Ride 023.

Date:    8th June 2004             Distance: 16.5 miles

Warm but overcast, the sort of day when thunderstorms are made – so why did we plan to cross high moorland? Perhaps we felt safe in the knowledge Oz’s height would make him the perfect lightning conductor? The Terra Trailblazers met at the Square Corner car park on the Osmotherley to Hawnby road, Simon again missing owing to more spoke related mishaps.  

We surprised Chris by having a downhill start, along the road past Chequers to pick up the National Cycleway route 65, following this along High Lane until it entered the woods above Cod Beck reservoir. We continued straight to Sheepwash, down the rocky steps to the ford – as always, seeing who could be Mr. No Dabs – Howard managed fine on his new Giant VT2, only to fall off at the bridge under the bemused gaze of some picnickers. The other three, Chris, Bob and Oz, (AKA The Chicken Brothers, like the Chuckle Brothers but funny) let The Fear win and sheepishly walked down. A splash through the ford before a bit more road work brought us to Clain Woods and the infamous steps, probably not as much fun for Chris on a hardtail as it was for the rest of us. The trackside nettles duly punished him for trying to avoid the centre of the steps. 

Sweet singletrack through the woods, then down a field between blue posts, kindly provided by the farmer to guide us, to another ford. Not a great deal of water this time. Back onto a minor road, decision time, left or right? The long way round on tarmac? Or through Harfa House, now renamed Cow Shit Farm after Simon’s knee deep wading through excrement on TTB 012? Cow Shit farm it was, working on the theory it ought to have dried up by now. And it had mostly, although we did have to go cautiously through a field of jittery cows with their calves.  

Soon we were back on the Scugdale road, up to now the route had been predominantly downhill, much to the delight of the over 50’s contingent at the back, it all changed here. First the painful hairpin bank up to Raikes Farm with its attendant collies – one day they’ll be loose and we’ll be too exhausted to resist as they pounce, hopefully it will just be to lick us. A steady incline to Scugdale Hall, then left up the B.O.A.T. which rises interminably to Stoney Wickes. Howard made a good effort at riding up the whole thing but conditions defeated him. A significant amount of pushing was required from the rest of the Trailblazers. At least the sunshine and exertion had replaced Bob’s pallid whiteness with a healthy pink glow, the colour didn’t quite match the blue tinge to his lips but it was nothing a little lie down couldn’t cure. A further rest at the gate and it was back in the saddle, up Barker’s Ridge, “honest Chris this really is the last bit of uphill…” Arnesgill Ridge was dry, sandy and more importantly, gradually downhill, cutting across Snilesworth Moor like a highway. Big grins all round as we cruised to Low Cote Farm and rejoined the Hawnby Road, down again, until a right turn at the Locker Low Wood parking place. Through gate and up for the highlight of the day – for some of us anyway – the Dale Head singletrack, contouring the lower Northern slope of Black Hambleton above Wheat Beck. Peaty singletrack, peppered with technical rock sections, snaking through the heather before dropping down to cross the beck. After the beck, a drag up to the (maybe, maybe not) abandoned Dale Head Farm and another breather, before following the rocky access track back to the road. My lack of attention repaid with a bruised leg when a hole took a liking to my front wheel. Luckily I was up and away before the “Last of The Summer Wine” duo bringing up the rear spotted me.  

Passing the cars, we continued to Chequers for refreshments, coffee and scones, possibly an altogether more genteel affair than when Chequers was an inn for drovers using the Hambleton Drove road to take animals to market, sometimes from as far as Scotland Although Bob’s potty mouth would probably not been out of place amongst the rough, nomadic drovers, who lived on oats and onions mixed with animal blood and had dogs which lived on bread and beer. The inscription beneath the preserved inn sign: Be not in haste – step in and taste, Ale tomorrow for nothing, is actually an eighteenth century witticism, I guess humour was different in those days.  

It only remained for us to reverse the half mile or so back to the cars. Still some muttering about the uphill nature of the road – as though I’m responsible – from the half century brigade but I bet they still turn out next time.

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