The Bit Before Christmas.

 Here is a brief account of the rides in the bit before Xmas. 

Sunshine And Cycling.

A glorious December day, saw a hardy trio braving the wind at Birk Brow car park, the smell of bacon wafting from the van jeopardising waistlines and start times. SuperBri, The Ginger One and myself resisted the umami lure and headed off down the road toward Lockwood Beck, the route essentially the same as Rainbows And Llamas, only without the rainbows, which, on a day like today, could only be a good sign. We rode the semi-paved bridleway down into Commondale instead of plugging through sodden fields like last time. More or less mud free, we continued to Foul Green and along the Box Hall bridleway, passing the llamas. Those of us of a certain vintage will remember The Bash Street Kids from The Beano, in particular Plug, now imagine Plug doing a poor impression of a reindeer in a Bash Street nativity play. And there you have a llama - or maybe that’s just the way my mind works. Crossing over the road, we picked up the Danby Park bridleway, relatively mud-free until beyond the wooded section which features a few wheel-stealing dips, where mud and water combine to produce a clinging slurry. The next bit was all on tarmac, uphill, to Robin Hood’s Butts and it’s perpetual puddles; steady riding soon saw us at the Shaun The Sheep bus stop, artwork courtesy of Teesside Banksy, Karl Striker. Only the causeway remained, the dreaded causeway etcetera, we don’t need another venture into the world of jokes about battered buttocks. Three of us sallied valiantly forth, only two completed the journey, SuperBri’s rear mech became a casualty, courtesy of a small twig which destroyed the mech, screaming in a German accent, “For you Tommy ze ride is over.” A chain-shortening bodge was attempted but it was less than successful and SuperBri was compelled to finish the ride on tarmac. Putting aside such niceties as companionship and solidarity, we watched him trudge back to the road before we embarked on the causeway. Despite being a bright day, twenty minutes playing with chain splitters had left us chilled, it might be approaching the season to carry spare clothing for such eventualities. We rode the causeway without demur and spent a short time looking for a bike track on the hillside above Woodhill Gill, we didn’t find it, mainly because we were unwilling to lose any height and the allure of the burger van was enticing us toward the car park like Bisto kids. We arrived at the same time as SuperBri, who had pushed his bike up the moor road, so at least we could all have an almost civilised tailgate picnic, especially The Ginger One, for whom a Spam burger is the epitome of gastronomic delight.

Dull And Windy.

In an almost unprecedented fit of enthusiasm, The Ginger One has appeared, with bike, two days in a row, like the rest of us he is just avoiding Christmas shopping. We met at a dull and windy Swainby, yesterday’s sublime December weather couldn’t manage to stretch itself to two days. Soon we were marching up the Clain Wood steps with our bikes on our backs, I daresay there are some people who can ride up them but we weren’t those people, only because of the conditions naturally, on a dry day we’d have flown up them. We continued up to Sheepwash, over the ford and up the rocky slabs, an episode of passive aggressive head shaking from a JCB driver left us in no doubt that a Path Closed sign at the bottom of a path really does mean the path is closed. Definitely closed. That’s what happens when you listen to someone from Darlington. Still, a bit of headshaking is preferable to scowling and tutting from the dog walkers around the reservoir, which is where we headed next via a nice path through the woods. The big climb up to the antennas came next and the nice path which used to go through Arncliffe Wood. The path is still there but the trees have gone, felled to make way for more ‘natural’ woodland. Continuing down Scarth Wood Moor, to the road, we then revisited the Clain Wood steps in the benevolent gravity direction, before picking up the bridleway to Scugdale. Up and down but mostly well surfaced, the minimum of mud to battle through. At Heathwaite, we crossed the road and began the stiff climb up to Live Moor Plantation, a deer ran through the woods beside us, seemingly unconcerned about us because he was behind a fence. This prompted The Ginger One to get philosophical about why deer are perfectly camouflaged except for the white patch on their rump which can be seen for miles. Such quandaries didn’t make the hill any easier to climb. An excellent singletrack bridleway runs through the plantation before dropping down through a field into the village of Faceby. Eschewing the off-road options for returning to Swainby because they would be so muddy they will make the Okefenokee Swamp look like a snooker table, we took minor roads back to Swainby, like proper roadies, we monitored our heart rate and cadence, cut out all idle chit chat, changed our status from bike riding to training and threw a gel wrapper on the road every five hundred metres. Not really. In twenty two years of cycling I’ve never even tasted a gel, especially not after The Pensioner had his one and only gel, afterwards remarking, in his own inimitable style, “Why are you making me eat donkey spunk?”

Shortest Ride For The Shortest Day

The shortest day and the shittest forecast, eighty five percent chance of rain all day and they were mostly right. It never actually became properly light, we rode in a miasma of dull, grey drizzle but The Breadlad and me still savoured it because the alternative would be even more unpalatable - christmas shopping. Surrounded by crowds of people, desperately browsing in packed stores, despite the pandemic, because everyone must have their presents. We were safe out in the open air, although trench foot, hypothermia, being sucked into a bog and drowning were all possibilities. Our route meandered through Guisborough Woods across to Gribdale Gate and up to Captain Cook’s Monument, taking in the odd trail if it wasn’t too muddy. The path leading to the monument has a few festively adorned fir trees to brighten the lung-burning, leg-cramping ascent to Teesside’s most popular monolith. It’s even doubtful whether the old captain is Teesside’s favourite son anymore, with the fame of the two Chris’s, Kamara and Rhea; just imagine if Chris Kamara had discovered Australia, all those Aussies saying ‘unbelievable Jeff’ instead of ‘strewth cobber’. More mud and slop took us back down to Gribdale, slip sliding away as Paul Simon might have said, although the chances of him actually freezing his arse off in a North Yorkshire December are fairly remote. We returned around the Lonsdale Bowl and up Percy Cross Rigg, which were not too bad, before a couple more muddy extravaganzas eventually saw us reach the cafe at Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre for a festive toastie, eaten al fresco (the new normal). Suitably refuelled we pedalled back over the hill to Hutton Village and our vehicles.

Three Minutes Extra Light

The days are starting to get longer now, an alleged three minutes extra light compared to yesterday, just me and The Breadlad again, starting from Scaling Dam on a perfect winter’s day - bright, sunny and cold. The same couldn’t be said of the terra firma, or terra squelcha as it is now, anything not gravelled or tarmac is sodden, even where there are no puddles water is oozing out of the ground with the slightest pressure. We had noted the lack of the burger van at Birk Brow as we drove up the hill, post-ride sustenance may be a problem. Our route was pretty standard for a Scaling Dam start, High Tranmire, The Slagbag, Green Houses, reaching the road, we went through Lealholm Side, passing an old barn with the date 1680 engraved on the door lintel. It always amazes me that a three hundred and forty year old building is still standing. Dropping down through a sheep field, mud, water and sheep shit was slithery fun, through a small tunnel under the Middlesbrough to Whitby rail line, we rode through the farmyard of Underpark Farm and followed the river Esk into Lealholm. More years ago than I care to remember, my uncle was the landlord of the pub in Lealholm and there are many happy but slightly hazy memories of over-indulgence. The answer to our post-pedalling prandial problem lay a few doors down from the pub, in the shape of a handy bakery. We stocked up on vital victuals for later. Of course, this meant we had to carry them up the hill out of Lealholm because whichever direction you go in, every road is uphill. Continuing with the ascending theme, we cruised up to Danby Beacon, or hauled our sorry arses up to Danby Beacon, depending on your viewpoint and played with the drone for a time before finishing our ride off on the Roxby Moor bridleway, initially a bit squelchy but drying up nicely further on. A superb ride across the moor, a choice of singletracks cutting through the heather, Scaling reservoir glimmering bue in the distance, our only companions the odd startled grouse berating us with its curiously deep voiced, clucking, call.

The Best Way To Spend Xmas Eve.

A maximum of six people, check. Meeting outdoors, check. Following the guidelines to the letter despite the weather doing it’s best to discourage us, the forecast was for heavy snow showers but bikes were being assembled in a steady rainfall, verging on sleet. Undaunted we made our way up to Guisborough Woods, the largest bunch we’ve had out in a while, Charlie, Keith, Rod, Olly and SuperBri and me, all shirking our christmas responsibilities in favour of cold, wet, muddy fun. At Roseberry Common, a thin layer of snow reached all the way up the mighty Roseberry Topping, as usual, festooned with walkers, trudging along the paths. The weather took a turn for the better, drying up, even the odd patch of blue sky attempting to peek through the clouds. A short but very welcome stretch of downhill took us to Guisborough Woods, where we carefully cherry-picked some trails, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. Gradually working our way upward, we reached the flat top of Highcliffe Nab, the wind howling in an uninterrupted blast across the North Sea from a distinctly chilly Scandinavia, like the frigid breath of some Norse god, ensuring we didn’t linger to take in the view. At least it was a tailwind for our ride up Black Nab to Percy Cross Rigg, a heavy snow shower caught up with us on Percy Cross Rigg, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, as someone once said. We pressed on through it, like a team of unruly huskies pulling an invisible sled and continued around the Lonsdale Bowl toward Gribdale, even negotiating the snow-covered rocks of Fingerbender Bank without incident. Our final trail down to the car park at Gribdale had to be Andy’s Track, which has a couple of dodgy sections in the present conditions, as I found out three days ago when I rode it with The Breadlad. It would have been expedient to mention this to today’s colleagues but where would be the fun in that? Almost everyone managed to stay on their bikes and no serious injuries were incurred, a trip to A and E would put a bit of crimp on the festivities. The last leg back to the cars was mainly on tarmac but cold and wet, not the time to have a flat tyre, which was unfortunate for Keith. Luckily we were only a few hundred metres from the end of the ride. What a way to spend a Xmas Eve, the perfect mood lifter to the tedium to come - being trapped with non-biking relatives for the next two days.

As usual the ride titles are the Strava names, Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.