MOUNT BLANC DAYS TWO AND THREE: "DON'T MIND US MR GUIDE"

Prima facie Day Two was spoiled by a late start and the bad ice conditions that go with a warm day. However, I suspect that it was more of a question of guts - or lack of them. Neither of us was feeling particularly confident to start with and taking a short fall down a polished ice slope certainly didn't do my confidence any good ("thanks for the arrest Nick"). Consequently, after failing to find a way past the séracs from the valley below we climbed back to the hut and announced that we would be staying for a further evening. We used the warm summer sun to get some washing done and allow our various wounds to dry out. I had sustained a quite hideous bruise to my hip that traversed all the colours of the rainbow but favoured blackish blues and blood-tinged purples. Both Nick and I fairly cut up hands although I suspect that his out-did mine for sheer bloodiness.
During the evening we surveyed out fellow climbers and came up with a dastardly plan. A Chamonix mountain guide was leading a family party of two teenage children and four adults up the mountain. We figured that a) we could keep up with and then lose a slow party such as this and b) if we waited for them to leave we could use our unpaid-for guide to show us the unmarked way across the lateral moraine. This is deeply unethical behaviour but, safety being our new maxim, we woke early we loitered suspiciously over our rye bread.
NB It might be noted at this point that Harris has never been known as an early riser. Indeed he is little more that a brown hair's breadth from being known as Cadaverously-Brown. He may claim that his sleep is the "sleep of the just" but I know from personal experience that his snoring sounds suspiciously like the moaning of souls crossing the Styx on the Birkenhead Ferry. He may sleep through the hooting braying and wailing, but only the deaf and the distant may join him. It is relevant to note that I had thus far chosen to sleep without ear-protection in order that I might hear my alarm and get us moving at the required time.
DAY THREE
Allowing the guided party a discreet lead we followed them down the steep path from the Refuge. We crossed the moraine and descended towards a distant point where a white patch of new snow snaked between the rocks to our right and the field of séracs to our left. It looked fairly straightforward but as we came closer we began to realise the size of the features we had seen from over a kilometre away. Tiny cracks resolved themselves into enormous crevasses and a patch of bare ice gradually became a long smooth convex saucer of ice set at about 50° and emptying, at its bottom lip, into a large black hole where two ice-sheets met. The guided party had a significant advantage here. They could belay a climber from top and bottom while we, being a party of two, would have little chance of arresting a fall from below if the leader fell high on the bulge. We watched the guide cut small steps then skilfully (if not cheerfully) pick his way up. When he reached the top of the smooth ice he fitted a double ice-screw anchor and shouted his party past him one by one. He then removed the anchor and followed them over the brow of the hill and onto the snowfield above. After a short time they were gone and we were once again alone. There was nothing left to do but to follow the guide's line with as much caution as possible. Moving off over the ice I attempted to ignore the gaping black maw of the crevasse and to focus on the ice in front of me. Being basically unprotected (I would have vanished 30ft into the hole before running out of rope) I began by cutting fairly large (OK they were huge) steps and kicking the front points of my crampons hard into the ice. As I got a rhythm going I began to cut smaller and more efficient steps and to move more fluidly. One firm downward stroke, followed by a sweep with the adze, to remove the ice debris, created a passable step. Reaching the top I planted my axe as far into the ice as I could and wrapping the rope round the axe head I took a belay stance for Nick. Before long he joined me and we walked up the rise towards the snowfield above.
Having lost an element of confidence in Nick's navigation skills I had spent several hours the evening before taking careful compass and distance readings and I determined to put my knowledge into effect. As it happened the 8.5 kilometres from the top of the séracs to the Cosmique Refuge (which give an increase in altitude of 1000m) were not very challenging. The landscape was however, quite beautiful. The sky was a piercing blue and the white peaks all around were truly stunning. We stopped for photographs in the valley leading towards the Cosmique and by 11:30 we were removing our crampons at the door. On arrival we were told that Chris had phoned to tell us that he was OK but would not be joining us, by 12:30 we were both fast asleep. At 6pm we were served an excellent meal of soup, lamb kebabs and chocolate mousse. The view from our dining room was however a little sobering. To my right was the Aiguilles de Midi, to my left was the blank white face of Mont Blanc du Tacul. From where we were it looked little less than vertical with a sickening looking snow bulge about three quarters of the way up.

The Mont Blanc Traverse (Day One)

We arose at 3am to find the sky clear and the air sharp with frost. Chris's feet had troubled him since climbing Gran Paradiso (a 4,000m peak in Italy) several days earlier and there was a general uncertainty about whether he was fit to climb. However, swathedin bandages from the ankle downwards he lifted his bag and set off with Nick and I along the valley road past sleeping Chamonix. The moon was high and Cassiopeia shone brightly as we ascended through the black Casper David Frederick style pines, over boulders and along the well-worn path to the observation point above the Mer de Glace. Until we reached it we had seen nobody, but now a steady stream of bad tempered walkers and climbers were making their way down from the funicular railway station onto the dirty grey ice. We let them pass and followed on at a distance. Chris's feet didn't allow for swift movement but he progressed with a quiet determination. The crevasses grew steadily larger and more numerous and the surface whiter and less saturated with grit and boulders.
On our right we passed a large building high on the hill, which we identified as the Refuge d'Envers des Aiguilles. Consulting the map Nick indicated the ski route that led to the left then tracked back right. Following this course we began to ascend an unexpectedly steep and crevassing slope. We knew we were in trouble when, forced to the extreme right of the valley we found ourselves faced with a delicate passage across a large crevasse followed by a steep rock climb. I followed Harris across a snow bridge and, weakened by his elephantine weight, it gave way under me. One of my legs stuck through the bridge while the other hung over into the icy blackness below. Fortunately instinct had cut in and, raising my head, I found that I had planted the pick of my axe hard into the ice beyond. Winded, I got slowly to my feet on the forward side of the chasm.
The unstable material on which we stood made loitering unwise and Harris and I began to climb. We moved rightwards, up a steep pitch of mixed ice and rock overhung by a large boulder. Harris led and I followed (removing my crampons and cleaning the rock before ascending. I then led first to the right and then made a rising traverse to the left, coming to a halt at the base of a climbable but very exposed slab with a shallow gully. Nick moved further to the right and, gaining an important 20m was able to traverse left and set up a belay using a sling and a large boulder. I joined him and cutting steps up a small ice-slope I emerged at a point above the glacier. Chris had not been prepared to risk the climb and, looking for an alternative route across the crevasses had become disorientated in the maze.
Shouting our communication through cupped hands we guided Chris back to safer ground and agreed that he would see if a route might be worked out around the far side of the icefall. We agreed to wait above the icefall until evening and if Chris had not met us, to rendezvous at the Cosmique Refuge (which he could reach by cable car from the valley). He disappeared for some time and then reappeared retreating down the valley towards Chamonix. Confident that Chris was as safe as possible Harris and I continued to traverse the valley wall and settled down to wait for the heat of the day to cool. By 5pm we had prepared a meal, repacked and roped for glacier travel. Following what we believed to be the correct course towards the Requin Hut we became steadily sucked into a nightmare field of crevasses and séracs. Only too late did we realise that we had made a small but potentially lethal navigational error. The hut we had seen hours before was not the Refuge d'Envers des Aiguilles but the Refuge de Requin. We had gone too far and strayed into the notorious Sérac du Géant. These highly unstable towers and ramparts of ice made direction finding impossible and as dusk fell we were still engaged in a life-threatening struggle to cross (and later to retreat from) the sérac field. Nick and I both undertook levels of climbing we had not previously expected and several moves were, at best, calculated risks. During the afternoon we had heard the moaning and rumbling of the decaying towers of ice and now we could see them at close quarters. On climbing past a huge hole that looked into a gallery the size of an English parish church we were peppered with thousands of ice fragments as part of the architecture below collapsed in on the aisle beneath. Perhaps the most perilous was a down-climb in an unstable area of snow and rotten ice at the opening to an apparently bottomless crevasse. Nick belayed me from the snow bollard but I was very keen not to fall and very relived to reach a solid stance to return the favour of the belay.
By 9.30pm it was becoming increasingly clear that we were going to have to spend the night on the séracs and retreating as far as we dared by head-torch light we stopped atop a large sérac to discuss a bivouac. Navigationally we had made a serious error but we had packed well. We had no tent but we carried four-season sleeping bags, food, cooking equipment and survival bags - we were not however to need them. As we stood discussing bedding-down for the evening we saw a piercing white light winding its way up the starlit valley. Moving like a dragonfly it first visited a group of climbers on one of the steep faces to the North (probably to Aiguilles de Tacul) then satisfied with their condition it moved towards us. The wind was blowing from the south so we heard little of the helicopter until it was directly above us. The downdraft was awesome and combined with the bright searchlight it was like an alien visitation. We raised our arms and a short burley Frenchman appeared at my side. 'Take off ze rope" he shouted above the roar of the military helicopter's engines. I unclipped my rope he replaced it with the winch cable - a second later I was airborne. We were already scudding the 750m to the Requin hut by the time I was shoved into the helicopter. A minute later I was running across the helipad bent double under the whirling rotors. Harris joined me five minutes later and the helicopter pilot, saying nothing, spun his aircraft and dropped it spectacularly over the edge of the cliff into the valley below.
Exhausted and bloody we found ourselves the object of a senior guide's bile. This was 'ze most dangerous place in ze local Alps' he told us and despite being about eight inches taller than him I felt very small indeed. We had performed well once we had got ourselves into trouble but we had made errors that could have cost us our lives. That night I lay awake replaying the events of the day in my head and thinking with a mixture of relief and embarrassment of the day's events.
Some further thoughts on the first part of the route (courtesy of Nicholas Strangely-Browne-Harris)…
They say that a week is a long time in politics, meaning that circumstances can change quickly. In our case, this was certainly true. The transition from being alone and facing a cold, uncomfortable night out on the glacier, to being in a warm refuge, surrounded by people, drinking cups of hot, sweet tea (and, in my's case, having Madame la gardienne rubbing ointment into my lacerated hands) took just 10 minutes.
It is well know that experience is the sum of past mistakes (and also that navigation is not a science but an art). However, that doesn't make me feel much better about my map reading error that day. The difference between winter hill-walking, in say, Scotland, and mountaineering in the Alps is scale: the peaks are higher, the risks are greater and the consequences of any given mistake are potentially much more serious. With that wonderful 20/20 vision that is hindsight, I feel that my worst mistake was not made on the Mer de Glace, but in Chamonix the day before. Armed with Richard Goedeke's 'The Alpine 4,000m Peaks by the Classic Routes', I had detailed information concerning the summit climb from the Cosmiques refuge to the top of Mont Blanc. Goedeke assumes (correctly) that most climbers use the Aiguille du Midi téléphérique and so has no notes on a hut climb that we were making for acclimatisation purposes. I had made only a cursory hunt for a suitable book on the Mer de Glace (it had been a glorious afternoon and lounging in the sun seemed a pleasanter prospect) and so we set off without sufficient knowledge of the first part of our route. I have read since that experienced Alpinists know the hut climb is often a harder prospect than the summit route. No shit!

The Mont Blanc Traverse

Mont Blanc is popularly regarded as the highest mountain in Europe.In actual fact it is actually only the highest mountain in Western Europe (Elbrus in the former USSR being in fact the biggest). It was this degree of fame that attracted us to climb it. I don't recall whose idea it was to have a go at it but no doubt the origins of the idea lie in the bottom of some long forgotten beer glass somewhere.
The plan for the ascent had gone through several variations, which ranged from the fanciful to the mundane. I had been in favour of some insane route, which, in retrospect, I wouldn't have had a cat in hell's chance of pulling off. Nick was in favour of the ordinary snow route via the Gouter hut. We compromised on a training climb on Gran Paradiso (the highest mountain within Italy) and the Mont Blanc Traverse. This route, took in Mont Blanc du Tacul and Mont Maudit as well as the main Mont Blanc summit and was to be completed in a purist way. In other words we would walk all the way from the valley rather that catching a cable car all the way to the Cosmique hut. The day-by-day account of the climb shows how this decision nearly proved very costly.

London Triathlon

As ‘swimmers into cleanness leaping’, 400 nervous men in rubber gathered on the banks of London’s St Katherine's Dock. The sun twinkled off the water as the little yachts ran in front of a delicate breeze. The sun was hot on the back of our black wetsuits as we made our way down the pontoon and jumped into the water. “No diving gentlemen please” said the marshal as we passed. The flotilla of orange swimming caps moved slowly out into the rectangle of the start area becoming more densely packed as more competitors took the plunge. Ducking my face under the water I found that I could see no more than a foot through the murky green water

‘Get to the back or the sides of the group’ is the normal advice for the weaker swimmers in men’s triathlon. The middle and the front is no place for the faint-hearted. Sadly, in this packed start rectangle, there was no refuge. Even while treading water the competitors were touching shoulders. When the stragglers were finally rounded up and squeezed into the start area the starting claxon was sounded and the pool of smiling faces became a thrashing mass of black slippery bodies. Elbows, heads, feet and fists clashed as swimmers climbed over each other to get ahead. Faces loomed out of the deep green mists to either side then disappeared back into the sucking green murk.

After what Matt and I would know as a ‘Reading moment’ at 500m (I didn’t think I would make it) the group began to spread out and I was able to get into some kind of rhythm. I actually began to focus on speed for the last third of the swim but the fast swimmers had gone and I was damned glad to see the landing pontoon and the woman who gave me a hand out of the water. Our wetsuits were hurriedly packed into large blue bags as we ran into the ‘transition area’ where 1000s of bikes were racked. Fruit, a puncture repair kit, spare tubes etc. were crammed into the pockets of my race suit before I put on my cycling helmet and shoes and clip-clopped out of the Excel centre to begin the cycle leg.

I jumped onto the bike and sped off down the ramp, out of the shade and into the blazing August sun. The temperatures were now in the 90’s F. The linear course headed off across the flat floodplain of the Thames, the road rising and falling steeply to accommodate road bridges, roundabouts and the Docklands Light Railway. Away from the mêlée of the swim I felt free and in control. The breeze in my face was refreshing and ahead the buildings of the City punched upwards into the huge cobalt sky. “This is called Metropolis” shouted the Lemmy in my head. Twenty/thirty/thirty-five mph, then up in the saddle and dancing up the hills. Fast carbon bikes were flashing past on the straw-baled roundabouts and I was hauling in slower bikes on the descents and climbs. This was real racing - like being part of a video game. However, racing up the foot of a short rise after a fast downhill section it was almost GAME OVER. Just as I got out of the saddle to begin climbing I hit a cat’s-eye which slid the back wheel sideways by 18” (the cat wasn’t too happy either). My rear completely slipped off the saddle and I was hanging in fresh air. Thankfully I managed to haul myself back onto the saddle before I stopped, hit anyone or fell off.
As I came to the huge orange squeezer shaped building for the third time and headed for home I could see increasing numbers of people walking back to the Excel centre pushing their bikes. Some were victims of mechanical failure, at least one had crashed; others had fallen prey to the searing heat. I didn’t want to do the same and had been drinking fairly consistently since the start of the cycle leg – now I needed solid fuel. Sadly, the bananas I had placed in my pocket (more to impress the girls than anything else) had decided to seek their independent destiny somewhere on the previous 25 miles of road and I was left without further sustenance for the rest of the race. Turning left off the final 25mph straight we were faced with the now forgotten concrete ramp into the transition area. Slamming down 12 or 14 gears in one hit bikes flapped up the ramp and into the cool of the transition area. I was sure that I had improved my position from the swim but I was also sure that I didn’t have much oomph left in my legs.
I click-clacked back to the bike stand, put my training shoes on and headed off through the RUN OUT door. The pavement was baking and I took every possible opportunity to run in the shadows of the walls. Out by the docks there was no shade and the only upsides to the run were a youth throwing traffic cones full of water over you as you passed and a collection of lovely Purdeys girls by the side of the road (I know it’s sexist). I was totally cream-cracked but I reassured myself that there were plenty of people worse off than me. Lots of people were reduced to walking and, on my second lap, one chap was lying face down in the gutter on the concrete ramp of the Excel Centre – all very gruesome. On the flip-side several men, a good twenty years my senior, skipped past like spring chickens at the very height of spring.
On lap two Becky and Gareth told me that I was about two and a half hours into the race. Hoping to get in under three hours I reached for the accelerator but I was stuck in ‘slow’ mode. The final lap wasn’t actually painful but it was like running in treacle. I had to employ my 2nd favourite mental diversion tactic to stop my ‘hell-why-don’t-we-just-walk’ instinct getting the upper hand. I started to make mental lists of the things I most wanted. 1) Water, 2) Chocolate, 3) Beer, 4) A Shower 5) More Beer. Entering the finish straight and crossing the line was immensely satisfying despite a slightly disappointing time (2:54:17), but it came a distinct second to London Marathon for pleasure and trailed way behind Boston Rowing Marathon for pain. Would I do it again? You know I would – I’m stupid like that.
I would just like to record my extreme gratitude to Chris, Sarah, Becky and Gareth for coming down to support me and (perhaps most importantly) for getting me home, showered and in the pub by 8:30pm.

London Triathlon: A Training Diary

"TRAIN TO YOUR WEAKNESS, RACE TO YOUR STRENGTH" says Mr Trew. If I don't get my swimming training together I will have to race in the 'I'm not taking this seriously' chicken suit of shame
July 2003June 22nd was obviously a positive day. In the month or so since I have certainly peaked and begun the long downhill ride towards middle age. Work committments have shot my training programme and my diet to bits. I haven't run seriously for almost two weeks (partly for fear of getting shot in Durban) and my first serious bike ride since I got back almost killed me. I am still quite sure that I can get round the course but it seems unlikely that I will get under the three hour mark. On the plus side, I have aquired some slightly lighter bike kit and improved the amount of swimming training I've been doing.
June 22nd 2003For the first time I am beginning to think that, short of punctures or other acts of God, I can do this. Yesterday I had my first full distance run-through of the event. Starting at 9am at Hinksey outdoor pool I worked through each of the disciplines in turn. The swimming is my weakest event but breathing every three strokes and taking it fairly steady it proved to be fairly easy. Dave kindly offered to do the cycle leg with me and had planned a good fast route via Eynsham. Thursday had seen a rather punishing cycle run so I was pleased to get round the 25mile course in under one hour 30 minutes. I was left very heavy legged for the run and my normal pace was eroded significantly. Gareth was unable to run with me because of a nasty attack of hay fever but was there at the end brandishing a welcome bottle of water. I wasn't fast by anyone's standards but, I feel that a combined time of 3hrs: 3mins: 48secs gives me a platform to build on. Most importantly I know I can get round.
May 4th 2003The end of my third four-week training phase was marked by a very hard weekend of activity. With about three months to go to the event I wanted to prove to myself that I could cover the full Olympic distance over a weekend. In this at least I had some success. Saturday was marked by a back-to-back 1.5km swim and 10km cycle; and some hours later by a 10km run (with Gareth and Tim). Cafe CoCo supplied the food and the Far From the Madding Crowd supplied the beer that put me to sleep by 8:30pm. Sunday was a little different, with the Oxford triathlon Club (rather than Gareth) dictating the pace. After 50+km I had to say enough-is-enough and let the remaining nutters (who hadn't bottled it already) zip off into the distance. I did the remaining 25km at my own pace and managed a pint of IPA, chips, a king size Mars, a pint of water, a pint of orange juice, a jacket potato with cheese and beans and a treacle pudding and custard on the way. Dave know my weakness for a good steamed pudding.
April 18th 2003Forced absences from home (due to work commitments) have made sticking to my schedule tricky over the last couple of weeks. However, I seem to have been able to increase my speed and distance all the same. My swim distance is now up to 50 lengths (1,250m) and I am running with a faster group on my Thursday night runs. The extra speed means that we are now covering around 10-12km during the session. What puzzles me is my the fact that while my cycling speed peaks soon after the beginning of a session and tails slowly off, my running speed improves over the course of our hour-long session. This week saw my first session with the Oxford Triathlon Club. It was an hour and a half of 16-25mph cycling and, coming the day after a fairly hard run, it was really quite hard.
While I was away at a conference this week I read a chapter in Mr Trew's book on nutrition. As I have a largely vegetarian diet I thought I might be missing out on something vital. It seems that this is not the case. Trew suggests that because we consume dairy products I am getting pretty much everything that I need. What surprised me is the fact that he recommended cutting out a lot of fats (including chocolate).
February to April 2003I bought Steve Trew's 'Triathlon: A Training Manual and began training immediately. Mr Trew's primary maxim seems to be 'Train to your weakness, race to your strength'. This is very sound advice which I am afraid to say I have thus far failed to heed. I know I can cycle the 40km because I do it most Sundays, and I know I can run the 10km because I do that every Thursday. My problem was always going to be my swimming. 1,500m is a long way for me and I still haven't managed to do it in training. With three and a half months to go I am still training at half swim distance and it is beginning to concern me. Despite the demands on my time and the scuzzy nature of Oxford's swimming pools I must get this part of my training together.
On a more posititive note both my running and swimming times have come down quite a lot. My 40km cycle time has come down from about 1hr 45mins to around 1hr 30 mins and my 10km (6.2 miles) pace has come down from about 8min 30sec to 7min 45sec miles per mile. Cycling and running with friends has been the most important factor in this improvement but joining Headington Road Runners has also helped a lot. As I enter the third four week training block and start to consider joining the local triathlon club I certainly feel fitter and stronger. If I can stay injury free I feel like I am in with a good chance of getting round the course.

The (Loose) Thames Valley Cycle Route - Oxford to Richmond, 76 Miles.

On 19th July 2003, Matt, Gary and myself undertook to cyclefrom Oxford to London, essentially following National Cycle Network's route number 4/5 (available from Sustrans) down the ThamesValley. However, at first (not to mention second and third) glance the route appeared almost uneccessarily fiddly, and this, combined with our experienceof the offroad sections of the C2C and Lon Las Cymru, meant we settled on a loose version primarily sticking to A and B roads, with a leisurely finish along the Thames once we approached London. In addition, whereas the official route begins/finishes at Putney Bridge, we opted instead to finish at Richmond, largely because we knew we could get a train from there back to Oxford with minmum fuss, and also because Gary knew a pleasant pub on the riverside. By and large at the outset the distance didn't worry us too much, since Gary and I had cycled just as far on the first day of the Lon Las Cymru which involved crossing the Brecon Beacons, and Matt routinely punished us on our cycling jaunts around Oxford. However, this wasn't to prevent one of us having what has since become known as a 'Reading moment', defined as 'an irrational fear of ones inability to complete the task at hand'.
Matt and I arrived at Nelmes Towers in good time for the 9.30am start only to find Gary faffing and farting around (his dislike of early starts is well documented). Consequently we didn't start until gone 10.00am, although the extra tea and biscuits more than made up for the delay. Soon our peleton was speeding through Oxford city centre past the early morning shoppers and out toward Abingdon. Coincidentally the road to Abingdon is one Gary and myself routinely use so we were able to cycle the first 8 or 9 miles with minimal reference to the map. The official route heads through Abingdon centre and on past Didcot cloud factory (the power station) by a rather convoluted means, so we bypassed both and headed straight for Wallingford by the most direct A road we could find. Passed Wallingford we stopped for a banana and for Matt to ease his aching back (I doubt whether he will bring his Camelbak on such a trip again), which was accompanied by much gurning. After that came the only real hill of the day, a fairly monotonous slog for a few miles towards Reading, which was probably preferable to the official route which appears to involve a hefty number of 1 in 7s, most of them in the wrong direction. At about this point Matt had the aforementioned 'Reading moment', but it soon passed, and in twenty minutes he was fine and in his usual place 200 yards out in front. A quick skim through the outskirts of Reading, some swearing at a car driving idiot, and we were out again, looking for somewhere to lunch. After a moments contemplation Gary remembered The Bull in Sonning, only a few more miles down the road and a frequent watering hole for the Three Men in a Boat. We eventually found it and settled down for jacket potatoes washed down with bitter shandy (not my idea - I'm a CAMRA member after all). I eventually found my jacket potato under what appeared to be the European chilli mountain, but had no hope of finishing it off. By comparison, Gary's infamous prediliction for steamed puddings reared it's ugly head once more, and despite the heat of the day, not to mention his own cheese-smothered potato, he rapidly polished one off with extra lashings of custard. Matt contented himself with a coffee, and so carbo-loaded and caffeine-fueled we headed off once more.
From Sonning we quickly passed through Twyford and then along a very quiet B road, fortunately bypassing the pleasures of Maidenhead, before arriving sedately in Windsor. Without an invitation for tea from the Queen we decided not to stop but continued on passed Magna Carta island, through Egham, had a bit of pant wetting excitement at a very large roundabout near the M25, before shooting through Staines (best thing for it) and arriving for tiffin at Chertsey. Much caffeine and sugar intake ensued and at this point we decided it would be far better to follow the official route, which essentially follows the Thames into central London, since the main roads were becoming decidedly busier. We found the river easily, and, despite loosing Matt for a few moments as he shot off into the distance while we actually wanted to turn right, the surface of the towpath wasn't to bad. Soon after Chertsey we almost ran into a regatta, and after a bit of cyclocross we managed to tear ourselves away from the girls in lycra with big shoulders and made our way down to Hampton Court. Since it was such a pleasant day, and so many people were out enjoying it, the last few miles involved much child- and whinging parent-dodging, and although our speed dropped considerably the sight of the river in the sun made up for it. At Teddington lock we left the river to continue into Richmond, and via an unwanted detour into Richmond Park, soon we had rejoined the Thames again and had firmly entrenched ourselves outside The Star with plenty of Youngs bitter to hand.
Strangely the journey back to Oxford by train seemed to take longer than the cycle had. Admittedly my sense of time had been slightly distorted by the Youngs (damn the sweet, nourishing stuff), but we arrived at The Star about 5.00pm, must have stayed for about 2 hours, but still didn't get back to Oxford until gone 11.00pm. As far as I remember the journey involved us paying an unreasonable amount of money at Richmond station, where Matt's bountiful, curly hair was soundly mocked by (ironically) a large black man, followed by a change of train at Reading (time to get a quick sandwich), and then an hours wait on the train within shouting distance of Oxford for no easily discernable reason. Whereas I thought the cycle to Richmond was likely to have been the most painful exercise in the whole day, in fact it turned out to be having to listen to the inane banter of a bunch of yoofs during this hour without succombing to poking my eyes out with a bidon. However, eventually we made it into the station, and amid much hilarity among onlookers (I suppose they had a point, eye-wateringly lurid lycra isn't exactly the done thing at 11.00pm on a Saturday at Oxford station), we manoeuvered the bikes onto the street and pedalled off into what should have been the sunset.
David Cope 14th August 2003.

Brewood to Ironbridge (Industrial Revolutions)

GO WEST
Nelmes arrived at Harris Towers in a manner not entirely befitting his élan and athleticism, emerging lyrca-clad, but somewhat arthritically, from a battered old Renault 5. While Gary tucked into a fortifying breakfast of beans-on-toast (the perfectly balanced meal, according to Rowing God Steve Redgrave) I treated my bike to some last-minute tyre pumping and frame de-rusting. Although my bike is perfectly serviceable it looked rather dumpy compared to Gary’s sleek model, which I planned to steal if the going got tough. After an in-depth brainstorming/mapreading session lasting some 10 seconds – “Ironbridge is nice… and its got a pasty shop” – we had both a destination and a lunch menu. Pausing only for a brief round of pre-emptive excuse-making (Gary: judo injuries, me: a nasty cold), we saddled up and headed West.

After a few days of howling winds and torrential downpours, Saturday was one of those crisp, bright days that make you feel better disposed towards Autumn. There was a persistent Westerly breeze but we set off at a good rate, making short work of the hill up to Bishop’s Wood and freewheeling down a long descent to the tiny hamlet of Tong. Ignoring the signs to Weston-Under-Lizard – my second favourite place name, ahead of Six Mile Bottom but behind Wootton Bassett – we continued West along pretty country back-roads to the small market town of Shifnal.

Another half dozen miles gave us a first glimpse of the Severn valley and we sped down the steep, windy road to Coalport. Gary’s descent technique was rather more assured than mine, particularly round the hairpin bends, but I felt that the pace would have unsettled even that noted downhiller ‘The Eagle of Handforth’. Following the bottle green river upstream for a mile brought us into the Ironbridge Gorge and we rode onto the eponymous bridge to survey the scene.

THERE ARE 2 THINGS YOU MUST KNOW ABOUT THE IRON BRIDGE
First, it is… a bridge! Second, it is… made of iron! Erm, yes, anyway, as any fule kno, it was constructed in 1779 by Abraham Darby and was the first metallic bridge. The world’s first iron railway tracks, iron railway wheels and steam railway locomotive were also all built in the gorge, and it deserves its moniker of ‘Birthplace of the Industrial Revolution’. Early tourists, who came to witness the dawning of a new age, were both impressed and horrified by what they saw. One young American visitor was moved to write: “when we arrive at the summit of the hill which overlooks Coalbrookdale, we are presented with all the horrors that Pandemonium could show. We descend the hill passing through the very midst of all these Flames.” The area is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site and rather less Dante-esque. The bridge has been spruced up and given a shiny plaque, the village boasts rather more teashops than foundries, and the gorge is green and lush. The ravening tourist hordes and inappropriate pub names – ‘The Shakespeare’ link is very tenuous and don’t get me started on ‘Ye Olde Robin Hood Inn’ – detract a little but it’s still well worth a visit.

SEVERN UP
After partaking of an excellent Cornish pasty, we decided to take advantage of the good weather and head to Bridgnorth. My cunning plan to follow the Severn all the way, had the advantages of being direct and downhill, but the slight disadvantage that the road only went as far as Coalport before climbing steeply out of the valley. After an inopportune map stop (Gary’s clip-in shoes rendering the hill start tricky), we continued up the West bank. I could tell that that the gradient was severe when Gary, 20 metres ahead, started zigzagging across the full width of the road. Out of the saddle and in our lowest available gears, we pedalled hard for a good mile before the slope finally flattened out near Broseley. From there we had a nice run along an undulating B-road with excellent views out over the Severn valley and Shropshire hills.

I really like Bridgnorth; it’s a handsome old market town and has fond memories for me. It was the venue for my first ever pub crawl and, more recently, for Jon’s stag weekend. After a quick water stop in High Town we freewheeled down to the river and prepared to do battle with the one Bridgnorth feature I do not have a love for. ‘The Hermitage’, named after a series of caves cut into the soft red sandstone that is typical of the area (apparently Shropshire was once covered by a Sahara-like desert), is more of a cliff than a hill. As we began the long climb, it quickly became apparent that one of us (OK, me) was in trouble. While the spirit was still willing, the flesh weakened rapidly. In cycling parlance, I had ‘The Knock’, a signal from the body that unless it got food pronto it would withdraw its co-operation. It felt like I had concrete legs, through which coursed not blood but lactic acid. My rate of progress was glacial. Gary, meanwhile, had pulled away into the distance and there was a depressing lack of passing ambulances. What kept me pedalling was the certain knowledge that the only thing worse than keeping going, would be to stop and then have to do a standing start.

By the time I had completed two more short climbs further along the Bridgnorth Road, I was done in. Gary, bless his cotton socks, had stopped to wait for me and produced two mini Snickers bars, which I devoured greedily. I also took the opportunity to blow my nose, rid myself of some attractive green phlegm and do my celebrated impersonation of a cadaver.

The last few miles back to Brewood seemed to take ages, but there were no big climbs and the choccie bars provided the necessary fuel. The envisaged “little ride” had turned into a not so little roundtrip of 47 miles, so we felt deserving of an enormous meal, a bottle of cheeky red and, in Gary’s case, a liberal application of ‘DeepHeat’.

I LOVE THE SMELL OF DEEPHEAT IN THE EVENING
Actually, this is a lie. The pungent aroma of Deepheat-ed Nelmes, particularly when combined with Thai green curry and garlic baguette, is not for everyone and for the first time I was grateful for my blocked sinuses. To be fair to Gary, though, his manly musk was later to prove a hit with two old biddies in ‘The Swan’, where we continued our carbo replenishment with some nice pints of Theakston’s XB.


Nick Harris (November 2003).

Coast to Coast, Day Three, 17th May (25 Miles)

Total Eclipse of the Heart.
Overcast, gun-metal skies greeted us on the third morning, but the clouds had a distant look about them and thankfully the rain held off for the duration of the day. On a less happy note, I woke up with quite a bad case of the tuppeny-bits, most likely picked up on Day One where various road-splashings picked up by my water bottles in the Lake District were more than likely not entirely mud derived. After some breakfast and the obligatory tea, I felt somewhat better when we climbed onto the bikes at about 9.30, a comparatively early start, but bearing in mind we wanted to be in Sunderland before midday for our completion deadline. Once more, the first few miles consisted of climbing as we hauled our aching limbs out of Shotley Bridge, but thankfully this was the last real climb of the whole trip. After a quick stop at a local garage to try and sort out Gary's gears with some WD40 (abject failure), we rejoined the official C2C route just outside Consett.Rather unfortunately, Day Three saw us cycling the last 25 miles completely offroad as a quick look at the map the previous evening had shown us that onroad routes from Consett to Sunderland would be of the particularly scary variety with no suitably direct minor road alternative. This was a shame for two reasons. Firstly, the quality of the offroad cycle paths varied tremendously, from smooth tarmac to loose shale to fist-sized boulders (yet somehow we managed a fairly speedy 14 mph for most of the way, not bad considering our fondness for anorexic tyres). And secondly, the majority of the final day was spent on an old, disused railway line, with accompanying high banks and sidings, so that very little of the surroundings could be seen. I doubt very much, given the industrial history of this area, that the view was particularly worth seeing, especially in comparison with the previous day, but it would have been nice to have seen a change in the scenery. The only upside of this rail-route, albeit a rather significant one, was that the last 25 miles were very, very flat indeed.From Consett, then, in our cocooned cycling world we passed Stanley, the Beamish Open Air Museum and Chester-le-Street. The monotony was broken only by the occasional appearance of a wizened cyclist, suicidal dog or industrial-themed sculpture (in particular the cows). From Chester-le-Street through Washington and into Sunderland, the route became more convoluted, and we lost our way a couple of times due to a combination of incompetence and missing or vandalised C2C signs. Eventually the route became unmissable as we followed the River Wear, a rather forlorn waterway, into the heart of Sunderland, past the impressive Stadium of Light, University of Sunderland and the National Glass Museum and on toward the sea. A sharp left turn and suddenly we were in the official finishing point of Sunderland Marina with its many yachts and pleasure boats. However, in spite of a slow puncture in my back tyre we continued on to Roker Pier, where, with the North Sea stretching out as far as the eye could see, we declared the C2C well and truly finished. And just in time too, as midday came and went soon after. All that remained was to take a few photos, perform a few Madness impressions, and head back to the Marina for a bite to eat in the company of a continuous loop of Bonnie Tyler's greatest hits.To return to our starting point in Workington, we took the train from Sunderland via Carlisle, essentially following the reverse of our route. At first I was slightly disappointed that it was only going to take us a couple of hours to travel the same distance that had taken us two days previously, but in looking at the scenery from the train window, in particular the hills of the north Pennines, I suddenly came over all smug. A change of train in Carlisle brought us down the coast directly into Workington, and a five minute cycle from the station to the disused light house once more. The car was still there (thank heaven) as was a large wind farm just across the harbour which had been invisible because of the low cloud and rain two days earlier. We changed into our civvies, disassembled the bikes and loaded them and the panniers into the back of the car, and headed off. A spot of expensive dinner (Little Chef…nice) later, followed by the obligatory queue on the M6, and we arrived back in Oxford close to midnight. A long bath and inactivity were the order of the weekend, followed by several months of declaring my cycle-touring days (all two of them) over, before a trip across Wales insinuated its way into our consciousnesses.

Coast to Coast, Day Two, 16th May (55 Miles)

One-Sided Sunburn.
In complete contrast to the previous day, the morning of day two began with bright sunshine, quickly followed by a full English breakfast and lashings of tea. By 10 o'clock the bikes were loaded and were cycling up the steep road out of Penrith (a pattern emerging here) and up onto the escarpment overlooking the town. From there, a couple of miles lazy pedalling in the spring sun bought us to the A686, which we would be following for some seventeen or eighteen miles through Langwathby, up Hartside and down the other side toward Alston. In no uncertain way, this climb really took its toll on me, and left me in a dumbfounded stupor for the rest of the day. And unfortunately it was largely my fault. The climb up Hartside (1903 feet or 577 metres) is about ten or eleven miles long, and although the gradient is consistent for it's duration, it is pretty steep. As we reached the bottom, passing signs warning of impending death by speeding lorry, I shifted into my lowest gear, lent into the pedals and sped off at a ridiculous twelve miles an hour. This pace soon proved to tough for Gary and he fell back, finding his own more sensible speed and rhythm, whilst I pressed on, head down and legs thrashing.
After about six miles, and having joyfully passed a fellow cyclist in true King of the Mountains style, my legs finally realised what my head had worked out a couple of miles earlier, that I was going far to fast with the summit still nowhere in sight. Another mile or so on and I ground to a complete halt, gasping for air and trying to stop my legs from crumpling under me. To my chagrin, the cyclist I had passed then overtook me uttering words of sympathy, followed by Gary hot on her heals. He quickly passed her and in the distance I saw him catch up with her wizened cycling colleague, a man with the head of a 60 year old firmly adhered to the body of a twentysomething (such wizened youths were to become a recurring feature of the entire ride). After five minutes I felt somewhat better, remounted my bike and carried on, trying to catch Gary up, but again at too fast a speed. Thankfully, after another mile, perhaps now eight of the ten mile total, I got a puncture in my back wheel, and with gasping breath managed to yell "Puncture!" so that Gary could stop. We had agreed that only he need bring his tyre pump so as I stopped and started to get the wheel off he returned back down the hill. To be honest I think that timely puncture was a welcome respite for the both of us, and having changed the inner tube for a new one, we remounted, and the gradient didn't seem nearly as bad as it had done ten minutes previously. The last two or three miles to the summit were the easiest of the whole climb, probably fuelled by the observation of Hartside café at the top and dreams of sugary tea. Having finally reached the summit, we disembarked and Gary quickly demolished a bowl of porridge whilst I devoured everything with sugar in that I could find, including kitkats, the aforementioned sugary tea and most of a bar of Kendal mintcake. Somewhat refreshed, we stopped for another photo opportunity and then prepared for the descent.
As interminably long as the ascent had seemed, the descent down the far side of Hartside seemed to be over in an ear-flapping, jaw-clenching flash. Top speed easily reached in excess of 40 mph. Before we knew it we were leaving the A road behind and were back on the minor roads again, passing through the pleasant villages of Leadgate and Garrigill. On leaving Garrigill, things took a turn for the worst once more as we decided we would risk the steep roads of the Dowgang Hush to reach our lunch at Nenthead rather than the offroad option. Our route out of Garrigill commenced with a sharp one in five which Gary, veins standing out from his forehead and legs moving in a strange Six Million Dollar Man slow-motion, managed to cycle up, whilst I deferred and soon dismounted. From there the ride didn't get any easier. The Dowgang Hush is extremely steep with at least one more one in seven (and I suspect several more that aren't far off) so that I had to stop several times to ease my aching legs, and when I was actually cycling I had a most peculiar desire to grit my teeth and stare at my front wheel, rather than view the glorious scenery around us. Eventually we reached the summit and plunged headlong toward Nenthead, apparently England's highest village, this time down a one in five which made a refreshing change, past the old the lead mines, before finally stopping at the Miners Arms for some nourishing soup and bread, and a discussion on the use of Nenthead as a term of abuse. "Take that, you Nenthead".
Immediately after lunch came one of the highlights of the day. Climbing (surprise, surprise) out of Nenthead we soon passed the highest point of the C2C, Black Hill at an impressive 1998 feet, or 609 metres. Here we could finally appreciate the windswept scenery, and at this point I must take my hat off to those clever people at Sustrans on their choice of route. Apart from the various A roads which were our decision to take, we hardly saw a car or vehicle all day. The quiet and solitude we encountered was incredibly relaxing and refreshing, and whilst I'm sure the situation is a little different in winter, in the hot springtime sun the awesome splendour of the Pennines was worth all the aching legs and teeth-gritting. After the climb to the highest point, we rapidly descended across Coalcleugh Moor and Allendale Common toward Allenheads. Another puncture occurred on the descent, but this time Gary was the beneficiary, and although far less timely than mine on Hartside he obtained it in a far more comedic fashion. Whilst descending at close to 30 mph he didn't notice a looming cattle grid until it was to late, reflex braking only slowing him to 20 mph before he rattled across it, blowing out all the air in his back tyre and ruining the valve on the inner tube to boot. A quick change and we were on our way through Allenheads itself, quickly followed by Rookhope, before a most welcome though tardily served cup of tea and a bun in Stanhope.
The route out of Stanhope began with (yes, you've guessed it) a steep climb, this time a couple of one in sevens in quick succession, where Gary received a nasty surprise. For whatever reason he couldn't get into the lowest gear of his chainset and was left to make do with whatever gear his chain decided it preferred thereafter. Thankfully, most of the climbing had now been done, the sharp ascent out of Stanhope was essentially the last one, so it didn't affect him that much, but it would have been much more worrying had happened earlier in the day. Following the initial sharp ascent there was a gentle climb for a couple of miles before a smooth descent across Waskerly Park and Muggleswick Common and on to Consett and our stop for the night. At Castleside we were mildly accosted by a small group of oiks, but vehemently ignoring them we made the last few miles to Shotley Bridge in Consett in good time given Gary's gear problems and my fitness (or-lack-thereof).
We had a small problem finding the Crown and Crossed Swords Hotel, not that it was well hidden but rather that we blindly cycled past it once or twice at least, and once we'd checked in it was all I could do to put the kettle on. At this point we noticed a rather unexpected effect of the days cycling. Since we had cycled all day essentially heading east without the benefits of cloud cover, we both had one-sided sunburn on the right hand side of our bodies, mine largely confined to my face since I had covered myself up for the whole day, but Gary was prominently red on his right arm and leg. Galloping lethargy reigned, and it was some time before we ventured down for some food and a beer in the bar, once again primarily carbohydrate in the form of pasta and chips. Having eaten we wandered out to see what other watering holes and delights Shotley Bridge had to offer, which turned out to be none. A quick look at the River Derwent in the dark and we were back in the Crown and Crossed Swords for another couple of jars before a deserved, uninterrupted sleep.

Coast to Coast, Day One, 15th May (47 Miles)

Big Signs to Little Braithwaite
The day began at an ungodly hour, me arriving at Nelmes Towers close to 6 o'clock with my bicycle already in bits in the back of the car. Within half an hour we had crammed Gary's bicycle and panniers in and were off for the long drive to Workington, Led Zeppelin and Neil Young guiding us on our way. After an extended queue on the M6 and an expensive breakfast, we arrived in Workington at about 11 o'clock and parked at the C2C start by the disused lighthouse. In true English spring tradition the weather was awful, low cloud and persistent rain reducing visibility to about 200 yards. However, following some discussion along the lines of "Well, we're here so we might as well get on with it", and buoyed by a couple of Tunnocks bars, we donned wet weather gear and assembled the bikes, loading the panniers on to the racks at the back. Thankfully, as we moved a mile or two inland the weather lifted a little, and whilst it didn't stop raining completely, the visibility improved no end.The climb out of Workington toward Seaton and Great Broughton provided the first shock of the ride. Whilst we had done some training in preparation for this adventure it had all been done in and around Oxford, and it soon became apparent that the hillocks and molehills of the Thames Valley are nothing compared to even the smallest of ascents in the Lake District. Struggling up a short but sharp one in seven a little while later did nothing if not reinforce this conclusion. Feeling slightly wary, therefore, we cycled on into Cockermouth and stopped at the first pub we could find for a hearty meat-and-three-veg lunch and a celebratory glass of beer. In spite of the hills, we were on our way.
Heading south out of Cockermouth, the C2C route follows offroad tracks to Wythop Mill, and through Wythop Woods alongside Bassenthwaite Lake before arriving in Keswick. We, however, decided to follow the B road over (gulp) the Whinlatter Pass, which I have to admit I thought would be the hardest part of the whole ride, and was quite happy we'd better getting it over and done with on the first day. The four or five miles of climbing began reasonably steeply, but once we'd found our respective rhythms the climb passed without a hitch, and before we knew it we were hurtling down the descent, including a couple of one in sevens, at eye-watering speed. About halfway down we stopped at the viewpoint for a photo opportunity out across Bassenthwaite Lake and the River Derwent. In the background Skiddaw was looming menacingly, and although the rain had virtually stopped, it's head and shoulders were wreathed in low cloud. Thankfully this was about as close as we would get to its intimidating flanks.
Continuing the descent, we passed through Braithwaite and noticed a Little Braithwaite just to the south. Obviously feeling the effects of the climb over the pass more than we thought, we decided that since it was only a Little Braithwaite, there should be big signs pointing to it, and that 'Big Signs to Little Braithwaite' would be a good name for a book whose first line would either be "A shot rang out…" or "It was a dark and stormy night…" Despite these fine openings, no further progress has been made on the novel. In any case, we cycled the last few miles into Keswick, and since we were a little pressed for time, we managed only a hasty cup of tea and a bun in a café close to the Moot Hall before heading off again.
Once again, the climb out of Keswick was a rude awakening and we struggled up the one in seven to Castlerigg stone circle, but didn't stop to look. At this point the C2C splits and you can either follow the very steep, very exposed, most definitely offroad Old Coach Road to Penrith, or basically follow the A66 via minor roads and some bits of cycle path before entering Penrith from the northwest. No prizes for guessing which option we took. This part of the ride wasn't particularly pleasant, the A66 is the main artery through this part of the Lake District and the minor roads essentially run right beside it so we could never really escape the noise and threat of the traffic. After passing through Threlkeld, the route continues on a cycle path right beside the main road, and whilst the surface is as good as the road itself, again the proximity of the traffic flashing past ensured we sped through these miles and finally turned off north east at Penruddock. From there we followed the B road to Greystoke, remarking how you are always asked to "Please drive carefully through a village", but never esoterically, simultaneously or Bruce Lee.
After some fairly undulating miles we eventually reached Penrith, and after a few circuits of the town centre found our bed and breakfast, Crosby B & B on Lowther Road. The room itself was wonderfully large and ensuite, and after a 5 minute sit down (mmm, immobility) and a cup of tea we refreshed and wandered out to see what Penrith had to offer. As with all small market towns it turned out not to be much. We had a look at the central square with its clock tower, and then avoiding the local spotty youths managed to find a small Italian restaurant where we stocked up on carbohydrates and fizzy mediterranean beer. From there we moved on to one of the local watering holes for another jar or two, managing to catch the last 15 minutes of the Champions League Final, before heading back to the B & B with a full belly for a good nights rest.

The English Coast to Coast Cycle Route (C2C)

The coast-to-coast (C2C) route from Workington/Whitehaven in the west to Sunderland/Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the east is Sustrans premier cycle route. The approximately 130 mile route wends its way from the Irish Sea through Cockermouth, Keswick and Penrith in the Lake District, over the Pennines to Consett and County Durham, before arriving at the North Sea. Conservative opinion suggests that the route can be comfortably ridden in three or four days, or two for themore adventurous and physically fit. Despite my lack of physical fitness, Gary and I decided we would attempt to do it in two days, starting at approximately midday from Workington and finishing in Sunderland Marina at midday two days later. Admittedly we were slightly bending the definition of 'two days', given that we would have two nights sleep rather than one, but the fact it would take us four or five hours to get from Oxford to Workington in the first place meant it had a pleasing kind of symmetry.

It's probably important to note at this point that whilst Sustrans have a route map for the C2C based on Ordnance Survey maps, with appropriate signs along the way, we were in fact going to use the four OS maps that covered the route. With hindsight I'm particularly glad we did, for two reasons. Firstly, as became apparent during the Lon Las Cymru trip, a lot of detail, particularly concerning the route profile, are lost on the Sustrans maps. And secondly, Gary and I both have road bikes which are quite useless for some of the offroad parts of the route, which are Sustrans speciality. Having the OS maps allowed us to quickly find an onroad alternative. In addition we took with us a copy of The Ultimate C2C Guide by Richard Peace, also available from Sustrans, which contains schematic diagrams of the route, and has information on places to stay and attractions along the way, and tips on what to bring.

This chappie on the other hand seems to have done the whole thing in 17 hours. Manleeee or what... http://www.sprayfly.com/category/mountain-biking/c2c/