Autumn In August. Round Up And Video

Autumn In August

 I guess 2020 will be a memorable year, for obvious reasons to do with the pandemic but to me it’ll always be the year autumn started in August. There have been two named storms, Ellen and Francis and plenty of unnamed freak weather days, mainly cold, wet, windy or any permutation of the three. A few hot days sneaked in but were generally followed by several more days of grim and grey to stop us getting too excited. Even I couldn't be bothered with getting soaked some days, although, of course, I only stayed in out of deference to the mountain rescue team, which is as good an excuse as any. So this month’s ride total only came to a meagre thirteen,that’s worse than someone who is employed - well apart from the people employed at my old workplace who probably don’t even manage thirteen rides in a year. Here are the last two rides of August which haven’t been blogged yet.

Video here

Whinlatter, North, South and Blue.

It’s about time we had a blast round Whinlatter and the weather gods were kind to us, after a few days of this month’s typically mediocre weather, a sunny and windless day presented itself. Me, Olly and The Breadlad met in the overflow car park, Whinlatter is proving a popular destination for furloughed layabouts to idle away the hours, the sooner they are back at work the better, leaving more space for us professional idlers to move in and they don’t get much more idle than a retiree, a shift worker and a student. We embarked on the north loop first, local expert Olly leading the way, zipping along while me and The Breadlad followed at a more sedate pace, getting used to the slippery rock and wet roots again. It may not be raining today but the trail kindly saved some of the previous days’ water for us and soon we were back to the days before potty training because who puts a mudguard on in August? The trail was, as usual, excellent, culminating in the Big Dipper/Grand National sections, a set of bermed zig zags, going from forest to open moorland and back again several times. 

From the finish we jumped straight onto the south loop, slogging upward, ever upward to a brief rest at a fire road before more of the same, up the top section, recently upgraded as a black route to take into account the trail erosion and newly exposed bedrock. The south loop descent is usually considered to be the better of the two Altura trails, downhill all the way, no sneaky uphill sections to spoil the flow. The uphill climbing and the summit midges are soon forgotten as the varied sections of trail speed under our tyres. We returned to the car park because Olly, local hero that he is, had called at the butchers in Keswick en route to provide us with the finest cycling nutrition known to man - pies. The Car Park Full sign was prominently displayed at the entrance, which is odd because the overflow car park was only about seventy percent full, plenty of spaces about, I suppose they had their reasons. Pies demolished, we warmed down with the blue Quercus trail, which has a couple of nice flowing sections and the climbs are not too arduous. 

Which only left coffee in the sunshine, sitting at a table on the decking, reaping the rewards of Boris’s Eat Out To Help Out scheme, which meant our goodies were half price, which was just as well, as it went a small way to alleviating The Breadlad’s trauma when it came to the most gruesome part of the ride - paying for parking. The Breadlad, being a committed trail burglar, would prefer to park anywhere in the vicinity rather than splash the cash but the free parking spots are being whittled away and his usual time constraints preclude parking at Luchini’s View and pedalling up the pass. I daresay people have walked to the electric chair with less reluctance than The Breadlad approached that pay station; like the person heading for the electric chair, he was praying for a power outage but it wasn’t to be so and his card entered the slot, damp with bitter tears of frustration and injustice. 

Last Ride As A 60 Year Old.

And then Storm Francis came howling in, followed by a bikeless trip away, more bad weather which meant a whole week gap between bike rides - unheard of this year. The gap that is, not the shit weather. But it was time for my last ride as a sixty year old and the weather has managed to improve a bit, odd because it is also a Bank Holiday. Me and Rod met up in one of our usual Bank Holiday parking spots - a layby above Danby and made our way uphill to Robin Hood’s Butts, which we followed partially, turning off onto the Sis Cross bridleway, in soggy condition today but still a pleasure, skinny singletrack, slicing through the heather in a fashion the groomed pistes of the trail centres could never emulate. We reached the road above Danby and decided on our next objective. Rod fancied the Trough House track, followed by the Birk Carr singletrack, which would involve a lot of climbing but it wasn’t as though we had anything better to do. 

And climb we did, out from Danby, up and over Ainthorpe Rigg, followed by the brutal tarmac of New Way, until the gate to the Trough House track appeared on the horizon. A beautiful track with spectacular views down into lumpy fields like ruffled green baize of and moguls of heather and grass, contouring around the head of Fryupdale, unfortunately suffering from the curse of the lockdown gravel; has Boris been giving out free gravel to kickstart the economy? At the end of the Trough House track we turned onto the Birk Carr singletrack, a trail of two halves; firstly a genteel plunge through heather to a gate, where the character changes to overgrown, steep and muddy. Rod’s idea had been to get the track ridden before the winter weather spoils it - about two months too late by the look of the encroaching vegetation and mud-covered rocks.

 Discretion may have become the better part of valour at some points and we made it to the bottom unscathed, if somewhat damp and mud-splattered. Tarmac took us back to Ainthorpe Rigg, where our earlier route was reversed, giving us a pleasant downhill return to Danby. From Danby, a steady plod through Danby Park and a last bit of uphill tarmac saw us back at our layby, ready for a tailgate picnic in the sunshine. The next time leg is cocked over crossbar, I’ll have reached the ripe old age of sixty one, which, at one time, would have been considered old but now it is just the final approach to middle-age, preparation for golden years of unconstrained leisure time and the headlong rush to appreciate the disposable in disposable income. In the game of life, if you check out with cash left - you’ve lost.