Feb
14
Category: 
|The February half-term weather having been unusually kind, I set off for my third 50km ride of the week in cool, almost windless conditions under a glorious blue sky armed with six Geobars, a multitool and inner tube, a credit card, a car key, my trusty Garmin Edge (and paper map in case of technical difficulties), a waterproof and contrasting Rapha sportwool jersey and arm warmers.
I was cheating a little as I was starting from Beacon Fell, aware that I almost certainly would not as yet have the legs to complete my intended loop if starting from home.
About 2 km from the start of my route I am reminded, as my rear light bounces down the road [1], that I must buy some cable ties to attach it more inescapably to my seat pack, the road surface on the descent to Brock Mill having apparently been laid by Belgians.
Just before the first proper climb of the day, up to Grizedale reservoir, I discover that my front derailleur is no longer working as it has jammed against my big chainring. Conveniently, after a few minutes staring at it and threatening it with a multitool, a passing cyclist offers his assistance. 20 minutes later, and following some comparison with his steed, we realise that the derailleur has slipped southwards and that it is actually quite a simple problem to fix.
So, thoroughly warmed up (not) the 3km climb, up 140 metres or so, brings me to glorious views over Forton services to Morecambe Bay and the Lake District. The descent towards the River Wyre would have been quicker had the local farmers not insisted on scattering it with cattle grids. Still, it gives me plenty of time to enjoy the views.
A right turn brings me to the next climb and past some of the last vestiges of civilisation for the next dozen kilometres. I am now glad that my jersey has a full length zip as, even in the northern shadow of Catshaw Fell, I’m getting rather hot.
Seeing a short but near vertical wall of road ahead of me, I try to build up a good head of steam to get me up it, only to realise a little late that another farmer (maybe the same one, who knows) has not only placed a cattle grid at its base but also the road has a small but incredibly sharp hairpin after the grid. The 16% gradient here makes me glad that my front derailleur is now back in action and I realise that I’ve not seen any cyclists (or, for that matter, motorists) for the last 10 kms.
The short descent leads to a right turn after a fine looking stream before the road passes through the middle of Marshaw farm at the beginning of the 4 km climb between Winfold Fell and Blaze Moss. The start is gentle enough and the first two kilometres are demolished in seven minutes. The road now turns once more to give me a glimpse of the final mile of climb.
As the road snakes upwards and the gradient increases, I find myself grinning inanely as my speed slows to a walking pace and I take to counting roadside markings to take my mind off the pain. There are only eight more markers to the summit and, as I count them down, noticing that several more have fallen into the gulley below, I notice that I’ve misjudged the hill and that it continues for another 200 metres.
As the road briefly widens, I allow a red saloon car to overtake me. I will soon regret this move. Less than a minute later, I am over the summit now with beautiful views over the geographical centre of Great Britain. The descent is even steeper than the climb but the road is wide and I could descend at a heck of a speed if it weren’t for a certain red saloon car which is now, to my mind, travelling at a ludicrously slow 30 mph, obliging me to keep my hands on the brakes for at least half of the next 4 km through the Duke of Lancaster’s substantial estate.
As I pass the Inn at Whitewell and enter the woods, the cold hits my legs, the sun will shine directly into my eyes for the next fifteen minutes and I realise that my legs have about had enough. The thought of a large all-day breakfast back at the Visitor Centre keeps me going but another 200 metres of climb over the next 10 kilometres separates my stomach from its prey. I resist the temptation to call in at the Dog & Partridge in Hesketh Lane as I can now see Beacon Fell rising ahead of me.
Turning onto a singletrack road, sod’s law insists that I should now start to meet traffic and that that traffic should expect me to cycle on the muddy verge. I decline the offer and concentrate on the next three kilometres. Now that my legs feel most ready to give way, I have another 100 metres to climb. The sun is now at my side so I can appreciate the scenery and can see a badger by the road. Obviously, it’s not going anywhere in a hurry.
920 metres of climb and just short of 54 kilometres after I set out, I return to Beacon Fell’s Visitor Centre and café, ready to tuck into some lovely hot food. Service stopped twenty minutes previously.
