Don't Shoot Me, I'm Only A Mountain Biker.

A three day week, not a return to 1974 and one of the Tories more drastic policies to ‘solve’ a crisis but a week with only three days riding. When was the last time that happened? Still, three times a week is better than three times a year which seems to be the average for some of our erstwhile riders.

Monday Miseries On The Moors.

The first ride of the week and me and La Mujerita were at Square Corner for a pedal around her favourite ride. It seems the six weeks school holidays have begun, not that it makes much difference, the kids have been off for months anyway. This may explain why there were so many miserable people out today, mainly walkers but the occasional cyclist would also ignore any sort of cheery greeting. But it was walkers who were keen to smother us in waves of passive aggressive hostility, opprobrium by the barrow-load, as we rode past. 

Are they envious of us for looking as though we are enjoying ourselves while they trudge along with faces like slapped arses? To paraphrase Yeats “the worst are full of passionate intensity/slouching toward Bethlehem”. The idea of being out in the countryside is to relax and let life’s worries and cares drift away, instead it seems a significant minority use a trip to the moors to find more things to wind them up, venting their displacement anger, when they ought to be examining their own motivation for avoiding any venture into the world of adrenaline-fuelled excitement. Loosen up, live a little, this is the only life you get, find a better way to enjoy yourselves than reproachful rambling around the moors, which, believe it or not, are there for everyone to enjoy, not just the bitter cliques who are becoming more prevalent nowadays. 

Other than the Paddington Bear hard stares and more tutting than an episode of Skippy The Bush Kangaroo, we had a good ride, although an extra layer or two of clothing wouldn’t have gone amiss, the autumnal weather is continuing, seeing as we had summer in April. It is rather colder than we would have liked, actual teeth-chattering cold on some of the descents. Check the calendar, yep, still July.

In The Tyre Tracks Of Danny Hart.

The following day was a day for somewhere different, a few miles around Errington Woods, the place where World Champion Danny Hart began his downhill career and practically on The Breadlad’s doorstep. To extend the ride a little, The Breadlad showed us some of his other local singletrack, through woods and fields before we returned to Errington Woods to throw ourselves down some of the downhill tracks. No doubt, they all have names, as they do at Guisborough and other places but we don’t know any of them. 

Once The Breadlad’s, admittedly, not extensive knowledge was exhausted, it was a case of following a likely looking track, hoping we didn’t find any unavoidable trail features which might earn us a ride in a helicopter and trying not to stray into the big boys area, which is steep and rocky, or steep and rooty, steep and rutted, steep with the odd vertical section, steep with extra steepness, or any other variation on steep and too scary for blokes on the verge of middle-age you can think of. The S word features a lot in Errington because after your 30 seconds of pleasure (oo, er, missus), it’s a slog up the, you’ve guessed it, steep, fire roads back to the top. We lost count of the number of routes we rode but they were all fun and (mostly) within our comfort zones, the sun even put in an appearance which makes a change. 

Four Go To Fryup

After an unprecedented two days of rest, we were out on the moors again, this time practically mob handed, a whole four of us, me, The Youth and Brian, all waiting at Danby for The Breadlad to turn up. Predictably late despite living the closest, such are the trials and tribulations of his executive lifestyle. It is fair to say our route began with a climb, almost a thousand feet in under five miles, from Danby to the top of Ainthorpe Rigg, then continuing up tarmac to the Trough House track.

We took a breather at said house, sitting outside in the sunshine, while the odd blood-sucking insect had a nibble at us, the dark clouds and drizzle from the drive to Danby gave way to something resembling summer and we had the scenic trail around the head of Fryupdale unwinding before us. Magnificent, apparently there are people who would choose overtime, golf or walking round shops in preference to this - there are not enough mental hospitals to hold them all. The local builder’s merchants must be having a special offer on gravel at the moment because the track has been liberally doused in the stuff, making it harder work than usual but the views make up for it. 

We continued down Bainley Bank, no sign of the usual canine hecklers at the bottom and continued along the road through Great Fryup Dale until we reached Lawns Road, a mere two miles from cafe and cars. Then again, it’s a nice day, nobody is too tired, it must be extra loop time. The extra loop turned into an extra loop on the extra loop sort of extra loop idea. We climbed up to Oakley Walls, took the bridleway to Clitherbeck Farm, another bridleway that has been treated to some extra gravel - where is it all coming from? After the farm, we gained a bit more height via the Pannierman’s Causeway, all thoughts of the paved trod’s historical significance ignored as we strove to keep up with Brian. Eventually we arrived at Robin Hood’s Butts, which, despite the mediocre weather of the past few weeks, has dried from its usual semi-canal status. 

Our treat for all this extra climbing was a descent of the Sis Cross track, narrow singletrack carving through the heather blah blah blah, you’ve heard it all before. Today also almost dry, only the occasional puddle to lend us that rugged mud-spattered look when we reached the Stonehouse Bakery, 50% of our little crew forgetting that today is the day it becomes mandatory to follow fatter tory’s diktat and go in shops looking like The Lone Ranger. A bit of Buff shuffling and we were soon tucking into some fine baked goods, sitting outside in the sunshine.

Still Waiting For Summer

Still Waiting For Summer

Still waiting for summer, although it looks as though it will be a long wait, there is no promise of good weather round the corner from the forecasters and even the good old Daily Express, whose normal front page headlines for this time of year would be doom-laden predictions, prophesying drought and heat-stroke driven decimation, weather so extreme people will be melting into puddles of fat and bones if they step outside, has realised there is no substance to this summer's fantasy headlines and kept quiet. Ginger people turning to carbon like vampires in daylight, water shortages, hosepipe bans, standpipes in the streets - bring it on, all worth it for dry and dusty trails.

Too Windy For July

Not even an attempt at summer today, cold, dull and unseasonably windy. Owing to constraints, it was to be a local quickie today. Out of the house, quick spin into the urban rurality which passes for countryside and back. The only concession to the season is the vegetation is burgeoning, little used bridleways are nettle filled tubes of pain, crops are growing in the fields but the ground is reverting to winter mud in parts. Such a dispiriting day, I couldn’t even be bothered to take a photo.

If The Lakes Had Better Weather And Less Walkers It Would Be Perfect.

A quick trip to the Lakes, to meet up with The Breadlad, who, with the easing of the lockdown, is able to visit his caravan. A bit of a come down from his usual jet-setting international playboy lifestyle but foreign travel is a bit restricted at the moment, especially to the land of the free and home of the brave where the virus is still cutting a swathe through the population - well the ones who can’t afford medical insurance. The Breadlad’s route planning is generally a bit on the ambitious side, someone with an Ordnance Survey subscription generally reins him in a bit when his planned route comes up at 35 miles with 10,000 feet ascent. Today’s plan seemed reasonable, so, in the spirit of adventure which characterises the Terra Trailblazers (especially if the word adventure is a misspelling of stupidity), we went for it without prior planning. And survived. 

We met at Threlkeld, close to where The Breadlad has his Cumbrian estate, in a car park on the border of his land. First objective, ride up Latrigg, little Latrigg as it is affectionately known, for it is true, a mere pimple of a fell, a foothill to the mighty Skiddaw which looks down on Latrigg like a sleeping bison guarding a calf. It might be little but pedalling a bike up the gravel bridleway from the old Brundeholme road could definitely be considered a bit of a lung opener, 500 feet of ascent in a mile. We reached the Cheat’s Car Park, which is used to shorten the ascent of Skiddaw by a few miles, or reduce the ascent of Latrigg to something akin to a stroll to the shops, went through the gate and immediately began to lose our hard-gained height on the awesome descent to Spooney Green Lane. Unfortunately the track hosted rather more walkers than we would have liked, most apparently horrified to see people enjoying themselves in ‘their’ countryside, telepathically beaming waves of passive aggressive hate at us in the typical tut and sniff British fashion. The sooner the shops reopen and they get back to wandering up and down Keswick High Street with their £400 quid jackets and walking poles, exhausted after an expedition to Friar’s Crag, the better. 

We skirted through the outskirts of Keswick, passed through Portinscale and continued to Braithwaite, mentally girding our loins for the climb ahead, the whole way up Whinlatter Pass, followed by the south loop of the Altura Trail, a climb of 1,300 feet in around 4 miles, The Breadlad thinks big. We can gloss over the pain, the suffering, the swearing and the midges; how big can a midge’s stomach be? How can they cause so much pain and aggravation just to take a quantity of blood the size of an atom? Eventually we reached the summit, the top section has been regraded to black owing to trail erosion - didn’t seem any different to be honest but it'll be a few boxes ticked for some paper-shuffling, desk jockey. 

From the summit, we headed straight down again, cruising a black route with the style and aplomb only blokes on the verge of middle-age can muster and then taking some payback from gravity bank by having our revenge on Whinlatter Pass, The Breadlad taking off like Roadrunner being chased by Wile E. Coyote. I’ve reached the age where I can imagine the pain of flesh on tarmac or the sickening crunch of body against vehicle as I bounce off the windscreen. I even remembered to turn on the GoPro for a top to bottom timelapse video, which can be seen here.

We rolled into a surprisingly busy Keswick for socially distanced refreshments and the old “can you feel rain?”, will it, won’t it, dilemma that characterises a typical lakeland day. Although the clouds looked ominous, it stayed away as we began the final leg of our day. The Keswick to Threlkeld rail path is close to reopening, autumn 2020 is the projected date, unfortunately they are using the calendar to define autumn rather than this July’s weather. Which meant a pedal up to Castlerigg Stone Circle, a last climb we could have done without, before our triumphant roll down into Threlkeld. Not as long a ride as we anticipated but the  landmark 3,000 feet of ascent was smashed and we stopped our GPS’s, smugger than the smuggest people in Smugland. 

Rolling Around Rosedale

A more genteel ride than the previous outing was required and this favourite winter route, accompanied by La Mujerita, fitted the bill perfectly, a cruise around Rosedale, starting from Blakey Bank Top. A surprisingly full but not surprisingly cold and windy Blakey Bank Top. We dropped down onto the old rail line and continued descending on a steep and loose track to Moorlands Farm in the bottom of the valley. That is the best bit of the ride, although La Mujerita may have a different opinion even though she managed to stay, as the motorcyclists say, rubber side down. The route continues through fields along the valley, on a bridleway called The Daleside Road, which turns to tarmac at Thorgill, much pleasanter down here,in sunshine and sheltered from the wind with fine views up to the ruins of the kilns on the old railway.

We emerged into Rosedale Abbey and began the climb past Bell End, La Mujerita didn’t titter like The Pensioner used to. We stayed on tarmac all the way to Dale Head Farm at the end of the road, the tea room was open in a sit outdoors sort of fashion, no self-service in the lean-to for the foreseeable future but it was pleasant sitting in the sunshine being waited on. The climb/push/carry up the bridleway from the farm to the rail track wasn’t quite as pleasant but mercifully short.

The rail line runs around the head of the valley, curving back to Blakey Bank Top, once busy with ore laden trains, now only busy with walkers and cyclists. Seeing as La Mujerita had managed to go a whole ride without falling off, we squeezed in the extra loop, dropping down to the other side of the rail track behind The Lion Inn and returning via the top few feet of Blakey Bank.

Big Sky Day.

Another Billy No Mates day, it seems only The Bread Lad has the motivation nowadays. I have heard that some of the dilatantes have sunk lower than alcoholic rent boys giving blowjobs to tramps for a swig of Special Brew, indulging in a practice so repulsive it makes incest look respectable, more debased than sewer-dwelling paedophiles preying on underage rats, yes, I can barely bring myself to write it, they have began playing golf. Golf? Mark Twain had the right idea, a good walk spoilt and a good bike ride ruined. Each to their own and all that but come on, golf? Have a bit of ambition lads, at least do something which gets some adrenalin flowing through your veins.

In contrast to last Friday, which was a squirming through the trees sort of day, today was wide tracks under big skies, big black skies most of the time. Why is it skies? Surely there is only one sky? Anyway, I parked at Kildale railway station and did some tarmac bashing to Bank Foot Farm and ascended, what we know as Turkey Nab but is really called Ingleby Bank. This track is still a B.O.A.T. although the One Life: Live It - as long as you can afford diesel wobbly head brigade are not often spotted nowadays. The track has been resurfaced, all the way up to where it joins the Cleveland Way at Tidy Brown Hill on Ingleby Moor, so, potentially it is rideable all the way, now the rock slabs and loose gullies have been filled in. Potentially being the operative word. Echoing school reports from the dim and distant, not the past, the teachers, my potential remained unfulfilled as the steepest bits were pushed. From the top, I took the Cleveland Way to Bloworth Crossing, where I had a breather, one facet of lone riding is the lack of idle chit chat at every NSP (natural stopping point), suddenly you realise miles have been covered without a break - not really in the Terra Trailblazer’s ethos.

When the Rosedale ironstone mines were active, Bloworth Crossing was where the rail line crossed the moorland motorway of Rudland Rigg and had a gatekeeper who lived in an adjacent house. His job was to go out twice a day and open the gates for the train to pass, even by the extremely low standards of a former process operator, not exactly overworked. The wooden planks of the crossing are still there, beneath a thin covering of sand and gravel. It was considered the worst posting in the company, nicknamed Siberia because of the bleak conditions, there would often be snow in May. With black clouds scudding in and a bitter wind, it was living up its nickname today, snow in July wouldn’t have come as a shock. A quick energy bar and a few pictures and I was on my way, heading north along the old railway to the incline top, from where a shortcut across the moor got me back onto the Cleveland Way. At Burton Howe, still sticking with the wide track theme, a descent of the Old Coal Road took me pleasantly to just above Armouth Wath, where I headed north again, heading back to the Cleveland Way. On the downhill section of the bridleway, a fully grown sheep decided to liven it’s day by having a game of chicken with a lone cyclist, running out in front of the bike before running back onto the moor, ovine ears ringing with the sound of squealing brakes and a narrative appraisal of her intelligence and parentage which could have passed as part of Roy Chubby Brown’s stage show.

The remote Baysdale road took me back to Kildale, if Carlsberg did roads it would be like this one, downhill the whole way, twisting through green hummocks and heather moor, grey rocks and the tuk tuk tuk of wary grouse watching the passing bike like meerkats, the characteristic moorland smell of peat and ling, mixed with the odour of burning brakes as you try to scrub off enough speed to make the corner at the bottom. Then a more sedate roll through Kildale, rain just beginning to splatter as the car comes into view - that’s timing.

Billy No Mates And The Lubed Up Mermaid.

Another week of this year’s early autumn and another 4 rides polished off, 4 days successfully wasted, another 4 days on the slippery slope towards senility, infirmity, morbidity and the gadgie with the scythe and the hourglass. Do it now: it’s later than you think. This was a public service announcement from the Terra Trailblazers, successfully shirking adult responsibilities since 2003. The titles of the rides on this page are what they have been named on Strava, as if anyone is interested enough to look them up because let’s face it, sometimes the most difficult part of our rides is thinking up a catchy Strava title. 

A Bit Grim For July.

The first brace of rides were Billy No Mates affairs as it appears other people still have the encumbrance of gainful employment to contend with; what a gruesome thought. My first lonely ride began at the famous Sean The Sheep bus shelter on the Castleton road on a cloudy morning, threatening showers and featuring the new normal unseasonably cold wind. A quick blast along Robin Hood’s Butts, with a right turn to Sis Cross, one of our favourite moorland singletracks, carving its way through a carapace of heather, unfortunately suffering the sort of seasonal deterioration usually seen around the end of October, puddles and deep mud at the start of July, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the summer. I continued to Danby Beacon and across Roxby Moor toward Scaling Dam, another fine track which is nothing but fun, blasting along multiple lines, rocky ruts and peaty hollows under a big sky. 

Further on I spent half an hour attempting to photograph a colony of sand martins, which mainly involved laying in the damp grass, being rained on, as small birds screeched past faster than The Ginger One answering the phone for a call out. 

The remainder of the ride was a standard pedal back along Lealholm Rigg to Danby Beacon, followed by a reversal of Robin Hood’s Butts, as usual into a headwind,with the added bonus of a shower or two. Returning to the car and the ‘new normal’ tailgate picnic, inevitably the wind dropped, the rain stopped and the sun put in an appearance, exact conditions for hordes of midges to come hurtling out like fat kids at an all you can eat buffet, searching out the bare flesh of the only blood-filled sack of skin in the vicinity. Me.

9 Miles Up: 3 Miles Down.

The following day I went to Chop Gate for a ride which,it must be said, had seemed a fine route when I planned it out, laid in bed that morning. In reality it was nine miles of ascent for 3 miles of downhill, give or take the odd flat bit. For those masochistic enough to give it a go, (I won’t be repeating it anytime soon), Chop Gate, road to Lordstones, along The Fronts to Clay Bank, Urra Moor, Round Hill - highest point in the North York Moors and end of the climbing for today. One short sentence, a world of pain. What was I thinking? Mostly, I wish granny rings were still a thing or is it electric bike time yet? There was a plan involved in riding all the way up to Round Hill, to make a hyperlapse video (like a timelapse) of the descent from the highest point all the way to Chop Gate via Medd Crag, a technically easy but speedy way down. Sat at the trig point, preparing for the descent, faffing with cameras, a swathe of rain heading directly for me like a wet, grey blanket, I tried to decide if it might swerve a bit and save me from a drenching. Not happening, most of the descent was spent wiping mud and water from GoPro lens; obviously any sensible person would have waited until the rain passed over before setting off but it was difficult to say how long the shower would last and the lure of the car park picnic was reaching out to my tired and hungry body.

A Bit Of Sunshine And Roseberry Topping Is Full.

Day three saw me and La Mujerita having a gentle pedal from Great Ayton, the car parking spaces already filling up at ten thirty. It’s about time people were back at schools and jobs or just wandering aimlessly around shopping malls instead of clogging the place up like arterial plaque, this virus has a lot to answer for. We did our usual road warm up, riding to Kildale, up Percy Cross Rigg to the gate where tarmac ends and proper riding begins. For a bit of variation we rode around the Lonsdale Bowl almost to Gribdale, then doubled back along Newton Moor until we were at the Little Roseberry steps. Looking across to Roseberry Topping, it seems a bit of sunshine triggers a mass ascent, it looked as though a significant minority of the population of Teesside had decided to get away from it all with a stroll to the summit. Definitely more bodies than can be seen at a Darlington FC home game,although I’m sure their loyal supporter, The Ginger One would disagree. 

We headed into Guisborough Woods and bypassed most of the trails in favour of some fire road blasts, La Mujerita is not a fan of thin and technical or steep and rooty or loose and rocky. Probably another reason women live longer than men. I managed to squeeze one trail in, The Captain’s Seat, La Mujerita followed in a more pedestrian manner - one foot in front of the other. One last hill took us back to Roseberry Common, from where it was gravity-assisted riding all the way back to Great Ayton and a quick detour to the butchers for some delicious concoctions of pastry and meat, just the thing for a riverside picnic in the sunshine. Shame the temperature couldn’t have managed to be a bit more in keeping with the calendar - it didn’t encourage any lounging.

Slippier Than A Lubed Up Mermaid. 

The last ride of the week was with Rod, who mooted the idea of a bit of trail exploring in Guisborough Woods, which basically meant a whole lot of climbing in a short distance, interspersed with near death experiences. And it came to pass. Unhappily the rain which dampened everything for the previous twenty four hours had done the trails no favours, although still firm, the top layer was slippier than a lubed up mermaid, which, combined with the Guisborough trail fairies penchant for the sort of steepness which might be experienced falling down a well, made for an interesting day’s riding. Brakes were largely ineffective and more than once I regretted taking the Maxxis Shorty off the front wheel as the bike decided to, in the words of Fleetwood Mac, go it’s own way. Luckily there was always a sturdy tree or two to break our falls, the only payment they demanded being the odd bruise. It wasn’t the day to be riding unknown trails - or any trails really but there is always that vain hope the next one will have been more sheltered and be the perfect ribbon of dry loam weaving through the trees. It didn't happen. 

One trail we encountered was a ride down memory lane, over twenty years ago, with two riding buddies we ‘improved’ an existing track with the help of some army surplus tools, to give a sweet ride back to one lad’s house in Guisborough. It has some steep sections which were terrifying back in the day, all on hardtails, those were the days when full suspension was looked at with the mixture of disgust and jealousy reserved for electric bikes nowadays, white knuckles squeezing V brakes, which were only of cosmetic value in the wet anway, scrotums  scraped by rear tyres all the way down the trail because you had to get back as far as possible to ride steep stuff. It all seemed quite tame today with the benefits of modern bikes and twenty odd years experience. I only recognised the trail because it passes two iron stanchions left over from the days an aerial ropeway carried buckets of spoil down from the mines which are still scattered about the forest. To Rod’s amazement some combination of lunacy and dehydration made me suggest one last climb back into the forest, to squeeze in a couple of trails before the cafe. Which we did, managing to escape the ‘one last run’ curse (usually the extra run is the one where you have the accident) and making it to the cafe unscathed for a socially distanced bacon butty.