Marching Back To Winter. The First Bit Of March.

 “March is the month God created to show people who don’t drink what a hangover is like.”

― Garrison Keillor

Cheers Olly, now they can hear me coming.

March, the calendar’s equivalent of a dystopian wasteland depicted in so many Hollywood movies; a dying planet of a month, a monochrome landscape of raw winds, water and mud, grey skies blocking out sunlight, contrasting with February's bright optimism. A border between seasons which manages to avoid the good points of either,  no-man's land with the razor wire of winter behind you and the golden promise of summer’s freedom ahead, between the two lies a charnel-ridden minefield. Like Yeat’s great beast, March shuffles towards spring, which glimmers tantalisingly on the horizon, snowdrops and daffodils peek cautiously from the grave-cold earth, harbingers of better days to come. March is a month to be endured, not enjoyed, winter miles make summer smiles and all that. Enthusiasm is hard to come by when the trails are slurry and the wind has teeth. But it’s always better than the alternative: not having a bike ride, it’s difficult enough to fill those awkward moments between the end of one bike ride and the start of the next without letting the weather get in the way. 

Getting A Bit Nippy Again.

The balmy days of February are behind us, temperatures have slid back toward zero, celsius that is, none of that Victorian fahrenheit nonsense here,. Young Olly managed to find a break in his schedule to fit in a ride, I would imagine now most students are studying remotely, productivity has increased without the distractions of the Student’s Union bar, Fresher’s Flu and university sports clubs. Anyway, we rode from Swainby to Silton Woods, riding the top bit of the downhill track, one of us rode it considerably speedier than the other, I’ll leave you to work out which one, we gave the rest a miss because it was a bit too soggy. Back at the woods above the reservoir, Olly had an introduction to some of “Rod’s” tracks, the ones he maintains and improves despite the best efforts of ‘The Colonel’, a local character who seeks out bike trails in the darkest recesses of the woods, far away from rights of way and sabotages them with branches laid across the tracks. Later, we pedalled up to Arncliffe Woods and onto Scarth Wood Moor, avoiding the track known as Olly’s Folly, where the youth of the same name broke his ankle, instead riding down the moor on the paved track, which is fun in a let the brakes off and go for it sort of way. Which only left the newly discovered bridleway beside the road at Scarth Nick, it’s still hard to believe we only found this recently, after over twenty years of bypassing it. The track had even dried up slightly since last time we rode it, making it even more fun. A short stretch of tarmac and we were back at the cars, first ride of March in the bag, a bit cold, a bit muddy and a bit grey but fun nonetheless.

Gorillas In The Mist.

The grey clag has descended, dampening the atmosphere and keeping us from prying eyes, so dense is the mist we almost missed (d’you see what I did there?) the Sean The Sheep bus shelter, opposite our parking spot. A downhill start - yes, that’s correct - a downhill start, took us out of the mist along the road towards Commondale for a short while before we turned off onto a bridleway which deposited us in the centre of Commondale. Hanging a left, the Box Hall track follows the Esk Valley rail line as it meanders towards Castleton, a few puddles but quite dry for the time of year. We crossed the road above Castleton and continued through Danby Park, the odd cloying clay pit attempting to suck down front wheels but we battled through like true Terra Trailblazers, which actually means getting stuck and swearing a lot. We passed through a very quiet Danby and an even quieter Ainthorpe on tarmac, leaving the road at the start of the Ainthorpe Rigg bridleway, where we paused to shed clothing in the unseasonal warmth. The climb over Ainthorpe Rigg took us back into the mist, shrouding the view of Fryupdale from the top. The descent down Crossley Side was as enjoyable as ever, rock slabs leading to a ridge of singletrack, followed by a grassy finish, all just enough to keep you thinking but not a pageant of prevarication as some descents are. Lulled into a false sense of security by the relative dryness of the tracks so far, the bridleway from Stonebeck Gate to Crag Farm was opted for, it wasn’t long before we were churning through mud like two-wheeled dung beetles. If “experience is never wasted” why do we never learn? Bridleways through fields are always shit - often literally - for eleven months of the year. More climbing ensued, Oakley Walls this time, before we made our way along the track to Clitherbeck farm, a beneficiary of the lockdown gravel which has plagued tracks since most of the country took a step back, it’ll be okay when it’s bedded in a bit I guess. Our final track of the ride was Robin Hood’s Butts, which has had many of the tarn size puddles filled with rubble, making our feet a bit drier if anything. The track took us directly back to the cars, which were parked at the end and it wasn’t long before we had decamped to Birk Brow for our first burger of the year.

Chilling In The Windchill.

The Breadlad finding out the machine doesn't take euros.

Despite no rain being forecast, we left Pinchinthorpe car park in the sort of precipitation you convince yourself is drizzle so you don’t have to admit it’s actually lashing down. Like the old blues song say, “The sky is crying” but not as much as The Breadlad, who found himself donating four quid to Redcar And Cleveland Council just so we could have a ride with a cafe at the end. A pretty standard fire road start took us up the forest to the edge of the woods below the SOW track, where we paused to take off coats and empty bladders (NPP) now the rain had passed over to moisten someone else. We needn’t have bothered, less than half a mile later, the rain was back even stronger and it was coats back on as we circumnavigated the contours of the mighty Roseberry Topping, heading for the Elephants Hole, a locally famous combination of steep shale and prickly gorse, even more exciting today from the added dampness. That particular bit of fun over with, we climbed back to Roseberry Common and up the steps to Newton Moor. The temperature was allegedly warmer than the past few days but wind and drizzle were making things feel much colder, even The Breadlad was feeling it and he has been known to ride with bare flesh in snow. Arms, of course, his other flesh has remained carefully covered since the restraining order. We made our way up a soggy Percy Cross Rigg and an equally damp Codhill Heights to the back of Highcliffe Nab. The original plan had been to continue east to the concrete road and return to Pinchinthorpe along the old rail track but the continual mizzle dampened even our enthusiasm, so the plan was abandoned in favour of a blast back through the woods finishing down the old blue route, passing the blue lake, which is usually green and today was no different, the colour is said to come from alum salts in the surrounding shale. A short time later we were sat in a drizzle-sodden field, shovelling food into our faces, inordinately pleased with ourselves for persevering through the cold and wet when lesser beings would be couch-captured.

Gentle Recovery Ride.

Another before work quickie with La Mujerita, trawling local lanes and cycleways congested with assorted humanity; the dog walkers with attitude, the dog walkers with more dogs than fingers, the ‘let’s stand and chat in the middle of the path’ people, the ‘let’s walk four abreast across the path’ types and my own personal favourite, the halfwit in the headphones, completely oblivious to anyone or anything coming from behind, a situation where common sense would dictate sticking to the edge of the path. Not a chance. And it’s become worse since lockdown now the shopping mall rats and the beer garden people have been forced outdoors. The old saying, “the further you are from civilization, the nicer the people” has never been so true. The odd bits of offroad riding on the local loops are at best mediocre and a poor substitute for the moors, not worth the amount of attitude which must be endured to reach them, from walkers and motorists, give me the wide open spaces any day. But at least the sun came out for a bit.

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