Linda's Big Ride

Linda’s Big Ride

Video here.

Linda’s Big Ride Day One

Ever since she began mountain biking, La Mujerita has fancied riding across the moors, staying in a cosy, little country pub and riding back the following day. She was still keen when the route I’d mapped out turned out to be an eighty mile round trip - which goes to show the lengths some women will go to, to get away from the kitchen sink. Room booked, holidays taken (for those of us still in gainful employment), the day drew closer, the forecast for the week: Monday, sunny; Tuesday, sunny; Wednesday, rain all day; Thursday, showers, thunder and lightning; Friday, sunny. Guess which days we were going? Yep, Wednesday and Thursday. 

Bags packed, waterproofs on and we left Billingham behind on a grey Wednesday morning, aiming for the River Tees at Newport Bridge, picking up cycle paths through Stockton and Ingleby Barwick, the light rain which had started on the outskirts of Stockton, got serious in Europe’s biggest housing estate, coats were zipped up, bag covers employed and we settled in for a damp ride. 

At the Fox Covert, we dispensed with the suburbs and entered the countryside, riding quiet roads through Hilton and Seamer to Great Ayton, realising there were another fourteen miles and a massive hill between us and the next chance of a food stop, an early lunch was called for. Amazingly we could dispense with our ‘boil in the bag’ allegedly breathable waterproofs because Mr. Sunshine had got his hat on and came out to play. In the way that always happens when there is a big hill to climb. And our hill was a doozy, as they might say in the United States Of Trumpton, the Ingleby Incline, well documented on this blog as a purgatory of the highest order, Sisyphus had it easy because, so far as we know, he never visited North Yorkshire, if he had, he might have pushed his stone up once then said bollocks to the gods. 

A combination of riding, pushing and fly swatting had us at the top in record time, well, compared to last time we did this particular hill; we relaxed knowing a pretty much flat seven miles stood between us and our next objective, The Lion Inn on Blakey Ridge,  the weather doing a fairly good impression of a sunny day in early July, we were riding an old rail track with a tailwind and everything was going to plan. Fateful words, if this was a drama, things would begin to fall apart about now; punctures, a snapped chain, carnivorous man-eating sheep, renegade ramblers attacking innocent mountain bikers with sharpened walking poles, psychotic gamekeepers building a wicker man to imprison and burn anyone not wearing Barbour; all the usual pitfalls of a day in the countryside. 

And nothing happened except for a steady ride with awesome views down into Farndale, glowing golden green in the afternoon sunshine; shortly, we were in The Lion Inn beer garden, taking on board some suitably pint-sized rehydration. 

Ten miles to go and downhill all the way on some of the best tracks in the North York Moors, a little tarmac took us to the Trough House track, curving around the moor at the head of Fryupdale, which looked resplendent, a verdant patchwork of furrows and folds. Gravel crunching under our tyres, the miles passing effortlessly, a bit of a climb to the road, then tarmac to Glaisdale Rigg, heading down into the Esk Valley. 

In contrast to the Trough House track, Glaisdale Rigg has no subtlety, no delicate interplay of rock and turf, bends or ruts, merely a straightforward plunge to Glaisdale on a wide and loose track, the sun is lower in the sky, lengthening the shadows, giving form and relief to the view, I am rattling down the track, torn between the thrill of speed or holding back to savour the ride. La Mujerita is more circumspect, happy the finish is in sight, savouring the thought of a shower and big white towels, while I am in the zone, disappointed the ride is almost over despite the forty odd miles in our legs.

“Do you want to see your room now or would you like a pint first?” asked the barman at The Arnecliffe Arms. Like Father Jack, the only possible answer had to be “Drink. Drink.” 

Relive 'Morning Jul 10th'

Linda’s Big Ride Day Two

The following morning, laying in bed, thinking the steady drip I could hear was the result of some alcohol-related shoddy tap turning, opening the curtains, it soon became apparent that it was from some equally shoddy weather-related tap turning. Someone had opened the sprinkler system in the grey ceiling outside and one of us had left his mudguard in a shed forty miles away. It looked as though I was going to have a bottom so soggy Mary Berry would have me forcibly ejected from her presence. After a superbly cooked breakfast we set off up the mountain that is Glaisdale High Street, dodging puddles and wondering if Elton John’s windscreen wiper glasses are still kicking about anywhere.

More up and down tarmac took us to The Board Inn in Lealholm, even by my standards, beer to wash down breakfast is a step too far, so we continued after removing waterproofs because the rain had stopped, even if the sky looked like something from a nuclear winter, quiet roads took us through Houlsyke to Duck Bridge on the outskirts of Danby, a fine example of a medieval packhorse bridge, originally known as Danby Castle Bridge until it was extensively rebuilt in 1717 by George Duck of Danby. 

Bypassing Danby, we made our way to Ainthorpe as the sun began to force its way through the clouds and continued to Castleton and the steepest climb of the day, winching ourselves up to the bridleway between Castleton and Commondale, which is both easier and more fun than the tarmac alternatives, by the time we reached the red brick houses of Commondale, the sun was doing a bit of actual blazing. Once the home of a moorland brickworks, Commondale has little of the traditional sandstone architecture more common in the rest of the moors, what it does have is hills in either direction, we chose the long drag heading toward Kildale, which levels out, then drops before cruelly rearing up again to Percy Cross crossroads. 

Catching our breath at the crossroads, it is the end of the majority of the climbing and we are soon enjoying a late lunch in Fletchers Farm Coffee Shop, slightly disappointed to find the ice cream machine was not in use today. Great Ayton came and went, the wind turbines at Seamer were passed, through Hilton, over the A19 and soon we were back at the Fox Covert, embarking on the long cyclepath through Ingleby Barwick. 

A sudden shower had us donning the waterproofs but not for long, minutes later we were eating ice creams outside the Co-op in blazing sunshine. Reversing our outbound route along the river, to the A19, we passed rush hour motorists, queuing to get home for the day worker’s treadmill of food, TV and bed, our average speed surpassing that of the nose to tail cars. Minutes later we turned the corner into our street, a round trip of almost 81 miles, a few showers but mostly sunshine, a thoroughly enjoyable little adventure from our front door.

Relive 'Morning Jul 11th'