James Penson, John Penson and Graham Booth - August 2021

Frog Riders

Something’s going to be unspeakably awful. You can say NO! You can walk away. But you don’t. You go ahead and do it. So, what does that make you? A masochist? An idiot? Or a romantic with optimistic leanings?

Well, if you happen to be a cyclist then you definitely take the glass half-full approach to life: wind, rain, sleet, slippery roads – and that’s just summer cycling! You ride regardless of the unruly elements; the obstructions you will encounter. And whether you’re choosing a steeper hill, a sneaky shortcut or slipping onto a quieter lane, you ride because it’s fun and challenging at the same time.

The Frog Whitton Challenge, cycling the best part of 100 miles through the Lake District’s rippled landscape; pausing every so often to swim six miles across four of its lakes, could sound like total madness. For the three of us taking on the challenge, we all had moments where we’d have wholeheartedly agreed, but they were only fleeting stabs of doubt.

At some point in my early teens I paraded the Raleigh Bike Catalogue under my uncle’s post Sunday-lunch nose. I drew his attention to the Competition model, believing his engineering background and love of all things wheeled would provide a common appreciation of something both beautiful and practical. I gushed about the Weinmann brakes, the quick release hubs and the responsive Reynolds frame. He listened to what I said and then proposed that if the expense lay in the lightweight nature of the bicycle I’d gain most from taking a big shit before going riding. Mindful of his advice, the three of us took a practical approach to our preparation and blended it with bang up-to-date scientific thinking. What we came up with was: ride more often, and further. Eat stuff that will pass through our systems quickly, but not too quickly! Try not to fall off. Oh, and a few hill reps won’t hurt!

There is no glamour to our start-point at Grasmere Car park, especially in 5:15am darkness. That soon changes as water materialises alongside. Within ropes of mist hovering over the lake we half expect Excalibur to rise through the stillness. The recollection of a 1981 Helen Mirren in some sort of fishnet costume adds a little extra something to the allure of the scene!

Apart from a recent recce, I’ve never cycled in Cumbria scared away by the snarls of tourist vehicles. A few miles into Kirkstone Pass was all it took to appreciate how much I’d been missing! As you scoot up and down (mainly up!) between farms and hamlets, crags and tarns you pass through a photographer’s wonderland.

Each building, from ramshackled quaint to elegant Georgian townhouse, appears to grow from the land rather than impose upon it. Deep-set windows and gentle sloping roofs set many apart while others, slate walled and low-doored with stout chimney stacks, jostle for space with squat stone houses. Like a crowd walking the road’s windings to a summer fair, some dwellings bunch cheek by jowl, some cluster in twos and threes while others loiter just out of reach. Standing back, up ruggedy lanes, those even more solitary stare down at passers-by.

The scenery whistles past. We have the world to ourselves, and we could almost be flying! Above us the high fells: Dollywaggon Pike, Striding Edge and Helvellyn, and beside us: The Hundreds, Troutbeck Tongue, The Red Screes, Stoney Cove Pike, and Hartsop Dodd. We pass Brother’s Water glinting invitingly in the crisp morning light and plunge down towards Ullswater and our first dip.

Our feet burn in the early morning dew beside the lake. The sun isn’t quite up, the mist ghosts across the surface and somewhere out there in the distance is our target. Striding in (I’m using the term loosely - anything from tiptoeing to lurching in reality. There are three of us after all so being specific isn’t easy!) we find the temperature like bath water. Graham goes off like a ten-year old at the school swimming gala, James takes his usual zigzag crawl approach and I set in for the long haul – nice and steady enjoying the crystal clarity of Ullswater. Later in the swim two paddleboarders, like Venetian gondoliers, drift past. I consider the beauty of the famous Italian city and then look beyond the couple up and up over the fells rising in a patchwork of greens, purples and the greys of drystone walls. And then behind me, the grandeur of the towering hills and crags. What a place to be!

The pinks and greys of pre-dawn, softened by low-lying mist, make for atmospheric swimming, but doesn’t half confuse the issue of sighting and navigating. Thankfully the sun announced itself from behind High Dodd with a great big Wa hey lads, here I am! and swiftly went to work burning off the obscuring vapours.

Moira and Steve, our support crew (more about them later) flashed us home with a torch and had everything we needed set out and ready to grab. Hot coffees, mini Cornish pasties, jelly babies, you name it and we gobbled it!

Jumping back on the bikes it felt a little more serious, like we were really into the challenge now. I could keep on describing the stunning scenery. In fact, I could go on and on and on. And on. But, I won’t. Initially a lot of our conversation centred around what we were experiencing. For most of the challenge it was even-stevens between Holy shit, this is just unbelievably ****ing beautiful!, or words to that effect, and Sodding Hell, this is steep! or a combination of words containing many more expletives! So, in the interests of my limited vocabulary you need to accept that pretty much every moment of the challenge was spent in the most gloriously beautiful landscape anyone could ever want.

Derwent Water was well awake by the time we reached it. Canoeists and kayakers, families in rental motor boats puttering along, rowing skiffs - singles and doubles - flitting across the water like giant water-boatmen and the ferry boat sending out fat, lumbering waves. We swam past a rocky outcrop where cormorants sunned themselves, one to a rock, apart from clusters of four of five juveniles who squeezed into line like grey-chested school-children before a poker-faced and spikey tempered mistress.

Nearing the end of the second swim my mind slipped into pamper mode. Not the Cornish pasties or cake or hot coffee, no, I was thinking about what I would drink at the finish: a bottle of Guinness and then a can of Brewdog, Elvis Juice. To start with! Steve and Moira had set up our transition area close to the beach and were there with the flashlight again. What a difference it makes once you have a definite objective. Each of us received a good round of applause from families on the beach, as we staggered past them. Steve and Moira must have explained what we were doing.

At the top of Honister Pass people were being strapped into harnesses ready for the cave tours and other high-level scary-shit activities run at the slate mine. Reaching the summit is one thing; getting down the other side in one piece is another! Our own bit of scariness! The road surface, as it falls away like a rollercoaster, could at best be described as textured. However, the words buckled and distorted spring to mind more easily! For a cyclist you don’t so much ride over it as bounce from one ridge to another desperately trying to maintain contact with your brakes whilst avoiding cars, motorbikes, cyclists pushing their bikes towards you and sheep. Lots of sheep! Look to the roadside and you will surely find bits of cycling paraphernalia scattered everywhere. Graham lost his front light on the recce, and didn’t even realise. Could have taken his eye out!

 For Crummock Water we pulled on new wetsuits. The issue of biosecurity is a big one. Washing swimming equipment, or even changing it completely, is essential to stop the spread of non-native species between our lakes and tarns.

 This was to be a swim of three halves! First we had steady stroking out into the lake enjoying the view of Mellbreak towering above us and knowing that today we weren’t clambering up through its heather, gorse and bilberry stubble. Then the water seemed to draw us through it. For a while we swam like Adam Peatty, fluid and powerful. But that didn’t last. Although half a mile shorter than the two previous swims this felt the longest. It took forever to spot the light and exit point as small waves began to run diagonally across our course. Thoughts of post-challenge drinks evaporated as I took onboard mouthful after mouthful of Crummock water. A squadron of Canada geese on a low-flying exercise slipped past a canoe’s length to my right. With hardly a ruffled feather between them, they didn’t give me a second glance. Might have been different if I’d actually been Adam Peatty, but they were shifting fast and had more interesting things in their sights.

Leaving the water, I teetered through a wooded dell like a drunken sprite. I arrived on a grassy bank dappled by sunlight and decorated with ‘wonderful things’: a golden sarcophagus, strange animals, statues and gold - everywhere the glint of gold. Only kidding. We had porridge pots, chocolate in multiple guises, mini-Cornish pasties (again) flapjack and many more wonderful things. Poor Graham had been fantasising about a Pot Noodle. Hot and steaming he would plunge his fork into it and swallow down those silky lifelines of carbohydrate. But it couldn’t be found and he settled for chicken soup with croutons!

James has completed Bob and Frog Grahams and is no stranger to supported activities. For Graham and I, we were blown away by the level of assistance we received from Steve and Moira. It was how I’d imagine travel on a cruise liner, without being addressed as Sir. Maybe next time! Between them they negotiated Bank Holiday weekend traffic to eight different locations (and found parking!), laid out three sets of equipment and food at each. They washed wetsuits, stowed bikes, argued with jobsworth ferry-ticket collectors, boiled water, made coffee (Is that how you take it, Sir, or would you like another sugar?) signalled to our distant bobbing bodies, heated up food and organised loads of other really important things that I can’t remember. Getting up before 5am and responding to our every need for seventeen hours comes pretty close to slavery! We owe you big-time, and literally could not have done it without you. Thank you, so much.

We took our time at this transition. Tiredness had begun to creep in, but the real reason lay towards the end of the next 51 mile cycle leg. Everything done so far, the fun, the camaraderie, the appreciation of the spectacular scenery was only ever the hors d'oeuvre. On a wet Saturday a couple of months ago we recced a big chunk of the route including most of this leg. The main course lay in the Hardknott Pass, one and a half miles of the nastiest road you’ll find anywhere, sometimes rising at a gradient over 30%, always rising over pot-holed and scab-surfaced asphalt. On that day only one of us got up it, without pushing. Today, we would approach it with five and a half miles of swimming and 80 odd bike miles in our legs. Well softened up you could say!

Sporadic and creative training will get you so far. Determination would get us over the top. At least that’s what we hoped! Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans… Halfway along Eskdale Common James’ gear cable snapped. Between us we carried tools for pretty much every eventuality. But not this one! With the chain trapped permanently on the bottom cassette cog, the best he could do was muscle it out on the undulating bits and push uphill. As the only one to actually cycle to the summit previously he was particularly disappointed not to gain even more one-upmanship over his elder brother. As it stands, I can meet total strangers who introduce themselves with, “Oh, so you’re the brother who had to push it up Hardknott!”

For Graham, this also was not to be his time. James heard him go with a clatter. Steering round potholes big enough to swallow sheep, and dodging oncoming cars at 4mph, it’s hard to keep your bike upright, and Graham couldn’t. He did get back on though and rode most of the way up.

I live in hilly country. There’s barely a blanket-sized piece of flat land in Holmfirth, so when I ride I ride hills and therefore have no excuse for not preparing properly. Leaning backwards, to take in the full magnitude of the pass, the old saying ‘forewarned is forearmed’ came to mind. Pretty good advice ordinarily I decided, wishing I could forget everything I knew about Hardknott, as I attempted to steady the sicky feeling in my stomach.

With black, oiled fingers from failed mechanics I wavered forwards clipping in just in time to stay upright. The hill rears up immediately. Breathing is instantly deep and loud. Robotically, each leg lunges - forwards and down, forwards and down… Hands grip tighter than tight; to let go is disaster. Arms are burning, legs are burning; everything is hot, too hot. The road, the patched, grit-covered, crumbling road is only a bike’s length long, but you must look further. Snatching a glance you see a hairpin. Take it wide, take it wide, you order. Again, the hill steepens. Shoulders jerk beyond the bars, your head, trying to convince you this is not possible, almost precedes the wheel. Air in, grunts and growls out, head juddering with the effort.

Forward motion is so slow you know a point will come, if it gets just a fraction steeper, where you have to climb off and admit defeat. Where the monkey on your shoulder wins! Somehow, I’d reached my previous height, a left hairpin, three quarters in. Then it got steeper. And steeper! I decided to count. It works for me: counting brushstrokes across large walls, counting footfalls over dull landscapes, counting down each push and pull while sanding long lengths of wood. Today, I couldn’t get beyond two but that didn’t matter; all I needed was one, two. One, two… By now the monkey grew heavier. It was worried. Well done, it crooned. With soft, reassuring strokes it smoothed my neck with deceitfully gentle fingers. Now, you can get off, it whispered into my ear. Climb off. You’ve done enough, it said, persuasive as a doctor.

Stealing a look further ahead, the skyline seemed nearer. My thighs screamed, my shoulders felt like they could split in two, sweat bit hard as it coursed freely across my face and eyes. But the monkey grip was loosening. A car stopped to let me pass. I steered out to the left. So far out, it seemed. Then back in again. The bike trembled between the car and a rock. Through their open window, I saw them smile at me. Mixed into my animal grunts, I mumbled a thank you. Then the car was behind me, the horizon coming closer. What will those happy people think if I get off now? I can’t let them down! One, two…

I felt the monkey lose grip as a young chap shot past me, the air now alive with twin rasps and growls. I stalked him to the summit. Last time here, beside the shattered pile of heaped rock, I’d sat defeated. Not this time!

The next pass, Wrynose, was tough, but not that tough! For James it was though, pushing uphill and then attempting to keep up his momentum on the flatter bits. By the bottom of the turn for Blea Tarn we were only about 11 miles from the Rydal Water swim with only another mile and a half of cycling to the finish. Frustratingly close! Halfway up the hill we managed to find a phone signal and got a message through. In our toolkits, James and I brought along spanners and Allen keys, spare cleats, innertubes. Graham brought a spare bike! He hasn’t admitted to crystal-ball gazing but we certainly won’t be laughing so loud in the future! Steve and Moira collected the bike and fought their way down the narrow roads to find the three of us flapping hard at a growing swarm of midges. A communication must have gone out from Midgie Central: There’s three lads here, plenty of bare flesh. Loads of sweat and they seem to be covered in places with a sticky, sugary fluid. Yum!

Pedals changed, seat lowered, we set off into the growing gloom. We blitzed the last section whizzing past the empty cars of wild campers and dodging sheep now lolling in the middle of the road, soaking up the last of the day’s warmth from the tarmac. The broken cable probably cost us a couple of hours, but it didn’t matter. As day-outs go this was never about records. It was the culmination of the planning, the training get-togethers, the logistical organisation, the mickey-taking and curiosity of friends, family and colleagues, and the companionship of good like-minded people.

Swooping over the bridge into the carpark at Rydal we pulled on our wetsuits for the final push. Darkness had set in some time ago. On the shoreline a group of youngsters played cards around a small bonfire, the smell of incense sweetening the air, and keeping the midges at bay. “Are you going for a swim?” asked a surprised voice. Well, it was after 10pm now! Stroking towards Steve’s mobile lighthouse the water felt cold, probably tiredness taking grip. For the final ride to Grasmere we didn’t mess around. We pulled on our helmets, flicked on the bike lights and rode in wetsuits.

Cheers, Ben. Fantastic idea! Six miles of swimming, 96 miles of cycling and a tonne of climbing. What a fabulous way to spend a day!

Please visit soliverson.com to see more photos of our challenge and other activities I've been involved in.