The Lakeland 200 is arguably the toughest MTB route in England.  So tough that only 35 people have completed it in under 40 hours to make it onto the official finishers list. So you’d not expect MTB newbie and staff member Molly Weaver to pick it as her first ever MTB challenge just three weeks after getting an MTB, let alone think about attempting to set a new women’s Fastest Known Time.  But after recovering from a bout of Covid that meant she had to scratch while leading GBDuro Molly was looking do something different to round off the season, and the Steezy Collective’s adventures on the Lakeland 200 provided all the inspiration she needed.  So a trip to the Lake District was rapidly planned, before the Autumn weather turned and daylight hours shrank even further…

Sitting alone in the back of a van at 3am downing coffee and shovelling porridge into my mouth, I felt surprisingly calm about the 200 kilometre challenge I was about to face. I was excited to step out of my comfort zone, and see how far I could push myself into the unknown. I really had no right to think I could set an FKT (Fastest Known Time) on a route like this, but part of me believed I could. That was enough, a small chance is still a chance.

I had read blogs about the route, spent hours studying maps, watching videos, and trying to build a picture of the terrain in my mind. I knew it was going to be tougher than anything I’d attempted before, but your imagination can only take you so far.

The bike was unfamiliar, I felt under-skilled, my off-bike strength and fitness far below what it needed to be, and googling pictures of climbs really isn’t the same as hiking them.

Regardless, I felt drawn to this route like no other, and to really understand the Lakeland 200 you have to ride it.

Breakfast eaten, feet taped, a triple check of my backpack, a quick pump of the tyres, one last look at the map, and with that it was go time. It would just be me, my bike and the mountains for the next 24 hours or so.

I tried to calm myself down and settle into a rhythm over the first few kilometres; easier said than done when the road immediately tipped up a massive climb, but I knew this was going to be a marathon and not a sprint. Any obstacle encountered in the early stages of the ride soon to be dwarfed by those that still lay ahead.

Tarmac turned to gravel, and it was onto the Walna Scar Road. The trail illuminated by the beam of my headtorch, I could still see the lights of civilisation glowing in the distance, but ahead of me only the ominous outlines of the hills broke up the dark horizon.

I knew this would be one of the easier climbs of the route, but it focused the mind and demanded the first of many efforts from my legs. The rideable gravel periodically turning into a steep rocky traverse, forcing me to lift the bike onto my back and hike. A small taster of what was to come.

Time flew through this opening sector, and lifted my confidence. Glancing down at the schedule taped to my top tube I could see I was on target, and I remember naively musing that ‘this isn’t so hard’ as I began the sweeping descent.

Through the early hours and onto Burnmoor Tarn as dawn broke. I’d heard bad things about this section of the route, and not because of the difficulty of the terrain on paper. More that it is an indistinct, and sometimes entirely non-existent, path through a massive bog. It’s difficult not to lose your head when progress is so slow on what would otherwise be an unremarkable stretch, but I had prepared myself for this. I kept taking wrong turns in the grassland, overshooting a trail that I could barely make out in the darkness, and sinking into deep mud and water. Slow on the pedals, slow on the mind, but all bad things must come to an end.

I had sufficiently built the bog up in my mind that in reality it couldn’t possibly be as awful as I had anticipated. Just as soon as it had begun, it was over. Well, not quite. I did have a few angry words and tantrums along the way, but there was fortunately nobody else there to witness them.

Riding through the dawn light, the kilometres ticking by over some beautiful and relatively sedate trails. I was enjoying being immersed in the landscape, but the shadow of Black Sail Pass was already hanging over me.

Beginning the ascent, I savoured those last few pedal strokes before the hiking began. Lifting the bike onto my back, really wishing I’d gone for walks or done some strength training in the leadup to this, I looked ahead to the path stretching out above me. The sheer scale of this pass is intimidating; the hikers towards the top are barely visible dots in the distance.

One step at a time, clip clopping over the rocks in my cleats, I definitely didn’t have appropriate footwear for this.

For long stretches the climb treats you to a fairly consistent surface, and a shallow upward pitch, but this is punctuated by others that are more of a scramble than a hike. Trying not to fall backwards off the hillside, or trip and belly flop onto the rocks, caution sometimes beats speed. As I passed each hiker, sharing a few words about how ridiculous it was to carry a bike up Black Sail Pass, I would use the next one as a stepping stone. I just had to get to them, the remainder of the climb would follow.

Taking small victories, I particularly enjoyed watching those with dry shoes trying to pick a line through the river that crossed the path. My feet were already festering in the puddle in mine, so I couldn’t help but enjoy splashing straight through it.

I was coping surprisingly okay with the hiking until the last few pitches of Black Sail. Don’t get me wrong, my legs were screaming throughout, but they only began to buckle underneath me in the last fifteen minutes of walking. For the first time I considered the possibility that maybe I couldn’t do this, maybe this wasn’t meant for me. There is a fine line between pushing yourself out of your comfort zone in a positive way, and simply being way out of your depth.

Each step up was taking all of my strength and concentration, my balance beginning to fail me. I lowered the bike to the ground to give my back some relief, stood up straight, breathed in the fresh clear air, and took a moment to look at where I was. To really feel how lucky I was.

With the moment over, and the bike placed back on my shoulders, the seemingly endless walk continued until I finally saw the ground flattening out ahead of me. I optimistically remounted and began to pedal, relief washing over me. The relief was short lived however, as I quickly learned my optimism was misplaced. The descent definitely wasn’t one I would be riding. It was clear that any attempt to remount briefly would be slower than fully committing to the half scramble, half run down the mountain.

Just as my calves and achilles tendons were reaching breaking point, the final few footsteps were done. Picture an elegant jog across the fells, rather than the uncoordinated trip and stumble over the rocks that it really was. I’m not sure if I was walking my bike or if it was walking me.

The break between climbs was short, with just enough time to try and spin some of the tightness out of my legs. Passing walkers in the valley, everyone shared encouraging words as I rolled down the trail. There’s something about being out in nature that brings out the best in people, and this is certainly something I experienced on this ride.

I had just relaxed into pedalling again when I began the ascent of Scarth Gap Pass. I’d forgotten about it entirely at the time, and I’ve also forgotten about it since. I overshot the turn onto the pass, enjoying the sedate trail I was on a bit too much, and cursed the fact that there was so little respite on this route.

Aside from that, I don’t remember the actual climb at all. Perhaps it pales in significance when compared to Black Sail, or perhaps I was just so tired that my brain couldn’t process the memory. Either way, all I can say is that it was hard. This whole stretch across the Western Fells is the hardest of the ride. Black Sail Pass is not comparable to anything I have faced before, and the fact that it is immediately followed by an unrideable descent and then another big climb only rubs salt into the wound.

Back below the mountains, finally freewheeling along a farm trail that required little to no mental or physical exertion, I was still on target and happy that the first big obstacle was behind me.

I found myself looking forward to the turn onto Honister Pass, which is something I never thought I would say. It was one of very few road stretches on the route, and the idea of rolling up a smooth tarmac climb seemed like a relaxing prospect in the context of the terrain I’d just been immersed in.

Living up to my expectations, the climb was indeed stunning and relatively easy in comparison to what I had just faced. Drivers cheered me on from their cars as they overtook, which I felt undeserving of as I spun up the road in my enjoyably low gear. It was a much needed moment to switch off and relax, rather than the mammoth undertaking it would normally be.

Over the top, and the turn back onto the rough stuff was almost immediate. A road descent would have been too easy, right?! The Lakeland 200 route is relentless in its brutality, and moments of rest are few and far between.

I made my first and only stop of the ride in Keswick to refuel. A milkshake, a red bull, and a sandwich later, I stuffed a bag of Jelly Babies and a Snickers into my backpack and pressed on. I knew taking the record would be tight, so I didn’t have the luxury of taking too long a break.

As I began riding up towards Lonscale Fell, I cracked. History has taught me that fatigue is rarely linear; I will often feel as though I have hit the wall and then rally again in the kilometres that follow. This is easy to objectively know, and harder to truly believe in the moment. I was getting slower, an incline that should have been easy was draining my legs, and my mental fortitude was wavering. I was just really tired, and there was no time for that.

Turning the corner onto the more technical plateau at the top of the hill, I saw some riders at the side of the trail and said hi. Then I heard my name. We shared a few words, and they shared their encouragement. Sometimes people come along at just the right time, and my spirits were lifted as I pushed on in solitude along the fell. The fatigue I had just been feeling began to fall away again.

The next 50 kilometres or so are all a bit of a blur, leading towards High Street at around 120 kilometres. I knew this would be the other major hike of the route, and would fight it out with Black Sail to be the toughest section of the ride, so everything else felt like a long, hard, build up to the main event.

Aside from a few flashes of trails in my mind, the only other memorable moment during this stretch was the Old Coach Road, which I loved and hated in equal measure. It was a stunning gravel track, with mountain views to match, but it was also deceptively hard. As I rolled onto it the gradient looked fairly sedate; wearing, but entirely rideable. In reality the surface is just slightly too loose, the rocks a little too big, and the gravel slightly too deep to get any traction. Constantly spinning out as it got steeper, it was quicker to get off and push at points. Through a barely discernible gap in the hillside, and it was out onto a more rideable surface again.

With High Street looming in the distance, the run in had begun.

If I hadn’t ascended Black Sail Pass earlier in the day, this would easily have been the biggest undertaking I had ever faced on two wheels (or, more accurately, two legs). The intimidation factor was lower, as the climb gradually revealed itself as I moved upwards, and the terrain was thankfully more conducive to wheeling the bike. Although I lifted it onto my back fairly regularly in the pursuit of speed, I was able to keep two wheels on the ground far more than I feared. Given how exhausted my arms and upper body were, this was a big relief.

It was another long tiring hike, my legs once again reminding me that they were not made for walking. The minutes and kilometres ticked by, but I had no real feel for how much time was passing. It takes as long as it takes, one foot in front of the other.

With the slow progress allowing time to take in my surroundings, I felt totally calm and content as the summit approached. The panoramic view was nothing short of incredible. One of the most beautiful moments riding a bike has ever given me. Even with the pain and fatigue of the last 15 hours weighing heavy on my entire body, it was impossible not to take it all in and smile.

Over the highest point, through a gap in the crumbling stone wall, and onto a slightly hair-raising descent. The trail, if you can call it that, measured about a foot wide in places, with the sheer drop to my right not looking particularly inviting. I rode down as fast as I could, while not taking any risks. Unclipping my left foot to act as an anchor during some of the more sketchy patches.

Despite the occasional close call on the rubble, I loved every second of it. Adrenaline pumping, flying through the landscape, completely alone in the mountainous expanse.

Into the valley, time to get pedalling.

I had a fairly good sense of what lay ahead from my pre-ride research, and there’s always something nice about being in the home stretch. Even with 6 or 7 hours of riding remaining, the need to carefully pace the effort reduced somewhat, and in relation to the ground already covered I was on the run into the finish.

I had chosen to start/finish in Coniston in the hope that it would give me a relatively ‘easy’ final few hours of night time riding, both in terms of the technicality of the terrain and navigation. Judging from the maps, despite there still being thousands of metres to climb, this would be done over trails that are closer to what I am used to riding. The fells behind me, and forestry trails ahead.

In reality I had slightly misjudged just how hard even the easiest parts of this route would be. It was still definitely a good decision on my part, but I fitted plenty of suffering into the final 50 kilometres anyway.

I had known from the very beginning that if I was going to set a new FKT then it was going to be close, but it was getting ever closer.

My original aim, although somewhat arbitrary, of 22 hours was looking less and less likely. The time was ticking on ever quicker as I made each wrong turn, with mental and physical tiredness creeping further in as the route became increasingly convoluted. When the trail tipped upwards onto each un-rideable surface I could feel the record slipping away, and even on the smooth climbs my legs were almost entirely drained by this point.

I focused on moving forward as fast as I could, even when that was pretty slow. The fact that it was going to be close was spurring me on. Close doesn’t mean impossible, it means exciting. Given that I’d been riding for almost an entire day and night at this point, it was the motivation I needed.

Finally emerging out of the forest, I saw the signpost to Coniston. Two miles, downhill all the way. I had over twenty minutes in hand, and for the first time I knew I was going to do it. Pushing on with everything I had left, which wasn’t much, I completed the lap.

22 hours 35 minutes 35 seconds. A new record.

I stood at the side of the road and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This ride meant a lot to me for a number of reasons, and the fact that the journey ended here, on a silent street corner at 2:30am, the mountains silhouetted against the night sky, felt fitting. Just me and my bike.

I found it hard to pinpoint what I was feeling at the time, but it was pride. I was proud of myself. It wasn’t perfect, in fact I have a list of mistakes and missteps, but it was exactly what I needed it to be. It was beautiful and transformative.

If you’d have asked me if I was capable of completing the Lakeland 200 a couple of months ago, let alone riding it in this way, I would probably have laughed. It felt like an entirely unrealistic idea to even entertain, but here we are.

You are always capable of so much more than you think.

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Molly Weaver.