Educating Simon and Other Stories - The Middle Bit Of January.

 Educating Simon

And it came to pass, as the country suffered under the great plague of the twenties, The Ginger One, (AKA Simon), a denizen of the heathen lands beside the river Skerne alighted in Teesside, marvelling at the twenty-first century like a time traveller being shown the delights of the future. He came to cycle the pleasant byways, leading in a most scenic manner to the jewel of the North East coast, a town marred by one minor historic transgression involving gallows and a monkey erroneously identified as an enemy of the state. An easy mistake to make. The river Tees was followed from the southern boundary of Billingham, passing the mighty Transporter bridge, symbol of Teesside’s prosperity - closed for a considerable number of months now, awaiting money to effect repairs. The England coastal path runs parallel to the estuary, skirts  the Seal Sands chemical complex, continuing north, past the nuclear power station, all the way up the coast. We digress a little, riding onto North Gare, or as it used to be known The Slaggy, or Slag Wall, constructed from steelworks slag, the waste product from steel making, hence the name. I remember seeing lorry loads of the stuff being tipped into the water to make breakwaters, still glowing red, hissing and bubbling when it hit the briny. As the tide was out, a quick pedal along the beach brought us to Teesside’s Blackpool - Seaton Carew, famous for a death-faking kayaker and not much else except bracing sea air and three chip shops within a 100 square metre radius. Naturally a socially-distant repast was in order, indulging in the sort of refuelling professional cyclists can only dream about. No such qualms for us. Calories replaced to the point of bloating, we thought it best to continue while we could still move, making our way back to Billingham, following the ‘official’ cycle route, which touches on some of the less-salubrious areas of Hartlepool; there is a legend regarding some kind soul keeping a horse in a bedroom which I would dismiss as apocryphal if it wasn’t for a mate swearing he used to feed the horse when he was little. Of course, The Ginger One considered this a negative point for the town, another example of the supposed superiority of Darlington but seeing as he is the only person from Darlington who doesn’t have a horse, a shiny caravan or a penchant for laying drives on his days off, while his mam tells fortunes and makes clothes pegs, he doesn’t have much room to talk. A less scenic route from Greatham was taken back to Billingham, unless your idea of scenic is two sewage farms and a crisp factory. The whole ride made a change from pushing bikes through knee-deep snow atop the moors, which is what we would have been doing by the look of things. And The Ginger One has yet to see the real Hartlepool -  the marina, our answer to Marbella’s Puerto Banus, where multi-millionaire playboys sip cocktails on the stern as they plan the next leg of their round the world adventure, reluctant to tear themselves away from the irresistible pulchritude of the  populace and the crystal clear waters of the North Sea.

Before Work Quicky

For one of us anyway. The retiree in this relationship is quite happy to idle his time away riding bikes and writing bollocks in a blog. Me and La Mujerita cruised some of the local cycle tracks, ending up at the mighty Transporter, symbol of Teesside’s industrial heritage etcetera, etcetera. We rode more cycle paths to the Tees Barrage, brown water pouring through the barrages, the river is surfeit with snowmelt and the almost constant rain we’ve been having. Home in time for a spot of lunch before one of us went to put in a shift’s worth of gainful employment - can’t see it catching on to be honest.

A Fire Road Sort Of Day

It seems the whole country is being gradually submerged, isn’t there an historical precedent for floods being sent to cleanse a land from plague? Or was that wickedness? Either way, Kevin Costner’s Waterworld is beginning to seem less and less like fiction. There were no ragged people on rafts floating down the river in Great Ayton but a few extra lakes have appeared, some of them covering the roads. Me and Superbri met up - two metres apart naturally, for our daily exercise. Due to my bike being very poorly, if it was a dog the vet would be filling the syringe and telling us not to rush into buying a puppy, the fourteen year old Santa Cruz once more had the pleasure of the wind in its handlebars and sweet loam under its tyres. Best if loam is substituted for mud and ice today though. We had a long road warm up, to get the blood circulating and give the weather a chance to pull its socks up. A few sections were more suited to the 200m freestyle rather than bikes but we made it up to Percy Cross Rigg, where water turned to ice, despite the sun having turned out, in a half-hearted sort of way, like an apprentice when he’s asked to do something other than stare at his phone. We stormed across Codhill Heights, courtesy of a tailwind rather than any training and took a break at the seat on the edge of Guisborough Woods. Almost nine miles, mostly uphill without stopping, these aren’t Terra Trailblazer’s standards, SuperBri is definitely a bad influence. Once rested, which generally means bladders empty, don’t eat yellow snow, we ventured onto the fire roads of Guisborough Woods, a mixture of snow, ice and mud. Suffice to say, a challenging mixture; we left the off-piste trails for better weather, the slight thaw has left them looking like mudslides, tempting but ultimately a painful experience and flights to hospital in the air ambulance tend to be frowned upon these days, no matter how much spare change you put in the collecting tin. We managed enough sphincter-twitching moments on the fire roads. Gradually we made our way back to Roseberry Common, passing through the shadow of the snow-covered behemoth which is Roseberry Topping and down to Aireyholme Farm, losing height but gaining temperature, so our remarkable cleanliness soon reverted to the usual ordure-caked, mud-splattered state typical of the end of a winter ride. Somewhere on the track past Fletcher’s Farm, SuperBri picked up a thorn, a bit of the old “I’ll just pump it up, it’ll get me back...” failed dismally and as we were so close to the end of the ride, I elected to pedal speedily back to town and fetch the car. Great plan, except half a mile later, another thorn wormed its weasel way into my tyre, no tubeless sealant for the old timer bike and it was instantly more flaccid than a twelve pint Saturday night. Pushed back to the car and rushed to put the bike on the rack to go and collect SuperBri, who actually turned up before I’d even turned the GPS off, having ran all the way with his bike - just because he’s SuperBri.

Crunchy

The next day, not so much deja vu as deja blue, as the weather morphed into one of those pristine winter days which make the cold and the mud worth it. Yesterday's floods are today’s skating rinks and roadies were going down like they had been scattered by invisible bowling balls. Although we were trying to stay off the tarmac as much as possible, Fletcher’s Farm was given a swerve because of the amount of punctures we’ve had there lately. The road up to Aireyholme Farm was beyond treacherous, sheets of black ice spread across the tarmac, the track from Aireyholme Farm to Roseberry Common, yesterday had an actual river running down it, today firm and crunchy, like a teenage boy’s boxer shorts. At the top of the steps, overlooking Roseberry Topping, a photo opportunity presented itself, the stately old Santa Cruz and The Breadlad’s young pretender Santa Cruz, both look quite similar despite the twelve year age gap. Someone of twisted mind suggested a parody of bicycle mating and before we could say pass me the lube, the young pretender had mounted the poor old girl. It just looked wrong, like a famous footballer, let’s say, just for instance, someone like, Wayne Rooney having his wicked way with a granny. As if such a thing could happen? We separated them after a short time - no staying power these young ones and continued on our exploration of crisp tracks. A snowy Lonsdale Bowl was followed by an ascent of Percy Cross Rigg to the top of The Unsuitables, we tried a descent of The Secret Path but the combination of slushy roots and icy rocks was beyond our capabilities, of course, I could blame my bike’s lack of modern technology, if I had been on my other bike, I’d have floated down like a geriatric Danny Hart. A couple more tracks were attempted with similar results before we climbed back up to Roseberry Common. Not being too keen on the ice-covered road from Aireyholme Farm to Dikes Lane, we opted for the bridleway which skirts in a most scenic fashion around Roseberry Topping and down to the A173, plenty of rock steps to bump down but the old bike managed to drag herself down as I held on. We are certainly spoiled with all this up to date kit; three position rear shocks, adjustable forks, dropper posts, tubeless tyres, it was easy to tell the difference on the old Santa Cruz with it’s 100mm of travel. 

As usual the route titles are the same as on Strava, Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.