Mountain Bike Ride
The Bread Lad, The Fireman
Mere hours from the finish of our last ride, we were setting off on another one, leaving Scaling Dam car park and it’s ever popular butty van - making certain we had checked the closing time before we left, the scourge of malnutrition will be hard pressed to catch us by surprise - the same trio as yesterday pedalled along the minor road to High Tranmire Farm. The weather is again approaching ‘not bad for February’, dry and bright with most of the puddles still slightly frozen. After crossing the beck, which gets deeper every time we cross it, The Slagbag reared it’s ugly head, steeper than the steepest thing in steep land, loose and just for today, icy. Valiant attempts were not even considered, energy conservation among cyclists approaching middle-age being a priority. From the top we dropped down to Green Houses, minus the excitable spaniels today, and continued on tarmac to the picturesque hamlet of Stonegate, passing a nice riverside house, nice but surely every spell of prolonged rain must be a cue to start moving the furniture upstairs.
More tarmac eventually brought us to West Bank and a speedy descent to the river, where, according to the measuring board the water in the ford was two and a half feet deep and one hundred per cent wet. It would have to be the stepping stones then, slightly slippy from mud and ice and just to make things more interesting one has lost it’s top section, so lies below water level, water which was very fast flowing. The Bread Lad was despatched first to check out the possibility of being swept away down the Esk to emerge into Whitby harbour like a seal dressed by Halfords. Regardless of the fact, I had the camera rolling the whole time, he refused to give us a little cinematic excitement, unlike Tom Cruise he does not do his own stunts. His companions also made it across with only slightly damp feet to show for the ordeal.
A slight climb preceded an icy descent and then we were crossing the same river again, by the more civilised alternative of a bridge, which led to a stony track and another gruesome ascent, loose and steep, which deposited us, breathlessly in Park House farmyard. An inquisitive goat watched us from the top half of a barn door, probably wondering what these idiots were doing, panting away like paedo’s in a playground outside his home. Unfortunately the next few miles were also in the uphill direction, almost the whole way to Danby Beacon before we gratefully turned off onto the Roxby Moor bridleway - that sublime blast through the heather which can be ridden at speeds which may be considered unwise for cyclists of our ineptitude. Even though it was muddy in patches the track was still splendid enabling us to ride two and three abreast at times on the varied lines heading across the moor.
Only a little tarmac between us and the butty van now, pedals to the metal, minutes later we were savoring assorted bacon related sandwiches like the gourmets what we is.
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