Appropriately named place is appropriately named
It looked innocuous enough, the route I’d planned.
Figure of 8, nice and simple. Admittedly, we’d never ridden any of it before, but it looked fine on Basecamp. 1000 feet of ascent, 7.8 miles – should be easy compared to what we’ve done before.
The first inkling something was wrong was when the bridleway running over a track indicated on the map turned out to be a tractor wide ditch with something approaching a stagnant stream and reeds growing voraciously down it. I say down it because the gradient was not unrideable but it was definitely a climb.
No, the issue was not the gradient. The issue was initially the miniature ponies. You see what Basecamp and the OS maps within it don’t tell you is that the first farm we passed was the home of Only Foals and Horses. No, I’m not making it up.
So after my other half negotiated passage with the guard ponies by the gate, and they all attempted to consume his bike we discovered the next obstacle. Bogs. Lots of bogs. Stunning effort geologically, that the water even managed to stay in one place long enough to create one considering the gradient, but there you are. Ankle deep intermittent slodging. Interspersed with occasional riding.
Get to the top. Scare off some sheep. Through a farm yard with barking accompanied by a rather worrying thudding against some corrugated iron. Onto the Grane. Past a photographer with tripod looking way to cool to be out in the middle of nowhere on a windy moor. Yell ‘nice shot’ as I pass – well it will be.
Play hunt the bridleway. Find the bridleway. Lose the bridleway. Through another farms yard. Find the bridleway. Lose the bridleway. Over a style.
Fun descent down a track through puddles and mud. Yelps echo from in front as partner discovers perils of not scoping trail ahead in winter. Much laughter.
Another ridiculous climb, past a row of terrace houses clinging tenuously to the side of yet another steep but thankfully short incline. Feel a teeny bit like landed in Kansas. Sit. Listen to complete silence inbetween Cockerels crowing.
Hear the unmistakeable tap of crutches. Around the corner comes a 12 or so year old lad, crutches slipping and sliding on the choppy surface of an unadopted road which hasn’t seen fresh tarmac in 30 or more years.
‘You’re brave’ I say. He smiles and pauses ‘what happened?’
‘Fell off a motorbike’ grins sheepishly. ‘I bet it was worth it?’ and off he taps again. Don’t realise until later there was mud on my glasses, my face, my helmet……well everywhere, truly. Didn’t think maybe……maybe.
Onwards. Road descent. Cross as it’s not the point of today, though make a mental note to bring the Cross Check back. Turn onto what we think is a fine thing to ride, as it’s a footpath on a track. Turns out, no, the track doesn’t make it okay. Definitely doesn’t make it okay. Find a slightly trying not to be too cross farmer at the end of a difficult sluchy sloshy slurry filled climb. Gasp apologies. Get permission to ride on up the now tarmaced track. Make suitably grateful gasps.
Climb some more. And more. Admire the views. See the houses at the top of the hill we’re heading for. Realise that according to the Basecamp route we’re now half way around. Turn onto road. More climbing. Shove the last of the jelly babies in. Raid the pub for some emergency fuel. Make the executive decision to cut the ride short and not do the other bit of the 8. Crawl up the hill. Back across the farmyard with the rubber dogs. Back down the bog covered bridleways, back wheel skittering, off the brakes for the first time all day.
As you will notice if you click the route summary at the top, final distance and ascent on the ground equalled the total of the predicted route doing the full figure of 8. Yeah. Basecamp is officially dumped.
The moral of this story?
It’s all miles in the bank. It’s all route finding experience.
The post title?
No word of a lie, as I reached the end of the last little bit of track to arrive back on Haslingden Old Road, past me there swept, silently and gracefully, a peloton of road riders – around 15 or so. Multi coloured jerseys, all black lycra shorts, silent and serene.
Swans and hippos my friends, swans and hippos.
Were you riding round Blackburn, I once rode from clitheroe to home and some bits obviously weren’t ridden often
I also ened up in farm yards.
Yes :0) in the weird bit in the bend of the motorway West of the join of Blackburn and Darwen. It’s called Pickup Bank aka Kansas :0))
Mud? MUD?
Try ‘up to the hubs in slurry.’ Bits of that were like riding through treacle (if treacle was 6″ deep and comprised mostly of vaguely hydrated cow manure). Bugger the ascent, the ‘technical’ bit was being up to the fetlocks in unmentionables for half the ride. *Looks at you*
Twas fun though.
Um. Yes dear. Sorry dear. Won’t do it again dear (yeah right).
Sounds grim, I’ll stick to tarmac. Not much of a swan though, more a sweaty, panting dodo.