There is nothing, or almost nothing, quite so much worth doing as sitting in the Tan Hill Inn on a glorious July morning drinking beer, so we did that for a while before it was time to depart. There was a group photo taken by someone on someone else's camera and then we hurtled down the hill towards the spiffing off-road bit across Sleightholme Moor.
I have never done a great deal of off-road, and that which I have has been mostly reasonably flat and easy (there was one exception last year in which Jane and I had to scrape most of Gloucestershire off our bicycles before we could ride them again) but this one, although bone-dry, was decidedly technical. My Thorn was probably pretty well ideally suited to the job save for the fact that it was fitted with road tyres, but I was really given a lesson in bike-handling by Jane who, on skinnies, just disappeared off down a treacherous, gravelly, rock-strewn scree slope which at times seemed to be like the north face of the Eiger. There was one absent friend whose company is normally a delight, but I was quite pleased that she wasn't there on this occasion. If she reads this she will know who she is (probably so will everyone else).
Eventually the road became a road again and we continued to make good progress. We joined a fast A road but in the 4 miles we were on it we dropped from about 1000 to 700 feet so it was fast for bicycles as well as cars. That took us to Barnard Castle where there was a brief stop in front of the Bowes house where someone sorted a stuck chain out and I had a look at my drive train to see if I could find out where the ticking was coming from. I found a loose chain ring bolt, tightened it, and the ticking stopped. Someone had a puncture and we rested under a healthy-looking beech tree whilst it was mended. We crossed a suspension bridge over the Tees, which reminded me very much of a similar one over the Tweed, near a honey farm, at a place whose name escapes me.
We approached Darlington and whilst in the suburbs I noticed a cyclist standing to my left. I though he didn't look like one of ours so I carried on, having failed to spot in my sleep-deprived stupor that everyone else had turned left with him. It turned out to be Andrewbr, but he looked much too smart to have been up all night. Finally we found Deano's favourite pub which appeared to serve beer, but I was by this time so overheated, dehydrated and low on blood sugar that I engulfed two pints of orange juice and lemonade. Then it was time for the train so Jane and I dozed our way back to King's Cross.
Thanks again, Deano, for the excellent ride.
