How the heck did we get here??

June 17, 2024

LEJOG Day eight: Grasmere to Carlisle

Today was a different pace: a rest day, in essence, with just under 40 miles of cycling scheduled. I set the alarm just in time for late breakfast at 0830, and of course this meant that I awoke at six. So I had a relaxing bath, did some stretching, and sauntered down the stairs at 0815 for eggs royale and yoghurty things with chia seeds.

With fewer miles in prospect, I figured I could reasonably forego the full English for a more luxury option. It was after all a slightly posh hotel. Look, abstract swirls of sauce, scattered green bits and everything.

Raven had a quick service - cleaned and oiled - and at nine o'clock I headed out solo for a brief constitutional around the pretty village of Grasmere. We wouldn't need to be on the road until about 11.

What I quickly discovered, which is probably apparent to anyone who's been here before, is that all these lakes don't fill themselves. Venturing about 300 yards from the hotel, around the village's main square, the day's top-up promptly fell from the sky. In one go, pretty much. I dashed back to the hotel where I spent the next half hour waving a hairdryer at all of my newly-soaked clothing. Everything was wet through, apart from (ironically) my hair, which is best described as sparse, and can be towel-dried in about 10 seconds. This wasn't quite the start I'd anticipated!

View from my balcony, ten minutes after I'd got back, soaked. 'Changeable' seems like an inadequate descriptor in the circumstances. I'd have enjoyed the view for a while longer, but I had clothes to hairdry.

So, as we launch into part two of the tour, our halfway health check.

Me: legs aching a bit, but undefeated by the hills, and ready for more. (I do think day eleven might spoil this record though). Rear end fine, despite the concerns of multiple friends about whether any sane person should really spend two weeks on a racing saddle. Back, knees and shoulders all good. My left hand is probably the most problematic thing: the pressure and constant vibration from long training runs has affected the flexibility of my little finger, which was unexpected but can apparently happen. I'm managing this now with regular changes of hand position, and gel gloves, and it's getting neither worse nor better. I've also had to get some lip salve, although shockingly (or maybe not) there's been no real need for sunblock during our extended summer trip. In brief summary, I think my 52 year old body is coping ok.

Raven: touch wood, splendid so far. Her cogs and chain had been cleaned and re-oiled once already, and she's had more lube today. I've topped tyre pressures up, and expect to do so again before we're done, probably on day ten in Perth. Yesterday, she developed a regular and loud click, and I almost immediately located a sharp stone embedded right in the centre of the front tyre. I extricated it gingerly with a sense of impending doom, but it came out with no lasting damage (phew). So far - dare I say it? - zero punctures. Continental Gatorskin tyres seem to have been a good choice. Of course, if the stone thing had ended differently, I'd have said they were rubbish.

Kit: oddly, and despite carrying so little, I've probably got too much. I've not needed a change of cycling clothes, having washed and dried stuff every night. My Rohan casual day clothing (one outfit) has been awesome: doesn't crease, and dries brilliantly. Whether it hits the right fashion note is more debatable. There are items of kit I've not used, like my powerbank or sunglasses, but I count them as contingencies and anyway, they're small. My bike luggage has been great (ortlieb/ topeak) and has held the wet weather totally at bay. The only thing that really needs attention now is my cycling shoes, which hadn't seen massive use, but are actually 20 years old. Unsurprisingly, the material is starting to split in places now. I fully anticipate some shopping when I get home.

Most of today's ride was through the Lake District, which was continuing to live up to spectacular billing. Today's blog is, I'm afraid, going to be a succession of images, peppered with the usual oblique and frequently irrelevant thought bubbles.

The ride was very much about the scenery, and our route took us along us a succession of quiet yet smooth tracks, deserted roads, and incredible vistas. I was making slower progress than planned, partly because there were gates to open and close, and partly because I kept stopping for photos.

I'm not going to caption all of these images. Sometimes, silent contemplation seems more appropriate. This was our cyclepath. Just for us.

Some paths, we had to share. This section was also on the coast-to-coast walking route, and I think the sheep were fairly used to encountering middle-aged folk in technical fabrics.

I'd planned a coffee stop in a small village at the end of the national park; a post office with an adjacent roadside bench. But at around the 20 mile point our track ran along the rear of an unlikely tearoom, which was essentially a house adjacent to the cycle path, occupied by a lovely lady with an eye for business opportunity. She'd arranged tables in her back garden, created a miniature marketplace of souvenir jams and plants, and chalked up a large and compelling menu of home-made cakes. I resisted: but then the sausage bap got me.

I'm sure it would have been a lovely post office bench. But it's a life skill knowing when to twist, and when to stick. Who wouldn't stick with a view like this? - our new cafe of choice.

I think it was at this point that the sheer emotional incredibleness of things just kind of caught me unawares, and floored me. We were 20 miles in, and this meant that we'd hit five hundred miles for the tour. Five Hundred. I know it's nothing for some people, but for a new-born bike and the rank amateur pedallist accompanying her, it felt just a bit overwhelming. And when we pulled into Carlisle an hour or so later, I was still feeling just the same. I know this is all what I planned, but it's actually becoming real. This is the last city in England. We're eight miles from the border, and we've covered a country.

How the hell did that happen?

With almost perfect timing, we wheeled into the hotel lobby at 1405, five minutes after check in time. Raven is stabled in a spare ladies' room, which feels appropriate, and will allow her to powder her nose. I headed up to my small bedroom and within half an hour was out exploring, laundry done and devices charging.

Carlisle felt glorious. Partly, I think, because I finally had some sun (and the contingency sunglasses came out: yay!). Partly because I still felt that out-of-body sense of wonder. And partly because - let's not underestimate things - this is indeed a lovely place. Cathedral, cloisters, art gallery, citadel, castle. Our country lost so much incredible architecture in world wars. But the bombers didn't get this far.

The Norman cathedral, named apparently after a race of people who defined the era, rather than the head builder.

The cloisters, all contained within their own miniature city wall.

Art gallery: closed temporarily for extensive redevelopment, but it appeared that the staff had been redeployed en masse to gardening duties. Wish mine looked this good.

The castle. Proximity to Scotland meant that the city had a history of disputed ownership.

The citadel. Because all high streets should end with one of these. Far more stylish than a Tesco Express.

The day ended with a trip to the hotel jacuzzi, where my legs were pounded with violent bubbles for as long as I could stand. And then I went down for pizza, to get some carbs in. Tomorrow's going to be the longest ride of the tour, and I need to be ready. By Tuesday evening, we should be 85 miles up the road in Larkhall. Which is Scotland.

Just don't ask me how that happened.

It would have been shorter, but there was a road closure just outside Carlisle. Full details at https://ridewithgps.com/trips/191623948

Today's ride: 40 miles (64 km)
Total: 520 miles (837 km)

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