Way of the Roses – Day 3

We woke up to thick cloud over Settle and a definite nip in the air. The fatigue was beginning to feel in the thighs and the buttocks so that any time I bent my legs I made that ‘Wuurrghh’ noise that older people make when they start to move. I don’t know why I make it, maybe it encourages the muscles to loosen up but after a few of them we were off. The day before we had spotted a grand cathedral dome a mile or so away out of our way and decided to loosen the leg muscles further by darting up a short but steep 20% gradient hill to reach it.

We then cycled down the hill to reach the main part of Settle to rejoin the Way of the Roses. John needed a padded seat cover for his bike and luckily there was a bike shop in the middle of town. The guy in the shop asked him where we were headed and when he told him we were making our way to Ripon his raised eyebrow said it all. At many points over the next six or so hours I would remember that eyebrow.

Almost immediately after leaving Settle the path rose to a steep incline of 20% (our second of the day after just 15 minutes of cycling) and we knew looking at the hill this wasn’t going to be a short one. After maybe a quarter of a mile the gradient came down slightly but was still easily over 15% and halfway up it I finally admitted defeat and stopped to walk my bike. I thought this was prudent because I was pulling the handlebars up so hard with each painful pedal stroke that my front wheel was lifting up off the ground and I didn’t want to go over and end up like a turtle stuck on its shell. I also thought my heart was about to explode. Walking up it was tough enough anyway and when the gradient smoothed off to a more manageable 12% or so I got back on and laboured my way to the top.

We both knew looking at the elevation profile that a rewarding descent was only a short distance once we got to the very top and we were ready for it. However just before starting it we saw ahead of us a big herd of bullocks blocking the country road. A pair of bullocks in particular were just stood stubbornly on the tarmac staring at us. Maybe the sheep from yesterday had phoned ahead.

Our bike bells weren’t really up for the job to scare them off and even the two cars nearby struggled to move them with their horns. Eventually they gave in and moved off as my brother and I very gingerly sloped past them while saying a silent prayer. For a brief moment I thought we were going to be doing the Running of the Bulls down this hill but we never gave them a chance; this time we were both like The Road Runner.

This really was turning into the toughest day though with plenty of steep hills to navigate. The rewards were some fantastic views of Yorkshire as we passed into Nidderdale, an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty according to the people who designate such things. And it is beautiful. However the effect was somewhat tarnished for me by the fact that 100 metres after the Nidderdale sign I cycled past a load of discarded McDonalds drinks and food cartons just merrily thrown from the road into the countryside. Perhaps it should be renamed McNidderdale in honour of the arsebags who find it difficult to put rubbish in bins.

After 30 tough miles we made it to Pately Bridge for some much needed rest and lunch. We found a nice little country pub at the bottom of the giant hill we had just flew down and the bar manager started a fire for us and started chatting to us about the Way of the Roses. He said loads of people stop off at Pately Bridge and then couldn’t wait to tell us that last year someone died cycling down the hill we had just descended. This of course is exactly what you need to hear when you still have another 100 or so miles ahead of you. When I ordered food I half-expected him to tell me who the last person was who choked to death on a meal at the pub. And to follow it up when I ordered drinks by letting me know who was the last person who frequented the pub to die of liver disease. He was a cheery soul. I think the below might be a family portrait but I can’t really tell as, well judge for yourself. After his inspiring conversation I think there is probably some kind of tragic back story to the painting, like they’re all ghosts or something.

With that morale-boosting pep talk and daylight hours reducing we were off again and tackling the last big ascent of the day before we got to Ripon.

Unfortunately as we were coming down the other side I felt my back wheel go and knew instantly I had a flat tyre. More unfortunate still John was off doing his Road Runner impression in front of me so I had to walk downhill after him as I was pretty much riding on my wheel (not clever). And to then top the unfortunate cake it was my back tyre which is so much more fiddly to change, especially with fading light. After a quick inner tube change we still had about 7 miles to go to Ripon and we made it just as it was going dark.

We were staying right in the middle of this lovely market town and after checking in we took our bikes into a storage shed at the back of the pub. Light was limited and there didn’t seem to be much room for our bikes and in the struggle I managed to knock a full tin of paint off the edge of a table smashing on to the concrete floor. To be fair, I thought the room needed a bit of colour but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for whoever would find it so hastily covered it with a couple of storage boxes on wheels. A couple of sploshes landed on my cycling shoes and I had half a mind to complain.

So another day done and after synchronising my MapMyRide app I was pleasantly surprised to see that one of the mile splits on the ride was covered in under one second at an average speed of 559 miles per hour. I don’t remember hanging on to any jet fighters but then again, if the mile was done in under a second I’m not surprised my memory is sketchy.

Placename of the day: Blubberhouses. Named after Lord Blubber who famously…okay I can’t even make anything up. I don’t even want to Google the name as I want to keep the name magical.