cycling yorkshire

24 ADVENTURE CYCLIST j u ly 2017

CYCLING YORKSHIRESTORY AND PHOTOS BY SIMON WILLIS

25ADVENTURECYCLING.ORG

CYCLING YORKSHIRE


WILLIS - YORK-SHIRE - 2

Wooly, wriggly bodies blocked the verge again, an all too familiar sight in northern England. I wrenched the

handlebars and swerved wide. “I doubt Chris Froome had to dodge livestock while racing the 2014 Tour de France here,” I muttered as I thrust my bike up the final ascent. Another black-faced sheep appeared, popping its head from behind a limestone rock. It stared at me, a piece of grass hanging from its mouth like Clint Eastwood’s signature cigar in a spaghetti western.

My rented hybrid began to glide, pushed by the chilled breeze swirling around this 1,725-foot-high open moorland summit. I rattled over a cattle grate. Giant olive-green mountains rose before me, dovetailing to create a snaking valley. My descent into Swaledale would propel me from one of the highest roads in the Yorkshire Dales onto a helter-skelter racetrack. I pulled my helmet strap tight, tested both brakes, and asked myself, “Do I feel lucky?”

In 2014, the finest road cyclists on the planet — including Froome — tackled this Buttertubs Pass route. Many call Yorkshire’s hosting of the Tour de France the most momentous two days in the region’s modern history. Two years on, with a sunny August forecast, I headed to God’s Own Country — lying between London and Scotland — to discover how the Dales National Park has been transformed into cycling heaven.

I should have known already; I am, indeed, a Yorkshireman. However, I’d left England 10 years ago. I’d swapped warm ale for Mediterranean cocktails, and sausage and mash for fresh Balinese lobster. I’d set off in search of adventure, a new life. After moving to Colombia, my passion for cycling had piqued with trips to the country’s Caribbean coastline, high-altitude Andean mountains, and luxuriant landscapes brimming with crimson coffee beans. Now I wanted to see whether I could re-create the same freewheeling thrill in my native land.

Despite growing up 40 minutes from the Dales, I had rarely visited as a child. Instead our family vacationed at amusement parks or wind-swept northern towns like Bridlington or Blackpool. Sure, we’d driven beside the undulating hills, babbling brooks, and sheep-dotted fields,

but I’d never really explored the national park.

My five-day solo journey began in Fremington at the Dales Bike Centre. For almost a decade, owner Stuart Price has welcomed cyclists, fitted rental bikes, fixed broken frames, and offered encyclopedic knowledge of the area. His wife Brenda runs the café, serving homemade cakes and bacon sandwiches. After I stayed the night in their B&B, Price loaned me a hybrid machine to tackle the smooth runs and pebble paths. He ran his finger along my map, citing Tour de France routes and, at my insistence, the finest pubs in the region.

From Fremington I headed south, gathering my first taste of the 1,099-square-mile national park — a landscape born through extraordinary natural events. Around 350 million years ago, the bodies of sea creatures, gazillions of the things, sank to the ocean’s bottom, compacted to make limestone, and later rose to the surface. Due to the earth’s moving plates, the land that makes up the national park drifted from where Brazil is today. As the last ice age hit around 20,000 years ago, immense glaciers carved through the rock, opening up deep valleys and gorges. Huge blocks of ice shifted, scraping the land and revealing the limestone below. Nowadays, grey moon-like pavements sit atop limestone scars that run along the hillside. From afar, these bare cliffs puncturing the land resemble giant toad eyes peeking from the seaweed-colored mounds.

The first inhabitants settled here in the Neolithic Era, around 5000 BCE, followed by the Romans, Angles, and Vikings. In modern times, farmers have built over 5,000 miles of drystone walls (almost enough to stretch from London to San Francisco), dividing up land into emerald and sage-shaded patchworks. They have built charming barns, as well as coach houses — once stop-offs for travelers in horse-drawn carriages, now partly modernized hotels, pubs, and restaurants.

Pedaling along, I began to discover this landscape for the first time. I breathed in the honey-scented purple heather blossoming across the moorland. I perched on a moss-enveloped fence listening to sheep tear chunks of grass from around my feet. And I reacquainted myself with the Yorkshire sense of humor

— like a farmhouse sign warning drivers, “Careful, free-range children.”

Soon I glimpsed one of the region’s most iconic structures: the famous Ribblehead Viaduct. For nearly 150 years, this railway bridge has carried passenger and freight trains between Settle and Carlisle. Sunken between the mountains, its 24 stone arches — each 32 meters high — had attracted quite an audience. Cars stopped, cyclists laid down their bikes, and walkers stood holding binoculars. Had I stumbled onto Sir Richard Branson’s Galactic spacecraft launch?

I crunched up a gravel path to the old stationmaster’s outpost. The solitary building underwent refurbishment in 2000 and now houses a museum and information point run solely by volunteers. My nose twitching from the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, I hastened past the pamphlets and books into the kitchen. I requested a cuppa, plus a slice of fruitcake and cheese. The creamy white cheddar mixed with piquant raisins reminded me of Sunday afternoon tea at my grandma’s house.

Munching gleefully, I glanced at a poster displaying two chiseled-cheeked actors with bowler hats, long winter coats, and gold pocket watches. The image advertised a TV series dramatizing the building of the viaduct. “Was this Jericho, like real life then?” I asked the senior volunteer with a name tag that read “Susan.”

“I’m supposed to say yes,” Susan said, pulling her hands from her cardigan pockets, “but it really wasn’t. Conditions back then would have been far worse than in the show. You know, they had to live on incredibly muddy ground. It was tough. I doubt women would’ve flounced around in such elegant dresses. In the show, they are like, da-de-da … ”

She raised her arms to either side of her waist and began skipping around the tables in her red slippers, dancing and swooning like a London West End thespian. She stopped when a customer interrupted, asking for the bathroom.

“I think someone from your bus took the key,” Susan said, still holding her imaginary skirt out.

“Can I grab it from her then?” the tourist said.

“That’s fine. As long as I’m able to pee before I go home.”


Susan transported me back to 1870 when 2,000 people had arrived here from all over the country. They built shanty towns boasting wooden houses, churches, pubs, and even, Susan leaned in to whisper, “houses of ill repute.” Male laborers, known as “navies,” used tools like wooden cranes, ladders, pickaxes, and gunpowder to construct the viaduct. With law and order scarce, many have labeled these five years a “British Wild West.” Indeed, these perilous conditions claimed the lives of around 200 men, women, and children.

After thanking Susan, I hopped back onto my saddle. With the help of Welcome to Yorkshire, I was looping the Dales, overnighting in Austwick, Malham, Litton, and Hawes. I’d end with Buttertubs Pass, part of the King of the Mountains stage of the Tour de France.

When Yorkshire hosted cycling’s premier road race for the first time, its residents collectively rolled up their sleeves. Locals hung lines of polka-dot bunting from lampposts, painted yellow jerseys and bikes onto shop windows, and tied flags — French, British, and the iconic white rose of Yorkshire — to doors. Volunteers arrived by the thousands, roads were fixed and cobblestones polished. Even the Swaledale sheep got involved – they were sprayed yellow.

The Tour’s first two days (the third ran from Cambridge to London) attracted a remarkable 2.5 million spectators and brought in £102 million ($128m) to Yorkshire’s economy. And the enthusiasm isn’t flagging: Sport England has recorded 18,000 more cyclists in Yorkshire compared to 2014. It also says the county has the second highest percentage of

Top: Quiet roads weaving through pastures and alongside stone walls are the regular riding conditions in the Yorkshire Dales. Bottom: Stopping for a local brew and a bite to eat at English pubs is practically mandatory when riding through the region, if only for the names!


residents cycling at least once a week (it came in seventh in 2014). Little wonder the region will host the UCI Road World Championships in 2019. As for Le Tour, general director Christian Prudhomme said, “It’s a question of when, not if, the event will return to Yorkshire.”

Throughout my trip, I began to feel it had somehow never left. Folks in coffee shops told me stories of “the time I saw Mark Cavendish.” Cyclists rode by wearing “Tour on t’moor” jerseys. One bartender showed me a video of the event, watching the screen like a father reliving his daughter’s wedding. I hadn’t witnessed Yorkshire’s big day, but with every push of my pedal, I felt pride for the revolution we had created.

The biggest draw for international cyclists lies in racing along the Tour routes. I, however, rode somewhat recreationally. Rather than munching gel and energy bars, I refueled in cafés and fish and chip shops. I lounged in traditional pubs, glugging delicious locally brewed ales like Black Sheep and Theakston. I didn’t sprint, I meandered. I hadn’t planned it this way, it’s just that, well, I longed to extend the feelings of home — the soft, cushioned seats in a pub, the scent of vinegar swirling from a proper “chippy,” and the chestnut brown gravy cascading into a crispy Yorkshire pudding. Every “ay up” (hello) made me smile. Every mention of the “fine weather we’re ’avin” made me want to stay.

My daily average of 16 miles allowed for new experiences. I explored beneath the limestone at White Scar Cave and practiced archery inside 14th-century Bolton Castle. In the Wensleydale Creamery (a favorite of claymation superstars Wallace and Gromit), I shoveled in free samples of cheese infused with cranberries, apricots, ginger, and orange. Such diversions occasionally took me off route and, with phone data limited in many places, I had to request the help of locals.

Searching for Malham, I pulled beside a grey-bearded chap walking his spaniel. “Well,” the man started. “You need to cross the bridge, take a left, then head 134 meters up the 13-degree-incline road. Say hello to Mrs. Smith who takes little Rover for his walk about now, then carry on until you get to a T-junction. There’s no sign because it was taken down in December


1989, but take a left here, head down the 3.34-mile winding road that brings you into the center.” He tugged his sniffing dog away from my shoe. “I’m terribly sorry I can’t be more help; it’s been a while since I went.” I swear, if satellite failure destroyed every map and GPS

system on earth, Yorkshire wouldn’t even notice.

The two-mile ride into Malham proved the most enjoyable of the trip. I zipped, curved, and cavorted around

CONTINUED ON PAGE 48

NUTS & BOLTS Yorkshire

My five-day trip was self-guided with the help of Welcome to Yorkshire (yorkshire.com). My route began in Fremington at the Dales Bike Centre (dalesbikecentre.co.uk) where I rented a hybrid bike. I stayed over in Hawes, Austwick, Malham, and Litton. The Sherpa Van (sherpavan.com) collected and delivered my bags on time every day.

ACCOMMODATIONHotels, B&Bs, and

hostels are plentiful in the Dales. The following all boast bike facilities and knowledgeable staff: Park Bottom (parkbottom.co.uk), Spring Bank House (springbankhousehawes.co.uk), The Traddock (thetraddock.co.uk), YHA (yha.org.uk/hostel/Malham).

BEST TIME TO VISITJune to August is summer and has the finest riding conditions. Each season offers different landscapes and challenges.

GETTING THEREManchester airport is the closest international airport with direct connections from many U.S. cities. Airlines include British Airways, Delta, United, and American Airlines. There are many domestic flights in the UK. Trains are reliable and easy to use (thetrainline.com). Potential train stations accessing the Yorkshire Dales include Settle, Ilkley, and Skipton. Malham

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corners lined with head-high drystone walls. Their gray surfaces transformed into a blur as if I were racing through a tunnel in Monte Carlo. Pulling my brakes only when I truly panicked, I whizzed past walkers, blowing their maps in the air as I passed. I overtook convertibles and catapulted over the last dip with my nose grazing my handlebars. I would have zoomed into the village, arms aloft like a yellow jersey winner were it not for the fear of disturbing such a scene of bliss.

Chugging to my left, a stream sparkled. The Lister Arms pub, vines enveloping its exterior, teemed with families. Glasses clinked and clanked as smartly dressed waiters carried out trays of drinks.

Couples perched on benches crunching crisps (potato chips). Children sprinted towards the Farmhouse Ice Cream truck. On the cashmere-soft grass, a bulldog sniffed its owner — a man lying on the ground, T-shirt sleeves rolled up over his shoulders, sweater covering his face. Although the weather in this part of the world can be unpredictable and nasty, there’s nowhere I’d rather spend a sunny summer afternoon than in northern England.

Two days later, I rode Buttertubs Pass. I climbed its challenging incline and hurtled down the hairpins just like the racing greats had done. It capped off my discovery of a place finally beginning to fulfill its potential as a world-class cycling destination. And with more elite

events on the horizon, the number of riders pedaling these moorland roads and ascending chest-pounding climbs will increase. For me, however, the trip meant much more.

I connected to a land that I had never really known. My journey around the Yorkshire Dales not only compensated for over three decades of neglect, it rekindled a desire to explore more of my home country. As I freewheeled down the final descent, I wondered how long, if ever, it would take before I sought out foreign shores again.

Simon Willis is a travel journalist specializing in Latin America. His last story for Adventure Cyclist was in February 2016 covering a tour in Colombia. For more, visit simonwillistravels.wordpress.com.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 29WILLIS: YORKSHIRE

“I awoke just after midnight in a restless sleep, thinking in my semiconscious state that someone was outside my tent,” he wrote. “I went outside and saw something far better than an intruder. In the middle of nowhere, miles from any sources of light polluting the night sky, was one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed: the North Star shone so large and bright I at first mistook it for the moon.

“After some focus, I saw the quick flashes of shooting stars and the more consistent movement of satellites. All of this was surrounded by the other stars and constellations in a brilliant tapestry of light. Although the sharp rocks on which I slept hadn’t allowed for very much rest,

my night stranded in the desert had been more than worth it. I awoke later with the sunrise and finished the remainder of my trek to Blythe.”

Bob Lee couldn’t be happier for his young mentee.

“Jan is hitting it at a great age,” Lee said. “He has the rest of his life to think about this journey. The rest of his life is a lot longer than the rest of mine. I’m glad he’s doing it and experiencing the goodness of people.”

Lee doesn’t have any more fundraising rides planned right now, but he and his wife Anne are keeping up an ambitious agenda of exercise, walking 52 miles a month together in recognition of the number of years they’ve been married. They began the regimen on their 50th anniversary and hope to keep upping their mileage with each passing year.

Lee doesn’t kid himself that their ages aren’t also increasing along with their mileage.

“We’re wondering where those lines are going to cross,” he said. “Some place those lines are going to cross, but we haven’t missed a month yet.”

Neither is Lee finished as an inspiration and mentor.

“I’d just encourage people, if they read this article, to put a dream in the back of your head and work towards it,” he said. “If you dream it, you can achieve it. You got a family to support, kids to get through college, whatever, but there’s time to get on a bike and do this if it’s something you want to do.”

Dan D’Ambrosio is a contributing writer for Adventure Cyclist magazine.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 41D’AMBROSIO: BOB LEE

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