Mountain Bike Ride
The Breadlad, Oz, Charlie of the Nissan Nomads.
21st September 2018 route
It looks like a storm a day, or every other day, is the default weather pattern for Britain at the moment, we’ve just seen the back of Storm Florence, which was one of the United States’ less popular imports and now we have some storms to call our own, Ali which blew a few trees down on Wednesday and Bronagh which passed through last night, leaving us a few puddles and a lot of twigs. Lordstones, once again, had the pleasure of our company, Charlie making the journey down from Sunderland alone, while his colleagues kept the wheels of industry turning. The plan was to repeat a ride we’ve done a few times in the past weeks, to introduce our Nissan Nomad to the delights of cross country riding in the North York Moors, this particular route will be forever known as the one where Ben got lost. Not, you’ll notice, the ride where we lost Ben because if a teenager can’t keep up with some blokes approaching sixty, there is a probably a bit of natural selection at work. No such problems today and we were pushed along The Fronts by a helpful tailwind. Considering last night’s weather The Fronts is not holding up too badly, puddles are getting deeper and more prevalent but still sparse compared to some years, it is probably the nearest we come to trail centre riding on natural tracks; a well defined line through the bracken with enough ups to temper the downs, cutting across the sombre North face of Cringle Moor beneath brooding crags and high above verdant patchwork fields. In the distance the North Sea, fringed by the industrial towns we call home, amongst steaming cooling towers and hulking factories. The trail was riding well and soon we arrived in the gap between Cringle Moor and Cold Moor with only a three hundred and odd vertical feet between us and the Cold Moor descent, two and half miles of pure pleasure.
Fast forward to the top, you don’t want the boring details of the hike a bike. Our amiable tailwind was now a vicious side wind, blowing in from our right as we pedalled along the broad ridge of Cold Moor, our excuse for ineptitude on the technical sections. Some rain and then a few hailstones decided to join the party, sandblasting our righthand sides, freezing any exposed skin, fortunately a short lived attempt by the storm gods to spoil our fun. The trail dropped down into the lee of the wind, following an empty stream bed full of rocky drop offs and loose stones before changing to singletrack through grass and bracken, then a couple of shale tips before we reach a gate. Not the end of the track, merely a pause for breath before the trail continues downward, finishing through a wooded tunnel to pop out in the village of Chop Gate.
Seven hundred and fifty feet lower down, it was, as they say, a different world, warm and sunny, sheltered from the wind and we climbed back up Clay Bank, chatting in the pleasant sunshine. Mr. Tailwind reappeared as we made our way up Carr Ridge steps, onto Urra Moor, I’m sure Charlie has never experienced a ride with quite so much carrying and pushing but it’s good practice for the Lakes, we always say. Our next objective was the historic earthwork which skirts the western edge of Urra Moor, which we have christened The Rim, this usually is the cue for a plethora of puerile double entendres and today was no exception. This probably reveals a lot more than I’d care to know about the deviant minds of my companions and this report won't be sullied by repeating any of them. Being high and exposed, The Rim, was dry and firm, although the stream crossing, which is usually a shallow trickle, could almost be described as a torrent today. The track cleaves through purple heather and green bracken, the odd sheep looking on, idly chewing like Cleatus The Slack Jawed Yokel, as we pedalled past, enjoying the fine view down Bilsdale.
East Bank Plantation, or rather, the bridleway through East Bank Plantation is holding up well, a little soggy in the middle but still another grand descent and we didn’t lose anyone, always a bonus when it’s getting near cafe time. As a finale, we rode up past Beak Hills Farm, to retrace our tyre tracks along The Fronts, turning this morning’s ups into downs, arriving, mud-splattered and happy at Lordstones, eager for caffeine and comestibles.
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