, it’s not as long, or steep, but it is enough to catch you out if you’re not careful. I was fortunate – I was on the front (I can’t help it: people like looking at my pert bottom) and had latched on to another rider who was pacing it nicely up the steeper part of the lower ramp. I couldn’t look behind, because we were going so slowly that I’d have wobbled and probably fallen off, which would have been embarrassing, if nothing else. Hey, if you’re going to crash, try to do it when you’re at Vmax for top judges’ cajones points. Anyway, by the top of the bottom (as it were) the lad in front exploded having just realised there was second half to the climb so I rode past him and checked behind me to see … no-one. Figuring my best option was to keep going to the top and collect there, I kept on riding, including through a group of six who were strewn right across the road on the nasty left hander towards the top. I did my Bertie impression, stood up and spun the gear to get past and was followed by one lad. For ten yards, before his legs gave in. Somewhere at the feed stop, the annoying lady rider had got past us and was winching her way up the last drag before the lay-by as I blew straight past … and then sat up to wait for everyone. Paul arrived not long after, but there was no sign of the others, so we continued to soft pedal it along. Remember that North Westerly wind from earlier? Well, this was now a tailwind, so we were soft pedalling at 20mph and, after a few miles, it was clear that there was no chance of the guys catching us before the feed station, so we pressed on a little bit.

Another massive crowd (mainly Team XIII Cycling) were on the crest before the drop down to Ennerdale Bridge giving everyone huge support. Chapeau, ladies and gents – much appreciated! The following descent is interesting in that it contains a number of hairpin bends which, as I discovered on the second one, can’t be negotiated very easily with your back wheel off the ground. Having missed the apex completely, it was all I could do to work my way around the long side of it before heading off down the next straight.

Paul wasn’t far behind me – and nor was our lady cycling friend. I waited for Paul as he dropped her on one of the small upslopes along the way and we pedalled together through the village and out towards Cold Fell. It’s everyone’s favourite, this: you’re almost guaranteed a headwind and it drags on interminably. Paul and I passed a few riders on the very lower slopes and were about to be passed by two quick guys when the appearance of two oncoming cars put the kibosh on their assault. Once that had been negotiated, they were up the road … a bit. Their assault seemed to peter out above 50 yards further on, at which point I started winching them back in … and then they got to the last ramp before the cattle grid, put the hammer down and that was the last I saw of them. Oh, well. I can dream.

There were more supporters just beyond the cattle grid, including one very disinterested looking bloke sitting on a tussock. Perhaps he’d been thistled and was trying not to show it. Paul was a little way behind, so, as per the rest of the ride, I kept turning the gear to the top and would worry about the situation then. I started catching people and gently rolling past, but was then passed myself by a strong looking bloke in a black top and resigned myself to watching him ride into the distance. Which he didn’t and I eventually ‘ended up’ on his back wheel. It helped that he had to slow down for the herd of cows crossing the road. This worked well, because we were just about to make the turn at the top that usually brings you into the headwind: it didn’t disappoint. Quite how a North Westerly wind gives you a headwind as you’re travelling South Westerly is anyone’s guess, but that’s what we had. When I say ‘we’, I really mean the guy in the black top as he was in front and there was no way I was shifting from his back wheel. Another rider, apparently bored by our pace, rocketed through and then, 20 yards up the road realised that the reason we were going at that pace was because of the headwind and backed off. The pair of us accelerated onto this new wheel and both of us sat there along the whole next section to the top of the crest where you get your first look at Sellafield.

Feeling the pace slow quite a bit, and my skin turning green, I popped my nose out into the wind, resumed 210W mode and turned the pedals. I expected the two guys to jump on my wheel for a tow, but, rather unexpectedly, I just rode away from them – and quickly too. Perhaps they’d given it a bit much of the beans up the hill and were paying for it at the top. Whatever the reason, I motored on down the road passing everyone I could see right the way down into Calder Bridge and the second feed stop.

I waited around for Paul and we both found somewhere to stash the bikes, but which time Gary had arrived (less than a minute behind Paul.) I then headed for the Portaloo again and, for second time in succession, was greeted by the sight of (unused) toilet paper. And it Was Good. The hand sanitiser dispenser was still attached to the wall too, which was a bonus as I now had a choice of locations upon which to deposit my helmet. I’d still have liked a jacket hook upon which I could have put my jersey – bib shorts are great for the most part, but, you know, there are times when they’re a right chew on and going for the Grade A Blunderbuss is one of those. At least I wasn’t moaning like the guy in the one next door. I hung the ‘five minutes please’ sign on the outside of the door when I left and hoofed it back to the guys to find that Gary was cosy with a coffee and that Alex and Ali had materialised. I went for the jam sandwiches again and also filled up my water bottle with the aid of a sachet of energy drink. At least that’s what I told the lad in the tent who was filling up the bottles.

Whilst at the feed stop, the bright sunshine meant only one thing: it was time for the legs to come out. Well, the girls had been leading the way with this all the way around, so I thought I’d join in. Off came my leg warmers and … damn, I had no pocket space left in which to put them. This was a problem and, after trying (and failing) to squash them into a rear pocket, Paul came to the rescue and offered to carry them round the rest of the way for me. What a gent!

Back on the road again for the other soul destroying part of the Fred Whitton – the main road down to Gosforth. Like the A66, it’s no fun and, due to the time of day, was rather busier. We kept single file on this one and Paul did a great job of pulling us all along … and then through Gosforth and out the other side until we were all passed by a group who looked like they were on a time trial. We had just enough firepower left to hop onto the back of the train right the way through to Santon Bridge.

And then it all exploded. There’s another uncategorised lump here that catches a few people out: it’s pretty steep at the bottom and, although it’s not all that long, it is long enough to have to be given respect and paced properly. Paul had managed to latch onto a wheel and was using his tractor beam special power to stay there. I was on Paul’s wheel and remained there at, pretty much, any cost. The rest of the guys had dropped off after the acceleration on the lower slopes, but, given the pace they’d been riding at, I knew they’d make it round the rest of the event with no problems, so I stayed where I was.

We were towed all the way along the valley, which was great, but not without its issues, at least for me. At about 85 miles I started to struggle on the uphills. I figured it was just a bad patch and tried to ride through it for a bit. This didn’t work and I was perilously close to being dropped, which would have been embarrassing as the group was only travelling at about 16-17mph and I was sitting on the back. By this point, I’d resigned myself to not being able to ride up Hardknott – it’s a severe enough test that you have to feel ready for it, otherwise it just won’t happen – and suffer the consequences of Gary riding past me on his way to glory. Not long after this my concentration started wandering and the alarm bells began to ring and I realised what was going on. One energy gel and two minutes’ later and I was sitting comfortably on the back of the group again. So are the joys of low blood sugar. I still didn’t think I’d make it up Hardknott and was trying to work out how to minimise my losses when I had another issue: my bladder said ‘I need emptying RIGHT NOW’ and it meant business. So I did. As the pressure was being reduced I remembered that I had that scourge of the Club Ride: a Power Meter. Yes, folks, you’re about to find out how useful they can be on steep climbs. Up to this point, I hadn’t really used it a great deal – along the A66 and across the top of Cold Fell, but, other than that, I’d just ridden how I’d wanted. Now, however, it was about to save my ride.

It’s difficult to know quite where to start with the brute that is Hardknott from the West. The one mile ascent starts steep (20%), has a cattle grid on the incline for added entertainment, after which it gets even steeper (25%) before flattening out a bit (16-18%) for quarter of a mile, or so. You get some small respite about 2/3 of the way up – and about 20 yards of downhill, before the real fun starts. There’s a gentle ramp up (15%) and two warm-up hairpins (20%) before the main event of the 30% ramp between the two hairpins, followed by a further 30% ramp that just goes straight up the side of the mountain. There’s a slight easing (18%) before it kicks up to 25% again on a final ramp, before the flat (7-8%) section at the top.

Knowing all this ahead of time didn’t help much: there’s a minimum power requirement to just keep moving on certain sections and you either have it, or you don’t. I’d picked an effort level above which I didn’t want to go (250W, as it happens) as I knew I could sustain it for an extended period. As I got to road closed signs at the bottom of the climb, I engaged my lowest gear, intending to stay there, and just turned the pedals. This worked well and, despite the self-imposed power cap, I continued to move forward and it was comfortable enough. Further respite was in order as the gate next to the cattle grid had been opened for the event and we were ushered by the marshal up the road, rather than over the steel bars. Just above this was the ‘getting off now’ zone as people ground gently to a halt. There was also a line of three guys all doing quad stretches being watched over by a marshal with a wry smile on his face.

And now was the time when I’d find out if my plan was going to work. And, in terms of the bottom section, yes it was. Whilst I wasn’t really making much progress against other riders, I was completely in control of my effort – even my breathing wasn’t particularly heavy, which was a strange sensation. And the pedals kept turning over, admittedly at a rather low cadence, but turning all the same. Along the plateau section, I exchanged a few words with a Team XIII rider about Hardknott never getting any easier and was then dropped by him, followed by a Cockney guy who was making it look easy.

I sat up and contemplated what was about to come next and wasn’t feeling the love for it at all. No matter, the slope approached and there wasn’t a great deal I could do about it. Up the first pair of, smaller, hairpins without any real issues and the start of the nasty section was there in front of me. As was a man with a camera. Bugger. Can’t not try now. Winch, winch, winch. And I was half way up and gaining on the Team XIII guy, but beginning to feel it. ‘Come on Jo(h)n!’ came from somewhere. Who the hell? Ah, the Team XIII lad, who must, coincidentally, be called Jo(h)n, had his mate standing at the top hairpin and he was getting a shout from him. I’ll take that too, thanks.

Round the top hairpin and Mr Team XIII exploded at the sight of the next ramp. I can’t say I blame him – I think it’s worse than the bit between the hairpins, mainly because you’re already fatigued. Anyway, I negotiated my way around him, and past a number of other riders who’d chucked the towel in and were pushing. As I reached the top of this section, I caught the Cockney guy and had to decide what to to. He was manifestly physically capable of getting up the final, very stingy, section, but the belief was ebbing away. The problem was that if he stopped, I’d have to stop too as there were too many other people around pushing their bikes to get past. In the end, I decided to yell support at him, i.e. that it was the last ramp, that he could do it and that all he needed were ten more pedal strokes, etc. This worked, although the effort of shouting made me feel sick, but it was worth it as we both crested the worst of it. I rode, very slowly, alongside him and he thanked me for the encouragement, which was cool and then promptly stopped at the cairn at the top, either to be sick himself, or to take a selfie of his achievement. I found Paul C there waiting for me: he’d followed his own plan of deliberately getting off at the steep bit, running up the slope until it slackened of and then getting back on again. Apparently this is how he set his quickest time up Hardknott.

And down we went. This is almost as hard as the ascent and, in our case, we caught another rider, but it wasn’t safe to pass, so I spent lots of time on the brakes where we didn’t really need to. Paul and I arrived at the bottom together and began to wind our way along the plateau to the start of Wrynose. My legs were not feeling well – I had the onset of cramp in both quads and both calves. Fortunately, the reduced pace and low, spinny, gear that I was using meant that this was all sorted by the start of the climb. And up we went, Paul right on my tail (admiring my pert bottom again) at the right hand turn, but was struggling a bit for power as the slope began to really bite. Without using the power meter this time, I just kept the pedals going at an effort level that I could sustain to the top, although I did do a stand and spin for the last few feet just to change the pressure points around.

The descent of Wrynose is rather easier than Hardknott, but it still has its challenges, particularly towards the bottom of the twisty top part: it’s easy to get carried away by what looks like a straight, but isn’t. This had caught someone out and they were sitting in the grass about ten feet from the roadside surrounded by paramedics from the ambulance parked opposite him. I kept it easy down that bit hoping that I could let it run on the lower, straighter, section. No such luck: it’s so much rougher than it used to be and if I’d tried to let the bike run, I’d have been bucked off it although, admittedly, this would have got top scores on the scale of the Celestial Harp, which gives a whole new meaning to mood music, I feel.

Anyway, it’s not far from the bottom of Wrynose to the New Bit of the Fred Whitton for 2018. Instead of carrying straight on towards Elterwater, the route now turns left over Blea Tarn, before heading down Route One towards Ambleside. So the event how had another 25% climb on it, but the good news is that it’s very short – only 100m. I’d waited for Paul, whose legs were really feeling it: any time the road was heading upwards and he was struggling a bit. We got to the bottom of the steep ramp side by side, when a voice from behind asked if he could come through the middle. Well, who were we to refuse a polite offer like that from a nice young man? We parted to let him through nice and easily and he glided into the gap before coming out the other side. Mind you, I nearly returned the favour as the 25% began to bite and his legs began to show the strain (always a good sight to know that another good rider is suffering as you catch them.) That said, I then had to sit up for Paul at the top and let him go on his (satisfied) way.

I blew down the descent – I like this one – although I did nod to the marshals on the way down and heed their warnings of the bends. There is easily a bunch more time to take out of it, but this wasn’t the day. The cattle grid on an angle at the bottom is a nice touch, as was the guy with the whistle who was warning riders of it. I knew it was there anyway, but they couldn’t know that, and took a line across it that meant I could travel perpendicular to the grid bars. Never, never, ever cross the bars of a cattle grid at any angle more than a few degrees away from perpendicular to the bars (and zero degrees in the wet), because you’ll come off if you do and it’ll hurt. The only exception to this is if you can bunnyhop the entire thing, but that’s very much to be filed in the ‘advanced’ section…

With Paul on my wheel, I set about my constant effort thing again, but this time set at a level he was ‘comfortable’ with. We’d picked up another couple of riders along the way and we rolled nicely along the road. We passed the screaming masses at Wainwright’s Inn (really!) who were giving everyone a great cheer. Eventually, one of the riders came through (in a blue polka dot Skoda KOM jersey from the Tour of Britain) and I thought he was going to take off, but, no, he kept looking behind and I pulled everyone onto his back wheel and thanked him for the offer of it. He was more than happy, having been pulled along by me for several miles previously. See what we can do when we work together?

Somewhere down here was the 10 miles to go sign, which was a blatant lie as I only had 100 miles on the clock and the event is a, nominal, 113 miles long. No matter – our scepticism was sufficient to keep us going for a bit further. As we turned onto the Loughrigg road, our polka dot friend swung off the front, leaving me to close the final 10 yards’ gap onto the back of a large Honister 92 group, where, essentially, we remained until landing back on the A591 main road.

Once onto that final stretch, the Honister 92 guys wound up the speed and, whilst I was able to go with it, Paul was struggling, so I dropped back and gave him my back wheel and we came in to the finish funnel line astern to be greeted by the sight of Mrs W, Mrs C and my mum and dad. A couple of minutes’ later, Gary rolled in looking, er, peaky, having given it the absolute beans on the last section. Alex arrived a few minutes after Gary and Ali about ten minutes after that. We found out that Chris and Charlie had arrived half an hour, or so, before we did and within a couple of minutes of each other.

After the usual taking of photos, including the one where I’m holding Gary up, we wandered around to the ‘recovery’ area where we had cups of water and a glass of non-alcoholic beer passed to us before, finally, heading for the main event of pie and peas. Which my digestive system wouldn’t take. Still, not to worry, we had a curry planned for later in the evening so missing a few calories then wasn’t really an issue.

And then we began to disperse into the early evening for a shower, disembarkation of everything in our pockets and a short lie down where we could reflect on the events of the day which, all-in-all had been a good one. I suspect it’ll be a while before the event gets weather conditions as good as that again and the roadside support was just amazing with people in pretty much every spot that you could think of.

So, was it worth doing? Hell, yes. Would I do it again? Hell, no. But I said that last time, too…

Thanks, and kudos, for getting this far – if there are any other road rides, or climbs, you’d like me to take on, the more ridiculous the better, then please send me a message on my FaceBook page https://www.facebook.com/wheelygoodcycling/ or email me on wheelygoodmail@gmail.com and let me know…

  1. My car… ↩

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