Reading Sean's account of his 82nd successful attempt at the 3 Peaks Cyclo Cross happened to coincide with me scanning in a load of old photos to clear out a bookcase, at which point I came across the attached classic. Which set me thinking about a truly epic ride (not to mention looking for an excuse to embarrass him by uploading it).
Sean and I had somehow washed up in the Lake District on a particularly dark and dreary September day, having discovered that there was a bike shop in a local town renting out (the then new fangled) mountain bikes to complete halfwits like us. Unperturbed by a complete lack of experience, footwear and ideas, we decided the best, no the only possible, thing to do would be to ride up Hellvelyn. After all, we were roughy toughy road bikers, Hellvelyn was a mountain (by English standards anyway), and we had mountain bikes, ergo it just had to be done, end of story. We did manage to ride about 100 metres to the start of the track, then found we couldn't actually ride the things up a mountain, so cheerfully carried them up to the summit cyclo cross style. And pushed them muppet style too.
Now, as any hill walker will tell you, going up is the easy part - you just point, well, uphill, and walk. So we weren't unduly worried by the descending mist and gloom as we just had to keep heading up and we would reach the top, which was, after all, the aim of the exercise, and was duly accomplished. The problem on reaching the top was that each one of the 360 surrounding degrees was 'down', and visibility was also down to about 5 metres, so where the hell should we go? At this point, things got decidedly hairy. We'd stopped climbing (obviously), were sweaty and getting very cold very quickly. Sean was also discovering that Hush Puppies dissolve in Lake District rain. We were also very, very lost, and continued that way for what seemed like several hours. We had wisely ridden totally off the well marked track and there was nobody about. At some point, Sean said he recognised a rock. I think I said, "bol****s, Sean". But he was right, and within minutes we were descending like madmen, and falling off lots too in my case, towards the car. There followed a very beery celebration, at the end of which this picture of a very beery looking Sean was taken.
So I'm glad to see, Sean, that you've learned your lesson and no longer take to the hills on totally unsuitable equipment in shitty weather, well, except for the last Sunday in September every year anyway. Congratulations on another epic ride!
I remember it well. I particularly remember the stunned faces of the hikers we passed with a cheery 'Morning!' as we slogged upwards with our 35lb machines on our backs. Remember, it was 1987 - mtbs were still a very new innovation and the hills weren't alive with the sound of them. I have some photos somewhere of us 'rocketing' down a trail - well, it felt fast to us. Do you have any more photos from that visit, particularly of my lovely white and red Brian Rourke?
ReplyDeleteYou should post up the story of our ride around Loch Ness in February 1987 in a blizzard. I've got photos of that ride somewhere as well.
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ReplyDeleteMy photos are scattered all over the globe at the moment, but will dig those out one day. Oh yes, the blizzard ride will have to go up - but shouldn't there be a minimum qualifying distance for a ride to be considered 'epic'? If so, that almost certainly wouldn't make it!
ReplyDeleteWhat happened to the Rourke? My HH fell apart after a month of couriering in London, and the Malc Elliott got nicked in Manchester.
Riding in a blizzard is always epic. But anyway, rides do not need to be epic to go on here. It could be a ride to the pub - it's the experience that counts.
ReplyDeleteI raced the Rourke for 10 solid years and resprayed it three times. Then in 1998 I was racing at Crystal Palace and couldn't go round the corners properly. I stopped and was sitting on the grass next to my bike when i noticed the seat tube was completely sheared through by the front mech braze on. Can't complain, 10 years is pretty good value... My old Raleigh Record Ace got nicked during a wild house party in Stratford, London where I was living while I worked as a courier.