falling off bikes since 1975

sign of things to come

Having rearranged my schedule I ride to the station and discover after I’ve prebooked tickets with Virgin up to Lancaster on Friday I could have taken a chance on a Northern trains twin carriage jobbie. Less swish and posh, but less hassle to book in advance. Still don’t know why National Rail Enquiries only carry details of Virgin running up the West Coast Mainline though. Bastards.

The sun is out as the train leaves the station and heads for East Lancashire. We travel round the back of Hoghton Tower, where King James knighted the loin of beef giving rise to the name “Sirloin”. Fact. Below I can see the ford at Hoghton Bottoms, and across the valley the fun descent I’d had on Monday.

Out of Blackburn and the skies start to look grey. Five minutes later walking out onto the platform at Hapton it’s looking grim indeed. No sooner have I started riding, uphill naturally, than it starts to rain. Joy.

The first ford of the day is not far from the station. A wide, shallow, concrete bottomed affair. I ride across noting the bollards by the side of the ford. Hmm. handy to lean a bike against for the photo-opportunity methinks. So I U-turn and ride back into the ford. Slowing down to stop and park up the front wheel, quite literally washes out. I stick out my right foot and discover why the wheel went. The concrete is covered in green slime with the traction of wet ice.

So here I am, ten minutes out, led in a stream getting my arse, right arm, and both hands piss wet through. A poor start to the day followed by a poor start to the ride.

I walk out of the ford and wring out gloves, and get out the, fortunately dry, camera. And would you believe it. The sun comes out just so that all you lot reading will be saying “I don’t know what he’s on about. That’s sunshine that is”.

Childers Green SD787309

Camera away I tread gingerly back into the ford and recover the bike. Shifting into granny to climb back out of the valley I discover that the fall has twatted* the rear mech. Argh. The wife will kill me. And it’s started raining again.Once at the top I extract an allen key and investigate further. Things don’t look right. I straighten the rear mech. I’m only getting gears 1 to 8 - which I did anyway, so I adjust the range screws. Hey-presto. All nine gears are now working better than they were before the crash. After a year of racing it’s quite possible it was already slightly out of line.

Even so, as I descend towards Padiham with wet gloves, freezing hands, and grey skies I’m thinking that I should have worn my orange tinted spectacles again if only to make the world seem a brighter place. Racing the local bus raises my spirits. Knee down in the corners.

I make quick time up the other side of the valley then East to Barrowford. I could have followed the canal and taken a flatter but longer route. Instead I’ve gone direct, but up and then DOWN. With a hefty tailwind I run out of gears and have to coast in an aerodynamic tuck. Turning off the Kendal road I drop to the Leeds-Liverpool canal and up to the Foulridge tunnel. As the canal disappears into the earth I’m faced with yet more climbing.

The grey skies are clearing and the sun is coming out now, though the roads are slick from recent showers.

Foulridge ford (SD879418) is the outlet of the Lower Reservoir. The depth gauge pessimistically reads up to 6 feet.

Apparently the locals pronounce it “Fall-ridge”. In which case why isn’t it spelt that way? This is no convenient shortening of a long name to make it quicker to say, as might happen with Oswaldtwistle, this is pure prettification. I stand by pronouncing it as it is spelt.

Whatever, I cut through and follow a large lorry down a tiny little road towards Colne golf club and Ford #3 for today. Surely no-one should be driving a 13.5 tonne truck down this road. But then he’s bigger than just about anything else, what does he care?

By now the sun is really beating down. I’m glad I’m wearing shades, but the black wool top might not have been such a good choice.

Approaching Noyna, SD906417, from the West I can see a stream exiting stage right, and a cobbled pool of water, no more than 3 inches deep. There’s a convenient spot for the photo opp, so I lean bike against the depth gauge and walk onto the clapper bridge over the stream. I’m greeted not with a view of a ford, but of a shared river bed and road. The gravel bottom disappears round a long gentle left hand bend, and away out of sight hidden by the curve in the wall.

Tackling the cobbles at an angle I can soon choose between riding along the setts or through the gravel washed down by the stream. Neither option is easy on slick tyres and I occassionally have to put a steadying foot down. The water is not deep - just enough to cover my foot but leave my ankles dry. This monster, though never deep is a good 200 yards long. I round a right hand bend and there’s the exit. With the stream entering stage left.

No sooner have I finished taking yet more pictures than a Fiat Punto, carrying two fat blokes, comes round the corner, gives me a wave and sets off down the ford. I whip out the camera and follow them downstream where I can see them tackling it without trouble. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it.

Would you believe there’s more climbing? Well there is. Followed by a screaming road descent, then along stone walled lanes to Wycoller, SD932392. This dead end hamlet was once an important place on pack-horse routes. These days it’s a tea/twee stop on the Bronte Way. Wycoller Beck is crossed by, in order, a clapper bridge, a cobbled ford, and a narrow twin arched packhorse bridge. The left hand arch of the bridge looks like it was built by a couple of coboys who realised they were going too far. Across the way lie the ruins of Wycoller Hall.

I ride across the ford one way, and across the packhorse bridge the other. The base of the bridge is worn by countless hooves and the walls are low (so that the bales of wool wouldn’t get caught) so it’s more exciting than it looks.

Wycoller is also home to a cafe. Or rather an “authentice Lancashire Tea Shoppe” complete with clogs, cast-iron range, and doilies everywhere. Still, they do hot soup and cake. The place is empty. No sooner have I settled down than a party of OAPs shuffle in, their sportswear at odds with their shambling gait. There’s a veritable rush on and they all stare at me. That I’m only half their age says something. When they start singing along to Glen Miller I revise my estimate of their age. Upwards.

Unable to stand their glares I rush through my Bakewell Tart, the last piece in the shop as it turns out. And guess who are saying they love nothing more than a bit of Bakewell? I’m sure they do it deliberately.

Heading to Trawden my wife wants to know when I’ll be done. I don’t know. I have two fords to do and can then either ride to Todmorden or to the train station at Burnley. The pressure is on to get back home to exercise horses,

Things aren’t helped when I start to climb out of Trawden. It’s a granny gear monster. After 15 minutes I crest the brow and can see clear into the Yorkshire Dales, the South Lakes, and Wales. OK, I can’t see Wales, but only because there’s another bloody hill in the way. One that I can see the road climbing over. But before it does that It drops into another little valley. Against the headwind I manage to maintain momentum for two, possibly three, yards up the far side. Then it’s back into granny gear.

After a solid 25 minutes of climbing I pass a “Trawden 1 mile” sign pointing back the way. 25 minutes to ride 1 mile. And still not at the top.

Finally I get to descend and soon reach the first of the two fords at Catlow Bottoms, SD884363.

This one is popular with the cars. At least four make the crossing while I’m there. And only 100 yards up the road is the second.

Catlow Bottoms II SD884362

Fortunately the route to Thursden, SD904384, is mainly flat. The Irish bridge across Thursden Brook is running dry. Still, it’s on wetroads and clearly marked as a Ford on the OS maps.

Ford #7 is it for today. Destination Todmorden.

It started badly but got better. It’s about to get bad again. The only way out of here is up. The climb out to Widdop is so steep that I make my way up in a series of half-circle jerks, standing up in the pedals in stupid stupid low gear. Across the valley sheep are being brought in. I really do hear shouts of “come by” and “that’ll do”.

The top of Widdop is obviously used as a dumping ground by young chavs. I count two Novas and three Fiestas pushed off the road. Two of which have then been torched. Before I reach the top two likely looking lads in baseball caps drive up in a hotted Mitsubishi Colt - I love the way that you can’t disguise these chavmobiles as anything other than the grannymobiles they are based on - and give one of the abandoned Fiestas a quick glance over. Sorry lads, anything of value has already been had.

A blistering twisty road descent gets the brakes nice and hot and gives me a chance to try skinning my knees on the tarmac. Whee. But then it’s off-road to Hebden Bridge. Climbing up from Gorple Reservoirs two Singletrack readers come the other way. They might not be Singletrack readers but they fit the stereotype** with five inch travel trail bikes, baggy shorts, Camelbak’s and grin as they descend hell for leather cushioned by shocks and fat 2.2″ tyres

Feeling every rock as I inch upwards on 90psi and 1.25″ I must admit a pang of lust for some suspension.

Descending to Egypt is only short, but the square edged rocks have me worried about pinch punctures. I try and ride as smooth as a I can for the benefit of the person waiting by the gate at the bottom. Only to discover that I’ve just tried to impress a scarecrow. Cock.

I could probably ride some Calderdale cheek from here to Todmorden. Instead I ride Jack Bridge. I’ve never ridden this downhill. It always seems a long climb. It is. It’s a long descent. The top is fun. Then the loose gravel is less fun, especially combined with water bars. I ride from side to side of the trail like a pinball not daring to touch the brakes with the little grip I have. Then the gravel stops and the wet leaf mould starts. Joy. Fortunately the leaf mould gives way to a jack-hammer wider section of trail. By the time I reach Hebden Bridge my legs are aching from hovering over the saddle for so long and the vibrations have loosened two fillings and one kidney. I’m smiling though.

A four mile section of road brings me to the offices of the Singletrack empire and a lift home from my wife.

OK, so train and car at each end of the day may be cheating - but this is my holiday and my rules.

Miles Today: Enough
Height Gain: up, down, up, DOWN, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, up, DOWN, up, down, up, down, UP UP BASTARD UP, down, up, DOWN, UP, down, UP, down, DOWN, up, DOWN.
Fords Today: 7
Total: 17
Remaining: 8

* technical term.

** OK. One of the stereotypes.