Up the Spout

I shouted at my father yesterday afternoon.

It shocked me because in all of my years I had had no reason to do that.

His mild manner with which all of us had grown up with was not a sign of timidity or weakness but of a thoughtful and wise man assured in his own character and content to be in the midst of those he loved to be with.

We certainly knew, each of us, when we were in the wrong not by a stern voice of reproach but in a look which expressed a bit of disappointment albeit with enough compassion to enable us to be aware of what we had done and give ample opportunity to rescue the situation.

I have carried this lesson in parenting through to my own children and in their ability to cope with setbacks and drama's without fear I have found myself thanking the wisdom passed down through the generations of our family.

The circumstances of my tirade were not borne out of a bad situation.

There was no sense of frustration behind the outburst. Promises and pledges had not been broken. The bond of trust between a father and a son remained resolute. I was in a place in which thoughts of my father are foremost, that being pedalling along on a bicycle.

He had encouraged me to take to two wheels and was a regular spectator at competitive events both where I was taking part or otherwise attending as a keen enthusiast trying to fathom the secrets behind those who rode for their livelihoods in the professional ranks of cycle sport.

Yesterday afternoon I was riding out with my own son, a powerful nineteen year old who has become enthused with what cycling can do for mind, body, morale and spirit as much as I had been at that age and remain so into my fifties.

We were attempting the steepest incline in the region, the infamous Spout Hill.

It is of legendary gradient although the single black chevron on the Ordnance Survey sheet is a bit vague in putting it somewhere between 1 in 5 and 1 in 7.

I have been up it a few times and the sheer slope gives the impression that your forehead is perilously close to the tarmac road surface.

My son had been unsuccessful in a previous attempt not through lack of effort and physical ability but a very poor gear ratio on an otherwise wholly unsuitable dirt bike.

The hill begins immediately at the junction by the old water pump in the middle of the hamlet of Brantingham and on his infinitely more suited 29 inch wheeled, 27 geared mountain bike the challenge was very much on.

There are two modes of thought on tackling Spout Hill.

One is to start off in a comfortable gear and then gradually change down as forward momentum comes up against gravity and fatigue. The other is to just engage the lowest gear possible and keep pedalling as though your life depended upon it.

Between the two of us we covered both methods and probably reached that same stage of regret in our individual choices.

I just stuck it out on the middle ring across the biggest sprocket fearful of trying to flick the left hand changer onto the inner ring. My son was already spinning his pedals at more than 100 revolutions per minute which translated to very little actual linear movement.

Surprisingly for my age, as I keep reminding myself, and the fact that I had not been out for a week I felt quite comfortable in the relatively bigger gear. My legs felt good and although I was breathing deeply and heavily I had not reached anywhere near the usual sensation of burning lungs and the very real possibility of a heart attack.

The steepness of the slope was relentless. Other hills on our usual routes at least presented a false flat or a slight variation for a bit of a breather but not the Spout.

At about 200 metres into the ascent there is a widening out of the left hand verge, a tree and a beautiful viewpoint over Brantingham Dale and the old Church. This is a popular place for the brief respite of ramblers or a photo opportunity.

It was also one of my father's favourite locations and for that reason my mother sprinkled some of his ashes in the foliage by the tree at an informal family gathering after his passing in 2011.

My shout bordering on the madness of attention seeking was " look at me father, I'm nearly half way up!"

I am sure that although there was no openly human voice to break into the sounds of nature and those emanating from two dedicated cyclists on that unseasonably warm October day I am convinced that the spirit of my late father shouted some kind words of encouragement back.

The latter part of the hill presented no real obstacle and I reached not just the summit but a state of calm and supreme happiness.