RIDE: Three times a charm

A 'proper' Fred Whitton Challenge is apparently one that's done in weather that echoes the brutality of the climbs themselves. Well, as we looked at the forecast during our late dinner in Kendal the night before taking on a third helping of the UK's most infamous monster sportive, the heavens looked like they were going to give us a damn good soaking. A proper Fred was definitely on the cards.

Waking up in a bunkbed in a youth hostel to the sound of torrential rain the following morning, lashings of mental fortitude was called for. This is what my riding buddy and I came for, we were going to face the challenge and conquer not just the elements, but the mighty climbs of a third Fred Whitton Challenge. Type 2 fun at its finest...

I've written before about my first go at this most infamous of organised rides, but with bad weather on the cards there was palpable apprehension as we arrived in the registration tent at Grasmere Showground. Lots of faffing meant our 6am start time had pushed back to past 7am, so although it was officially day time (but lights were still advisable) it did mean that we'd missed the worst of the rain and it was just damp as hell.

Crossing the start line, pockets full to the gunnels with food and spare inner tubes, it now seemed familiar territory; the few miles along Rydal Water an into Ambleside brought memories flashing back. The abrupt turn into Holbeck Lane, up to Troutbeck and onto Kirkstone was accompanied by the usual "Please stop it, I'm not warmed up yet" thoughts as legs protested, but myself and my riding partner, Danny, we were veterans at this, it would be fine. Wouldn't it?

Dark, a bit miserable, but ever so dramatic.

Foreboding dark clouds lurked ominously above Helvellyn as it watched over us hauling ourselves up Kirkstone; thankfully no rain ensued and a descent towards Ullswater that's usually freezing cold was suddenly bringing a rise in temperatures and the rain jackets came off. I'd been coerced into wearing short sleeves (albeit with arm warmers) by riding partner Danny, even though I'm stick-thin with zero insulation; hopefully I wouldn't regret following peer pressure to wear matching jerseys! Skirting Ullswater, watching landscape photographers making the most of the wonderful early morning light, we made our way up climb no2 - Matterdale End/Park Brow - in what was beginning to feel like mid-Summer and not the forecast Autumnal deluge.

We take our climbs at our own pace and regroup at the top, that's our mutual agreement when we do these rides together, so I headed up first and got chatting to one of the locals from the Lakes RCC. He told me about riders from the club who were probably going to take it easy this year. By easy he meant not going for a stupid time...

"What's a good time for you guys?" I asked; "well, a sub-seven is really quick, a sub-eight is normal." 

"Moving time?"

"No, all-in with stops," he replied casually.

Bearing in mind my fastest moving time is 7h 45m but that involved a lot of waiting around and feed stops, being able to power through AND keep hydrated and fed, going under eight hours seems unreal. But then I look at the course record and that's under 6hrs and it all seems completely mad.

Matchy-matchy.

After the lovely climb away from Ullswater and past forests and moors, the jaunt along the A66 starts. I don't mind this bit, it's a fast A-road with some dual carriageway-type sections where you can engage a big gear (one of the only times during the day) and get the average speed up. There is an alternative route that follows closely via local backroads, as used by the 4 Seasons Challenge app and I'm wondering if maybe that will feature in future versions of the ride, who knows.

Anyway, turn left and you're onto the main artery from Penrith and the M6. I can never get a grip on actually how long this bit is - I think it's about 12 miles - but each time I do it, it's all about getting it over and done with as quickly a possible; a favourable breeze pushed a big line of us along the smooth tarmac towards Keswick, as we followed traffic towards storm clouds on the horizon.

Keswick brought its usual array of well-wishers and before we knew it, we were hurtling along the dappled, sunlit shoreline of Derwent Water thinking of just one thing; Honnister Pass.

Honnister really is the first proper test of the ride. The other hills are all hard on the body but this is next level. It wrenches you out of a comfort zone as your front wheel goes from glued to the tarmac, to lifting skyward with the gradient hitting 25% before the first corner. People are zig-zagging around, grinding gears and all the while, being aware of cars that have chosen THIS moment to use the road! Straight-lining it up, 'winch gear' engaged (36/32 in my case) I just kept my weight forward until I crested some 14 minutes later. I cannot for one minute believe Honnister from Seatoller is only 10% average... it feels like double that for the entirety of its 1.4 miles! The view from the top back towards Helvellyn is stunning, and the Mordor-esque gates looking down towards Buttermere never fail to provide a gasp of amazement.

Descending Honnister - outstanding views.

Regrouping with Danny, we headed down the pass and along to Buttermere YHA and the first feed stop. It's a cruel place; on one hand it provides much needed water and food, but on the other it is mere yards before the start of Newlands Pass... The lactic burn as you hit the first 20% slope tells you if you made the mistake of staying at the feed stop too long. The Kendal Mint Cake gels were a welcome find though, so it wasn't all that bad.

As we were relatively late starting - many riders chose the darkness at 6am to make early progress - we were mindful of the 11:30am cut off at Braithwaite but we needn't have worried as we cruised to the start of Whinlatter Pass with a half hour to go, locals shouting encouragement, as if we were the first cyclists they'd seen that day. I like Whinlatter's alpine feel - working upwards through the forest - but today it felt hard, steeper than before; 13 seconds slower than my quickest time up, I was happy with that effort even if my legs were now protesting. This was close to the halfway point with 6,000ft of climbing under our belts.

Whinlatter is always a great spot for local support.

Descending Whinlatter the rain started. By started I mean it was like the floodgates had been opened. No jacket could keep the rain out, it was more a case of staving off the chill and persevering. Funnily, I was feeling great, thanks in part to Kendal Mint Cake energy bars I'd stashed, which I later heard someone refer to as 'Kendal Cocaine'. My riding buddy on the other hand was waterless, fed up of the rain and in that place it's jut better to shut up and keep going. So, we just kept cycling. 

There was a diversion at High Lorton that added 1.5 miles - all flat thankfully - and then the undulations around Loweswater and the nasty Fang's Brow, which in past years seemed like a struggle in the heat but this year, was just damp and miserable. This part is where the fatigue kicks in and although I felt good, I was thankful we'd eased up a little to save the legs. 

Party central - or rather the water stop manned by the wonderful Team XIII - was a massive lift; house music pumping out, cow bells ringing, and happy people wishing us well. Unfortunately, there'd been an accident on the descent, a notably technical set of bends, so we were diverted through a local village, but not after we'd snagged a bag of crisps off a lovely lady called Kelly who will forever be remembered as a Florence Nightingale figure who came to our aid with salt! Best crisps ever!

We approached Ennerdale Bridge and the unfalteringly exposed Cold Fell. You turn left off the road and although not the biggest climb on the route - it's about 565ft in total - it's spread over 2 miles, with a really harsh initial ramp that's followed by 5-8% that seems to keep on revealing turn after turn. I went hard, I felt good and if anything, this would be the climb that I could look back on and say I'd put my all into; nearly three minutes knocked off my previous PR was enough to justify the burn in my lungs.

Drying up as we approach feed stop No2

After this it was the drop into Calderbridge and the sun was now coming out. Although wet on the roads still, rain jackets were drying and we were back to short sleeves, basking in the afternoon sun. I gorged on bananas and flapjack while Danny sorted out a rubbing caliper that, with a rotational "rub-rub", was slowly driving him insane. We set off minutes later, the caliper still protesting, and we tried to just lighten the mood, chatting nonsense even as we hit the naughty Irton Pike. The mood was good.

Rub-Rub.
Rub-Rub.
Rub-Rub.

The quiet run into Eskdale accounts for a tenth of the ride's overall climbing, some 1,200ft from Eskdale Green to the top of Hardknott. I've said before that this is where you take stock, prepare mentally for the monster that is Hardknott Pass. Having a constant rub on your brake caliper is A) completely off-putting, and B) worrying because of the stupidly steep descent on the other side. We stopped for a roadside repair to no avail; the rub continued. Fair play to Dan though, he did what he could with the multi-tool and just soldiered on. We did however bump a lady called Nicola who we'd met years before on a sportive (Strava friends since), so that distracted us from the rub-rub sound at least. But once you cross a little bridge in the valley and the whole of the Hardknott climb appears ahead, thoughts instantly focus on the ribbon of tarmac presented in front of you; "See you at the top, man."

Legs screaming from the off, I made it through the first series of super-steep bends, watching folk fall off, roll into the grass and hunker over handlebars with spittle dripping everywhere... Battle scenes from war films have looked less gruesome! I made it to the 'flat' bit where it's only 8-10%, still in the biggest cog on my 11-32T cassette. Gasping, clutching for every breath, I could feel my right thigh having a good old spasm. But before I knew it, the photographer was pointing their camera my way, then another and I was hauling myself up the infamous 30% section. I don't know how people did it in the morning when it was wet. I kept traction, rounding the corner where another lens was pointed my way and I kept going but just could not turn the pedal. I planted a foot. Failure? Maybe, but today there would be no walking except down to find somewhere to re-mount. I clipped in, pushed off and failed to hear the familiar 'CLICK' of my left cleat engaging but I was committed so kept turning the pedals until, miraculously, I managed to lift my foot slightly, the pedal rotated and the foot engaged. I was moving properly. 

The remainder of the climb was a slog, just a case of using all of my 84kgs to put weight onto the pedal to create a rotation. Then suddenly it was over, I was at the top. I crested, rolled down the other side - to make sure I had completed the segment - before I headed back up to wait for Danny. A new PR, 58 seconds wiped off my previous best. Super-happy with that.

I'll never tire of the view descending Hardknott and onto Wrynose Pass.

The descent was a hoot, my first time doing it on disc brakes. No matter what people say about rim brakes being perfectly adequate, I felt much more comfortable with a disc slowing me down. "Thank You" was said to each and every mountain rescue person and marshal I saw - it's the least I can do for their time spent ensuring the event stays safe - and then the cruise along the Duddon Valley, wetting my cap in a crystal-clear stream to ease the migraine that had been festering since I woke up. By now I just wanted to get back, eat some food and close my eyes for a few minutes. But the small task of Wrynose pass - the 'easy' side - lay ahead so I dug in and ground my way up, my Garmin (annoyingly) reminding me with an 8-bit crescendo that the KOM had finished by the time I was only half way up! I must remember to turn that function off...

Blea Tarn done and now the final 10 miles home...

A chat to the volunteers at the top, a brief hello to the other stragglers who were making up the late-afternoon rear guard, and we headed down, past cyclists coming up the incredible steep face of Wrynose, before hitting Blea Tarn and then the final 10 or so miles back to base. No all-out time trial this year, just a steady group of us ticking along to make sure we got home. The route thankfully avoided quiet (but lumpy) back lanes and soon we were on the main route into Grasmere and over the line, heralded in with cheers and handed a zipped bag with our reward; I think it's a microfibre towel but it could be a flag. Or a doo-rag. Answers on a postcard dear reader...

8 hours 7 minutes moving time.

10 hours 5 minutes overall time.

Those riders who are super quick have nothing to fear. Importantly though, I didn't feel broken. Maybe that's a bad sign, maybe I should have emptied myself more? Regardless, I sat eating my complementary pie, beans and gravy in the sunshine happy that I had another go at this amazing event under my belt.

"We're not doing it again," Danny said, trying to convince me that the novelty had worn off. I'm not so sure; after seeing people who've done super-quick times, I'm itching to know if I can at least try to do an all-out, non-stop ride, more to prove to myself more than anyone that I can train and focus like a 'proper' cyclist. I don't know, maybe it's post-ride excitement getting the better of me as I look at my ride on Strava. If the January ballot is favourable then I'll happily give it another crack but for the remainder of the year, I might just enjoy what weather we have, sit in some cafe with riding buddies and be thankful I've made it round The Fred safely once again....