I'd slept on top of the bed, with the window open, but still kept waking up at regular intervals, and after 4.00 am it was too light to get back to sleep. I consumed the entire supply of complimentary coffee and biscuits before breakfast.
I loaded my bike at 08.30 and the temperature was already reading 26 C in the sun. I stopped for a chat with a group of ladies who were also doing the Coast to Coast on hired heavy mountain bikes and who had taken just under twelve hours to get from Whitehaven to Penrith the day before. Oddly they didn't seem to be in hurry to get away, reasoning that "it's not as far today". They hadn't even looked at the elevation profile. I didn't see them again but I hope they got to the end OK.
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| That's Penrith down there, behind the trees |
It was hard work leaving Penrith, with a couple of miles of stiff climbing to prepare the legs for what was to come. Then there were several miles of descending, leaving the moorland behind and riding through farmlands and arable fields. The air was full of the smell of fresh-cut hay.
There was even a bit that was flat enough to land a plane on!
It could have almost been Kent, except the fields were flanked with drystone walls rather than barbed-wire fences. Oh, and there were sodding great hills in the distance. Until now the sky had been virtually all blue but, as I turned a corner at Renwick, I noticed a bank of ominous grey cloud that had been quietly bubbling up behind me.
This was the start of the long climb up to Hartside. It started off well enough, quite steep, but manageable. About halfway up, rain started falling, accompanied by a sudden increase in the wind. The rain lasted all of thirty seconds but the wind remained and blew strongly for most of the day.
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| The Hartside Summit cafe, arrowed. |
The road kept zig-zagging as it climbed up the hill and the wind was always either full-on or from the side, getting ever stronger the higher I climbed. I could see the cafe at the summit but, with all of the twisting, it was anybody's guess how far away it was by road.
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| It was certainly an impressive view |
For the last mile or so of the climb, the little road I had been on turned onto the A686 to the summit. This was silky smooth, freshly laid tarmac, which was a joy to ride on, and the gradient eased off considerably.
There were dozens of motorbikes on that stretch of road, most of them being ridden really well. I did have one squeaky moment when a couple came screaming round a blind right-hander at stupid speeds, very much on my side of the road. If I had been two feet further out from the kerb the emergency services would have had some messy clearing up to do.
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| Shut up. Everybody takes this photo. Although most don't look so close to collapse. |
I got to the top at 11:20 and glanced at the 'Time Moving' figure on my Garmin. It had taken me exactly two hours to cover just 16.7 miles. In my defence, the temperature was now up to 32 C and the wind was blowing a plastic picnic chair across the car park. And I still had four more biggish hills to go.
I never drink tea. Until yesterday, I can't even remember the last time I had a cup. Yet up here, for some reason I still can't fathom, that was exactly what I wanted. That, and carrot cake. The big slice, thanks. And a couple of bottles of full-fat Coke to refill my water bottles.
I sat outside the cafe, chatting to other cyclists and to a couple in a camper van who came from Sunderland and expressed amazement that anybody would choose to end the trip on the northern side of the Tyne.
Noon, during a heatwave. Probably not the best time of day to saddle up and start riding again, and it was a genuine struggle to push my bike through the clouds of wind-blown dust across the car park.
At least the next four and a half miles to Leadgate were all downhill, some of it scarily so. From Leadgate the road started getting lumpy again, requiring a lot of effort and concentration to get up it, before dropping down into Garrigil.
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| The Leadgate-Garrigil road |
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| These girls had the right idea |
Over the next three miles, things started unravelling quickly for me. Where the roads to Hartside had the decency to at least be twisty, these were all straight as a die and increasingly steep. The wind was relentless and that, coupled with the gradient, meant my front wheel started lifting off the ground with every turn of the pedal. Not being used to riding unicycles, I got off and pushed up the really steep bits.
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| The view looking back down the road. |
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| The summer ones can be pretty bloody tricky, too. |
It kept getting hotter. My Garmin was reading 35 C. The landscape was getting increasingly barren. I hadn't seen another living soul for over half an hour. And here was I, an unhealthily fat bloke, doing the most physical exertion I'd done in ages. I wasn't coping well with the conditions and it felt like I'd been on this bit of road for hours. It's amazing how that sort of stuff can screw with your mind.
I don't think I've ever been happier to see a simple road sign. It wasn't lying either. There were some really interesting turns that had me pumping the brakes for all I was worth.
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| The Nenthead drop |
I was even happier to pull to a halt outside the Nenthead village store and buy two big bottles of ice-cold mineral water; one to drink and one to pour over my head and jersey. Even happier still to realise that I'd have no need for the machine on the wall next to me. Not today, anyway.
There's another steep climb out of Nenthead and I really wasn't looking forward to it but, after half a mile there's a sharp left bend at which point two things happened. First, the evil headwind I'd been battling against was now fully at my back, helping me along. Secondly, it started raining. Good summer rain, with droplets the size of peas. It only lasted a few minutes but it seemed to cool the air slightly and the smell of hot, damp tarmac was just fantastic. The roads were steaming and I was feeling a lot better by the time I got to the borderlands.
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| The border signs are always at the very top of a big hill. I've no idea why. |
From here it was mainly downhill for a few miles, with a few short climbs but the countryside was the bleakest I'd seen since setting out.
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| We're on the road to nowhere... |
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| Rolling hills. Wonderful. |
It was just me. Nobody else for miles around. I couldn't resist singing along to the tracks on my MP3 player. I'm just glad there was nobody except the occasional sheep to hear me belting out Baccara's "Yes Sir, I can boogie" at the top of my lungs.
Eventually the road dipped down and once more I was amongst trees and greenery, heading into Allenheads.
The sun was back to full blast, and I still had a couple of climbs to tackle before the day was out, so I decided to stop off at the Hemmel coffee shop in Allenheads, where I ordered another cup of tea (what the hell was wrong with me) and a toasted teacake, which was excellent, even if I did have to pour the butter, rather than spread it.
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| OK, so the Garmin was in full sunlight but, god it was hot! |
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| I think the Prince Bishops were X-Factor semi-finalists in 2009 |
Once again the moorland descended into farmland and I passed through the lovely village of Rookhope.
From there it was a gentle five mile trip into Stanhope and the Red Lodge B&B, where I spent even longer in the shower than the previous day. I turned on the TV news to find that it had been the hottest July day since records began. There was also a lovely piece about how older and overweight people would be well advised to stay indoors and not exert themselves in such heat. Oops.
Dinner was taken in the Bonny Moorhen, just across the road from the B&B, where a very nice steak and ale pie, chips, peas, carrots and cabbage was washed down with a couple of pints of Tyneside Blonde. Returning to my room I turned the TV on at about 8.30 and fell asleep in front of it before 9.00
The Route:
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