After last year's trial run by Yours Truly and gNick had sort-of-shown that a ride from Chez Green to The Old Crown in Hesket Newmarket and back the following day was sort-of-feasible, a Certain Amount of pressure was brought to bear on gNick, and thus the small piece in the last Newsletter appeared. This brought a few responses, specifically Team Menace plus Christine, Paul Weston, who was around on the Saturday of the Social Tour (I hope someone else has written that up...), and one Peter Marshall from Bridlington. Not long prior to the kick-off, though, Paul had to drop out on the grounds of Work chiz, and then there were five. Various participants rejigged their gearing (small chainrings, new mechs, different chainsets etc.), and while Yours Truly sat fuming in a traffic jam on the A1 (and missing the lovely Debbie's leaving do as well chiz), Peter rode up from Brid in two stages avec Speedy, arriving at about the same time as your Humble Scribe. Dinner, pub, bed.

Next morning, and the original article said: "And thus the next morning, the Children of the Lord did get up, and did drink coffee, and yea and verily, did eat bacon sarnies, and did fiddle with their trusty steeds until they were reasonably sure that only their knees were liable to break down. And at some point in the middle of all this did arrive a car containing a creature with, apparently, the countenance of a warthog, and the general demeanour of something the cat did drag in, accompanied by someone else, only smaller. And then it came to pass that the Writer did insert his contact lenses, and gave thanks unto the Lord, for he was now able to see that he had been in error, and that this was Murph and Christine, and not, as he had feared, Sir Leon Brittain and Les Dennis". Thus assembled, Peter, gNick (electing to use the old faithful gNash, as the newly-completed low(er) bike, variously known as G2, Black Bess or the Rainbow Warrior, was still a bit short of brakes), the Author and Murph set forth to Joust with the Force of Gravity¹; due to Christine's knees' built-in distance detector, which causes them to seize up after exactly fifty miles, she had elected to accompany Jane in the Sag Wagon as far as Stanhope, avoiding the not-terribly-exciting bits around Durham.

The not-terribly-exciting bits around Durham were not terribly exciting, at least until we got to somewhere which was either Willington or Crook, whereupon Murph decided that his chain's habits of skipping like the proverbial spring lamb and dangling close to the ground without due care and attention would Have To Be Sorted. gNick promptly applied the Holy Chain Tool, thus ridding the offending chain of about six stiff links, but about the dangliness nowt could be done, except to express the opinion that it was hoped that Sandy "Mech-Wrecker" Donaldson was feeling suitably guilty². Not long after this, the first halfway-serious Plummet was encountered, unfortunately punctuated by the roundabout carrying the A68 across the A689, but happily it gets steeper on the other side, and soon your Humble Scribe was grinning like a maniac, having exceeded 50 mph for the first time this year.

At the bottom of this Hurtle, one finds oneself in Weardale; the road following the river fairly closely and thus being mainly without stiff climbs for the twenty-odd miles between Wolsingham and Wearhead. It's not exactly easy, mind you, of which more anon. At Stanhope we pause for drinks and Choc Chip Tracker Bars, unload Christine's bike and then head for them thar hills. At Wearhead, some ten miles up the road, the terrain changes alarmingly in a vertical direction, and some of those present discover that their newly-bodged gearing won't shift properly - I have to sneak up on my front mech and surprise it off the middle ring in either direction. The first steep mutha is at Cowshill, and is rapidly followed by another at a hamlet nameless in my road atlas, which in turn is rapidly followed by a chorus of uncontrollable gibbering, frothing at the mouth and attempts to eat one's own helmet - from here you can see Kilhope Moor - sample dialogue follows:
 

Christine:	Where does the road go from here?
gNick:	You see that big hill over there?
Christine:	Which one?
gNick:	The biggest one.
Christine:	Yes.
gNick:	Over that!
Christine (very quietly):	Oh!

The westbound climb of Kilhope is 1:6, and long. We pause at the top to regrease knee bearings and don warm outer garments, and then wait for a suitable launch window in the traffic before setting off down the other side, in descending order of fatness (i.e. me first). I time it perfectly...NOT; I've only got up to about 20 before a couple of tin boxes overtake. The descent being in the form of three steps, at 14%, 18% and 17%, the tin boxes are a bit reluctant to do more than fifty, so I have to keep putting the brakes on chiz, not wishing to examine the exhaust pipe of a Ford Fiasco from the inside. Vmax only 54 m.p.h., slower than last year. gNick, mindful of the gNash's reluctance to keep both wheels on terra firma, decides that cowardice is the better part of discretion and does likewise - the feeling you get when approaching the second step is probably akin to that felt by early mariners as they sailed off the edge of the world. After a generally downhill zoom to Alston, the dreaded Alston High Street is encountered - steep and heavily cobbled. It's a bit embarrassing, having only a little earlier been stooging along at 30+, to be overtaken by little old ladies on foot. We reconvene at the bottom, meet up with Jane and consume sandwiches, to the dubious accompaniment of a pair of hairy bagpipers encouraging the guests at a wedding reception in the hotel across the road. Meanwhile Murph has suffered a puncture, though fortunately not on one of the naughty downhills.

After lunch, we face the "last serious climb" (gNick's words), being the ascent from Alston to the top of Hartside. Unlike Kilhope, however, this was built by nice Mr Macadam, who saw fit to give it a constant gradient for the benefit of horses, so it's just a matter of finding a comfortable gear and twiddling for six miles. The descent is of similar angle, but twisty. This is Grin Factor Eleven if you manage to avoid being held up by cars, which fortunately I did, the only sad bit being that if you want to stop at the Village Bakery in Melmerby (possibly one of the world's better tea rooms), you have to brake from about forty-five chiz. Anyway, unlimited coffee for a quid wins out, until it's realised that we're getting no nearer Journey's End, and push on in the general direction of Penrith. Fun and games ensue when we get to the turning to skirt Penrith though; gNick and the Author arrive first, and alert Jane, sitting in the car to direct those who haven't been here before. When the rest of the party arrive though, Peter resolutely ignores the loony³ shouting "turn right" from a car, until Murph and Christine join in. Peter probably has the right idea though, as the turning leads directly to the foot of Beacon Edge - see both the first paragraph of this article and, indeed, the sub-title. From here we drop down to the A6, now practically deserted, and then turn off across the M6 onto the B5305. I am happily cruising in company with gNick, except that the next time I glance in the mirror, he's disappeared. Not wishing to waste valuable drinking time, I elect not to wait, and thus arrive at Hesket Newmarket ten minutes before anyone else, except of course Jane, who is sitting outside the pub with a pint of Great Cockup (no kidding, that's really what their porter is called!):
 

Me:	Sorry, but I appear to have lost your husband.
Jane:	Don't worry, he can't have gone far!

The rest of the mob arrive, in general not suffering from Knees, but gNick is the exception. A quick pint or two, then shower, dinner and serious beer-tasting, bed.

The following morning, and amazingly for this part of the world, it's not raining! Breakfast is followed by some machine-prodding - gNick attempts to pinch Christine's left crank on the grounds that a: he thinks his is bent and b: this isn't going to matter if you're using clips 'n' straps. Christine looks rather relieved when gNick discovers it won't fit. Then it's back the way we came, but at the top of the first hillock, a torrent of swearing reveals that reality has dropped on gNick's kNees with a dull thud, and he elects to jack it in. The rest of us head on, destination Melmerby, via the accursed Beacon Edge. On the descent from here, I shoot off into the distance, until stopped by a traffic light at the narrow bridge across the Eden at Langwathby, whereupon Peter catches up again, and we grind across a series of annoying false flats up to Melmerby. Tea!

Then Hartside chiz. At the bottom, the car passes me just as I pass Murph; gNick leans out of the window:
 

gNick:	Attack!
Me:	Me Rominger!
Murph (looking in the general direction of up):	Me Abdoujaparov.

The descent is much more fun, six miles without having to pedal. A group of HPV-ers reconvenes in Alston with huge cheesy grins, and eats more sarnies. Then the Ascent Of The High Street - some make it, some don't bother trying and some tie their gears in knots at the bottom and fall off in an embarrassed heap. Well, I got up it at the second attempt. Thence more gentle pottering as far as Nenthead, which is not Nice. The road climbs at an alleged gradient of about 1:10 for about a long way, and just when the weary cyclist is totally knackered, he or she turns a corner and is faced with Kilhope proper. However, by the time you've reached the top step, you've got used to the strange numb sensation where your knees used to be, and the relatively level bits between the steps allow a little recovery.

The drop from here signals the start of what, for me at least, is the best bit of the whole ride. The first part of the descent of Kilhope is a bit spooky, as the road surface is that horrible coarse grit stuff, and it's across the wind, but once you get round the corner (not that tight, but you do need to brake), you can let go of the brakes and start praying to Our Lady Of Blessed Puncture Protection. Vmax = 64 m.p.h. accompanied by cries of "YEEEEEE-HAAA!". Meanwhile, Murph manages to confuse his speedo into starting a second lap of the dial at ~48. For twenty-five miles from the top of Kilhope it's downhill most of the way; you need to keep pedalling, but it's no effort and it's basically what cycling should be like all the time. Steaming along at 25-30 means that I arrive in Stanhope half an hour ahead of schedule, and hang around smoking until the others appear, grinning like maniacs, although an errant mudguard on Peter's Speedy caused a bit of a delay for him and Murph.

At Stanhope, Christine decides not to tempt Providence any further, and then there were three, with plenty of time to get to the next rendezvous - the Tap & Spile in Framwellgate Moor, just north of Durham. Too much time, in fact, despite a stop for Peter to buy a pint of milk and a few nasty little climbs, we're still half an hour early - and it's a Sunday chiz. Pub opens, drink a pint or several, whereupon Murph & Christine depart homewards - if we were being really strict about it, we could say that Murph didn't finish the event coz he didn't go all the way back to Great Lumley, but if I did he'd hit me, and I'm a coward... Peter and I do ride the last five or so miles, going round the long way on the grounds that the last hill is Not Very Nice in the dark. Eat pizza /fish & chips, then go to the pub again, crash, ZZZZZ!

And in the morning it came to pass that Yours Truly squodged his partially dismembered Kingcycle into the back of the tin box and spent a long time fuming in a traffic jam on the A1, while Peter rode back in the general direction of the East Riding. So there.

Anyway, next year EVERYBODY has to come and play, coz it's great fun, honest, and if you don't go shooting off too fast at the start, it's not even particularly knee-grinding, unless of course, your cranks are bent. It's probably sensible if you fit the lowest gears you can find in your parts bin, though Kingcycles with nosecone fittings don't like small outer rings - you can't slide the front mech close enough to the rings for reliable changes. We might even put in a competitive bit in too; if you fancy recce-ing the route, it goes something like:
 

Great Lumley - Pity Me:	the back way past Sainsbury's. Roads not marked in my road atlas, so you'll have to ask gNick.
Pity Me - Durham:	A167. A bit busy, but the most direct route.
Durham - Crook:	A690. Also a bit busy, but the alternatives simply do not bear thinking about, unless you're really anxious to see where Jane's parents live.
Crook - Alston:	A689. The only route possible.
Alston - just outside Penrith:	A686. As above. Lots of motorbikes at weekends, but not heavily trafficked otherwise.
Round Penrith:	Beacon Edge. (turn right after the garden centre) We hates it forever...
Just north of Penrith - nowhere in particular:	A6. Almost totally deserted.
Nowhere in particular - somewhere else:	B5305. Crosses the M6 at J41.
Somewhere else - Hesket Newmarket:	Road signposted to Millhouse, Hesket Newmarket and Caldbeck, turn off after the forest of radio masts. Ignore the distances on the signposts, as they are LIES!!!

1. marvellous stuff. They even keep it on at weekends.
2. having contrived to destroy Murph's old one while swapping machines on the Social Tour - the chain broke (JK take note!) and took the rear mech with it, causing it to be replaced at the last minute with a short-arm Exage 300.
3. she's not really, honest, please stop hitting me...

CREDITS:
 

gNick:	for inventing the whole thing (thinks: should he really get credit for this?)
Murph & Christine:	for coming too, and lending their car for Sag Wagon purposes to avoid time-consuming roof-rack erection.
Peter:	for coming too with a bunch of people he'd never met before.
Jane:	huge thanks for hospitality, driving the Sag Wagon, providing sandwiches, drinks and Choc Chip Tracker Bars and not complaining when forced to sit in the pub all night surrounded by people talking about bicycles...