Whitehaven Harbour beside the C2C sign flanked by my lighter, younger, fitter companions, beaming sunshine and blue sky, our driver Bex snapping away as though we were the latest X Factor boy band, 140 miles in the saddle ahead of us. 140 unsupported miles, carrying all we need, like hobos but probably scruffier and smellier by the time we reach Tynemouth. And then we were off, leaving the photogenic harbour behind, passing the same charity shops and Pound emporiums which make up most town centres these days. Soon to be familiar blue signs led us into a housing estate which wouldn’t have looked out of place on an episode of Shameless, a few gardens having old car seats or mattresses on display, obviously in case any tired Coast To Coasters needed a rest. As the suspicion we’d been deliberately misled - soon to ride into a tracksuit wearing gang of urban misfits who would relieve us of our bikes and possessions after making us squeal like piggies - began to take hold, we popped out onto a converted railway track cycleway. Two punctures and several miles of dogshit and broken glass later we’d left the environs of Whitehaven behind and were pedalling through the foothills of The Lake District. Seventeen miles in and inordinately pleased with our progress we decided to stop for lunch, after all it was well past noon and we only had another forty three miles to go until our first day’s stopover. A leisurely and very enjoyable lunch at the Kirkstile Inn near Loweswater was only marred by the realisation we had to ride over Whinlatter Pass.

Back on the bikes, realisation became reality as the pass loomed above us, a thousand feet above sea level and so began another ritual which would become familiar over the next three days, each of settling into our personal hill climbing rhythm, which for me consisted of watching three companions disappearing into the distance as I panted, sweated and cursed my way up the incline. Eventually the summit was gained and we coasted into Keswick at 4pm, thirty miles into our journey and half way to Penrith. Coffee break then? The Lakeland Pedlar’s siren song attracted us, caffeine and confectionary proved irresistible and our ETA at Penrith was pushed back another hour. Appetites sated we pedalled along the old railway track to Threlkeld, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Quiet lanes led us to Mungrisedale, where a flapjack break was enjoyed sitting on the grass by the stream. A concerted bout of cycling through the seldom visited eastern edge of the national park, again on quiet lanes and byways brought us to Penrith where we found our accommodation with ease. Shower, beer, food, beer. All well earned.

The next morning some of our team required a visit to the extensive Vaseline shelf (other unguents are available) of the local Superdrug, hopefully lubrication for their tender parts and not the result of some night-time shenanigans. The pace was altogether more leisurely today because we knew from the maps and guidebooks we had a lot of climbing ahead of us. It was on a downhill just outside of Penrith I found the major flaw to carrying my gear in a backpack rather than panniers, tilting my head back to see further forward, the back of my helmet was fouled by the height of my pack, as the descent steepened, my view ahead became more restricted until all that was visible was my front wheel and the road immediately beneath it. Removing my helmet was the only option until a safe place appeared to repack my bag. The biggest of the much documented climbs, came all too soon, Hartside Pass and once again I was the fat kid at the back, as the others spread out up the hill. Countless bends later I took the off-road option to cut off the last hairpin and found myself in the granny ring for the first time so far and then I was at the much-photographed summit sign with our team. The café at Hartside was ridiculously busy for somewhere so remote. Garrigill was mooted for our lunch stop and we enjoyed our payback time for the climbing, losing height all the way to Leadgate with only a gentle climb over to Garrigill. Another pub lunch was enjoyed, other teams, evidently on the same route as us, came and went, setting the tone for the remainder of the weekend. Sitting outside the pub on the village green, basking in the sunshine, two cockney geezers cycled past, arguing at full volume, one wanting to take the off road option out of Garrigill, despite the use of advanced profanity he lost the argument as his companions turned left up the road. It was here we first became aware of “The Pushing Crew”, a mixed gender team on assorted bikes who seemed to spend a lot of time walking beside their steeds, they entered Garrigill after us, lunched and left before us, as did many other teams. Our continental length lunch breaks scientifically designed as an aid to digestion, nothing to do with idleness and indolence. We left Garrigill and turned right onto Dowgang Hush, to see a vertical wall of cyclists plodding slowly upward, most pushing their bikes, and this on a road not even marked as a hill on the official Sustrans map. For the second (and last) time on the ride, my granny’s ring was utilised and I struggled upward, with some encouragement from the nice ladies in The Pushing Crew. My long vanished companions were reduced to standing on their pedals the whole way owing to their roadie oriented drive trains, when I rejoined them in Nenthead, Adam and Dom were on the verge of puking up their lunch from the exertion. Lounging in the sunshine we were passed by The Pushing Crew who showed us a clean set of heels, obviously making up for lost time. More climbing took us to the highest point of the route, 609m, unfortunately it wasn’t all downhill from here, although some long descents were enjoyed. Another climb was required before we reached Allenheads and somewhere we overtook The Pushing Crew. We reached our night’s accommodation at the Allenheads Inn fairly early, time for a pint and a rest before dinner. And a look in the residents lounge, a shrine to the British royal family, every surface bedecked with royalist memorabilia, maximum weirdness, not to mention the stuffed heads and animal skulls lining the corridors.

After breakfast we embarked on our third day of cycling, ‘the downhill day’, of course this began with another sickeningly long climb, which at least warmed us up for the long descent to Rookhope. Beginning what was purported to be the last major ascent of the ride, Rookhope Incline, who did we overtake? The Pushing Crew. This was the only part of our route which could be called offroad and time for the fat bloke on the full-susser to unlock his suspension and take the lead, while those worried about their feeble road wheels minced along over the rocks and ruts. All too soon normal service was resumed and we were plodding along the road approaching Park Head, welcomed back to the North East by a damp easterly wind, so much for the prevailing south westerlies which would push us to the coast. The café at Park Head was packed out so we donned waterproofs and idled over coffee outside, watching incredulously as The Pushing Crew sailed past, soon out of sight along The Waskerley Way. Some of the more competitive members of our party appeared to consider this a challenge, before long we were speeding down the old rail track which makes up the Waskerley Way, pausing only at the gates which appear too frequently. A ‘rotating pace line’ to thwart the wind was suggested, minutes later I was pedalling harder on the downhill section, easy day, than at any point during the whole three days, trying to keep up with three maniacs, riding millimetres from each other’s back wheels. Strangely enough I wasn’t offered a turn at the front. This went on for some miles, all the interesting industrial sculptures, erected to broke the monotony of the old rail track, were just blurs as we sped past. At one point we passed The Pushing Crew fixing a puncture trackside, this only encouraged the young ones into a further speed frenzy. We left The Waskerley Way heading toward The Derwent Walk, at Rowlands Gill, pausing to fix my saddle bag which decided to part company with its mounting bracket. Heads down, four minds pondering the engineering skills required to effect the repair, we stepped aside to let some bikes pass - and The Pushing Crew once again took the lead. Back on the chain gang we regained our rightful place ahead of The Pushing Crew and before long we were cruising along the banks of the River Tyne, weaving between Sunday strollers and optimistic anglers, the iconic bridges coming into view. At the quayside my determined effort to pedal every inch of the route was thwarted by the Sunday market, which requires riders to dismount. Not that riding through the throng of people would be possible. In a strange country it’s always best to eat and drink as the natives do, so we made like Geordies and headed for the nearest Greggs. Standing outside the shop, stuffing our faces in the shadow of the Tyne Bridge, who should sail past but The Pushing Crew. Resigned to being second, we left the market behind and made our way toward the coast, mainly following the river, passing relics of industry and at one point, a surprisingly upmarket marina. The Pushing Crew were spotted in the distance, three backs stiffened, ready for pursuit, the fourth slumped, ready for beer and a lie down. The pace increased, yet again I was compelled to reprise the role of fat bloke at the back struggling to keep up. As The Pushing Crew stopped at a junction to check their directions, we passed them for what would be the final time of the weekend, and sped through North Shields in the wrong direction, only realising our mistake as we stared down a slipway leading into the Tyne. Soon we were back on track, following the coast into Tynemouth and the final climb to the less than inspiring sign which marks the end of the route. Hand shakes all round before we went off to find an ice cream and a more photogenic spot to have our celebratory picture taken.