Following a relaxing trip on the slow train from Newcastle, I arrive in Whitehaven after dark. Surprisingly, I find my guesthouse within five minutes, having barely escaped being run down by a boy racer roaring along the narrow street on which it is located. After checking in, I wander around town for a while, feeling nervous and out of place in my tracksuit and fleece amongst the Friday night revellers and groups of dodgy-looking youths. I am cheered up by the sight of a massive full moon rising over the hill.
Saturday. 80 km.
Whitehaven doesn’t look quite as depressing in the 8 am light; traders are setting up market stalls in a cobbled square surrounded by colourful townhouses. As I ride to the harbour for the obligatory photo by the beach, a faded sign on a dilapidated building catches my eye. 'Travel Agents', it peelingly proclaims, and underneath 'Cunard Authorised Agents', while in the doorway another sign announces the presence of Danish and Dutch vice-consulates. It is hard to imagine Whitehaven bustling with exotic freighters and cruise liners; a few fishing boats and a couple of rusty cranes are all that remain today.
I leave the town on an excellent cyclepath. In a row of pigeon lofts, a balding man clangs a feeding pan and his Pavlovian protégés swirl towards him. He eyes me suspiciously and retreats indoors before I can capture the scene on film.
Climbing steadily into the hills, the cycle path gives way to minor roads and the mangy dogs to fluffy sheep. I bump into Nev and Mecca, a pair of forty-somethings from Durham, and we cycle together for a while. I try some action photos, cycling hands-free behind my new-found companions, but almost come to grief when we turn a corner into a flock of sheep. Suddenly, a roadside drama! A lamb in the passing flock tries rashly to head-butt a cockerel larger than itself; the bird is not amused, and much frenzied bleating ensues...
We cycle on up the Whinlatter pass, bathed in warm sunshine which mocks the weather forecast. After a long ascent to the summit, our reward is a twisting, exhilarating forest path down into Keswick, where we dodge crowds of tourists to pay a visit to Bell’s bakery for the traditional face-stuffing. Nev and Mecca have had enough and continue along the alternate, flatter route, while the masochists among us head for the Old Coach Road.
Shortly afterwards, passing through St. John’s in the Vale, I hear a rushing sound and look up, narrowly avoiding decapitation as a hang glider lands scant yards away. Brummie Rick shakes himself free of his harness and we exchange a few words before I cycle on, only now noticing the half-dozen gliders and paragliders dotting the sky above me. I spot a couple of cars halfway up the mountain ahead and assume that this is their launch site, while fervently thanking my lucky stars that I don’t have to cycle up there. Unfortunately, my bike is all metal so I have no wood to touch, and my heart sinks as I spot the 'C2C' sign pointing up the mountain.
Struggling up the Old Coach Road’s evil slope, strewn with loose gravel and stones, I come to the conclusion that the coaches of yesteryear must have been built by one of George Stephenson’s ancestors.... Eventually I have to dismount and push for 300 metres, though this is purely because of my heavily-laden panniers and not any lack of fitness. Never mind, the views from the top are well worth the effort, and I cycle for an hour through classic mountain-biking terrain, the panorama broken only by several decrepit railway freight cars in the heather...perhaps Stephenson did use this mountain as a 'Rocket' testing area? As if the freight cars were not bizarre enough, I turn a corner to find a white Land Rover, stuck fast in a muddy quagmire; there is no-one in sight. It is a scene reminiscent more of Africa than of the Lake District.
I coast down into Matterdale and continue on to the Edmondsons’ guest house, next to a charming stream in the shadow of Great Mell Fell. Later, I consider a moonlit night ride but by ten o’clock I am flagging, and retire to a loglike slumber.
Starting early again, I encounter a sheep which has strayed into the narrow country lane and cannot get back through the fences. I chase the frantic animal for about half a kilometre; it is too stupid to realise that it need only stop and I will pass it. Eventually I speed up and overtake it, fearing that otherwise I will fall off my bike laughing. It eyes me balefully as I pass.
Continuing towards Penrith, I pass a picturesque half-ruined hall which seems still partially lived-in. Above the town, the vista of the snow-capped Helvellyn range behind me merits a short break, but I quickly press on to Langwathby, crossing a narrow metal bridge over the River Eden as the forbidding Hartside heights loom. After a relatively sedate climb through sleepy Sunday hamlets, another 'C2C' sign points up a steep grassy bridleway. Ten pore-popping minutes later, a ruined stone bridge crosses a stream in a steep-sided gully; I traverse it carefully, for no-one will find me if I fall here. The far side is too steep to be cycled and I am forced to push again, this time for a good half-kilometre to Hartside summit where the track joins an A-road.
The views from Hartside are spectacular. I can see the entire morning’s route laid out below me, and, hazy on the horizon, the sea where my journey started yesterday. I spot Nev and Mecca leaving the summit café and we freewheel together down the glorious 5-km descent that follows, before turning onto an even steeper minor road which makes the struggle up the other side well worthwhile. My Durhamite friends press on, while I opt for a short diversion to Alston to spend half an hour wandering the cobbled streets, packed with the gleaming motorbikes which congregate in the North Pennines every weekend, rain or shine.
Rejoining the route at Garrigill, I have to push for the third time, up a stony track which I would swear was at 60 degrees. A Land Rover roars past, its occupants casting smug glances at my sweaty face; I mentally will them to end up in the same state as the vehicle I came across yesterday, and redeem myself by cycling the top half of the hill, which is paved.
Further on, another climb awaits. My legs rebelling, it takes half an hour to pedal to the summit, but the desolate scenery, full of whirring grouse and pheasants, is compensation enough. Passing Priorsdale farm, I envy the farmers their solitude; though only 2 km from a B-road, they are in another world. The tarmac turns into a rocky track at this point and descends steeply past old lead-mine workings, dotted with bright yellow warning signs. Beside the track, a group of young men are donning their hard-hats in preparation for a potholing expedition into the mineshafts. Marvelling at their insanity, I roll down into Nenthead, centre of the long-vanished industry, its white cottages glowing in the afternoon sun.
I check into the Miners’ Arms, surreally run by an extended family of broad cockneys who are almost overpoweringly friendly. Forty winks later, I awake to hear the usual bad news about Newcastle United, and drown my sorrows in a pint of Guinness. After updating my diary over a meal in the pub, I wander among the now ghostly houses in the cool mountain dusk before calling it a night.
I wake before the alarm at 7:15. I’m getting used to these early starts! Nenthead is hushed as I pull away; my breath rasps in my throat and I swear never again to spend the night at the bottom of a hill. A red grouse caws 'Go back! Go back!' and I nearly heed its advice, but press on to the summit (and highest point on the route) where a sign announces 'Welcome to Northumberland', and underneath, in smaller letters, 'Cheesy photo-opportunity'. I duly oblige, then descend past lonely patches of snow to Coalcleugh and Allenheads.
Another climb leads to a breathtaking 8-km descent into Rookhope; it is clearly popular with wannabe racing drivers, as evidenced by my numerous sightings of Lapus planus, commonly known as 'flat rabbit'. Jinking round the hapless hares, and pedalling like a demon, I howl past rusty pithead buildings and the crumbling remains of an arched stone bridge. The whole descent takes 10 minutes and I hit 66 kph, frustratingly short of my record of 67 kph.
Rookhope holds in store the final ascent on the route, a disused 19th-century railway incline whose angle makes me suspect it carried an early ski-lift instead. 
Nevertheless, I pedal all the way to the top, beyond which await fifteen fantastic minutes barrelling along an equally rough but flat track with spectacular views of Weardale. I arrive at the end of the section with my lower half covered in mud and my upper half dislocated in multiple places. Magic!
From here, the track is smoother and downhill all the way to Sunderland, 50 km distant. I pick up speed and am soon maintaining 25 kph, though past Consett I slow down to appreciate a series of industrial sculptures, including giant robots made from transformers and grazing cows resurrected from rusty JCBs. As the cycle path winds through an earth-bank maze, it starts to rain for the first time on the journey. Quickly drenched, I am too close to my goal to stop now. The rain abates as I pass Penshaw's brooding Parthenon, and I feel perversely smug noticing passers-by staring at my mud-encrusted frame and panniers.
At long last, I roll into Sunderland and have to quickly readjust to the pace of the city. Traffic lights confuse me; I have not seen one for three days. I head for Seaburn, where a bemused middle-aged couple take my photo by the beach before I catch the train back to Newcastle. The clacking tracks lull me into a pleasant reverie and I dream of cycling to India....
May 2-5, 1996.
The most convenient means of getting to the start is by train, combining a single from your home to Whitehaven, and a single from Sunderland back home. Alternatively, you could combine a return fare from your home to Whitehaven with a single fare from Sunderland to Whitehaven. If you must use your car, you can take it to Whitehaven and then return by train from Sunderland to pick it up again.
Click here to access UK rail timetable information.
An excellent 'C2C' route map can be obtained from the Sustrans catalogue. There is also a comprehensive bed-and-breakfast guide available from Mark Porter.
You can also check out Dik's C2C Guide or the Cycle 'n' Sleep site.
Click here to mail me with your comments.