Wetter Than Spongebob Having A Bath.

Wetter Than Spongebob Having A Bath.

And so it came to pass, on the wettest day of the wettest month of the year so far, when old Noah would have been herding animals up the gangplank, we had arranged a ride. The sort of day when a lone rider would have taken one look out of the window before diving back under the duvet. The power of peer pressure in group riding meant nobody wanted to be the one to cry off, so three of us ended up in Pinchinthorpe car park, Keith having driven all the way from Sunderland for the privilege; we couldn’t stretch to Boris’s magic six, I suppose because there weren’t three other people as daft as us. The rain, while not especially heavy, was constant and had been for about twenty four hours by now and showing no signs of stopping, the cloud ceiling was not far off ground level, obscuring the hillsides, all around the sound of rushing water, new streams appearing as water skidded off bone-dry fields instead of soaking in as you would expect. 

There was a display of hesitation from The Breadlad, not to start the ride but to deposit three pound coins in the ticket machine which he did with the same reluctance as someone teabagging an electric fence. Riding past the closed and shuttered visitor centre, a ray of sunshine, sadly only metaphorical, entered our lives; we met one of the cafe ladies who informed us the cafe will be opening next week - that’s a bit of good news, moving away from car park picnics. Cheered we headed into the forest, riding through sheets of water pouring down inclines, tops of trees shrouded in mist, climbing higher until we were almost at the mighty Roseberry Topping, hidden by thick cloud. Continuing upward, making our way toward the Hanging Stone track, we checked out a few other tracks on the way but left them for better days. Our brief singletrack excursion finished back on the fireroad, next challenge - The Unsuitables, a first for Keith, luckily the low cloud veiled the depression-inducing upward view, letting the summit come (eventually) as a pleasant surprise for him. If there can ever be anything pleasant about ascending The Unsuitables. 

A soggy Percy Cross Rigg came next, the stunning vista of the North York Moors obnubilated as we transitioned from sandy track to tarmac, taking the road down to Sleddale, the little stream which runs under the road today the sort of torrent which could sweep away a small child, so we kept a close eye on The Breadlad. We ascended Codhill Heights, the occasional walkers or runners looming out of the mist and made our way back into Guisborough Woods. After climbing the fireroad behind Highcliffe Nab the usual view across Guisborough to the North Sea was, today, a wall of grey. Sticking with the fireroad theme, passing many fine trails which were just too wet to ride without damaging them (or maybe us), we kept heading east, eventually reaching the lower parts of the “One Man And His Dog” trails. Being more open and a bit wider than the trails in the trees, they seemed to be holding up better, so a cautious descent or two followed, until the lure of the car park picnic became impossible to ignore. The last bit of the trails, which leads to the bottom of the concrete road was a pouring torrent of water, bubbling and cascading down the singletrack, hidden roots, slicker than a greased seal on an iceberg, wet feet all round. 

A spate of water was roaring across the road further down, gushing from a farmer’s field and parts of the old railway, which would lead us back to Pinchinthorpe, were completely underwater, turning it into the world’s shallowest canal. Predictably the rain relented to mere drizzle as we headed back, the sun even made a couple of half-hearted attempts to appear as we enjoyed our socially-distanced car park picnic. In defiance of the forecast, we had set out and ended up having an enjoyable, if decidedly wet, ride. Almost but not quite up there with “The Ride Of The Steamy Fart” an exceptionally wet and cold Borrowdale Bash when The Pensioner’s farts were visible as puffs of steam. One of his finest moments.