Blog
A serialisation by arallsopp (starts here)
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Monday 1743hrs. Pennines, Cattle Grids and Sheep (oh my).
Looks like it’ll be a sunny evening. I lower myself delicately back onto the ‘bent, and set the GPS for the route ahead. From the overview screen I see that where I sit is only 20 miles from the East coast with the North Sea. 27 instructions later I’m going to be less than 15 from the Irish Sea, due North of Carlisle, and on the other side of the country. Between there and here are The Pennines, Yad Moss, Cumbria, and the highest market town in England. All of these fall in the next leg.
Of course, later on I’ll be steering for Edinburgh, back on the East coast, the wrong side of the Southern Uplands, and in an entirely other country altogether, but it doesn’t pay to dwell on these things. Looks like its going to get bumpy from here on in.
This then, is the stage I’ve been fearing the most. A long drag into the hilliest terrain I’m likely to ever encounter on a bent. Thus far, I’ve been bumbling around between 20 and 100m above sea level. This one will take me to 600m above, before trying to descend on cobbles. Hills always thresh the recumbents out from the uprights, and I’ve been riding on my own through the worst of the terrain to date. I don’t fancy this one on my own.
Come on. Its only gong to get darker, so lets’s off. Duck under the A1. Climb to 150m through Melsonby. Field bordered undulations through Forcett and Caldwell play with the top 50, robbing it from me, then throwing it back into my path repeatedly.
At Whorton, the road suddenly pitches down into a deep ravine. The tarmac manages to hold on as the GPS alerts me of a ‘Care: Wooden Bridge’. As I roll onto it, I can imagine this would get pretty slippery in the wet. Not for me though. The low sun treats us* to a river reflecting pure gold. The shadows are long, and the green of the countryside responds in beautiful swansong. It’s a wonderful sight, and utterly distracts me from the imminent climb. Very imminent, as it turns out. The bridge meets the other side of the ravine some way short of the top and a horrendous switchback makes sufficient demands on legs that I have to take more than one run at it. Until I finally steam into the village my world is inverse cambered sharp turns ON steep climbs.
With Whorton safely behind me, I’m riding into the sun through Westwick and Barnard Castle. Climbing out to Lartington, through Cotherstone, I’m reviewing a wide choice of peaks up front, trying to work out which is Yad Moss. The climb is steady and scenic. I make a note to come back here with Evey one day, though preferably in a car. Sharp rise before Romaldkirk, and I’m fenced in by summits.
Mickleton, and Middleton in Teesdale line me up for a big climb, but the route swings left before I can really get stuck into it. We* hang onto the side of the hill and gradually haul ourselves up to Newbiggin (250m) and Forest in Teesdale (376m). Just past Langdon Beck, the gradient really commits and lifts me to 450m. I’m still perched on the left hand edge of a huge rise, and am trying to trace the tail lights of support vehicles as they make their way past me and onwards. Does the road go right up this thing? Is there a bigger hill ahead? Am I even on Yad Moss yet?
Broad warnings of cattle grids and animals in the road keep me on my toes, and I vow that I’ve got to reach the safety of the control whilst there’s still some ambient light. Rolling across a grid at 12mph mightn’t be fatal, but this is really not the place for a puncture.
High force is simply stunning, and I am moved by its raw beauty. I’m tracing back up the river Tees, its speed raising as mine slows.
I seem to be climbing as quickly as the sun is setting, and spend an hour in perpetual twilight. There are plenty of false summits as the road winds left and right, but the distance to next “YM: Peak” shows the climb will end imminently. The wind picks up as I winch myself to 597m. The horizon opens out, and I am evidently on top of the world.
The road sheds light, warmth and altitude rapidly, and I am utterly depleted. I night ride enough to know when I’m done, and I’m feeling it now. The road isn’t lit, there are animals on it, frozen fingers clutch at brakes, and I edge down erratically between 26 and 10mph. I daren’t let the bike roll free, and am concentrating on keeping her in the middle of the road. Reactions are well down, and there are soft verges with long drops.
As the road snakes back down, tiny spots of white appear in my mirror. Angels, perhaps? They get closer, and I’m treated to a fly-by. How sophisticated: Angels on bicycles. 3 or 4 of them, I think. Must try harder to end my time in heaven.
I ease off a little, waiting for the treachery of cobbles, and see the angels suddenly swing skywards up ahead. Looks like there’s one more climb before I join them. My guess is they roll it on momentum alone, but I’m doing 7 mph and have to crank up on my knees.
Just before 10pm, I’m waved left off the road, and arrive at Alston control.
The angel’s bikes are parked up around the side.
* For any moderately hilly section, ‘we‘ is me, and the bike. Us is me, and my knees.
PROFILE
VIDEOS:
Previous section: Day 1, Part I (Start to Thorne)
This section:Day 1, Part II (Thorne to Alston)
… continued here.
