A Winter Ride

A planned Winter ride.

Out, head to the wind.

Back, wind sailing home.

Coffee pushes for the first thirty minutes, forcing two unplanned stops.

The gradient continues as the gust is unforgiving. Take the first turn for 20

miles, to the right, thundering down the potholed road, break from the wind at last.

Over the Tees, kayakers start their escape, laughter and thought of routes to take.

Rapids behind and in front, the valley rises, pushing back towards the bridge, the comfort of warmth and safety. Curiosity beckons distance, round the next corner, over that (final) crest.

Snow hits the front of sun starved tint, as gloves make the world blurred. Onto the moors, signs of practice for battle, alongside young lambs risking all for the greener side. Temperatures battle for superiority, from the high of the body, to the low of the snow.

Summit reached, the sun cries for recognition, through the lost reception of an English winter. ‘Seems like it has been here for ages, sick of this cold, damp, ice scraping windscreen weather.’ Divert your journey, take your time, what’s the rush?

Descending with caution, patches not yet melted, puddles remain frozen. Sugar aids judgment. Into Brough, legs begin to warm, after being forced to conform. A wrong

turn, judgment lost, a farmer on his quad bellows that the road ahead is un-passable.

Contrary, the climb begins, home leg now, tail wind well deserved. Still climbing, climbing, Ice.

The farmer was right, the slush has turned to ice, too much for 25mm.

180 degrees, the right decision from a cold mind, route adapted and how different the same road can be with a tail wind.