The Big Picture | Helvellyn – Gripped by Summit Fever

Let’s face it, a 3AM start is always brutal. No amount of caffeine can punch though that bleary eyed, dull witted feeling as your body tries desperately to convince your brain that despite it being dark outside, it’s business time. Resisting the overwhelming desire to hit the ‘sod it’ button on the alarm clock, we crawled out of bed and fired up some industrial strength coffee. It would be a three hour drive to Helvellyn from our home in the knuckle end of the UK, it felt pretty mad to be driving south for good riding; but it was a place we had never been, and we were amped up on images we had seen on-line.

The bikes were packed; the dog looked delighted with his head out of the window and we were making good progress, the roads were empty except for the other assorted weirdoes driving around in the wee small hours. As we crossed into the Lake District the big motorway gave way to a dual-carriage way, then a B-road, and finally to an almost single-track lane. As the van toiled up a seemingly endless hill, pausing frequently to beep at blank faced sheep who really did not give a shit, we caught sight of the road name, ‘The Struggle’, you had to laugh.

We pulled into the car park and started to make sense of the jumble of things that had seemed essential at 3AM. Today’s target was going to be to summit the formidable massif of Helvellyn, the third largest peak in the Lake District, standing at 3,118 feet. From the top; the knife edge ridge of Striding Edge cuts imposingly to the sky, a siren call to ridgewalkers for generations, keen to test their nerve on the sharp rock. Striding edge has a fearsome reputation amongst walkers, there are more accidents on Helvellyn than on any other mountain in the Lake District. We had no plans to ride Striding Edge, that would be a job for Danny Macaskill, and also it was January and snow still lay on the peaks, a daft plan for sure, but we had the right kit and were keen to have a crack at the summit.

The Lake District is England’s jewel; the mountain trump card it plays when Wales or Scotland gets cocky. From up high it looks as if a mighty giant has swept up the Highlands of Scotland into an armful, and sprinkled on a collection of amazing walkers pubs. These are proper pubs, the kind of place where the stone hallway is always full of wellies, spaniels dry by the roaring fire; and the place is full of Helly Hensen branded, rosy faced adventurers high on fresh air and guest ales.

The Lake District is a victim of it’s own success, being so popular with the outdoor bods some compromises have had to be made. Living in Scotland, where you can basically ride wherever you want as long as you do not ride over someone’s carpet, we had to allow for different access laws down here. For years the passionate local riders had been battling for access to classic routes, bikes are confined to bridleways and any deviation onto a footpath result’s in a verbal lashing from one of the army of stick wielding, red socked ramblers that tirelessly roam the heather; perpetually looking for a fight.

We had our route, and in the cold morning air we were making good progress As we climbed an occasional break in the cloud would reveal glimpses of the summit, igniting that usual thought that proceeds any proper mountain mission, ”feck that”. The bulk of Helvellyn looked impossibly far away; but experience has shown that big mountains need to be nibbled away at, and soon enough you will be standing on the top. I did have some nagging doubts when I saw the amount of snow though.

As we climbed onto Sticks Pass, we passed many old lead mines, and through an area that took four years to clear after 110,000 tonnes of debris had let go from the mountainside when a vein collapsed in 1862. We also passed a number of bewildered walkers; one, who was carrying skis walked over and as I prepared for the ‘the sermon’, he delightedly shouted, “Holy shit! Look at the size of that cassette”, obviously he had never seen SRAMs XX1 42 toother. He was an old school biker and we chatted for a while about 1×11 while I prayed he would not ask how much the cassette cost; with a big handshake he wished us on our way and we carried on up the hill, now under the pressure of walkers heading up behind.

Sticks Pass was awesome and mostly ridable, we worked for a few hours in the snow, passing from plateau to plateau with amazing views of the lakes, but the going was getting difficult. As we broke onto the summit ridge we knew we were only 200m or so from the summit (vertical); but there were big ice sheets everywhere, causing us to shoulder the bikes. As we negotiated our third big sheet, gingerly kicking steps into the hard surface, I looked to the summit which was tantalizingly close. The group was getting cold and it was time to make the hardest decision you can make in the mountains! No, not who to eat first, but whether to turn round. Gripped by summit fever it is always tough to turn back; but as I considered whether it would be best to press on or go back, I looked down to see the dog slowly slide by, standing stock still he gently rotated as he slid down the ice, a look of slight confusion and great delight on his face, enough was enough!

We turned our backs on the summit, slammed the seat posts, tightened rucksack straps and prepared to take on Sticks Pass. Having already ridden up, we knew what was coming and it was going to be rad. For the next 30 minutes we had the time of our lives, high speed fun on the open mountain side. We could see for miles and could see that the trail was clear, hitting the snow full gas we cut some sweet drifts through the turns. A cheeky snowy rut resulted in an instant ‘out the front’ door moment to amuse the miserable sheep. The lower sections were super rocky and rough, but the big 160mm bikes cruised over it with ease, hats off to the old guard doing this ride on fully rigid bikes.

We arrived back at the car with brake pads boiled and massive grins, we still had plenty of daylight left for a quick lap of Walna Scar, an old favorite of mine. After a great day of biking we found a pub that was still serving Christmas dinner (in the middle of January) and made a toast to ‘the one that got away’.

Words & Photos: Trev Worsey