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.