The Pensioner, The Bread Lad, The Youth, Trainee#2, Olly
21st September route
A sudden resurgence in mountain biking popularity this month saw another turnout in the half dozens, from yesterday’s team we merely swapped Oz and The Fireman for a Pensioner and a Bread Lad. The creche - The Youth, Trainee#2 and Olly, were out for their second day in a row, keen. The young contingent effectively splitting the team in two - three over forties and three under forties. Forty plus average age, fifty seven: sub-forty average age, twenty three. Hmm, age and experience versus youth and fitness, wily old foxes and young hares, or ought that to be wily old tortoises.
Today’s route is essentially some loops around Teesside’s favourite bucolic idyll, the rural honeypot that is Sheepwash; popular because it has all the benefits of the countryside without actually losing sight of your car. And there is usually an ice cream van. Honed athletes that we are, it’s usually possible for us to ignore the temptation of 99’s, at least until the end of the ride, irrelevant today because Mr. Whippy had whipped off somewhere else.
Our first loop took us steeply up Scarth Wood Moor to the collection of antennae overlooking the A19, from where we followed a track back down to Osmotherley, a speedy descent with the usual mountain bike seasoning of rocks and roots to keep things interesting. Ascending again, we passed Cod Beck Reservoir and panted up through the woods to High Lane picking up the tail end of The Hambleton Drove road, which we promptly followed downwards to the ford at Sheepwash, over the ‘challenging’ rock steps, which are either getting bigger or my cajones are shrinking, it’s been a some time since this rider casually launched down that slope. Only The Bread Lad managed a clean ascent, showing the young ones how it’s done.
Loop three was larger, taking us into Clain Woods and down the steps on the Cleveland Way, wide and gravelly, the young ones on their hardtails suffering while us more mature gentlemen, clicked suspension to full bounce and went as fast as our aging bodies (or more cautious minds would) allow - so probably a bit slower than the creche. Some gentler riding took us to the cottages at Heathwaite, where stopped on some convenient seating for a mid-ride refuel in the sunshine before tackling the hill up to Faceby Plantation, the drag up the steps well worth it for the singletrack through the woods toward Faceby. Even The Pensioner almost cracked a smile. We made our way through the villages of Whorlton and Swainby to regain the moors via Scarth Nick, the cleft in the hills made by Scarth the giant when, according to legend, he was a bit radged one day,. Although a more plausible hypothesis has Scarth Nick as a prehistoric waterfall overflowing from the lake which filled the Scugdale valley. Must have been a long time ago - The Pensioner can’t even remember it and he had a pet brontosaurus, naturally he wanted a T. Rex but his mam said they were too aggressive and they couldn’t find a bird cage big enough for a pterodactyl.
We made it to the top, some of feeling as though we had been hit by a giant with an axe and to carry on the theme, climbed a bit higher, gaining Scarth Wood Moor again, this time from the east. The Pensioner discovered he had a little flaccidity, we reassured him it is only to expected at his age but he was talking about his back tyre. A couple of pump stops later we regrouped at the top of our ultimate descent, waiting for the hares to catch us tortoises. The Pensioner, anxious to be back at the car before his tyre went completely flat, took off down the descent like a geriatric Danny Hart, not so much Redcar Rocket as Norton Not Really Sure I Should Be Going This Fast. Olly followed with rather more elan, indulging in a bit of tail-whippery and similar young whippersnapper behaviour, clearing the steep, rocky section, carving through the singletrack, in sight of the car park, suddenly he skidded on an innocuous section of flat grass, hitting the deck but springing straight back again, the following riders assuming he was okay continued to the bottom. Olly freewheeled to join us, his new bike having suffered its first injury, the rear mech destroyed and struggling to put weight on his left leg. A quick bike swap meant he didn’t need to walk back to the cars and fifteen minutes later he was hobbling through Strike’s Garden Centre to the cafe, fitting in quite well with the legions of uber-geriatrics shuffling about the place. Or, hot chicks and cool dudes as The Pensioner deems them. Olly shovelled a massive plate of food into his face and limped back to his car, repeatedly assuring us he was okay to drive, which he seemed to be as we followed him back to Teesside.
One visit to A&E later, he was sporting a pot and beginning a seven week rest. As long as nobody ever finds out he broke his ankle trying to catch a sixty eight year old, half-deaf, partially-sighted, pensioner with one lung. Just as well nobody ever reads this blog.
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