Mountain Bike Ride.
The Pensioner, The Bread Lad.
It all started so well, the sun high in the blue sky, casting a little warmth onto an unusually prompt trio in Kildale station car park. Bikes assembled, we exited with a vague plan to check out the Esklets track, near Westerdale. First we dragged ourselves up the road to Warren Farm, followed by The Field Of Heavy Gravity and the portage over Kildale Moor until we could remount for the technical downhill into Baysdale. This is rocky and becomes fairly steep, scene of many a Terra Trailblazers/heather interface; judging by the shouting and swearing coming from The Pensioner, who was behind us, today was no different. From the ruined barn, we took the bridleway, heading east along Baysdale to join the Westerdale road, the closed road, presently being resurfaced by a gang of road workers, one of whom came over for a chat as me and The Bread Lad waited for the elderly one. He wasn’t impressed by The Pensioner’s maturity, declaring he was just a lad and shouldn't be holding the other two up by dawdling.
A cautious descent to the ford at Hob Hole followed, loose chippings, wet tar and large machines belching flame and gravel meant we erred on the side of caution. The climb out of the other side was okay, mainly because the ford was dry, so we could carry our speed up the hill. A right turn onto the John Breckon Road took us past the bridleway for Hograh Moor, a North York Moors classic, which to be honest is (like The Curate’s Egg) only good in parts, a lot of it being un-pedallable ruts.
The John Breckon road terminates to a track further along, we rode the track through farms and over fields before joining a better track to New House Farm where some more field bashing eventually deposited us on another dead end road, which took us to Waites House Farm, where we expected to ride uphill to meet up with another, more established track which would speed us south along the valley, passing Esklets Crag and onto the old rail track to Bloworth Crossing. A simple enough plan, it all looked so easy on the map; in real life - not so good. Arriving at the farm, it was all going so well, the name on the farm’s drive matched the name on the map, so far: so good, rounding a curve we were presented with a labyrinth of gates, heading in all directions, untracked ground and less signposts than we have ovaries. We knew where we wanted to go, there just did not seem to be any kind of track heading in that direction, so a spot of bushwhacking was required, the next half hour or so being spent pushing and carrying bikes through bogs and over heather moor, all relentlessly uphill, heading for the promise of a definite track which we ought to intercept just over the next rise. Oh. Maybe the next one, or just after those rocks, behind that clump of heather? Richie’s favourite phrase “This is not mountain biking” was uttered with various degrees of irony/disgust/dejection. Eventually the track was there, broad, firm and downhill, it’s amazing how quickly the trials of the previous half hour were relegated to the section of memory shared with other best forgotten experiences, Coldplay, jellied eels, root canal fillings, colonoscopies. The track carves sinuously down the valley, passing the crags of Esklets, a once popular climbing venue, now little troubled by chalk-handed cragrats who would rather climb indoors than walk to somewhere so remote.
As the saying ought to go: what goes down, must go up and the gentle rise I recalled, up to the old rail track between Blakey Ridge and Bloworth Crossing actually turned out to be three hundred feet of ascent. From here we knew it was all plain sailing, on familiar tracks, despite being only half way through the ride, we felt as though we were on the last leg. It must be said, the rail track is dull but the views across Farndale make it worthwhile. A last breather at Bloworth Crossing - once a genuine crossing with a few railway workers’ cottages, such a bleak location it was nicknamed Siberia by the staff. The crossing keeper had to leave his house twice a day and open the gates for the train to pass through on its way to and from the Ingleby Incline. Still slightly more work than The Pensioner managed in his latter years turning the wheels of industry. We followed the Cleveland Way to Kildale at a somewhat speedier pace than the first half of our ride, the last section - the Baysdale Abbey road, plunges down the hillside and speeds which might be considered unwise for pilots of two wheeled velocipedes are reached, particularly considering the suicidal sheep whose knowledge of The Green Cross Code could be improved. Or maybe they are simply playing chicken to enliven their existence, either way, the sight of a partially-sighted pensioner bearing down on them at 35 mph does not fill them with the terror it ought to.
Speaking of The Pensioner, now we were within smelling distance of the cafe, a sudden burst of enthusiasm or even, dare we say it, energy, saw him barge between his companions and forge ahead like Mark Cavendish sprinting for the line. Obviously not trying hard enough for the previous eighteen miles. Soon we were contemplating doorstep sandwiches at Glebe Cottage to replace the lost calories, unfortunately one of the last corned beef and pickle behemoths we shall ever eat, as Colin and Heather are taking a well earned break from the demands of mud-covered idiots and hungry walkers. Details here.
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