The MIddle Bit Of February.

 Another Before Work Quicky - For One Of Us.

The bitter weather is continuing, roads closed owing to drifting snow, windchill colder than a Tory’s heart and sheets of ice still blanket roads and paths like the sugar coating on a Krispy Kreme doughnut. If the sugar coating tasted of salt and dog shit. According to the questionable veracity of my phone, it is minus fourteen celsius when wind chill is taken into account. The silence from the global warming faction is deafening, the government is probably thinking of ditching the emissions taxes and looking for ways to tax sledges and de-icer. Another local ride for us, me and La  Mujerita, a quick scout about before she goes for a late shift at something called work; a dim and distant memory for me. She works in a residential home for children with challenging behaviour, which was similar to my employment, except they weren’t legally children and they didn’t live there, although some of them would have liked to. Other than that pretty close, especially the apprentices who scraped in during my latter years, whose concept of self-reliance didn’t really extend far beyond putting their phones away when a manager came in the room. Looks like I’ve digressed a bit again, whoops. Back to the ride, one good thing about the freezing weather, it has thinned out the number of pedestrians and dog walkers meandering across the paths. We rode alongside the A19 to Newport and over the bridge, dropping down the ramp - a lot more cautiously than usual, to pick up the cyclepath on the south side of the river, making our way along to the Tees Barrage. Beyond the barrage, the path follows a network of frozen canals leading to and from the river, unfenced canals, iced up paths, a You’ve Been Framed moment waiting to happen, further cautious riding required, I don’t need £250 that badly. We crossed Victoria Bridge to make our way back along the opposite side of the river, stopping to have a gander at the swans, which in the curious world of ornithological collective nouns might be described as a gaggle, bank, bevy, whiteness, herd, eyrar or gargle of swans but never a wedge unless the group is flying. Realising we hadn’t brought bread, they soon lost interest in us and continued drifting serenely, waiting for someone more generous in the sliced white department. We refrained from mentioning they can break a man’s arm with their wings, which seems to be the only fact everyone knows about swans, that and you can’t eat them unless the Queen has a bite first or something. I wonder if swans ever look at humans and think, “I bet I could break his arm...” Maybe they have a local league table and the one who breaks the most arms gets to be King Swan until they are overtaken by an ex-special forces swan, trained to break a man’s arm by countless devious methods. Arms thankfully intact, we continued along the riverside, the usual audience of smackheads and winos absent from the picnic tables, too cold even for them. More icy riding took us back to Newport Bridge, from where a convoluted route of pedestrian crossings led us under the A19 to pick up the cycle track on the western side and a steady ride back to Billingham.

Snow Drifts Or Dancing On Ice?

Following a weekend of sub-zero temperatures and gale force winds, snow has drifted over many roads, rendering them impassable, even to 4x4 drivers. However, some roads are still open, the sun is out, the sky is blue, there’s not a cloud to spoil the view and it’s not raining in my heart (not yet anyway) because me and my new baby are getting out in the countryside for her maiden moors voyage; leaving behind the tedium of red tarmac, intransigent dog-walkers and surly road bikers. The Breadlad is beginning an extended break from work, his usual shaken not stirred, eating caviar from the bellybutton of a naked supermodel, jet setting lifestyle curtailed by an invisible virus, so he was thrilled to be switching the pistes of the Canadian Rockies for the equally cold and wet snow of North Yorkshire. Just to ensure we actually pedalled a few miles, we rode from Great Ayton to Kildale before heading up to the moors via The Yellowbrick Road. The verges of the roads were piled high with rapidly melting snow, seeing as today the temperature is scraping into double figures. The Yellowbrick Road is the ideal place to try my new 52 tooth rear cassette and after The Breadlad had finished using the facilities, (does a bear shit in the woods? Not as much as The Breadlad.) the attempt was on. Short lived attempt. Extra teeth on the back cog don’t conquer ice and snow and it was not long before pedestrianism reared its ugly head. We made it to the top and continued along Percy Cross Rigg, the tarmac section to the gate onto the moor curiously devoid of snow despite the extra height. From the gate to the Unsuitables was a different story, a tale of water, slush and snow stickier than the pages of the magazines we used to find in the bushes near the bus shelter. Climbing up to the wartime building was a struggle, the descent worse, short sections were rideable but mainly we were stymied by snow, deep but not crisp or even, usually with a side order of water running beneath it. Finding it hard to believe we’d had to push and carry most of a downhill track, we arrived at the top of The Unsuitables, encountering two equally bemused cyclists, who had travelled up in the opposite direction. From them, it transpired, our options were “snow drifts or dancing on ice”, the ice bit being a descent of The Unsuitables or a bash through the drifts on the top track. We opted for the drifts, it wasn’t easy but it did lessen the chances of an unscheduled strain on the NHS in the form of an old bloke who should have known better. Newton Moor was a little better and we managed to pedal most of the way to Fingerbender Bank, or Fingerbender Force as we have renamed it for today, as every bit of water in North Yorkshire appears to be pouring down it. The gullies are rapids and the drop offs have become waterfalls, it didn’t stop us splashing down it like an afternoon at Wet And Wild. From here we descended to the road at Gribdale and carried on back to Great Ayton, pausing only at the butchers to reimburse our calorie expenditure.

At Least Me Feet Stayed Dry.

The following day, lesson learnt, our efforts were mainly tarmac based, although some off road had to be included, just to ensure we’d had a proper ride. Me and SuperBri rode to Ingleby Greenhow, from Great Ayton - I’ll be paying council tax if I visit that place any more often. We continued up towards Clay Bank, roads awash with melting snow but thankfully the ice seems to have gone. Turning off into Greenhow Plantation, we began removing layers, the ambient temperature has improved by again. Soggy fire roads through the trees took us to Bank Foot farm, the fire roads are so soaked with water it is like riding over a damp carpet, sucking the tyres down, making what is usually a pleasant blast into hard work. At Bank Foot, we turned right at The Grim Sheaper and powered up the hill towards Turkey Nab, my 52 tooth SRAM Eagle cassette being tested for the first time. Disappointingly, ascending wasn’t that much easier, the larger chainring on the front and the draggy track almost cancelling out the benefit. At the gate we headed into the woods to check out the trail called Borrowed Time, a green graded run we originally found on Trailforks. The start has suffered from some tree felling but we pressed on hoping it would improve, which it did but only in small sections before vanishing completely in an imbroglio of wood cuttings and undergrowth towards the end. It goes without saying we weren’t lost, only temporarily misplaced, especially when we came to a roaring stream I’ve never seen in my life. Unlike Hansel and Gretel, we managed to find our way out of the forest without a cannibalistic witch trying to get her teeth into our flesh (sounds remarkably like a night out in Darlington) and rode without incident back to Great Ayton.  

Watch Out For Overhanging Branches.

Third day on the trot, we gave the village of Swainby the benefit of our company for a change, rather longer than we would have liked, as we waited for The Breadlad to enter the same time zone as the rest of the UK. Most of the rides from Swainby begin with ascending the steps in Clain Wood, why should this one be any different? Well, it was slightly different only in that The Breadlad didn’t stop at the top to lay his usual cable, maybe a touch of constipation or perhaps more to do with the group of lady ramblers enjoying the view from the seats. Luckily for them today’s vista didn’t include a squatting crumpet maker. On to Sheepwash, across the ford and up the newly graded (ruined) track; it did yield first ever ascents for all of us though, pedalling the whole way. Along High Lane to the road and continuing to SiIton Woods, where we rode sodden fire roads and the top section of the downhill track, which wasn’t in too bad a condition, before retracing our tyre tracks to High Lane. A few of Rod’s tracks came next, dropping down through the woods to Cote Ghyll, some of his best efforts have been destroyed by tree felling, even the infamous gorse bush alley has suffered. From Cote Ghyll, a couple of miles climbing on tarmac brought us to Arnecliffe Wood, where we rode around the edge of the trees to Scarth Wood Moor. Concentrating on negotiating a patch of snow, I almost failed to see an overhanging branch, the last minute duck was enough to save my Hollywood heartthrob good looks but it caught my bag leaving me briefly hanging while the bike continued riderless along the trail, before dropping me, still in the seated position, into a puddle. The only concern of my companions was that the whole sorry incident hadn’t been captured for posterity. So, with laughter-induced rib-cramp (them) and a wet arse (me), we rode down the paved bridleway crossing Scarth Wood Moor, especially good with today’s tail wind. Reaching the road at Scarth Nick, we decided to explore a track we had spotted earlier in the day, running through some scant woodland at the side of the road. What a piece of serendipity, even in its present winter condition it was a superb bit of track, running parallel to the tarmac, an off-road alternative to the steep bends of Sneck Yate Bank. Twenty odd years I’ve been riding past this spot and never noticed it before. What a finish to a ride.

Dicking About In The Mud.

A slightly iffy weather forecast saw us flinging four quid in Redcar council’s direction for the privilege of parking at Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre, ready for a scrounge about in Guisborough Woods. Predictably, it was raining lightly when we first arrived, so The Breadlad waited until it had ceased before joining us, ensuring we wouldn’t have to ride in rain; his kindness and forethought are unlimited, the bread factory’s loss is our gain. Our route consisted of riding up fire roads soggier than the Spongebob’s square pants, the only exclamations between the panting being;

“By it’s draggy”

“Does my back tyre look flat?”

“This is hard work.”

“Is it time for the cafe yet?”

What goes up must come down, usually slithering in muddy ruts which are decent trails in the summer. A few of the higher trails were still filled with (deep) snow, as we found to our cost but generally the lower we went the better things were. The weather turned out surprisingly good, apart from the gale force wind and a grand day was had by all - if sliding about in mud and wading through knee deep snow drifts is your idea of a grand day. It was a brief route, low on miles but big on smiles, with a disproportionate amount of ascent, so pretty standard for a Guisborough ride out. And the cherry on the top? The cafe is open, takeaway only, of course, apparently there's a virus or something going round, so we have to sit in a field to eat our food, which is no hardship really, looking at the state of us, wet and mud-covered we shouldn’t be allowed indoors anyway. 

As usual the route names are the Strava names. Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.   

The First Bit Of February.

 The First Bit Of February.

What A Glorious Day For A Bike Ride.

A definite chill in the air but we'll take it for the sunshine and blue sky, the hike up the Clain Wood steps to start the ride wasn't quite so pleasurable but it had to be done. From the top, me and The Ginger One, followed the bridleway to the road at Scarth Nick, the road is still closed to traffic owing to ice; very wise seeing as we struggled to walk up it, after abandoning attempts to ride. Water running off from the moor has frozen in a sheet of ice covering the whole road, creating the sort of friction-free zone which only looks good in You Tube videos, when someone else is skidding about. Less icy road took us to Sheepwash, where a shock awaited us, the rock slabs which led from High Lane down to the ford, are no more, another beneficiary (depending on your point of view) from the invasion of lockdown gravel deposited on some of our favourite tracks over the past ten months. The rock steps, a test piece since before I began mountain biking, 22 years ago, lay buried beneath tonnes of dolomite, leaving the slope looking like an Australian bush road. Even the “One Life: Live It. (so long as you can afford the diesel)” brigade will fail to be challenged by this track, sanitised smoother than a rattlesnake’s belly. Another route consigned to history. Shocked, we continued along High Lane, passing Square Corner and into Silton Woods, a little trip down memory lane for The Ginger One because we followed the first off road track he ever did, on the Terra Trailblazers inaugural ride, back in 2003, TTB 001. In those days it was a usually muddy track through a dense conifer plantation; now a usually muddy track through the beginnings of a new plantation, luckily the ground was pretty much frozen solid and we made good progress, other than one patch of mud suffering from some extremely localised global warming, sucking the front wheel of my bike into its depths, quickly followed by my foot, ankle and calf. Just what you need when it is below freezing. Seemed to amuse The Ginger One though. He is from Darlington, so the subtleties of humour; bathos, pathos, satire and wit will be lost on him. One wet foot and three dry ones continued down two sections of the Silton downhill track, verdict - a bit sketchy, ice and frozen snow, before we retraced our tyre tracks back along to High Lane. A quick ride through the woods above Cod Beck before we were stopped in our tracks by utter devastation, as half the forest had been felled, wiping out a few of Rod’s finest tracks. As some sort of perverse recompense, we decided to squeeze in an extra loop, hauling ourselves up to the antennas and down what is left of Arncliffe Woods and through the sadly abandoned Scarth Wood Farm with its crenelated farm house. A short section of bridleway and we were back at our cars. Lou Reed might have thought going to the zoo constitutes a perfect day but he was wrong; a mountain bike, frozen ground and blue sky is all you need.

Looking For A Dry Patch.

Not such a perfect day this time for me and The Ginger One, a bit dull and mighty wet beneath the tyres. Three Sting Hill out of Little Kildale was okay but The Field Of Heavy Gravity is The Field Of Squelch, more sucking than dinner time in an old people's home. The moor over to Baysdale was no better, water filled ruts bordered by slippery loam. The descent to Three Barns is still a technical challenge, requiring skill and finesse to find a smooth line through the broken rocks. Needless to say our attempts lacked both. The track from Three Barns to the road above Hob Hole is, today, about eighty percent submerged, like riding a gently meandering stream. We made our way on tarmac to Percy Cross Rigg, dropping down to The Unsuitables and skirted around Guisborough Woods on the top fire road, dangerously close to the muddy, rutted trails through the trees which The Ginger One despises, having previously declared Guisborough Woods to be a no go zone for him. As I have mentioned before, he is from Darlington. We dropped down to Gribdale, using Andy’s track, where a lapse of concentration and some slippery mud resulted in my very cinematic ejection from the bike, complete with a dramatic roll which would be the envy of many a Hollywood stuntman. I narrowly avoided being run over by The Ginger One, who immediately blamed me for ruining his potential PB. It had been a short ride with a lot of ascent in its brief few miles, so what better way to finish than another three hundred foot climb? All the way up to a mist-shrouded Captain Cook’s Monument, only to ride down the other side back to Kildale.

Not What We Expected For Our Maiden Voyage.

Shiny Bike Syndrome is a real affliction and there was my new baby, basking in the warmth of the dining room, raring to go. We spent a few hours over the weekend, snuggled on the settee, watching Danny Macaskill and Terra Trailblazer’s videos on YouTube (talk about opposite ends of the spectrum), so she knew what to look forward to. She could almost taste the loam under her tyres, then we had a visit from Darcy, not the fictional 19th century minge-moistener but Storm Darcy, another Beast From The East treating us to gale force wind and another helping of snow - whether we want it or not. As usual, a couple of centimeters of the white stuff and the country ground to a halt, well, slid to a halt anyway. So we had to make do with a local ride for our first  foray into the real world. Full suspension and a 52 tooth cassette are definitely overkill for anything in the immediate vicinity but it had to be done. A few off road bridleways gave us a feel of what to look forward to and the bike performed as well as could be expected, the gears don’t change by themselves which is a novelty for me and the back end isn’t wobbling about like the rear of a geriatric German Shepherd, which means, hopefully, I might be able to keep a better line through singletrack. Or maybe not; perhaps I have the balance and coordination of a blindfolded drunk on his way home from a three day bender. I could waffle on about the difference in the head angle and the progressive nature of the forks and all the other bollocks they write in magazines but I wouldn’t really know what I was talking about. It’s a bike, sit on turn pedals, try not to fall off (too often). It probably needs some more air in the rear shock and a bit less in the forks but without some real moorland tracks to test it on, it’s hard to say. It’ll do until old age and infirmity point me in the direction of pedal assist technology. 

That Was Hard Work For A Flat Ride.

Another chance to give my new baby a proper ride thwarted by the weather, more snow, more ice and dire warnings on the travel bulletins, the roads to the moors “barely passable”. Looks like another local plod then. Suffering from some kind of perverse need for extra adversity, a trip eastward was chosen, heading for the coast, tackling the Beast From The East head on. Three miles of tarmac later, every inch into a bitter headwind, I joined the England Coastal path at Port Clarence, in the shadow of that mighty symbol of Teesside - The Transporter. The path was quite hard going, being covered in snow but things were about to get a whole lot more difficult, rounding a bend, the first of the low-lying ponds en route had spread itself out to encompass the path, skirting round the edge, I made it to the gate without bother. The next section of path passes a wooden fence which has cutouts enabling it to be used as a bird hide, overlooking another pond. This pond, too, is expanding its territory, annexing the path like mid-twentieth century Russia, no way round this bit, so ploughing through the water it had to be; somewhat deeper water than I anticipated, about hub depth and getting deeper. I reached the hide and hung on considering my options, feet soaked in iced water.. A little further ahead is a bridge, raised above the water level, leading to the next section of path, a bloke comes walking over the bridge toward me, carrying a long pole.

“No way through, that way.” he says “It’s up to here on my pole.” He indicates a level approaching thigh deep. He passed me and continued the way I had just came. I rode to the bridge, thinking from there I could maybe find a way through the bushes onto the adjacent road. Not a chance, thick thorn trees or a water-filled culvert block the way. Reasoning it couldn't be any worse than the previous section and I was already wet, I contemplated the path ahead. This particular bridge has a steep ramp leading down, normally a fun little drop to enliven a mainly flat path, today, at the bottom of the ramp, lay the sort of ice-covered plunge pool which naked Scandinavians might find particularly enticing to jump in after a sauna and a quick lash with a few birch twigs. But it was only short, the rest of the path glistened invitingly in the sunlight, small birds hopping about, looking for crumbs. I set off down the ramp, hit the pool and realised my first mistake, the water is actually knee deep - and I’m sat on a bike as well as bitterly cold, I pedalled through,  the second mistake became all too apparent, the next section of path was in reality a sheet of ice on top of a foot of water, which I was now breaking through like Ernest Shackleton’s ship, every turn of the pedals submerged one of my feet, the going became harder but I was determined not to put a foot down. No idea why, I was already soaked. 

What sort of idiot would ride into that?

Eventually reaching a gate to the road, I left my own personal Cocytus behind and began pedaling to warm myself up, which was about the same time as Storm Darcy treated us to a shower of horizontal snow, naturally I was riding straight into it. I continued to Greatham Creek, thankfully the snow shower was brief, where I had a quick look round before heading across to Greatham on the grassy path, despite having a tailwind now, the path was snow-covered mud, not quite cold enough to be frozen and every revolution of the cranks was an effort, waterlogged 5:10’s and frozen feet didn’t help. Firm roads couldn’t come quickly enough. By the time home came into sight, my feet were pretty much devoid of any feeling, dismounting the bike, it felt like walking on stumps. Icy plunge pools and incipient frostbite could be expected if I was doing a local ride in Alaska or somewhere, not what we prepare for in Billingham.

January 2021 Round Up and Video

 January 2021 Round Up and Video.

Too many words? Video here.

Almost an actual winter this month, lots of snow and ice, road closures, disruption, the schools would probably have been closed if they weren't already owing to the lockdown. It didn't stop huge droves of people driving to the countryside for a bit of sledging on the nearest snow-covered hill. Our first two rides of the month were curtailed because the snow was too deep to ride through, the remainder were mostly cautious affairs as ice made large sections of trails a bit “challenging”, even to walk across never mind ride. In true Terra Trailblazer’s fashion, legs still turned, miles were clocked up, the hardcore of regulars said a firm no to couch and central heating, heading out in all but the most dire forecasts. And it was worth every frozen finger and wet toe to be out on the moors, away from the huddled masses and their strange need for crowds and passive enjoyment.

I’d Rather Be On The Moors.

Another ride around the minor roads and cycle paths of industrial Teesside for me and La Mujerita on a cold but thankfully dry day. It started well, apart from some sheets of ice, which are at the brittle and crunchy stage, like riding through broken pottery - except for the sneaky bits which are still slippier than an eel in a bucket of Swarfega. We made our way on minor roads to the A689 end of the Castle Eden Walkway and headed toward the old station, all hatches battened down for the duration of the virus. Picking up the continuation cycle path after Thorpe Thewles, from Hardwick to Hartburn, or heroin to Hennessy, depending on your drug of choice. Dodging dog walkers and docile pedestrians all the way, we must have come within two metres of dozens of people because they have no concept of social distancing or single file, ploughing their own furrow, oblivious to anyone else. How can this be safer than being on a wide open moor? At one point a gaggle of chattering women were walking four abreast, all the way across the track, looking at each other rather than ahead, when they realise there are people coming towards them, not even the hint of an apology just looks of complete disgust that the conversation is interrupted and they have to move aside slightly. Less populated tracks took us through Stockton, to the Tees Barrage and onward, alongside the river to Newport Bridge, where we left the waterside and continued home, skirting the Nitram tower and along Haverton Hill road to New Road, once a stinking miasma of chemical smells from the old plants which used to line the route, nowadays no different to any other industrial town. 

Deadly Ruts.

In contrast to the previous outing, I expanded the concept of local to include twenty minutes drive from home and had a much safer day, barely seeing a soul and definitely not being within two metres of any of them. I set off from Great Ayton, practically deserted today and had a bit of a road warm up to KIldale before hauling myself up The Yellow Brick Road from New Row to Percy Cross Rigg. Cold and slightly dull, the weather that is, although it is a valid description of the current government, there are some stretches of ice lingering the higher the route goes. But strangely, most of this ice has friction, maybe a slight thaw or something, of course some bits are still treacherous which makes for some cautious riding, especially at the top of Percy Cross Rigg which could host an ice hockey match for dwarves. The advantage of all this chill is normally muddy and unrideable tracks are frozen and even flow quite well if you can stay out of the ruts. I cherry-picked a few of Guisborough Woods trails to hurtle down in my own inimitable style, imagine a world cup standard downhill racer, carving  berms and floating over roots, now imagine a sexegenarion with doubtful balance, mediocre eyesight and a fear of hospitals and try to guess which is nearer reality. But I enjoyed myself. Eventually hunger took over and I rode back up to Roseberry Common, a light dusting of snow still clinging to Roseberry Topping and took the track down to Aireyholme Farm. A deadly rut, frozen and unyielding, took control of my handlebars, like riding a Scalextric track made from iced cow shit and mud, inevitably throwing me out like a rodeo bull tossing off a cowboy - and not in a Brokeback Mountain sort of way. Amazing how frozen mud can still be soft enough to cover one side of your body. Mud stained but undaunted I headed home for food. 

More Drag Than Cherry Valentine.

Who is Cherry Valentine? Only the best looking woman to come out of Darlington. And she’s not even a woman. What does she have to do with a bike ride? Nothing whatsoever but the majority of the tracks we rode today were a drag, soft, thawing snow and a lot of rain have left them sodden, even hard packed gravel and sand was tough going today. “Is my back tyre flat?” being the most common question of the day. A mile or so of road riding took us to Coleson Banks, no snow this time but riding the whole thing still beyond the capabilities of our meagre lungs and legs. At the top we turned onto the Cleveland Way, heading roughly south up Battersby Moor, looking to the right I could see my house, nestled behind the chemical plants, can’t get anymore local than within sight of your home. Continuing on the Cleveland Way, we pedaled along the draggy track, riding up into low cloud, blindly turning pedals with no end in sight, eventually reaching Burton Howe, eager to plummet down the Old Coal Road to Armoth Wath. The straight and usually fast downhill track was like riding through glue today, we had to pedal most of it, surrounded by grey clag so we couldn’t even appreciate the views. We turned left and headed down the bridleway towards Baysdale, dropping out of the mist but finding the ground beneath our wheels turning to water, there were even lingering patches of snow in the sheltered plantation. A last downhill through a muddy sheep field brought us to Baysdale Abbey, which is actually a farm, not a nun or a monk in sight. Do nuns and monks even exist anymore? This idle speculation was nothing more than prevarication before we tackle the road out of Baysdale, continuously steep, it’s never a popular choice despite the quality of the downhill tracks leading into Baysdale, the enjoyment of which is always tempered by the thought of the ride back out of the valley. We reached the top and retraced our tyre tracks slightly before heading off on the singletrack bridleway to Turkey Nab, the sun even starting to put in an appearance. The ride finished on the trails in the woods behind Bank Foot Farm, which are continually being improved by unseen trail pixies, making it more amenable to the younger contingent, who for some reason, prefer launching themselves over chest height drops to mincing down a trail with brakes squealing like tortured cats.

As usual the route names are the same as the Strava names. Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.