flat dots. High Passes - Country mouse in a townhouse (2023)

To get a good understanding of the values ​​that are important to those who call the Lake District home, a good place to start would be to catch a race in Borrowdale on a dreary November day.

There's mud and blood, skin and bones and still very cold. Skinny joggers cutting steps into copper-shingle slopes and cloud-shrouded cliffs, there's baggy T-shirts, skimpy shorts, worn-out Helly Hansens and muddy sneakers. City Hall is full of jelly bean tuppers and hastily made pancakes. There are outdated checkboxes like podium prizes and some lukewarm beers for recovery. No pomp, little ceremony - mail your registration check to High Pot Farm. Best of all, there is no phone signal to charge after running. No compliments, no likes, just a nod or wink from a flat-hatted viewer who's no doubt done it all before in stiff leather boots and in half the time. He's discreet, he's brave, he's tough. A few hours of suffering; Max heart rate, rolling ankles, scraped knees: all for a thermos of hot tea in a field and a long drive home to do it again next week.

I gave this world a chance when I was younger. My father is the 573rd member of the Bob Graham Club; I'm sure it doesn't mean anything to anyone, but my gym teacher understood and duly gave me a spot on the cross country team without even trying out. It was better than math, but I'd never gotten used to shaking so badly when my mud was washed off in the parking lot before heading back to the school bus.

Bob Graham's round isÖLitmus test and ultimate local challenge for those who choose this life. It is a 42.66 mile Yomp Peak through the hills with a 24 hour time limit, starting and ending in Moot Hall, Keswick. Everyone in the scene had a chance, but it's more than just a run. It has a culture, heritage and history that must be respected. Supportive runners are often needed, so relationships with other runners are required, you give your time and they give theirs. create a community of good faith; People are understanding, carry water, catch you if you fall, and often tell you hard truths about pace, safety, and sleep when things aren't going so well. This creates an unspoken bond of humility and respect.

The names of those who record good times along the way are unknown to most but are whispered in the old slate pubs of Langdale and Matterdale. Tales of wintry twists, unaided attempts and double twists become myths, legends and are romanticized in tankards of dark, tasteless ales and Lakeland bitters.

A name that often comes up in these conversations is Martin Stone. On the shortest day of 1986, Stone attempted the first lap of the winter without assistance. That night he was pursued by a full-blown storm along Helvellyn Ridge and had to conduct a hasty evacuation, but two weeks later he tried again in a clearer window, successfully in a time of 23 hours and 41 minutes. His feat was not repeated until 36 years later.

Early last year a friend sent me a link to UKClimbing; it was an interview with Martin Stone and Shane Ohly that beat Stone's winter 2020 record by 15 minutes. I was intrigued by the article, particularly for the challenges it described and her relaxed attitude to finding boundaries in dangerous conditions. What interested me most was the general theme of their discussion of the "purity of their quest." It was clear from her tone that finishing the course and turning around mattered less than the style achieved and the severity of the conditions they faced. They were mountain connoisseurs with enough uphill and downhill experience to take on the challenge of not just riding the Bob Graham, but doing it in conditions and in a style that matched their own personal adventure values.

It's safe to say that the article popped into my head and gave me a new perspective on these ultracycling races and challenges, because why else are we doing these things if not for our own ideals and definitions of adventure to fulfill? I was obsessed with taking on a big challenge on a bike, in the mountains and in the middle of winter. Snow on the peaks, ice on the trails, long periods of darkness and temperatures far below zero. Basically, he wanted terms that only Martin Stone could chuckle about.

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Last summer I rode the Lakeland 200 for the first time. The organizer and creator of the L200 route is Alan Goldsmith. Its rules are clear; Keep the spirit of confidence and get back to where you started in less than 40 hours. 200 km in 40 hours? I laughed. Who spends those long 200 km on the bike? 5 km an hour, I thought, walking isn't that much slower. I had gone home for the long weekend to try and spend some family time, but the last part of that plan didn't really work out. The day started slowly and never really progressed, both due to my lack of preparation and the number and frequency of gates throughout the circuit. When I finally got home to a very late and rather dry and cold Sunday roast I was so tired I couldn't get a sentence together and fell asleep amidst Yorkshire puddings and potatoes. I vowed never to do that again.

But of course this experience gets under your skin. The route is technical and constantly changing. There are no free kilometers and the elevation profile reads like spikes on an EKG. Intense, consistent, relentless. It requires you to be on at all times, it's a great day in the mountains. One of the biggest I've ever had and for various reasons, I broke down mentally and physically that day. Perhaps that was what started an obsession with completing a winter loop. I felt the need to go back to the scene to sew up the seam with a few extra patches for good measure.

Last year was the route's 10th anniversary and it gained something of an iconic status due to a major project by the Steezy Collective to improve the diversity of honor rolls. But for the number of new people completing it within the 40-hour limit, many more didn't stop there and underestimated how many calories are needed and how much cycling involves.

For the winter round there was much less understatement on my part. I trained long enough throughout December to stay in reasonable shape, running sections from Hartsop to Kentmere on the long night of the winter solstice, shifting my times to cover the sectors I found difficult to complete in daylight. I also changed my setup a bit, removing the bags from the frame to adopt the CX look and putting a lot more on the rear to keep the bike light and maneuverable. Most importantly, I watched weather patterns hawk-like across the Atlantic. I had highlighted the full moon weekend in early January to try it, but the isobars just weren't distributed properly and I had to wait. At the end of January I was getting impatient and starting to lose hope until a message from my father appeared with a very cheap link to MWIS. My suitcase had been packed for weeks, I quickly booked a train and some annual leave and set off that night for an early start to Coniston the next morning.

I left Coniston at 5:45 am. M., somewhat relieved that the plan had worked so far and that the west coast of Avanti had found a place for the motorcycles. It's a well-known saying in the bikepacking world that getting to the start line is often a journey in itself. It didn't take long for the trail to climb and the grade hit 25%, and it took all of my concentration to find a way through the sheets of ice, which glowed eerily in the reflections of the torches like candles in ancient mirrors. After about 40 minutes I was already climbing Walna Scar, crampons and bike firmly on my shoulder, cushioned by the attached scaffolding foam. He felt ridiculously macho and generally quite ridiculous at the same time. Without a cloud in the sky, the jagged outlines of the hills began to appear against a deep blue sky. Already knowing that the day would bring enough scenes to fill the National Trust calendar for next year, I vowed to always be patient with the weather.

The snow was more than 600m high and the descent down the other side was by sled rather than horse. Down I slid over a frozen swamp, only to fall through its silver shell into the brown splash below. I immediately heard a loud hiss and knew something was wrong. On closer inspection, ice had cut through the tire's wall. New Maxxis tires. Damned. No gloves, toolbox out. The rosy reflections of the sunrise were promising, but I was struggling. Hard new rubber and freezing temperatures turned out to be a nightmare combination and I just couldn't keep the inside of the tire clean and dry.

I had only told a handful of close friends about this tour. They're a support group, but they're definitely not the type to make me forget that a blockbuster was the reason the house of cards collapsed. No question he had to fix it. I cut my fingers, broke tire levers, and kinked inner tubes just thinking about their smiley faces over the next round of coffee. By the time I had both tires floating I was on my final patches and already 2 hours behind schedule. He had driven 20 km.

It was time to act. The day was as spectacular as I had hoped and the winter light brought high definition to the slopes tinged with rusty ferns and amber grass. It was a privilege made all the more special by being alone on the trails. As I walked through Kirkfell to Black Sail Pass, the sun was beginning to set. The swirling patterns of windswept snow shimmered like oil slicks beneathfoot, and the great ridges of Ennerdale's amphitheater pulsed pink and purple. I ate the last cold pizza, zipped up my jacket, and braced myself for the long night to come.

The Eskdale to Buttermere section is the real crux of the L200 in my opinion and after a flat climb from Honister Pass I felt much more confident of the approaching darkness. I went to Keswick for a garage party and followed the gravel roads to Threlkeld. The night passed with few incidents and some confusion. I found my deep groove in some pretty random Spotify playlists and the steady metronome of a Cadbury brunch every 40 minutes. The paths were far more treacherous than the bridges, but banging on the deck several times during the night turned out to be just what I needed to keep my eyes open and move safely and stably.

When sometime during the night clouds blotted out the bright constellation blanket I knew my luck with the weather was about to run out and as I plowed through the knee-deep snow between the High Street and Thornthwaite Crag the wind picked up and hit the snow-capped peak. I must have battled that blizzard for at least a few hours, for dawn was just breaking when I emerged from the clouds into the sheltered sanctuary of the Kentmere Valley. He was originally going to come to Staveley for the bacon breakfast, but walking through the snow emptied the tank. I unpacked the stove and fired up instant mashed cheese. He survived.

Staveley to Coniston is definitely the easiest part of the journey and after loading up groceries, hoses and batteries in the village I felt quite confident. It did not last long. When night fell for the second time on this trip, I panicked. My schedule in this industry was based on summer hours and fresh legs, which I definitely didn't have right now. The hours slipped off schedule at an alarming rate. With two hours to go I found myself on a part of the route that I no longer recognized and I had to go back several times to correct it. The Etrex also gained weight leaving me no range to shoot. I was completely in the dark about how far I had to go and how much altitude I still had to climb. The stress kept me in the pedals frustrated and greatly improved my downhill skills. When I got to the track for the Coniston sprint, I had half an hour left on my watch. I could see my mother's headlamp frantically moving through the trees and I could hear my father's voice saying he'd made it.

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It may well be a controversial opinion, but I think the L200 has all the makings of being comparable to Bob Graham; the MTB equivalent maybe. Something in your culture speaks for it; There's enough romance and mysticism in the effort required to capture the interest of the adventurers, villains and heroes that roam the fringes of the cycling scene. It has its own following that is as much about this community as it is about the trip itself. There is altruism from Alan the organizer, support galore, no entry fee, no room for ego, no fame but a name on a list in an unknown corner of the internet. The journey is multifaceted, with a lot to think about and a lot of possibilities for things to go wrong. Supplies are limited and there is almost no phone signal. Because it's so easy to get to, it can seem pretty remote. Confidence is essential and creative problem solving is required. All of these factors of course forget the stunning scenery and unique rustic charm of the Lake District itself. Chances are you'll ride through more than a few sunsets and sunrises and therefore the full spectrum of its colours, the shifting shades of its geology, the vibrant reflections from its flanks and lakes. But then again, maybe not, my summer round was a constant state of gray and black, but maybe that's also part of the risk, craps game, and ultimate attraction.

However, one thing has remained constant across the summer and winter routes; Arriving in Coniston about 6 hours after my arrival, my parents had good news for my brother and his wife's newborn baby. I immediately felt guilty for adding unnecessary stress to the family WhatsApp group while my sister-in-law was in labour. I ruined another healthy family weekend by doing the same stupid bike ride.

Welcome to the Alfie Murphy family.