Lake District Cycling — Of Course it Rained
What is waterproof up to 2000mm rain, anyway?
“It’s not that expensive to hire an ebike”. My partner had a cycle hire website open on his iPad, “it might be worth you hiring one when we are in the lakes”. An accomplished cyclist capable of long hilly bike rides, he appeared to be having doubts about whether my dodgy knees and I would be able to ascend the cycling routes we had planned for an upcoming short break amongst the mountains of the Lake District. “You might be able to ride further” he gently suggested.
He had a fair point. Although I had built up my strength and stamina, it was largely on the ex-railway lines of Derbyshire and the Peak District that now make up the walking and cycling trail network. There are hills, my local stomping ground isn’t known as the Derbyshire Dales and Peak District due its flat rolling plains, but its peaks don’t quite reach the heights of those that surround the lakes of Cumbria.
But I was resistant. Isn’t an ebike cheating? I mulled it over and had a few sneaky looks at the bike hire website over a few days. I conceded that, it wasn’t a bad idea to try an ebike. A cycling break wouldn’t be much fun if, halfway up a steep ascent I had to abandon in a sweary fit of frustration due to fatigue and lightning strike knee pain. Decision made; I booked the smallest available ebike. Had I bothered to study the contours of our intended cycle route — Grizedale Forest — on an OS map, then I wouldn’t have hesitated. In my mind I had assumed a forest track would be on a flatter plain of the Lake district, similar to Sherwood Pines Forest in Nottinghamshire; fairly flat, hilly on places. I was wrong. It wasn’t, at all.
We arrived in the Lake District after what felt like a lengthy journey; three toilet stops, obligatory coffee and an overpriced salad at motorway services. Manchester was stereotypically drizzly and grey, but as we reached the Lakes blue skies and candy floss clouds appeared serendipitously as “little fluffy clouds” by The Orb beamed out of the car speakers.
Our accommodation was a hostel on the outskirts of Hawkshead, but as it was a little too early to check in we went straight through to the centre of the picturesque village; dotted with white-rendered stone cottages adorned with flower baskets blooming with all the shades of spring. A steady stream of visitors wandered and cycled through the little streets. Hawkshead is home to some excellent independent shops and eateries, including an outdoor shop from which I bought some much needed summer-weight waterproof hiking trousers that had just enough stretch to be useful cycling trousers too.
Our room at the hostel was basic, but all that we needed, beds, sink, access to shared bathroom, kitchen and lounge. Our room and amenities were based in a courtyard annexe. The main hostel building, a Georgian mansion of slightly faded grandeur was largely taken over by teenagers on school trip. The staff team advised that we took breakfast after 8, after the chaos of the school trip’s morning routine. Breakfast booked, we cooked an evening meal in the communal kitchen and settled into deep sofas in the shared lounge for a game of scrabble and to plan the following days itinerary; a circuit of Grizedale Forest then a short ride over to Windermere village. The weather forecast was for patches of light to moderate rain. Waterproofs would be needed.
Dark metallic green with sprung, aesthetically pleasing tan-brown seat, the Scott Aspect Eride mountain bike was a thing of beauty and quality, but about a frame size too big for me. I really could have done with an extra small, but the only options were small, medium and large. I adjusted the leather-look seat to its lowest point and tentatively pedalled into the nearby car park. I rode a few figures of eight, round and round trying to get a feel for the bike. It felt heavy and burdensome without the power assist activated, lighter when on the lowest assist setting. I didn’t try the ‘turbo’ option for fear of shooting forward into the bumper of a parked gleaming black Land Rover; I didn’t want to test if the hire fee included insurance against damage caused to a car whilst trying to gauge power levels of the control. After a few less than graceful turns I felt confident enough to cycle the quiet roads in the direction of Grizedale forest. Up an almighty hill, accompanied by the predicted light rain.
I tweaked the ebike assist setting from cruise to mountain bike level and the hill instantly became more manageable, like a moderate hill in Derbyshire. I was able to keep pace with my partner who had quickly settled into the ascent. Cars passed wide and slow, sheep in the surrounding fields paused their grass chewing to watch us wheel by and the clouds lowered as we cycled higher to the entrance of the forest track. I hopped off the ebike. No knee pain, but my legs felt that they had been working.
“What if the battery runs out? It’ll be too heavy to cycle or push it back.” I panicked. “It won’t” my partner replied, used to my mini mid-ride panics “it will work all day, and probably tomorrow”. What if rainwater gets in the battery” my imagination doom scrolled. “It won’t” he replied flatly. We mounted the bikes and set off following the hard, but not hardest colour-coded route which wasn’t that easy to follow but we guessed that all of them would eventually end up at the entrance again, preferably via the café and visitors centre which we had read was near the lakeside.
The well-maintained track was hard grey grit that on a dry day would be dusty. I looked up into the swaying canopy of fir and pine trees, the verdant hues lightened the greying skies. The gently rolling plateaux of the forest belied the descent which was to come. Breaks in the treeline would, on a clear day have given breath-taking views across the Lakeland fells, but as our wheels turned the rain grew heavier and low dense mist hung in the air obscuring the view. But the downpour of water played music on the leaves and pattered on the forest floor. The exhilaration of fresh air and exercise distracted from the wet, and as the track opened up to steep mountain-stage descent my partner spun ahead and free-wheeled down, down and down the hill. Less confident in my balance, I braked gently downhill from top to bottom through the curtain of rain, and to the cafe.
With cyclists’ favourite, coffee and cake in hand we squelched across the café floor and took a table in the widow. I delicately hung my saturated jacket on the back of the chair and spread out a serviette on the seat in vain hope of keeping mud and water from it. Outside, the Lake District was sending us her best inclement weather. I was so very grateful to have hired the ebike that was now sat forlornly on a bike rack. Getting back up that hill, which to me was a teeny-turning mini Alpe D’Huez would have been miserably slow on my beloved regular mountain bike I named Daphne.
Refuelled on caffeine and millionaires’ shortbread, slowly we began an arduous ascent, retracing our path back to the plateau and access road. My partner led the way, I set the assist to high but not the highest level and caught up with him, matching pace and with no time gap. The difference the ebike made was significant. I still felt like I was getting some exercise, but without the joint pain that often mars my rides, and without the additional energy that my unstable hyper-mobile joints require. Feeling more at ease on the bike, I switched to the highest assist level, turbo mode. Wow!
Pushing down hard on the pedals, I sailed by my partner, yelling “later loser!” in childish glee. Up and over each incline, round each bend, passing cyclist on ‘real’ bikes, feeling a little like a cheat but enjoying every delicious moment. Grinning from ear to ear, I paused occasionally, for my partner to catch up. He was slower, steadier but still not raised out of his seat. How does he manage that?
I had never felt like this before when cycling uphill. Usually I must dig in, grit my teeth and grip the handlebars far harder than I probably need to, that tight hold somehow making the ascent feel easier. No, not feel easier, feel less demanding. I swear a lot. I must stop, dismount and release the pressure on my knees. Growl as that first uphill push after a pause feels like pushing a boulder uphill with my toes. Then at the summit, elation, a flood of endorphins for beating the beautiful beast of a hill. Would I still feel that rush, at the top of this hill?
I summitted a few minutes before my partner. I dismounted, stretched my limbs and laughed. Still elated. I felt fatigue, had elevated breath but not aching joints. Rain drummed rhythmically on my cycling helmet and streaked down my glasses. I felt like I could cycle the route all over again. Excited by the prospect of cycling longer and further than I could usually manage, we decided to cycle onwards to the village of Windermere and catch the ferry crossing to Bowness-on-Windermere.
Through lashing rain, we coasted back down the road towards Hawkshead. The grazing sheep we had encountered on the way up had planted themselves firmly against curving drystone walls vainly hoping for some shelter, the fluffy lambs pressed into the warm bellies of their mothers. Water spray from passing cars splashed over my trainers, and I realised that my feet were soggy.
The downpour from the hills pooled on the flatter road surfaces between Hawkshead and Windermere. The raindrops sounded louder outside of the woodland of the Grizedale forest. Over my shoulder, the noise of approaching traffic unnerved me, the echo of the rain distorting the distance between me and the vehicles. With considerate road etiquette an old van overtook slow and wide, but still startled me when the driver rightly sounding the car horn to alert me to their presence. A puddle I had to cross now seemed vast and for all I knew, was disguising a pothole ready to jolt me off my bike. The rain smearing my glasses didn’t feel like a problem riding through off-road woodland tracks. On the road, it was a hindrance, obscuring my view of cars and junctions.
Hitting the brakes at a safe stopping point, I slowed to stop. I made a fist with my hand, and like water from a jug, rain poured out of my cycling gloves. I was saturated, and starting to feel a chill creeping in. “Can we stop? I don’t feel safe.”
In the dry warmth of the hostel we both realised we were utterly drenched. The happiness of cycling through the stunning landscape of the Lake District and breezing gleefully up that beast of a descent had distracted us from the creeping chill of Cumbria’s finest inclement weather. As I peeled off my sodden cycling gear, the sensation of numbness spread through my hands and my fingernails grew blue as an episode of Raynaud’s phenomenon announced its return. I shook and flexed my fingers to bring circulation back to them, then lugged wet clothing to the hostel drying room. The following morning, some fifteen hours later, it would still be wet, as if it had just been taken out of a washing machine.
I was frustrated. I had felt the elation of gliding up hills, and being fresh legged enough to cycle further, longer, explored more, but been bested by the weather. I was annoyed that my new cycling trousers hadn’t stood up to the challenge. But I conceded that I didn’t actually know what waterproof up to 2000mm meant. It sounded technically impressive but meant little to me. A more descriptive rating would have been better; up to a light drizzle in Sheffield, up to a Peak District downpour and then what I had really needed; up to a Lake District deluge. And mini windscreen-wipers for my glasses.
I resolved to let go of the frustration and firmly hug the joy of breezing up, over, round and through the stunning mountainous geology of the Lake District aided by a super-nice ebike.
Warmed and dried, we thumbed through a hiking booklet we had found, wondering if we would have the time to ‘bag a Wainwright’* before driving home to the slightly flatter landscape of Derbyshire the next day. We probably would; Helm Cragg, a 405 metre fell on the edge of Grasmere Lake and village, allow 2 hours. According to my BBC weather App, the skies would be a mix of light cloud and sunshine so the saturated waterproofs shouldn’t be needed. However, this is the Lake District, actually; this is the UK. Always expect the rain.
*Walking the 214 peaks and fells documented and popularised by Alfred Wainwright.
Words and photos by Laura Rowan
