At my fine place of work holidays run January 1st to December 31st and as always it gets to this time of year and I’ve leave to use up. So with the promise of a pint and a Hamlet I managed to persuade stAn to let me tag along on one of his regular Wednesday jaunts.
Bike and kit loaded at my place we were soon on our way. It was soon clear to see that stAn’s navigation is just as fantastic as mine and we had the Magical Mystery Tour to Swinsty Reservoir.
At our destination we were ready with an unusually small amount of faff (I was particularly organized which always scare the shite out of me) and we were on our way. Just to prove that stAn’s navigation is as *ahem* creative as mine we flew down the wrong track and had to promptly turn round and climb back up it.
On the our way proper we made our way skywards on a short stretch of tarmac and were soon off-road. Cruising along through the plantation stAn made his way into the distance while I pootled behind taking in the sheer joy of not being at work. Crossing a bridge paying no attention to the trail watching the stream bubble and blast its way beneath I managed to put the bike into a sideways skid only just unclipping in time… maybe I should watch where I was going.
Turning a corner into a climb I struggled away watching dAd disappear into the distance. The climb seemed to ascend for a bit, level off, ascend for a bit, level off – all the way to the top. “It’s much better than a straight climb to the top eh?†stAn cheerily asked. I think there could possibly have been some muttering under my breath.
At the top after a brief breather we whizzed down the hard pack trail into a left hander. With what was fast becoming a theme for the day the back of the bike slid out a little and I think only the clenching of my buttocks saved me from gravel rash.
Through a gate we were presented with another hill. It looked fairly steep and we both commented on the rise ahead. Going for easier gears and getting ready for the challenge ahead we cleared it without realising it. Not long after we were out of the plantation and onto a small section of road. To accompany stAn’s squeak my hub started to click.
Chatting away not paying attention we sailed past our turn off and had to turn round. To our left we passed a dilapidated, Scooby Doo-esque haunted house of a closed pub, we both lamented the waste of an empty alehouse. Promptly, we decided we should buy it, renovate it and turn it into [i]the[/i] greatest Mountain Bike pub in existence. However, we had creative differences before we’d even started. I think it should have been called “The Creaky Knees†while stAn had set his heart on “The Broken Spokeâ€. So as easily as it had been dreamed up, the alehouse o’the pedaling gods vanished into oblivion with a few strokes of the crank.
Back on the trail we made our way through a farmyard and onto a arse-down-over-the-rear-wheel-on-wet-grass-holding-on-for-dear-life kind of descent into a boggy patch. Over a gate and off again I watched stAn skillfully climb a fairly short but very technical climb as I ambled up the same way. Walking up climbs was to be my skill du jour for the rest of the ride….
Through another farmyard and onto another climb, but this one was of the tarmac variety and a long grind. Using the extremely spurious excuse of taking a piccie (it’s in the gallery) I had to stop for a breather. Giving me directions dAd was off again at his own pace as I granny ringed for as far as I could. I’m used to those I ride with scooting off into the distance on the climbs and waiting for me at the top. I’m a big dude, I climb slowly, I don’t mind. So when I see stAn coming back the other way I’m a little surprised. “I’ve think I’ve just seen a couple at it in a land rover at the top of this hill†stAn giggled to me. If there was ever an incentive to finishing a climb, this wasn’t it. Curiosity piqued however I turned the corner at the crest of the hill and sure enough there was the Kensington Shopping Trolley all steamed up with a middle aged couple looking decidedly sheepish on the back seat….
Swiftly pedaling on stAn told me that he thought there was a llama farm near by. No really, a llama farm. In north Yorkshire. Turns out a few turns of the crank later and there it was, watching from the roadside we watched the Peruvian horse/sheep/camel things dashing about in the field.
Over the road we entered Stainburn forest. Right from the word go it was boggy. stAn took us both on a slight detour to show me where the dent in his top tube had come from. Climbing up through the fores it was becoming more and more farcical. The mud was getting deeper and deeper and the going was getting incredibly hard. Emerging from the woods to a small clearing overlooking the world, glorious sunshine beamed down and with a great sight of relief from I, we stopped for lunch. dAd had half a dry cracker and a gram of cheese. I looked on forlornly as I realized I’d best put my picnic hamper back into my camelback. (only kidding he had a ham and cheese croissant, very continental for a bloke from outwood…)
After more bog trotting and my comedy dismount in a particularly deep section gloop we finally got going again. Out in the open a cold wind was blowing bring icy chills to my neck and ears. First we hit Scarsgill reservoir and further on to the best name in the history of British water features to date: Beaver Dyke reservoir. Fantastic.
By now I’m really fecked and my legs feel like lead. stAn is getting even further away than normal on the climbs and it’s all I can do to turn the pedals. Not long after the last reservoir I lose sight of stAn and keep plodding along at my own testudinal pace day dreaming of Kylie and hot fudge sauce. On the wind a tune is carried to my shell likes, every missed note and out of tune key floating towards me. At the crest stAn is humming the Rainbow theme tune loudly and pointing at the tv show’s name sake in the sky. It was a gorgeous site but it was time to press on.
On our way back to the car park we passed many walkers and everybody had a pleasant „how do“ or „lovely day“ greeting to give which made the day every bit that more superb.
The only remaining thing to do was to change into clothes less offensive for the pub and get there.
I had an awesome ride and really appreciate stAn letting me tag along like that. It showed that I still have a long way to go with my fitness and could probably lose this mound of flesh I call a stomach to help too. On his own stAn would probably have done the route in half the time and not have to put up with my inane ramblings, but in the end, isn’t that what your dAd is for?
*stAn is not really my dad. It’s a Bad Brains MTB club thing. Any mechanical or other snippet of advice will always elicit a “come see yer dAd” response from stAn. My dad is called Howard, and as everybody’s dad should be; is my hero! However he is a walker and prefers to get into the hills in his red socks and boots. Just goes to show, you can choose your friends…….