The 4 Peaks Challenge - Aug 2015

The 4 Peaks Challenge

June 2015

Following the success of last year’s senior manager challenge, a 50km walk along the Thames, the Compliance Director decided to up the ante for 2015 and sent out an email suggesting doing The Four Peaks Challenge.

I quickly googled it to discover it comprises climbing the 4 highest peaks in the UK over a weekend. There was a rider that to do the Northern Ireland one would necessitate a private flight from the mainland if we wanted to complete it within 48 hours. Blimey, I thought, that would up the budget. However, in the office, he explained it would be the 4 highest in England, all conveniently situated in the Lake District. These are Scafell, Scafell Pike, Helvellyn and Skiddaw.

Five of us signed up. We chose a suitable weekend, booked a B&B, bought train tickets, sorted out a guide and then some started to train. One of us was an experienced trekker – he’d just come back from three weeks trekking Aconcagua Peak, over 7000m high in the Andes. Another regularly walked decent distances in Surrey. The other two walked to the station and back and that’s it. As for me – I run, cycle and play football every week so I decided my fitness was OK, and my preparation was simply buying a pair of walking boots and trousers.

And then there were 4.

A week before departure disaster struck one guy, when one of his knees gave up. There was no way he could walk, let alone trek, in the Lake District. 

Looking Up

Late one Friday the remaining 4 arrived in Keswick, in the heart of the Lake District. We found the B&B, and headed off to dinner. At which point we discovered that all the popular restaurants were booked solid. The only place that would serve 4 at short notice was a Mexican that promised live music later on. Dinner was had, beers were drunk, and I wanted to hear the band. Layth, the proper trekker, also fancied it but the other two decided to retire.

On came the band, and opened with an amazing version of Son of a Preacher Man. All thoughts of an early night were banished, so plenty more beers were ordered and we stayed to the bitter end – superb.

Saturday morning, and a full English later, we met our guide. Off we went in his van to Scafell, and set off to start the challenge. Pictures tell a 1000 stories, so rather than describe the walk here are some pictures.

Looking down

During the afternoon I started to think about clouds. I’m no student of English poets, but from memory Wordsworth came from the Lake District. One of his most famous lines* is “I wandered lonely as a cloud” and I kept thinking “what? Clouds aren’t lonely. Every time you see one, you see loads of them.” I mean, seriously, the weather in the Lake District is very changeable – blue sky one moment, dotted clouds the next, rain around the corner. But lonely, single clouds? No.

Anyway, the two Scafell peaks were scaled and we got back to the van around 13 hours after we’d set off. There were some complaints of stiff joints, and Ankur, the only girl with us, talked of tiredness, but was otherwise fine. I will confess that at that stage it hadn’t felt much like a challenge – it was a lovely walk in the sunshine punctuated by picnics in some beautiful countryside. The scrambling on the various screes could not be described as too difficult.

Post dinner (pre-booked Italian) I was keen to go to a pub I’d noticed the night before saying ‘live band Saturday night’, and Layth was happy to join me. The other two retired to the B&B. I should stress that what with pre-dinner drinks and the many bottles of wine during the meal that both Layth and I were ‘on the grin’ when we walked into the pub, which explains what happened next. It was like walking into the TV show League of Gentlemen. Everyone stared at us. Everyone looked a little ‘wrong’. The band was a husband and wife in their 60’s – she was typical gypsy mother, dyed blonde, gold chunky jewellery everywhere, hair pulled back, clothes that were inappropriate for her figure and age and could only just hold a note. He was significantly overweight, black t-shirt, and a guitar. I wasn’t sure he was playing it, because she was basically singing to a karaoke track.

First song we heard was, I think, Free’s All Right Now. Because we were under the influence, we thought – let’s go with it. Everyone is singing along with abandon, so why don’t we? There was much music, much dancing, much singing, much drinking. While I was on the dance floor I saw Layth take pictures as proof of this bizarre event. We staggered out of the pub at 1am when they closed. I could have stayed…

And then there were three.

Sunday morning and the organiser’s knee wouldn’t let him get down the stairs at the B&B. He would not be able to attack the next two peaks**. So just the three of us set off, and today we had rain. And cloud. Again, here are pictures and not words. Though I’ll add that in a perverse way I started to enjoy it more as it felt more of a challenge. This felt like a proper effort.

At the top of Helvellyn I got out two miniature whiskies I’d brought along as a celebratory tot. Earlier Layth had stated that he wasn’t a whiskey drinker but, at the peak, he became a wiser man and joined me. We couldn't hang about as it was now early afternoon and we had to get a crack on if we were going to make the last peak and get back before our trains on Sunday evening. 

And then there were two (this is Agatha Christie stuff!)

Ankur had found the morning slow going, and had got very wet so was having a bit of a miserable time. Back at the car she announced that she couldn’t face the fourth peak. So on the way to Skiddaw she was dropped at the B&B while Layth and I continued with the challenge. This one was dull. There is a well maintained path nearly all the way to the top, so it was simply a long walk up, followed by a long walk down. The guide and Layth had been deep in conversation about the meaning of climbing, and the why’s etc, and both agreed that climbing and trekking should be about a purpose, or a view, and not just ‘because it’s a number on a list’. The guide had a particular hatred of Skiddaw as the mountain itself is barren. I just looked at them and asked “so why are we doing this one, as the only reason is it is number 4?”!

At the bottom the guide suddenly turned back to the peak, stuck his middle finger in the air and shouted “F*** you, you piece of s***” at the mountain. Sadly he hadn’t noticed the fell runner that had been catching us, and we were concerned the runner thought the shout was for him. Apologies were made, and we quietly got back into the van to take us back to the warmth of the B&B.

So the annual Senior Manager Challenge was Done.

There remained only one thing left to do. I said to Layth “what goes on tour, stays on tour”. He understood immediately.

Out came his phone and he deleted Saturday night’s pictures.

*Actually, it’s the only line I know. I don’t even know what follows it.

** As he’s a guy that hates unfinished business, he returned a few months later to climb them.

Eroica Britannia - Jun 2015

Eroica Britannia June 2015

http://eroicabritannia.co.uk/

Eroica. The Italian for heroic. The name given to a cycling event that started over 20 years ago as a few mates cycling around the old roads in the heart of Tuscany on vintage steel bikes, and now attracts over 5,000 riders from across the globe to do the same. It is not a race, more a celebration of cycling, and Tuscany culture. For that reason energy gels and power bars are not present at food stops along the route. Wine, hams, fruit, cakes, breads and olive oil are.

A few years ago four friends from the UK were taking part and on the last night, in a bar, looked at each other and said “This is good”. Another responded, no doubt fuelled by the Chianti, “we should have one in the UK. We’re from the Peak district, we have great roads, the UK is turning to cycling”. And so yet another gem of an idea was born.

Luckily these guys were all businessmen, and so what could have been a typical mates late night boozy chat ended up being executed, and in 2014 the first Eroica UK was run. On exactly the same lines as the Tuscany one. So naturally I had to compare. Stephen and I signed up, and we were good to go. We were a little slow off the mark in entering, and couldn’t find a decent B&B anywhere near Bakewell, the heart of the event. So I proposed we camp.

Stephen was very dubious. He’s not a camper. Even my pointing out the tent was a luxury 4 man one, with blow up mattresses and, more crucially, a few yards from the festival beer tent was not pacifying him. Still, after a few beers I was sure he’d be OK.

Following the Italian Eroica where I’d ridden my dad’s old Raleigh I’d decided to properly refurbish it for this event. While there weren’t going to be inspectors every few bikes, the care and love that riders had put into having their steeds look magnificent had put my ‘wipe it down, put some oil on the chain’ effort to shame.

So after some new bits and elbow grease (mainly from Vincini Cycles, Upminster it has to be said) the old Raleigh looked almost showroom new and I was heartened to hear Stephen had sorted his old Ribble out too after his Italian escapade. This had all the makings of another glorious weekend, involving a beer, wine, bikes and food.

Then a couple of days before going Stephen crashed his bike, breaking his foot. Walking, let alone cycling, was out. Now, while I don’t mind solitude, driving up to the Peak district, riding around alone, then returning without a partner in crime didn’t really appeal.

Luckily, though, I also own a Guv’nor bike, and I knew there were going to be a lot of riders there with the same bike, riding together. So a quick email off to the owners club confirmed that they are not an exclusive group, told me a meeting time and place (by the beer tent no less!) and I was happy.

My next issue to solve quickly was that one cannot ride a 1930’s style path racer wearing lycra, even of the 1970’s vintage. So a quick purchase of some plus4s, appropriate shoes and I was finally ready.

Saturday was a blur. Drove up, sorted the tent, registered, got changed, explored the festival grounds and met the guys at the appointed place. If you like village festivals with stalls selling ‘the best of British’, along with various cycling related bits and pieces, and hearty food, and the most bizarre Hendricks Gin bar, and fun fairs, and dressing up competitions, old fashioned games, and beer tents, and humour, and music then Eroica in Bakewell is for you. If you don’t, well, I guess you won’t be reading this.

Sunday morning came too quickly. I roused, got on my bike, and pedalled off to the start, and met up with the guys ready to cycle 55 miles around the Peak District. Getting back to clothes – most of them were wearing the Guvnors Assembly woollen cycling top, which I must admit looked good. I, however, in my plus 4s and tweed waistcoat, looked different. So I was called Captain Poldark for the duration of the ride. Now whilst I’d like to take that as a compliment it was more likely due to the alcohol intake caused the guys to forget my name. No matter, it could have been worse.

The ride was superb. Mixture of paths and roads, flat and steep. Part of the route followed the Monsal trail, an old railway line that had been converted to a footpath. The food stops were predictably excellent. OK, no Chianti, but there was beer, specially brewed for the event. Of course Bakewell tarts were in abundance.

The ride was also leisurely. The Guv’nor itself does not lend itself to blasting around the countryside, and the group ‘never leaves anyone behind’ whether due to punctures (only a couple suffered) or tiredness (more than a couple suffered).

Chatting to one of the Guv’nors it turned out he’d come from Zurich to take part. Not for him the comfort of a flight, or train. No, he’d jumped on his bike a week earlier, pointed it North by North West and pedalled. A lot. He only had one problem during the ride up. Not owning a mobile he was reliant on payphones to report back home, and they are few and far between these days. And yes, he was pedalling back to Switzerland.

The final feast stop was in the grounds of Chatsworth House. Oh my! The good people of Rapha were on hand to supply us with a glass of champagne, which we downed with some local ice cream and, of course, more Bakewell tarts. As I said, not an energy gel in sight.

And thence back to the festival grounds, to have the obligatory photo, the post ride refreshment (tea and cakes) and relaxation. All too soon the tent was packed up, the bike loaded on the car, and I was back on the motorway.

So how did it compare to Eroica Tuscany? In terms of atmosphere, the ride, the friendliness, the organisation, it was right up there, no question. Except for me, Tuscany is marginally more beautiful than the Peak District and I prefer Chianti to beer so for those reasons Eroica Tuscany wins. Just.

You remember the 4 guys I mentioned at the top of this blog? Well, there was also a small group of Spaniards taking part, who also got talking in a bar. And they too have set up the same event, this time in the heart of Rioja.

And that gives me a thought……..