More Hills on Wheels (conclusion)
Riding the Peak District: The Sequel

After a fast descent directly into Hathersage and a rare mile of flat road, I veered back west into another absolutely beautiful (and yes, steep) road connecting Hathersage to Great Hucklow, via Abney.

(Above and Below: Near Abney)

Although getting tired, I decided to stick to my planned route. I had three days after this ride before Erasmus and I would fly off to Tuscany on a short bike trip; my thought at the time was that three days should give me enough time to rest and to recover. Anyway, this road to Abney was one of the most beautiful roads in the ride, with an expansive view of the valley immediately below (and of Bamford Moor, from where I had just ridden down), giving way to a quiet stretch of drystone-walled farms dappled with wildflowers, then followed by a gentle, winding descent on glass-smooth surface into Great Hucklow. A mile before Great Hucklow, at Camphill, I passed what looked to be a model-airplane aviation club, although some of the planes looked too big to be considered "toys."

Flat roads returned by way of Great and Little Hucklows, then Tideswell. Here, the dandelions were out in full force. I was surrounded by a sea of yellow. Funny, upon seeing one humble dandelion in the urban back garden, one’s tendency is to pull it out as "weed." Yet, out in the country, where they’re allowed to roam free in great colonies, they looked perfectly at home, and their aesthetic beauty compare favorably to anything nature has to offer.

(Below: The Common Dandelion of the daisy family, species Taraxacum officinale)

(Above: Tideswell church, the "Cathedral of the Peak," dating from the Middle Ages
when Tideswell was an important market town and mining center)

Serious climbing resumed west of Tideswell—the most notable one being the first 200 yards of the road to Wheston, a road whose worse stretch felt like 15%, at least; in a couple of spots I felt as if I were standing still. Alternating fields of dandelions and poppies helped lift my spirit. By the time I reached Dove Holes, at about 50 miles, my legs (and my brain) were toast. As I followed the road that went behind the train station, I could just tell that it, too, would be turning steep. So I stopped, tore open a sachet of GU energy goop (courtesy of a care package from California) and consumed it with a few gulps of water. My premonition proved right; the road to Combs was narrow and steep, with long, steady pitches of 8-10%. It was now apparent that the road intended to climb up and over, instead of around, these rugged hills to get to Combs.

(Above and Below: The frightening road above Combs)

Though the climb was steep, the drop was much steeper—I had to ride the brakes all the way down, for fear of losing control. From experience, I’ve come to realize that roads seem steeper as one descended it, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if this one was over 22%. And thus a minor consolation: I’d approached the climb from the less severe side. With a sigh of relief, I released my tense grip on the levers as I bottomed out and approach the quiet settlement of Combs.

My plan, in an effort to shorten my route (my original intent of having an easy second day now a distant memory and almost 60 miles ago) , was to continue due west towards Horwich End, but partly because I’d lost all the elevation from my last climb, and partly because the road (via Ladder Hill) seemed even more daunting than the one I had just been on, and most definitely because I’m zapped of energy, I opted for the gentle road north towards the B5470 for Chapel-en-le-Frith. Macclesfield was a tantalizing 9 miles away, but to reach it, I knew that there was that 12% wall at Horwich End west of the A5004 (I had ridden down it earlier) that I would have to climb. I decided to take a road slightly north, near the Whaley Bridge train station, and follow what I hoped would be a more benign road around the Toddbrook Reservoir which connected with the B5470 at Kettleshulme.

(Above and Below: Near the Toddbrook Reservoir after a steep climb)

But this road, too, was quite steep—at least 12%, but felt like more—and, because it was primarily residential, not very pretty. But the scenery around it opened up as the road climbed higher, culminating in a curving ridge with outstanding views of the moors to the west and the hills to the south. I also noticed that people inside a couple of cars that came up from the other side were looking at me with a bemused expression. I did not pay much attention to this. I finished my last supply of fuel—half a Cadbury bar-- and continued on my way, only to quickly realize what was behind those looks.

I almost tumbled over my bike’s handlebars—before me was a cobbled lane about 100 yards long, with patches of green moss here and there with an incline of over 30%. Since I was standing at the road's summit, all sweaty and looking exhausted, those people must have thought I had just gone up it! I foolishly tried to ride down, eventually lost control, but luckily managed, at the last second, to steer the bike towards an uphill section of a private driveway. Somewhat shaken, I dismounted and clip-clopped the rest of the cobbled section without further incident.

After a couple of miles, the road, after a moderate climb, hooked up with the B5470. I knew I had one last hill to climb. Past Kettleshulme, the B5470 started climbing and curving counterclockwise in a horseshoe pattern before it crested near the Pott Shrigley road junction. This was my third time on this road (twice downhill, and now, uphill) in two days. This time, I had just enough to get to the top. After a couple more miles of rolling hills, I reached Rainow and started hurtling down towards Macclesfield, amazed at the sheer length of the descent (about 5 very fast miles).

I was wired from the descent and reached Macclesfield with an adrenaline rush. I had an hour before the train arrived, so I had a quick wash and a bite to eat. After I had rested, I reflected on what I had accomplished these last two days. Not bad considering that two weeks ago, I was pounding the pavement around Canary Wharf and the Isle of Dogs praying for the arrival of the next mile marker in the London Marathon. Quite pleased with the rides I’d done, and with a new-found respect for the severity of the English hills, I then headed out to the train station to catch the train to London and to rejoin the herd the next day.

(Below: Macclesfield and its handsome church. Macclesfield
was once important as the center of the English silk industry)

Last Updated: May 23, 1999