Three Quarters Drenched.

Three quarters drenched, or out of four rides this week, we ended up thoroughly wet on three of them. The dry ride was only a local commute, so doesn't even count. 

A Little Bit Moist Out Today.

Beginning a ride in unrelenting rain is always worse than being caught in the stuff while out riding. Especially when you’re starting from the top of a rain-lashed hill and your fellow riders are secretly hoping someone will be the first to come up with a bail out excuse. Fellow riders, there’s a novelty nowadays, the ever-keen Breadlad and the lesser-spotted Ginger One, whose devotion to overtime supersedes everything else, joined me in the gloom to enjoy, what promised to be, a few wet miles. Coats, mudguards and wet lube are the order of the day as we head along the A171 to The Jolly Sailors, where we thankfully left behind the rat run of Whitby bound traffic and took off over Gerrick Moor, crossing Robin Hood’s Butts and straight on to the Sis Cross track. The steady drizzle has dampened the singletrack but not enough to spoil it too much and the rain even eased off while we enjoyed the descent. Any notions we may have had that the weather was improving in some way were dispelled as we rode up the road toward Robin Hood’s Butts, a headwind treating us to faces full of water while we slogged uphill. 

A decidedly no frills ride today, although what the other two may have been wearing under their biking shorts I have no idea, we ploughed along Robin Hood’s Butts to the Sean The Sheep bus shelter and directly to the Quaker’s Causeway. Highlight of the ride, or arse-battering nadir of the ride, depending on your viewpoint; the ancient paved trod, crossing a wet and peaty moor polarises opinion, with the majority opinion being abhorrence. I don’t mind it because my buttocks are like a pair of cannonballs, inured to brutalization by a bicycle seat. Not for me that virtual armchair which The Ginger One rides about on, although seeing as he spends around 72 hours a week plonked down on a control room chair, he needs it. Thoroughly drenched, or “satched” in the Darlington vernacular, we rolled into the car park, strangely elated and more than a little smug, add dry clothes, cheeseburgers and coffee and we were ecstatic. Well as ecstatic as you can be, sheltering under a tailgate as the incessant rain continues to dampen everything but our spirits.

Wet And Squelchy.

Another day where moisture was the main feature but it had the decency to throw in a few bright intervals between the dampness. We were again a trio, like Motorhead, ZZ Top, Cream, or based on our riding, Peter, Paul and Mary - and we did have a Paul, which left either me or The Breadlad to be Mary. I’ll let you decide. We met at Gribdale, for an expedition to the farthest reaches of Guisborough Woods, starting with a crossing of the wild, featureless expanse of Newton Moor, risking a passage through terrifying flora and fauna to reach our objective. Well, some disinterested sheep and a lot of scratchy heather, not to mention the potential coronary when a startled grouse takes off in front of your face. In the woods, we introduced Paul to some of the area’s, driest, if not necessarily finest tracks, starting with Lazy Adder, weaving through the trees and working our way up and down various trails along the forest until we reached the One Man And His Dog area where we made like youths and did a bit of sessioning. Afterwards we headed back along the top of the forest, taking more trails until we were on top of Highcliffe Nab, taking in the view over Guisborough and across to the North Sea. On the steep descent to the fireroad, I was kind enough to give us all a practical demonstration of the lubricious properties of wet wood and the unsuitability of gorse as cushioning, for which I received no thanks. I don’t know why I bother. The Codhill Heights descent to Sleddale was exhilarating as usual, the climb back to Percy Cross Rigg was exactly the opposite. A quick spin around the Lonsdale Bowl brought us to the rutted and rocky descent of Fingerbender Bank, today a convergence of rivulets, filling the gullies and forming rills over the rocks, water splashing from wheels as we styled it though the gnar, hitting up the phat air and schralping the berms. No, I have no idea what any of that means either, I think my spirit guide must have been channelling a bit of MBUK through me typing fingers. A last blast down the rock garden and we were back at the cars, damper but happier.

Not A Golfer In Sight.

When the forecast is for 58 mph wind and persistent showers it is only natural that the superiority of the settee is respected and the protection of brick walls and a slate roof ought to be mandatory. Unless, of course, you are me and The Breadlad, which means you will be sat in Danby village hall car park, watching trees bending in supplication to the wind as sheets of rain strafe the surrounding buildings, overflowing gutters and running down the road in torrents. When the rain eased off, we jumped on our bikes and set off on a carefully choreographed ride, specifically designed to harness the power of the wind in our moments of most need. To put it more simply, in case anyone from Darlington reads this, tailwind on the uphills. Tarmac took us to the infamously steep concrete road which leads up the hilltop farm, Head House and the plan was coming together perfectly until the concrete road began to meander, where we had a sidewind, then a headwind, progress slowed to the sort of pace which would have embarrassed a tranquilized tortoise. At the top, we sheltered behind a dancing tree as the tempest blew in another shower, hitting us with only slightly less force than the Guisborough Forest bike wash. The bridleway along the edge of the moor, atop Danby Crag is side on to the wind, we attempted to ride narrow singletrack as gusts did their best to misdirect us into tussocks of marsh grass and hidden rocks. Attempt being the operative word. The descent through Walker’s Plantation made things better, pleasantly sheltered and more importantly, downhill if a little moist under the wheels. A short stretch of road and we were at the bottom of the Jack Sledge bridleway, looking up at a silver trail stretching skyward, light reflecting from the streamlet which was our path. Wind + water + mud + steepness = bike on shoulders and marching upwards ever upwards. Mercifully the track levelled and we were able to ride as much as the wind permitted, the trail still narrow and predominantly submerged, soon we were enjoying a bit of downhill action until the track became vague, disappearing steeply into thick bracken, with concealed rocks and drops to keep us, literally, on our toes - and knees and elbows. Eventually we came to a gate in a wall which looked as though it had been last opened around the time of William The Conqueror, this led into a copse of trees where the path, already pretty undefined, simply vanished, leaving us blundering about the undergrowth like Bear Grylls and Ray Mears after a five day bender in the wilds of Mexico, surviving on mescaline and tequila. There came a grudging acceptance that we may have been slightly misplaced, being proper men we could never use the L word. The map, which had been carefully selected from my big box of maps this morning, was, of course, still in the boot of the car. We were in the right valley, just in the wrong area. To gloss over the finer details, some property infringements later, we were on the valley road, battling into a headwind, as nature failed to forgive those who had trespassed against her and slammed us with a face-shredding shower, which hurt like hailstones. The planned finish to the route was intended to be through Castleton and Danby Park but reaching Ainthorpe the temptation to turn right, directly back to Danby was more than our weakened self-resolve could overcome; a few minutes and a set of dry clothes later, we were in the Stonehouse Bakery, tucking into warm pasties and hot drinks, as another vicious squall lashed through the village.

The One Ride Week

 Keep The Weather Like This Until Christmas...

...and we might forgive August.

Unusual in recent times, one ride in a week, unusual for me anyway, to the shirkers who used to ride with us and nowadays see golf and overtime as alternatives to having fun on a bike, one ride a season would be more their style. Alone again, naturally, as Gilbert O’Sullivan sang when I was a mere boy, I headed out from Kildale station, the suspicious puddle still taking up one corner of the car park. Suspicious because there has been no significant rain, it is next to the toilet block and never dries up. After the spoke-snapping, mech-bending disaster of the last ride, a fine repair job and service has been done by Doug at Wheely Good Bike Solutions, who operates from his home in Stockton, giving speedy service at sensible prices. It felt like a new bike as I pedalled up Percy Cross Rigg, sweat running into my eyes as it turned out to be the second day of an Indian summer, which, if it keeps up, might let us forget the grim August we endured. Across Codhill Heights and into Guisborough Woods to ride a few gentle trails and play with the drone, a perfect day for a few shots from Highcliffe Nab. For a change I had a foray onto the old red route, pretty overgrown nowadays, it has definitely seen better times, eventually arriving, bitten and scratched, at the top of The Unsuitables. The official direction of the red route included ascending the Secret Path, one of Guisborough’s original downhill routes, roots, rocks and loam; everyone was perplexed when the route tackled it in the wrong direction. I continued up the off-road section of Percy Cross Rigg and around the Lonsdale Bowl to Gribdale before plodding up the fire road to Captain Cook’s Monument, surprisingly busy seeing as the general populace is supposed to be returning to normality, schools have returned and the homeworkers are being pushed, kicking and screaming in a lot of cases, back to their little partitions in factory-farm offices. The climb to the monument hasn’t got any easier and failure is still the preferred option on the steep steps around the memorial to the 1940 plane crash. 

After a brief rest, the height just gained was thrown away, in a most pleasurable manner, taking the track known on Strava as Down The Wall!! (not my apostrophes, I was always taught using apostrophes is like laughing at your jokes - just don’t!) The trail was in good condition, a little excess growth creeping out, a bit like my ear hair but dry enough to give a speedy descent to the fire road. Hunger began to get the better of me, I took the soft option, fire road and tarmac back to the car park, where today’s tailgate picnic was a socially-distanced affair, not keeping away from virus carrying hordes because I couldn’t have been more alone if I was attending a Jimmy Savile fan club reunion but from the dodgy puddle outside the toilets.

The First Bit Of September.

A First Ride As A 61 Year Old.

First ride of the new month, I had a day off yesterday because it was my birthday, which equaled a surfeit of food and alcohol to ease the pain of approaching middle-age. Second ride of the week with Rod, who conceived a marginally less arduous route for the day. No complaints from me. Clay Bank car park, dry but surprisingly windy, becoming more windy as we climbed higher. On top of Urra Moor, it became a tailwind, grand being pushed along the tracks toward Burton Howe and the old coal road, our first significant descent of the ride. Continuing with the downward theme, we continued to Grain Beck Plantation, a superb downhill section, turning from rocky gravel to rutted grass as it approaches the plantation gate, a few kamikaze sheep doing their best to baa banzai as they leap in front of our bikes. Through the plantation, still greasy and slippy, to another gate, then down to the grandly-named farm of Baysdale Abbey. After descending 800 feet in almost 5 miles, there is payback to be done and the road out of Baysdale Abbey takes its pound of flesh as we regain 350 of those feet. A short bit of the Cleveland Way takes us to a moist singletrack leading to the newly sanitised Turkey Nab, or Ingleby Bank to give it its proper name, a speedy descent follows, no more rocky slabs or deep ruts to contend with, just as little braking as cajones and common sense allow.  A vegetated track through Ingleby Plantation leads to a pair of trails we have been waiting to come into condition, winter greasiness dispelled by beaming sunshine and warm summer winds - not this year. Still moister than a nun in a cucumber field. A welcome change from the wide open, sandy tracks on the moor tops, we even sessioned a few bits, just like youngsters do - didn’t seem to make us any better though. All that remained was the fire road drag back to Clay Bank and our tailgate picnic, where an excellently timed rain shower brought a close to the ride.

Too Steep For Terra Trailblazers.

 Another day with Rod, who is lucky enough to have wangled a whole week off work to sample the lifestyle of a peripatetic retiree, riding bikes where and whenever you want, which is most days. Rod was keen to risk life and limb again on the off-piste trails of Guisborough Woods, guaranteed to be extra treacherous today following an epic rain storm the previous evening. But danger is our middle name, once we’d recovered from the trauma of Pinchinthorpe car park having gone up to £4 per day. This will break The Breadlad. Our route was meandering, riding typical Guisborough trails, steep verging on precipitous. We made our way to a trail, I had spotted a few times previously but only when accompanied by riders not willing to plunge themselves into the sort of unknown which might end with a helicopter ride and wheelchair - no such reticence from Rod. After a brief, on-foot, inspection, we began a cautious descent, it began quite nicely, curving round to a small stepped section, dropping down into trees, a bit drier would have made things easier but it is North East England in September. Things became steeper, wetter and slippier, until Rod dismounted, looking down the next section, which was probably at about a seventy degree angle, crossed by roots, plunging down to a tight left hand bend. Hmm, it’s fair to say, from this moment our bikes became two very expensive Zimmer frames, as we struggled to walk down the slope. The best was saved for last, most Guissy routes finish with a steep drop to a fire road, this one simply stopped in mid-air, around twelve feet of nothing between the end of the trail and the fire road. A few tyre tracks led over the edge, significantly more tyre tracks led to a well used chicken run, we couldn’t be any more cowardly if we were covered in the colonel’s secret blend of eleven herbs and spices and deep fried, so the chicken run it was for us. We finished the day with a bit of sessioning on the more amenable One Man and His Dog trails at the Eastern end of the woods, before a socially-distanced burger back at the Branch Walkway cafe, although the increased parking charges will probably do more to keep people apart than any amount of signage and speeches by Boris.

 

This Time Last Year...

 

...I was in Australia. It may have been bikeless but at least there was sunshine and warmth, two things distinctly lacking today, along with companions. I managed a lonely schlep around Guisborough Woods, riding in from Great Ayton via an ascent of Coleson Banks, which is a hell of a detour, as well as a hell of a climb, riding up the newly surfaced track from Battersby to the road at the top Baysdale, only to ride down to Kildale. Why? No idea. Perhaps it’s true I shouldn’t be allowed out without a carer. The usually pleasurable blast down the road was a little hairy today, owing to a playful sidewind nudging the bike toward the grass verges, not ideal on drizzle-slicked tarmac at 30mph. From Kildale, I took the Yellow Brick road and Percy Cross Rigg into the woods where I indulged in the sort of aimless wandering and exploring which only a lone rider can do while there is nobody to moan about vegetation and dead ends. A few miles of added knowledge later, the car was my umbrella after a butcher’s shop exploration provided a most satisfactory lunch.

 

A Reet Grand Ride Out.

 

International playboy and jet-setting man of mystery, The Breadlad has seen his worldwide wanderings severely curtailed this year, owing to a bug going round, this year the only time zone he has had to cross is the one between NMT (New Marske Time) and BST. Arriving at Scaling Dam within fifteen minutes of the agreed time was practically early for him. Today was dry, windy and the sky couldn’t have been any more threatening if it was Bert The Bender from B wing, looking for you with a pool ball in a sock. Nothing surprising on the route front today, usual Scaling start, High Tranmire Farm, up The Slagbag, up Lealholm Rigg to Danby Beacon, down the rutted 4x4 track, now recovering a little since motorised traffic was banned, down Oakley Walls to our literal lowest point, not metaphorical because we were having a grand time despite the wind which defied physics and made itself a headwind as often as it could. We rode through Danby and climbed to Robin Hood’s Butts, just to ride down again on the Sis Cross track, a bit squelchy in parts today but not yet returned to winter slop. We hauled ourselves back to Danby Beacon, where the surreal sight of Dick Dastardly’s car from Wacky Races greeted us, along with another, evidently homemade, car. The Roxby Moor singletrack has been resurfaced, for once in a good way, it has escaped the curse of the lockdown gravel and been given a properly compacted top making it even more fun than previously, superb practically all the way back to the car park.

 

 

Another Reet Grand Day Out...

 ...although it could have been warmer, and a bit sunnier, and less hills would've been nice. Other than that...

 

Three of us today, almost a crew, meeting at Danby village hall, me and The Breadlad, with the intention of re-riding some of our last ride’s route to introduce old friend Paul to the delights of proper off-road riding. He’s spent a few years in the weird subsect of cycling where riding is training for events or entering events, where having a ride for the fun of it just doesn't happen, he joined the roadies in other words. Now he is being gradually weaned back into proper cycling, via trail centres; today he is venturing into the real world, away from groomed pistes and trail features cautiously graded by the threat of litigation. But first we had a big hill to climb, the same one two of us were slogging up in the wind forty eight hours ago: same hill, same wind. Robin Hood’s Butts to Sis Cross, Sis Cross a bit drier than two days ago, narrow singletrack, ruts, mud, puddles, loose rocks, suicidal sheep and a whole lot of fun. Followed by another climb to Danby Beacon and another helping of Roxby Moor, big skies, speedy tracks and lovely soft heather for the occasional unscheduled landing. Uphill test piece, The Slagbag, was conquered by us all, although a binding rear brake made things somewhat more difficult for me, that’s my excuse for the excessive panting and swearing anyway. A few miles of tarmac took us speedily to the brief but rocky descent of Oakley Walls which we followed with a slog through grassy fields to Fryupdale, to give Paul his last treat of the day - Ainthorpe Rigg. Obviously, as we do to all Ainthorpe Rigg newcomers, the story of the time we saw someone ride up the ascent was recounted but Paul wasn’t biting and resorted to pedestrianism like the rest of us. The descent, once we had got our collective breaths back, was awesome, in perfect condition today, dry, rocky, mildly technical and not a foot of ascent to be seen, surrounded by purple and green moors under a blue and grey sky - nobody is complaining about being out on a day like this. If we were American we would have been whooping and high fiving at the end but utilising the British dearth of emotion which enabled us to conquer the world, a muttered,  “yeah, s'alright that, like...”  had to suffice.

 

 

Gribdale Shorty

 

Spent a bit of time this morning giving the bike some much needed TLC and now the binding brake is no more. A post-lunch start from Gribdale felt like riding an e-bike, that brake must have been dragging more than I realised, no wonder so much of my time recently has been spent looking at The Breadlad’s back. After three quite hard days this week, today’s ride was never intended to be a record breaker, more of a leisurely scrounge about, take some pictures, fly the drone and generally do things at a more relaxed pace. I stopped by the gate on Newton Moor, to grab some shots overlooking Roseberry Topping, trying to get a picture of my bike stood up with the Cleveland matterhorn in the background but the wind had other ideas, repeatedly blowing the bike over. What is it with wind these past few weeks? Is it nature’s plot to spread the coronavirus more widely and take a tithe of pesky polluting humans? A few more miles, with a bit of selfy-filming thrown in and for the first time this ride I went to move the chain onto the big cog at the back, that shows how much easier things were running, when there was a distinctly expensive sound from the back of the bike. The derailleur had decided on an excursion into the spokes, snapping one, it must have been bent when the bike fell over earlier, the loose spoke nipple was leaking tubeless sealant like a one man bukake party after a lettuce eating competition. The short ride suddenly became even shorter and I headed, more or less directly back to Gribdale. Amazingly, the sealant did its job after a while, the tyre barely lost any air and I was able to ride the whole way back.