Sticks Like Ordure To An Eiderdown.
Another of those days which fails to fulfil its early promise, beginning with bright sunshine, ending in gloom and dampness. Me and The Ginger One rode up Raisdale Mill lane, on a pleasant spring morning, turning off at the cottages, we ascended to Stoney Wickes, the col between the valleys of Bilsdale and Scugdale. Still climbing, we made our way across the moor, passing Brian’s Pond, gleaming blue in the sunlight, continuing on sandy tracks to the summit of Carlton Bank. So far about five miles distance and over a thousand feet of ascent - who says we don’t know how to have fun? As a reward we took advantage of a paved section of Cleveland Way, skirting the moor edge in a fine position, until we could return to the sandy tracks which criss cross the moor where the gliding club once stood. The old access track gives a speedy descent to Lordstones, where we were surprised to find the car park open, albeit with limited hours. The cafe and shop were closed though. We had a little scrounge about the tracks behind Cringle Moor, finding a large chain has been suspended between trees on one section, obviously to stop people riding the track but why put the chain halfway down the trail? Surely at the beginning would be more sensible? We took the hint and moved on. Our original plan for the day was the Cold Moor descent, all the other tracks were just foreplay, so we shouldered the bikes and began plodding up the steps, the wind began to increase, bringing a tsunami of ominous grey cloud. The top of Cold Moor was indeed cold, about a ten degree temperature drop from down in the valley and now we were riding into a headwind, a moist, drizzly headwind, wetter than an apprentice's excuses. The Cold Moor descent is a classic, starting on moorland singletrack, undulating to a rocky ridge which turns to a broad track of sand and puddles before the highlight, the drop down the rocky riverbed. Multiple lines, choices between boulder drops, loose rocks, rutted singletrack and hidden hollows, today slippery and moisture coated, a bit like my glasses which made line choice a bit more confusing. The Ginger One was away like a balding, middle-aged, borderline-alcoholic doing a poor Danny Hart impression but he still left me in his wake as I minced down the track like Mr. Magoo (for those of a certain age - if you are too young just Google it). Lower down the track becomes more enclosed and muddier, some of it that peculiar texture which sticks like dung to a duvet, or ordure to an eiderdown or any other combination of colon contents and bedclothes you can think of. Two relatively clean bikes soon became two mud-covered bikes as we rolled back into Chop Gate, even The Ginger One’s battery operated pressure washer proved ineffective against North Yorkshire’s finest clay and he resorted to old-school washing in the river. All so he can get straight in front of the telly when he gets home instead of washing his bike properly.
Mostly Windy.
Yesterday, when we all stayed home, it was storm force winds and rain, today was storm force winds without rain - seems safe to venture out then, so long as we keep things vaguely tree related (for the shelter) everything ought to be okay. Some hardy souls met up at Gribdale, ready to take on whatever Mother Nature could throw at us: sixty mile per hour gusts allegedly. Even with wind assistance the climb up Nab End is gruesome, from the barn at the bottom to Percy Cross Rigg is almost three hundred feet of ascent in half a mile, all rideable too, since the resurfacing. And rode it was, maybe not with SuperBri’s alacrity, he soon disappeared into the distance but our feet remained on pedals all the way up. Attempting to stay with the tail wind theme, an ascent of Codhill Heights followed, leading us to Guisborough Woods and the relative shelter of the trees. Remaining trees, that is, by the look of the preparation work going on, a lot more are going to the great woodpile in the sky. Or the biomass power station which is where most of it seems destined. Despite the main tracks seeming relatively dry, the previous twenty four hours of rain has taken a toll, making them clingy and draggy, the trails through the trees are still in dire straits, merely muddy ruts slithering down the hillsides. We went along to the One Man And His Dog trails, which are more open and dry quickly, not quickly enough though, still too slimy to be enjoyable, like jellied eels, which apparently are the staple food of Londoners. They can keep them. Climbing slowly back up into the wind, we made our way through the forest and onto Newton Moor, buffeted by gusts, sticking to a straight line was a struggle. For a last bit of excitement, a descent of Fingerbender Bank was chosen, a lot drier than lately but straight into the wind, which calmed us down a bit. The slope down to Gribdale provided a muddy but downhill finish to the cars, where our picnics await.
The Rosedale Round Reduced.
Another blustery day, the wind whipping powerful deluges in from the west, the exposed car park at Blakey Ridge taking the full force. As quickly as we could, we dropped down onto the slightly sheltered rail track and cranked out a virtually flat four miles to Chimney Bank, passing a hardy soul who was pedalling in shorts despite the windchill dragging the temperature toward zero. At Chimney Bank, the old Royal Observer Corps installation was given a thorough inspection by us, it is part of a network of underground bunkers built during the Cold War to monitor the effect of a nuclear blast, we once spent some time dissuading The Ginger One from breaking in to this one in search of leftover ration packs because the lure of free food was just to powerful for him. Turns out the whole installation is flooded anyway, more info can be found here. As we were only riding a truncated version of the classic Rosedale Round, we were able to give our brakes a comprehensive testing descending Chimney Bank, which is so steep there is a possibility of serious injury for the incautious; we descended as carefully as a bloke shaving his balls with a hedge trimmer. A few miles on tarmac lay between us and the next section of rail track but first The Breadlad availed himself of the facilities, relishing the luxury of Climbing Simon’s favourite convenience, rather than squatting behind a tussock of grass on the open moor.
We passed the titter-inducing Bell End Farm (ghostly smirking from The Pensioner) and climbed through Hill Cottages, leaving the road behind, climbing even more steeply through a farmyard filled with ducks and chickens to gain the rail track. The wind was still fierce and swirling in unexpected directions, the tailwind along the east side of the valley never happened, most of the way seemed to be a struggle. Pausing on one of the embankments, we watched water being blown up a waterfall by the wind, it's that sort of day. Pedaling around the head of the valley, we took the full force of the wind, memories of the Sandstone Way came back like a barely remembered nightmare, where we had three days of fifty mile per hour headwinds, from Berwick On Tweed to Hexham. We rode up to the Lion Inn, still sadly closed because of the lockdown and fantasised about steak sandwiches with chips and a refreshing pint on a hot summer’s day. No sandwiches, no chips, no pint, no hot summer’s day. It’s the middle of March and cold enough to freeze teeth. The loop behind the pub, usually an amenable downhill over dusty rocks is straight into the wind today and filled with puddles, at the bottom we turned left and headed for Blakey Bank along more old rail track. We stormed up the last few feet of Blakey Bank, propelled by a tail wind which was like being pushed by God all the way back to the car park. Back on top of the ridge, gusts blasted in like a nuclear wind, so strong we could lean into it, cars were turned into the wind to prevent the doors being ripped off. Gusts were probably coming in at around fifty miles per hour, which, coincidentally is the average wind speed of the windiest place on earth, Commonwealth Bay, Antarctica, where proper windy days top out in excess of one hundred and fifty miles per hour. Just imagine how many clothes pegs they’ll need to put their washing on the line.
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