Flats hills old coach road and now then vicar tries a new title.

So my friends you find me contemplating a pint of magners a fine italian and even some food. Tired after a day in the saddle we can reflect on a day which jokingly can be described as full of incident. 3 punctures two to the same shortlegged bike two falls one in a ford and one in the very last yard. A mangled chain that only runs on the 2nd ring samaritan calls and splits in the peleton all over the place!

To begin we gathered after split rotation full english and an age of final tinkering. We dived to the sea and joined the multitudes at the start took our ticket and in good order pushed in and asked lesley to record our leer and dip of the wheel. At 9.13 with much fanfare and trumpet call including from the rather portly chap riding for cancer research to get the beer in we rode. Shooting out of whitehaven at a speed way beyond our training rides we gathered a lycra group of ladies who were lost after 100yards and to prove how fit i wasnt i sprinted 3 yards to garner a photo forthe blog. Having continued at a rare old lick on good roads,I slowly worked my way back through the field after an age of meandering behind fat bottomed g

irls. To amuse us Shortlegs threw his water out of the pram. We flew through the forestry and began to meet the hills before a fantanstic descent. Shortlegs decided a haribo break was in order so arranged a puncture which was quickly sorted by laughing gas and thumbs of thunder. We now began to climb in earnest and ground our way upwards towards Whinlatter all except GB and Lance who swapped hair remedies whilst whistling at the front.

Lunch was served as we struck the cafe, watched the siskins swallows and osprey, and restocked from our erstwhile support. On we drove as we flew through the forest to the road and some towards keswick others for some reason cockermouth. Mistakes were remedied but not noted and shortlegs decided he now had loose bits where he shouldnt. We piled through keswick and began the treck to the stone circle and a date with the hell that is the old coach road. Having of course recalled the troops from the ease of the board walk route as they left the lantern rouge once again. Up we climbed walked pushed screamed swore as this world war 2 bombsite unfolded crossing the moors. In desperation bikes dissolved captain c's eating his chain and mr motivator and shortlegs needing those magic thumbs again. As the chill struck the elite riders had already made contact with support and met jacob the cat. The rest of us plodded gamely on and enjoyed the tricky fording of the stream where gb had fallen two hours earlier. With the days target honing into view we climbed for one final time before speeding through greystoke without stopping for tea with the apes.

As we rode we came to the aid of a bunch of ladies one of whom had left her bike in a very involuntary manner. The 3 elite athletes were at the b and b by then so paramedic help could not be given. Eventually we arrived at our destination only for captain c to lay on the ground having fallen from his steed with a whole yard to go. 58 ish miles of hard riding finished with a smile and a fab greeting from the landlady. tomorrow we meet the hills.

Racing