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.