We managed a decent size crew for the first ride and the first day of the month, I was showing SuperBri, Bingo Bob, Simon T. and Keith around the new developments at Sutton Bank. I hope the £24 (The Breadlad’s blood pressure will be rising as he reads this) we lashed into the parking machine goes some way towards more bike related fun. The new start, past the pump track was greeted with approval and some enthusiastic but less than stylish attempts at jumping on the graveled humps. We joined the road and headed for Dialstone Farm, utilising a bit of the green route to take us to the escarpment, where we turned right and headed north on pristine singletrack, overhead, blazing sun in a cloudless sky. Is this really North Yorkshire? At Kepwick Quarry we did our usual short section of the blue route, dropping down through the quarry and into the valley below on speedy, natural singletrack, made famous on one of the helicopter rescue TV shows when someone got a little carried away and had an unplanned dismount of the painful kind. We pushed back up the grass slope to High Barns, all except for Bingo Bob, whose electric bike made light work of the ascent. We puffed and panted, bringing up the rear until we could regroup at the top. Onward, ever onward, we passed a sadly closed High Paradise Farm, Tuesdays are one of the days she’s not open, continuing to Dale Town Common and through fields to Noddle End and another awesome descent, made even better today by being dry. The limestone rocks which line the trail are slippier than Elton John’s favourite lube when they are wet, conditions were perfect today. A big smiles all round rendezvous at the bottom before we rode beneath the cliffs of Peak Scar and joined the road at the top (thankfully) of Murton Bank. A couple of miles of tarmac got us back to the escarpment to ride it in the opposite direction, where the views are better, looking out across Thirsk toward the Pennines. We paused at the self-proclaimed “Finest View In England”, which was indeed fine on a day like today, Gormire Lake nestling blue amidst a green canopy beneath the honey yellow of Whitestonecliffe, scene of climbing adventures in the past. Probably the only cliff where reaching the bottom to start the climbs is more dangerous than the actual climbing.
The finish of the green route took us back to the car park, which we bypassed en-route to test our prowess on the pump track. The challenge is to ride the whole course without pedalling, using gravity and some pumping from the arms and legs to propel us round, all under the watchful eye of groups of children, enjoying the half term holiday and wondering why their playground had been invaded by a bunch of grandads. We all managed with varying degrees of success and indeed elan in most cases, except for SuperBri; it transpires he has the same sense of rhythm which leads devout Catholics to have a dozen or so kids, pumping in all the wrong places, his momentum was spent within the first ten metres. Quote of the decade occurred, some woman, trying to get her little daughter to have a go, sees Bri set off and says to daughter, "Look, that man's got all the gear and he still can't do it..." Surprisingly tiring this pumping business and it wasn't long before we realised our rightful place was not on a pump track with a bunch of kids but in a cafe surrounded by a bunch of calories.
The Sunshine Brings Them Out.
Another sunny one with SuperBri, setting off from a rapidly filling Great Ayton, as young families staked their claims to patches of grass beside the river. SuperBri was complaining of knee pain, no doubt from his pump track adventures or possibly because of last month’s eight hundred and odd miles of riding in aid of prostate cancer. A superb effort and all of those who didn’t get their hands in their pockets - give your heads a shake. The usual uphill followed by more uphill with a bit more uphill on top brought us, eventually, to Newton Moor, overlooking Roseberry Topping, half term hikers on the summit like sprinkles on an ice cream. We headed for the Hanging Stone and Ralph and Max’s latest track which appears to have been christened Old Man’s View on Strava. Nice in the dry. A bit of fire road bashing and a couple more trails, including the newly downgraded Screwball Scramble and we gradually made our way back to the top of the forest in a snakes and ladders fashion, where we embarked on Superchute, a new favourite. Another couple of trails followed before we found ourselves heading down the Brant Gate bridleway, another fine descent - when it’s dry. The freshly renovated track through the bottom of Newton Wood is a grand way to finish a ride, bluebells and garlic, which is also its Strava name. We popped into Cliff Rigg Quarry, hoping to be impressed by flying adolescents, it being half term and all but it was empty, probably all on their Playstations or whatever it is kids do nowadays. It’ll be a far cry from Newcastle Brown Ale and Players No. 6 behind the garages, before the invention of microchips and LCD screens, until I was 20 years old I lived in a house with only one TV and it was black and white, with only three stations. No wonder a teenager's only ambition in those days, when ID was something you only saw in American films, was to get served in a pub and see how much you could drink before throwing up in the car park. Seeing as the doubles, tabletops and berms were bereft of teenagers, we spent time honing our skills on some jumps which are probably just humps of soil leftover from building the real jumps; to class them as nursery slopes would be an insult to kindergartens. Our tenure as kings of the quarry was short lived, as hunger drove back in the direction of the butchers and a delectable selection of pastry wrapped treats, which we ate by the river, surrounded by happy families, playing in the sunshine, while giving two sweaty old geezers a wide berth.
Another Slacker Ride.
There seems to be some suspicion amongst the straggly bunch of bicycling misfits which comprises the Terra Trailblazers that I keep all the flat (i.e. minimum climbing) rides to myself. They don’t realise it’s for their own good, they’ll thank me one day. Today, however, I relented and introduced SuperBri to one of my Scaling Dam rides, where the ascent is generally well under a thousand of your english feet. We had a false start because SuperBri’s powers don’t run to remembering where he has put things but eventually we were braving the moor road traffic, especially busy because it is still half term and some grass cutting was taking place on the verges, slowing down the headlong flight towards Whitby for the thousands of motorists who fail to realise the North York Moors national park actually covers 545 square miles, not just Whitby, Sheepwash and Roseberry Topping. Thankfully we left the moor at the Danby turn off and had only close passing sheep to contend with as we made our way to Robin Hood’s Butts. The track is practically dry all the way to the SIs Cross turn off, the singletrack to Sis Cross is also dry, completely different to a couple of weeks ago when most of its length was submerged. From the cross, a meandering trail of pristine singletrack flows through the heather, heading down the moor, there are still a couple of wheel-sucking peat hags to catch out the unwary. I don’t think SuperBri was too injured, let’s hope not, he’s still having treatment from his last big off. At the end we crossed the road and made our way onto the Pannierman’s Causeway, climbing upward, crossing the track to Clitherbeck Farm and along an ancient paved section of the causeway until we reached the minor road which goes to Danby Beacon. The beacon is always classed as an NSP (Natural Stopping Point) and we halted for a snack and a look at the view. The north sea in front of us, Roseberry Topping peeping up to our left, Fryupdale behind us and far off to to our right, Fylingdales Early Warning Station, poised, ready to intercept hostile nukes heading for the land of the free and the home of the brave so they can enjoy the right to kill each other, without any help from damn commies. The Second Amendment must be responsible for more American deaths than any foreign superpower. The sky was remarkably free from cruise missiles, so we headed off down Lealholm Rigg to Roxby Moor, another favourite track which has benefited from a few tonnes of lockdown gravel, sorting out the damp patches and smoothing out the ride for an awesome blast across the moor toward Scaling reservoir. It was over all too soon, before we knew it, climbing again towards High Tranmire Farm. We went the long way round to check on the sand martin colony beside the farm road - they have returned. The east end car park at Scaling Dam was open and there was a burger van too, a welcome surprise as this car park has been locked shut for months. It would be rude not to stop and we soon had a cheeseburger each in our grubby hands; not a cheeseburger in each of our grubby hands, you’ll note, we are athletes after all. It turns out that the car park is open when the burger van is there, which is only Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Appetites satiated, it was only a quick pedal along the dam to the other car park and our ride was over, thirteen miles and only 755 feet of ascent but still some cracking riding.
Rocks And Ribs.
The beginning of another promising week, temperatures in the low twenties, no rain and light winds, grand for me, good for Rod, who has a week off work, bad for Keith who is celebrating his last day of freedom, as his furlough ends tomorrow and he’s back at Nissan, semiconductor shortage permitting, kick-starting the North East economy. We even had an easy classic ride planned, Lordstones, The Fronts to Clay Bank, Urra Moor, The Rim, East Bank Plantation, Chop Gate, Beak Hills, Cringle Moor enduro tracks and back to Lordstones for a beer in the sunshine. We left Lordstones behind and started on The Fronts, wary of the muddy patches, after last time’s filmed slither into the mire, I took a high line around one squelchy section, clipped my pedal on a rock and ended up laid in the mud, minus bike. Smelly and embarrassing, the story of my life but not a problem, the rock which proved to be harder than my ribcage was more of a problem, winding me initially, then reminding me of its superior status by sending an invisible man to kick me in the ribs on every breath, bearable but I’ll be suffering in the morning. It soon became apparent I’d be suffering long before morning, flat riding and uphills were pretty much okay, bumpy downhills were a whole world of pain, as the maneuvers for getting over rocks and down drops set loose a little army of knifemen between my ribs and no amount of swearing would shake them off. Being a brave little soldier, I made it around the ride without too much trouble, although I wimped out of the enduro tracks, waiting at the bottom like a Flamingoland coat holder while Rod and Keith had fun on the roller coasters. Back at Lordstones, my left arm took a dim view of being lifted above shoulder height, indicating its displeasure by having Leatherface chainsaw through my ribs. Not good when you use a roof rack. It’s a good job I have helpful companions. Sitting outside the cafe in the blazing sunshine, with food and drinks, I came to the realisation that this week’s riding had ended before it began and a few days' rest would be wise. The Breadlad will have to snuggle up and make room for another one on his sickbed, I just hope he doesn’t wriggle or snore a great deal or make too many sexually deviant demands - there’s only so much abuse this sexagenarian body can take.
Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.
