The Beast of Bilsdale Moor

'So are there many hills on that road?' I asked Richard, when I phoned him from Stockton. We were in a bike shop, getting Olivier's wheel replaced. I was phoning my mum to say we'd be there by mid-afternoon. Richard, her husband, had answered the phone. 'Um, one or two. . . ' he replied. What he really meant was, 'abandon hope! You're about to enter a world of pain! The world will turn vertical, a place where farmers only keep their sheep fixed to the hillside with velcro, and shepherds use climbing ropes and crampons.' Sure enough, an hour later we were coughing up blood, wheezing and sweating, leaning forward on our front wheels just to keep them on the road. We should have known it would be like this: the clues had all been there on the map. The tell tale chevrons, the snaking track of the road and, worst of all, the sunburst of a viewpoint close by. Wherever you see that sunburst you know there's a massive great hill in the offing. By the end 'the Beast' defeated us, and we walked the last part. Once over the Cleveland Hills the road was glorious, swooping and turning as it descended into Helmsley. The Beast had been tamed - or, perhaps more accurately, had tired of toying with such poor, defenceless prey - and left us to meekly crawl on to the welcome and comfort of Edstone.