Cyclocross Ride.
Alone.
Perhaps the wisdom of undertaking this ride after riding for three days previously may be lacking but if the weatherman had not spoke with forked tongue, it surely would not have been quite as harsh. The return leg was due to be against the wind, fair enough, the 6 mph wind forecast would not have been a problem, the reality was somewhat more brisk.
Things began well enough, tarmac from Kildale to Bank Foot Farm, followed by the drag along the old rail track to The Incline. The Incline, an innocuous name masking the horror entailed in the ascent, especially with cross bike gearing, needless to say, it was not long before resorting to pedestrianism became necessary, twenty minutes or so of slogging against gravity brought the welcome sight of things levelling out. A short breather, to grab some snaps and then I remounted and rode along the old railway track to Rosedale, the track weaves sinuously for six miles across the moors, cunningly contouring the land to stay level, a testament to the skills of the navigators of long ago.
Rejoining the road at (thankfully) the top of Blakey Bank, the tarmac was followed past The Lion Inn, in a generally downward direction to Castleton, the alleged 6 mph wind trying to push me sideways across the road into the path of oncoming sheep and the occasional vehicle. A brief climb out of Castleton, I was only ascending as far as the bridleway leading through Danby Park to Danby village, some resurfacing work to the track made this a pleasant proposition, not the mud-fest it would have been a few weeks ago.
A left turn in Danby, bypassing The Stonehouse Bakery (now there’s a first) and a steady plod up the hill to the oddly named off-road track, Robin Hood’s Butts, oddly named but not all that unusual as it occurs twice more in North Yorkshire and can be found nationwide, generally describing Bronze Age barrows. Turning into the track also meant turning into the wind, seemingly roaring unobstructed from the North Atlantic, at least quadrupling the weatherman’s optimistic 6 mph. Shedding gears, I rode on grimly, hunkered down on the drops, picking lines through a track seemingly constructed from building detritus, dreaming wistfully of the 140mm of suspension travel on my mountain bike. The bus shelter with it’s Karl Striker mural (Teesside’s very own Banksy) eventually hove into view, bringing with it the promise of tarmac and downhill respite from the agony, by now most of my body had pain somewhere; arms aching from the battering they were taking on the rough tracks, back and neck aching from being on the drops, legs aching from pedalling for the fourth consecutive day. The road did not bring much relief, the majority of the downhill sections had to be pedalled and between Commondale and Kildale there is still a fair bit of climbing to be done. This may have been a relatively short route at 31 miles but I felt as though I had rode double that distance by the time I arrived breathless and sweating at Glebe Cottage for much needed sustenance.
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