LOOKING BACK: my first Fred

One debate among keen cyclists, especially those who like a sportive, is this; which is the best one?

I've done a few around the UK in recent years but the ride that keeps me coming back is the Fred Whitton Challenge. When I started cycling four years ago I was perusing Strava and noticed a mate had done the Fred. "12,000ft of climbing!" I thought. "Impossible!". I read up on it and it sounded horrific. I was less than a month into cycling and that week i'd only just got my first road bike.

Anyway, a month or two passed, I was riding for pleasure now and even managed a local sportive. Then my brother, though some unknown magic, managed to convince me to do take a charity place on the Prudential RideLondon 100 that summer... one hundred miles! People drive that far, they don't cycle it, and I'd only been off the fags for six weeks!

Google Earth is a great way to see the horrificness of the Fred in all its glory!

Anyway, fast forward to later in 2016 and I'd completed RL100, had a Peak District sportive under my belt, and I'd bought the first 100 Climbs book to sate my increasing thirst for all things cycling. Up pops something on Facebook about the Fred Whitton Challenge and my brain started churning; I was up for it... I HAD to enter!

There are numerous blogs and website posts about the event so there's no shortage of info about the pain you have to endure. You look at a Strava profile of the climbs and it's horrifying to see massive, sharp peaks spread between lots of smaller sharp peaks. You watch videos of people grunting and writhing up the climbs. Even the official website puts the fear of God into you with stories of snapped seatposts and collisions with livestock!

Basically, if you're new to the game like me, then you're totally unprepared. That is a grade-A fact.

The ballot entry came and went and then that elation of receiving a very modest acceptance e-mail brings you a January reality check; I'm actually doing this! The event is built upon a trope of northern stoicism, where it's about doing things fuss-free and without showing off. The event's "a good effort" slogan (something the late namesake of the event, Fred Whitton, said as his form of lakeland kudos) shows the down-to-earth nature of the event. It's as far from the glitz of something like RideLondon as you can get. You turn up and it looks more like a small county fair, a big tent for registration and that's about it. You almost expect there to be a coconut shy or a prize vegetable competition. It sets the scene perfectly - it's the 'anti-sportive'.

The elevation profile of the Fred Whitton Challenge - spikey!

Before I continue, for anyone doing The Fred, accommodation is always one major hurdle. The lakes in May (or June as it should heave been for 2020) are starting to get busier around this point and with 2,000+ cyclists attending, it's slim pickings if you don't get in there early. My travelling partner, Danny, and I stayed at YHA Langdale, a beautiful place that's basic, cheap and only a few miles from the start in Grasmere. However, we turned up late (11pm) so our dorm was already full and after necking a load of pasta and a beer, we found we'd been given top bunks in a room full of snoring blokes. It wasn't a great night of sleep and the early start (up at 5am) was less-than-pleasant, trying to ram down as much food as possible over a rushed breakfast.

Anyway, registration done, bikes sorted and feeling like a pack horse with gels in every pocket, the start is in keeping with the whole event; you go across some matting, you get a few yells of encouragement but it just feels like a normal Sunday ride, albeit in stunning surroundings. The lakes at any time of year is an amazing place but when it's sunny (although chilly early on), you get amazing colours washing down the fells that create a patchwork of browns, greens, oranges and other earthy tones.

The first few miles down to the turn off for Holbeck Lane on the day was weird; everyone was quiet, mentally preparing themselves for the ensuing carnage. The fastest riders were well down the road by the time hacks like me were setting off, so aside from a bit of jockeying for position on the main road, it was a sedate affair. The left turn onto Holbeck Lane was a cacophony of crunching gears as everyone remembered that a 20% incline demands the smallest gear they have! I'd fitted a 32T rear especially for this and would get my money's worth by the end.

Holbeck leads into Kirkstone Pass, probably my least favourite of the big climbs on the route. It's an amazing climb for sure, long and exposed, beautiful as it is punishing. It's so early in the ride though, you're legs are screaming because they've not warmed up properly, but like all the climbs, you know the top will come eventually, you've just got to do it your way. I had pretty good legs but it hurt to try and hang onto a guy who was clearly a stronger rider, so I found my own pace, I smiled for the photographer, waited at the top for Danny and then we hurtled down the long descent to Ullswater. Looking back, in my head, this part always seems like a short run but in reality your inner time-triallist kicks in when everyone starts to group up on the flat and suddenly you find yourself peddling like crazy in a bunch no one wants to take ownership of. It's sheep on bikes basically. "Stop this now," you have to tell yourself, "or you'll regret it later.... slow down... That's better, steady along. This isn't a race.", as you cruise around the shore of Ullswater, bathed in warm, early morning light. The place is magic.

Climbing up Holbeck Lane and Kirkstone Pass provides the first dramatic views.

Up to Dockray, you're now heading away from the lake, up through trees and out into the wilds. Not a huge climb, this one eats into the energy reserves just a tad but when you top out on the moorland, you catch sight of Skiddaw (931m) in the distance looming over Keswick. Then you hit the A66 and unleash the TT rider in you properly this time; cars whizz by but you're hurtling along at 25mph, desperate to cover the eight miles and get back to some quieter lanes. I actually enjoy this bit because when you're in a decent group, you can do this without wasting too much energy. You see people riding solo who've emptied the tank and you know there's no way they can get back on so you just smile and wave, and hope they find some solace in a gel or two.

At this point, it's the deepest i'd been into the Lakes. I'd been to Ullwater and Ambleside on Holiday with my girlfriend in our 20s but we spent most of that time wandering from pub-to-pub. On a bike you get a totally new appreciation for a place. I'm sure walkers and fell runners see another wonderful side of the lakes too, but I reckon cycling around them, especially on this route, gives you the 'full monty'. It's just quite hard.

People line the streets in Keswick, the first indication of what the event means to the area; on RideLondon, my barometer of the large-scale sportive, there are thousands of people along the route. But aside from small pockets, you get the feeling it's never personal to them. Maybe that's a bit unfair, but in the lakes you instantly feel like the locals really want you there. Cow bells echo through the streets, people shout encouragingly, with their banners held high, the drivers just pootle around you without a care (this is open roads remember) and it has the air of something that matters because it's part of the local culture and economy. It was created by people who live there and it's been nurtured into what it is, it was never a commercial venture, or at least it never appears that way. In the sun it's spectacular to see so much support but I'm sure it's equally impressive to see supporters even in bad (read: normal) weather.

Looking like the gates to Mordor, the western ascent of Honnister Pass is as foreboding as they come.

The ride alongside Derwentwater was lovely, darting through patches of sunlight before we headed into Borrowdale and the village of Seatoller, the start of Honniser Pass. The route takes the eastern ascent, apparently easier than the other side that featured in the 2013 Tour of Britain. Thankfully we had much better weather than the professionals some years before, but that didn't stop the organisers warning against showboating; these are steep hills, going up is hard, going down is very, very dangerous. We'd been warned about wandering sheep and loose gravel. Honnister was living proof of the dangers; ambulances streamed past as we struggled upwards and as I crested the hill it was chaos. There were people everywhere, all stopped because the road ahead was blocked. There had been a big off, someone had crashed into a wall. Or was it a bridge? The rumour mill went into overdrive. What we did know was ambulances and a helicopter were called in, never sights you want to see.

Yours truly topping out on Honnister - the smile may have been slightly forced. After 45 minutes or so, I'd regrouped with Danny, we'd taken a few snaps and refilled bottles before being told we could proceed. Everyone was being ultra careful, no one wanted to be another statistic. No amount of tucking into an faux-aero position could mask the trepidation you feel as gravity pulls you down a 20% slope. Careful was the day's watchword. Once Honnister is dealt with you reach the first official feed stop where, in the now blazing sunshine, water was being downed like there was no tomorrow. We'd done about 47 miles, probably 5,000ft of climbing but were feeling okay considering. But now wasn't the time to gorge on fuel; this feed stop has a sting in its tail about 200 metres down the road as it turns steeply right onto Newlands Pass (A.K.A. Newlands Hause). One of my favourite climbs, this narrow strip of decent tarmac meanders along the face of a mountain, gaining 705ft in just over a mile. I doesn't look hard, but it's deceptive because it contains numerous ramps and a lung-busting second half that regularly reaches 20%! The drop on the left, which looks sheer at times, adds to the drama. Drivers coming down give you a knowing nod, acknowledging the fact your churning of pedals means you're not in a talking mood. The mountain goats are probably only in zone 3 at this point, but the rest of us are lucky to be lifting a finger in thanks. Skiddaw in the distance. The descent off the back of Newlands Pass is a welcome respite Riders crest the climb and then head down a long, winding five-mile downhill section back towards Briathwaite. This part is a treat, flowing lanes, a few bumps and lumps and amazing views towards Skiddaw, which on the day was shrouded in a magnificent layer of cloud. Look out for the little cottage on your left where they filmed the Christopher Ecclestone BBC series, 'The A-word' if you're heading that way. With legs revitalised, we hit the village of Braithwaite, the first cut-off point on the ride. The marshalls can't be on the route all day so if you don't make it to Braithwaite in time, you're effectively asked to do the right thing and take a shortcut back to the start. We were okay, as we'd arrived an hour before the 12-noon cutoff time. The village is the start of Whinlatter Pass, another treat for climbers. It's the only climb that's through forest, so it has an alpine feel, never too steep but always going up at a steady gradient as you gain another 750ft. You hear the cow bells right from the start as locals and supporters line the climb all the way. You feel like you're in Le Tour, especially once you reach the top near the visitor centre where fans in deck chairs are literally screaming at you to dig deep as you spin over the top of messages of encouragement scrawled on the road surface. Unleashing an uphill sprint on knackered legs is never easy, but their support at least give you a few more watts for a second or two! Exiting Whinlatter Forest, you're fired downhill and speed down towards Crummock Water and eventually the stunning Loweswater. This is where you just get blown away by the majesty of the place as high peaks cast impressive silhouettes over lush, green valleys. Your mind wanders about what it would be like to live here; "How would your cycling legs fare?" "Is it cut off in Winter?" "Where's the nearest shop?" Even returning to do the event in 2018, I couldn't remember much about the next 15 or so miles; this is where fatigue starts to kick in regardless of how well-fuelled you are. One minute you're looking back towards the crag-laden valley that leads back to Honnister, the next you're cursing your legs as Fangs Brow, not even a climb that registers on the official guide, bites you with its average 7% gradient. But the views over to Workington and the wind turbines out in the Solway Firth catch your eye and you plod on, mile after mile ticking off. You hear music. Rounding a corner you see what is - in the context of the ride - quite a gentle slope, but there's a gaggle of people at the top. They're partying, handing out sandwiches and sweets. You sprint for no good reason and they cheer you on. This is madness, we we're miles from anywhere and people were just coming out to give riders a gee up... No Zwift 'Ride On' can compete with this! Ennerdale Water presents one of the ride's most stunning views. Ennerdale Water and the mighty Wasdale Head loom large in the distance. Whizzing through winding lanes, avoiding the loose gravel you pass through Ennerdale Bridge before turning left onto Cold Fell (A.K.A. Burn Edge), with its 548ft of climbing up onto exposed moorland. It's more like the Yorkshire Dales up here - the hills are softer and rounder - but the first section up to the cattlegrid is horrid because there is literally no horizon other than the brow of the hill. Across the metalwork and you then pass the stone circle and the road sweeps round, finally levelling out as you see a patch of seascape between two hills dead ahead. I found the road surface here to be pretty good, or at least that's how I remember it. I actually love Cold fell, maybe because it's a manageable gradient where you can actual cycle closer-to-normal as opposed to grinding up. You feel like a proper climber for a few minutes. The road continued into Calder Bridge, the second feed stop, but not before we caught sight of the almost alien dome of Sellafield power station. Both times I've done the Fred, Calder Bridge has been like an oasis in a desert; welcome civilisation offering up buttered lumps of Soreen, strong coffee, savoury sandwiches.... all stuff your body wants after hours of necking gels. The staff are unbelievably nice, mainly older ladies who mother you as if you're been forced to do this. This is the big toilet stop before Hardknott and Wrynose. All extra weight discarded! Leaving the quant village there's a few miles on a fairly busy road, with little pelotons forming to help ease the pain of battling again any shred of breeze. We hurtled through the village of Gosforth and away from traffic, passing cosy brick houses painted white, reflecting the sunshine and warming the soul. The back lanes here are a far cry from those deep in the classic Lake District; here it's more like Cornwall, with high hedges creating sanctuary against the wind. I had a horrible time here, totally dehydrated as I tried to keep some stupid pace going with Danny and a few others. The gels had gotten to me, making me want a wee every few minutes, so I was playing catchup for a few miles, emptying the tank further. You hit the notorious Bowerhouse Bank (avg 8.6%, very unwelcome on tired legs) and then there's the pacey descent into the Eskdale Valley, past the village of Boot as you see the mighty Scafell Pike in the distance. It hulks across the landscape, it's a big old chunk of rock for sure. The road is flattish, winding, passing pubs and a light gauge railway. It was quiet, I realised I hadn't spoken properly to anyone. What was going on? Oh, that's what's going on... ... As I rounded a bend, from behind a tree there was Hardknott Pass; a serpentine slither of tarmac draped over what can only be described as a fortress of rock. It looks impassable, implausible even! You can't get a handle on the scale until you stop for a final pee-stop and see tiny dots moving ever so slowly up the road. But it's what you came for. The unmistakable Hardknott Pass. Nothing in the ride prepares you for the pain it inflicts. With a very lacklustre nod to each other, myself and Danny set off over the cattlegrid. I heard him mumble "see you at the top", both of us acknowledging that this is a solo affair. I don't have many 20% climbs close to me in the Midlands, let alone 30 per cent ones, so like any of the big lakeland climbs, the first stretch as you push uphill is a total and utter shock to the system. It's like a war zone, bodies slumped over frames, heaving them upwards with noses dripping sweat just inches from a near-stationary front wheel. Then it happens, you feel bad for overtaking someone, not because you're faster than them, but because there's not an ounce of energy you can spare to give a nod, a wave or an encouraging comment. You feel selfish, this is YOUR climb and no one is going to fuck it up but you! The road rises up and you remember reading somewhere that you take the corners on the outside where it's 'only' 20%. It's longer by just a few metres but it feel like a mile. A guy is walking in the road with his bike. What do I do? You notice these things like they're in slow motion. Do I go right or left? You try to ask the politely to give way but it comes out as a shouted "ON RIGHT!", spittle dribbling down my chin as I continue to grind uphill. The climb levels out for a small stretch but it's still 10% - your legs feel lighter - but all you're doing is trying to clutch at lungfuls of hot air and bring your heart rate down. Even reaching down to grab your bottle seems like monumental effort. There's no selfie opportunity here, you take in the sights and just keep going. The hardest bit is now only tens of metres away but it takes an age to reach it and when you do, you see the ever-present dribble of water from some underground spring finding the path of least resistance down the 30% slope. Will my tyre grip? Will it slip? The mind is reeling at this point, all the while there's a photographer pointing his lens at you for the official photo. You grimace and try to look cool and collected but who are you trying to kid? Every fibre in your legs is pedalling squares to get you round the steepest S-bend you'll ever come across. A guy shouted "that bike is awesome" to try and help motivate me but I just spluttered some gibberish in reply. I can only apologise. The top was in view and things seem to be easing off. Summoning every ounce of energy, the cadence increased and in a flash, it was done... Well, I'm lying actually; I managed to accidentally unclip my right foot because i'd stupidly not tightened up my pedal. I'd dabbed. I didn't go there to dab! I took a breath, set the chainset moving and luckily managed to clip back in. Clip in! On a fucking 20% slope! That was my luck used up for an eternity I tell you, I'll never be that jammy again! The summit came, with people crowding round the stone cairn and the sign that proclaims you've reached the top, but I coasted over the top to make sure that the Strava segment was completed and to catch my breath out of sight of others. Made it up... definitely the hardest climb i'd done up until this point. After a brief sit down, I eased the bike back up the 15 or so metres to the top for a photo. The camaraderie between everyone is clear; people are knackered and everyone knows how much that climbsmeans so turns are taken helping to make memories with iPhones. I don't even know these people but we're all in some unofficial club, that's a nice feeling. Danny arrived 15 minutes later; he'd had to walk some of it, too many people on the steep bits getting in the way of a proper attack. It's one of the bad bits of Hardknott; cars coming down, broken cyclists finding any way they can to get to the top, meandering across the road. I think I was lucky this time. My official time was 23m 34s, a snail-like average speed of 3.5mph. The descent down Hardknott is one that I can't believe I've now done twice without major fuss. Like Wrynose, it just feels too steep to descend on a bicycle, with too much loose surface gravel to be considered enjoyable. I've pledged never to do it again on rim brakes. It feel like it would be equally as horrid to climb; maybe one day... Anyway, we arrived in a valley that felt like somewhere in Iceland (not that I've been to Iceland, but you get the drift); it's quiet, sparse, with a crystal-clear river flowing towards you. It is idyllic with smooth tarmac flowing to the foot of Wrynose Pass in the distance. This is the easy side; it's still nearly 500ft of climbing but it's steady at an average of 8%, a far cry from the 900ft at 11% on the more infamous side of Wrynose that we'd be descending. It was now just a matter of finding a gear that didn't wreck the legs and going for it. It burned. But when you've done Hardknott, the king of climbs, this should be a doddle, right? Danny and I reached the crest and that was it, we'd done it, all of the major climbs ticked off. Wrynose ticked off, it's now a case of digging into the reserves to make it the last few miles back to Grasmere. I'm not trying to boast here, but it was now that I actually felt pretty awesome; maybe it was the rush of climbing those hills, maybe I was having a funny turn. All I knew was I felt like there was some rocket fuel in my belly that could get me home... SIS double espresso gels might have taken some of the credit! The organisers have since made the route a bit longer to head over another climb (Blea Tarn), but in 2017 it was a full-on smashfest through Chapel Stile back to the finish line some 13 miles away. I spent that last 40 minutes not even thinking about anything in particular, just praying I wouldn't get a puncture like some of the poor souls I saw one the way, thoughtlessly turning the biggest gear I could while my legs protested. Crossing the finish line was part-relief, part-elation. I remember getting the Erdinger alcohol-free beer handed to me by the event staff and nailing it, the sweetest nectar I could imagine, sloshing around in a glass mug that bore the inscription; "A good effort". So I'm guessing you want to know my time? In the classic way we cyclists do this, 'moving time' was 7hr 45m, way under the nine-hour target I'd set myself. However, the reality is I did it in 9hr 58m once feed stops, waiting at the top of climbs for my riding partner, and that big delay at Honnister had been accounted for. I've subsequently read about chain gangs doing it sub-6hrs WITHOUT STOPPING, which seems bonkers. It shows there's a whole different level of cyclist out there. So, would I do it again. I did, the following year in 2018 and loved it just as much. Was I quicker? Not on your nelly... but that's a story for another time. All I will say is if you get the chance to do this ride, grab it. I've been lucky that both times have been glorious sunshine, which always makes any place feel great. I'm not sure enjoyment levels would be the same in the driving rain but this is England and the lakes are among wettest areas by all accounts. Whether you're a mountain goat or just want to challenge yourself, there's something you can't quite put your finger on that makes this event special. Maybe it's the baked beans and pie at the end? Or maybe it's the random parties in the middle of nowhere. or it could be sense of being in this together as people silently struggle together on some of the hardest roads in the land. Whatever it is, I don't think I'll ever tire of this ride and cannot wait for my next chance to grunt, grind and smile my way round the Lakes.