*Chapter 15*
Smokin’ the Chimney

We left the village and the climb to one of the highest points of the Moors, all of four hundred metres or so began. There was a palpable pause as the peloton took in the lower slopes a sharp kick of perhaps twenty percent. We crossed the cattle grid, Gret didn’t pause, I'll give her that, and easily rode off the front as others hesitated.

I kept wide to avoid getting caught amongst stalling riders and was able to see our Ostlander giving it some wellie, a motley selection of others giving some chase. The climb was already going to do some damage but Gret’s ‘attack’ ensured interested parties would be expending more energy than necessary. The art of course is to sit and climb at your own pace, well okay you need to stand on this sort of gradient but it’s the same method.

Gret is far from a great climber but even so we were almost over the steepest section before she was caught by the chasers. Time for part two, Josh engaged hyper drive and twiddled away up the slope. After yesterday our fellow competitors more fully recognised the danger and so already tired legs set off in further pursuit.

The promised northerly wind wasn’t too bad but nevertheless didn’t make things any easier and once over the next ramp the Tynesider sat up. Even so, the front of the peloton took a while to draw level with him, I gave him a pat on the bum as I passed – well it would’ve been his back but I can’t reach that, alright! Up here the road, whilst not flat, allowed some recovery and by the time we turned south pretty much all the field was together again.

That wind was now on our left shoulder and the pace quickly increased across the exposed moorland. Woggo started driving the pace and with the other BC riders, well those still taking part, pushed our speed beyond forty kph. It’s not properly downhill, nor flat which allowed most of the field to remain together over the next five or six fast kilometres before things took a decidedly more downhill tilt.

More gradient, more speed, the road with its undulations seemed almost familiar, it felt like the Kaltenborn road and I found myself actually enjoying myself. Flags and whistles warned of another cattle grid, I set myself wide, flexed my knees and with a push gained clear air, the rear wheel just clearing the steelwork, oh yeah, she shoots, she scores! I wasn’t therefore expecting to see sheep roaming the verges as we continued through Hutton le Hole.

I hope none of them decide the road is the direction to go! The road bounced through the village, gradually losing gradient before another cattle grid that I stayed ground based for. The lane narrowed as our speed returned to more sensible levels and soon enough we spewed out onto the A170 again, Pickering bound.

"That was fun,” Mand beamed, "Wouldn’t mind coming down there again.”
"Yeah,” I agreed.
"Nice bunny hop, lassie,” Jamie mentioned from the other side.
I allowed a shrug, “Saves the tyres.”
"Ah canna get off the ground,” he admitted.
"Practice makes perfect.”
"Aye, so they say,” the Scot agreed.
 
With the feed coming up I started to prepare by getting the contents of my pockets down my gullet and washing it down with copious amounts out of my bottles. So of course it was as I had my mouth full of flapjack that Wogan attacked, damn. Not only that but the rest of the national team were blocking quite effectively, we’ve been caught on the back foot and trumped.
 
"What now?” Tal queried.
"Let’s get through the feed,” I suggested.
"We should stick to plan A if we can,” Roni promoted.
"We all okay with that?”
"Let him kill his self, pretty sure we’ll get him back quickly inta the wind,” Josh opined.
"That’s the plan then,” I agreed, confident we’d have some assistance once we break the BC barrier.
 
"Forty seconds!” Sonja called out as I grabbed my musette.

Damn, that’s a fair chunk but it’s still a long way to go, we’re not quite halfway yet.

I hurriedly restocked my pockets and bottle cages and off handed my bag to Ron, we decided on a simple drop off as Dad suggested after the first climb. More flags and whistles alerted the bunch to the level crossing, no sooner had we crossed it than we were into the climb. A combination of the feed and the railway meant BC’s grip on the front of the race was broken and it was a more animated bunch that danced up through the trees before we were spat into a wide verged, straight lane with a nagging single figure gradient.

That wind felt stronger here and the front of the peloton formed into a slightly messy echelon as we ascended between the grey of the drystone walls. Then the light changed suddenly, the flatness caused by the clouds replaced by brightness and sharp shadows below our wheels. Up ahead the flashing lights of the lead car identified Woggo’s position on the straight lane, I used a telegraph pole to guesstimate his lead, thirty seconds.

Perversely the road tilted upwards a couple more degrees as we reached a village, a place of mean stone cottages, ducks on the pond and mud on the road. But also a source of shelter from the wind. The lane became quickly narrower, the walls higher and its course less straight.
We had more respite when the road ceased climbing temporarily and I took the chance for a drink and to check the remaining bunch. We’ve lost a few bodies coming up from Pickering, but the race is remarkably intact still. I gave Ron the signal and checked that I was ready for action.
 
Up into another village and as we climbed out Manda shot out the front like a champagne cork. Of course that caused a reaction, Daz and Geth at the forefront of the action, Team Apollinaris sat tight behind them. It was of course another false attack but it served its purpose in getting others to do our work for us.

The clearly quite recently tarmacked road started to roll downwards as the BC lads brought Mand back then made the mistake of easing up. Josh and I didn’t need an invite, we powered through with several of the more astute competitors following us. This is it, Plan A in all its glory.
The road suddenly dipped, and from full gas, it was full anchors to negotiate a short but sharp descent complete with hairpin and of all things, a ford!. Fortunately there was barely a trickle of wet here and we were quickly climbing out of the little dell. Another animal retention barrier and a long descent with woodland continuing to shelter us from the wind.

Josh continued to push things, I allowed myself a look behind, the field is strung along behind us, a straggling mess. The road jinked across another ford, this one elevated keeping us out of any damp flowing. It was too good to last, as we started to climb again the wind caught us and I found myself fighting to stay on the tarmac.

Our pathfinder swung off inviting some assistance and a messy rotation started as we ploughed our way over Wheeldale Moor. By the time we reached the summit we not only had a great view towards the coast but a small core of about a dozen riders sharing the workload. Not only that but the distance to Wogan is considerably reduced, his escape looks to be terminally short lived now.
 
"For heavens sake,” Ron allowed.

I was thinking about the same as the next climb came into view, a strip of tarmac slicing up the opposite hillside at a silly angle. Dad did warn us last night and again this morning but somehow the reality trumps the words. Not only that but the Rosedale climb is worse than what we could see coming up in our next few minutes of racing.

First though was an equally steep downhill and another ford! I wanted to carry as much speed as possible into the ascent so let my brakes off and let the speed rise, dabbing on a last corner and then – shite! The other fords were effectively dry but this one isn’t, a constant stream of wet was clearly flowing over the roadway.

The Wheeldale watersplash!

"WET!” I screamed as I jammed the anchors on.
 
"You okay Gab?” Dad yelled from the car.
"Wet,” I allowed in near panic as I spotted my steed sinking into the waters.

I dragged my bike out of the river with a bit of help from a spectator and after putting the chain back on remounted and tried to get moving again. I wasn’t the only one to take a ducking but fortunately the rest of the German contingent remained upright, Ron the only one getting more than splash wet as she stopped in the stream to check I was okay. Plan A has gone to pot – or has it?
 
The adrenalin was pumping, and I found both Josh and Roni waiting for me just around the bend, a string of riders ahead picking their way up the 20% climb.

"The others all went through while you were fishing your bike out,” Josh told me.
"That’s something,” I allowed squeezing my gloves out in disgust.
"Let’s get back in the action, girl,” Ron suggested.
 
In case you are in any doubt, climbing is hard, climbing when you are wet through to the skin is hard and horrible. I was thankful to be out of the saddle for at least a few minutes on the climb but also thankful for the sunshine balancing the chill from the breeze a bit. We picked our way through the remains of the bunch and by the top the leaders weren’t too distant, the fact that the others were waiting for us a bonus.

We quickly organised ourselves into team trial mode and resumed our pursuit of the race leaders. Over the moor, another grid and into narrow lanes down into Egton Bridge, a sharp turn and within metres we were once again climbing onto the moorland. It felt good to be surrounded by my friends, the wind on our backs, steadily grinding up into the open countryside once more.

It must be catching, the others, despite the workload, were exchanging happy grins.

“I can see the lead car,” Mand offered.
“Really?”Tal queried, standing up on her pedals to see up the road, "Looks like there’s about twenty riders up there.”

Well that kinda made sense, we’ve only passed one of the BC team, one of the newbies and the other lads we were with pre dunking are still ahead of us.
 
Enthused by the nearness of the flashing lights we pushed on up the incline.

“Sugar!”
"What’s up now?” Gret asked.
"Anyone got a spare bottle? Must’ve lost mine in the river.”

I'm sure there was one there when I dragged the bike out of the wet – oh well.

Tal pulled a bottle out, “Here, princess.”
"Cheers,” I allowed taking the offered bidon, I took a swig before stowing it in a cage – I had to rescue it as my downtube bottle cage was broken, damn. I slipped it instead into the seat tube receptacle - I guess that explains the loss of one bottle.

The gap across to the leaders closed, we finally made contact as the road started to dip down towards what I'm guessing is Rosedale again. At least we can have a short breather before the big climb.

"Cheers guys,” I offered as I stuffed half an energy bar in my mouth.
"You’d better finish the job now,” Tal instructed.
“Guess we’ll see you guys at the finish,” Gret added.

I'm not sure the front runners realised we were there until the hairpin just above the village when both myself and Mand braked late and rode around them.

"Feck!” Wogan supplied.

And so it was that I followed Mand into the lower slopes of Rosedale Chimney at the head of an already tired peloton.
 
Wogan came up alongside as we crossed the animal inhibitor and the three of us exchanged pedal strokes into the first corner. Mand dropped into bottom causing a slight acceleration as we headed for the second corner, no one else is coming, this is it, Plan A. The lead car was long gone, although we could hear it straining away somewhere above us.

We took the wide line around the wrong side of the road on the turn, then when you thought it couldn’t get any steeper it ramped up, bum squared! Mand, still leading the way, hesitated slightly and I angled to pass her, I was conscious that Woggo was still at my shoulder. Turn three is wider and we were pretty much abreast as we took the turn and got our first look at the final corner.

There were quite a few people cheering us up the climb, a good number of club riders precariously balanced on their cleats.

“Up, up, up!”
“Dig in, girls!”
"Not far now!”

Then it was just me and Mand, Wogan just disappeared.

“Go, Gabs!”

I glanced over at the last speaker and recognised Mary, the girl from the BLCA, I offered the merest nod of acknowledgement. I pushed the paddle and waited for the gear to change into bottom but nothing happened.

“Ease,” pant, “off,” my teammate gasped.

Of course, I quickly sat and repeated the move momentarily easing the pressure on the pedals. With a clatter the change was made and I was on the way again. I drew level with Mand again, a flutter of fingers as much as I could offer in way of acknowledgement. And then we were there, the 33% turn, steeper on the inside by far, my companion let rip with an expletive and I was on my own.

I ground the cranks around and finally the gradient slackened – oh not flat but a good few percent less than the last turn. If I'd been training I’d’ve been tempted to stop about now but this is a race, a race with no more than a dozen kilometres left to run. Over another lump and it eased further and the lead car was waiting twenty metres further on – has to be a good sign.

The views south are wide from up here but my attention has to be getting over the top. I clicked up first one then another gear, a grouse croaked as it flew barely a couple of meters to the side of me before gliding out over the heather. I allowed myself a quick look back as the road curved gently to the left up the hillside, Mand was already a long way back and Wogan not in sight, I'm truly on my own.
 

Above is the view from near the Rosedale summit looking towards the village hidden in the middle. The first lap climbed the lump centre left.

Having engaged the big ring just before the summit I set to in time trial mode, I built the speed quickly and as we approached Hutton again got to practice flying again before turning hard up the climb we descended earlier. Finding my borrowed bidon I took a slug as I passed the five K board, you can do it, Gab. The marshal waved me left and I was soon on another short but fast descent then up the other side, a glance across the valley revealed the pursuit maybe a mile astern.

Through a tiny village and it’s downhill all the way to the finish in Kirkbymoorside. No silly mistakes now, Gabs, I swept down the lane and there it was one kilometre to go and the buildings of the town. The lead car pulled off the road and I was into the finishing straight on Market place, I sat up, straightened my jersey and gave a two handed air punch, a grin plastered over my face as I crossed the line to a fair amount of cheering and MC excitement.
 
Maddy Bell © 09.05.17