Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud.

 Fire Roads ‘R’ Us.

Another trawl around the fire roads of Guisborough Woods with La Mujerita, whose aversion to singletrack is well documented in this blog. We set off in drizzle and dullness but things did get brighter, the wind, however, was a different story and the soundtrack to our ride was a constant creaking of trees as they swayed and bent. We (of course, when I say we, that means me) lashed out the exorbitant four quid to park at Pinchinthorpe, just so we could finish closer to the cafe. Despite, or maybe because of, the covid restrictions, the cafe is as popular as ever, even though al fresco is the order of the day, North Yorkshire in November is a little lacking in the main essentials for outdoor dining compared to the Costa Del Sol in November, mainly sunshine and warmth. But first we had a bike ride to get done and off we went pedaling along the fire roads, threading our way through the dog walkers. Spaniels seem to be the dog of choice nowadays, the latest fashion accessory for the must-have people, along with German cars, Hunter wellies and an ebike for the occasional pootle round the forest. The crowds thin out a mile or less from the visitor centre and we only see occasional people for the rest of the ride, which consists of fire roads with a couple of trails thrown in to liven things up. Both trails a little muddy but very enjoyable - for one of us anyway, the other elected to take a more pedestrian approach. We rode up the track to Bousdale Farm, something I’ve not done for years, the one which comes from the A173, it’s still as steep. At the top is a relic from the days when Guisborough Woods was (almost) a trail centre, an old Black Route sign. 

There were two maintained and signposted routes, a Black and a Blue, the Black went through a few variations, although it must have been graded Black by someone in an office who had never rode a bike trail in his life, or possibly for the gruesome ascents. Guisborough aficionados of the era were dumbfounded when The Secret Path suddenly became an uphill. When the funding was pulled, most of the routes reverted to nature, with only a few bits remaining popular like Les’s 1,2, and 3; the route signs were removed leaving visitors to the forest blundering about looking for the good stuff and the previously bike only trails became fair game for the little bag of dog shit dangling from the index finger brigade. 

Stump Cross And The Incline.

Clay Bank was windy today, Round Hill was a lump windier, crossing Urra Moor an exercise in leaning into the side wind, trying to keep the front wheel vaguely straight, while vicious gusts attempted to have us off the edge of the track. Covid survivor Olly came out today, fresh from quarantine at university, Covid is merely this year’s version of Fresher’s Flu for the young ones, if it wasn’t for the student union bar being closed, they probably wouldn’t know there was a pandemic. Stump Cross was our objective today, or what The Breadlad used to call The John Deere Descent, his way of describing The Pensioner - “who goes on and on like a smoky old tractor”. The wind didn't lessen any as we pedalled across the moors on broad, sandy tracks, wide open to the elements, which are particularly elemental today. Using the wisdom of my years, I tucked in behind the younger and fitter party, prompting him to ask if I was slipstreaming him. Why else did he think he was here? Until we can round up young people to forcibly extract and synthesise the ichor of youth and vitality from their veins, ready to be injected into us of slightly more mature years, like the famous monkey gland treatment of the 1920’s, slipstreaming will have to do it. Eventually we reached Stump Cross, which is actually a stump of a cross, dating from medieval times and the start of a singletrack bridleway which cuts down the moorside to Bransdale, slightly squelchy peat threading through the heather, culminating with a drop down shale to the road. Seconds later, we were being pushed into Blowjob Woods by a welcome tailwind. Obviously Blowjob Woods doesn’t appear on any publications by the Ordnance Survey, or anyone else for that matter, its proper name is Bloworth Woods but The Pensioner, having a mind which rarely rose above the gutter, immediately christened it Blowjob Woods. The Pensioner was a frequent visitor to Blowjob Woods, more to do with the fact The Breadlad once found a £20 note blowing about, rather than the name being some sort of mandate. Perhaps he imagined there was a stash of notes hidden in a decaying sack secreted in a hollow tree, awaiting discovery by some geriatric prospector. The track through the woods was predictably grim, water-filled ruts, muddy trenches which would not be out of place in The Somme leading to a stiff climb up to Rudland Rigg, from where were able to gain the old Rosedale rail track and more importantly the Ingleby Incline. Despite it only being early afternoon it was like dusk and a steady drizzle pricked our faces as we descended at speeds which might be considered unwise for someone approaching middle age, Olly, of course, was significantly faster, disappearing into the gloaming with all the invincibility of youth. Only the standard plod through the woods to go and we were soon indulging in a slightly drizzly car park picnic, which turned into monsoon cloudburst while we rushed to get bikes away. 

Mud, Mud, Water. Gravel, Tarmac.

Me and The Breadlad thought we’d start from Scaling Dam for a change today, whoever is in charge of the car park obviously had other ideas, or maybe the bloke who is supposed to unlock the gate didn't turn out this morning. Anyway, no car park, no burger van. We used the small ‘fisherman's’ car park. A quick scoot through the mud at the side of the reservoir took us out onto the equally muddy moor for a few miles of slipping and sliding until we regained the tarmac of the moor road, climbing up to the Danby turn off. Robin Hood’s Butts is regaining canal status, puddles the size of small tarns nestling amongst the gravel, we splashed along to the Sis Cross bridleway, also a bit on the squelchy side, the descent was still enjoyable, as fine a bit of moorland singletrack as you will find anywhere. Refraining from dropping down into Danby, as tempting as the Stonehouse Bakery is, we splodged up the Lord’s Turnpike to Clitherbeck. The track from the farm to the road above Oakley Walls has benefited from some of the free lockdown gravel which has been scattered liberally round North Yorkshire this year; it might be nice for 4x4 drivers but it makes cycling hard work. The two water splashes on this track were getting to the sort of depth which would make a normal person think twice about riding through. The normal half of this duo walked around, finding a picturesque waterfall in the process; the idiot half of the duo ended up with wet feet. God’s gentle hand pushed us up the road to Danby Beacon, an NSP (natural stopping point) if ever there was one, we admired the view for a while but the bitter wind soon had us on the move. The track across Brown Rigg on Roxby Moor was our next objective, a bit moist in parts but still worth doing, we continued along Hardale Slack on a double track that was predominantly subaquatic, just when you think your feet can’t get any wetter. Eventually we reached High Tranmire Farm and the luxury of tarmac - imagine being a roadie and riding tarmac all the time, it wouldn’t be a luxury then. Life is nothing without contrast. Although, there are, allegedly, mountain bikers who switch to road riding in winter because they don’t want to get dirty and wet. Like I say, allegedly, I can’t imagine anyone being so tragic. Soon we were back at our cars, packing bikes and getting into dry clothes before zipping along to Birk Brow for a carefully balanced athletic snack, the three main food groups, carbs, protein and fat in almost the correct proportions with added soluble fibre, vitamins B and C plus potassium and calcium - more commonly known as a cheeseburger with onions. 

Smiles Not Miles.

In contrast to yesterday's sunshine, today is grey and gloomy (again) but we are not. Me and The Breadlad met at Hutton Village, ready for another few hours of trail hunting around Guisborough Woods. Found some, rode some, left some alone until the drier weather. It seems to be a day when the majority of the folk wandering or riding about the woods are either deaf or don’t understand English, as barely anyone responded to our cheery greetings. Shouldn’t being outside in the fresh air, even on a dull day like today cheer people up? Not leave them walking around looking as though they’ve lost a winning lottery ticket. We rode uphill and down dale as the saying goes, exploring likely looking tracks which generally ended in a tangle of vegetation or an impassable mud ascent. One foray into the undergrowth yielded a pair of Tarzies (rope swings to those of the middle class persuasion) which had to be tried. 

An area which we used to call Teletubbyland because a figure of a Tellytubby lived in a tree there, has been turned into a fairy dell, many of the trees are adorned with fairy doors, little gardens with fake mushrooms, statues and dolls are constructed around the doors, some even have little ladders leading up to them - I thought fairies could fly? Seems like a ladder is just overkill, unless it’s for those fairies who are banned from flying for spending all the tooth money on supermarket cider and were caught flying under the influence. Or maybe not, it’s too big a stretch of the imagination to envision fairy policemen with fairy breathalysers and fairy truncheons, although I believe furry handcuffs are quite popular amongst certain sections of society. It’s an enchanting little area and long may it continue. We had our fill of the elfin world and made our way to the sitting outside in the rain eating bacon sandwiches and drinking coffee, world, via a few more trails. The rain began in earnest, so we decided to quit while we were ahead and call it a day, despite only just scraping into double figures. It’s about the smiles not the miles. 

As usual the route names are the Stava route titles, if anyone wants to stalk old people on the moors and woods of North Yorkshire. Strava athlete name (it's the only time I have been called an athlete) Lordy Lardy. And how many have just Googled monkey gland treatment? 

Another Four Ride Week.

 Another Four Ride Week.

Does Everyone On Furlough Get A Free Dog?

The start of another week in the life of a retiree and his motley crew of (shift) cyclic compatriots, roaming the mudflats and floodplains which pass for countryside nowadays. First out of the blocks this week is The Breadlad, who was even early, an anomaly in NMT (New Marske Time) no doubt. We parked up in Hutton Village, ready to do some more exploration around the lower reaches of Guisborough Woods. Somewhat overcast when we set off but soon weak winter sunshine forced itself through the clouds, not enough to dry the trails unfortunately. Some steady pedalling through the woods, from bottom to top, where we did an old trail called Grooverider, which once cost me a camera, when a tumble onto a punji spike masquerading as a tree stump wrecked the camera but saved me from being impaled. Older and wiser, today’s descent was less traumatic but equally muddy in parts. A quick pedal took us to Highcliffe Nab, where we admired the view for as long as we could stand the wind, which is gaining a bit of winter coolness. From Highcliffe we dropped down through the forest to ride a trail we had pushed up a few days ago, it turned out to be pretty nice but they are never as long riding down as they are walking up. We were now at the very bottom of the forest; call it a day and head for the cafe or one more hill? You’ve guessed it. Ten minutes of puffing and panting later, our trail hunting continued. Remembering an often passed but never ridden trail, we decided to try it on the way back. We normally bypass it because it is near the start of the ride, when we’re concentrating on gaining height and our return leg generally doesn’t take us this way. Today we found it, rode it, enjoyed it. Not too steep, not too muddy, except for the short push at the end, back to the fire road, a pleasant change from the usual routes down. At the cafe, once we'd weaved through every dog walker in three counties, we sat in a socially-distant field, fooled by the bright sunshine. It wasn’t exactly sun’s out: guns out weather, even The Breadlad, who is usually warmed by some mysterious inner glow, like a Ready Brek kid, had to put a coat on. Lunch break over, back on your heads, as the old joke says. All we had to do was put in a gentle pedal back to the cars in Hutton Village but fuelled by cheese and onion toasties (me) and Rocky Road (The Breadlad), another extra loop was proposed, seconded and accepted. The story of our life - just one more hill.

Windy, Dull And Grey.

Sticking with lockdown v.2 rules, me and La Mujerita travelled the short distance to Great Ayton and pedalled our way up to, yes, you’ve guessed it, Guisborough Woods for another trawl around the fire roads. The weather was not too clever so a bit of shelter couldn’t hurt. We did a spot of exploration, finding a few tracks, which, to be honest, were best ignored, unless your particular fetish is for mud and gorse bushes. If it is, I know just the place for you. We eventually made our way onto the open Newton Moor, heading toward Gribdale, still plenty of people strolling the track, no doubt returning from an ascent of Teesside’s very own mountain, Keswick has Skiddaw, Zermatt has the Matterhorn, Cape Town has Table Mountain, we have Roseberry Topping, its rugged grandeur belying a modest height, just scraping over the thousand foot mark. As a change from mud, water and rocks, La Mujerita was introduced to Andy’s Track, a steep plunge down the hillside, through bracken the colour of raw umber. We always enjoy it, she didn’t seem too impressed. A damp and leaf-strewn road took us back to Great Ayton and the all important butchers for the all important post-ride pies.

Does Everyone On Furlough Get A Free Electric Bike?

Met up with The Ginger One on his own turf, today for a quick blast around our Hamsterley Hot Lap on a cool but sunny day. The thing with the hot lap is it takes in all the ‘official’ highlights without the winter slop of the off-piste routes but there is a lot of climbing in a relatively short distance. It is often remarked that riding at Hamsterley is either up or down, leave your level pedalling legs at the gate as you come in because there is nothing for them  here. For those who are not aware our Hot Lap (other hot laps are available) is thus: Pikes Teeth, Oddsox, Two Wheels And Trolls, Kate’s Trail, Polties Last Blast, K Line, Transmission, Accelerator, Nitrous, Section 13, Special K, Brain Freeze, Skills Loop. Hamsterley aficionados will realise we miss out Route 666 and Boneshaker - too much climbing for not enough return. Especially for us, two of the minority still pedalling around using leg and lung power, everyone else was whirring past us with pedal assist. I’m not getting into the electric bike argument, if people feel the need for assistance, why not? We whipped round quite adequately on our analogue bikes, climbed our hills and rode our trails to the best of our abilities and had a grand old time doing it. My first visit to Hamsterley since before lockdown v.1 and it is good as it ever was. The groomed man-made trial centre routes are pleasant as an occasional change from the unpredictable changeability of natural trails but to have it as your only riding experience, as some folks do, is not for me. It’s like eating KFC, nice as a periodic treat but the novelty will soon wear off. Mud-splattered and slightly damp, legs knowing they’d had a ride, we made our way back to the vehicles for a socially-distanced car park picnic, our matching CF coffee mugs marking us out as true grafters - well one of us anyway.

Last Minute Quickie To Finish The Week Off.

I almost didn’t bother today, the forecast was mediocre, having been riding three days on the trot and The Breadlad had stood me up in favour of a romantic walk with his beloved - which, it turns out is not me. The forecast, however, was erroneous (no surprises there) and after an early shower, the sun beamed in a most inviting way and despite being almost half-way through November, not one mb of footage has been filmed toward this month’s video. So, selfie-filming day it was to be. A pedal up from Kildale to Guisborough Woods led to some stop/start descents of a few trails, as I did my best to look like a proper shredder in two takes or less. The sun was shining, I had a whole day to squander and what better way to do it, the only constraints being memory cards (full), batteries (empty) or stomach (ravenous), stomach failed first and a late lunch in the car park ensued. If only I had the sense to take the food with me, or maybe not, I would probably end up blundering about the woods in the dark, like the day people do this time of year - only without the benefit of their high-powered lights.

A Quartet of Quickies.

The first bit of November. As usual, the titles are the Strava routes, Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.

 A Suspicious Lack Of Precipitation.

The Breadlad waiting for me? There’s a first. A lapse in concentration sent me down the A174 instead of the A19, looking for a U turn, I ended up, for a while, in a part of Middlesbrough unknown to me, I wasn’t offered drugs or sexual services, so it may have been a fairly respectable suburb, eventually I reached a point I recognised and made my escape. Better late than never though and the sky a curious colour - blue, light wind, not raining, not bad for the first ride of November. We could have happily sat outside with a couple of pints of Hophouse 13 but it is Lordstones not Wetherspoons, where the proportion of pre-breakfast drinkers is significantly lower, we pretended we aren’t council estate scum and went for a bike ride first. Predicting the least muddy tracks left only a couple of options, up the hill was favoured and minutes later we were slogging up the old gliding club access track on the side of Carlton Bank. It hasn’t got any easier. More tracks, composed predominantly of mud, sand and water brought us to Brian’s Pond, reflecting the blue sky, like a scale model of the Mediterranean, we were in North Africa and the heather moor stretching toward Scugdale was southern Europe. Similar tracks took us up Barker’s Ridge, eventually we reached the singletrack bridleway which leads to remote Head House. Starting narrow and waterlogged, the trail improves to narrow and rocky before becoming narrow and steep as it drops to a stream; we cleaved through heather and peat like a pair of locked-on Exocet missiles, wheels finding  optimum traction as we carved through the ruts, men and machines in perfect harmony. The video in our minds played on as we sputtered and stalled along the trail, imagination and reality as far apart as government ministers and real life. Our return route was back along the broad sandy track of Arnesgill Ridge, passing Osmotherley Stones and getting a bit of payback from the gravity bank retracing our tyre tracks down Barker’s Ridge. A masochistic urge saw us delay the cafe in favour of a ride to the summit of Carlton Bank, just to take in the view, clear all the way to the old home town, the sleepy fishing town of Hartlepool, a jewel of the North East coast nestling beside the azure North Sea, the complete antithesis of The Ginger One’s birthplace, Darlington, a sleazy hovel of a town which makes Beirut look good.  Once the view had been thoroughly inspected, the landmarks identified and the lack of haze commented on, we headed directly downhill, back to Lordstones, for a play on a couple of other tracks prior to a socially-distanced outdoor snack as fearless chaffinches stalked the table, polishing off our crumbs. 

Keep It November - you’re doing well so far.

It is, of course, inconceivable The Breadlad could be early two days in a row and today normal service is resumed but on such a splendid day as today, time hardly mattered. Glittering sunshine, golden leaves, verdant fields, slight wind and too warm for coats, all welcome after the dreich October we have just left behind. In a change to the usual programme, we rode through Hutton Village and followed the bottom track through the forest, which passes the bottom of The Chute and Lover’s Ledge routes, continuing past a newly felled area to where there was once a set of awesome jumps, twenty odd years ago. Sticking with the low level theme, we passed the end of Hips And Whips, continuing upward through the woods, following barely remembered tracks until we reached more familiar territory at the pond near Belman Bank. Still heading eastwards, we reached the track leading to the One Man And His Dog trails, although track is too good a word for it, gloop, dictionary definition - sloppy or sticky semi-fluid matter, typically something unpleasant sums it up perfectly. Pretty soon we were on our feet, still slipping and sliding as upward progress was attempted. A bit of local knowledge yielded a shortcut which quickly but steeply got us to the top track, less muddy and rideable. Pretty much a fire road blast back through the forest, stopping to assess trail conditions here and there, soon reaching Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre, or more importantly, the cafe. As we were economising, or to put it more bluntly, refraining from giving the council eight quid of our hard earned to park in their carpark, we did have to drag our overfilled stomachs back over the hill to Hutton village where we were parked.

It Took A While...

...but the sun came out eventually.

The bright sunny days couldn’t last forever, couldn’t even last a week, the unwelcome trio of dull, grey and misty has returned. First day of lockdown V.2 as it is being dubbed, Boris said outdoor exercise is to be encouraged and you may meet with only one person from outside your household. I guess I drew the short straw today as former colleague and ex-Terra Trailblazer, Benny The Brawl decided he’d “like to get back into biking”, after two and a bit years of...well, who knows what? It certainly hasn’t been bike maintenance or exercise, although his love of conspicuous consumerism is undiminished, he is a perfect example of Veblen’s theory. It was a slow start from Great Ayton, as Ben’s unlubed and unloved chain, after a couple of years lounging in the garage, rebelled against the idea of actual motion. We headed through Aireyholme Farm, climbing steadily to Roseberry Common, Ben usually so far behind only Marty McFly and his Delorean would stand a chance of seeing him. He always had the cardiovascular efficiency of an asthmatic sloth with C.O.P.D., a couple of years as a feet on the table process operator have done nothing to improve it. But apparently as long as you have a shiny German car with some special letters after it’s name it doesn’t matter. Things improved once we were on Newton Moor and flatter ground, the sun began to have a sly peep through the mist and it turned into quite a pleasant day, splashing down Percy Cross Rigg in the autumnal sunshine. We continued around the Lonsdale Bowl and down Fingerbender Bank, Ben even rode down some of Andy’s track, the steep, grassy plummet to Gribdale, a bit of a tester after two years off the bike. Most normal people feel some sense of elation after such a descent, Benny just moaned about the possibility of mud getting inside his car, which would be a tragedy on par with a stone chip or a dent from a supermarket trolley. Gribdale is lockdown gridlock again, why is it people who get time off with no shops or pubs to go to end up at Gribdale or Sheepwash? The North York Moors covers an area of 544 square miles but everyone tries to jam into the same two car parks. Odd. We had a date with a butchers, so it was downhill all the way back to Great Ayton and a pie eating picnic beside the river.

Playing In The Mud.

The following day me and La Mujerita pushed the boat out and paid the four quid to park at Pinchinthorpe, just so we could finish at the cafe. Who says I don’t know how to treat a lady? As we were getting ready to set off, the attendant was going round the car park, checking all the cars had valid tickets; he wore a stab-proof vest. Nobody I know is keen on the excessive parking charge but knifing council staff could probably be considered protesting a bit too strongly, even for Redcar and Cleveland. Another misty start, we followed a similar route to the other day, staying low in the forest, exploring trails dimly remembered from over twenty years ago. And some new trails, well, new to us anyway, which turned out to be predominantly mud and slop, much to the despair of La Mujerita, who harbours secret desires for red tarmac cycle paths and country lanes leading to twee tea shops with checked tablecloths and nice toilets. Slip sliding through gorse bushes as unidentifiable ordure splatters her delicate cheeks didn’t exactly feature in the vision of cycling she used to have before we introduced her to proper biking. I thought mud facials were popular with the ladies? Here she is getting one for free. But the sun reappeared, we had a good explore, adding to the knowledge bank, although mostly the ‘never ride down that track again’ type of knowledge and the recovery of a tipped over piece of forestry machinery saved us from having to ride up a long, steep hill. Naturally the height was gained another way but it was marginally easier. Not too much later we were again at The Branch Walkway Café, sat outside as is the new normal, watching the furloughed wandering past to explore this strange new shopless world.