The Novice Goes Off-Piste And Other Stories.

Hot-lapping Hamsterley

Wednesday 5th February 2020
Hamsterley
The Breadlad.

A pleasant blast around the Hamsterley Hot Lap, a change from the mud and ordure ordeal North Yorkshire is becoming. We met a first time caller at the start of Poltie’s Last Blast who had been unfortunate enough to follow the red route arrows to reach this point. It would be no understatement to say he was not impressed; at the end of Nitrous, with the five trails done, he was in a more positive frame of mind. Has whoever is in charge of the signage at Hamsterley ever rode their route? No doubt it was a committee, as in, what is the definition of a camel? A horse designed by a committee. Some deviants may achieve a thrill from interminable fire road climbs but normal riders would rather just get to the good stuff with the minimum empty miles. Somebody wants to give their heads a shake.

Earliest Finish Ever

Thursday 6th February 2020
Danby
The Breadlad

Owing to time constraints imposed upon The Breadlad, we had a ride at something approaching the pace of XC racers, obviously pretty poor XC racers, (think thoroughbred stallions compared to seaside donkeys, you don’t need to guess too hard which ones we might be). Rather more hasty than our usual amble about the North Yorkshire countryside, which normally involves a great many N.S.P’s, (natural stopping points), including but not limited to; the bottom of hills, the top of hills, gates, muddy patches, bogs, stiles, fences, ravines, streams, crevasses, caves (or any hole in the ground), dead animals, other cyclists, walkers, photo opportunities, sections of trail which look a bit dodgy, calls of nature (liquid and solid), mid-ride route planning, mechanical adjustments, frozen ponds (the first law of finding something frozen - try and break the ice), fallen trees, parked cars with steamed up windows, (rocking or not rocking). No wonder our rides take so long, luckily the invention of dropper posts has knocked a chunk of time off. And every stop will involve a little light-hearted banter of the sort that used to make the workplace bearable before somebody put fifty pence in the snowflake and set them away in a flurry of moral indignation. 

The weather is again more than pleasant for so early in the year, which used to fill The Pensioner with such foreboding so ingrained was his habit of looking gift horses squarely in the mouth. We pedaled up to Ainthorpe and across Ainthorpe Rigg, taking the technical singletrack (two dabs, one fall) which drops down to New Way, a steep bit of tarmac to be ascended to the start of one of the moor’s finest, the Trough House track, which cuts across the head of Fryupdale with awesome views across the valley. The trail drops, then climbs, never too steeply, the shaded corners veneered with ice today, reminding us it is still winter despite riding coatless, although The Breadlad never needs much excuse to become partially clothed. Apparently he gets too hot, well, that’s his story and he’s sticking to it. Let’s see how he performs in Spain, he’ll probably just turn up for the rides wearing nothing but a spray of his christmas Lynx Africa and a slathering of factor 30. 

We were soon at the road and heading downhill toward our next section of trail, a muddy double-track which always has a puddle the size of a small tarn at it’s entrance. No different today but we skirted around it. The trail is downhill and as fast as your cajones will allow but watch out for the dog bounding out from some buildings near the bottom, barking a lot and chasing bikes down the trail. It seems friendly but I never hang around to find out for certain. From here, it was tarmac all the way back to Danby, reaching the car park we were amazed to find it was only a little after noon; the main attraction of mountain biking is it wastes a whole day, effectively keeping women, shops and any sort of family responsibility out of sight, out of mind and here we were with a whole afternoon going free. Let’s hope this doesn’t happen too often, I might be expected to mow the lawn myself or something.

The Novice Goes Off-Piste

Friday 7th February 2020
Square Corner
The Novice.

The Novice ventures into the great outdoors, not the outdoors of red tarmac and toucan crossings, toucan crossings, it transpires, are nothing to do with those birds and their massive multi-coloured beaks but a light controlled crossing which cyclists can ride across, as opposed to zebras, puffins and pelicans where they must dismount and walk. Who knows any of this? Only Professor Google and me - and I’ve only known for about 30 seconds. We begin a gentle introduction to the bucolic delights of off-road cycling for another torpid process operator keen to escape the confines of the control room - many have tried, few have succeeded, most realise they prefer pastimes of a less arduous nature, mainly centred on watching other people kick things or throw things. The Novice, however, seems eager to embrace the wilderness, ready to channel his inner Ray Mears and forge a path across the moors, chewing on raw grouse, washed down with his own urine and sawing off injured limbs as necessary. Or maybe not. 

First he had to endure the infamous Square Corner microclimate, windy, cloud covered and bitterly cold while literally a hundred metres away the world basked in sunshine. Bikes were quickly sorted and we were soon heading back down the road into warmth and brightness, we passed Chequers, not the official country residence of the current idiot voted in by a minority of the electorate but the other one, the former droving inn of North Yorkshire. Continuing, we rode up High Lane, passing the sheltered gorse alcoves which are the summer home of Budgie Smuggler Man and his deckchair - too nippy today. Entering the woods above Cod Beck reservoir, we headed downwards on a fire road, an enjoyable excursion which metamorphosed into mire as we rode lower; we powered through the mud like two-wheeled eels, slithering our way to firmer ground. 

The path on the shaded side of the reservoir was still white with hoar frost on the way to the dam, the blue water looking almost mediterranean as we crossed the end of the reservoir, heading for the road. Up to now the ride had been pretty much downhill, The Novice was about to get an acquaintance with the disadvantages of gravity as we headed uphill toward the antennae on top of Beacon Hill. He zipped ahead on the first slope, hoping to lessen the agony by sprinting to the top, soon learning three things, firstly, top is not necessarily the next flat bit you can see ahead, secondly, the actual summit of this hill is a mile and half away and thirdly, it’s a good idea to pace yourself, admire the view, smell the smells, look at the animals. Okay maybe not the smells. It wasn’t too long before the summit came into view and minutes later we were descending the paved bridleway across Scarth Wood Moor, almost a mile of glorious downhill riding, I could hear The Novice whooping and hollering behind me, like a young bullock seeing fields for the first time. 

All good things coming to end and all that, we headed back along the road to Sheepwash into a stiff headwind, continuing beside the reservoir on tarmac prior to turning off and recrossing the dam. Between the dam and High Lane is a steep bank, short but brutal, like some of the lasses in Stockton High Street on a Saturday night. If The Novice were to fail anywhere it would be here but he girded his loins and blasted upward, skipping over slippery rock and weaving around slow-moving walkers, he was panting like a walrus on the verge of orgasm but not one foot was placed on the floor, he even eschewed a breather at the top of the steepest section, preferring to keep going until the crest of the trail and his own apotheosis. We retraced our outward route back to Square Corner, the boy done good, although my suggestion of an extra loop into Silton Woods was firmly and profanely rejected. The spirit of The Pensioner lives on.