Pedalling Through The Pandemic - Week One.
This is the week when measures to contain coronavirus really kicked in, people are beginning to see the sense behind social distancing and self isolation, it has not stopped a significant minority from panic buying their way through the supermarkets, crowding in like termites and stripping the shelves, even though there is no shortage of anything except common sense. In the old days people would maybe have banded together to tar and feather such enemies of the community, of course that would be a terrible thing to happen in today’s civilized society. Although they could always use their mountain of stockpiled toilet paper to wipe themselves clean. Anyway the government has decided cycling is a good thing, so long as it is within your comfort zone, so probably not the time to try that ten foot drop off you have been eying up or in our case, stay away from any highish kerbs.
Airtime Oz
Monday 16th March 2020
Great Ayton
Oz
Great Ayton was a little less busy than usual this morning but everywhere seems quiet, perhaps it is the reduced number of planes or something but the usual background hum of the world seems absent. We rode up to Guisborough Woods passing through Fletcher’s Farm and Aireyholme Farm to Roseberry Common and onward into the forest, sticking mainly to fire road as most of the trails are still soft and vulnerable. We endured the mess of mud and puddles which leads to a pair of trails, Mintballz and Screwball Scramble to be greeted with the noise of ravening chainsaws and forestry work signs. It looks as though someone is cashing in their crop.
Deciding against being chased by chainsaw wielding maniacs - now there’s an idea for a movie - we rode back to Roseberry Common and around the bulk of the mighty Roseberry Topping, ending up in Cliff Rigg Quarry. The bottom section of the quarry is filled with jumps of varying degrees of difficulty, we occasionally go and give them a try, as long as there are no kids about to a) show us up, b) snigger at our feeble efforts as they casually fly through the air. We were in luck and spent half an hour or so attempting to get both wheels off the floor before realising pedalling up and down the same hundred metres of track over and over again is actually quite an exhausting way to have fun. Back in Great Ayton, we had coffee and cake in a cafe, doing our bit for the rural economy before the lockdown.
Can’t Catch Coronavirus From Sheep.
Tuesday 17th March 2020
Clay Bank
Alone
It turns out I have been something a trailblazer in this social distancing game and here’s me thinking I was merely anti-social, riding about the moors, seeing more sheep than people, being shunned by stoney-faced walkers who don’t have the decency to return a friendly greeting and generally going by the teaching of that fat, baldy bloke “Be unto oneself an island.” Or maybe people are socially distancing themselves from me? Either way today was a lone ride, Mr. Billy No Mates trudging up the Carr Ridge steps onto Urra Moor, as the sky became greyer, eventually unleashing a flurry of cold drizzle to keep the thought of winter fresh in our minds.
The broad, sandy tracks across the moors are perfect for munching miles in the fresh air and it wasn’t long before I reached Turkey Nab, admiring the view across to Easby Moor and Roseberry Topping. A ‘keeping within government guidelines’ descent followed - now is not the time to be ending up in a hospital bed - culminating with one of the new trails in the woods after the gate. The weather brightened slightly as I made my way back to Clay Bank for my social distancing picnic, sitting on the wall, being eyed up by one of the tame pheasants which lurk about waiting to be fed, looking like feral pigeons dressed up for a Rio De Janeiro carnival.
A Bit More Social Distancing.
Thursday 19th March 2020
Great Ayton
La Mujerita
The next ride began, once again from Great Ayton, mainly so we could visit our regular butcher for some meat, seeing as our local shops appear to have been ravaged by a tribe of loose-boweled carnivores with an obsessive compulsive hand-washing disorder and a potato addiction. My better half, it’s not as though I could have a worse half, some might say, La Mujerita joined me today, we ought to have followed government guidelines and stayed two metres apart but seeing as we sleep in the same bed it seems a bit pointless.
A warm up on quiet roads took us to Kildale and New Row, where we ascended The Yellow Brick Road up to Percy Cross Rigg, continuing over the top to The Unsuitables. There are a lot more people out and about than usual, biking and walking, as the restrictions are realised and employments are put on hold. All schools and colleges are to close indefinitely tomorrow, just what we need - teachers everywhere, telling us to stop chewing, not to run in the corridors and stop picking on The Ginger One.
We made our way through the forest, ending up again in Cliff Rigg Quarry where the intention was for La Mujerita to build up a bit of confidence on the more gentle slopes, however most of Great Ayton’s bike jumping school children seemed to have decided if school was out indefinitely from tomorrow afternoon, another 48 hours wouldn’t make a difference. The efforts of a couple on the verge of middle-age were soon put to shame by fearless youths who spent more time in the air than EasyJet are at the moment. Chatting to a few, their disappointment at the prospect of missing untold months of education was well hidden, I believe “buzzing” is how it might be described in the vernacular. This is probably the best thing to happen since the latest Playstation was released, or whatever it is that excites kids nowadays. As they used to say in the newspapers, we made our excuses and left, leaving them to their fun.
Skiddaw House Social Distancing.
Friday 20th March 2020
Threlkeld
The Breadlad, The Ginger One, Keith, Gary.
You can’t get much more remote than the highest youth hostel in England, out in the fresh air, two metres apart, group of five or less. The Breadlad’s international playboy lifestyle has been abruptly curtailed by none other than the president of the U.S.A., Donald Trump, who won’t let him into Las Vegas, well, him and every other European, regardless of their status in the world of crumpet production. So The Breadlad has shown it takes more than the leader of the free world to stop him holidaying and gone to his caravan in the Lake District, where we joined him for a ride. Me, The Ginger One and Nissan Nomads, Gary and Keith, who are making the most of Nissan suspending production.
In keeping with government guidelines, we opted for the less than perilous ride to Skiddaw House, starting along the track on the side of the Glenderaterra Beck valley, nestled between the twin bulks of Skiddaw and Blencathra; which begins with a lot of climbing, followed, after a brief respite, by more climbing up to the highest youth hostel in England. Typical Lakeland trails, rock-strewn and puddle infested, the place for big tyres, a world away from Whinlatter where we had intended to go until they closed the road. The Cumbria Way heads roughly north west from Skiddaw House, down to cross Dead Beck, which can be ridden through at some times, quinquennial droughts and the like. We opted for the bridge.
Another climb was slogged up before we arrived at the highlight of the ride, the descent to Peter House Farm, about two miles distant and eight hundred feet lower, the track runs down beside the picturesque Whitewater Dash waterfall, a delightful vista utterly wasted on my companions as they pounced on the descent like fat kids on chicken nuggets, payback time for all the climbing we had done and heedless to the natural beauty around them.
It’s a great ride marred only by the miles of tarmac which must be done to get back to Keswick. Of course, we were parked at Threlkeld which meant another four miles further, although we did return via the old Brundholme Woods road, which, owing to subsidence, is closed to traffic nowadays and being reclaimed by nature. Before we left Keswick however, we had to take Gary to the park and let him have a go on the pump track, he astounded us by having both wheels in the air at the same time and not while somersaulting over the handlebars, which is the only time we can manage that feat. Probably something to do with him being so young the ink is not yet dry on his birth certificate. Two more hills later we rolled into the beer garden of The Farmers Arms in Threlkeld for what turned out to be our last pint of Jennings for the foreseeable future because this is the day Boris closed all pubs, cafes and restaurants.
Terra Trailblazer’s rides without a cafe stop! There is a bit of background noise now, it’s the sound of The Pensioner turning in his grave, not so much turning as spinning like a centrifuge.
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