Ride 013.

Date:  15th February 2004                   Distance: 21.5 miles

Another ride on a Sunday, us shift folk don’t realise how difficult it is to do normal things, like parking at a local beauty spot on a weekend, even on a grey February day. Being a Sunday we had a couple of guests riding with us, Monday to Friday toilers but still significantly fitter (not to mention younger) than us layabouts.

We managed to grab what may have been the last three parking spaces in North Yorkshire and dragged the bikes out into the murk. Dominic mentioned his freehub had been playing up a little, actually it didn’t engage at all but a bit of a light tapping with a boulder and a dip in the stream soon had it back in working order.

We began in a similar fashion to TTB 12, into Clain Woods and down the steps, along the singletrack and out into Scugdale, Harfa House and its slurry lagoon were given a wide berth this time. Tarmac took us to the head of Scugdale; the pace of our guests left a lot to be desired, new lungs, bigger legs, more determination, we desired them all. Unimaginative alliteration christened them Awesome Adam and Dynamic Dom.

 The push up to Stoney Wickes doesn’t get any easier but the riding up Barkers Ridge was slightly wind-assisted. We branched off on a doubletrack of dubious legality – although I have never been challenged despite meeting many Landrovers chugging along it – leading to Cock Howe and the motorway-width track along Wether Hill toward the Bilsdale Mast. Plunging blithely into a section of the infamous North Yorkshire yellow mud, the fast boys soon became the clogged boys, trying vainly to dig the cloying mud from under brake arches and off tyres. Bikes eventually back in running order, some sweet singletrack through the heather brought us out at the mast, the top hidden in the low cloud. Another day to be thankful for the happy glasses.

The bridleway led us down past Low Thwaites, speed increasing as the surface improved, to Moor Gate. Crossing the road, Dynamic Dom almost became the second person of my acquaintance to fall in a cattle grid following an ill-advised right turn halfway across. Another bridleway took us to Hill End House then steeply down to Low Wood and the River Rye, some of our thoughtful equestrian brethren had previously taken the same route, churning up the soft ground into a claggy quagmire which gave us a few falls but no submissions. A bit of entertaining river riding and a sharp steep bank brought us out onto the road at New Hall where we regrouped prior to the dreaded Arden Bank.

The respective fitness – or lack of it – of the various members became apparent here, the two whippersnappers taking a significant lead, pursued gamely by Oz. In fourth place came myself, concentrating on keeping a rhythm on the greasy surface and then just concentrating on keeping my legs actually moving. Bob brought up the rear - as befits his advanced years and nicotine-clogged lungs.

A straight-forward pedal brought us into the Drove Road and once again down the Mad Mile, where I managed to fall off cruising (in my fevered imagination anyway) the drop-offs. Back on the bike, I caught up with the others and we enjoyed the late afternoon emptiness to hone our negligible jumping skill on the water bars and gravel humps. I almost made it to the café at Chequers before my back tyre was completely flat, the result of a badly weighted bunny-hop landing.

Evidently the younger, fitter contingent had arrived at the café before us  and we’re greedily hogging the fire by the time I’d fixed the pinch flat. Suitably reactivated by the caffeine fix we rolled the last mile or so down to Sheepwash and the cars, where a bizarre cycle cleaning ritual, involving a purloined washing up brush and the stream, was enacted by some of our team. Either they don’t possess hosepipes or their water supply is metered.

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