The Old Coach Road

It was TSKk's choice to ride the old Coach Road. 

Me? I've still got my eye on High Street - a path that claws its way up the backbone of the Eastern Fells of the Lakes, or might possibly end up being the end of the road for my Dignity (the bike) and my ego.

But still, its the closest to home.

The Old Coach Road goes from somewhere high in the hills around Ullswater to Mattadale on the other side of Great Dunmow and ends at lanes that take a rider past Threlkeld to St Johns in the Vale.

I plotted a route there and back and we anxiously left our accommodation at 9. 30am once wheel /tyre changes had been completed.

• • •

Lunch was packed to avoid the crowds and a multitude of clothing layers accompanied us. Most of which were removed within the 1st mile - it being spring and all. We flew through Pooley Bridge, ignoring the assembling hoards that descend on Granma Dowbekin's like a school dining hall. The main road was still quiet with only occasional cars passing. I'd plotted a route which took us off the A- road as soon as possible at the cost of some extra climbing including a 1:5 section. We almost considered sticking to the main road but I was firm that this was where the fun started and instead we enjoyed mostly traffic-free lanes all the way up through the static caravan parks peppered between ancient cottages which finally gave way to farmland.

The 1: 5, while tough, was just the right length to have me thinking "Right, this is too much, I'll get off in a sec" and then I realised there was just a little bit more to do. We were just in time to see a shepherd feeding his flock at the summit before we dropped down way too far for my liking. Then it was time for the final approach.

The walker's car park for our route was one of the old fashioned ones. There are no big mountains here, just an old coach road and two smaller insignificant fells that only really appear on obscure fell running calendars and the itineraries of doddery old men ticking off Wainwrights. There are no pay and display machines.  Sure enough 3 doddery old men were packing up their sandwiches and tying their bootlaces. It was time for us to get through the gate, around the corner behind the forest and sit down for something to eat out of the breeze.

• • •

We could see nothing from our spot other than the moorland in front and the tracks right and left but also, that was pretty much what we came for - yellow grasses blowing in the breeze. The food was much, needed. The trail ahead seemed largely ride able. Most importantly, the man with the slightly dodgy knee seemed eminently happy with it.

We climbed up towards the summit and were cautious over the stream crossing. The rocks were large and slippy with big gaps between. On the verge of unrideable on my gravel bike with 2.2" tyres on. We both walked it -TSK took the bridge because his bike shoes aren't waterproof and I was testing out my HT boots for heat-resistance. We took it in turns to pass each other on the Coach Road, as each of us stopped in sequence to photograph the scene ahead. The path was a dry replica of Scotland's Road of 1000 puddles at it stretched out, cutting a swathe through the moorland grasses. The flanks of Blencathra on the right, Skiddaw straight ahead and I had to strip down my clothing layers to riding in a teeshirt when the fleece, then the windproof got packed away. We couldn't believe our luck with the weather this week and finally I was reminded of the why.

It was so glorious that when the sting in the tail arrived we didn't care. The descent deteriorated into a bit of a mess. Clearly the Keswick/Threlkeld end gets more of a hammering.

For starters there were a few tricky rock bluffs - rideable for both of us but bouncy and uncomfortable for both bikes. This degenerated after the gate into a scrabbly mess of loose rock everywhere which had us both off and walking.

Half way down we took out a moment to watch and listen to a farmer practicing with his dog.

I say "practicing" as we could see neither dog nor sheep over the edge of the hill but the farmer stood stock still where he was shouting commands and seemed largely unconcerned by the outcome except for the occasional "Ye bugger" which I've never heard on "One man and his Dog" before.

 

Eventually we managed to pick out a sketchy rideable line down the edge of the lose rock and plopped out of the last gate onto tarmac, very pleased at ourselves for inadvertently having picked exactly the right way around to ride the Old Coach Road.

We were so pleased with ourselves, we decided not to cut things short at Threlkeld but continue on to Keswick to get the most out of the beautiful day. We dropped down the valley then up past St Johns in the Vale then over past the busy carpark for Castlerigg Stone Circle. The final meanderings down the lane threw us onto the coast to coast route behind the leisure centre then joined onto the railway trail into Keswick to be pampered by over-priced, disappointing coffee and baked potato (the potato was nice) at the Lakeside cafe.

We bought bread for breakfast and otherwise managed to avoid honeypot shopping except for popping into Alpkit for a free water bottle top up where I promised myself a new rucsac another time.

Back on the K2T cycle route we bought a (not) express ticket to Threlkeld because it involved a stop at ice cream central on the way where we watched a stand-off between a buzzard and a crow while waiting for our turn.

Getting to Threlkeld was the easy bit. From there we navigated on- and off- the A66 using the coast to coast route as a base. It climbed, climbed and climbed some more. Every bike route diversion (no matter how minor) seemed to climb higher than it's car-based counterpart. As ever, when driving this road in the past, I had never realised how many false summits there are.

I reassured myself by remembering all the effort we had gone to in the morning and that this was never really going to be any kind of "easy way back".

Eventually, tired of the constant grind of HGVs whining and never-ending false summits, we planned a visit to our new favourite pub at Dacre (which I've renamed "Daycare") for a well-earned pint. Much to our dismay it was closed until 5pm on a Tuesday so we made use of their street furniture (benches) and ate the remainder of our packed lunch while the Landlady fussed around us, putting out the recycling and moving empty barrels in readiness for the start of her day.

She was pleasant and friendly with us eating our own food outside her pub so we tried our best to eak out an hour before beer o'clock but the heat was disappearing out of the sun and we were ready to get home. Thanks to our reconnaissance on foot on Sunday we were able to navigate home seamlessly off road, avoiding diversions up to Penrith or down to Pooley Bridge. The few minor bogs on the bridleways were already damp-dry and we checked in on the lamb we saw on Sunday-curled up in a heap in 0°C temperatures looking almost dead. He was now up on his feet and standing with his mum, flourishing in the sunlight

• • •

TSK and I finally parted ways 400m from home when, inspired by the extra off-road excursion, I resolved to ride home a different route to the way out and completed my circuit using the Byway while TSK used the road.

There were more jarring tree roots than I remembered and, while I rode them all, he still arrived back before me.

What with cooking a full chicken chasseur casserole for our dinner it was A DAY and I am pretty chuffed with us both for it.

Looking forwards to doubling it myself.

Impromptu Weekend Away

I cheated on cyclo-cross this weekend.

For some reason (an over-stuffed triathlon season which ended not long before the Three Peaks) I didn't fancy riding around a race-track in Derby for 40 minutes.  Instead, we packed the tipi in the Golf on Friday morning and by 8pm were setting up camp in Hawkshead for the weekend.

The grass was damp and made the tipi floor a tad cool but the climate was so mild we didn't even bother to get the stove out and just used sheepskin rugs to keep our toes warm.

We knew it was going to rain all morning on Saturday so we went into Kendal to seek new ski toys for TSK to enjoy winter a little bit more.

By the time we returned to camp in the afternoon, the rain had ceased and we set off to run up Carron Crag above Grizedale.

Just enough to see the approaching showers

and just enough to watch the receeding sun

For our entertainment. there were sculptures.

We reached the forest at 4pm and town at 5 as the sun turned the fading leaves and bracken a bright brown.  

We were just in time to get a shower in daylight then head to the  pub for dinner to avoid the yoof, away for their half term break. 

On Sunday, we drove for 30 minutes just to find a car park that wouldn't cost us £8 for the day.  Layby established we rode through Little Langdale over Wrynose pass where I had to stop 2/3 of the way up the climb to manually place my bike in its bottom gear - the derailleur having picked a suitably inconvenient spot to stop working.  

Over the summit, two motorbikers wished us luck for the downhill and we turned away from the option of Hardknott pass, opting instead to ride along the back side of Old Man of Coniston, with one stiff 30% climb over to Torver itself before ending the weekend away back at the car.

We got home in one go.  Almost surprised that we'd been away, done so much, lasted so long and yet was over so quick and we were home in one piece, undamaged and un-delayed.

I missed everyone but I am so glad I didn't spend the weekend in a muddy playing field in Derby.

(I have signed up for Durham).

Ladies who Lake

I started the day lazy. I don't sleep well at home at the moment. The snow was still falling at a rate that implied it would build faster than I could clear it so I had my breakfast and cancelled my review with my boss as he was in a row of 20 cars waiting to get towed out. As I sent a query to the customer about the state of their roads further North I saw the snowfall stopped, dressed in yesterday clothes and walked up to check the main road. Someone's car was being recovered from taking out the footpath handrail and I joined my neighbours in their debates about whether to risk it. I got the shovel and spent an hour shifting snow in 2 fine tracks from my car to the top of the hill. I sweated a lot but further to yesterday's post I found it absorbing, simple and therapeutic. I was a little concerned that after all the effort the car still wouldn't make it.

As the snow started to fall again I grabbed the car keys to move it before my tracks were filled again. To my absolute joy, no matter how I treated the Goji Golf it just eased its way up the hill. I slid back once. I found it ironic that the one person who had moved was parked outside the pub so I dived in their space and set about recovering the shovel and sleeping bag for the just-in-case and the essential mountain bike for my trip to the Lake District.

I popped in the office for my project file and lunch and coffee then continued on to my hotel.

The Lakes were clear but with snow on the cells. There were so many places I could have stopped on the way and done an epic ride but I didn't want to hurt myself and it seemed like such a pain to change my clothes and my plans in the car. Instead I watched the sun go down and followed a sheep trailer all the way to my hotel.
I was so glad I did. My room was exquisite. I still went out for a ride, tempting as it was to sit on the bed and stare.

The route started interesting, got consistent then steep. I kept running out of steam so I pushed rather than straining my calf on the bike. I zig zagged as much as possible though because walking was uncomfortable with the Carradice on the bike. The sheep eyed me through the dark, little green alien eyes glinting on the hillside. When it started to grate, I checked how much more climbing there was - not too much before I reached the top. Ahhh the joy of GPS. I pushed on and dropped over the top, views of Whitehaven, Workington and Sellafield streetlights opened up but sadly there was insufficient light to make out any of the fells ahead. I dropped off the back side of the hill, focused on the trail ahead, listening to the ice breaking behind my back wheel but managing to stay upright and mostly dry.

I joined a trail that skirted back around the hill I had just climbed, dropping steadily at first then steeper.  I thought it might be nice to do the route the other way around but loose rock and fallen trees put paid to that idea. It was enough to keep me engaged before the route opened up to track and I enjoyed the fast run out to the road. I unfulfilled the injured leg for the final stretch of bumpy path to ease the pain. Brilliant ride t hat totally justified the bath that followed it.

Now I am being wooed to sleep by an owl.

Bitter Sweet Symphony

I left site today and went fell running in my lunch break. I ran Whin Rigg above Wastwater with the screes below me then I ran back along the road.  I forgot how outstanding the scenery is, how much I love running and climbing hills and how much it hurts coming downhill.

I loved every moment and was so lucky to have clear tops and warm weather this time of year.

I nearly chickened out of my route and was glad I didn't. I could see the river from the tops and estimated an 8 miler but it was 10 and I didn't mind. I will enjoy the recovery.

Chaffinches in a tree on the road beat their wings like a fleet of tiny bobbing hovercraft and I realised I have rarely been on the Wasdale road with so few cars. Today is likely to screw me over for Milton Keynes National Trophy but I don't truly care.

Whinlatter Duathlon Race Report

Suddenly daunted in the carpark by the sheer numbers of people here.  I'd had a lovely weekend until now - just me and Mr Rodgers and the chickens at the campsite.

The little boy made me laugh, telling me that his dad was chasing a chicken because he wanted to "Feel what a chicken felt like".  I was trying to pack my car!  Not roll around in the icy grass laughing my head off at the thought of a grown man with a family trying to "feel a chicken".

Those were our only race neighbours on the Lane Foot campsite.  Now all these other people were here at registration.  I picked up my number 160-odd and got my free buff and Sportident dibber (old skool).

Back at the car, I'd locked Mr Rodgers in and the alarm was going off.  Sadly embarrased, poor love.  I released him and he set about fixing my bike together whilst I made warming joggy motions.

I racked my bike and vaguely said hello to some friends of Ms C.  Really I could've paid more attention but I just wasn't expecting anyone to say, "hi Trep", today.

Next surprise was a team mate from Norton Wheelers showing up, all out of context.  We had a hug and debated what the hell we were doing.  I never had Owen down as a runner and I now felt a bit of a numpty in my bright white Sheffield Tri jersey.

Finally racked in amongst chaos of mountain bikes which slid down the icy racking, posed on a slope, I stood through the race briefing then we all walked and slid over to the start-line, walking on the grass to avoid the icy tarmac.  Racers were about 10 wide across the track and stretched back down the mountain trail about 150m.  The uphill start soon thinned us out at the back and I had a few exchanges with a lady who breathed as hard as I do before I finally got ahead of her on a narrow, steep climb through the woods.

What am I saying?  The narrow, steep climbs through the woods just kept coming.  Finally they got boggy and I just kept going, embracing the cold water as a way to cool down my legs whilst others picked their way around the bog.  I dropped many and only a few came past me.  Perhaps fleecy leggings weren't such a bad call after-all.

I find it amazing in sport that sometimes someone can come flying past and there's nothing you can do to respond.  Other times, other more pleasurable times, they make you lift your game and you stick with them... then you chat for a bit and then you just keep going.  This is what happened with Sarah Waldon from Sale Harriers.  Being from the neighbouring town of Altrincham, I had to keep going when she came by me and despite having a shoe-lace moment, I managed to stick it out into transition, come in two places behind her and wave good bye on the bike.

From Transition, the mountain bike route threw me straight downhill onto some lovely wide burmy trails which allowed me to find my bike legs quite spectacularly.  All except for one downhill shreadder, I kept my position before having to concentrate on the UP!

I felt like I reeled in more people than passed me.  Two chaps stuck with me most of the way round as they seemed to be waiting for eachother and I was slower on the downhills and faster on the up.  I hit speeds of 20 mph on the straights, all before the course started to zig zag back and forth back up the steep side of the hills.  This bit I found really frustrating as non-cross-country riders tried to scoosh their bikes around icy hairpin bends, still with one foot clipped into the pedal.  After about the fifth time of queing politely, I finally bit the bullet and ran around three people.  Forced to take the less obvious line, I found myself doing a collaboration of bunny-hopping (on foot), sliding and ski-ing IN CLEATS across icy rock.  Somehow, both myself and EmVee managed to stay upright and were spat out the bottom of the small cliff in one piece... only to find that the people I'd just passed were all accomplished downhillers... and locals... and now I was in their way.

Thankfully that meant I had someone to follow as I'd never ridden this arduous route before and BOY! was it tough in the ice.  I entrusted my life to EmVee on many occasions and she rose to the challenge, steering me through the scariest of drop-offs and bouncing around boulders and tree roots without a whimper - more than could be said for her rider.

By the time I got to the final section of the bike course, I discovered that my heroics on the downhill had taken their toll much more than any aerobic workout and I slumped into tackling the uphills in the lowest gears known to man.  At one point my brain started to doubt my situation after I'd watched riders travelling the opposite way disappear and gradually finding I was alone in a very dark and empty woodland... that is except for the faithful souls following behind me.  I looked around for a marker tape but there were none to be seen.

"Are we going the right way?" I called to the fella behind.  The evidence of his scouse accent indicated he didn't know either.  Down and down the trail.  No point in going slow to find out you're lost, best get it over with, brakes off.  Finally, the sigh of relief when a scrap of red and white tape appeared, tied to a tree.  Then it doesn't really help that your re-ascent of the hill is legit... you've still got to get back up the hill.

The sting in the tail came as I met the runners on their way down to the finish - an entire discipline ahead of me.  At this point, the route flies off the side of the forest track in a (seemingly) near vertical cliff face where TSK had stationed himself to flaunt his belly at me and laugh at duathletes trying to cope with the sense of impending doom that comes from hitting a near vertical cliff at high speed on a two-wheeled vehicle.  I told him he'd caught me at my darkest hour as my face contorted to cope with the balance and braking necessary to stay alive and not wash out.

He said he'd seen worse.

The final stages were a range of obstacles - wooden sculpted bridges and raised trails which have scared the living daylights out of me ever since I plunged a full - sus bike off one at the bike show in London 8 years ago and it bucked me off like a pissed-off pony.  My brain was gone and it was all wrong.  I nursed the bike slowly over what I dared and if I couldn't see it, I ran it.  Finally I was spat out into transition & for once, was relieved to leave the bike behind.

A quick switch into soggy shoes which hadn't had chance to re-freeze, thank god, and I was away.  Nothing left.  After the first open trail I started to trudge and we mostly all reverted to a walk.  Others in front of me sped up from time to time but every time I tried, there was nothing left so I walked but it didn't matter. The sun was shining and there was snow all around.

I was glad of my cap to keep the sun out of my eyes and I was surrounded by the aural onslaught of ice and snow melting from the tree branches, disturbed by the occasional breeze.  After 24 minutes of climbing I reached the summit and paused for a moment, turning in all directions to ingest the view.

Then I plunged down the slopes, not too slippery as the sleet had begun to turn into slush and my shoes gripped.

To my amazement, I caught up a couple of people again on the descent.  This Dark Peaker CAN freefall!  The last few hundred metres flatten out just enough to force you to turn the legs but I was in and tried to stop myself on the marshal as I dibbed in for the final time to an exhausted hug with my patient husband and post-race analysis with a very snuggly wrapped Owen who had been finished for ages.

In short: Whinlatter offroad duathlon highly recommended for anyone with an apetite for mud, impressive scenery tough fell running and gnarly mountain bike trails.  If you don't like map reading, that's fine.  The course is really well marked.  The sportident timing was a bit useless, relying on the competitor being "withit" enough to find a marshal to dib in / out which in my case didn't happen on T2.  However, the organisation promised to resolve this and the deficiency in bike racking for next time.

Stats:
Run 1 - 4.3 mile 178m climb - 51 min
Bike - 10 mile 518m climb - 1 hr 48 min
Run 2 - 3 mile 213m climb - 44 min
Overall 3 hr 38 min

Photos purchased from and courtesy of Sportsunday.

Helvellyn Weekend

I’m going to nail it (whatever that means for me). That’s my feeling on the Helvellyn Tri after a weekend spent on a reconnaisance mission to the course in the Lake District.

The recce was attributed to be the key activity missing from my last Day in the Lakes triathlon which resulted in that catastrophic DNF. The action taken to resolve the most important lesson-learned from that day was to spend a weekend in the Lake District familiarising myself with the bike and run routes on the Helvellyn course. In a run of free weekends leading to Andrew’s PBP, it’s easy to find a weekend when wanging up to the Lakes is just about do-able.

After the madness that was last week – really busy to really quiet wtih a few contentious team issues thrown in,- we didn’t feel like the long drive on Friday night or leaving the cat on his own so we got everything ready and then set off normal time on Saturday morning, avoiding any school holiday traffic.

4^th campsite lucky with vacancies we booked into the Ullswater campsite with a view of the hillsides. Never mind setting up the vanu, we unloaded the bikes and headed off to join the Northern end of the bike course at Matterdale End. By the time we arrived south of Troutbeck, we started ducking and diving to avoid main roads, all the way to Ambleside we dipped on and off the bike course, taking country lanes around the far shore of lakes and old roads paralell to the wider, shinier new ones, diverting into Grassmere for coffee and cake.

Just enough riding distance between Grassmere and Ambleside for the cake to settle before we hit the challenge du Jour – the Struggle. One of the classic climbs of the UK, it shoots straight up from Ableside at 20%, winding through the stone houses and narrow streets at the back of the village.

Cars struggle by, their clutches smelling. Heat radiates from the brakes of the oncoming vehicles which pass within inches on the tiny street.

TSK and I climb as consistently as possible, saving ourselves because we know just how far this ride keeps going for. We’re staying in the next valley and have seen it. I finally see TSK, about 50m ahead sit back down in his saddle. I decide to put in a bit of effort to get there sooner rather than later, looking forwards to the next rest. As I “sprint” out of the saddle I can feel the benefits of my swim training as I counter-ballance each pedal stroke with my arms. It still hurts like hell and I wonder if I’ll make it. I round the corner where TSK sat down only to see yet more climb and him, still 50m ahead back out of the saddle. The struggle continues...

After about 2.4km of climbing, the hill flattens briefly and we roll along, catching our breath and looking ahead to the end of the climb. 500m of 20% climbing with two switchbacks thrown in for good measure. We’re debating whether it’s as steep or as long or as bad as what we’ve just done – it’s possibly the fact that we can see this one coming but I think it’s worse. TSK things it’s easier. The switchbacks hit 30% or 1 in 3 at their steepest, though there’s not much traffic coming so we ride wide and zig zag up the hill to ease the slope.


We stop at the top to take a photograph of what we’ve done and stretch our legs before heading off on the downhill – the Kirkstone Pass that I rode up on The Day in the Lakes. Bonus, I thought, is this time I don’t have to ride all the way back to Padley Bridge – just this little bit back to Glenridding (only a flippin mountain climb to go).

A half hour later we stop at the watersports centre to pick up an icecream before the wobble back to the vanu. We’re not felling too bad and race eachother back to the road fuelled by our icecream. By the time we reach the turning for the campsite, I’m so hungry my tummy is rumbling. We’ve a 10% climb back to the campsite and I decide if the first farmhouse isn’t the campsite, I need to eat something. I see TSK ride past the driveway and stop for an energy gel which gets me going again and takes away the shakes.

Staggering into the van, the new tent-neighbours want to know how far we’ve been. Knowing it’s a 38 mile route, for some reason I estimate, “about 45miles” - boasting. I feel bad, so check my garmin. Sure enough, we’ve ridden 78.5km, including the Struggle. We reward ourselves with a take-out from the onsite chippy instead of messing about with cooking the pasta we bought at the stores and hauled all the way up the hill.

Energy stores replenished we have a play with the slack line. We’re either astonishingly rubbish at it or the vanu suspension is screwing with our ability to find a balance point without some horrendous resonance. Either way, both of us get some comedy disco-leg every time we attempt to stand on it and it takes an astounding level of commitment for me just to hang on for a couple of seconds, holding TSK’s hand for extra support. It’s funny for a while and my core, knee, thigh and hip muscles are working really hard but then we’re just tired and sign it off for another day when we have two, solid, immoveable objects – ie. trees - to play with (not to mention the legs to make a go of it). We shower and are in bed by 9:30pm.

Sunday morning dawns glorious. Neither of us has set an alarm but it’s so lovely outside, the sun wakes us at a good time and we cook outdoor breakfast, joking with the neighbours who aren’t really sure why they and their kids are awake at such an ungodly hour . I think it was about 7am.

After playing hunt-the-keys for a while we set off from our new favourite campsite with packed rucsacs and deign to pay the tourist tax for parking in the Glenridding carpark so that my experience is as close as possible to the race-day one.

A few moments of debate on the lower slopes of Helvellyn, trying, more than anything, to make sure we walk the route in the right order - up-the-up and down-the-down of the race route so as not to result in any confusion.

I soon identify the first bit that I should “save”” myself for – the Simon-Fell-like climb along a wall to the shoulder of Helvellyn Mountain. We go a bit off-course, following the main path – but even our zig zag approach doesn’t really take much steepness out of the slope. On race day I will probably have to take the more severe route so plan to train for it.

At the shoulder, where the stone wall turns to run along the ridge, the first view of Helvellyn appears – the approach hills are too tall and steep to allow the summit of Helvellyn to be seen from any of the major roads or towns surrounding it but from this wall, the whole summit ridge and each of the rocky scrambles leading to the summit suddenly comes into view.

I’m sorely tempted to scramble the much loved Striding edge to the summit on such a lovely day but instead, stick to the plan, keep the focus and continue along the race route of Swirral Edge. In the photo above you can see just how busy Striding edge is and I'm quite satisfied we didn't join all those other people.


Despite the paths which bypass the rocky edge, I opt to squirrel along the swirral, partly to enjoy the views both sides, partly to enjoy the breeze, partly to experience scrambling again and partly to determine the racing line. In the unlikely event that I’m feeling in anyway competitive on the day... In the unlikely event that anyone else is still up there on the day... I sussed out all of the easily scrambleable routes – little chimneys which pass between two scree-ridden slippery slopes, keeping me out of the wind and sending me on ahead of anyone queing on the path... this could be my best run yet.


The benefit of climbing up the middle is I am able to see where paths go to both sides so that if it’s windy on the day, I can choose the route which keeps me warm and stable. It occurs to me that never before have I sussed out the racing line on a scramble.

They say that 2/3 of the Helvellyn race is getting down off the summit of Helvellyn. The descent didn’t look nearly as bad as I’d imagined it, looking at the map. I’d expected something scree-ridden but I suppose, if it’d been covered in scree, running would’ve been a breeze. Instead, it turned out it’s traditional, well worn, gravel path. This is it, behind TSK.

The first killer is its descent route – initially a big drop-off followed by two little uphill kickers. Good to know, on race day, that the first is a false summit and there's still a little bit more up to do.

On the steeps, I have a bit of a run on it to practice. TSK plays the fat man running too close behind me, slithering in the gravel, trying to put me off. He pushes past too close saying, “get past the girl, get past the girl" and I laugh and shout, “now you need to stop and take a drink”. He pretends and then runs alongside me shouting, “running together, running together!”. We decide it’s silly running with full backpacks and revert to walking.

Every so often – especially when the steeps kick in I have a little jog to remind myself what it’s like. I think this will go better with my fell shoes on as I’ll have a lot more grip and less weight on my back to control. On such a nice day I relish the thought of running this route, lightweight and unladen. I keep it in mind that on a bad day it will be slippery and no fun but this probably means I'll flourish.

I wonder about the event, on the day, after completing the ride up the struggle just an hour earlier, how will I be faring at this point. I can only imagine, not very well and resolve to train every weekend and every available time in the week to make sure my legs are as strong as possible for this race.

By the time we’ve arrived at the flat, rolling tarmac road from the Youth hostel and camping barn that leads down to Glenridding we’re looking for every excuse to avoid downhills – or even uphills. We do note that it’s perfectly feasible to get the bikes up this hill to the camping barn – for future reference. We enjoy the thought of the early morning spectacle of carbon-fibre-spangled triathleetes who stay at the Youth Hostel picking their way down the potholed road to transition on race day. I’m glad I’m booked into the slightly more respectable campsite with the vanu with its tarmacced road and close proximity to the race venue.

At the village, we make a beeline for the coffee shop. It turns out both of us now suffer coffee withdrawl by about 2:30pm. The first place is rejected for the instant brew on offer, the second for the queue and the third, though successful, only sells us an icecream because we’ve run out of money by this point. Swimimng first, coffee later.

Switching cash for cossies, we walk to the beach and TSK gets his legs wet whilst I send him on a mission to retrieve my towel and clothes to the shoreline. As ever, the discretion of getting dressed at the back of the beach is overcome by my desire to get into dry kit as soon as possible.

I launch myself headlong into the deepening, increasingly cold water of Ullswater and take the first chilling, breathtaking strokes. Physically the cold takes my breath, metaphorically the view does. Swimming in the shadow of Helvellyn and Gillside, Place fell, Catstye Cam and (ironically) Sheffield Pike and the 7km loop around Fusedale which I missed on the Day in the Lakes.

The rest of the day is irrelevant in comparison and the only worthwhile thing to mention is the continuing quest for coffee as both of us did synchronised sleep twitches in the cab on the drive East. We stopped at an excellent coffee shop on both outward and return legs of the journey, the second time, it transpired, only to pick up cake as the person who runs the machine had gone home. We finally got hold of the coffee at Scotts Corner. 9/10 of the Helvellyn Triathlon completed, no wonder we were doing sleep twitches.

Short of the route, what did I learn this weekend?

• That I can ride all the way up the Struggle.
• That I can do Helvellyn with a backpack and heavy boots in 5 hours and still walk the next day.
• How much water I need on Helvellyn and where I can get more on the way down.
• How much drink I need on this bike ride – a full BIG bottle.
• That regardless of the weather I may need those water proofs as I added trouser legs and a fleece for the descent on Sunday, despite the 24 degree temperatures in the sun.
• That my sunhat is essential – even if it’s going to be to keep the rain out of my eyes.