Mountain Bike Ride
Trainee#2, The Pensioner
Deja vu, Groundhog Day, call it what you want, there is definitely a feeling of history repeating itself as we approach Sheepwash. Puddle strewn car park? Check. Rain lashing against windscreen? Check. Pensioner with half assembled electric bike and a look of utter despondency? Check. Although the weather forecast, or as we know it, The BBC’s Website Of Whoppers, suggested Sheepwash would be the driest spot in our little corner of North Yorkshire, it would appear some stealth-ninja isobars sneaked in when the meteorologists backs’ were turned and insisted on giving us a reprise of yesterday’s weather. Glum mutterings from The Pensioner became ever-present background noise as we donned waterproofs for the second day in a row.
By the time we reached the dam at Cod Beck Reservoir, the sun was trying to force itself through the clouds like a celestial benefactor attempting to bestow munificence on his chosen people (mountain bikers, naturally) only to be beaten back by vicious squalls sent by arch-enemy, the great and evil God, Haversaki, chosen deity of ramblers and hillwalkers. Not many of them about today, probably all at home polishing their walking poles and applying dubbin to their boots ready for an arduous stroll up and down Keswick Main Street, or practicing their disapproving expressions in the mirror. Weatherwise things continued in the wet, dry, wet, wet, wet vein for several miles, to make it more fun, an atypical easterly wind battered us full in the face. The Pensioner stoically stormed ahead, courtesy of Mr. Tesla’s invention, while me and Trainee#2 made appropriate gestures behind his back. The Pensioner’s back that is not Mr.Tesla’s, who had more sense than to be out on a day like this.
Eventually we reached Arnesgill Ridge, where we were able to turn sideways to the wind for a bit of respite, making our way to Barker’s Ridge and across to the head of Scugdale, mercifully downhill with the wind by now behind us, the grimness of the last few miles evaporating in our minds as gravity worked its’ magic. The B.O.A.T. down into the Scugdale valley was wet, rocky and rutted, the odd squall reminding us we were not here to enjoy ourselves but enjoy ourselves we did, slipping and sliding through the mud, bouncing over the rocks, faces splattered with dubious feculence, we reached the road at Scugdale Hall grinning like lunatics.
From here a fairly straightforward ride along the road to Heathwaite, then through Clain Woods brought us to the steps on the Cleveland Way. Trainee#2’s only previous experience of this timber and gravel torture device was riding down them, he was less than impressed with the upwards push. Sometime between here and Scugdale, summer reappeared and all became right with the world. Tired legs accepted the challenge of ‘one last hill’ and we span our way, wind-assisted for a change, up Scarth Wood Moor ready for the descent down the front, now dubbed Ankle-Breaker Hill following young Olly’s unfortunate accident last month. The track was wet and slippy, despite the recent upturn in weather conditions; our descent was circumspect and lacking injuries. With age comes wisdom - maybe.
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