To gain a good understanding of the values that matter to the those that call the Lake District home, a good place to start would be to watch a fell race in Borrowdale on a bleak November day.

There’s mud and blood, skin and bones and a lot of standing around getting cold. Wiry runners cutting steps on copper scree slopes and charging down cloud drenched crags, there’s baggy singlets, tiny shorts, threadbare Helly Hansens and mud-caked trainers. Village hall trestles with tupperwares of jelly beans and hastily made flapjacks. There’s out of date selection boxes as podium prizes and a few lukewarm ales for recovery. There’s no pomp, little ceremony: send your entrance cheque by post to High Pot Farm. Best of all there’s no phone signal for your post-race upload. No kudos, no likes, just a knowing nod or a wink from a flat capped spectator who’s undoubtedly done it all before in stiff leather boots and in half the time. It’s understated, it’s gritty, hard. A few hours of suffering; maxxing heart rates, rolling ankles, scraping knees - all for a thermos of hot tea in a field and a long drive home to do it all again next week.

I gave this world a try when I was younger. My dad is the 573rd member of the Bob Graham Club; sure this doesn’t mean anything to anyone but my PE teacher understood and duly gave me a spot on the cross country team without so much as a try out. It beat double maths but I never quite got used to shivering that much, having the mud hosed off me in the car park, before getting back on the school bus.

The Bob Graham Round is the litmus test and ultimate local challenge for those that do choose this life. It is a 42 peak, 66 mile yomp across the fells with a 24 hour cut-off time starting and stopping at Moot Hall, Keswick.  Anyone who's anyone in the scene has had a crack at it but it's more than just a run. There’s a culture to it, a heritage and a history that has to be respected. Support runners are often needed so relationships with other runners are required, you give your time and then others give theirs. It creates a community of good faith; people support, carry water, pick you up when you fall and often give you some hard truths on pacing, safety and sleep when things aren’t going so well. It creates an unspoken bond of humility and respect.

The names of those who post good times on the route are unknown to most but are whispered in the old slate pubs of Langdale and Matterdale. The tales of winter rounds, unsupported attempts and double loops become myth, legend and romanticized over tankards of flat, dark ales and lakeland bitters.

A name that often crops up in such conversations is Martin Stone. On the shortest day of 1986 Stone attempted the first winter unsupported round. That night he was pursued by a full scale storm along the Helvellyn Ridge and had to make a hasty evacuation, but two weeks later in a clearer window he tried again, succeeding in a time of 23 hours and 41 minutes. His feat was not replicated till 36 years later. 

Earlier last year a friend sent me a link from UKClimbing; it was an interview with Martin Stone and Shane Ohly, who took 15 minutes off Stone’s record in the winter of 2020. The article fascinated me, not least because of the challenges they described and their relaxed attitudes towards finding limits in dangerous conditions. What interested me most was the general theme of their discussion about the ‘purity of their pursuit’. It was clear from their tone that completing the route and getting round mattered less than the style it was achieved and the severity of the conditions they faced. They were mountain connoisseurs with enough experience running up and down them to make the challenge not just about getting the Bob Graham done but doing so in conditions and in a style befitting of their own personal values for adventure. 

It’s safe to say the article got into my head and gave me fresh perspective on these ultra-cycling races and challenges, for why else do we do these things if not to satisfy our own ideals and definitions of adventure?  I became obsessed with tackling a big challenge by bike, in the mountains and in full winter conditions; snow on summits, ice on trails, long hours of darkness and temperatures well below freezing. In essence I wanted the type of conditions only Martin Stone could give a wry smile to.

-

I first rode the Lakeland 200 last summer. The organizer and route creator of the L200 is Alan Goldsmith. His rules are clear; keep in the spirit of self-reliance and get back to where you started from in under 40 hours. 200km in 40 hours? I laughed. Who's spending that long cycling 200km? 5k an hour, I thought, walking is not much slower. I’d gone home for a long weekend to give it a go and spend some quality time with the family but the latter part of that plan didn’t really come to fruition. The day started slowly and never really got going, owing as much to my lack of preparation as the number and frequency of gates along the loop. When I did finally make it home for a very delayed and by this time rather dry and cold Sunday roast I was so tired I couldn’t string a sentence together and duly fell asleep amongst the Yorkshire puds and potatoes. I vowed never to do it again.

But of course such an experience gets under the skin. The route is technical and ever-changing. There are no free kilometres and the elevation profile reads like the heart-beat-spikes on an ECG. Intense, consistent, unrelenting. It requires you to be switched on the whole way round, it’s a huge day in the hills. One of the biggest I’ve had and due to a number of reasons that day I unravelled mentally and physically. Perhaps it was this above all that started an obsession to complete a winter round. I felt the need to return to the scene to sew up the seam with a few extra patches for good measure.

Last year was the 10th anniversary of the route and it had gained something of a cult following owing a lot to a great project by Steezy Collective to improve the diversity of the roll of honour. But for the number of new people completing it under the 40 hour limit, there were many more coming unstuck, underestimating just how many calories it required and just how much hike-a-bike is involved. 

For the winter round, there was much less underestimating on my part. I trained enough through December to keep some semblance of form, reccied sections from Hartsop over to Kentmere in the long night of the winter solstice and changed and calculated my timings so that I would be doing the sectors I had found tricky to navigate in daylight. I also changed my setup quite a lot, removing frame bags so I could carry CX style and packing much more on my back to keep the bike light and nimble. Most importantly I watched the weather patterns rolling in across the Atlantic like a hawk. I had highlighted the weekend of the full moon at the start of January to give it a go but the isobars just weren’t spaced quite correctly and I had to wait it out. By the end of January I was getting impatient and beginning to lose hope until a message from my Dad popped up with an MWIS link that looked very favorable. My bag had been packed for weeks, I quickly booked a  train and some annual leave and set off that evening ready for an early start in Coniston the very next morning. 

I left Coniston at 5.45am, somewhat relieved that the plan so far had come together and Avanti west-coast had found a bike space. It’s a well known adage in the bikepacking world that getting to a startline is often a journey in itself. It didn’t take long for the road to kick upwards and the incline to hit 25% and it took all my concentration to pick a way through the sheets of ice that glistened eerily from head torch reflections like candles in antique mirrors. After 40 minutes or so of this I was already stomping up Walna Scar, crampons on and bike firmly on the shoulder, cushioned by taped scaffolders’ foam. It felt ridiculously macho and generally quite ridiculous all at the same time.  Without a cloud in the sky the jagged outline of the fells were beginning to take shape against a deep cerulean blue. I could already tell the day would bring enough scenes to fill next year’s National Trust calendar and I made a note to myself to always stay patient for the weather.

The snow was deep above 600m and the descent the other side was more parts sledging than riding. Towards the bottom I skated across a frozen bog only to fall through its crisp silver casing to the brown squelch below. I instantly heard a loud hiss and knew something had gone amiss. On closer inspection the ice had slashed the tyre wall. Brand new Maxxis tyres. Damn. Gloves off, tool box out. The pink highlights of dawn were bringing promise but I was struggling. Stiff new rubber and sub zero temps were proving a nightmare combination and I just couldn’t keep the inside of the tyre clean and dry. 

I had told only a handful of close friends about this ride. They’re a supportive bunch but definitely not the type that would let me forget a puncture being the reason for the house of cards to collapse. There was no question, I had to fix it. I stubbed fingers, snapped tyre levers and nipped tubes thinking of their smirking faces on the next cafe spin. By the time I had both tyres afloat I was down to my last few patches and already 2 hours behind my schedule. I had traveled 20km. 

It was time to crack on. The day was as spectacular as I’d hoped and the winter light brought with it a high definition to the colourful hillsides of rusty bracken and amber grasses. It was a privilege made more special by the fact I was alone on the trails. As I contoured around Kirkfell up to Black Sail Pass the sun was beginning to set. The swirling patterns of windswept snow were shimmering like oil slicks underfoot and the big summits of the Ennerdale amphitheatre were pulsing in pinks and purples. I ate the last of my cold pizza, zipped up my jacket and prepared for the long night ahead. 

To my mind the stretch from Eskdale to Buttermere is the real crux of the L200 and after a sketchy ascent of Honister Pass I was feeling much more confident about the coming darkness. I dropped down to Keswick for a garage forecourt banquet and headed along the gravel tracks to Threlkeld. The night passed with little incident and in a bit of a blur. I found my rhythm deep inside some pretty random Spotify playlists and the steady metronome of a Cadbury’s brunch bar every 40 minutes. The roads were much more treacherous than the bridleways but hitting the deck a few times in the night proved to be exactly what was needed to keep my eyes open and progress safely and steadily.

With the clouds obscuring the ceiling of bright constellations at some point during the night, I knew luck with the weather was going to run out and as I ploughed knee deep powder between High Street and Thornthwaite Crag the wind whipped up and battered the ridgeline with snow. I must have battled this blizzard for at least a few hours because dawn had broken by the time I emerged from the cloud into the sheltered sanctuary of the Kentmere Valley. I had originally intended to make it to Staveley for a breakfast of bacon butties but the trudge through the snow had emptied the tank. I unpacked the stove and fired up some trail-side instant mash and cheese. It hit the spot.

Staveley to Coniston is by all accounts the easier part of the ride and after filling up on food, inner tubes and batteries in the village I was feeling pretty confident. It didn’t last long. As night fell for the second time that ride, I was beginning to panic. My timetable across this sector was based on summer timings and fresh legs which I definitely did not now have. Hours were slipping off the schedule at an alarming rate.  With two hours to go I was on a part of the route that I no longer recognised and had to double back a few times to correct. The etrex was also playing up, giving me no distance to go off. I was completely in the dark with how far I had to go and how much elevation there was left to climb.  The stress kept me turning the pedals in frustration though and greatly improved my downhill abilities. When I hit the tarmac for the short run down to Coniston I had half an hour left on the clock. I could see the frantic waving of my Mum's head torch through the trees and could hear my Dad’s voice booming that I’d made it.

-

It could well be a controversial opinion but I believe the L200 has all the hallmarks of becoming comparable to the Bob Graham; the MTB equivalent perhaps. Something of its culture speaks to that; there is enough romance and mystique about the effort required to captivate the interest of the chancers, rogues and have-a-go heroes that ride in the peripheries of the bike-packing scene. It has its own following which is as much to do with this community than the route itself.  There is the altruism of Alan the organiser, support in abundance, no entrance fee, no space for ego, no glory save a name on a list in an unknown corner of the internet. There’s layers to the ride, plenty to think about and plenty of opportunity for things to go wrong. There is limited resupply and nearly no phone signal. For being so easy to get to, it can feel very remote. Self reliance is essential and creative problem solving will be required. Of course all these factors are forgetting the formidable backdrop and unique rugged charm of the Lake District itself. It is highly likely that you’ll ride through more than a few sunsets and sunrises and thus see the full spectrum of its colours, the changing shadows of its geology, the vibrant reflections from its flanks and in its lakes. But then again maybe not, my summer round was a steady state of grey and black, but perhaps that's also part of the risk, the roll of the dice and the ultimate appeal. 

One thing did remain consistent however, across both the summer and winter routes; by the time I arrived at Coniston some 6 hours after my ETA , my parents had joyous news of my brother and his wife’s newborn baby. I immediately felt guilty for adding wholly unnecessary stress to the family What’sApp group whilst my sister-in-law had been in labour. I’d ruined yet another wholesome family weekend doing the same stupid bike ride. 

Welcome to the family Alfie Murphy.