A Grand Day Out.

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Ginger One, Oz, The Youth, Rod, Andrew B., Andy T.

29th December 2016 route.

We are in that strange netherworld between Christmas and New Year when the day people decide their vital jobs are not as vital as the chance to have a week off, eating their body weight in chocolate and watching TV all day. A few day people tore themselves away from the TV and joined us shift workers on cold but bright day to manage almost twenty miles in the sunshine. The vital ladies who run the butty vans, generally at Scaling Dam and Birk Brow, took the vacation option and left us bereft of nutrition - and in the case of Scaling Dam - a car park, which was inexplicably barriered off. A nearby layby accommodated us all.

Bikes assembled, we took to the A171, briefly, before turning off on an icy farm road to High Tranmire Farm, then, after a loose downhill, we crossed Hardale Beck to gaze upward at The Slagbag, a gruesome climb, today shaded from the warming sunlight and retaining an icing sugar coating of hoar frost. Most of us went into holiday mode, only Rod pedalling upward while the rest of us took a more pedestrian approach. Regrouping at the top without an ounce of shame, we pedalled on frozen tracks to the road beyond Greenhouses, continuing to Lealholm Rigg and the long drag up to Danby Beacon, conversation petering out as gravity kicked in. Some long awaited downhill followed, on the 4x4 track to Oakley Walls, a little churned up but for the most part firmly frozen. We all reached the road without incident - or without admitting to any incidents, which is practically the same thing.

A pleasant blast to Robin Hood’s Butts via Clitherbeck Farm soon had us at the start of the Sis Cross track, pleasantly firm, heading toward a huge smoke pall from some localised heather burning, which turned out to be adjacent to our track, although the estate employee did wait until we had passed before lighting that section. Pausing at the remains of the cross, we took a few snaps before beginning the singletrack descending the moor, the frozen ground making it faster than than some summer descents. Continuing through Danby, we climbed up to Ainthorpe Rigg, to enjoy the alternative descent pioneered by The Pensioner, one of the many legacies from constant browsing of the OS sheets and wandering the moors. The steep downhill was verging on slippery, frozen turf and disintegrating loam scoring a few casualties as ambition outweighed ability, riders and bikes parting company to roll amongst the frozen sheep droppings.

Some sketchy descending on icy tarmac took us to Duck Bridge, where we crossed the Esk before beginning the ascent back to Oakley Walls, then Danby Beacon, a mere 600 feet of climbing, which felt like hauling ourselves up a cliff. Eventually we gained the beacon and retraced our tyre tracks down Lealholm Rigg for a little while before turning left onto Roxby Moor to end our ride on the sublime singletrack crossing the moor, as earlier, running fast owing to the chilled ground.

A grand day out as they say on Wallace and Gromit, big team, constant sunshine, fast riding and good company only marred by the lack of a bacon butty to finish the day off.

The Terra Trailblazers Xmas Dinner Ride.

Mountain Bike Ride.

Olly, The Ginger One, Rod, The Fireman, The Breadlad, Oz, The Cruncher, Trainee#2

20th December route.

“He marched them up to the top of the hill,

And he marched them down again.”

And they moaned a lot.

Shivering in a windy car park, preparing for the second christmas dinner ride in as many days, marginally better attended than yesterday’s Cafe Racer shindig. Substantially windier than yesterday too, which brought the dawning realisation our first five miles or so would be into the wind. All thoughts of coming hardship were forgotten when The Ginger One stepped out in his bargain downhill pants, padded, with symmetrical patterns in various shades of fluorescent orange and purple, it was like looking at a binman through a busted kaleidoscope. Probably more suited to a downhill racer in body armour and a full face helmet, The Ginger One’s reason for purchasing such extreme clothing: his audacious downhill style? The forty foot gap jumps? Railing muddy berms at thirty miles per hour? “They were only £25 on Chain Reaction.”  Seems fair.

Kitted up, we followed the orange legs from the car park and made our way to Bank Foot Farm, where the full force of the headwind became apparent on the long drag along the old railway bed which leads to the woods. Learning from our road brethren, everyone bunched together for shelter, while I attended to a slight seatpost problem, they sped off into the distance leaving me to battle solo against the wind. Obviously as a favour to me, the extra calories I expended could be offset against the dinner at the end. Thanks guys. The undulating fireroad through the woods to Clay Bank was especially draggy today, thanks to the timber wagons which have been collecting the harvest of conifers but at least the remaining trees gave us a bit of shelter from the wind. We paused for a breather in Clay Bank car park before the real ascent began, up the Carr Ridge steps to Urra Moor, something we seem to do with astonishing regularity - and it never gets any easier. By the time we had reached Round Hill, the less than inspiring highest point of the North York Moors, some of the more astute (or maybe less experienced) riders realised we had been climbing more or less continuously for seven miles or so. This may have been related in the sort of profane verbalisation previously the speciality of The Pensioner, a few contenders for his crown out today. It can’t have been that bad, Olly managed to keep his breakfast down this time. A short motivational speech regarding earning downhills and suchlike was employed, without any visible or audible effect. The infamous “all downhill from here” trump card was played, right up there with the great lies of industry: electrical department - tired fuse; instrument department - dirty air; management - anything they say.

In this case it was all downhill, well, predominantly, a speedy blast took us to Bloworth Crossing, where we picked up the Cleveland Way and gained a tailwind for the first time in the ride. We rode along the track, high above Greenhow Bank at a cracking pace, turning through the gate at Tidy Brown Hill and following the double track downhill, the more adventurous (or younger) getting some of that trendy phat air off the drainage humps. When the track leveled out, we took a technical and muddy singletrack, the side wind making it difficult to stay on the narrow track. Deep puddles caught out the unwary and a few people ate grass, the highlight of the ride had to be watching a pair of bright orange trousers somersaulting through the air as The Ginger One’s front wheel disappeared into a hidden hole. All the gear: not much idea. The entertainment continued a while longer until we reached the rocky descent at Turkey Nab (or Ingleby Bank as the Ordnance Survey insist on calling it), where The Ginger One’s wrong trousers became the right trousers and he flew down the rocky slabs like a balding, ginger, Danny Hart, the more youthful contingent struggling to catch him. Luckily, the gate at the bottom was propped open and we continued our downward thrill ride all the way back to Bank Foot Farm. No moaning now.

And so to the most important part of the ride - our Xmas dinner, once again courtesy of The Dudley Arms in Ingleby Greenhow. In the big banqueting hall this year, candles on tables to make up for the lack of light, The Pensioner would not have been happy, Xmas crackers and party hats. A splendid three courses each from a varied menu - all for the astonishing price of £11.95 a head, The Cruncher even donned a garish christmas jumper but it was still eclipsed by the memory of The Ginger One’s trousers. Replete with food, drink and what passes for witty banter in our world, actually gratuitous insults of a most cruel and hurtful nature, mainly concerning people out of earshot - it is christmas after all, we paid the bill and wandered out into the three pm dusk. Another excellent Xmas dinner ride over with, well balanced, seven miles uphill and seven miles downhill.

The Cafe Racer's Xmas Dinner Ride.

Road Bike Ride.

The Fireman, Chairman Whelan, Adam The Boy Wonder, Pete The Machine.

19th December route.

What can we say that hasn’t already been said? Tattered remnants of the once mighty Cafe Racers etcetera, etcetera. They managed a few riders today, although a Terra Trailblazer or two were drafted in to make up the numbers. For once The Lion Inn at Blakey Ridge was not swathed in mist and relatively windless but still as cool as could be expected in mid-December. Chairman Whelan gathered his troops for an inspiring pre-ride speech, mainly wondering if anyone was familiar with the route he’d planned.

Rigid road shoes beneath gimp-suit covers were clipped into curious, spike-free pedals and we set off for the purgatory of a wholly tarmac ride, to make matters worse, on roads cutting across inviting moorland, promising tracks leading in every direction, which were bypassed in favour of grinding out miles with the traffic. To be fair, this year’s route was most amenable, The Chairman’s new career as a process operator is teaching him the basics of energy conservation and the reduction of unnecessary exertion. A five mile downhill start was most welcome and we made a good average speed down into Hutton Le Hole before things levelled out through Lastingham and on toward Cropton. We could almost have forgiven him the gruesome bank into Cropton - almost.  

Stupid road shoes

After Cropton some remote tarmac brought us onto the Wheeldale Road which cuts it’s lofty way across the moor to Egton, unfortunately dropping down to cross streams on a few occasions, with the inevitable following slog back upward.  But the weather remained kind, the wind stayed low and the sun attempted to break through the heavy clouds. An exciting drop down to Egton Bridge, on greasy roads was followed by the more exciting and slightly greasier Limber Hill to Glaisdale, passing Beggar’s Bridge and under the railway we began climbing again. Glaisdale is the sort of horizontally challenged village where the paperboy must be perpetually exhausted and the High Street could double as a black ski run in a good winter. At this point The Chairman had one of his “thoughts”, opting for us to follow an unknown “shortcut” signposted For Local Traffic Only, it ought to have been signposted for professional hill climbers only.  An ever-ascending hill wound it’s way through quaint cottages, every corner revealing more verticality, as we gurned upward, legs barely turning, cursing The Chairman who probably weighs less than one of my manly buttocks. Regaining the High Street, some of us on the verge of cardiac arrest, the majority of us failed to appreciate the serendipity The Chairman’s new discovery.

The next village was planned as the cafe stop, so roads were pounded with more enthusiasm than at any other point in the ride. The Beck View Cafe fed and watered us, once we had regrouped following The Fireman’s detour, where he failed to notice Pete the lead out man peeling off toward the cakes. Some relatively flat riding through the Esk Valley followed, passing through Danby to Castleton, another North Yorkshire village where the road builders never got to grips with the concept of the spirit level. Six miles between us and our Xmas dinner - and the majority of them upward, nothing for it but dig in and press on, fighting against the tyranny of gravity, slowly, so slowly, the summit was gained and a slight downhill took us back to The Lion Inn, a most welcome downhill, which meant we didn’t arrive in the car park as panting wrecks.

Then we had some food and beer and to fill in the gaps between food and beer The Chairman had prepared a quiz for us; despite the questions being biased toward the skinny-tyred freaks, a mountain biker still managed to be joint first. Although he may have had some help from Uncle Google while The Chairman was at the bar.

Riding AB

Riding AB

It's not as though we haven't been riding since we don't have The Pensioner whizzing by on his electric bike anymore, we have and it's not been possible to shake him off; every muddy track, steep climb or wrong turn is accompanied by an inner dialogue of profane grumbling, berating the route planner or the weather conditions. Rides still end at a cafe from his approved list, which makes Michelin or Egon Ronay look lenient; surly staff, incorrect menus, poor quality tea bags, extortionate pricing, sticky tables, gritty tables (despite depositing the grit himself), insufficient lighting and, worst of all - the dribbling tea pot. Any of these could see a cafe perfunctorily dismissed, never for us to darken its doors or drip mud onto its floors.

Every ride is filled with memories, what would Bob (The Pensioner’s Sunday name) think of this track, last time we rode down here Bob was with us, the service in here is a bit slow, he'll be moaning in a minute, is there a pot of water with the tea?

The hour long phone calls following my shift cycle as we planned rides for the forthcoming days off, or he related tales of his “little adventures”, invariably involving many miles of driving at the mercy of his sentient sat nav, which was determined to show him as much of the area as possible, riding unknown tracks from memory because after days of careful planning he usually forgot the map. Raging against the dying of the light because even Stevie Wonder had better vision than him, just one of the multitude of physical constraints visited upon him by a capricious but nonexistent God.  “If you had all the things wrong that I have you wouldn't even get out of bed on a morning” A regular aphorism, regardless of being fitter than 99% of people in his age group and invariably having enough energy at the end of a ride to overtake riders forty or fifty years younger, so he could be first in the cafe.

The outdoors became his playground, walking, cycling, skiing and for a short time, climbing, filled his days, not for him the tedious routines of many retiree's, there were still too many places to see, hills to ride down, hills to slog up, cafes to visit, little adventures to be had, alone or shared. Paradoxically, a grumpy old man and an eager, inquisitive youth, he never changed from the bloke I met in a dingy warehouse 39 years ago.

Now we've began a new era, riding AB (After Bob), half a dozen rides have already been clocked up without him but he's always there, every puncture, every jammed chain, buckled wheel, snapped seat post, over the bars tumble always with the faint echo of a belly laugh makes us realise those threats to haunt us from the afterlife he didn't believe in, were not necessarily made in jest.

A simple blog post of the recent rides seems to have turned into another epitaph, it didn't start out that way. All the rides are detailed below, highlights being the return of the Olly, the broken boy now responsible for the renaming of a favourite descent (renamed by Bob from his hospital bed) Olly’s Folly. And the new bit of track at Hamsterley, Polty’s Last Blast, brief but a welcome addition.

Bank Foot Farm. 11th November 2016. Route

With The Youth

Kildale. 21st November 2016. Route.

With The Youth and Trainee#2

Danby. 28th November 2016. Route

With The Youth and The Fireman

Guisborough. 5th December 2016. Route

With The Youth

Clay Bank. 6th December 2016. Route

With Trainee#2, The Fireman and the return of Olly.

Hamsterley. 12th December. Route

With The Youth and The Breadlad.