Five Go Swamp Walking.

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Pensioner, The Ginger One, Trainee#2, Oz.

28th October route

Not a bad day for the end of October, practically windless, dry and sunny, five of us met at Gribdale, spreading bike parts about the car park as we assembled our steeds. After the requisite amount of faffing, we could procrastinate no longer and set off up the hill to Newton Moor, a bit muddy and slippy but rideable, this is a vicious way to begin a ride, gaining height quickly and reducing riders to panting, sweating wrecks even more quickly. Five panting, sweating wrecks reconvened at the top, regaining their breath, thankfully things level out from here for a bit. We rode the track along Newton Moor before entering the top of Guisborough Woods, following a fire road to emerge at the top of The Unsuitables, aiming for the leafy, rooty fun fest known as The Secret Path. Trainee#2 and me plunged in, negotiating the slight uphill section near the start and pausing near a large pile of discarded Daily Mirrors, if your paper round takes in The Secret Path, you can’t be blamed for lightening your load, I suppose. At this point, we realised we were alone, the other three had not caught us up, even by our standards, losing sixty percent of the team within two hundred metres was good going.

Eventually The Ginger One and The Pensioner turned up, it seems Oz had left his wallet on display in his car, on the front seat, Gribdale is a slightly dodgy parking spot, most days there is a pile of car window glass somewhere, he decided to return and put it in a safer place. Quite what a smash and grabber would make of two threepenny bits, a ten shilling note and a creased photograph of a 1970’s Yamaha FS1E we can only imagine. The geographically challenged Ginger One made an executive decision, ran it up the flagpole for a bit of blue sky thinking outside the box, made sure he didn’t reinvent the wheel, while remaining focussed and proactive (unfortunately The Ginger One, ambitious fool that he is, really does consort with retards who speak like that) he told Oz to meet us at the old wartime building on Percy Cross Rigg. Actually part of the Starfish Decoy System from WW2. The route was rejigged slightly, giving us the dubious benefit of a ride up The Unsuitables and Percy Cross Rigg.

Idling the time away at the air raid shelter (sic), waiting for Oz to return, we spotted a likely looking track cutting down the moor, presumably to join The Cleveland Way after Black Nab. In a spirit of adventure and derring do, we gave it a try, once Oz had rejoined us. It started well, nice grassy doubletrack, not a lot of hazards and heading in a gravity-friendly direction. All good things inevitably coming to an end, it did, rather abruptly at a lonely grouse butt, the grouse butt the track was obviously built to access. Onward appeared to be a trackless trek through the valley bottom, bracken, heather and that long white grass which always denotes boggy ground. And boggy it was, sphagnum moss, soaked with water, five men walking through a field of sponges, sinking knee deep, waterproof socks now keeping the water in rather than out. We trudged deeper into the bog, expecting alligators and airboats from the Florida Everglades to appear at any moment, a bracken covered hill our objective, higher ground our salvation. Eventually we reached it, not without some dark mutterings from the back markers, a dry path appeared and everyone was happy again.

Rather drier tracks formed the remainder of the ride, we made our way past Highcliffe Nab to Nomad which was a bit muddy but still a nice track, comparisons were inevitably made with seven days previously when we were tearing up the Whinlatter trails. A couple more of Guisborough Wood’s finest trails were dispatched before we returned to Codhill Heights to ride The Nipple, or as some people know it, Scalextrix. This is a rutted trail which punishes those who can’t keep a straight line - The Pensioner was duly punished, ending up trapped underneath his bike, regrettably, he was too far back for photos or video. Some further singletrack around Great Ayton Moor was followed back to the cars, although it may not have been the singletrack we originally set out to follow, being male it was unthinkable to use the L word, instead we were either temporarily misplaced or exploring new tracks for future use.

Winsome Whinlatter

Mountain Bike Ride

Trainee#2, The Youth, Oz

21st October route

“Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.” wrote French philosopher Albert Camus and there can be few better places to embrace autumn than a forest in the Lake District. Camus, with his philosophical notions of absurdity would surely have approved of a two hundred mile round trip to ride a bike up a hill and down again a few times. On a less abstract note, three men and three bikes will fit inside a Ford Mondeo although the one sat next to the pile of wheels will moan at every turn. Whinlatter forest beckoned and we answered.

Cloudy but windless, slightly cool but mercifully dry, Trainee#2, The Youth, Oz and myself rebuilt our bikes in the busy car park, other cyclists milling about, starting or finishing rides. In an entirely predictable fashion, we did The Quercus blue route as a warm up, returned to polish off the Altura red north loop, slogged up and down the south red loop and went to the cafe. Such a brief description does not do the day's riding any justice.

The blue was a nice introduction to for The Youth and Trainee#2 to lose their Whinlatter virginities, starting downhill it curves sweetly, instant pleasure straight out of the box, mellowing the ascent which comes later. A few gentle berms and small jumps keep things interesting and most of the climbs are on zig-zags, so never feel too desperate. It comes as a surprise to be suddenly back in the car park, ready to tackle the red route. Retracing our tyre prints along the start shared with the blue route, we are soon wending our way along tracks slightly less amenable than the friendly blue but no less fun. And then it starts going uphill, starting with Bob's Traverse, a narrow track cut in the side of a hill, an airy drop to the right, pause for a breather and obligatory pictures at Luchini's View before (and never has a section been so aptly named) The Slog. Things keep going up after The Slog but more interestingly, returning to the man-made tracks. Our newbies were having the time of their lives, especially when gravity became our friend, flying down the tracks with increasing confidence. The last sections of the north loop are awesome, zig zagging between the forest and fellside, huge berms and bigger drops to the bottom of the valley, four happy men regrouped on the road, realising why Whinlatter is worth the two hundred mile round trip.

The south loop is essentially a long ascent to the top a hill, followed by an equally lengthy descent, basically some zig-zags, a fireroad, some more zig-zags, another fireroad, a few more zig-zags and we pop out, panting and perspiring, on the rocky crown. More pictures, then we flowed downhill, carving the berms, pumping the jumps, taking phat air, being totally rad and gnarly - in our minds anyway. The Youth tried to squeeze out some extra speed by smacking his testicles against the stem, which kept us amused for a few minutes but ultimately watching him writhe in agony was nowhere near as much fun as riding bikes downhill. A few bits of north shore signal we are on the penultimate section and soon it is all over and we’re riding back through the arch and returning to the car park for a quick game of bike Tetris before the cafe.

Not even fifteen miles ridden but we stayed dry and uninjured (apart from clashing cojones), had a grand day and, despite the cyclists in the car park, barely saw another rider all day.

Quaking At The Quaker's Causeway.

Mountain Bike Ride

Trainee#2, Rod

20th October 2016 route

Quaking at the thought of the Quaker’s Causeway probably explains why we only were a trio today, was about to write threesome there but the warped imaginations of most of the regular readers made me change to trio. Those of us who spent the extra and lashed out on full-suspension bikes view the causeway as a speedy way of making progress over an exposed and boggy moor; riders of hardtails, however, seem to find it akin to six months in a category A prison as the cellmate and love interest of a sexually ambiguous rapist called Big Bob The Beast Of B Wing. Trainee#2 rides a hardtail but (for the next hour or so at least) is unaware The Quaker’s Causeway exists, despite vague warnings from The Youth on past rides.

First we had to leave Birk Brow car park and share the moor road with traffic for a mile or so before a minor road took us to Moorsholm, the weather is autumnal now, becoming cool with leaf cover making some of the bends greasy. From Moorsholm we passed Freeborough Hill, that strange, conical lump beside the moor road, where, one legend has it, King Arthur and the knights of the round table lay sleeping until England needs them, after Dimmingdale Farm, our route went offroad, crossing the moor to the start of Robin Hood’s Butts, opposite the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter. Robin Hood’s Butts was sprinkled with large and unavoidable puddles but is not yet at the normal Venetian canal standard. The sun had a go at getting out but mainly fought a losing battle against the thick cloud. We pressed on to Danby Beacon, using tarmac, from there dropping down to Oakley Walls on the 4x4 track, multiple ruts, mainly filled with mud and water but the right line choice will give a reasonable ride.

The bridleway to Clitherbeck Farm came and went, damp rocky, although the atypical headwind made it a bit slower than usual, after the farm, we crossed the road and followed the Pannierman’s Causeway, crossing a small beck, which was running deeper than usual, only Rod was brave/foolish enough to attempt riding it. The Pannierman’s Causeway continued sharply uphill then down to Danby Park, where we rode above the railway line until we reached the road on the outskirts of Castleton. A long upward slog on tarmac ensued, the weather, sensing we were at our weakest, decided it was time for a shower, just in case uphill tarmac is not grim enough. Nobody wanted to be the one who capitulated first and put a coat on, so we pressed on to the sanctuary of the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter. And shelter we did, until we convinced ourselves the rain had stopped and the distant clear sky was coming our way, and of course we didn’t need to get our coats out.

A further brief bit of tarmac and we reached the bridleway sign, marking the path to the Quaker’s Causeway. The first section probably engendered a false sense of security in Trainee#2, being standard moorland double-track, slightly damp and a little muddy but not at all like the horror he’d been expecting. Then the paved section begins, narrow and slightly uneven, two of us flicked our rear shocks to a more comfortable position, one of us got an uncomfortable shock in the rear. Gradually Trainee#2 began to lose ground as blokes almost twice his age vanished into the rain - oh yes, the weather gods evidently decided we were enjoying ourselves too much and hit us with a ferocious shower which had us drenched before we could even consider getting coats out. It did not matter, a few minutes later we were swapping wet clothes for dry and tucking into some fine comestibles from the Birk Brow burger van.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

Lakeland Monster Miles 2016

Cyclocross Bike Ride

The Fireman

16th October route

It always seems a little unfair to be staying in a hotel and having to crawl out of bed while it is still dark; surely that sort of behaviour only applies to work days or catching flights to somewhere warm and sunny? But here I was, up at the crack of dawn, quietly munching down an in-room breakfast as darkness turned to grey, a most unpromising start to the day. Half an hour later, I was in Keswick’s Fitz Park, registering for my fourth Lakeland Monster Miles event and it seemed dusk was as light as it was going to get, not that it had put anyone off, the park was thronged. The Fireman appeared and we joined the ever-lengthening start queue, the event seems well attended this year. Cross bikes, mountain bikes, a few Pensioner style electric bikes and even a couple of fat bikes surrounded us as we moved forward in batches to be released into the awakening streets of Keswick, yet to be populated by hordes of walking pole wanderers.

The Fireman and I ambled along as the speedy boys took off as though prize money is involved. The usual flat warm up along the old railway track to Threlkeld was abandoned this year because some of the bridges were destroyed in last winter’s floods, instead we followed the A591 uphill for a mile, a proper warm up, getting legs and lungs into a rhythm, a long line of cyclists, tail lights flashing in the morning gloom. A welcome downhill followed, leading to a turn off at Dale Bottom, where a deteriorating road was followed to a gravel track which took a turn skyward, catching most riders by surprise, wrong gear, loose surface, slippy rocks, every excuse was trotted out as bikes were dismounted for the walk of shame. The route continued, more amenably through St. John’s In The Vale to rejoin the usual route at Threlkeld.

From Threlkeld the route goes along the front of Blencathra to the hamlet of Scales where it peels away from paralleling the A66, heading along the minor road to Mungrisedale and Mosedale, Bowscale Fell and Carrock Fell to our right, autumnal brown bracken and grey rock contrasting with the grey sky. A left turn and road turns to offroad as we begin the loose ascent onto the Caldbeck Fells, undulating for a few miles before a greasy, grassy descent plunged downward, usually the spot where the mountain bikers have the advantage over the cross bike riders. In a typical Lake District paradox, the sky began to brighten at the same time as a light drizzle began, the drizzle continued all the way to the feed station where it gave up wimping about, hit the gym, took some steroids and turned to proper rain, complete with tree-bending wind to help drive the water through our clothing. The world record for how many hungry cyclists can huddle under a gazebo was probably broken as we tried to keep our biscuits dry.

The infamous Sector Bog Trotters came next and it may be my imagination but it seems to be less muddy every year, although the underlying rock is as slippery as ever. We had almost reached the end of the sector, when The Fireman suddenly halted, his rear mech dangling uselessly from the frame like a mechanical prolapse. Snapped mech hanger. Roughly twenty miles to go, squally rain and a couple of big ascents, the usual option of turning it to a singlespeed was dismissed and we agreed to part company - me to valiantly continue the route solo, The Fireman hiking back to the feed station to see if the in-situ mechanic could help him out. Continuing alone, apart from a few hundred other cyclists, the rain had a few goes at discouragement but we’re made of sterner stuff and it was not long before  I was attempting the gruesome climb through Setmurthy Woods and failing for the fourth year running - I was not unique. Another greasy, grassy, downhill and soon I was threading my way through the backstreets of Cockermouth, heading toward the split point a mile or so further on. Being old, wise and possessing a level of indolence which makes the average sloth look hyperactive, naturally the long route was not even a consideration.

Climbing gradually, it was a pleasure to see the sign for Sector Forrest Gump, the sector which was included in the inaugural Monster Miles but not included for the past two years. A brilliant and speedy fire road descent through Wythop Woods comes out at the side of Bassenthwaite; even better than the descent is missing out the grind up Whinlatter Pass. From here it is a relatively flat run back to Keswick, through Thornthwaite, Braithwaite and Portinscale and due to some strange quirk in the space time continuum, summer has arrived, or we’ve gone back to summer, somehow the sun was now blazing through from a cerulean sky, the early morning gloom now a mere memory from a season long ago.

Through the inflatable barrier, timing chip beeped, medal round neck, coffee in hand, it was all over. A party atmosphere in the park, live music playing in the registration tent, the catering vans doing a good trade as hungry bikers poured into the park, mud-splattered, aching, all glad it was over. After an hour or so, The Fireman crossed the line, on his newly repaired bike, luckily the mechanics carry universal mech hangers.

Ankle-Breaker Hill Revisited

Mountain Bike Ride

Trainee#2, The Pensioner

12th October route.

Deja vu, Groundhog Day, call it what you want, there is definitely a feeling of history repeating itself as we approach Sheepwash. Puddle strewn car park? Check. Rain lashing against windscreen? Check. Pensioner with half assembled electric bike and a look of utter despondency? Check. Although the weather forecast, or as we know it, The BBC’s Website Of Whoppers, suggested Sheepwash would be the driest spot in our little corner of North Yorkshire, it would appear some stealth-ninja isobars sneaked in when the meteorologists backs’ were turned and insisted on giving us a reprise of yesterday’s weather. Glum mutterings from The Pensioner became ever-present background noise as we donned waterproofs for the second day in a row.

By the time we reached the dam at Cod Beck Reservoir, the sun was trying to force itself through the clouds like a celestial benefactor attempting to bestow munificence on his chosen people (mountain bikers, naturally) only to be beaten back by vicious squalls sent by arch-enemy, the great and evil God, Haversaki, chosen deity of ramblers and hillwalkers. Not many of them about today, probably all at home polishing their walking poles and applying dubbin to their boots ready for an arduous stroll up and down Keswick Main Street, or practicing their disapproving expressions in the mirror. Weatherwise things continued in the wet, dry, wet, wet, wet vein for several miles, to make it more fun, an atypical easterly wind battered us full in the face. The Pensioner stoically stormed ahead, courtesy of Mr. Tesla’s invention, while me and Trainee#2 made appropriate gestures behind his back. The Pensioner’s back that is not Mr.Tesla’s, who had more sense than to be out on a day like this.

Eventually we reached Arnesgill Ridge, where we were able to turn sideways to the wind for a bit of respite, making our way to Barker’s Ridge and across to the head of Scugdale, mercifully downhill with the wind by now behind us, the grimness of the last few miles evaporating in our minds as gravity worked its’ magic. The B.O.A.T. down into the Scugdale valley was wet, rocky and rutted, the odd squall reminding us we were not here to enjoy ourselves but enjoy ourselves we did, slipping and sliding through the mud, bouncing over the rocks, faces splattered with dubious feculence, we reached the road at Scugdale Hall grinning like lunatics.

From here a fairly straightforward ride along the road to Heathwaite, then through Clain Woods brought us to the steps on the Cleveland Way. Trainee#2’s only previous experience of this timber and gravel torture device was riding down them, he was less than impressed with the upwards push. Sometime between here and Scugdale, summer reappeared and all became right with the world. Tired legs accepted the challenge of ‘one last hill’ and we span our way, wind-assisted for a change, up Scarth Wood Moor ready for the descent down the front, now dubbed Ankle-Breaker Hill following young Olly’s unfortunate accident last month. The track was wet and slippy, despite the recent upturn in weather conditions; our descent was circumspect and lacking injuries. With age comes wisdom  - maybe.

Gritty And Moist

Hamsterley Forest

Mountain Bike Ride

The Ginger One, The Youth, Trainee#2

10th October route.

Smugly dodging the local rain showers (torrential apparently) by going further inland to Hamsterley, where not once did Satan’s micturition dampen our brows, we enjoyed what turned out to be a fairly standard, if occasionally muddy ride around the Hamsterley Hot Lap. Trainee#2 lost his Hamster’s virginity and The Youth showed us that having more confidence than ability will often end in disaster, when he got the landing of a jump wrong and was catapulted off the track and downhill into the trees. Eyewitnesses did not expect him to survive and were deciding between calling an ambulance or digging a shallow grave and denying all knowledge of a youth when he emerged from the undergrowth like Lazarus or something from a Zombie Apocalypse, with only a scuffed knee to show for his spectacular flight.

The Rosedale Round

Mountain Bike Ride

The Pensioner, Trainee#2

11th October route.

Today, however, the inland plan failed us, rain lashed the car windscreen as we drove through low cloud to Rosedale Abbey, ready to introduce Trainee#2 to the Rosedale Round. The Pensioner turned up, looking gloomier than the sky around us, muttering darkly about going further West for better weather. The opinions of an aged and venerable sage are always to be respected, however this was only The Pensioner, so we ignored him and pedalled up the road, pausing at Chairman Whelan’s favourite public conveniences to answer a call of nature, only to be told by The Pensioner we ought to have went before we left the house. It was like suddenly having fifty years knocked off my age. Passing Bell End did not even warrant the usual geriatric tittering, as we hauled our way slowly upward to gain the old railway line, which would lead us around the head of the valley. Sheets of rain gently lashed us from the right as we climbed higher, the electric powered Pensioner taking the lead, already desperate to finished and in the cafe.

A diversion around the land slip near the start of the rail track took us above the ruined buildings for a change before a diagonal downhill led back to the regular track - an interesting diversion if nothing else. Onward we pedalled, the curving track giving the wind and rain opportunity to accost us from all sides, around the head of the valley, following the giant U turn, through puddles and muddy defiles until the track bed reverts to cinders , climbing gently toward the site of the old station, just south of The Lion Inn. This high point of the ride paradoxically also the lowest point as wind and rain blew across the valley at us, a harbinger of winter. The Pensioner went into overdrive, or turbo mode and left us standing as he rushed along the track, seeking warmth in effort, we followed, at a distance, maintaining a respectable speed in spite of the conditions.

We eventually caught him at Bank Top, where he decided to throw the towel in and head straight down Chimney Bank to car and cafe. After a brief discussion with Trainee#2, a decision to continue was made, reasoning we would lose height and the rain might stop - only  one of these rationales turned out to be correct. A short ride took us to Ana Cross from where we embarked on the highlight of the day, Lastingham Ridge, a couple of miles of downhill which delivered us rapidly to Lastingham, somewhat muddier and wetter than when we set off. A bit of damp tarmac and a bit of welcome uphill (anything to keep warm) led usto High Askew Farm, where the journey back along the valley to Rosedale Abbey began. Rocky and technical in places, contrasting with the previous fast, open riding, our average speed dropped as we negotiated obstacles in the constant drizzle. Bodies pretty much totally moist now, despite a full complement of waterproof kit and bikes grinding and grating with every pedal revolution, caked, like our bodies in mud and grit. Rosedale Abbey getting closer with every panting breath, our only reward dry clothes and a warm cafe. Through the pub car park and onto the lower slopes of Chimney Bank, thankfully downhill, still the dampness continued, determined to extract the maximum amount of misery.

A few minutes later we were in the Abbey Tearoom, wet and gritty clothes divested, tucking into hot drinks and sandwiches, already planning tomorrow’s ride - when, of course, the weather will be better.

September 2016 Video Part 2

September 2016 Part 2


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