From Santon Bridge, where I ate my breakfast next to the river Irt in the company of pied wagtails, an inquisitive bullfinch, and the bouncy campsite labrador, I climbed through the mist up Hardknott Pass, to the frank astonishment of the few motorists around. One chap in a van congratulated me as i puffed my way up the first steep bit, as he'd had to turn around further up the pass. I didn't have enough breath to muster any more witty response than "Cheers".
I stopped for a breather after that bit, but the views weren't up to much.
I'd had a view of the first part of the climb earlier, and I managed that just fine even though it seemed to have emerged from some power-mad Roman drill-sergeant's fever dream, but the easy bit after that was a trap, and one which I fell into like a fool. I'm trying to convince myself that I might have got up the next steep hairpin if it hadn't been for the bastard in the BMW X5 who refused to stop coming down the other way, leaving me the choice of stopping and unclipping, or being taken back down the hill on his white bonnet. Wanker even had the gall to wave thanks, as if it had been anything other than sheer necessity. The same thing happened on Honister on Saturday, except that they came from behind. Still a damn BMw, though - it must be time for a cull, surely.
As I was pushing my fully-loaded bike up the hill, I did try to convince myself that I could have ridden up, which would certainly have been easier than pushing it, but that is a very steep road, and I'm not
that self-delusional.
The descent was greasy. Very Greasy. And bumpy. It was bounce-skid-let-brakes-off-plummet-brake-skid all the way down, and not a little scary. Until the less precipitous stretch to Cockley Beck, which was an effortless freewheel at 25 mph.
Wrynose was much the same, except shorter and I didn't have a BMW to excuse me for walking the steep bit. The descent was wonderful, plenty of cyclists coming the other way, and bursting back under the cloud to Little Langdale to see the road peeling back up the other side of the valley was quite delightful. I should also say how much I enjoyed the sweeping descent to Skelwith Bridge, especially as the car behind was patient and gave me loads of space to use the whole road.
It still took me three hours to get to Ambleside, a distance of about 20 miles. And Ambleside was a bit changed from the last time I was there - I had a cruel urge for a full English breakfast, which proved surprisingly difficult to find amongst the health food, snack and panini bars. Look, if I want a panini I'll go back to the eighties and buy a Back to the Future sticker album. I want
BACON.
Bilbo's Café more than did the trick - it was above a proper outdoor shop (they even sold MSR stoves, which had my buying hand twitching), and they were quite happy to chuck my bike in the store room for security while I stuffed my face on
BACON, sausage, beans, egg, and a side order of toasted teacake (even if it did come with homemade cranberry, orange and ginger jam - la-di-fucking-da - and rather pleasant too). I was actually tempted by the spinach and beansprout curry...
Leaving Ambleside meant tackling The Struggle, and climbing back into the clouds. I had a final rest stop near the top to let my heart rate come down from a whine to a buzz, and I saw a cyclist climbing up behind me. Roadie, pro team kit, no luggage. I let him come past, since he was bound to overtake me and I'd only be in his way, weaving over the road. However, I think I mildly irritated him by riding just behind him and chattering about how close we were to the top, asking about his Ironman plans, and telling him how much further I was riding. I let him go off at the top so I didn't out-descend him as well.
Small chance. I put a fleece on outside the Kirkstone Pass Inn, and began my fairly circumspect descent. My nerves weren't helped by memories of the right front pannier making a bid for freedom through the front spokes a couple of days earlier, or by the general rattliness at the front end (turns out, the low-rider mounts had been bounced out of place by the bumpiness of Hardknott or Wrynose, so this became progressively worse until I had to remove the damn things and chuck all the weight on the back. I can't wait until I get my other frame repaired, so I can use the forks with proper mounts for low-riders.
Still, it is a great descent, if a bit pot-holey at the moment, and cruising past Brotherswater then Ullswater with the sun sparkling on the water and the fellsides helped ease the heartache of knowing I'd have to return to work tomorrow.
To cut a long story short (too late), I rode up to Penrith - stupidly via the A66 rather than Eamont Bridge - and onto Carlisle for my train, stopping only to brew some coffee and cook some noodles using some rather suspect water nabbed from a farmyard when a knock at the door didn't rouse any response. I thought the tap was plumbed into the mains, but there was a really odd taste to my coffee.
Back to work tomorrow