Moor to Sea

Plans were hatched in February to ride the full Moor to Sea route inspired by a Gravel sportive  which we couldn't make. April would be balmy and we would cruise the North York Moors under sunny skies. Fast forward to late April and we were sitting on the M62 in gridlock, the temperature according to Volkswagen a measly 5 degrees C. It was early, it was bound to get warmer later in the day, wasn't it?

A late arrival in Pickering and we headed off down the main road towards Scarborough, fortunately we soon left the lorries and sales reps to their missions turning off to loop round and up into Dalby Forest. An old unsurfaced road led up into the forest where we ignored the twin temptations of the red route and the Bike Barn. Forest tracks led up and round to the north end of Dalby where we followed minor lanes to Fylingdales Moor.  There was no sign of the massive satellite dishes that are a major feature of the moor, instead a thick coat of damp cloud hugged the moors obscuring our path over the moor. It felt cold up here and flakes of snow started to fall as we rolled along the wide stony track, we were all thinking the same thought; "I hope I don't puncture up here". Someone had a twisted sense of humour as within minutes we were huddled at the side of the trail removing a wheel and installing a new tube in a snowstorm. Everything seems to take longer in the cold and we were all cooling down rapidly. The snow was fat and damp, typical UK snow - no use for skiing, just designed to make you very cold, very quickly.

Puncture sorted and we rode on, shivering now with blood beating a hasty retreat to core organs leaving hands and feet numb. What had started out as a casual day ride was in danger of turning into a Mountain Rescue call out, none of us were dressed for a day of below zero temperatures and snow; sunny intervals and eight degrees C had been forecast. The snow covered track led down a steep hill into a wooded valley, I was now thinking that the only way this could get worse was if I fell off and ripped my clothes. I attempted to feather the brakes with my numb hands as useless as a pair of spoons and somehow I made it down the hill past a car park whilst considering escape options.

I set off up the hill on the far side of the valley to hear a shout, I looked over my shoulder to see Saul heading towards a coach parked up in the car park. I turned round and free wheeled down as the coach door opened and Saul, Tom and Andrew climbed up into the coach. I joined them in the coach, quickly shedding sodden gloved, coat and helmet in an attempt to warm up. We hung around on the coach for more than thirty minutes desperately seeking common ground in our conversation with the driver. After all we might have to get off if the chat died!
Blood slowly returned to our extremities and eventually we needed to get going again. Thanking the coach driver who had saved us from exposure and hypothermia we unenthusiastically donned soggy gloves, got back on the bikes and pedalled up the hill.

A few miles later and I glimpsed the distinctive silhouette of Whitby Abbey on a cliff several miles away, not far now until lunch I thought. I pulled over to the side of the road at the top of the next climb to wait for my fellow riders. Several minutes later and no-one had showed up so I rode back to find Tom with a snapped chain, fortunately he had a spare link and we were moving again within ten minutes. The route now detoured off on a five mile loop into Whitby but we decided to cut this section of the route out as we were now an hour or so behind schedule. We headed right instead, down to the steep terminus of Robin Hoods Bay. As always the village was bustling with tourists, we sought out veggie friendly fare initially in a chippy but settling on a pie shop perched high over the stream running through the village. This was not up there with our brightest plans for lunch, the food was fine but setting off up the steep hill out of the village was not, cafe stops should not be followed by 20% gradient hills.

The next twenty miles followed an old railway line to Scarborough, undulating gently along the cliff top this gorse lined corridor which had once witnessed steam trains full of seaside day trippers soon had us rolling into the town where we stopped for a play at the pump track. After all, you're never to old to ride a pump track, are you?

The easy section was over and we climbed out of Scarborough back up towards the moors. A particularly muddy section saw me going over the bars, the slick Panaracer tyres on my Cannondale Slate defeated by their nemesis: off camber mud. We briefly followed the route the Tour de Yorkshire would take a couple of days later, locals were busy hanging out bunting and yellow bicycles once again adorned hedgerows and front gardens. A couple of steep hills later and we were once again on top of the moorland and rolling into the top end of Dalby Forest. From here we rolled downhill and retraced our tyre tracks into Pickering, grateful to have made it back without emergency.