Bollocks To Christmas

Mountain Bike Ride

Benny The Brawl, The Breadlad, The Youth

24th December route

It’s the time of year when the majority of the “christian” world completely lose their shit and throng the shops and car parks in celebration of being let loose from the usual nine to five existence. Give a day person a day off and the first thing they’ll do is head to a retailer, apparently shopping is now considered a leisure activity rather than a grim necessity to be endured while imagining all the better places we could be. After several days of attempting to thread a way through aisles packed with manic shoppers determined to make it the best christmas ever by panic-buying anything which can be consumed and a home-life consisting of the expungal of every trace of pre-christmas existence by hiding anything not featuring  tinsel or glitter. Christmas eve has finally rolled round signalling the beginning of the end and the gratifying feeling that in two days it will all be over. In a quest to separate ourselves from the rapacious hordes, a few of us decided being wet, cold and muddy would be preferential to an ill-tempered trudge around another supermarket.

Me, The Youth, Benny The Brawl and The Breadlad met up at a surprisingly well-filled Gribdale car park, plenty of like-minded folks about, well, almost like-minded - mountain bikers were conspicuous by their absence - all prepared to brave the dull, drizzly day and  tree-bending wind. Unseasonably warm temperatures have left the tracks in a predictable state, gloopier than medieval midden after a plague of dysentery. This, plus the wind, a muddy car park and actually being outside his bedroom, put Benny The Brawl into an epic rage, riding the rutted track across Great Ayton Moor while being blown sideways into the ruts, raised his blood pressure to the level which would put us blokes teetering on the verge of middle-age in an electric bed surrounded by nurses and beeping machines. Reasonably flat ground calmed him down a little and we continued around the Lonsdale Bowl with tailwind assistance, although he didn’t seem to find the water splash as enjoyable as everyone else, using some very unchristian language this close to Jesus’s birthday.

A quick scoot along the Percy Cross Rigg tarmac and up Codhill Heights took us to Guisborough Woods, where we decided to sample the full force of the wind by continuing to the top of Highcliffe Nab. We almost came close to the mythical £250 from You’ve Been Framed when The Youth’s lightweight body proved unequal to the strength of the wind which blew him steadily toward the cliff’s edge; a hurried dismount robbed us of £250. The novelty of being buffeted wore off eventually and we cycled through the woods back to Roseberry Common and took the steps to Newton Moor. The weather took a turn for the worst and The Breadlad modelled the latest in waterproof fashion, digging out his Niagara Falls ponchos: who needs Gore Tex? Retracing our tyre tracks around the Lonsdale Bowl and Fingerbender Bank, finishing, without further incident, down the steep hillside back to Gribdale car park. After some hesitation, Benny rode it like a pro, probably down to our special coaching, which mainly consists of profanity, shouting and casting doubts on his sexuality. We kept the camera rolling, just in case, you can never have enough blooper reel footage.

Xmas Dinner Ride 2017

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad, Trainee#2, Oz, The Fireman, Rod and a special guest appearance from The Captain.

Xmas Dinner Ride 2017. Route.

The annual festival of alcohol-fuelled joviality and consumerism of a more rampant nature than a priapic ram rampaging round a field of ewes after a two day ovine pornography binge, trundles into view again bringing with it the kind of weather which might be considered slightly nippy in some parts of the world but in England leads to multi-car pile ups as the nine to fivers spend the morning rush hour slithering into one another. Those day workers on vacation from their their daily grind seem to think they are entitled to use our moors on a weekday, clogging the car parks and cafes where us salt of the earth shift-workers, the horny handed sons of toil responsible for keeping the wheels of industry ticking over, are often the only patrons.

A further inevitability of the Santa season is the Terra Trailblazers’ Xmas Dinner Ride, this year in its fifteenth incarnation; two days  previously we'd have been in stereotypical winter wonderland but some warming rain had erased the snow, letting the greenery reappear. We congregated in the pub car park, beneath the jagged tooth of Roseberry Topping, our original ten reduced by thirty percent as seems to be usual for these occasions. The weather forecast was not too promising but the sun shone in a barely above the horizon winter fashion. The mandatory ‘before’ picture taken, we pedalled along the road for a short distance before turning off, into Cliff Rigg Woods for a steady climb on frozen mud and a few patches of snow and ice. Riders from the generation that have no notion of a time before central heating were already complaining of the cold, while those of us who can remember ice on the inside of the windows and put another coat on the bed, were more stoic.

Carrying on, we pedalled through through Aireyholme Farm - boyhood home of Captain Cook (Roseberry Topping’s Cook Connection) and up to Roseberry Common where the tailwind which had so kindly assisted us the hill, brought a few drops of rain who soon invited all their mates to come and join in soaking the only idiots people on the moors. Jackets were dragged out of bags as we battened down our metaphorical hatches and loins were girded for a moist ride. Route options were discussed between the riders who had an idea of where we were in relation to the rest of the world, while the geographically challenged stayed silent. The general idea of staying in tree shelter and keeping the wind behind us was agreed and we headed eastwards through Guisborough Woods, sticking to the fire roads, which was a bit exciting today seeing as they were mainly solid ice, the lumpy, bumpy sort of ice caused by thawing and refreezing, like riding on a gigantic, slippery golf ball. We made our way through the forest, passing all the tracks we usually ride as they were either sloppy mud or large puddles, rain still beating at our backs, numb extremities were frequently and bitterly vocalised - not a Ranulph Fiennes amongst us, the concept of the British stiff upper lip now something from 1950’s novels.

The Concrete Road, today the concrete waterfall, a broad river coursing down it, six pairs of fat tyres surfing the break, reaching incautious speeds heading for the old railway line which skirts the outskirts of Guisborough, our route turning into the wind and rain, thankfully significantly less powerful than on top of the hill. A broken and dejected sixsome pedalled toward Hutton Village, the usual witty banter conspicuously absent, spirits not even enlightened by the rain ceasing. Back in Guisborough Woods we regenerated some body heat with a nice uphill fire-road but the thought of a nice warm public house was all that kept  some people from laying down on the subarctic tundra and letting hypothermia take them to a better place. At the end of the fire-road we turned right instead of left and headed back to civilisation, some liveliness reappearing as the traumatic ordeal nears its end.

Wet clothing shed, spirits revived by hot drinks and cold beers, we were joined by erstwhile Terra Trailblazer and retired process foreman, The Captain, who, like all retirees, looks twenty years younger than he did in the days when he spent hours in the control room toiling over the daily tabloids. The meal was a splendid, no complaints were made in that regard, the conversation descended to the usual gutter level which is only to be expected when a bunch of men get together, especially those riding high on the endorphin rush from battling the killer elements of a North Yorkshire December day and living to tell the tale. And thanks to The King’s Head for putting up with us.

December Breaks Us In Gently

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad.

4th December route

Two men on the verge of middle age, one so close to that verge he’s practically jaywalking, meet in a cold and snowy North Yorkshire car park, ready for a mountain bike ride. Fresh, crisp air and blue skies, one man recovering from an operation to repair a detached retina, the other has compressed thoracic vertebrae following an accident. They are the only people present; younger and more able bodied compatriots are conspicuously absent. It seems trivial matters of domestic administration have suddenly become more important than life itself. The usual seasonal defection, (cue David Attenborough voice): as the temperature reaches single figures, vicarious becomes the new watchword, saddles are replaced by sofas, real life experience is usurped by You Tube, the sultry lure of central heating stultifies enthusiasm. Who wants to be cold/wet/muddy or - horror of horrors -  have a dirty car, when the cocoon of indolence grasps, her smothering tentacles gently pulling you back into the warmth? The fair-weather cyclist has returned to hibernation, slumbering like a grizzly bear, twitching on the settee, no doubt dreaming of dusty singletrack and mud-free downhills.

Meanwhile, these remaining enthusiasts are discussing their respective surgeries as they assemble bikes and decide how many layers of clothing might be required. Finally ready, me and The Breadlad venture out into the frozen wilds of North Yorkshire, skirting the remnants of two day old snow, thawed and refrozen, the day is virtually windless and only the occasional cloud mars a cerulean sky. Warming up steadily on tarmac, we climb to the crossroads, then left onto Percy Cross Rigg, still climbing before the drop to Sleddale, then offroad for the inevitable reascent of Codhill Heights. The tracks are drier than would be expected and still frozen for the most part, giving us speedy progress across the moor until we reach the outskirts of Guisborough Woods.

Being rebels, we take our bikes to the top of Highcliffe Nab and enjoy the vista, Guisborough spread out below us, the North Sea in the distance, Redcar’s wind turbines turning sluggishly in their saline enclosure. A quick descent through the forest - mainly on fire roads (not taking too many chances yet) until the siren song of a previously unridden track lured us in, plunging through conifers, a ribbon of russet pine leaves tempting our tyres, beneath the pine needles - a skating rink of slippy mud. Fishtailing, we slithered down to reach firmer ground. If we were thirty years younger, high fives or fist bumps might have ensued but being proper emotionally repressed Northern gadgies and not rad dudes from North California, we restrained ourselves and settled for a wry smile before raising our seat posts and pedalling on.

Making our way via the steps to Newton Moor, opposite the magnificent bulk of Roseberry Topping, we encountered a few walkers, also enjoying this magnificent day. We pedalled across Newton Moor to the top of The Unsuitables, passing through gates and onto the offroad portion of Percy Cross Rigg, up then down, through frozen puddles to regain the tarmac. Another offroad track leads down to the hamlet of New Row, just outside Kildale, sketchy gravel with a few rocks and roots but not enough to catch out grizzled old riders like us. The road back to Kildale is in the shade as the sun dips below Warren Moor, it’s dying rays burnishing the opposite moor where we’d been riding minutes before, for the first time in the ride we noticed the cold, moments later it is forgotten as steaming mugs warm cold fingers in  Glebe Cottage Tearoom. Smugger than the smuggest people in Smugland, we ate and drank in an endorphin haze. It’s not about the miles in the ride, it’s the smiles in the ride that matter and all that. Another great day in the memory bank for times of injury or commitments that can't be shirked.

Winter uses all the blues there are.

One shade of blue for water, one for ice,

Another blue for shadows over snow.

The clear or cloudy sky uses blue twice-

Both different blues. And hills row after row

Are colored blue according to how far.

Robert Francis 1901-1987