Mountain Bike Ride.
Olly, The Ginger One, Rod, The Fireman, The Breadlad, Oz, The Cruncher, Trainee#2
“He marched them up to the top of the hill,
And he marched them down again.”
And they moaned a lot.
Shivering in a windy car park, preparing for the second christmas dinner ride in as many days, marginally better attended than yesterday’s Cafe Racer shindig. Substantially windier than yesterday too, which brought the dawning realisation our first five miles or so would be into the wind. All thoughts of coming hardship were forgotten when The Ginger One stepped out in his bargain downhill pants, padded, with symmetrical patterns in various shades of fluorescent orange and purple, it was like looking at a binman through a busted kaleidoscope. Probably more suited to a downhill racer in body armour and a full face helmet, The Ginger One’s reason for purchasing such extreme clothing: his audacious downhill style? The forty foot gap jumps? Railing muddy berms at thirty miles per hour? “They were only £25 on Chain Reaction.” Seems fair.
Kitted up, we followed the orange legs from the car park and made our way to Bank Foot Farm, where the full force of the headwind became apparent on the long drag along the old railway bed which leads to the woods. Learning from our road brethren, everyone bunched together for shelter, while I attended to a slight seatpost problem, they sped off into the distance leaving me to battle solo against the wind. Obviously as a favour to me, the extra calories I expended could be offset against the dinner at the end. Thanks guys. The undulating fireroad through the woods to Clay Bank was especially draggy today, thanks to the timber wagons which have been collecting the harvest of conifers but at least the remaining trees gave us a bit of shelter from the wind. We paused for a breather in Clay Bank car park before the real ascent began, up the Carr Ridge steps to Urra Moor, something we seem to do with astonishing regularity - and it never gets any easier. By the time we had reached Round Hill, the less than inspiring highest point of the North York Moors, some of the more astute (or maybe less experienced) riders realised we had been climbing more or less continuously for seven miles or so. This may have been related in the sort of profane verbalisation previously the speciality of The Pensioner, a few contenders for his crown out today. It can’t have been that bad, Olly managed to keep his breakfast down this time. A short motivational speech regarding earning downhills and suchlike was employed, without any visible or audible effect. The infamous “all downhill from here” trump card was played, right up there with the great lies of industry: electrical department - tired fuse; instrument department - dirty air; management - anything they say.
In this case it was all downhill, well, predominantly, a speedy blast took us to Bloworth Crossing, where we picked up the Cleveland Way and gained a tailwind for the first time in the ride. We rode along the track, high above Greenhow Bank at a cracking pace, turning through the gate at Tidy Brown Hill and following the double track downhill, the more adventurous (or younger) getting some of that trendy phat air off the drainage humps. When the track leveled out, we took a technical and muddy singletrack, the side wind making it difficult to stay on the narrow track. Deep puddles caught out the unwary and a few people ate grass, the highlight of the ride had to be watching a pair of bright orange trousers somersaulting through the air as The Ginger One’s front wheel disappeared into a hidden hole. All the gear: not much idea. The entertainment continued a while longer until we reached the rocky descent at Turkey Nab (or Ingleby Bank as the Ordnance Survey insist on calling it), where The Ginger One’s wrong trousers became the right trousers and he flew down the rocky slabs like a balding, ginger, Danny Hart, the more youthful contingent struggling to catch him. Luckily, the gate at the bottom was propped open and we continued our downward thrill ride all the way back to Bank Foot Farm. No moaning now.
And so to the most important part of the ride - our Xmas dinner, once again courtesy of The Dudley Arms in Ingleby Greenhow. In the big banqueting hall this year, candles on tables to make up for the lack of light, The Pensioner would not have been happy, Xmas crackers and party hats. A splendid three courses each from a varied menu - all for the astonishing price of £11.95 a head, The Cruncher even donned a garish christmas jumper but it was still eclipsed by the memory of The Ginger One’s trousers. Replete with food, drink and what passes for witty banter in our world, actually gratuitous insults of a most cruel and hurtful nature, mainly concerning people out of earshot - it is christmas after all, we paid the bill and wandered out into the three pm dusk. Another excellent Xmas dinner ride over with, well balanced, seven miles uphill and seven miles downhill.
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