OK, so not in the same league as the awesome 400km rides of mseries et
al, but it was fun. And I only went on it at all because our cricket
match was off, waterlogged pitch. :-)
Out of Sheffield up the Mayfield Valley, cycling through formal park
that soon turns to thick wet wood and a rollercoast path, climbing
steadily but imperceptibly. Through the ford - bottom gear, drop off
the ledge carefully, up the other side avoiding the signature of a very
incontinent horse...OK, I didn't in fact avoid it, but I avoided falling
off on it, which is the important thing. Up to Forge Dam to wait for
the others. Above, in the trees, the crows were having a parliament,
whirling and swooping incessantly. (Some of) the others turned up a
tad late, so we set off, climbing more steeply now, emerging from the
bridleway onto the road to pick up the Ringinglow road over the top.
One long slow bugger of a slog to the top but the most magnificent views
everywhere, on top of the world; a few climbers on the rocks in the
distance, and the wind in the heather. Beautiful. Then a fast,
swooping descent under the long low outcrop of Stanage Edge, below the
old pack horse trail, then an even faster descent above Bamford to
Ladybower Reservoir as the clouds rolled in. We walked over the
reservoir as the rain came, and sheltered under a tree for the worst of
it discussing Lancaster bombers; just up the valley, at the Derwent dam,
was where the Dambusters were supposed to have trained, and certainly
where they filmed the movie.
As time was pressing and the weather was looking grim, our somewhat
optimistic plan of heading up past Castleton and then up the old Mam Tor
road (or, even more optimistically, up the Winnats) was shelved in favor
of heading straight to the pub where a table had been booked. So a
brisk descent through the woods to hit the old railway line that took
stone to the dams from the quarries at Grindleford; the rain was easing
up and everything was so green, just hissing through the woods,
everything so fresh around us. Cutting across the side of the hill on
the road, one rider turned back to town and the rest of us pressed on,
dropping down into Hope and then out again to the Old Cheshire Cheese.
The rain, which was in abatement, renewed its pleasure so we hastily
stowed the bikes and huddled in. The landlord took the arrival of five
somewhat damp and muddy cyclists in his stride, even resisting our (my)
premature attempts to get at the black pudding. A tolerable pint of
IPA was followed by two splendid pints of Cloud Nine, to wash down the
black pudding starter and most excellent steak and kidney suet pudding
main course.
Our ridemeister suddenly noted that the train back (for the wuss
element) was leaving in five minutes; a hasty departure and frantic rush
through the gloaming (even at quarter to ten, it was definitely
gloaming) to the station found three of us (the wuss element) on the
platform, discovering that the train had in fact left fifteen minutes
previously. Such is life. However, we were not so wussy that we were
prepared to wait until gone eleven for the next train, so off we went,
cycling on road for speed (and to ease the settlement of the lardomeal
consumed earlier; the mad dash for the departed train had done nothing
for the digestive juices). Two of us turned left at Bamford, a long
slog up through Bamford, past the Ladybower Inn, and up past the
Strines; stopping for a call of nature led to the only casualty of the
night; some joker had left a strand of barbed wire just where some
cyclist would stop and clamber up a grassy bank in the dark to take a
leak. I didn't notice until I got home, looked down, and wondered why
my leg was covered in dried blood. Wheee.
Then, glorious heaven, that long, long, long descent into Sheffield,
barely pedalling but keeping up a good 20-25 mph. The rain had long
since stopped, a few stars were out, it wasn't cold enough to chill, the
traffic was few, the suet pudding had settled, and it was Bloody Good.
The last little sting in the tail, that climb up to Crosspool, barely
registered on the discomfortometer.
30-ish miles (I forgot to reset the trip meter), at an average of 10 mph
(which just goes to show how slow I was crawling up the hills ;-). V.
pleasant company, v. pleasant ride.