Fat Betty and Little Linda.

Everything Is Rosy In Rosedale

Wednesday 22nd January 2020

Blakey Bank

The Breadlad

In the blink of an eye The Breadlad has returned from his sojourn in snow-covered Bulgaria leaving pristine pistes for the foul trails of North Yorkshire. Basking in another marvellous sunny morning, we discussed route choices at Blakey Bank Top, attempting to predict the least muddy options before we set off.

“Well” he said “I’ve always wanted to go down on Fat Betty. I’ve been up but never down.” 

Before your smut encrusted brains go into overdrive, he’s not discussing his current erotic fantasy but rather a bridleway which begins (or ends depending which way you travelling) with an old moorland cross known to everyone as Fat Betty. The official name of the cross is White Cross and originally marked where the boundaries of three parishes meet, Westerdale, Rosedale and Danby. Our first trail was not as inspiring as the weather, the usual excellent singletrack today muddy ruts and deep puddles, we reached the road hoping the remainder of the day was not going to be similar. Our next track was the aforementioned Fat Betty and The Breadlad wasted no time in mounting her for a photograph before things went downhill, as we followed the rutted bridleway down to another road, less slippery than the previous track, it was a worthwhile detour. Some road work took us to our next trail and it is a beauty, officially a bridleway but little used and we like to keep it that way, so it’s personal invitations only or used twenties, non-sequential, in a brown paper bag. All I can say is we had to stop part of the way down to give our arms a rest. 

This was followed by a trail so muddy it had to be ridden because walking was not an option, unless undignified arse-sledging is your idea of fun. We made to the self-service cafe at Dale Head Farm looking like a pair of clay miners, the weather is so pleasant we sat outside in the garden, taking in the view across Rosedale and eating home-made cakes, our appearances of no interest whatsoever. Working on the old cyclo-cross adage, green is grip, we made our apprehensive way back onto the old railway track and followed it more easily around Rosedale Head to The Lion Inn, unfortunately not for steak sandwiches and beer but to ride another trail down the moor at the side of the pub. Like most of the trails today, it was, yes, you’ve guessed, muddy but deceptively fast which gave a few sphincter-twitching moments before we reached the bottom. Obviously, fast in this context is a relative term and I’m certain those with the benefit of speedy youth would be sniggering from their acne-ridden faces,if they were party to our performance. 

We had another bit of rail track to do and then we were back at the car park, having a read of the informative information boards which have appeared at various sites around the rail tracks, detailing industrial past of Rosedale and this area of the moors. 

Messing About In Some Woods

Friday 24th January 2020
Ingleby Greenhow
La Mujerita

A sunny shorty to end a sunny week, I think we’ll be renaming this month Juneuary the way things are going. Me and La Mujerita parked up in Ingleby Greenhow and rode the short distance to Bank Foot Farm. She had expressed a desire to move away from fire roads and easy bridleways onto some proper trails and I knew just the trails to start her on. But first we had to get in a bit of ascent, climbing around 250 feet in half a mile, enough to get the lungs opened up and the old ticker revving into the red zone. 

The first trail, a ribbon of moist loam and dead leaves, undulates gently through conifers, with a couple of steep but safe drops to liven things up, La Mujerita balked at these but some lesser drops were conquered after a bit of sessioning, i.e. repeated until she could manage them without falling off, crashing into trees or stopping mid-trail for no apparent reason. We spent an amusing hour or so in these woods, well amusing for me, La Mujerita seemed less inclined to see the humorous side, in fact our next bicycle accessory might have to be a swear jar. She expressly forbade me from filming any of these antics, which lost us a small fortune from Harry Hill but a swear jar could go some way toward recompense. 

We gradually worked our way down the trail reaching the fire road at the bottom, from where we made our way to another, similar track where her newly acquired trail skills were given an airing. A lot less falling, which is good because she has gained so many bruises today she looks like a dalmation, but still some inexplicable hesitation. It had been a good couple of hours, even though we’d only actually rode about two and a half miles. To avoid this being the shortest ride in the history of short rides, we had a pootle along the fire roads towards Clay Bank, then followed the road almost all the way back to Ingleby Greenhow. I say almost because who can resist a stream crossing? Fifty percent of our little party it seems, one of us had all the fun of riding through the water while the other took the bridge. 

Going Local.

Going Local

Tuesday 21st January 2020

Local

The Novice and The Ginger One

The Novice and The Ginger One going local, not loco down in Acapulco. Similar weather though and it looks set to continue for the rest of the week, weird for January but we won’t complain. We have a novice, another indolent process operator eager to exit the big comfy chair and see what life is like outside the obscure world of chemical production, which mainly consists of sitting in the aforementioned chair, clicking a mouse, pointing at things on a screen and wondering if anyone else but you can actually work the kettle. Our neophyte turned up, along with The Ginger One, ready for a gentle pootle around the urban lanes as an initiation into this riding a bike business. Our route set off passing the very place where their colleagues would be sitting watching millions of pound’s worth of chemical plant churning out acid while plotting to backheel as much of their work as possible to the next shift. The Ginger One gazed longingly at the glittering minarets of the absorption columns and the steaming cooling towers, bereft because he wasn’t there on overtime. 

Cycle tracks and faux-rural lanes took us towards Thorpe Thewles, where we stopped at the old railway station for the inevitable coffee, it’s cruelty expecting process operators to go longer than an hour without a hot drink. The Novice was doing well, keeping up without any trouble, some hidden cardio training going on somewhere we suspect and buttock-related complaints were at a minimum. We left the cafe and rode along the old railway for a short distance before turning off to indulge ourselves in the descent from Grindon to Fulthorpe, unfortunately wrecked by heavy machinery, now just a lumpy mess of rocks and mud. Not too bad for those riding full suspension mountain bikes but for the idiot on the cyclocross bike... 

More country lanes followed, always in sight of the chemical plant. My companions bear a physical resemblance to Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, as if Shaun Of The Dead is being remade on bikes, with a backdrop of chemical factories, which wouldn’t be a bad idea, there are quite a few zombies about at the end of a twelve hour night shift. We continued into the village of Norton, the new Yarm some say but Norton is still the sort of place where you can see a dog’s footprint in a human turd, so it has a way to go yet. Just outside Norton is a little area of rooty drops and steep banks, which goes to show, if you look hard enough on any bike ride, there will always be somewhere to a: hurt yourself, b: get covered in mud and c: relieve the drudgery of roads and cycle tracks. Some people ride bikes for years and never have this fun  - they are called roadies. Never be tempted. 

This is a perfect place for a postulant to prepare for proper off-road riding and for The Ginger One to demonstrate his skill at pointing a bike downhill while gripping the handlebars very tightly and hoping for the best. A few hundred metres later we were in my back garden, drinking brews in the sunshine, The Novice realising padded shorts will be his first bike-related purchase, after all, he wouldn’t be able to do his job properly if couldn’t sit down for a full twelve hours.

FROM WINTER TO SPRING IN A WEEKEND.

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.

Friday 17th January 2020
Great Ayton
Alone

To paraphrase a famous cyclist, it may even have been celebrity drug abuser, Lance Armstrong, "On days you plan to ride, put your cycling kit on when you get up. Then you'll be less likely to let bad weather discourage you from going out." And it's true. Not wanting to do the walk of shame back upstairs to change into regular clothes, I set off out despite the constant light rain. And the forecast was equally uninspiring for the rest of the day. 

Parked up in a grey and damp Great Ayton, I pedalled up by Airyholme Farm to Roseberry Common, mud, rocks, slurry and constant drizzle my only companions. From Roseberry Common, a brief downhill to Guisborough Woods and a scrounge about some trails but mainly fireroads because the trails looked like mud slides and it’s not fair to trash them over winter. People began to appear, drenched joggers, moist mountain bikers and damp dog walkers, it looks as though a bit of weather is no deterrent to plenty of hardy folk. The return to Great Ayton was a face splattering downhill, through the same mud and slurry as the outward journey, the hardest part remembering to keep lips firmly closed against flying faeces.

Delightful Danby

Monday 20th January 2020
Danby
Bingo Bob

The weather has done a complete U turn and plunged straight into spring; sunshine, blue sky, light wind, warmth. I can almost hear the ghostly tones of The Pensioner, whose lifelong pessimism and cynicism precluded him from appreciating a nice day in January or February. “It’s not right this you know. We’ll not get away with this, it’ll be a shit summer now.” Any suggestions the weather is not a sentient entity with the power to punish or withhold favours were firmly dismissed with maximum profanity and minimum evidence. Bingo Bob and me were prepared to take a chance on future weather and let ourselves wallow in nature’s beneficence as we slogged up the hill out of Danby to gain The Pannierman’s Causeway above Clitherbeck’s Farm. The track, in common with most at this time of year, treated us to a few muddy patches but the paved section was fine and we were soon traversing the moor on gravel tracks, to reach the road to Danby Beacon. A quick breather at the beacon, looking north to Scaling Dam and the North Sea beyond, both blue and deceptively inviting. The singletrack across Roxby Moor was our next objective, the beginning a nightmare of sucking mud and wheel-swallowing puddles but soon firmed up to give us a fine journey through the heather, Bob’s first time on this bridleway and what a day to do it. 

We passed through High Tranmire Farm and down to cross Hardale Beck, ready to throw ourselves on the mercy of local test piece - The Slagbag. I have no idea where the name comes from but it sums up the climb perfectly, it begins steeply with no possibility of a run up because of the stream, becomes steeper and looser the higher you climb before turning to turf, slight steps which are prone to turn unweighted front wheels wayward just as the end is in sight. 

One minute and twelve seconds later, one panting, perspiring, breathless wreck of a man and one electric bike rider unpanting, not perspiring without even the decency to be slightly breathless, were at the top. We rode back towards Danby via Oakley Walls and retraced our tyre tracks back along the gravel bridleway to Clitherbecks Farm, a sturdy headwind slowing our progress somewhat. From the farm a last bit of off-road fun, along a draggy and muddy Lord’s Turnpike finishing down The Flying Bees, named after the Beware Of Flying Bees sign which caused The Pensioner so much incredulity. “Well,what other sort of bees are there?” A grand finish to a ride, the main reason being it’s downhill all the way to the front door of the Stonehouse Bakery, the very place to sit and refuel as the shadows lengthen across the dale. 

The Pointless Bits Of Hamsterley Forest.

The Pointless Bits Of Hamsterley Forest.

Thursday 16th January 2020

Hamsterley

Alone

Billy No Mates time again as the lure of gainful employment or international jet-setting syphons riders off, so it was to be a quick shred round the Hamsterley Hotlap for me. Arriving at the forest, there was a capricious change of plan, deciding to take advantage of my lone status and have a bit of an explore instead. A fire road climb to Windybank Road came and went, I had a quick inspect of The Pensioner’s entrance, looked a bit sloppy, so I continued along the road, passing the start of Descend and heading down the next track along. This turned out to be sloppy too, puddles, wet roots, trees, darkness - usual Hamsterley off-piste winter standard; steep drop into muddy ditch, testicle versus cross bar interface to finish. 

Emerging, slightly cross-eyed, onto the official red route where it comes along the old Descend hut, I thought I would follow red route signs, just for a bit of local knowledge. In 22 years of visiting Hamsterley Forest’s routes in their many incarnations, I don’t believe I have ever stuck strictly to the stipulated route, being lucky enough to have rode with knowledgeable people who knew the shortcuts and the hidden tracks. The section between the hut and Blackling Hole was not unknown to me, ridden once or twice before, probably with Rod, no doubt in search of a bit of off-piste heaven (or hell); it’s mainly a rock strewn climb followed by a smooth singletrack to the road at Blackling Hole. From Blackling Hole, I was following red arrows and regretting it with every turn of the cranks, miles of featureless fire road, climbing, forever climbing, knowing, eventually I would come to the turn off for Polty’s Last Blast, the start of five sections of pure pleasure but the purgatory continued. Still climbing, surrounded by conifers, dark and gloomy to match my mood; surely it can’t go any higher? Every turn revealed the answer to that question. Onwards and upwards I plodded, becoming a hazard to the low flying jets buzzing around the valley; expecting the land to change to high altitude sub-arctic tundra complete with bowler-hatted Peruvians playing Pan pipes as I gasped in the thin air but no, just more conifers. I reached the edge of the forest, an escape gate out onto open moorland beckoned but it was the wrong direction and I was determined to reach the good stuff before dark or old age. The next section, climbing steeply on loose rocks was no fun but a change from fire roads, more red arrows pointing to more uninspiring tracks until, eventually, the big sign at the start of Polty’s came into sight. ‘Red, Is This For You?’  Fu**ing right it is. 

The fantastic five, Polty’s, K Line, Transmission, Accelerator, Nitrous were enjoyed like the beer at the end of Ice Cold In Alex, this is what it’s all about. Why the red route does such a huge, pointless detour I can’t imagine, some of the trails at Hamsterley are right up there with the best in the world, they are the main reason for most mountain bikers to visit the forest, mixing them in with sections which are as much fun as a lumbar puncture makes no sense. If I had been a first time visitor, with no knowledge of the trails, following the red signs, disheartened and demoralised, a return visit would be very doubtful, especially if Cough Up A Lung Lane from The Grove was included.

A January Duo

A January Duo.

Pre-Flight Quicky

Monday 13th January 2020.

Clay Bank

The Breadlad

Met The Breadlad a bit earlier today because his international playboy lifestyle demands him to jet off to the slopes this afternoon, strap on a couple of planks and mingle with his Russian oligarch chums in the Pirin Mountains; casually traversing  moguls without spilling a drop of his shaken not stirred dry martini. Prior to dazzling white mountains he was slumming it at Clay Bank, where we hoped to be back at the cars before Storm Brendan put in an appearance, the wind already picking up but not enough to blow away the murk blanketing the tops. Like the fools we are, we marched straight up the hill into it, before long our visibility was reduced to a couple of bike lengths but our familiarity with the moorland tracks allowed us to continue undaunted, boldly going where many men have been before, like picking up a Boro lass in the Bongo Club. 

Eventually we dropped out of the cloud, the land below almost radiant in comparison, making our way to Turkey Nab for the ‘improved’ descent, ruined more like but at least we had the new trails in the woods to look forward. For The Breadlad a new experience, marred only slightly by a bit of misdirection at the start of the first one, well, these tracks through the trees all look the same to me. He was mightily impressed with our new discoveries, our oft-repeated winter mantra, “It’ll be great when it’s dry...” rolling off his tongue, his mind’s eye picturing us carving downhill through the loam, scattering dried leaves beneath our tyres as squirrels look on impressed by the cycling gods passing before their furry little faces, shy deer peeping around tree trunks, wondering if they can get 5:10’s to fit their little hooves. 

But that is in the Elysian forests of the future, where the sun blazes and a cooling wind caresses our gently perspiring brows, the present is more prosaic, slithering downward, the occasional wet root snatching wheels sideways while around us conifers creak and sway in time to the beat of Brendan. He has made his way across the Pennines specifically to blow in our faces for the next four miles as we return on the fire roads of Battersby and Greenhow Plantations, gradually climbing back to Clay Bank car park. The Breadlad packed his bike away eager to be off and rape the planet with another set of flights; when Governess Greta and the Children Of The Damned rule the world, he’ll be first on their list, seeing as he spends more time in the air than Eddie the Eagle.

First Ride This Year For One Of Us.

Wednesday 15th January 2020
Great Ayton
La Mujerita

First ride since November for La Mujerita and damp byways of North Yorkshire are a poor alternative to the dry, sunny trails of southern Spain where she last rode. Our road warm up had to be extended by a couple of miles as we detoured to avoid another of winter’s disadvantages - hedge trimmers leaving roads covered in thorny off-cuts. A curse for anyone still running tyres with inner tubes. One particular afternoon a few years ago, we had over two dozen punctures between four of us, after having to ride up a road literally carpeted with thorns. The Pensioner, who managed three or four in each wheel, like the rest of us, was especially unimpressed and gave vent to his displeasure in a typically vocal style, a profane monologue skilfully blending anger, commination and self-pity in one unpunctuated tirade, while removing wheels and ripping off tyres. 

With age comes wisdom and an extra hill later we made it, tyres unmolested, to the gate on Percy Cross Rigg and a chance to leave tarmac behind, climbing the rocky track and following it down the other side to the top of The Unsuitables. The weather was being kind to us today, some pleasant winter sunshine, although the wind was a little harsh, not too bad for January. From the Unsuitables, we skirted the top edge of Guisborough Woods and across to Newton Moor, by which time we had rode nine and a half miles of more or less continuous ascent and La Mujerita was still going strong. 

From the gate overlooking Roseberry Topping, we turned into the wind and rode to Gribdale, almost deserted today, unlike New Year’s Eve when it was like a free bar at a works do. The curving bridleway down from Newton Moor to Gribdale has a gate at the bottom, a recent addition, something to bear in mind for those with bigger balls than brains. Keeping with the downhill theme but on tarmac, we rode to Fletcher’s Farm for a late lunch prior to returning to Great Ayton, where, despite it being January, a bitter wind approaching gale force, hardy souls were on the courts of the tennis club. As they are almost every day, sun, rain, hail, snow; I would bet the Williams sisters are not that hardcore.