My preparations for the Fred Whitton could be an article in themselves.  Racing each week-end in April meant long, hilly training rides would be out of the question - that was until I took two Wednesdays off in that month in order to achieve that.  As for the bike; well, there were late dramas concerning gears and brakes - two very important components for the FW.  The stresses took their toll on me to the extent that a few pounds were shed in the run-up to the event, but the upside of it meant I was slowly getting down to my summertime weight of 163lbs (74kg).  Less flab to take up the hills at least - say hello to Skinny-bitch Redders!

With Graham Giggs, Derwent Jeffery and Our 'Arry (Bulstrode) in the car with Ian Lowe the driver, we ventured north the day before; the banter and Graham's wine gums making the journey fly by.  I'd heard many tales about the Fred Whitton Challenge, the more scarier ones being about riders hitting stone walls at 50mph on descents or tumbling down mountainsides where no wall was there to stop them at all.  Given that I was sometimes a pretty nervous descender (probably not good for someone who sometimes likes to be classed as a climber!!), I had enormous feelings of dread about what was to come.  It was hard to prioritise my aims for the ride, but they'd be something like; 1. Finish, 2. Don't crash, 3. Don't die, 4. Achieve a time of under 8hrs .... 7hrs 30mins would be better!

We awoke on the Sunday to a dry day with the sun threatening to burn through the cloud.  In the Youth Hostel's kitchen making breakfast, it was pretty clear that barely any of the Velo crew had had much sleep thanks mostly to creaking floorboards in the rooms above anytime somebody moved.  One of the best decisions I made all day was to leave base layers, arm- and knee-warmers behind as I left the Hostel before 7am with Tim Brass.  We slowly made our way to Coniston, making sure not to burn up Hawkshead Hill too eagerly.  Ian Lowe's advice was very much at the forefront of my brain; ".... watch those descents and don't go too quickly too soon!".  Tim and I dibbed in at the Sports Centre sometime around 7.20am and off we headed back to Hawkshead Hill for the first climb of the day.

It wasn't a long climb, but it was certainly steep enough.  We passed a fair few riders although I was trying not to get carried away.  A group of four passed us and I thought it best not to try and tag onto the back of them.  We were, after all, only 2 miles into an 112-mile event.  The descent into Ambleside was fast, sweepy but with not too many sharp bends which meant I could nudge the speed up towards 40mph quite easily.  We tagged onto the back wheel of an Evans Cycles rider who we let lead us through the town's one-way system and then back out again onto the A591.  I hit the front of our three-man group just before Tim called "Next left" and I duly made the turn up Holbeck Lane .... in theory, this was the start of the Kirkstone Pass what with the ascents up to and through Troutbeck.  I was climbing well during this segment as Tim and I passed numerous riders; the Evans Cycles chap soon disappeared backwards and behind us.  I was giving cheery "Hello's" and "Good Morning's" to all who we passed .... some were cheery back, those who were suffering at this early stage merely grunted an acknowledgement.

The first ten miles flew by, the sun was out, the birds were singing, life was looking pretty good.  We turned left onto the main road to take us to the Kirkstone summit.  Here the climb was sometimes steep and sometimes a false-flat.  Leading Tim up the climb, one rider we passed commented on how more out-of-breath I should have sounded.  I grinned at how good I was feeling although doubts were starting to form in my head .... was it my imagination that sometime was wrong with the bike?  Going up the false flats was like going through treacle.  As the road was starting to level out I should have been moving the gears down the cassette but my cadence was happier being on one of the smallest gears.  This would be one to monitor.  In any case, Tim led the 45mph plunge down the other side of the Kirkstone Pass.  I was using the whole width of the road on some corners thanks to no traffic coming up the hill from the other direction and soon we were both in a good group moving northwards through Patterdale.

After a left-turn, we climbed up through Matterdale End and once again, I had my suspicions about the ability to move forwards.  I said to Tim about my brake-rub concerns and whilst he amusingly thought I was already delving into my bag of excuses, he suggested that perhaps we ought to stop and take a quick look.  Given that I was climbing well within the group and it seemed like a good group of quick-ish riders, I chose not to as I didn't want to lose contact with them plus we'd got to the A66 in under two hours which Tim declared was good going.  My decision seemed vindicated as we hared towards Keswick on the A66.  I got talking to a local lass who helpfully described the terrain ahead and of course, conversation veered towards my previous experiences of the Fred Whitton event.

"I'm a virgin", I said.

She laughed at my comment although it was one I didn't try later when talking about the same to a gruff, older, local, male rider.

Back to the action and I did some strong turns on the front although, once again, the false flats seemed harder work than they should have been.  Into Keswick and out through the other side, we stayed together as a group until Seatoller.  This was where the monster called Honister Pass started and almost immediately the road ramped up at 25 per cent.  I selected my smallest gear although in a moment of double-checking that I had got smallest gear, I may have flicked the lever to select the next-smallest.  On a par with clever moves, that would not have been one.  I started the climb well and began to leave the group behind as the road ramped up.  Half-way up the climb and other riders had already got off to walk, but I was still going relatively well .... until the last steep section.  It seemed to happen so quickly.  I just couldn't keep the pedals turning over and forward momentum was just becoming more and more impossible.  "If I have to walk this one", I thought, "then forget about ascending the others and kiss goodbye to under 8hrs, Lad.".

I unclipped, came to a stop, unmounted and walked the last hundred metres of the steep section.  The group and Tim all sailed past me with relative ease.

"Sorry Tim", I said.

Crestfallen,  I walked until the road levelled a little and then I re-mounted to tackle the last few hundred metres of the climb.  Maybe this was a minor blip or just maybe, the Challenge was starting to unravel before my very eyes.  At the summit, we were warned of a crash halfway down by marshalls.  I made the mistake of keeping my hands on the hoods at the start of the climb and I wrenched both wrists trying to apply maximum pressure to the brakes.  I did not dare take my hands off the brakes for the split-second required to move my hands onto the drops to re-apply the brakes.  This was just the kind of bumpy, narrow descent with sharp corners that gave me the willies.  I passed the stricken rider being attended to by Paramedics and thankfully arrived at the less steep sections of the descent in one piece.  I immediately moved my hands to the drops making the mental note not to do anything quite that stupid for the rest of the day.  If possible.

I arrived at the first feed at Buttermere (52 miles covered) a few minutes behind Tim but I took the time to re-fill one bottle, sink a few plastic cups of orange squash and wolf down two bananas.  Spying a marshall standing next to a Park Tools bike-clamp stand, I took my bike to him to try and unravel the mystery of the treacle-esque ascents .... those uncertain feelings that something was not quite right .... the having to walk up Honister.  Were my legs already shot-to-bits?

Oh no, it was much worse than that.  My entire rear brakes had been jolted so that the entire unit had shifted to the right and the right brake-pad was sticking to the rim.  What I had in fact been doing, ladies and gentlemen, was riding for near enough FORTY MILES (that's over a third of the total distance) of the Fred Whitton Challenge with half of my rear brakes on!!  Good gravy, you couldn't make it up!  I had turned a very difficult bicycle ride into a very near impossible one.  On reflection afterwards, when Tim said that perhaps we should stop to check them, then stop is what I should have done instead of carrying on bravely.  Anyway, the necessary adjustments were made and I thanked the mechanic before re-uniting with Tim to tackle the route.

Almost immediately after the feed came to ascent of the Newlands Pass.  I immediately noticed the difference in my bike as I started to dance my way up the climb.  Tim fell away from my wheel by the half-way stage.

"Wow, what a difference not having my brakes on makes", I thought.

Actually, not so as I was to discover later that Tim was starting his own mechanical dramas.  I ascended Newlands really well and thought that my own ride was now back on track after the disappointment of Honister.  Given that it was now well past 10am, the weather had warmed up considerably and my jersey zipper needed to come down for the climb and then zipped back up again for the descent.  I thanked each motorist coming from the opposite direction who had waited for us cycling up the hill, giving them a wave and a breathless "Thank you".  Only one smiled and said "Don't mention it" in return; the others stared grumpily ahead as though precious seconds of their lives were being lost forever.  Statistically speaking therefore, 85.7 per cent (1 decimal place) of motorists are unfriendly, impatient so-and-so's!

The descent of Newlands wasn't anywhere near as scary as the signs at the top were making out and once at the bottom, it was a quick but lonely ride to Braithwaite.  The road to Whinlatter was part-sheltered by trees and so gave some welcome respite from the sun fiercely beating down.  It was a steady climb with some steep ramps here and there, but nothing to cause concern.  The summit was packed with a crowd of cheering supporters which was a hugely uplifting moment.  I acknowledged the support and thanked them before beginning the sweeping descent and the start of what one rider who I caught up called, 'The Twilight Zone'.  I guessed this meant a series of minor undulations before the hell of the last fifteen miles.

There were two minor annoyances with Fangs Brow and Kelton Fell which were short, sharp shocks as far as today's hills were concerned.  There was no shelter from the sun, which combined with the high humidity and lack of wind was making the ride that more challenging (via Chairman Mike, I heard later of tales of heat exhaustion).  I was not sticking with any particular group by this stage .... riders were passing me (including Our 'Arry, who caught me up, we exchanged 'Good Luck' greetings and he was sailing into the distance with two riders) and I was passing riders myself.  It was very much my own effort as I passed through Croasdale and then the right turn to go towards Ennerdale Bridge, immediately followed by .... POP!! .... FFFFFZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!! .... "hang on, was that me puncturing?".

My excuse is that maybe I have misfiring electrical pulses in my brain, others will counter that by saying I'm just slow on the uptake and a bit dim .... or blonde.  Very often though, after hearing such a noise I do not realise it is me who has punctured until there is no air left in the tube.  My excuse this time around is that I was "in my zone", I was totally focused on the ride and it wasn't until there was no air remaining in the front tyre did I realise that I would have to stop because I did indeed have a puncture.  I wasted a few minutes trying to fathom what have pierced my brand new Vittoria tyre and if it was still lodged there.  Having unseated one side of the tyre and released the tube, I couldn't make out where the hole was .... the air being pumped in from my little stick was coming out as soon as it was going in (I was to find out later the hole in the tube was right by the valve, so no wonder!!).  Ian Lowe and Tim flashed past me (I saw the former and returned his greeting, I didn't see the latter) as I made my tube change, then I was off towards the next climb at Cold Fell.

By this stage the sun was beating down on us and once again, the zipper on my jersey came down for the ascent.  I reached the top fairly comfortably and then started the downhill section to Calder Bridge, taking care around the hairpin bends.  It was a welcome sight to reach the check-point at Calder Bridge with almost 87 miles covered.  I put my bike down, then joined Derwent and John to exchange tales of the day so far with Derwent pointing to the make-shift repairs to his saddle.  Mike and Martin soon joined us, then Tim popped over having been there a while getting chain repairs carried out.  I couldn't face eating anything, I just wanted to drink and drink and drink.  Nonetheless, knowing what was up the road, I decided to wolf down three bananas one after the other.

Feeling a little sick with the bananas and orange squash sloshing around my stomach, I retrieved the bike, re-mounted and set off for the final slog.  Except I didn't, because the bike's handling had gone very, very funny indeed.  I pulled up at the exit of the car park where the feedzone had been to discover I now had a rear puncture.  As before, I couldn't tell where the puncture was located (like before, it was right near the valve) and so once I has happy nothing was lodged in the tyre, I put the spare tube in.  I was about to partake in the puff-gasp-wheeze of trying to pump up the tyre with the small stick-pump when a Lune RCC mechanic called over to kindly assist with the use of a track-pump.  He may have regretted this slightly when I asked for 130psi or rather, he possibly wished that he'd be the one to hold the valve on instead of me.  Prior to this, Mike kindly gave me one of his spare tubes to carry as I had now fitted the two I had been carrying.  Without the kind gesture and if another puncture had pierced my kevlar lining, I'd be looking at a lonely walk back to Coniston!

I re-joined the route and weaved my way through Gosforth, catching up with a two-man rider pairing before Santon Bridge.  I sat on their wheels until the little Irton Pike climb, where I dispatched them like the whore I that I am.  It was only a minor climb, but the legs were working well save for the occasional muscle spasm in either the thighs or calves.  On the jaunt through Boot village, a local rider told me that Wrynose wasn't necessarily the last climb of the day .... there was still a cheeky little lump to re-join the A-road into Coniston.  Useful to know, but not exactly the kind of route profile I wanted to hear.

My eyes were peeled onto the horizon for the red 'phone box which marks the start of the Hardknott Pass climb.  I had this enormous sense of dread in my stomach like a man condemned.  After a couple of turns, I saw the 'phone box and slowly began to reel it in.  As I got closer and closer, I said a word that my Mother certainly didn't teach me as I looked at Hardknott rising like a wall in front of me.  I selected the small gear, shifted my bottom off the saddle and gave it some guts for the climb's opening salvo of 1-in-3, not noticing the cattle grid trying to shake out my fillings.

Some riders were already walking, but I was determined to make a good fist of it.  I was closing fast on a Quick-Step clad rider (.... not Kevin Hulsmans!) who was expertly zigzagging up the climb to reduce the gradient.  He seemed to have the technique down to a tee.  The trouble was, this technique made it quite off-putting to overtake him.  I drew up alongside and gave him ample room, after which, it all started to go horribly wrong.  From nowhere, my handlebars pitched to the left and I could not correct them in time as I was running out of road and coasting towards the grass that ran alongside it.  I said another word repetitively that my Mother also didn't teach me as the realisation hit me that I was coming to a stop.  I unclipped my right foot and came to a halt on the grass.

Unfortunately, the bottom of the mountain was to my left and as this foot was still firmly planted in the pedal, gravity did the rest.  After hitting the deck and rolling for a while, I landed upright with a bemused look that said, "That wasn't exactly my intention".  A London Dynamo rider smiled at me and offered some comforting words.  I walked the few feet up the hill to where my bike lay and decided that the gradient was clearly too steep to get going again.  Hindsight suggests I could have free-wheeled to the bottom to start again, but now that I was starting to get just a trifle demoralised by this whole affair (plus the muscles spams were starting to be more and more pronounced!), I started the walk up the steep climb.

It seemed a good idea at the time to take my shoes off.  I could get good purchase on the tarmac and it meant I could ascent the hill on foot quicker than those still bravely on their bikes.  When I got to where the road levelled slightly, I put my shoes back on in order to re-mount and that was when the true horror of what I had just done hit me.  The balls of both feet were painful in the extreme and trying to turn the pedals was an exercise in pure agony.  I rode the next section of the Hardknott but when the road ramped up for a final 1-in-3 to the summit, I immediately decided to call a halt to the brave effort just in case I ended up like the chap who I was about to walk past .... he'd clearly stopped part-way up and a by-stander was trying to prop him up/give him a push to tackle the last section.

By the time I reached the top, the rider in question was on about his fourth or fifth attempt to get going and each one resulted in the *CLANG* of him falling to the floor.  I paused briefly at the summit to make sure I was all set for the descent.  The marshall there informed us of an accident part-way down, so a little nervously I plunged downwards with hands on the drops and brakes fully on.  I weaved my way around the sharp bends, the only noticeable pain being in my ear-drums thanks to the horrific, squeaky brakes of a rider I felt I needed to overtake and get the hell away from before the decibels popped my poor ears and left me with a balance issue.

Then followed the false flat and the slow drag up to the foot of Wrynose.  At the bottom of the climb I spied John Nicholls talking to a spectator and so decided to stop for a short while to offer John some encouragement of my own.  Off we trundled towards Wrynose and I made it most of the way up before my feet yelled “ENOUGH!” and I decided to climb off once more (but kept my shoes on this time) for the last hundred metres.  As on Hardknott, we were warned of a crash on the descent and so like before, I clung for dear life onto my drops and had both brakes on full as I negotiated the tricky bends and bumpy surface.  With a wave of deep relief, I reached the bottom and indeed had to stay over as far to the left as possible to make way for an ambulance coming from the opposite direction to tend to the seriously wounded that I had just passed.

Having remembered what I had been told prior to Hardknott, I didn’t feel as though the day’s work was complete even though there were only five miles to go.  After Langdale, I made the right turn (gleefully appreciating the traffic being stopped for me by a marshall and a policeman!) and began this nasty little dig up to the main road to Coniston.  Without hesitation, I went for the small chainring and hauled myself to the top.  I joined the main road and appreciated the fast section down into the village, acknowledging the applause of the crowd on the final bend and at the finish line.  I dibbed in and return to the Sports Centre to queue for my time and cerfificate.

I knew it wasn’t quick and that my delays had meant not reaching my goal.  I had a face like a spanked-bottom or being an IT geek who works with acronyms all day, it was a case of N.I.T.F.M.  My time was confirmed as 8hrs 38mins 26secs just as a thunderstorm on the other side of the hill released a pitter-patter of rain on Coniston.

It wasn’t until the following day that it really began to sink in what I had achieved.  By far and away, that had been my hardest day in the saddle so far and I had made it through unscathed; plus the blisters on the bottom of my feet were teeny-teeny-weeny ones compared to those which Derwent sported.  Absolutely massive, they were!!  On reflection, it had been an almighty day out and I was very pleased to have completed the course even if I was about forty minutes behind what I was aiming for in Dibber-Time.

At the Sports Centre car park, when I went to retrieve my bike there were some locals sat near her whilst they waited for a competitor.  Naturally, the conversation went straight towards the ride I had just done.

“Will you be back next year?”, one of them asked.

“No”, I replied immediately.

“Is that a ‘Yes’ then?”, she ventured.

I shrugged.

“Probably”, I smiled.

Well, maybe not next year, but it is such a wonderful, heart-warming, back-breaking, character-building event, it would be foolish to rule out ever doing it again – even if I did repeatedly say “I am NEVER doing this ever again” on the tortuous ascent of Hardknott.  I definitely want to try and do the course in under 8hrs.  I had the training under my belt for it this year, but the luck on the day just deserted me.  I will return.

Dear Fred,

You and I have unfinished business.

Rest in peace and God bless you, Lad.

Redders

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