Two rides in sunshine and temperatures close to summer, sandwiched between days of drab, grey drizzle. Staycation my arse; get me to an airport.
31 Degrees - that’s more like it.
The norm nowadays seems to be starting the week with a lonely ride and this was no different except it looks as though summer has muscled it’s way in to the seasons and is playing catch up, like a latecomer to a drinking session, whacking the heat straight up to gas mark 8, with temperatures sneaking into the low thirties. Lordstones car park was pretty rammed, even this early in the morning, everyone lured from their shells by the yellow ball in the sky. Considering it was such a hot day, I foolishly chose the most brutal start to any ride from Lordstones, straight up the old gliding club access track on the side of Carlton Bank, which gets no easier, continuing across the moor to Brian’s Pond and onward, ever upward to surmount Barker’s Ridge. Flatter riding took me to Cock Howe, another name which gave The Pensioner something to snigger at, where I could leave behind the broad, sandy tracks which characterise the North York Moors and embark on some singletrack.
The narrow bridleway which leads to Head House is a little overgrown at the start nowadays but soon opens up to a dry and dusty peat track, cutting through purple-blooming heather at an amenable angle, before dropping more steeply through bracken to a stream crossing. After the stream, the track continues over grassy moorland to a copse of trees behind the shooting house, a red kite, no doubt disturbed by a panting bloke on the verge of middle age opening the gate, took off, leisurely circling up on thermals in the direction of Bilsdale transmitter mast. I kept on the bridleway to Arnesgill Ridge, turning right to climb to Osmotherley Stones before retracing my tyre tracks back down Barker’s Ridge, always more fun in the friendly gravity direction, to Brian’s Pond. In what could only be described as a fit of masochism, I pedalled up to the summit of Carlton Bank, for no particular reason other than, in the words of George Mallory, “because it’s there.” Even the view wasn’t that spectacular, heat haze blanketing the horizon but it was nice to sit and catch a bit of breeze. Chatted to a young couple doing the Cleveland Way, who were the first people I had seen since leaving Lordstones a couple of hours before, strange considering the car park is rammed. The track back down the hill was a lot more fun than it had been ascending it, continuing past Lordstones, I squeezed in a couple of trails around the back of Cringle Moor before dehydration and hunger got the better of me.
The Glorious Twelfth.
The next morning I was back in exactly the same spot, Lordstones overflow car park, this time with La Mujerita and the weather was anything but glorious, the whole hilltop covered in mist, billowing clouds drifting past at eye level, boiling up from gullies below us like steam from a volcano. The chance of another 31 degree day looking pretty remote.
Today’s route is almost the same as yesterday’s, other than bypassing the singletrack owing to La Mujerita’s aversion to narrow, steep and rocky. As we climbed higher, the mist began to blow away, the sun got his hat on, hip, hip, hip hooray and we got our coats off. Bilsdale mast was our objective and we cruised toward it on broad tracks, fabricated for the grouse shooting industry and today is the twelfth of august, first day of the grouse shooting season. Normally the moors would be a thronged with shooting parties, shouting beaters waving flags made from fertilizer bags, the sound of gunfire and the smell of cordite, enthusiasts paying thousands of pounds for a day on the drink with added weapons; today, not a soul in sight, a glorious day for the grouse at least. And it was turning into a glorious day for us too, maybe not reaching yesterday's high temperature but plenty warm enough.
We took a breather at the mast, three hundred and fourteen metres high, a sacred totem for the TV watching classes, doubtless beaming out shite to people sitting on their fat arses in front of the telly at this very moment. Breather over, we enjoyed a lengthy downhill stretch to Head House, the remote shooting house where I saw the red kite yesterday. From Head House, yesterday’s return route was taken again, minus the detour to Carlton Bank summit. When we returned, Lordstones was back in full summer mode, in contrast to the grey clag we had left behind this morning. A large group of paragliders were making the most of some mediocre gusty wind and getting a bit of flying time, impressing earth-bound spectators. Is there a collective noun for a group of paragliders? A flight? A canopy or a spiral could work maybe.
Grinding Through The Silt at Silton.
Well, that’s it finished, summer has crashed and burned with a couple of hot days, weather reverting to grey drizzle interspersed with heavy downpours, the forecasts, both long and short range predict more of the same, it’s an east coast effect which often plagues us this time of year. It’s glorious across in the lakes. Why aren’t we there? Mainly because it’s full. Rod had managed to wangle a day off work today and was delighted to introduce me and SuperBri to some of his secret trails around Osmotherley, which explains why we were assembling bikes in the moistness of Square Corner.
We began in Silton Woods, starting with a trail which seventeen years ago, almost to the day, saw the inaugural ride of the Terra Trailblazers (TTB 001) and the coining of the catchphrase “might be muddy”. The trail is now devoid of enveloping conifers, which has helped things dry up somewhat. We rode the first two sections of the “official” Silton Woods downhill track, after which my route knowledge becomes a little vague, as Rod led us, like a jungle guide, through brush and damp vegetation to the assorted trails he has been developing during lockdown. Not all his own work though, some of the trails have had features added, the sort of features gentlemen on the verge of middle age would be wise to avoid, let alone build. The sort of features more usually tackled by full face helmets, body armour and cajones the size of mangoes.
Today’s weather conditions made the trails challenging enough without the added complications of sudden death or life-changing injuries to contend with. SuperBri soon found out that wet wood is slippier than black ice, damp rocks are also slippery and too much front brake on steep descents results in SuperBri becoming Superman. Everything was wet, slight gusts of wind shook big gobbets of water from the trees, damp bracken soaked our clothes, hidden puddles dunked our feet, tyres splashed water up our backs - who thinks to bring a mudguard in August? Slick roots and lubricious loam made up the trails, we descended and climbed through various areas of the forest, every trail with the coda, “that’ll be great when it’s dry.”. Thoroughly moistened and in some cases, battered and bruised, we made our way back to Square Corner, which was shrouded in mist. Although aching legs said otherwise, our mileage had not yet reached double figures, so we continued to Cod Beck Woods for further slip sliding away on more of Rod’s creations before returning to our cars for a picnic in the precipitation.
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