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.