If pushed to name my favourite region of the planet, I would, after much soul-searching, choose the Lake District. And if further pushed to narrow the choice, I might plump for the western end of Ullswater. There is something magical about driving in from Penrith, encountering the lake's foot at Pooley Bridge, then within a few miles finding yourself in fabulous mountain scenery all laid out below what I reckon is the finest mountain in England: Helvellyn. So when my cycling buddy, Robbie, pointed out that a notoriously difficult triathlon was conducted in this idyllic corner, I took notice.
"My older brother Matt did it," he said, portentously, "I have to beat him."
Sibling rivalry, I reflected, can be a destructive and self-defeating thing. But there again, my own elder brother had never done it and would undoubtedly be put out. A little research revealed that the Helvellyn Triathlon is considered to be in the top 10 toughest in the world: Alistair Brownlee did win it a few years ago (beating his brother) but mostly it does not attract elite athletes; they prefer flatter courses and smoother surfaces. This, I told myself, was a proper challenge: a one-mile swim in one of the coldest lakes in England, then a 38-mile bike ride over two big passes including the infamous "Struggle" over Kirkstone Pass, then the killer – a run up and down Helvellyn.
It was, at the time of Robbie's challenge, more than a year away. I could always pull out, I told myself. He would forget about it. It would be cancelled due to foul weather. I might break a leg, be kidnapped by aliens or suffer any number of other lucky escapes. A year rolled by. None of these mishaps occurred.
The night before the race we dined at the Old Water View in Patterdale, a good place to muse upon the changing nature of human interaction with the Lakes. From 1936 until 1991 Alfred Wainwright stayed regularly at this place, his favourite base for exploring Lakeland. His fellow guests in the early days were mostly well-heeled gentlemen fly fishermen, who little suspected what a revolutionary they were harbouring in their midst. In the evenings, while they fished the famous trout pool in front of the hotel, Wainwright would sit in the window and work on the sketches that would make his walking guides classics of the genre, and open the fells to a new demographic: ramblers.
More than half a century since the first Wainwright guide appeared, little has changed on the walks he popularised. The drawings are still accurate: the rocks and screes, barns and walls are all still there. What has changed is the people. Mountain bikers bounce over the summits of most peaks, paddlers in inflatable kayaks dot the waters below, and the person on the trail is just as likely to be running as walking. The way we relate to those fells has been changing yet again, and the Helvellyn Triathlon is definitely post-Wainwright.
So I find myself in a wetsuit with my feet in the freezing lake by the Glenridding pier on a bright Sunday morning in September. A group of serious walkers go past, casting puzzled looks at the 700 men and women standing in the shallows waiting for the start. We are clearly not engaging with our environment in a way they understand. And perhaps we are not, at that moment, communing with Nature as they are. We are just experiencing it. My mind, to be honest, is on the Struggle, a cycle ascent which holds a unique place in the hearts of two-wheeled masochists everywhere. Robbie and Matt, it transpires, are also thinking of it too – and Matt has actually done it before.
"I remember being halfway up and seeing this beautiful pair of Oakleys lying in the road. It broke my heart, but I couldn't stop – I'd never have got going again."
The hooter sounds for the first wave of swimmers, then the second. I immerse myself. Ullswater is the product of three glaciers. Now the third and final wave. I'm into my stroke. Someone swims into me. A hand whacks my head, and again, and again. I move to my right. Clear water. We head across the lake, then round a buoy and towards the Patterdale end. After a few minutes we swim out of the sunlight and into the deep shade of Place Fell. Suddenly it is colder. I wonder if anyone ever sees a fish looming under them. Tales of giant pike in Ullswater and 18th-century legends of 60lb trout are unverified, but the schelly, an Ice Age whitefish relic unique to just four lakes in Cumbria, grows to weigh about a kilo, but is seldom seen. Sometimes, however, after powerful electrical storms, these mysterious rarities are found dead on the shores. I see nothing except the occasional pale foot of someone going past me. I round the last buoy and head for the shore, now bathed in glorious welcome sunshine.
The cycling section follows: a lovely shore-side ride to Aira Force waterfall, then a climb and a long loop past Thirlmere, Rydal Water and Grasmere to Ambleside. I'm feeling good and 30 miles have already been gobbled up. An unwary competitor might think it was nearly over. At Ambleside we take a left turn and the road rears up to a 25% incline and stays that way for most of the subsequent three miles. The final few hundred metres are lined with cheering people, some wildly ringing Alpine cow bells. And – dammit! – there is a pair of sunglasses, possibly Oakleys, lying by the roadside and I know I cannot stop or I will never get back on. The moment of sadness passes quickly. It's actually a wonderful experience: like being Wiggins on the Col du Tourmalet. I'm on fire. I'm 30 minutes faster than I had predicted. Then comes the descent.
This is the tricky bit. Tight corners and oncoming traffic and the bike raring at the bit. I'm doing more than 40mph down a very steep hill. There's a cyclist by the road mending a puncture. Poor sod. He should have done like me and put new inner tubes in his tyres. I sweep contemptuously past a couple of cautious descenders, a nasty triumphant smile on my face. An open road. My speed increases. There is a sudden bang.
Hubris is an ancient Greek word that was applied to the crime of humiliating one's opponent – a dreadful offence in ancient times and one that invariably aroused the ire of the goddess Nemesis, dozing in her sanctuary near Marathon. This secret lair had been decorated with statues cut from the marble that the Persians had brought with them in 490BC ready to carve a victory stele when they had defeated Athens, a triumph they conspicuously failed to achieve. Once roused from her slumbers, Nemesis would mount a two-wheeled chariot drawn by griffins (Sturmey and Archer) and, brandishing an array of carpet tacks, set out on her mission to destroy cyclists who sneered. Divine retribution was swift and horrible. None escaped.
My steering started a violent wobble, which I fought to get under control. The back tyre had blown out. Fortunately no cars were around. I pulled up by the roadside to change the inner tube while all those cyclists I had passed came charging past. Trouble was, I couldn't think straight. I took the tyre off without taking the wheel off. I was in a tangle, cursing and panting. I could sense Robbie and Matt closing in on me. I could hear their hoots of laughter as they sped past. No, hang on, they would never give in to hubris – that was my forte. They'd probably stop and offer to help. Even more humiliating.
I slapped the wheel back on and started pumping. At 100 psi I stopped because I was seeing black dots shooting down into the ghyll. A competitor who appeared to be naked shot past. On the other side of the road a pink sheep stood staring at me. I took some deep breaths. The sheep remained pink. I packed my kit away and remounted.
A car came past me and I followed it down to the end of the lake and then into the transition area. Amazingly I was still ahead of Matt and Robbie. This spurred me on to change into running gear and throw my daysack on: full weather clothing, whistle, map and food were race requirements.
The change from cycling to running, as any triathlete will tell you, can be particularly horrible. I hobbled out of the area, past the cheering crowds, and then walked. Others were walking. It felt good to walk. We all climbed the first steep incline to the flat area known as Hole in the Wall, then we started to run. People were bantering.
"Is it a Chinese restaurant at the top or an Indian?"
"There's no restaurant – it's a teashop."
"You're thinking of Snowdon."
"Isn't this Snowdon?"
Another naked man passed me. He was wearing a naked suit. I felt like the friend who, after years of training, had been narrowly beaten in the London marathon by a man dressed as a toilet.
I began the long climb up Swirral Edge, a ridge that gets progressively steeper and narrower until two-legged runners were reduced to clamberers on all fours. That was when a familiar figure, actually managing to run, came past me and everyone else with a jovial greeting. Robbie.
"Queue-jumper!"
He was gone.
I reached the top. No teashop. I ran along the ridge with a man from Derbyshire who had started training three years before. "I was a fat smoking drinker who hadn't run since school. This is amazing. I'm 46 and I can't believe I've made it this far. I'm going to finish well inside my target of seven hours."
Once the descent started, however, any good feelings soon dissipated. It was horrible: a grinding, thumping agony of muscle and cartilage destruction that went on and on, all the way through the village and then to the finish.
The finishing line was like a depiction of hell by Hieronymus Bosch. One man ran into a tree; others simply toppled over. My own legs, once over the line, suddenly buckled under me. I got up and walked to the lake and went in to my waist. Robbie was there, and then Matt arrived. The fatigue fell away and was replaced with euphoria. The sun was rousing the hills into full late-summer glory. The colours seemed deeper and more resonant than I had ever seen them.
Robbie was grinning. "I thought today was going to be the worst day of my life. Instead … it was ... it was epic."
He had also beaten me.
"Next year?" I asked.
There was a pause, then we all started laughing.
• Helvellyn Triathlon 2013 is on 1 September. Entries open 1 February (trihard.co.uk). Giant (giant-bicycles.com) loaned Kevin a £1,999 Giant Defy Advanced 3 for the event. The Quiet Site (07768 727016, thequietsite.co.uk) at Watermillock, which has cottages sleeping up to nine from £400-£1,400 a week), camping pods that can sleep two adults and two children (£35-£50 a night), plus caravan and tent pitches, provided accommodation. The location is close to cycle routes at the eastern end of Ullswater. Dinner was provided by the Old Water View (017684 82175, oldwaterview.co.uk, doubles from £70 B&B), a guesthouse handy for the triathlon site and for walks up Helvellyn. Find further information about the Lakes at golakes.co.uk
