Over a couple of pints in December, a friend suggested we ride the Fred Whitton (the event website describes it simply as “…. a 112 mile ultra hilly (mountainous!) challenge ride over all the famous Lake District passes in a single day ride”.). Glowing with festive cheer I readily agreed, confident that with it’s popularity that we would never get in. We did. What follows is what happened, as best I can remember.
After packing the car in the dark on Friday night, I had a restless sleep plagued with thoughts of not enough training and fear of what the event would bring (not helped by late rider information from the organisers that described poor road surfaces – potholes, corrugation from ice and snow, hairpins etc. – on 7 of the 9 major descents). Still, in the evening I’d eaten homemade shepherd’s pie, a pizza and four packets of crisps with houmous so both tapering and fuel preparation would see me through.
Saturday dawned with strong winds and rain which continued as I drove North although by the time I arrived in Hawkshead the rain had ceased but the wind was still chill. I signed on and was concerened at the number of lean, sinewy men around – where were all the normal shaped people?
Moving on to the overnight accommodation to wait for my mate to arrive, I chatted in the YHA carpark with another chap, a veteran of 4 previous Whitton’s, and as I wandered off, I heard him incredulously telling his companions “..he’s riding it on a 20 year old steel bike. With downtube shifters!”.
It seemed that most of the hostel was taken over by Whitton riders and the storeroom was full of Cervelos, Parlees, the odd Specialized S-Works and Lynsky. I kept my style powder dry with my bike in the car.
Sharing our dorm were two other chaps, one off here (Finbar) and his Polish mate (whose name I can’t spell, apologies). We ate together (soup, gourmet lamb burger, chocolate sponge for three of us but pasta and pine nuts for the Polish chap because “I am professional’. And with a time of 7 hours 20 the previous year, who were we to argue?).
All too soon it was 5.45 a.m. and time to try to force down food for an early start (muesli for me, 6 brioche and a tepid Muller Rice for my mate). The lean, sinewy men in the hostel kitchen were very chipper, smiling even – I’d been expecting an atmosphere similar to 1918 before going over the top, although possibly with less poetry. (more…)