What the...Hills
(Or Why It's Not a Good Idea to do
the Peak District as a First Ride)
May 2, 1999

Distance: 66 miles
Elevation: 7,610 feet
Difficulty: 8/10 (at the time)
Scenery: 8/10;
Route: Macclesfield-Pott Shrigley-Kettleshulme-Goyt Valley-
Cat & Fiddle Inn-Wildboarclough-Sutton Lane Ends-Allgreave-
Greens-Flash-Gamball's Green-Axe Edge-Buxton-Harpur Hill-
Longnor-Gibb Tor-Greens-Allgreave-Sutton Lane Ends-Macclesfield

I decided to check out the Peak District following several recommendations of various people who'd gotten sick and tired of hearing me bellyache about how England, though exceptionally pretty, is not hilly enough for my riding preferences. I had been wanting to go earlier in the year, but since I committed myself to running the London Marathon (my 13th) in April, I had been pounding the pavement with my running shoes, and had been off the bike since last autumn. The marathon was sandwiched between two business trips across the Atlantic, and I had a bike trip planned to Tuscany the second week in May; thus it appeared the first bank holiday weekend in May looked to be my only chance this side of the summer to visit the Peak District.

(Above: Potts Shrigley)

And so, still somewhat jetlagged from my return from Chicago 2 days before, not too mention weak from the marathon effort of 2 weeks ago, I hopped on the Euston-Manchester express to see what all the fuss was about. I wasn't just out of shape, I wasn't in any shape.

To thicken the plot a little, this was to be Erasmus' (my new bike's) maiden trip. Having cycled most of the 90s with good ol' Ernie (now a pensioner) and his retro accoutrements of down-tube shifters and Campagnolo ca. 1991, I was thrust forward, at warp speed, into cutting-edge technology with Erasmus and his frame made of exotic alloy and carbon-fibre Ergo thingy gear set. And the bike was spec'd with bigger gears because, ahem...I intended to get fitter this year. Folly be praised!

My route for this day would take me, in a general clockwise direction, from Macclesfield and east to Buxton, then back to Macclesfield from the southeast.

It was a rather cold morning when I rolled out of the inn and headed north towards Bollington via a bland A523 and its anemic array of industrial parks. After a series of roundabouts, I turned right and was almost immediately transported into a quiet, laid-back place. I followed a beautiful, narrow road amidst wide-open, windswept moorland, checkered with classic British drystone walling, enclosed within which were sheep eyeing me with dumb curiosity. Oh, and I almost forgot. It was hilly. Before my cyclecomputer had registered 10 miles near Kettleshulme, I had gained a whopping 1,100 feet in elevation, most of it having been gained from the long climb that started in Pott Shrigley (whose intriguing name derived from the Middle English potte, "a deep hole," plus Old English scric+leah, "woodland clearing frequented by missel-thrushes.") and continued a little past Charles Head. This was followed by a quick, steep and a sharp right turn then an even longer climb up Oldgate Nick. The lower sections of this climb felt particularly steep to my undertrained legs. To be sure, the marathon training conferred an ancillary cardiovascular benefit: my heart did not even complain about the effort, but my legs did. I had plenty of gas, but not enough horsepower...

(Above: Looking back from the top of the climb to Pott Shrigley)

(Below: On the way to Kettleshulme)

From Oldgate Nick I dropped down, through a dense coniferous forest, into the Goyt Valley and the Erwood Reservoir, in the process encountering a rare phenonmenon of a road that stretched flatly before me. This road too, couldn't resist the temptation, and after about a mile turned uphill, leaving the reservoir's tributaries down the pretty canyons below.

(Above: On the climb out of Errwood Reservoir, looking back)

The ensuing area presented arguably the most picturesque and handsomely rugged part of the my bike ride. Here and there, brisk streams babbled, as if, morning having broken, they couldn't go about their business for the day without first getting their fill of gossip for breakfast.

(Above: Along the River Goyt)

This remote-looking stretch (but two A roads were just up yonder), with its lush vegetation, small canyons, and mini-waterfalls, triggered recollection of the rides I used to do around Geyserville in California's Sonoma County. You got to hand it to the English. That the Peak District, a place of great beauty but little utilitarian value, lodged between Manchester and Sheffield (cities that played dominant roles in England's Industrial Revolution), was spared ravaging in spite of what must have been great demand for fuel and other resources, showed remarkable foresight, or at least great restraint on the part of the English (although there were quarrying, lead and copper mining, the exploitation could have been much worse). In 1951, the Peak District became Britain's first national park. The Industrial Revolution had come and gone, leaving in its wake hard-up steel and coal-dependent communities of the north, yet the park lives on.

But anyway...I turned right at the next T-intersection. A much steeper road took over from the previous pleasant rolling stretch, this one going up, with fierce determination, as if trying to make the last call, to the Cat & Fiddle Inn at the A537. This was one of those climbs where you can see how much higher you need to climb--in this case, the fast-moving cars on the A537 looked very tiny--while the road ahead of me had no signs of letting up. I crossed the road upon reaching the summit and, before I could catch my next breath, started accelerating on a screaming descent down towards Wildboarclough. Here, the road levelled off a little. "This isn't so bad, after all," I started thinking, when all of a sudden, I found myself ambushed, as if by a wild boar's claw, by an absolutely vicious, twisting, half-mile incline of at least 15% vintage, and rarely, if ever, dipping less than that. This was the kind of profile that always looks appealing to a house-bound cyclist, sitting comfortably in the living room with a steaming cup of hot cocoa, in the dead of winter, while cold rain beats at the windows, and the cyclist excitedly scanning maps for challenging roads to ride for the upcoming cycling season. A few months later, invectives spew forth from the same cyclist, as profusely as stinging sweat dripping from his forehead to his eyes. What made it worse was that this raod was the result of a wrong turn I took on what I thought was the short connecting road to the A54 and, shortly thereafter, the Allgreave.

(Below: At the top of the offending hill, somewhere near Wildboarclough)

(Above: The road from Allgreave, heading east)

The ensuing descent deposited me at Sutton Lane Ends, tantalizingly within a mile of Macclesfield, and a hot cup of coffee. But I turned the bike around and negotiated the 3-mile steady uphill to the A54 junction, and a quick game of let's-intimidate-the-cyclist with motorists rush, rush, rushing to they know not where. It was the Sunday morning of a holiday weekend, ferevinssakes, give your engines a rest!

(Above: Looking down the steep plunge towards River Dane)
(Below: The river at Greens)

I left the disappointed motorists at Allgreave for another steep uphill followed by an equally steep plunge down the River Dane (a figurative plunge, I should clarify), followed by a long, steady climb up the A53, via the enigmatically monickered village of Flash (which claims to be the highest village in England). Methinks the name would benefit from the appendage of "!" (thus, Flash!). I made an ill-advised turn at the top and, in a...well...flash!...came down a steep road, and (grrrrrrrrr....) ended up, royally puzzled, back near River Dane, where I started the climb. So up went the fool again. Funny, the novelty of coming up to a village named Flash was missing the second time around...At this point I had climbed almost 5,000 feet with a good 30 more miles to go.

(Below: At 1,518 feet, Flash claims to be the "highest village in Britain.")

Last Updated: May 16, 1999