CLASSIC RIDE IN ASSOCIATION WITH

A truly Classic day out with big views, plenty of miles, and legendary Scotch eggs.

WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY BARNEY MARSH

The Yorkshire Dales have been, of course, extensively covered in the Singletrack Worlds of yore, but Nidderdale has largely been left off the list. Sure, there are mentions here and there, but, for the most part, dropping Nidderdale into the deep black pool of Singletrackian knowledge yields only the barest ripple – followed perhaps by a slight sigh.

Why could this be? Perhaps it’s insufficiently northern sounding, compared to Garsdale, or the magnificently Yorkshire Skegdale? Perhaps, to some ears, the name sounds fairly ridiculous when compared to the infinitely more macho ‘Swaledale’, or the presumably ’80s hard rock obsessed ‘Coverdale’? Nidderdale is so named as a dale (or valley, etymology fans) of the River Nidd. Wikipedia (yes, I’ve researched this article extensively) suggests that Nidd is actually likely a Celtic word for ‘shiny’. It’s also home to Stif, a damn fine bike shop in Summerbridge – not to mention its sister company, Jungle, which imports a couple of brands you might have heard of…

Whither Nidd

But where’s best to go? I spoke to Al Atkinson from Stif, who offered Adam Nolan to be our guide. All sorts of insinuations as to Adam’s physical prowess were given, enough make me slightly nervous. I was busy thinking of the usual excuses as to why I’d be slow: heavier bike, heavier camera gear, post-cold lungs the size of hamsters’ (place the apostrophe where you like, reader; it still applies), all that jazz.

The sun was emphatically Nidding its hardest as trusty sidekick Rick and I rolled into the car park next to Adam’s van, and I could only wonder as to the specimen of manhood that lay within. As he jumped out to greet us, I whispered sotto voce to Rick. “He’s got shaved legs! We are SO screwed.”

Adam put my fears to rest by being a thoroughly nice chap, however, although I still eyed his chiselled calves with suspicion. He chatted about the route and fettled bikes, as Rick wandered about proffering his tub of flapjack heaven (chorus of angels singing included… OOOAAAAAHH).

Previous outings with Rick suggested a fantastic ability to bring the boys to the yard (so to speak) with cake, flapjack or peanut butter squares, but a somewhat – uh – relaxed attitude to bike maintenance. This last reached the point where, before every outing, I’d email to enquire as to which part of his bike was likely to blow up. For the Nidderdale ride, Rick assured me that everything was in fine fettle, a point which was admirably disproved as he bestrode his Orange and set off to a chorus of creaks, rattles and groans that sounded like someone pushing a biscuit tin full of nails through a threshing machine. Right then. Tool kit present and correct? Check.