Struggling (Day 1 part 2)

Wasdale Head - Ambleside

We’d been stuffing ourselves all morning on cranberries, raisins, nuts, jelly babies and bananas, so we weren’t hungry and decided to keep going from Wasdale Head, without wasting time and money on lunch. (one).

I checked my kit was securely attached and my tyres were soft enough to give good grip on the soft ground (two).

A biker on a Harley Davidson bike told us that of the two paths marked along Lingmall valley, the upper path along Great Gable would definitely be the easier, because the lower one had a ridiculously steep climb up to Sty Head at the end. (three) and so we set off that way.

It’s not easy to get away from Wasdale Head pub. It’s surrounded by sheepfolds with dry stone walls, and it’s difficult to see where the path is, or if you’re on the right one. We saw more than one group head off in one direction only to discover they were going completely the wrong way and turn back. We cycled along the road for a few metres before noticing the signpost behind us for the path heading the way we wanted to go. Once we’d negotiated the sheepfolds, we headed along the base of Great Gable. We were able to ride up to the gate, part of the way along the path, but after that it was pushing all the way as the loose pebbles coupled with the steep slope was some of the most energy sapping riding I’ve ever attempted. Yes, there were places we could have ridden, but getting on and off the bikes would have used more energy, and even when we rode, we moved no more quickly than when we walked. More than once I looked down at the track along the base of the valley, wishing we’d never followed the Bikers’ advice. (three)

Somewhere along that long slog, I picked up a snakebite puncture. The path wasn’t the mud I’d expected and was familiar with, so having soft tyres was totally the wrong approach (two). We had to stop and swap out the tube of my rear tyre before continuing. I was exhausted, my wrist was giving me trouble, and everything was taking longer than it should, so I was grateful when Martin shooed me away and did most of the work.

We hadn’t ridden much together and a few patterns were appearing. On the bikes, riding normal endurance cycling, were are pretty well matched. I ride slightly faster than Martin, but there’s not a massive difference. When we’re pushing and carrying, Martin’s way ahead of me. It’s not just that his bike’s lighter and that my frame bag hampers me carrying, he’s just much better at pushing. On fast downhills, I ride full throttle, brakes off, while he’s more cautious. But on very technical riding, he cycles where I wouldn’t dare. We have different strengths and weaknesses, but nothing that makes us incompatible as cycling buddies. Just as well, because we still had a long way to push before Sty Head, and a long long way to ride before Robin Hood’s bay.

Tyre fixed, and pumped up hard, we pushed on, trudging up towards the top, stopping to watch hikers struggle over boulders and cliffs, before shouldering the bikes and tackling them ourselves. This was the first of many times we heard people say “you’re spoiling a good walk, carrying those” and we agreed wholeheartedly, but we always had the hope that once we got over the highest point, it’d be downhill all the way and they’d look jealously at our backs as they trudged down in our wake.

It was a futile hope. From Sty Head down to Sprinkling tarn the Lake District’s volunteers have created paths from boulders that make life easier for walkers, protect the hills from erosion, and make riding impossible. From us hauling the bikes uphill, we were now holding them back as they tried to pull us off the path and down to the rocky chasm below. The descent was slow, draining, and disheartening as we watched more hikers pass us, spewing their jolly banter and meandering on their merry way. Even the short section we rode down from Sprinkling Tarn was unrelenting hard work, and watching someone set up camp for the night around Angle Tarn was probably the low point of the whole trip, because we knew we still had fifteen kilometres to go before the Youth Hostel at Ambleside.

We had a short break after Angle Tarn, and got chatting to a man who was actually quite excited. I didn’t catch the whole story, but I believe he worked with disabled people, and of the half dozen strangers he’d had conversations with that day in the hills, one of them provided resources to help disabled people work. They’d exchanged contact details, and it was very likely that they’d start doing business together. I do like coincidences like that, but by that stage I was mostly thinking “food!” “bed!” We got another frustratingly short cycle from Angle Tarn before manhandling our wheeled hindrances alongside Rossett Gill, all the while eyeing the smooth track of the Cumbria Way that we hoped would be our route out.

What would, at the beginning of the day, seemed like ‘proper off road’ now felt like the snooker-table smooth track of Silverstone. The mile and a half to the Old Dungeon Ghyll hotel flew by, and we stopped there for some desperately needed food (one). The afternoon would probably have been much easier if we’d eaten a decent lunch. When the food we ordered eventually did come, I picked at it, ate a few chips, just enough to lift my morale, and started badgering Martin to get going. I was exhausted like I’ve only been a few times in my life, and I know there’s only one cure. Sleep. Martin forced his into him, and as soon as possible, I persuaded him to pedalled on. I don’t remember much about the next ten miles. I think we took the old bridleway to Chapel Stile; I think there was traffic in Clappersgate; I think I went the wrong way up a one way street in Ambleside because it was shorter; but one thing I do know: After 13 gruelling hours travelling, bitterly regretting three bad decisions made at Wasdale Head, we made it to Ambleside Youth Hostel and bed.