Has Spring Sprung?

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad, Trainee#2.

9th March route

Sheepwash car park, three mountain bikers, a few dog walkers and so many ramblers you'd think red socks are being given away. Why do they always attack the countryside mob handed? Safety in numbers? Protection from the wild beasts of North Yorkshire? After their “safety briefing”, they moved out looking like a phalanx of geriatric refugees who had just looted Go Outdoors, the car park ringing with the click of walking poles. We rode off in the opposite direction, into a stiff headwind, the only thing marring an otherwise lovely spring day. The tarmac climb to Arncliff Wood served as a suitable warm up before entered the trees and proceeded to slide down some treacherously slippery tracks, despite of our usual middle-aged caution, some unscheduled dismounts may have occurred.

A couple of swampy fields later, we were back on tarmac, passing the Rusty Bike cafe, heading into Swainby, for a pleasant pedal up Scugdale to Heathwaite, passing the time with an intellectual discourse on explosive diarrhoea, never let it be said our conversations revolve solely around bikes and biking. At Heathwaite we took a breather before climbing up the track to Faceby Plantation. Some superb single-track is reached by a carry up steep steps, maybe people exist who could ride these steps but we are not them. We are, however, adept at gently sloping single track, even with tyre-grabbing muddy patches. Another soggy field later we were in Faceby, mud splattered and damp of gusset - must try harder to remember my mudguard.

A further climb took us to Whorl Hill Farm, passing the newly renovated chicken sheds, which unfortunately burnt down last year. Tragic it may be but I bet it smelt marvellous, like the world’s biggest barbecue. Or a light snack for some Americans. A deeply rutted and no muddier than usual track (probably because it couldn’t get any muddier without becoming a tourist attraction like the Dalyan mud baths in Turkey) took a convoluted route to Whorlton Castle. Allegedly one of the most haunted places on Britain, if you're sensitive to that sort of thing. Insensitive to most things of an ethereal nature, we rode past untroubled by leering ghoulies but safe in the knowledge, gleaned from many episodes of Scooby Doo, that it’s always the caretaker in disguise and he would have got away with it if it wasn’t for those pesky kids.

A short time later we were indulging in a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to ride up the steps in Clain Wood. Trainee#2, not having as many years on the lager and kebab diet as me and The Breadlad, took the prize for riding the furthest but he does have the benefit of youth and not being worn down by 40 years of toil in the chemical industry. Not yet anyway. A further climb took us up and across Scarth Wood Moor, the day by now having developed into a perfect spring afternoon, sun breaking through the clouds, trees sheltering us from the wind. Our last bit of track, the downhill back to the car park, now definitively known as Olly’s Folly, one of the last legacies of The Pensioner, which, muddy conditions notwithstanding, we rode without folly, or Olly for that matter.