Demons in the darkness on one hell of a stormy ride

Halifax-based John Allen battled Storm Alex, spectral skeletons, demons and witches on the Hell of the North West ride in October, 2020 – completing the punishing 800km course in first place… and last. He was the only one to finish. The 36 year old describes a truly hellish but ultimately uplifting weekend in the saddle:

Demons in WORDS & PICTURES JOHN ALLEN the darkness

on one Hell of a stormy ride

I’M NOT A PROPER CYCLIST. If anything, I’d say I was a fell runner. I enjoy being in the fells and mountains, competing in long distance foot races, ultra-marathons and mountain marathons. But I fancied a change – so decided to try my hand at long-distance cycling last year.

I’d seen advertisements for the Hell of the North West, but dismissed the ride as ridiculous – too hard, too hilly and frankly, I didn’t believe anyone could finish. But then I thought – maybe it is possible? I entered to find out.

Then Covid happened, and the event was postponed. Six long, lonely months of training in the dark after work, and hundreds of hours all seemed wasted.

Then the Hell of the North West was rescheduled – for October. The thought of it still triggered feelings of fear and self-doubt. I told myself that I’d only attempt it in good weather, to do otherwise was foolish and would make something seemingly impossible, downright dangerous.

The event, and Storm Alex, would arrive together in early October. It would turn out to be the wettest single day on record – and a day I won’t forget in a hurry.

The ride was due to start on Friday, and the day’s forecast was good. Sunday’s forecast looked OK too. So even though Saturday looked apocalyptical, if I could survive it I might achieve the impossible.

The start time was between 1pm and 5pm on Friday, so my cunning plan was to start early, ride as far as possible before the storm hit, continue to ride through the storm without dying, then carry on riding once the storm has passed – the challenge here being to stay alive.

Rather than packing light and fast, I went for safe and warm – luggage rack, mud guards, dynamo lights, a pair of waterproof panniers, spare clothes, three pairs of gloves, head-to-toe waterproof clothing, sleeping bag, sleeping mat, and lightweight tent.

Registration was at the Green Jersey bike shop in Clitheroe. I was the first rider to arrive. I swapped a few words with the organiser, Dan Jones. He was expecting a maximum of 15 riders. He wished me luck, we bumped knuckles and I was off.

Then it was straight up Pendle Hill. The weight of the fully-loaded bike was immediately apparent, and I quickly ran out of gears. My heart rate rose and the legs began to burn. This was the simple bit. But I was feeling strong and the bike felt good. I told myself to just keep pedalling, stay relaxed and don’t be rubbish – my basic mantra.

The miles clicked by, hill after hill, corner after corner. First, heading north through the Forest of Bowland, then back south towards Rivington Pike. This isn’t a race, but I checked the Random Adventure Facebook page to see which other riders had started.

There was a pair of brothers, Steve and Michael Wykes, riding together, and it looked like they had absolutely no gear with them. Maybe I’d over-packed? My bike weighed 23kg fully-loaded and these fellas were running race bikes. I spent the next few hours doubting my strategy, and looking over my shoulder.

Darkness closed in over the south Pennines. My sights were set on Keighley at the 100 mile mark, and getting there before the Co-op shut at 10pm, the last supply point until sometime the following day. I grabbed a takeaway pizza in the town centre and put some warmer clothes on. A quick check on social media showed a total

❝The plan… ride as far as possible before the storm hit, continue to ride through the storm without dying, then carry on riding once the storm has passed – the challenge here being to stay alive ❞

Any portaloo in a storm… comfort break at Aysgarth Falls

of four other riders had started. Clearly the weather prediction was to blame. Then it was off towards the Yorkshire Dales and into the night. It was a hilly route, and I could feel the strain in my legs. Climbing Malham Moor, my thoughts turned to sleep, and at 3am I decided to take a rest. With 157 miles and 16,000ft ascent behind me, I was tired, and the thought of pushing right through the night into the coming storm didn’t seem wise.

I pulled into the car park at the visitors’ centre at Aysgarth Falls, hoping to find some sort of shelter. There was a locked disabled toilet, easily unlocked with my multi-tool. It was clean enough, so I made myself at home for a nap, and soon dropped into a deep sleep.

Ninety minutes later I was woken by my phone alarm. It didn’t seem long enough but I thought it would see me through the next day. The rain had started so I got fully kitted-out before going out to make friends with Storm Alex.

There was no sunrise – just a sky gradually changing from black to grey. Passing the Tan Hill Inn at about 7am, it was as bleak as you could imagine, and it was banging it down. My waterproofs were no longer waterproof and I was soaked to the core. It was miserable but not a surprise, and it was only going to get worse.

I’d planned to stop at Shap to re-stock on food but there was enough in my bag for a few more hours. I needed to minimise the stops to keep warm and save time. I was feeling OK but progress was slow. The bike was heavy, and my flapping waterproofs weren’t remotely aerodynamic – and the roads were running like rivers with leaves, branches and gravel strewn everywhere.

There’s a Tesco Express in Ambleside which was likely to be the last chance to re-stock before Keswick. In advance of that though, was the Kirkstone Pass, the

❝The southern Lake District is beautiful, but the conditions today made it difficult to enjoy ❞ ❝ There was no sunrise – just a sky gradually changing from black to grey ❞

highest road in the Lake District, and a tough climb at the best of times.

My hands had been numb for hours, and I was grateful to arrive safely outside Tesco for the first stop of the day. Once my bags were stuffed with pasties, sandwiches, doughnuts and flapjacks I took some moments to reflect. I’d only managed to cover 80 miles since leaving the toilet-hotel, and it was 24 hours since I’d left Clitheroe. Not quite halfway and I was absolutely soaked through and shivering. But I’d been eating well, had no real pains or injuries, and enough supplies to see me though another 12 hours. I was concerned about hypothermia, so got moving again. I wondered if I’d ever feel warm and dry again.

The southern Lake District is beautiful, but the conditions today made it difficult to enjoy. The climbs around Broughton and Duddon were extremely tough, and the descents, with so much debris and water on the roads, meant that just staying upright was a challenge.

The next 50 miles were on some of the most exposed, steep and difficult roads in the country. It would take me beyond midnight to reach Keswick. I had a small tent but the thought of pitching it in this weather and then dealing with the layers of sodden kit didn’t fill me with joy.

Covid restrictions meant the pubs were closing at 10pm, and it would take a while to find somewhere with vacancies. If I wanted to find a room and dry out, I’d have to start looking soon, which would mean cutting the day short.

After dragging what seemed like the world’s heaviest bike up the Hardknott Pass and descending the treacherous 30 per cent broken tarmac hairpins on other side in the fading light, I made up my mind to find a room. The rain was absolutely bouncing down. It hadn’t stopped all day – at all. After 15 hours I’d had enough.

The Bower House pub in Eskdale was warm and the food smelled amazing, but they had no vacancies. The kind lady on reception offered to ring around on my behalf while I stood shivering and dripping water all over the floor but call after call returned the same answer – “we’re full”.

I was starting to feel hopeless and thinking of pitching my tent at the roadside. But finally she found me a room up the road in Gosforth – a 30-minute ride away in the bucketing rain, but they were serving food until 9pm.

The feelings of hopelessness and disappointment at not covering the distance I wanted disappeared with the first gulps of San Miguel, and the hot soup starter went down a treat. Being required to check in with the Random Adventure Event team at 50-mile intervals, I uploaded a photo of my pint.

The biking Wykes brothers had apparently spent a cold night in a disused tyre shed near Keighley. They’d pressed on into the storm but bailed at Tan Hill. Their make-or-break approach with ultralight kit didn’t work out.

Fuzz, aka Ian Appleby, managed a little further with well-proven gear, but scratched east of Shap mid-afternoon. A decision forced by the freezing cold and dangerous riding conditions that saw him nearly crash on a few occasions. This was sad news to me as we’d had a few social media exchanges during the previous week. I’d expressed doubts about riding in the conditions forecast but Fuzz’s positivity convinced me to start. I was glad to read he was safe. The only other rider still standing was holed up in a heated camping pod for the night about 100 miles behind me.

Eating fish and chips, and on my second pint, I’d covered 285 miles and had 240 miles left to go. The biggest hills still lay ahead, though, and I was behind my schedule. The forecast for the next day looked good. All I had to do was keep pedalling.

I woke at 4am, knackered, stiff, and with a swollen knee. My head was fuzzy from the beer and I felt I could sleep for days. The sky grew light around Loweswater and the rain stopped. Climbing Whinlatter Pass was a joy and the sunrise at the top was beautiful. I was in my element. A buzzard flew alongside me, from fence post to fence post. A beautiful bird, and a beautiful day.

It didn’t feel like Hell anymore. I stopped at the top of Honister Pass for a leftover custard doughnut before cruising through Borrowdale towards the Co-op in Keswick. The road alongside Bassenthwaite was flooded in places because of the previous day’s deluge. I rode carefully through the shallow parts in an attempt remain dry, which worked well

❝Climbing Whinlatter Pass was a joy and the sunrise at the top was beautiful. I was in my element. A buzzard flew alongside me, from fence post to fence post. A beautiful bird, and a beautiful day ❞

until an oncoming car ploughed through and covered me head-to-toe in freezing, murky water. Cheers pal.

At Caldbeck it was warm enough to lose a layer. Then there was a flat section between the Lake District and the North Pennine’s. The next proper climb would be the long slog up to Hartside Moor. I’d done about 100 miles by the time I stopped at Alston, but there was still 140 hilly miles to go. My average speed was a slow 11mph and likely to drop. But if I pushed myself I thought I might be able to ride through the night and finish early on Monday morning.

I recalled an event organiser saying the North Pennines was the hardest part of this ride, and if any section would break a rider’s spirit, it would be here. I decided not to be that guy, and set about enjoying the brutal, bleak but beautiful landscape.

At Barnard Castle I had a bit of brain-fog. When did darkness fall? There were fewer than 100 miles to go, so I called my partner Kirsty at home in Halifax. She’d been following my progress. She said she thought I could do it, which was all I needed to hear. I was secretly questioning my own ability, but she believed in me, and I trusted her.

It’d been raining for quite a while when I got to Reeth. By the time I reached Gunnerside it was bouncing down again, sapping the heat from my body. The next climb was over the high and exposed Buttertubs Pass. I’m a fell runner at heart and have a fair bit of mountain experience. I think I’m capable of good mountain judgement and I understand the consequences of poor decision-making. Heading over this pass, at this time of night, in these conditions, while so fatigued, seemed a poor decision. But I pulled on the waterproofs and tackled the climb. It was steep and slow, but I warmed up quickly.

The run over high moors was actually enjoyable, followed by a lively decent into Hawes. The roads were greasy, and dodging darting rabbits and prickly hedgehogs required concentration. Leaving Hawes my brain got a bit more scrambled. It was sometime after midnight and my mind was playing tricks with the shadows. Mild hallucinations were setting in. Nothing too serious, just the occasional skeleton at the roadside, or dark figures in the shadows. I tried to ignore them.

The bike felt strange too. Had I shrunk? I’d been through a lot but didn’t really expect to shrink. Would I ever go back to normal? Ignoring the skeletons wasn’t working either. In surprise I swerved hard away from the verge. Was that a bloody witch opening the gate? I was wide awake now and in shock. I needed to reason with myself – witches aren’t real.

By the time I reached Wray I knew I had a problem. I couldn’t ride in a straight line, I was falling asleep in the saddle and it felt like I was riding a clown’s bike in a circus. I decided to have a sleep in a bus shelter. With only 30 miles to go to the finish, it wasn’t an easy decision but I couldn’t carry on like this.

I woke 30 minutes later – freezing cold. My body felt paralysed, but my head was clear, and I knew I had to get moving. The sleep monsters had gone, though, and the bike was back to normal size. I guess it was just fatigue.

The sky was now clear, with a full moon, but still chilly. I adjusted some layers at Quernmore, knowing there were some tasty climbs ahead. One last photo check-in at the Jubilee Tower, then a lovely ride through the Trough of Bowland. The hallucinations came back from time to time but much milder.

Then it was the last climb, up Waddington Fell as the sky lightened. It was all downhill from the summit back to Clitheroe and the early Monday morning traffic.

There’s something special about being alone for so long and pushing personal, mental and physical boundaries. I sometimes have moments of wishing to be at home, enjoying a comfortable life with Kirsty, settling down on the sofa or taking the dog for a walk in the woods. I enjoy these things and I miss them when

❝Mild hallucinations were setting in. Nothing too serious, just the occasional skeleton at the roadside, or dark figures in the shadows. I tried to ignore them ❞

I’m away, but when I’m comfortable, I long for adventure, challenges and exploration.

The Green Jersey was closed when I arrived at 7am. Nobody there, no tape to break nor cork to pop, just another photo check-in to prove I’d finished, then back to my van for a coffee. On this ride there’s no support, and validation of success relies heavily on the integrity of the rider. There are no prizes, so no reward for cheating. Nobody cares who “wins”.

The route looks like quite a journey on the map, but the cycling is the easy bit if you’re fit enough. It’s the self-management that’s the real challenge and the conditions add a lot to that. I never thought about stopping and never thought about quitting. I learned with sadness that I was the only one to complete the ride. Did I win? I finished last but I think I did OK, I’m content.