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.