Sunshine...and snow, hail and thunder. Welcome to May.
There is a distinct lack of personnel this week, I’m sure a Jimmy Saville appreciation society would have a better turnout than people wanting a bit of off-road excitement on the moors. It appears everyone is busily engrossed in something called work, or having car problems, or laid up with a bad back like The Breadlad, who has been diagnosed with sciatica from a slipped disc. Unkind people have suggested it was piriformis syndrome, which mimics the symptoms of sciatica, its other name is Fat Wallet Syndrome, caused by sitting on a bulging wallet, considering the legendary frugality of The Breadlad, it is an obvious but erroneous, conclusion which is why we are not doctors. And The Ginger One is not a gynaecologist but he’s always willing to have a good look - free of charge. All this prolix (or bollox, if you prefer) is to explain why I was the lonely boy on a bike, contemplating the dubious puddle in Kildale Station car park, next to the toilet block, never been known to dry up, obviously a leak but is it ‘before’ water or ‘after’ water? Best not drink any to be on the safe side. But it was a fine sunny day, if we were in early February it would be a grand day, kind of disappointing for early May though, with a temperature well below double figures. As we’re trapped on this damp and chilly island for the foreseeable future, until Boris decides we can have a proper holiday, we’ll have to make the most of it. Would you look at that, I’ve just bashed out the thick end of three hundred words and we haven’t even left the car park.
Anyway, some bike riding happened, starting with a road warm up, all the way up Percy Cross Rigg and down to Sleddale, an ascent of Codhill Heights, through the gate to the seat behind Highcliffe Nab. A quick push up beside the wall, the rutted path has been filled in but only with soil, which the recent rain has left a bit squelchy. Approaching the start of The Riddler, I spotted another trail disappearing into the trees, being a companionless outcast with nobody’s feelings to worry about, a bit of exploration was in order. At first I thought I was riding the trail the wrong way, it climbed for a bit but when it dipped down in the good gravity direction all became apparent, it is a superb trail, a little slippery but a few dry days ought to sort it. I rode it as far as the trees near the path to Codhill Heights gate but according to Trailforks it drops down the old track beside the wall, the one parallel to the Highcliffe fire road, joins the new extension to the start of The Chute, ultimately joining The Chute for what will be an awesome experience; I only rode the top part because I didn’t want to lose too much height, forty odd years as a process operator taught me nothing but how to conserve energy. It is called The SuperChute on Trailforks, link here.
Some other trails were ridden, mainly old favourites, on Milkman Vs Batman, I was indulging in a spot of selfie gratification with the GoPros when, once again, God’s dandruff began to fall from the sky, an unwelcome aggregation of snow, hail and sleet. Charming. Fortunately it was brief. I made my way back toward Codhill Heights, slipping in another loop of the top of SuperChute before I headed back toward Kildale, arriving just in time for a bout of sloppy wet snow to make a mockery of the calendar.
The Novelty Of Snow In May Is Beginning To Wear Off.
Just to prove I’m not a sad loner, bereft of companionship, I was joined today by Oz, a newly confirmed member of the retired gentlemen’s club, ready to enjoy his first ride as a free man. He’s having a hard time believing he doesn’t have to go back to work, at present still thinking he is just on a ten day break or something. He asked if I had the same problem when I retired, me being someone who could forget about work while I was actually on shift, sitting in the control room, he’s probably asking the wrong person. Although I still have an occasional dream that I’m trying to get to work, running round the shops for food to last the shift, when I’m already late for the shift change over. It was a bit of a late start or various reasons, so we met at the old favourite Great Ayton at the tail end of another sunny but cold morning. We rode to Guisborough Woods via Fletchers Farm and Aireyholme Farm; The Ginger One, who hasn’t graced us with his presence for over a month now, has taken to calling Guisborough Woods, Jizzborough Woods as a way of expressing his disapproval of the place, or maybe he had some sort of #vanlife bukake party in Pinchinthorpe car park, which went tragically wrong. Either way, he refuses to countenance the place, will not sully his tyres with the fine North Yorkshire loam, hard to understand but he is from Darlington, where logic and reasoning don’t rise much above the need for food and alcohol.
As Oz found out today, there is a lot to go at nowadays in Guisborough, new trails are appearing overnight and old trails are being opened up again, perhaps one of the positive aspects of furlough? We rode trails old and new, failed at jumps, slithered down muddy chutes and panted up slopes, two retiree’s enjoying the last of the summer wine - there could be a TV series in this, until snow stopped play; big, claggy wet flakes, drenching us and everything around us. Cold and wet, we stopped in the shop at Fletcher’s Farm for a coffee, the seating area is an open-fronted barn in the farmyard, where two turkeys with faces like melted plastic, strut around like Max and Paddy. They took an audible dislike to Oz, gobbling at full volume and chasing him round the barn, audible became physical, with pecking and jumping attacks. Oz took refuge in the shop while the young assistant tried, unsuccessfully, to shoo them away. Eventually, they got bored of waiting for Oz to reappear and wandered off so we could have our drinks in peace. Cold, wet peace as the weather again reverted to December standards.
If Only There Had Been Some Fog...
Then we’d have had every type of weather.
When Andrew Gold released his song, Lonely Boy in 1977, he couldn’t possibly have envisaged it would be an earworm for a lone cyclist on the highways and byways of North Yorkshire forty four years later. Again I have less companions than Smelly Robertson, the loneliest person at our school, his lack of hygiene and dubious personal habits made you wonder how he ever became a teacher at all, let alone the headmaster. But there I was, slogging up The Yellowbrick Road and Percy Cross Rigg, heading to Guisborough Woods for the third day in a row, on a mission, should I choose to accept it, to find more new trails, which might tempt a few people away from settee and central heating and into the wide blue yonder (wherever that is). And successful it was too, a few dead ends but a couple of belters, one of which looks like it is the work of Ralph, of One Man and His Dog fame, giving a very enjoyable ride down from the Hanging Stone.
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