Drawing deep breaths as we rode up the initial flanks of the hill, the mid-morning sun had filled the air with the intoxicating sweetness of cow-parsley.

In these initial few hundred metres from the car park, the fence lines, limestone dry stone walls and field edges were filled with the kaleidoscope of colour of countless wild-flowers that emerge once the last frosts of spring have determined it’s not worth the effort to challenge the sun anymore at this time of year.

Daisies, foxgloves and Forget-me-not peppered the dusty path beside us, becoming more sparse and widely spaced as we climbed higher, before they gave up altogether, preferring to stick to the more sheltered and warmer climes lower down the hill.

This was one of those trips that had been a long time in the preparation, as the many and varied pressures of family life had, over time, ensured that we couldn’t all easily nip away for an overnighter. Instead, the planning to get the many cogs aligned with mates from all over the north and Midlands was reminiscent of the meticulous machinations of a watchmaker. Just with the added need for flexible camping and a good pub nearby. But as each cog in the machine found its place, before long we were on the road and now on the trail, gently cranking up the limestone switchbacks towards our supposed summit; the climb ahead of us a zig zag of grey on a verdant green hill.

The climb, on a hot day, is unrelenting. And the hillside was at a gradient where we could see almost all of it, disappearing off in the distance….much higher above us. Before long we each fell into our own, stumbling rhythm. Each alone in our world, together on the ride.

But we were here, the sun was out, and we were riding our bikes towards the first gravelly, rocky switchback on a track which we could see got steeper as it meandered up the hill ahead of us. Some of us had had the pleasure of ‘riding’ it before and so knew the energy sapping relentlessness of the loose surface. But we were pushing those thoughts down, instead enjoying the long awaited, and unmatched pleasure of rolling a tyre over a hillside with our mates.

Riding further up, the track began to level off and the breathers we took were rewarded with the kind of a view you see on a chocolate box in the gift shop in the town below. Rooftops nestled in on the shore of the lake, steel blue mountains rising from the far bank, and beyond them paler summits and ridgelines could be seen, filtered by the haze of the mid-summer heat. At the halfway point on the climb to the summit, the view is obscured by a hillside and we kept riding through high-moorland grasses; meeting the occasional walker and rider heading back down the hill after an early morning start. The summit we were aiming for came into view and on its flanks, the grass had given way to rough patches of stone – slates and lime worn to the surface under the passage of hundreds of boots, tyres and hooves. For the unfit amongst us, the sight was a welcome one, presenting us with the inspiration to push on and muster the energy from the last stop’s handful of jelly babies, knowing that a trig point, an S-shaped sheepfold and a panoramic view awaited just a few hundred feet both up and ahead of us.

“bemoaning the fitness levels the joy of young families had imbued, we made the call not to bother with the summit”

kofthep

But, bemoaning the fitness levels the joy of young families had imbued, we made the call not to bother with the summit – we’d ridden it before after all – sacrificing the king of the world feeling being on top of a high peak, for maintaining energy levels on the promised exquisite descent. It was only a fleeting moment and we followed the horse-shoe hillside round to our long-planned destination.

It was a mouth-watering sight. Stretched out ahead of us, a ribbon of singletrack looked almost draped along the ridge before us – the path sticking mainly to the highline, and disappearing over a series of ever lower, jagged humps heading back to the lower hills.

Gathering together we determined the order we’d head down – the various factors of skill level, fitness, confidence…and stupidity… all playing a part in the running order. Then it was time for another handful of jelly babies, a final check on the important levers, lockouts and our legs before we paused for the obligatory selfie at the start of our descent. And that’s when we saw him.

The composition was perfect, six happy friends under the gaze of the slate grey mountain side. But there was one slight blemish on the photo – a mark which has only served to niggle me ever since; a blurry, white patch moving down the hill but snapped just as we all said ‘cheese’. And that was the tell tale dust cloud of a mountain biker having the descent of a lifetime.

From the very top of the hill.

We’ve got to go back, haven’t we?

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