Mountain Bike Ride
The Breadlad, Trainee#2, Oz, The Fireman, Rod and a special guest appearance from The Captain.
The annual festival of alcohol-fuelled joviality and consumerism of a more rampant nature than a priapic ram rampaging round a field of ewes after a two day ovine pornography binge, trundles into view again bringing with it the kind of weather which might be considered slightly nippy in some parts of the world but in England leads to multi-car pile ups as the nine to fivers spend the morning rush hour slithering into one another. Those day workers on vacation from their their daily grind seem to think they are entitled to use our moors on a weekday, clogging the car parks and cafes where us salt of the earth shift-workers, the horny handed sons of toil responsible for keeping the wheels of industry ticking over, are often the only patrons.
A further inevitability of the Santa season is the Terra Trailblazers’ Xmas Dinner Ride, this year in its fifteenth incarnation; two days previously we'd have been in stereotypical winter wonderland but some warming rain had erased the snow, letting the greenery reappear. We congregated in the pub car park, beneath the jagged tooth of Roseberry Topping, our original ten reduced by thirty percent as seems to be usual for these occasions. The weather forecast was not too promising but the sun shone in a barely above the horizon winter fashion. The mandatory ‘before’ picture taken, we pedalled along the road for a short distance before turning off, into Cliff Rigg Woods for a steady climb on frozen mud and a few patches of snow and ice. Riders from the generation that have no notion of a time before central heating were already complaining of the cold, while those of us who can remember ice on the inside of the windows and put another coat on the bed, were more stoic.
Carrying on, we pedalled through through Aireyholme Farm - boyhood home of Captain Cook (Roseberry Topping’s Cook Connection) and up to Roseberry Common where the tailwind which had so kindly assisted us the hill, brought a few drops of rain who soon invited all their mates to come and join in soaking the only idiots people on the moors. Jackets were dragged out of bags as we battened down our metaphorical hatches and loins were girded for a moist ride. Route options were discussed between the riders who had an idea of where we were in relation to the rest of the world, while the geographically challenged stayed silent. The general idea of staying in tree shelter and keeping the wind behind us was agreed and we headed eastwards through Guisborough Woods, sticking to the fire roads, which was a bit exciting today seeing as they were mainly solid ice, the lumpy, bumpy sort of ice caused by thawing and refreezing, like riding on a gigantic, slippery golf ball. We made our way through the forest, passing all the tracks we usually ride as they were either sloppy mud or large puddles, rain still beating at our backs, numb extremities were frequently and bitterly vocalised - not a Ranulph Fiennes amongst us, the concept of the British stiff upper lip now something from 1950’s novels.
The Concrete Road, today the concrete waterfall, a broad river coursing down it, six pairs of fat tyres surfing the break, reaching incautious speeds heading for the old railway line which skirts the outskirts of Guisborough, our route turning into the wind and rain, thankfully significantly less powerful than on top of the hill. A broken and dejected sixsome pedalled toward Hutton Village, the usual witty banter conspicuously absent, spirits not even enlightened by the rain ceasing. Back in Guisborough Woods we regenerated some body heat with a nice uphill fire-road but the thought of a nice warm public house was all that kept some people from laying down on the subarctic tundra and letting hypothermia take them to a better place. At the end of the fire-road we turned right instead of left and headed back to civilisation, some liveliness reappearing as the traumatic ordeal nears its end.
Wet clothing shed, spirits revived by hot drinks and cold beers, we were joined by erstwhile Terra Trailblazer and retired process foreman, The Captain, who, like all retirees, looks twenty years younger than he did in the days when he spent hours in the control room toiling over the daily tabloids. The meal was a splendid, no complaints were made in that regard, the conversation descended to the usual gutter level which is only to be expected when a bunch of men get together, especially those riding high on the endorphin rush from battling the killer elements of a North Yorkshire December day and living to tell the tale. And thanks to The King’s Head for putting up with us.
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