Here, There And Everywhere.

Here There And Everywhere

Monday 20th May 2019

Alone

A lone ride today, or a solitary ride, as that ought to be, seeing as loneliness is perceived as something negative but solitude is considered more of a mindful decision. Now, I don’t mind riding alone, sometimes quite enjoy it if the truth be told, when there are no one else’s foibles to take into consideration, it can be grand sticking in the extra hill or pushing up a track to see where it comes from or following a track to find where it goes, if it stalls in a tangle of briar and brushwood, nobody to whinge about it. 

Accidental injury, is of course, the downside to lone riding, being in a little frequented part of the moors with a broken pelvis or deep in the woods impaled on a conifer by a branch through your lung would probably spoil your day a bit and you could miss the cafe. I like to carry my trusty whistle for a bit of old school rescue action, six blasts with a minute gap between each set of six is the recognised signal. You might have to do it more than once, six blasts doesn’t summon a helicopter like Aladdin and his magic carpet, which is just as well, seeing as mountain rescue teams are seeing an increasing number of calls from people who are “wet and cold” who don’t understand they’ll be even wetter and colder waiting for a rescue team and they would be better off keeping moving and getting off the hill. 

Anyway, the ride began and ended at Gribdale, heading over Newton Moor and Codhill Heights, taking in a few of Guisborough’s finest tracks, with a fair amount of selfie-filming thrown in. It’s true what some film directors say, it is the only way to get a better class of performer, another advantage of solitary riding. When I arrived back at Gribdale, the ride felt a little brief, so the fabled “extra loop” was tacked on and I powered up to Captain Cook’s Monument - powered up definitely being a relative term here - before making my way back to the car using one of the trails through the trees which has survived the felling. How long before the whole forest is harvested is anyone’s guess, so get them trails done while you can. 

Relive 'Here, There and Everywhere.'

A Pedal To The Costa Del Seaton Carew
Wednesday 22nd May 2019
La Mujerita

Appointments, like employment and bureaucracy are the thieves of time, colluding to munch through minutes and hours like a plague of locusts inflicted by the gods of mundanity to swarm through your day, thwarting attempts to do something as simple as a bike ride.  This is how me and La Mujerita found ourselves riding to Seaton Carew when she had finished work, just to get a ride in. It is a twenty mile ride with the merest hint of ascent, passing through the old salt marshes of Greatham to the coast. The seal colony at Greatham Creek is usually sunning itself on the mud, juxtaposed against a backdrop of chemical industry at Seal Sands but there was only one seal half-heartedly watching us today. They all seem to be elsewhere when the tide is out, which it is at this moment. A short bit of tarmac and we were passing through the gates to the North Gare car park, picking up the bridleway along the edge of the golf course, taking us the rest of the way into Seaton Carew. 

Even though it is mid-week, mid-afternoon on a sunny but cool day, there is a still a queue outside The Almighty Cod, we stuck it out for two chip butties and a can of shandy, scoffed on a seafront bench, next to the remains of the old building which housed Coasters Bar, as well as a cafe and amusement arcade. Many a Saturday night was spent in Coasters, listening to my mate Peter doing his best Ratpack songs on the karaoke. 

We finished our late lunch and rode back to Greatham via Seaton Lane and the A689 before reversing our route home. One side of Seaton Lane is an estate which used to be known as Little India because all the streets are named after Indian cities, or what they used to be called before they ditched colonialism and reverted to Indian names, Hartlepool legend has it that someone kept a horse in the bedroom of one of the houses. I’m not sure of the veracity of this tale, isn’t it horses that can’t do stairs? Or is that cows? Definitely Daleks but they are probably rarer than horses.

Relive 'A Pedal To The Costa Del Seaton Carew'

“Let’s Ride To The Mast” they said.
Thursday 23rd May 2019
The Ginger One, Howard

If I was to say that the weather is sunny but cool today would anyone be surprised, cool enough for a gilet, or "one of them waistcoat things" as The Ginger One puts it - he's from Darlington, you see. I managed a brace of companions today, Howard squeezing a last ride in before he’s dragged back to the other side of the world to minister to the needs of lonely oil rig workers and The Ginger One who has managed to tear himself away from overtime and nineteen fifties sports long enough to cock leg over crossbar. We set off from Lordstones and rode some fine dry trails, culminating with the Cold Moor descent, all the way down into Chop Gate. The descent was in awesome condition, even the usual boggy bit half way down is bone dry thanks to some new drainage and a lack of rain. We stood by the church in Chop Gate, pondering our next move when The Ginger One decided he fancied a challenge and suggested riding up the mast road, or to put it more accurately, the coronary-inducing, tarmac purgatory which leads to the Bilsdale Transmitter, a private road but they don’t appear to have a problem with bikes, more's the pity. Now, as anyone who knows The Ginger One, will tell you, if he fancies a challenge he ought to have a go at joining the twenty first century but Howard immediately concurred, leaving one lone voice of dissent, somewhere at the back. And so it came to pass, a short time later, I found myself panting up the hairpin bend at the sort of gradient I might well have roped up for back in the rock climbing days, heart rate approaching the segment on the rev counter that’s in red for a reason. Damn you forty two tooth cassette, why didn’t I buy the fifty like Howard who was spinning away into the distance? Eventually the summit appeared and I was able to use my remaining energy to collapse on the grass beneath the huge support cables and shove Midget Gems into my face. 

After the sugar had kicked in, I dragged myself back onto the bike and we pedalled more easily on wide, sandy tracks to Cock Howe, a descent of Trennet Bank was mooted by The Ginger One but his enthusiasm waned when he realised he would be alone. We continued on similar tracks, returning to Lordstones via Barker’s Ridge and the old gliding club track with enough appetite for our new Lordstone’s favourite meal - the KFP wrap, Kentucky Fried Pheasant, an absolute feast, just the job for us hungry cyclists.

Relive '"Let's Ride To The Mast" they said.'

Happy Days At Hamsterley
Friday 24th May 2019
La Mujerita

The following day me and La Mujerita went for a day at Hamsterley, where it was sunny and warm - actual warmth, heat from the big yellow ball in the sky, something we’ve not felt for a while. Our route was somewhat convoluted mainly because her skill and confidence are not up to most of the red trails and I don’t know anywhere easy other than fire roads and the Grove Link. 

We made our way up to Windybank Road, then down Cough Up A Lung Lane to the old Descend hut, where we picked up the part of the Red route which is little used except by people who have never been to Hamsterley before and are following the red arrows, which is a long way round to find all the best bits. After a mile or two, we came to some arrows for the blue route, which was a surprise to me - I didn’t even know there was a blue route. It is mainly fire road through the forest but apart from one gruesome climb, very pleasant and undemanding, although the sun has brought out a variety of insects, all determined to sample my O negative as though it is fine wine from the cellars of some French chateau. 

In a while we reached a point which I recognised and we slipped in a Ginger One style extra loop by riding up to do the second half of Transmission and the whole of Accelerator, both of which La Mujerita enjoyed much more than last time we were at Hamsterley. A quick blast along the Grove Link and we were sampling the new cafe, well, the old cafe under new ownership - and very nice it is too, sitting outside in the sunshine, on the balcony. 

Relive 'Happy Days At Hamsterley'

Blowing Away The Post Holiday Blues

Blowing Away The Post Holiday Blues
Friday 10th May
The Breadlad

First ride out since returning from another superb Sierra Cycling holiday in Southern Spain and it’s difficult not to be constantly thinking about where we were forty eight hours ago, especially as the British weather is a lot colder than it looks. Luring us out with sunshine, blue sky and fluffy white clouds, then sucker-punching with a wind straight from some Nordic Hell of ice and snow. Me and The Breadlad met at Lordstones to ride a fairly standard route, familiar tracks but no less good for being familiar. The initial haul up the gliding club track is as painful as ever but we were soon cruising across the moor passing Brian’s Pond and continuing to climb Barker’s Ridge. A sandy doubletrack took us to Cock Howe (cue ghostly Pensioner tittering) where we picked up the bridleway to Head House.

This lovely piece of singletrack is showing signs of underuse, the grassy section at the beginning is slightly overgrown, the track widens slightly further down where it becomes more technical - rutted and rocky, eventually dropping down to a stream which marks the end of the fun. A short climb and some grassy singletrack lead to Head House, a lonely shooting house just off Arnesgill Ridge, where we sat a while in the paradoxically bright but heatless sunshine, before climbing on more sandy doubletracks to reach Bilsdale West Moor, always in sight of the Bilsdale Mast, the most sacred totem in this part of North East England because that’s where the telly comes from. Right now beaming out property porn and  Loose Women to those unwilling or unable to find any better way to waste their days, when they could be wasting their days riding bikes around the moors.

We rode up Wether Hill, back to Cock Howe, ready for The Breadlad’s favourite North Yorkshire descent - Trennet Bank, nice and dry today but still steep and loose in parts. Too soon it was over and we were in the village of Chop Gate, ready for the tarmac drag up the Raisdale Road, rather than plod the whole way back to Lordstones on tarmac, we took the Beak Hills option and finished the ride on some of the bridleways around Cringle Moor and a downhill finish to the car park.

Relive 'Blowing Away The Post-Holiday Blues'

Sunny At Sutton Bank
Tuesday 14th May
Sean

Following three days of leaking radiators and unreliable tradesmen, I eventually got back out on the bike again; another of those false summer days, attractive but frigid,  bright sunshine tempts you into bare arms and legs, then a Siberian wind turns bare skin into a relief map of goose pimples. Bagged myself a youngster today, well, relatively young compared to the rest of us just lately, The Youth hasn’t been spotted for over a month and Benny The Brawl is just a distant memory. The old Santa Cruz was resurrected for young Sean to ride and for a twelve year old (the bike not Sean) in need of a new back wheel and a complete drivetrain, it rides surprisingly well. Not wanting to demoralise the lad, a more or less flat route was planned, starting from the little car park at Sneck Yate on the top of Boltby Bank, mainly to save the £4 parking fee at Sutton Bank. I think some of The Breadlad’s frugality is wearing off onto me, these are the methods one must employ to be a globetrotting playboy like The Breadlad, forever jetting off to exotic destinations with just a wave of his platinum credit card and the promise of some trade price crumpets. We began along the road to Dialstone Farm, picking up the Sutton Bank green route at the farm, my young companion showing a respectable turn of speed despite his years of not cycling. We stopped at the self-proclaimed “finest view in England”, Gormire Lake, nestled like a pearl amongst green trees, shadowed by the golden sandstone bulk of Whitestonecliffe. 

Continuing to Sutton Bank visitor centre, we had a quick spin around the skills loop before crossing the road, ready for the bike track through Hambleton Plantation, the closest the Sutton Bank trails come to being like a regular trail centre, a pleasant man made trail through the trees; arriving only to find the entrance taped off and plastered with No Entry signs warning us of forest operations and the danger of death by lumberjack if we entered. A bit disappointed, we headed back down the road, returning to Dialstone Farm, pausing to let a bunch of racehorse cross the road, huge animals, well-defined muscles beneath glossy coats, brimming with energy barely contained by their jockeys perched high above the ground. Falling off a bike is one thing but coming off one of those beasts as it is thundering along is too scary to contemplate. 

We made our way to The Escarpement, following white singletrack on the very edge of the moor, a sheer drop to our left, the sun is shining, the views are awesome, the only thing that could spoil a day like this is the cafe being shut. And guess what? It was, High Paradise Farm closed today and tomorrow for a bit of building work and after the weary lad had pushed his jelly legs to their limits on the promise of cake and coffee. We had no option to return the car for a feast of midget gems and the emergency Haribo.

Relive 'Sunny At Sutton Bank.'

Eating Insects In Guissy Woods
Thursday 16th May
The Breadlad.

The following ride was with the Prince Of Parsimony himself - The Breadlad, so naturally we deprived the council of £6 and parked at Hutton Village, ready for a spin about Guisborough Woods and the surrounding moors. We took in plenty of trails, both old and new before heading towards Codhill Heights to ride over, what we affectionately call The Nipple, only to be greeted with a new sign forbidding anyone but pedestrians. It looks like something or someone has annoyed the landowner because this track has been rode for many years with no problems and suddenly it is banned. Very odd.

 Being law-abiding citizens, although it is only civil law, a tort against the landowner and all that, we stuck to the bridleway instead, the gamekeeper’s pick-up was lurking about Sleddale and we thought it wise not to inflame the situation further. We rode back up Percy Cross Rigg, and regained Guisborough Woods at the top of The Unsuitables, where a few more perfect condition tracks returned us to Hutton Village, although there was a detour to the cafe. Quite a brief ride, owing to time constraints but nonetheless very enjoyable to be riding dry trails with only the merest amount of mud to remind us we are still in England.

There has been a lot of talk about the decline in the insect population of this country but there is no evidence of that over the past few days, my car windscreen looks like the floor of an arthropod slaughterhouse and we spent a lot of this ride trying to remember the words to “There was an old woman who swallowed a fly.” A popular song in my youth which is never played on the radio nowadays, probably forbidden in case some random idiot takes the lyrics literally.

Relive 'Eating Insects In Guissy Woods'

It Could Do With Being Warmer - It's May Now
Friday 17th May
La Mujerita

The next day it was the turn of La Mujerita to have the pleasure of my company and we found ourselves in the car park at Sheepwash, the weather doing it’s usual sunny but cold thing which seems to have persisted since the early summer we had in February. Some of the more specious tabloids (that’ll be all of them then) are threatening a three month heatwave - it’s a long time coming. We took ourselves along the reservoir and up to High Lane, pedalling onwards to Square Corner and kept on the tarmac before turning off onto the rough track leading to the remains of Dale Head Farm, finally uninhabitable following a fire a few years back. 

Regulars will know Dale Head Farm leads to Dale Head singletrack, which runs across the lower flank of Locker Low Moor, above Wheat Beck, not so much a flowing track as a technical challenge, rocks and ruts, muddy holes and the occasional startled grouse conspire to frustrate a clean, dab-free attempt but it beats tarmac. 

We joined the road below Low Cote Farm, ready for the uphill grind, heading back to Square Corner on virtually traffic-free tarmac, climbing initially, surrounded by green fields filled with new life, lambs and calves enjoying the sunshine. Imagine being in field filled with the food you like to eat, animals are surrounded by grass they can munch all day, if we were in a big field of crisps, or sausages or chocolate fingers or whatever, just bend down have a nibble, a bit of a sleep nibble some more, try and avoid the patch one of your siblings has crapped in. It seems like a grand life.This is the sort of nonsense that goes through my mind to alleviate the tedium of road rides. Perhaps I ought to concentrate on cadence or Strava segments like a proper cyclist? 

Returning to the woods above Cod Beck Reservoir, we finished our ride on Rod’s Track, which features a gorse bush alley of particular ferocity, even attacking through clothing, although their favourite spot is knuckles, where the spines sticking in the skin can more easily scrape the bones for maximum discomfort. The ride back along the reservoir was less painful and when we reached the bike, I demonstrated the old way of crossing the beck, before the bridge appeared. Riding straight through the stream, for some reason La Mujerita thought the bridge a more sensible option.

Relive 'It Could Do With Being Warmer - It's May Now'

Costa Del Sol Shenanigans May 2019

Costa Del Sol Shenanigans May 2019


Video here. A week of fun condensed into nine minutes.

Another year: another Sierra Cycling holiday. We know the drill by now, seven am flight from Newcastle airport; up and out of the house by four am, eleven am, sunshine, palm trees and meeting Alexis by the Easyjet desk. Five of us in total, me, Rod, Charlie, Keith and Ian, anticipating a great week of riding. Three of us had brought our own bikes, fitting pedals and pumping up tyres in the sunshine as a plate of sandwiches appeared from the kitchen. When we were ready, the van was packed and we set off to meet the other guests at a parking spot above Mijas, ready to spend the remainder of the afternoon riding down to Fuengirola, only about eight and a half miles but fine to reacquaint ourselves with dusty and loose trails. Had a “this time last week” moment; last week, sunny but cold in Rosedale: this week, sunny but hot in Mijas. Introductions were made to some of the other guests, all from down south somewhere, let’s be honest, to me it all gets a bit vague past York but we know now that Northampton is nowhere near Southampton. Our companion from the previous two years, Shaun, was there, as well as last year’s guide, Jon, aided by this summer’s work placement student, Sean, winning the most Northerly person Top Trumps by being from Aberdeen, making our quasi-Geordie contingent look like shandy-drinking, jellied eel-scoffing southerners. Two new guides Emily and Clive have also joined the company.

We rode every day, even the ‘rest’ day took in a gentle pootle along the coast to the next town for coffee and chips. According to my Garmin the stats for the whole week:

7 days riding

108 miles

7300 ft ascent

19100 ft descent

Avg temp 27.2 deg C

The second day began with the Sierra breakfast, perfectly cooked by Carmen and Mary, while the guides decide where the day’s riding will be. Catering for the vagaries of a diverse bunch of clients, this week ranging in age from ten to sixty nine and their riding preferences can’t be easy but everyone ends up with the sort of ride they enjoy as the clients are separated into like-minded groups. Our merry band were shuttled to the infamous Helipad Start, the van is driven to a large car park, high above the pueblo blanco of Mijas, from where a steep and loose ascent begins immediately, last night’s ‘sensible’ drink suddenly doesn’t seem so sensible, especially the free shots, which, in the interests of international relations, we are too polite to refuse. After a little over half a mile the purgatory relents to a mere climb and we spent the remainder of the morning riding sandy trails through shaded woods.

Lunch was at the BP Station cafe, along with park cafes, petrol station cafes are Spain’s undiscovered secrets, phenomenal food at the type of prices which make us Brits think we’ve been transported back to the Seventies. A random dog began helping itself to people’s kit, which they had, (unwisely, it turned out) left on a grassy area adjacent to the cafe. All the gear was recovered except one of Keith’s elbow pads, which is now probably laying chewed in some bemused dog owner’s garden. The four kilometre climb following lunch got us back into riding mode, ready for the long descent back to Fuengirola, Voltacado, the one which (eventually) comes out alongside the river in town, after descending and ascending various exciting lumps and bumps on the way to a dried up river bed.  And then it’s beer from the fridge with a few nuts to keep us going until dinnertime.

The remainder of the week passed in a similar fashion, varying between woodland riding around Coin and Alhuerin and high mountain stuff, Telecom Towers and Ashes to Ashes being two highlights, both of which start high on narrow tracks of skittery rock with bowel loosening exposure, a vertical drop of hundreds of feet just a twitch of the handlebars away, every loose rock comes with the potential for a helicopter ride. The awesome views are best enjoyed at the rest stops. One day we did Malaga bike park, not a bike park as know them in England but few well established downhill runs, with uplifts between, great for practicing technique and gaining confidence. Most days we received some coaching from Jon, who was far too polite and professional to comment on the disparity between our years of riding mountain bikes and the levels of skill and technique he was witnessing.  All of us took something from the coaching, I overcame my personal nemesis and rode a few switchbacks in the bike park using advice from the cornering session we had done a few days previously.

Many people have asked about the Sierra MTB set up since we returned to this wet and sunless country, which really is how it was landing in Newcastle, we left Malaga 27 degrees and sunny, three hours later, 7 degrees (“real feel - 1 degree) and raining, anyway, Sierra have three houses in a small estate built around a swimming pool. The houses are three storey, four bedroom with a large living room and open plan kitchen area, breakfast, drinks and snacks are included, the fridges in each house are always well stocked with beer and soft drinks, wine and spirits are also available plus nuts, biscuits, energy bars and the cyclists’ favourite - bananas. All included in the price of your holiday. The daily routine is breakfast at 09:00, served in the breakfast house, bikes in the vans and off to the chosen venue, ride around until lunchtime, a leisurely lunch before riding back to sea level. The amenable guides will tweak the rides to suit the guests and are on hand for any mechanical issues, as well as being first aid trained, thankfully that particular skill was not needed this week. Airport transfers are included in the cost, bike hire is available for those who don’t enjoy dragging a thirty kilo bag around airports. Our little party paid five hundred euros each for the week, except those who hired bikes who paid an additional two hundred euros, considering the standard of service, I’d say it is a bargain, judging by the amount of return bookings, it’s fair to say most others think the same.

The town of Fuengirola is a typical coastal resort town catering for all tastes and budgets, food can be cheap and cheerful or more refined, all the major world cuisines are represented, Chinese, Indian, Italian, Thai, Greek, Lebanese, Spanish (naturally), the inevitable Sunday roast proudly advertising Bisto gravy can be found for those who “can’t be doing with that foreign food.” The local beer is good, especially Alhambra, Mahou and Victoria but if you are that way inclined British and Irish beer is about, inevitably in bars full of slurring, red-faced golfers trying to drink up the courage to do a proper sport like mountain biking. Spirits are not delivered through miserly optics, it’s more of a tip the bottle up and say when sort of culture, which seems like a grand idea at eleven pm but not quite so fine at eight the next morning. Troopers that we were, we never lost a rider to the drink, although the previous evening’s Mexican food made things touch and go one morning. Who needs Picolax when there are pickled jalapenos?

We had a brilliant week, probably best summed up by Ian one night, as we sat in Colon Square (the jokes about going up the colon, were all done, don’t worry) where all the beautiful people of Fuengirola go to eat and be seen, another excellent day of riding in the bag and more to come, six pint glasses clinking together, our first drink of the evening in the warm night air.

“Welcome to Hell lads.”

Relives

Relive 'Spain day One'

Relive 'Spain day two'

Relive 'Spain day Three'

Relive 'Spain day Four'

Relive 'Spain day Five'

Relive 'Spain day Six'

Relive 'Spain day Seven'