Reverse Rimming: Perverse Pleasures.

Stump Cross

A bit odd, starting a week on a Tuesday but we let the weather forecast yesterday put us off - and just as well, the rain turned out heavy and persistent, but we escaped flooding unlike some areas. No sign of summer today although the rain has kind of stopped, it was going to be a mudguard kind of day though, a plethora of puddles awaited us. Mudguards in July? We climbed up from Clay Bank car park, heading into low cloud and moisture, aiming for The Breadlad’s favourite track, The Stump Cross Descent. Rod is on another week off from work, so, it looks as though my (healing nicely, thanks for asking) ribs will be getting a decent workout. Heading for Stump Cross across Urra Moor, the broad sandy tracks were claggy with moisture, beyond the Badger Stone our route headed up into the clouds, which skimmed the higher parts of the moor. By the time we reached the aptly named stump of a cross, they lifted and allowed us a bit of hope. The descent is singletrack all the way to the remote valley of Bransdale, suffering from a bit of seasonal overgrowth, at times disappearing completely under dense bracken but cycling gods that we are, we battled down to emerge victoriouos and unscathed.. We had a quick review of our options when we reached the road at Bransdale, electing to return via Tripsdale, more climbing than the other return routes but also much more fun. So Tripsdale came and went, down, down, down, hairpin, hairpin, hairpin, loose and nadgery, followed by up, up, up and up some more, until we were above Medd Crag, Bilsdale below us. At this point we decided to shake things up bit and ride The Rim (another TTB favourite) the opposite way round; predominantly uphill but never too arduous, it was fine except for the odd boggy bit which threatened to suck us under and leave us for future generations to find, perfectly preserved, like Lindow Man with bikes. A final blast downhill took us to the car park, sunny and warm, a different world from a few hours earlier.

Before Work Quicky

We, that’s me and Rod, had the pleasure of Charlie and Keith today, who drove down from Sunderland for a before work quickie - well for Keith anyway, who is single handedly keeping the wheels of the automotive industry turning while the rest of us squander our days away riding bikes in beautiful places. Two and a half hours to squeeze in a sample of some of the best Guisborough Woods can offer. Leaving Great Ayton behind, we headed directly for the Hanging Stone, a fine and sunny day, still a few puddles lingering from Monday’s cloudburst. Old Ralph’s latest track, Old Man’s View was ridden with approval, even though it was, today, a little greasy in parts. Moving on, Rod suggested Chevrons or to give it its proper Strava name <<chevRonzz>>, “It should hold up well to the weather.” The trail is nice and flowing with a few steep sections, in common with the vast majority of Guisborough trails, it is unofficial and has no kind of trail armouring, gravel, hard core or anything similar, just mud, which is great when it is dry, not so clever when it is wet. But, as Rod said, it should hold up well, it held up about as well as a tissue paper condom, we didn’t so much flow through the trees, as slither between them, the experience enlivened by regularly plunging into disproportionately deep, muddy puddles. Rod’s words will live to haunt him for a few years to come. Fun over, we hauled ourselves up The Unsuitables, my new mantra coming into play - “I’ve got a 52 tooth and I’m going to use it.” The Sunderland contingent, unused to real hills, stormed ahead, reaching the gate at the top in varying stages of incipient cardiac arrest, my forty odd years as a process operator giving me a deeper understanding of energy conservation, I know how to pace myself. A quick scoot up Percy Cross Rigg and around the Lonsdale Bowl brought us back to Newton Moor and the finale of today’s route, the classic descent of Little Roseberry, continuing down the side of Roseberry Topping to the Bluebell Woods, down through the woods to Cliff Rigg Quarry. Unfortunately time was against us, so we weren't able to pop into the quarry and impress the local youth with our airborne skills but there is always next time. We arrived back at the cars bang on time for Keith to grab a sandwich before he headed back up north and prepared for his shift while we lazed in the sunshine.

Riding Fat Betty.

Fat Betty or White Cross

Another day: another ride, it’s not so bad this retirement lark. We were joined by SuperBri today, who, being a teacher, is mere hours away from the wildly anticipated six week holidays; that feeling when you are a kid, waking up on the first Monday of the six week break, that’s what every day of retirement is like. Just saying. Blakey Bank top, despite the weather forecast, was breezy and cold, windproof tops were dug out for the first time in a while. Our ride was a few loops, taking in some of Rosedale’s highlights, starting with the unnamed singletrack which cuts across the corner near Ralph’s Cross, leading to Fat Betty, or White Cross, to give it the official Ordnance Survey name, where we inspected the food offerings which are regularly placed on the cross (no idea why, something to do with travellers and sustenance I guess) before riding the pleasant singletrack to the road. This was followed by a loop on tarmac until we reached the George Gap track, an ancient route across the moor, partially paved and still a bit squelchy in the unpaved sections, we emerged onto the Trough House track, riding past the house and returning to tarmac, heading for the Daleside Road descent, a superb piece of natural singletrack which leads down to the old Rosedale railway track. A lot drier than we expected today, a pretty much perfect descent, a wheel width trail through heather and grass, views down Rosedale valley, fifty shades of green. We took the continuation bridleway down to Dale Head Farm, the old self-service cafe has been revamped and renovated during lockdown and very nice it is too. For such a remote place, the cafe was surprisingly full, mainly people enjoying the weather, sitting at the outside tables. As were we. It has been said many times, when a group of men are talking, the conversation will inevitably degenerate to shit or sex and today was no different. We were engaged in a pretty far-ranging scatological discourse, stretching from the odiousness of long drop toilets in Africa to the less than discreet public evacuations of my young nephew when Disgusted Of North Yorkshire, sitting at the next table, took a break from ignoring his wife and demanded we change the subject. Being mountain bikers and therefore gentlemen, not like those uncouth and arrogant road cyclists, we apologised and raised our conversation from sewer level, while Mr. Disgusted went back to sitting in bitter silence with his wife. Lunch over we dragged ourselves and our bikes back up to the railtrack, the bridleway from the farm has been resurfaced - more lockdown gravel - but our attempts to climb it were still in vain. The relative flatness of the rail track returned us to The Lion Inn, from where we polished off a loop round the back of the pub, returning to the cars up the last few metres of Blakey Bank, pretending for the benefit of spectators, we had just powered our way up all the way from Farndale.

In England's Green And Pleasant Land.

The first day of what is predicted to be the hottest weekend of the year so far and it looked as though everyone has gone to Square Corner to make the most of it. I managed to slot into the last parking space, coincidently beside Rod. The Mad Mile start was as brutal as ever, the first time I’ve tried it with my 52 tooth back cog and the welcome sight of the summit cairn came with energy to spare, a change from the usual lung-burning, jelly-legged wreckage of a man sucking air in, waiting for his heart rate to return to double figures. We zipped along the Drove Road for a while before turning off to descend into the little-visited valley of Thorodale, behind Arden Hall. Bracken is encroaching onto the steep track, improving the odds of a speedier but significantly steeper descent to the valley floor if your front wheel wanders over the edge of the track. We continued through Thorodale Wood and took a nice fire road descent almost to Arden Hall, turning off onto another track close to the oddly named Nun’s Well. Somewhat ominously, Rod calls this “The track off the track.” knowing Rod’s idea of what constitutes a track, this could only mean a character-building adventure lay ahead. Up hill and down dale, through stinging, scratching fields and ordure splattered singletrack we pressed on into the unknown (for me anyone, Rod seemed to have a rough idea where we were headed). At one point out path was blocked by a random pair of cows, both with calves, one of the cows had the sort of horns which wouldn’t have looked out of place chasing macho hombres through the streets of Pamplona, the sort of horns which would look nice above the fireplace in a wooden lodge but not quite so nice sticking out of my spleen. We moved towards the animals, hoping they would let us past but no; one cow, along with the calves walked ahead of us while the other walked behind bellowing morosely. Rule number one of farm safety, never get between a cow and her calf. Whoops. We followed at a respectful distance like some sort of bizarre funeral cortege until the way was blocked by a gate, Mama cow turned around to eye us up, the calves beside her, mama cow #2 was still bellowing behind us. We climbed up onto the side of the track, ready to throw ourselves over a barbed wire fence if need be, mama cow flaunted her horns at us, still blocking the gate, the calves wandered off back down the track, Mexican standoff. The cow tensed and then began the longest piss I’ve ever known, a genuine twelve pints of lager, bladder-burster and still it went on and on, it must have been three or four minutes worth, stood there gushing out like a broken ball cock. Satisfied she had made a big enough puddle by the gate catch, she wandered off to rejoin her companions. We continued as before, on a variety of tracks, from gravelled farm roads to bracken and thistles, descending at one point to cross a river before pushing up the opposite bank as the fly population of North Yorkshire swarmed around our heads like something from The Hammer House Of Horror - yes I am that old, compulsory viewing back in the seventies. Eventually we reached a spot I recognized, the start of the Dale Head singletrack and we had a bit of a lie down in the sunshine before we tackled it, all around us, assorted hues of green, rain and sunshine in league to produce the verdant panorama of British summer. The Dale Head singletrack came and went, thankfully dry but not the classic it used to be, erosion seems to have swallowed up all the fun features. Continuing past the burnt out shell of the Dale Head farmhouse, surely beyond any more renovation attempts, we pedalled to the road and our picnics at Square Corner, now much less crowded than when we set off. We had only rode just over ten miles, with a moderate amount of ascent but it felt like the one of the hardest routes this year, probably because it was my fourth day in a row and the sun was blazing. Rod’s suggestion of a few trails in Silton Woods to finish the day was greeted with the three D’s - disdain, disbelief and despair.