Boris Says Six.

Boris Says Six

The new covid 19 rules are out and we can now ride out in groups of six, long as we socially distance. Why six? Who knows. Maybe Boris is worried the Magnificent Seven will come riding in and put everything right, or the seven samurai, the secret seven, the seven dwarfs or even S Club 7 - they couldn’t make a worse job of it. As for the Terra Trailblazers, what Boris fails to realise is the chances of getting six of us out on the same ride at the same time are rarer than a trustworthy politician. We would have to kidnap stray cyclists, luring them with Haribo and fictional puppies, a concept well known to the van owners amongst us. 

The promise of a post-ride Christmas dinner used to tempt a few dilettantes off the settee but it is June and all the pubs and restaurants are closed, so it was a surprise to find four of us enjoying the last of the summer weather together one day. June did continue with May’s heatwave for a short while until nature knocked fifteen degrees off the ambient and the central heating went back on. Now it is grey, cold and wet which ought to empty the car parks a bit, the sooner the furloughed revert to their nine to five drudgery the better, or at least re-open the pubs so they can go back to spending sunny afternoons in the beer garden instead of driving to the countryside, getting pissed and leaving their shit all over. This crisis has highlighted the surplus of two-legged, breeding, voting vermin in our midst.

Our rides have been taking place away from the obvious lemming runs, where the regulars have been joined by an influx of helmet-less organ donors, we chose the open moors around Danby and Castleton or Bilsdale for our socially distanced fun. Recent weeks of dry weather have left the trails in first class shape, shirt sleeves and dry lube conditions. Three fifths of this year’s failed Spanish trip did Tripsdale one day, the long loose descent almost replicating Andalucia’s dry and dusty conditions, a few track-side cactuses and a mid-ride San Miguel would have made it complete.

Still anxious to avoid becoming mountain rescue statistics, our rides are sticking with the “No Gnar” mantra from early in the crisis. Familiar trails, moorland singletrack, wide, open tracks, sensible speed and both wheels on the ground (most of the time). Riding like a bunch of blokes on the verge of middle-age, no change to the norm really. Just cruising through the slowzone layer.

The latest ride was after the weather had changed, me and The Breadlad shivering in Clay Bank car park, higher up, approaching Round Hill being strafed by hailstones, ground-skimming clouds sweeping in from the north, dumping their contents. Luckily the showers mainly occurred when we were close to tree cover although a Strava PB or two happened as we sped down Turkey Nab for the shelter of the trees at the bottom. 

Now the cafes are not open, the post-ride picnic has become a new tradition, evolving from scoffing an energy bar while finishing the dregs in the hydration bladder to the full-blown, bait box and camping chair experience, which has been very pleasant in the sunshine. Can’t see it being quite as popular in drizzle and a lively north east wind.