Ride 015.

Date:    10th March    2004              Distance: 18 miles

Does Ian know something we don’t? Every time he has something better to do we have the worst weather ever. Even Simon Granny-Ring Robson thought better of it and went boozing and gambling in Las Vegas instead. 

The die-hards met up in Clay Bank car park, stoically unpacking bikes in the flurrying snow, silently wondering who would crack first and suggest calling off the ride. Nobody did so we set off up the steps onto Urra Moor.

“Is that the sign we head for?” asks Bob, indicating the bridleway marker high above.

“Yes,” said Oz “and when we get there it’ll say ‘What are you doing up here in weather like this? Old blokes who should know better.’” 

As if to reinforce Oz’s point the sky came down to meet us and a blizzard began lashing at our bowed backs. So we kept going upward, optimistically expecting it to be a brief snow shower. Conditions on top were no better, the snow wasn’t abating and old, refrozen snow made a slippery, lumpy ride. A combination of riding, pushing and falling off brought us to the next bridleway arrows, pointing down Jackson’s Bank and into Greenhow Plantation. Down was beginning to seem the logical direction to be heading, so off we slid, the snow giving way to equally sloppy mud. The ‘really good’ downhill singletrack bridleway we promised Oz is now buried somewhere beneath a ten foot wide mud highway; seeing tyre tracks heading off into a relatively unscathed area of the woods we followed them. Bad move, a mile or so of serious quagmire ensued, each section deeper and more cloying than the last; never has a fire road seemed so welcoming.  

The boring but safe option of tarmac and fire road was agreed on and we embarked on the long but predominantly downhill track to Bank Foot Farm. This was not without its moments, mud, snow and deep wheel ruts combined to give some heart-stopping speed wobbles. Three cold road miles brought us to Glebe Cottage Tea Rooms just in time for the snow to reappear. Watching from the warmth, we lingered over our coffees until it stopped, trying to postpone the inevitable moment when we would have to venture back outside. What a pathetic excuse for rough, tough mountain men we are. 

The same three miles took us back to Bank Foot, then muddy, churned up fire roads back to the car park. Bob struggling a bit in the ruts, overtaken at one point by a log-laden wagon, as we waited for him to catch up, the driver stuck his head out of the cab window.

“Hasn’t he got enough gears then?”  

Only the mega-steep bit of road from the woods gate to the car park left and for once it went quite easily – a bit of wind assistance I think. For a day which started out somewhat less than promising, we’d scraped up 18 miles (even though a third of them were on tarmac) and had a few laughs. Mostly at my expense when a large dog in the car park decided my left leg was in heat and attempted to climb on it at every opportunity.  

And were we envious of Simon, sitting in the Nevada desert sipping free drinks and raiding the complimentary buffets as we stood, shivering, in a North Yorkshire car park, covered head to toe in wet mud, trying to pull an amorous dog of my leg? You bet we were.

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