Blustery Birk Brow

Mountain Bike Ride.

Olly

31st January route.

Just imagine living and riding somewhere the weather is consistently excellent; what would I fill the first paragraph with? A description of who was last into the car park and how long they faffed about getting their bike ready while everyone basks in the sun like blubbery seals? A collection of synonyms to describe the cerulean sky and azure sea? A treatise on the effects of cactus spines on bare flesh? Lazy wind blowing like a gentle hairdryer, evaporating rivulets of sweat from unlined foreheads?

Birk Brow today was as far from that fantasy land as The Ginger One is from culture. The sky was grey, the air was wet, the wind so strong it literally blew my bike off the roof rack into my arms, the butty van looked as though it might be lifted off to meet a tin man, a cowardly lion and a scarecrow - yes, all the way to Darlington. Naturally, our route plunged straight into the headwind, working on the theories our legs were fresher at the start of the ride and we would be pushed up the hill on the way back. Our objective was the Quaker’s Causeway, the nemesis of many a soft-tailed, hardtail rider. And the odd full suspension jockey. Riding a narrow, paved causeway, laid in the days when nipping to Toolstation for a spirit level wasn’t quite so easy, into the teeth (yes, this wind had teeth) of a gale, is, without a doubt character building, particularly if that character is Eeyore the gloomy donkey. Between the paved sections lay mud, all incarnations of the North York Moors finest, from black swampy peat to the evil yellow mud which sticks like dung to a duvet. Eventually we reached the road where things became only marginally easier, the gusts still contrived to force us backwards. Some respite occurred after turning onto Robin Hood’s Butts, where headwind morphed into side wind; considering the lack of precipitation Robin Hood’s Butts is filling up nicely, some of the puddles approaching the size of small tarns.

At the cairn, we turned right, following the fine singletrack of the Sis Cross bridleway, the uphill section to the remains of the cross slightly protected from the wind by the hillside. From the cross, some speedy singletrack carves through the heather, today a  bit slimy which engendered more cautious riding than is usual - a couple of tumbles is normally de rigeur for this section. Our route today turned onto the Pannierman’s Causeway, which undulates a bit before dropping down to Danby Park - which isn’t a park at all, no swings, roundabouts or seedy conveniences with phone numbers written on the walls in black felt pen - just some trees. The track through the park has been, for the most part, resurfaced and the mudfest of years gone by is no more, which makes it a pleasant ride. The tarmac road back up to the Quaker’s Causeway is never a pleasant ride, although, finally, we now had the wind behind us, God’s gentle exhalation pushing us heavenward, or to our idea of heaven -  the Birk Brow butty van. Only the Quaker’s Causeway to revisit first, with a tailwind, things were less arduous but not exactly as undemanding as we would have liked. The mud had not mysteriously dried up and the stones were still as level as the last set of shelves Stevie Wonder put up in his kitchen; the thought of food spurred us on and we reached Birk Brow in record time. Actually, the slowest ride of the year so far but there are another eleven months for us to shatter that particular record.

The butty van had not been whirled away and, even better, was still open for business. Wet gear and bikes stowed away, it was time for our reward for battling the elements while the other riders sat watching the weather through their windows. I was a little discerning in my order, owing to a body shape which is becoming more Christopher Biggins than Chris Froome, a mere bacon sandwich. Olly however managed all the major food groups, bacon, sausage and egg, in one bun.