Not so easy riders…
I write this blog at my desk, nursing achy legs, sore buttocks and a rather brutal case of sunburn. However, amongst my moaning and chafing is a great sense of achievement and joy. I’m talking of course about the bank holiday weekend spent cycling up never ending hills for the Coast to Coast bike ride.
As emphasised in my previous blog, Ian and I were unprepared and undertrained, but what we lacked in skill and experience we more than made up for in enthusiasm.
The adventure and uncertainty began before any of us had even mounted the saddle. Our borrowed van, transporting five riders, a support driver, bikes and bags, set off on Friday evening, treating us to a cacophony of bangs, rattles, hisses and wheezes as we noisily made our way to the Wild West of Whitehaven.
With every passing mile we wondered if it was just a matter of time before the van gave up on us, but eventually breathed a collective sigh of relief as we successfully pulled into our first stop of the weekend.
None of us were quite prepared for what awaited us on our first evening. Drunken locals, knickerless lasses, an angry oil rigger, karaoke – Whitehaven had it all!
Bright and early Saturday morning, with slightly sore heads, we dipped our back wheels in the Irish Sea and set off on our momentous 140 mile journey.
At this point I was still full of deluded confidence. However, this gung ho attitude flew swiftly out the window when we reached our first serious climb – the fearsome Whinlatter Pass, a five mile climb to almost 1,000 feet. As the men in Lycra whizzed past me, I cursed my weak legs before eventually vomiting and walking the rest of the way. Not a great start.
The rest of the day passed without drama, with the exception of Ian’s rather spectacular tumble after being cut up by Paul. Road hog.
As we finally rolled into Penrith for a well deserved pint, I was overjoyed to be told by the veterans that the worst was yet to come, with day two almost completely dominated by hill climbing.
They weren’t exaggerating. After enjoying a nice downhill cruise to Renwick we were faced with the infamous ascent to the summit of Hartside Pass, some 1,904 feet above sea level. It was tough, but we dug deep and made it to the top, rewarding our efforts with a spectacular view across the Solway Firth to Scotland.
The view from the summit of Hartside Pass, 1,904 feet.
Over lunch in Nenthead, Paul tried to lighten the mood by assuring us we didn’t have much climbing left to do. However, with Allenheads our next destination, the highest altitude village in the country, I knew he was telling porkies. This was the point at which I was closest to giving in and seeking refuge in the van. I was cold, tired, achy and miserable.
As we pressed on I somehow managed to find my second wind, tackling the hills in and out of Allenheads and on to Stanhope for our final night. We had big hopes for that evening, each of us gagging for a few well deserved beers and a lovely meal.
Well, you can imagine our disappointment upon discovering that there was not a single place to eat in Stanhope. It would seem the locals survive on a diet of beer and dry roasted peanuts. In the end we were reduced to burning our laps eating a Chinese takeaway in the van, which by this stage had started steering to the right and smelling a bit like burning. Still, it just had to hold on for one more day…
Bank holiday Monday blessed us with clear skies and a day of steady downhill cruising. The van however was treading a much more perilous path, and our worst fears were realised just twenty agonising miles from the finish as our wearisome wagon finally broke down – a loud bang and complete loss of steering banishing it to the lay-by. She had been a plucky old mare, but alas her number was finally up.
A plan-B was quickly formed and the girls came to rescue, rallying to aid of their boys in distress. We eventually rolled in to our final destination at the Sunderland coast in glorious sunshine, dipping our wheels in the North Sea to commemorate our epic journey.
We made it, and we’re all deservedly proud of ourselves. Particularly Ian and I, who let’s face it, had done no training, but refused to give up, fuelled by a potent mix of flapjack and rugged determination.
Sure, I’ve paid the price with some absolutely savage sunburn and can barely move my legs right now, but it was worth every minute of suffering for the feeling of having pushed myself beyond what I thought I was capable of, not to mention the laughs we enjoyed along the way.
I can’t wait to do it again…
The boys at the end of their 140 mile adventure
