A quartet of quasi-quotidian bike rides (that’ll have The Breadlad’s dictionary corner working overtime) and it was a funny old week, mostly dry but cold and windy, except for a blast of snow on Thursday. We remained unscathed by the latest government defeat on no-deal Brexit, whatever that is, it seems to be mainly some politicians terrified their particular gravy train is about to hit the buffers and blasting the public with ominous media predictions of empty shelves and the sort of gridlock usually engendered by a centimetre of snow. I don’t know why they are bothering with the scaremongering - it’s not as though we have a say in the matter anymore. Like us, the rocks and heather remain unperturbed, the trails only felt the impact of tyres and the occasional falling Trailblazer and the sheep wander the moors without a care what the cunning, conniving, paper-shuffling, desk-jockeys of Westminster were up to.
Mountain Bike Ride.
14th January route
The Ginger One.
Kildale Station Car Park, perpetually muddy, even in summer, we are beginning to suspect it may have more to do with the toilet block than weather conditions. Which makes you think twice about where you put your feet. The Ginger One decided Guisborough Woods is now boring and would prefer if we rode elsewhere. As someone who’s favourite viewing is snooker, cricket and darts, he will have a better understanding of boring than the rest of us, so the rest of us deferred to his superior knowledge - rest of us! Me, in other words.
We decided to do the route him and Oz tried to ride last week but found themselves, for want of a better word - misplaced. Hence, five minutes later we were panting up Three Sting Hill to Warren Farm, then after an all too brief downhill respite, we continued up The Field Of Heavy Gravity before crossing Kildale Moor to Baysdale. More climbing continued, out of Baysdale to Great Hograh Head and onward to Armouth Wath. One simple sentence belies the reality; a continual upward slog on broad, sandy tracks, up and across on open moor, vulnerable to any bit of wind, somewhere in the waste land between arduous and tedious. Eventually the drop down to remote Armouth Wath appears, seconds later, we have passed the ruins of the ruins and are climbing again, up the Old Coal Road to Burton Howe. It seems to get longer every time we ride it and there are few better feelings than seeing that tumulus come into view. Time for a time out, our years as process operators have taught us to be economical with our exertions.
We sat on the tumulus, where perhaps Bronze Age men once rested, one of us eating getting through the last of a beautiful, moist, fruit filled, homemade Christmas cake, Mr. Frugality chomping a bar from one of the more downmarket stores he frequents which actually looks like the stomach contents of a recently disinterred Bronze Age corpse, wizened and tanned to leathery stiffness by the acidic peat of North Yorkshire. Satiated, our route carried on along the Cleveland Way to Tidy Brown Hill, which we descended on the gravel doubletrack before slightly moist singletrack took us across to the technical descent of Turkey Nab or Ingleby Bank to give it its proper name. This is becoming severely eroded now now thanks to the actions of our "One Life: Live It. (So long as you can afford the diesel)" brethren but it makes it more fun to ride down. From Bank Foot Farm, you’ve guessed it, at the foot of the bank, a few miles of tarmac took us back to the delights of Glebe Cottage.
Mountain Bike Ride.
15th January route
La Mujerita.
The following day, me and La Mujerita had a little spin around from Lordstones, heading out on the bridleway to Cringle Moor, which, fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, turns off a long way from the summit and heads into Cringle Moor Plantation, dropping through the trees on a brief but very pleasant bit of track. Working on the theory if you’re not falling off, you’re not trying hard enough, La Mujerita must have been trying very hard because she managed to fall off and loosen the back wheel of her bike from the drop outs. If she keeps this up she’ll be like a proper Terra Trailblazer. More amenable fire road riding took us to the Beak Hills track and we slithered our way through mud and puddles to the Beak Hills Farm, luckily all downward. Continuing on tarmac, we joined the Raisdale Road, where another old saying came into play - what goes down must go up and we had a couple of miles of uphill road between us and the cafe. But the sun was shining, the wind was light, the road went easily and before too long we were tucking into a nice lunch.
Mountain Bike Ride.
17th January route
The Breadlad. The Youth.
Forty eight hours and a dozen miles from the last ride, the world had turned round twice and deposited us in Antarctica, the forecast sunny day with light winds suddenly ditched in favour of ice, howling wind and the odd blizzard. There was never any question of not getting on the bikes, it was only a question of how long would we stay on them, although, as none of the, ahem, ‘less hardy’ members had joined us - no surprises there - we were able to enjoy a whine-free ride. We rode to Clitherbecks Farm, where the wind became a tail wind and the snow shower eased off as we rode across the moor, continuing up to Danby Beacon, where, for what must be the only time in living memory we didn’t stop, instead carrying on to our original objective - the Roxby Moor singletrack.
The weather closed in again, an ominous wall grey cloud replete with snow, smothered the moor, dropping fat, white flakes on us while we carved fresh tyre tracks into the virgin whiteness of the trail, only the dark heather differentiating the ground from the sky. We reached The Slagbag, crossing the beck and heading upward, passing a lone farmer driving his tractor, oblivious to the weather. As we turned to head back towards Danby, the full force of the weather hit us, hail and snow sandblasting our faces to numbness, we had no alternative but to put our heads down and pedal. The Oakley Walls road, little travelled at the best of times, became a sheet of white, snow-covered sheep idly watched us as we ground our way past, no doubt snug and smug beneath their lanolin enriched winter wool. Gradually, little patches of blue began to appear in the sky, the snow blew off to whiten somewhere else and we were left with a perfect winter day and incipient snow blindness. We squeezed in a last bit of off road with the rocky track dropping down Oakley Walls, The Youth setting off down the snow covered rocks at the sort of pace deemed unwise by us more mature gentlemen. A little more road riding and we were in The Stonehouse Bakery where one of the ladies kindly expressed some concerns about our mental health.
Mountain Bike Ride.
18th January route
The Breadlad. Howard
After a cold night following yesterday’s snow we could have almost attained the Holy Grail of winter riding - frozen trails, not icy enough to be slippery but cold enough to firm up the winter mud. And for the most part it happened, a winter’s ride with only one wet foot between three of us was not bad. Me, The Breadlad and Howard convened in a chilly Lordstone’s car park, setting off on the same start as Tuesday but without any bike wheels falling out. At the Beak Hills turn we continued straight ahead, along The Fronts, to Clay Bank, taking advantage of conditions to pedal along a track which is usually verging on unrideable this time of year, Howard’s first time along here since a chunk of trees went missing, superb views across to Park Nab and Kildale.
The forecast for 3 mph wind proved about as accurate as a darts match between Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles and it was blowing a hoolie when we reached the top of the Carr Ridge steps. Riding the frozen Rim the wind was against us but the limitless innuendos and double entendres engendered by that simple three letter word kept us warm. It was decided to descend via East Bank Plantation since vital work took all the fun out of Medd Crag. We all agreed the boggy bit in the middle of East Bank Plantation would be firm today, we couldn’t have been more wrong if we’d said golf was an interesting sport - or even a sport come to that. Hence, the one wet foot, as my guileless blunderings showed the other two where not to go. An ascent of the Beak Hills track came next, followed by a last blast along the frozen Fronts, one of those rare days when it all comes together, three happy cyclists rolled up to the cafe, all agreed on what a grand ride it had been.
No comments:
Post a Comment