Ship’s Log: "It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time" – Peak District Test

Ah yes, another meticulously planned exercise in self-inflicted suffering. This was the first big test I’d been training for. Six school friends and I were converging on the Peak District for a weekend of civilized socializing, so naturally, I decided to precede this with a personal odyssey of excessive elevation gain. Three major climbs, two of the top 100 UK cycling climbs, and one increasingly questionable life choice.

It also seemed like the perfect opportunity to assess the national rail network’s commitment to accommodating bicycles—or at the very least, to see if my bike and I would be allowed on board without too much existential drama. Thanks to a rare stroke of financial luck, I had snagged a train ticket for just £15 to cover the 100-mile journey to Chesterfield. Reserving a cycle berth was mandatory but, in a shocking deviation from bureaucratic tradition, entirely painless. (Yes, that is a child's bike lock.)

Demonstrating an uncharacteristic degree of foresight, I had offloaded all non-cycling-related gear to a friend the previous day, thus allowing me to travel unencumbered in full cycling kit. A minor hiccup occurred in the form of a late-running train and a brief sprint across Kettering station, but overall, the journey was mercifully smooth.

Upon my grand arrival in Chesterfield, I set off immediately on a local cycle path, which, to my astonishment, actually existed and was even usable—a rare and joyous occurrence in British cycling infrastructure. My first warm-up climb was Harewood Road, a three-mile ascent designed to remind me that gravity is, in fact, still a thing. Pacing myself sensibly, I reached the top in respectable fashion, only to engage in my now-customary mid-ride wardrobe change at mile eight. (Refer to previous logs for similar incidents of sartorial indecision.) This time, however, it was a planned maneuver, as I swapped from a light weight short-sleeved thermal, which fitted conveniently into my bike bag.

I was also treated to a quintessentially northern/midlands greeting from a passing cyclist—"How do!"—delivered with the kind of cheerful brevity that suggests both warmth and a deep mistrust of unnecessary syllables. I then carried on, emboldened by the fact that I had successfully conquered the first climb of the day without catastrophic failure.

Next up: Curbar Edge. One mile long. Average gradient: 11%. Maximum gradient: “Oh dear.” I paced myself, embraced the challenge, and made it to the top. I stole a glance over my shoulder just before the final bend and was rewarded with a breathtaking panorama of the Peaks. Naturally, by the time I reached the summit, where I turned to admire what I assumed would be an awe-inspiring view—I discovered that the final bend had cruelly concealed it from sight. A travesty.

After a brief interlude in a car park to perform an advanced level of snack management (flapjacks and jelly babies, arranged for optimal accessibility), I was back on the move. Bakewell was my next stop, where I indulged in a rare full lunch at the Chakra Lounge. The latte was superb, the portion of scrambled eggs on avocado bagels was absurdly large, and my attempt to finish it all ended in (perhaps sensible) dignified defeat.

Hydration was next on the agenda, and with scientific precision, I replenished my fluids with the only available option: diluted Powerade from a local shop. Then came another joyous test of willpower—a 1.43-mile climb with an 8% average gradient and a 20% max gradient. By this point, I had begun refining my climbing strategy: stay in the saddle for anything under 15%, stand up when it felt like my legs were being personally victimized by the incline, and try not to question my life choices too much.

Buxton appeared unexpectedly in my route, a reminder that past-me had been particularly ambitious with planning. Out of Buxton, another climb—because of course there was—after which I paused for another energy infusion (jelly babies, naturally) and a map check. Notably, I passed an active rail freight operation, presumably part of some local mining endeavor, though I was too busy trying to breathe to investigate further.

Monsal Head awaited: a short, sharp climb that cyclists apparently attempt voluntarily. I let a minibus trundle past, then tackled it with steady pacing. I emerged at the top of the climb victorious and was greeted with an ice cream van and a trio of men enjoying a pint. My search for a soft drink was thwarted by pitch license restrictions, so I settled for a small Mr. Whippy—a consolation prize I accepted with grace.

With most of the climbing behind me, I should have continued my sensible pacing strategy. Instead, high on accomplishment, I overestimated my remaining energy reserves and sped towards Bakewell. This, it turns out, was an error. There were still 17 miles to go, including an increasingly soul-destroying ride via Matlock to Crich. I stopped for yet another drink refill, an act of wisdom that likely prevented me from collapsing in a crumpled heap. The final climb pushed me to my limits—cramp loomed ominously—but I made it to the top, triumphantly beating sunset and rolling downhill to the cottage, where I was greeted by my (well-rested) friends.

Final assessment: An epic ride, spectacular views, dry weather, and an almost comedic amount of headwind for the final 20 miles. Would I recommend cycling in the Peak District? Absolutely. Would I do it again? Well, given that there are still more of the 100 Greatest Cycling Climbs to tick off… yes, obviously.

Most importantly, this felt like a true milestone in my training—evidence that I might actually be able to pull off Chase the Sun.

It’s on, baby. Oh, it is so on.

69 miles. 5700ft elevation.