"IT’LL BLOW OVER..."
When Mother Nature conspires against you, you’ve got to see the bright side, as our features editor Ed inds out on a soggy day in the Lake District
When the weather turns against you, you’ve just got to dig deep – especially if it’s the day you’d picked to ride the toughest trail in the UK and you’re atop a Lakeland fell being blasted by gale-force winds and icy rain
pessimist probably wouldn’t have got themselves into this situation. They’d have studied the forecast, known the Lake District’s rather damp reputation and altered their course for the nearest tearoom while they still had dry pants. But to our downfall we’re optimists, so when we saw that 50 per cent chance of precipitation we thought ‘to hell with it’ and went anyway. And now here we are, soaked to the bone and shivering behind a cairn, a 40mph wind whipping overhead and funnels of water seeping into every fold in our clothes that isn’t already sodden. But being optimists, we can’t help but crack a smile at the ridiculousness of our plight – sitting atop Red Pike above Buttermere, in the midst of the storm, having spent the past two hours trudging uphill with our bikes on our backs, just to get here.
Bring it on
The day began with the objective to seek out and ride the UK’s hardest trail. Local photographer James Vincent had scoped out a route for us, which he said was as breathtaking as it was technical – jagged ridgelines, scree chutes and rock-paved switchbacks, backdropped by the full majesty of the Lake District. And for the first part of the day it all went to plan. The clouds floated high and the valley had a newly-washed freshness to it, the water shimmering and the fields a vibrant shade of green against the rugged fells. But as we pushed on higher and the sharp edges of our bikes began to dig more uncomfortably into our shoulders, the clouds rolled in and the day took on an ominous tone, as though we were heading into Mordor.
By the time we reached the summit, all memory of the summer had disappeared. It was heads down and hoods up, with the rain dripping off our peaks. We hauled our bikes sideways. One step forward, half a step back, feet struggling for traction in the scree. A couple of hikers passed us in the other direction, having abandoned their walks. They staggered, struggling to balance and shook
DOWN A TIGHT, SCREELINED CHUTE, HE HANGS OFF THE BACK WITH A TERRIBLE SOUND COMING FROM HIS USELESS BRAKES
their heads, but still we ploughed on. “It might blow over,” we said to ourselves. Ever the optimists.
The point where I’m forced to take my gloves off and wring them out like a flannel is when I decide the glass is half empty. Looking across to where my ride companions Pat and Scott are huddled, I can see they’re feeling the same. Pat, usually an absolute animal on the bike and a machine in the crossfit gym, is shivering behind a rock, and Scott doesn’t seem to be faring much better. I feel somewhat guilty for subjecting them to this ordeal, but whether we’re having fun or not, we’re still at the top of a mountain with a long way to the warm sanctuary of the van heater. Somewhere below, through the impenetrable blanket of fog, is Buttermere. At least that’s what the OS map says, and one benefit of the ceaseless wind is that at least you know you’re going in the right direction.
Standing up out of our shelter into the full force of the gale, we battle our way along the ridge. The path is hard to distinguish through the grass and jumbled rocks, but as the gradient tips up, some faint singletrack appears. On our left, the steep pillars of a craggy outcrop disappear into the white abyss. On a clear day, James promises, this place is stunning, and we have to take his word for it because the only thing we’re getting a good look at today is the inside of a cloud.
Digging deep
Rounding the shoulder of the hill, the small amount of shelter it offers finally allows us to swing our legs over
the bikes, forcing our cold, stiff muscles into action with the all-absorbing task of staying on track. Manhandling a bike through rain-soaked rocks is one thing, but it’s quite another when your grips are slick with rain and your hands are like icy claws. Our brake rotors are so wet that pulling on them merely elicits a terrible squealing. As soon as enough heat is generated to dry the pads, more rain pummels in to render them useless again. Death-gripping it is. And praying that when you lift the front wheel to hop over a rock, the wind won’t whip it away from under you.
Knowing that you can’t really stop does wonders for focusing the mind, and takes away the option for bottling it when faced by a hard section. Each one of us is fixated on the rider in front, intently watching their line and hoping it’s the right one. I’m impressed by Scott’s commitment, skipping through the rocks as if they were dry. Down a tight, scree-lined chute, hemmed in by vicious spikes, he hangs off the back of his fishtailing bike with a terrible sound coming from his almost useless brakes. Picking up speed I’m sure he’s going to crash, but somehow he glances past all the pedal-catchers and fires out of the end still upright. It makes me wonder if I’m being a bit overcautious, but just as I’m thinking this, Scott, two bike lengths ahead, is sent flying over the bars as his front wheel is taken away by an angled slab. He’s ejected into the kind of landing zone that you really don’t want to crash into and I can sense James and Pat wincing at the impact. Miraculously, Scott gets up unscathed, but it reassures me that I wasn’t being a wuss taking things easy.
Embrace the pain
Having been in grim, resolute survival mode for the past two hours, it’s amazing what even the slightest glimmer of sun can do for morale. A fleeting break in the clouds makes us forget how drenched we are and spurs us into a chase down the trail, gapping over drainage gullies and sliding into turns. It doesn’t last long though, and soon the leaden clouds close in again, pummelling us with even heavier rain. One advantage of braving such bad conditions is that the paths are almost empty of ramblers, with the exception of a stoic few. And it’s just as well, because without the ability to stop, it’s one speed only.
The tight switchbacks are behind us now and our pace builds as the trail widens. We couldn’t get any wetter so we just embrace it, smashing through puddles and sending up sheets of water. At last the silhouette of our van appears through the gloom, and the dream of dry socks, which I’ve been putting to the back of my mind all day, is finally a reality. But in a weird, masochistic sort of way,
I still feel like it’s been a successful day out. We’ve had an adventure, even if it wasn’t the one we set out to have. As we strip off our clinging clothes, Scott pipes up: “Anyone want to go for a swim to dry off?” At least someone got the memo about staying optimistic.
EACH ONE OF US IS FIXATED ON THE RIDER IN FRONT, INTENTLY WATCHING THEIR LINE AND HOPING IT’S THE RIGHT ONE