Me and The Boy felt guilty about the start of our bike trek today because we set off and did not need to even attempt to pedal for the first three miles.
The explanation for this prolonged freewheeling was in the name of our start point, simply "Peak". The highest point it had been for the Scarborough to Whitby Railway Line, part of the North East Rail network, having been commissioned in 1885 and operating for 80 years until falling victim to the ripping up of the tracks as part of a rationalisation in 1965.
The line did represent a major feat of engineering at the time because of the topographical challenges of the location, a large east facing crescent of hillsides sweeping down at its southern extremity to towering sea cliffs and to the north a similar vertical face of rock. In between, the bowl of land virtually unchanged to this day is a patchwork of dry stone walled fields, mere pocket hankerchief size compared to the wooden slopes battling to resist an attempt by the moorland heather and gorse to wrestle back their ancient territory.
A few farmsteads are dotted in the landscape and wedged in a crevice running up from the rock pool beach is the picturesque Robin Hoods Bay, fair heaving with holidaymakers and day trippers in the summer weeks and a few brave souls braving the stiff and chilly winds out of season.
As we rolled down the former course of the railway line, now called 'The Cinder Track' we saw the former and now sadly crumbling features of the former operations. At regular intervals in our rapid descent we passed under the beautiful brick arches of road bridges, each a work of art even for what would be a mundane role serving the isolated farms or just to allow the grazing stock to move from meadow to meadow. These are utilitarian single span or more ambitious multi arched examples dependant on the width of the man made cutting or the natural valley.
The track, although not misrepresenting its name in composition is rough and quite difficult to negotiate on a chunky tyred mountain bike. There are sections washed out in deep wounded gashes which can capture and channel even the most adept rider.
Where passing within a few feet of the front door of a farmhouse there are signs of impromptu repair in half bricks, hearth ash and other debris creating yet more reasons to concentrate in order to avoid a skid and fall. There are other more unpredictable obstructions in the form of walkers, ramblers and loose dogs who seem deaf to the crunchy sounds of a fast approaching bike and are, even when surprised by the squeal of brakes, slow to respond with a sidestep or a hop, skip and jump onto the rough verge, the humans doing so as well.
The relentless roll downhill is interrupted where the track is severed by a road and we have to perform a version of the Green Cross Code on two wheels before scooting across to resume. On either side of the track are steep drops, thickly planted from self seeding but illustrating the scale of the original earthworks and mass transient workforce to create such.
There is an overpowering smell of manure just outside Robin Hoods Bay although the caravan park and camping ground adjacent to the farmyard source are full and no one seems to be phased by the rich, sickly and organic odour.
Our first encounter with traffic is in the car park of the former RHB railway station. Vehicles are queueing awaiting the tell tale engaging of reversing lights amongst the parked cars to arouse excitement amongst the passengers that they may actually be able to stop and get out to enjoy the seaside atmosphere. We drift coolly past, weaving in and out of the line of vehicles and we enjoy the feeling.
We are now having to press down on the pedals hard to propel our bikes up a gradual slope as the course of the track heads towards Whitby. The dramatic seaward views have to be glimpsed quickly in order to concentrate on more rough surfaces and rocky protrusions. There are a few large ships out in the bay making their way no doubt northwards to Teesport or beyond.
There is brief respite from battling the incline on the rare levelling out but the trend is still to climb away from the red pantile and rosemary roofs of RHB. The track is now quite exposed and the breeze is welcome and refreshing. More caravan parks come into view within touching distance or speckling a lower slope towards the cliff top.
We struggle to open and close the five bar gates where the track is cut by the main Scarborough to Whitby Road and the beeping tone of the controlled crossing is one of the first non-natural sounds we have heard for a couple of hours. Hawsker Railway Station is now a bike hire and activity centre with a cafe and a few red and cream liveried NER carriages. The Boy is nearly knocked off the track by an elderly cyclist who is more interested in the rolling stock and not watching where he is going.
At last another downhill stretch but with more local residents than tourist types walking their dogs or pushing prams and buggies. They are at least more accustomed to sharing the cinder way with bikes and gracefully give way. We know that we are now deep into Whitby itself but the route is just beyond the western periphery of the built up area of the town and we do not actually see any houses or premises. The first structure we come across and actually cross is the tremendous stone built viaduct over the River Esk, but like the passengers on a train in the halcyon days of the line we are on the inside looking out and cannot appreciate the scale and grandeur of the design and craftsmanship. All we see is the inner face of the brick parapet but we do have a distinct sense of being at some height above the bottom of the valley.
We have cycled 11 linear miles from our starting point, according to the signage but it feels considerably more taking into account our vertical movement up and down the gradients. In a bit of a showing off Me and The Boy cycle straight through the town centre. We feel like we are joint leaders in a competitive race but nevertheless we have to wait at the traffic lights to cross the single roadway of the harbour swing bridge. The town is overflowing with visitors and we pick our way through the pedestrians who insist on spilling out all over the narrow roads.
Unfortunately we have not finished our ride.
We are in fact only at the half way point and have to backtrack on the track to return to "Peak". The southward return leg is not repetitious at all as we are seeing new coastal and inland views and approaching the potholes and fissures from an altogether different angle. We do however become re-aquainted with most of the other users of the route as they themselves return to their starting points. We nod as nonchalant as we can.
The 8 miles from Whitby seem effortless to us as we have hit our second wind and have been rehydrated and revitalised by glucose drinks and chocolate bars.
However, the 3 mile section which had provided the dream start to our ride some 2 hours prior was now under our front wheels. It may have been a mere 1 in 39 gradient or expressed as a 2.5 degree incline but we felt that we had hit a sheer faced wall.
Our initial respect for the Victorian engineers behind the project was easily dismissed and we cursed them and their kind under our shortening breath. It was ironic that the staccato rhythm of our hatred provided the tempo and cadence that was perfect to tackle and conquer that shallow but nevertheless demanding slope and we were ecstatic and elated as we again scaled the heights in a whipped up cloud of powder dry cinder.
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