The Second Ride Of The Year.

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Trainee.

6th January route.

Still it continues, precipitation of a persistent nature, dribbling incessantly from a monochrome sky the colour of a pewter tankard. Like Johnny Cash sang “I ain’t seen the sunshine since I don’t know when.” We are not stuck in Folsom Prison, our freedom gained by liberal use of waterproof outer garments and a good dose of old fashioned obstinance. Our route began in Great Ayton and was essentially the ride we did on Christmas Eve with a slightly altered finish, considering that was a little under a fortnight ago things have become significantly wetter. The ground is sodden, hard tracks are classified by width into rivulets, rills, runnels, becks, brooks or tributaries, mudguards are de rigour unless two hours in a wet nappy is one of your perversions.

The rain never seems to be especially heavy, mainly little more than light drizzle but as unceasing as death and taxes. We were out there and we made the most of our days off, nothing a washing machine and some heavy duty wet lube can not rectify but oh for those those crisp cold days of winters’ past, with bright blue sky and frozen tracks, ice on puddles and warming bowls of soup post-ride. This winter every ride finishes with puddles of muddy water on cafe floors before peeling off saturated kit prior to the drive home, car windows misting up from the heap of wet gear evaporating in the back.

Looking on the bright side, The Trainee was able to test out all the new cycling goodies which Santa’s bulging sack had conferred upon him - lots of them featuring the all important W word - waterproof. The rough road to the farm at Sleddale has a small stream which usually flows under the road at a bend - today it was a ford; a nearby rocky gully is now a picturesque waterfall; on the tarmac of Percy Cross Rigg, puddles are becoming so vast seagulls are tearing themselves away from the chip shops of Whitby to eye them up.

And still we rode on, the alternative being a cold, wet stand about, we prefered warm and wet. Following our noses to the cafe, Fletcher’s Farm having a decidedly agricultural odour today, we were soon supping hot drinks and filling our faces, smugly, as befits two adventurers in a world of sofa-bound circumspection.