Mountain Bike Ride
The Fireman.
Some precipitation may have been forecast, in addition to the fifty mph wind and perhaps some snow on high ground and possibly down to lower levels but it takes more than a meteorologist’s prophesy to put off a Terra Trailblazer. Well, actually it takes much less than that but two of us made it to Great Ayton, through slush, snow and flood water. Seeing as we are here, we might as well have a ride. Decision made, hard core waterproof clothing donned, double Buffed, we set off into the snow, a covering of wet slush on the roads, legs instantly soaked. After a mile or so in the direction of Little Ayton, the snow being blasted at our left sides by the wind, we were reluctant to make a left turn into that wind which would give us access to the moors via Aireyholme Farm. We pressed on to Kildale, the snow got heavier and the puddles got deeper, luckily vehicles were few and far between, the odd car or van ploughing through, sending up fountains of spray, like the log flume at Flamingoland.
At New Row we rode up past the cottages, battling directly into the wind, and began the off road bridleway, failing to even reach the gate, unable to gain any traction in the unconsolidated snow. After the gate, things were a little easier owing to the tree cover and we both had valiant attempts at a dab-free ascent but it was not to be. Conditions were somewhat different on the open moorland after the top gate, a prodigious wind howled in straight from the frigid bowels of viking Helheim, snow came in horizontal lines, the track’s potholes and rocks concealed by a smooth layer of white. Again, a brief effort at riding ensued before we admitted defeat and continued like Robert Swan on one of his polar walks, the wind doing it’s best to push us back down the track. At the top, an executive decision was made to ride straight back down Percy Cross Rigg and become roadies for the rest of the ride. The wind at our side again, following a vehicle track though the snow was fraught, the disadvantage of 29” wheels became apparent, in side winds they are like sails, if I was blown off the track once I was blown off a dozen times, slithering uncontrollably into the heather-filled drifts as my 26er companion sped off into the distance.
Not wanting to wait about in the cold, we continued down the road toward Kildale, puddles and slush deeper than the outward journey, feet wet and freezing despite waterproof socks and shoes, the water coming in over the tops of the shoes and being contained by the very design which was supposed to keep it out. The smell of coffee was in our nostrils know, heads down, we pedalled on, still being buffeted by snow and wind, until we reached the sanctuary of Fletcher’s Farm Coffee Shop, where we were definitely the wettest, and possibly the stupidest, customers. We had not seen another cyclist all day, is this really the country that produced Ernest Shackleton, Captain Scott, the aforementioned Robert Swan and Pingu? We were a bit cold, fairly damp and feeling very smug. Where was everyone else, spending the day watching Jeremy Kyle - The Retard Whisperer and prettifying their lady parts?
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