Lake District
The Lake District’s Fred Whitton Challenge might just be the UK’s toughest sportive. Senior staff writer John Whitney rode it for the first time in 2011 and is still to get the chastening experience out of his system...
The time ticks over the eight-hour mark of the most gruelling cycling event of my life. With just 12 miles left I’m on course to finish inside my target time of nine hours, but for the fourth time today I’m at a standstill. Yet another puncture has wrecked my momentum, and this time I’m close to breaking point.
My pre-ride decision to trade my trusted winter tyres for something more racy has delivered another hammer blow and I contemplate surrender. I badly misjudged the final corner on the descent of Hardknott Pass – the most feared hill of this infamous route – and I’ve skidded off onto rocky ground. Not only am I out of luck, more crucially, I’m out of inner tubes. Though my pump has snapped in two anyway.
I’ve experienced monsoon-like downpours, biting headwinds, sleet and snow and debilitating cramp and across 100 miles of the worst terrain the Lake District can throw at me, but this is rock bottom. The conditions are deteriorating rapidly, and as I wait for mechanical support, I ponder the torturous ordeal that is the Fred Whitton Challenge.
Infamous Fred
‘Boasting’ a punishing 112-mile route across seven of the Lake District’s major hill passes, the Fred Whitton holds legendary status within the cycling community. Massively oversubscribed year after year, a ballot system is used to whittle down the field. The early May scheduling guarantees unpredictable weather and since accepting an invitation to ride a few weeks earlier, I’ve had everything crossed for sunshine.
All cyclists have to be on the road by 9am, but slower riders are encouraged to set off as early as possible to allow time to reach each checkpoint before they shut. I check in at 6am sharp, but delay for half an hour while Tom the photographer sets off ahead of me. Conditions are going downhill fast so I wait another five minutes but, figuring it’ll be like this for some time, resign myself to my fate and set off.
Hawkshead Hill looms large. I’d been advised to hold back early on and conserve energy for later, but my ego gets the better of me and I charge up to the summit. It brushes away the morning cobwebs, but the ferocity of the climb takes me by surprise. I’m alarmed to discover this is a mere bump in the road compared with what lies ahead, so I ease up a little.
I’m with a large bunch as we sweep through Ambleside and on towards Windermere, before taking an abrupt left turn up the steep Holbeck Lane towards Troutbeck. This morphs into Kirkstone Pass – the highest point and longest single climb of the day. The rain has relented and, feeling fresh, I tear
up to the 454m summit. Despite heavy breathing, I feel energised and confident.
The long descent is followed by 15 miles of flatter roads, separated by a ramp up Matterdale End. At 28 miles, the course takes a left onto the A66 towards Keswick, a busy single lane carriageway; with little in the way of overlap on either side, I dread puncturing. Seconds later, my rear wheel begins to wobble and then I’m in dense shrubbery.
A mechanic from a competing team pulls in and offers me food, drink and a helping hand. I hastily accept all three and watch in awe as he fixes the flat in seconds. I consider suggesting he abandons his team to trail after me instead, but before I can, he wishes me well and jumps into his van.
My rhythm shot, the route continues on the A66 for nine undulating miles and I’m pleased to see the back of it at Keswick. Spectators applaud as the bunch passes through the centre and I briefly feel like a rider of note.
Seatoller at 46 miles soon gives way to the oppressive Honister Pass, and the heavens open. The narrow road rears up viciously to 25 per cent, bunching the field. The rain streams down my face and is as bad as it’s been all day. It’s the toughest climb so far and riders either side of me decide they are better off on foot. One poor chap grinds to a halt and, unable to release his cleats, hits the deck. It’s carnage, but as many complete the climb on two legs, I’m heartened to stay on two wheels. But my relief upon reaching the 356m summit is short-lived: the already greasy surface is now streaming with water and makes the steep, twisting descent treacherous. I slow to a crawl to try to avoid catastrophe.
Rain supreme
The rolling roads of Buttermere Valley lead me to the first feed station at 52 miles. My body is holding up well, and a healthy dose of cakes and bananas will hopefully keep things that way. The stop is packed, with cyclists taking shelter
under what little cover there is, but I see little logic in trying to get dry now, and so, embracing the grim conditions, I depart.
My lunch has all of a minute to settle before I reach Newlands Pass. It’s steep, narrow and exposed to the elements, which are now apocalyptic. Wiping sleet from my sunglasses, I steady my bike as it battles strong gales. I want to stand and pedal but the rain washing down the valley is making my back wheel slip and slide. The summit’s in cloud and the flowing water makes for another uncomfortable descent. My hands cramp as the grip on my brakes tightens and the smell of burning pads fills the air. A slow puncture halts my progress on the road to Braithwaite, but I pick myself up to reach the first checkpoint on Whinlatter Pass.
The middle miles, which pass Loweswater, Croasdale, through the Ennerdale Valley and over the aptly-named Cold Fell, see the rot set in. I’m in uncharted territory physically and it shows. The sun is finally out, but the wind is up and, riding alone in open landscapes, I make painstaking progress. Severe cramp in both hamstrings isn’t helping and I’m in need of company to drive me forward. I’m out of gels, low on water and worried about the climbs coming up.
When the field bunches as it hits Cold Fell I experience an unexpected second wind and dig deep to capitalise on it. I hurtle towards Calder Bridge and the second food station at 87 miles, where hordes of cyclists are devouring jam sandwiches and flapjacks, and prepare for one final push.
Hard not easy
The climb up Hardknott has been at the forefront of my mind for the past few weeks. I’ve never been up it by bike, though I’ve been driven up it by my parents as a youngster. It always seemed steep, but things always look bigger from a child’s perspective… This isn’t the case here. It really is as steep as I remember. Vying with North Yorkshire’s Rosedale Chimney as Britain’s steepest road, it reaches 33 per cent in places. It would be tough to get over fresh; that it comes around the 100-mile mark
I’d been advised to hold back, but my ego gets the better of me and I charge towards the summit
is either a stroke of genius by the organisers or a cruel joke. Whatever the reason, it’s the attraction that marks the event out from pretenders, and why entries for today are so highly sought after.
I exit Calder Bridge with an unhealthy mix of exhaustion and trepidation, knowing the worst is still to come. The flat roads towards Eskdale Green see me build up a head of steam, and only Irton Pike gets me puffing. I strike up conversation with a rider from the Peak District and we help each other forwards.
The approach is flat but narrow, Hardknott lurking ominously in the distance. Then a signpost signals the start of the climb, and the road kicks skywards violently. Despite spending large periods of today alone, the field has been squeezed at every pass, and here it’s no different. I’m in bottom gear from the start, and manage to make it through the first ultra-steep section at a snail’s pace.
I’m hurting, but I’m not alone. People dismount left and right and continue on foot. The gradient eases, but my heart is going like the clappers. Worn out riders line the roadside, all gasping for air. It’s a victory to still be pedalling so I take a breather. It doesn’t last long though, as the second steep section hovers into view. I’m making a decent fist of it, but my goal to reach the summit by bike ends as I grind to an unceremonious halt. I take my cues from others and remove my shoes before beginning my walk of shame.
It’s another 10 minutes before a marshal confirms I’ve reached both the summit and the 100-mile mark. A grin masks my utter exhaustion as I survey the expansive valley below. I’ve taken the worst the event can throw at me. With just 12 miles to go, the home straight is in sight…
All day I’ve been a crash waiting to happen, and I’m lucky to escape without injury at the foot of
My hands cramp as the grip on my brakes tightens and the smell of burning pads fills the air
Hardknott. It’s an hour before I get moving again, and when I do it’s at a pace indicative of someone near the end of their tether.
The skies are as black as my demeanour as I labour up Wrynose Pass and freewheel back down towards Coniston, coming over the line, sodden once more, with 10 hours, 27 minutes on the clock. The final 25-mile section has taken over three and a half hours. But as I rest in the sports centre, any pain or disappointment I feel is outweighed by a sense of achievement and relief to finally be here. It’s the longest I’ve ever spent on a bike in a single day, and I’m still in one piece. As the dust settles later that evening, I even start thinking about next year’s event…
It’s the toughest climb so far and riders either side of me decide they’re better off on foot