Shower Dodging

A lonely start to the week for me, it seems like every time a few raindrops appear on the weather app, everyone cabins up for the day. Four weeks to the day since I squished my ribs and they still hurt, going by the conventional wisdom, pain for three weeks equals bruised, pain for six weeks equals broken, it looks like I have another fortnight to go. A long road start to loosen them up seemed like a good idea, especially as it is mostly uphill; the tedium of the tarmac was enlivened by meeting former Terra Trailblazer, The Fireman, now defected to the bendy handlebar crew but he’s retired and loving life like everyone who says adios to the daily grind. Eventually I left tarmac behind, dropping down to Sleddale and across Codhill Heights, the wet weekend leaving behind a few puddles. From the seat on the Cleveland Way, I made my way to the top of Superchute, mainly to see how the ribs would cope with a bit of through the woods singletrack. The upper section is kind of corrugated and the ribs definitely took a dim view of the up and down motion, it’s a good job the place was deserted, my language may have verged on the industrial, going well beyond the usual sweary power which gets you up the hills. Forty one years working in industry, where interword swearing is normal conversation and intraword swearing is used for emphasis, verbal obscenity comes naturally to me, as every slippery tree root and muddy puddle can witness. I ended the top part of the route feeling like I’d just been kicked around a pub car park for spilling someone’s pint. Deciding we’re probably not ready for steep, slippery singletrack, I reversed my tyre tracks across Codhill Heights, always more enjoyable in the gravity friendly direction and carried on up Percy Cross Rigg and down to The Unsuitables. Skirting the top of Guisborough Woods to Newton Moor, all that remained was a steady ride to Gribdale then tarmac all the way back to Great Ayton and just for a change a visit to the bakers instead of the butchers.

Not Lost; Just Temporarily Misplaced.

A full day of rain yesterday meant my rest day was moved forward, it also meant today was an adventure in Puddle Land, the newest North Yorkshire theme park. Another ride bereft of companions, hydrophobia is a terrible affliction for a British mountain biker to suffer but it appears to be more common than Covid 19 amongst the dilettante branch of the Terra Trailblazers. I took the opportunity to reconnaitre a bridleway which would cut out most of the moor road section in my Scaling Dam ride. Parking at the Sean The Sheep bus shelter, I pedalled the whole length of Robin Hood’s Butts, which, predictably enough, is harbouring a few puddles the size of Olympic swimming pools. Soon, the bridleway came into view, I was intending to follow it north east, back towards Scaling Dam, across Sandy Slack, which is not, as you might imagine, a loose moraled lady called Sandra but the name of a moor. It started well, narrow but well defined singletrack, firm peat cutting through grass and heather, occasionally dipping into bog for short distances, soon the firm bits became less and the track became a water-filled trench through marsh grass, I pressed on, thankful I had remembered drag the mudguard from the back of the car and fit it on my bike. The track became more vague the squelchier it got until a small wooden bridge was reached, climbing after the bridge, the track dried up and became more defined, ahead of me I could make out the fences at the Danby turn off on the moor road, which was a shame because that was precisely where I didn’t want to be. My track should have veered off to the right, there is obviously a turn I had missed somewhere. A bit of bushwhacking and I found the correct bridleway and followed it almost to the moor road, so I could see where it began in relation to Scaling Dam, then I turned round to retrace my steps and find the turn off I’d missed earlier, the bridleway was drier and more definite than the first bit and I pedalled along, quite pleased to have added a new section to my route. Looking up, I could see Danby Beacon to my right, which was exactly where it shouldn’t have been and a realisation dawned that I was blundering across a moor in the wrong direction, heading back toward Scaling Dam and the moor road; cutting my losses I continued to the tarmac, crossing another foot-sucking bog on the way.

Literally the middle of nowhere.

Emerging onto the road, legs scratched from brambles and bracken, feet soaked from crossing North Yorkshire’s answer to the Okefenokee, bitten by insects and doubtless with a few ticks heading for the cosy warmth of my crotch, I looked at the bridleway sign, pointing through a gate half overgrown with vegetation and probably never opened since Wade The Giant was wandering about the moors, a hint if ever I saw one. Back on track, admittedly not the track I had intended to be on, another Terra Trailblazers first was about to be accomplished, riding up the Roxby Moor track, I could feel the earth moving as The Pensioner spun in his grave. It wasn’t too arduous, if I’m honest, never over-steep. It would have been even better if the local fly population hadn’t decided to use my body as a salt lick. From Danby Beacon, the rutted 4x4 track down to Oakley Walls is still rutted like a first world war battlefield but the ridges between ruts make for some ‘interesting’ riding until the track changes to a rocky downhill close to the road. The rocky section did abuse my ribs a bit, though not to the extent of Monday, so they must be getting better. The return leg was a straightforward run along the Clitherbecks track followed by a reverse of Robin Hood’s Butts, into a headwind naturally, just in case things might be too enjoyable.

It's a lie...

Sean The Sheep with a sheep

Biking And Caving.

Image courtesy of SuperBri

Managed a companion today, SuperBri, so it must be Thursday, the day he’s released from the education system into the real world for a few hours. And today that real world is a sunny and rather packed Lordstones car park, soon left behind as we slogged up the old gliding club access track, an experience new to SuperBri. We made our way across the moor to his namesake’s pond, something else new, he didn’t realise there was a pond named after him, inevitably a photo of Brian in front of Brian’s Pond followed. Further climbing took us up Barker’s Ridge, from where we pedalled to the start of the Head House singletrack, another North York Moors classic, although judging by the overgrown start, not that much of a classic. It seems cross-country riding across the open moorland, with big skies, natural singletrack and ungroomed descents is falling out of favour, to some minds, a poor substitute for man-made trails and predictable pistes. All the more for us then. The single track was varied and enjoyable, rocks and ruts, heather and grass, all beneath a canopy of cerulean blue. We reached Head House and had the mandatory scrounge about before a snack stop, sitting outside in the sunshine, marvelling at the hardiness of the folk who lived in this remote house, no running water, sanitation or electricity, probably no wifi either - how did they survive? We made our way back over Arnesgill Ridge, climbing gradually on broad, sandy tracks until we reached the summit of Carlton Bank, where the moors abruptly stop, plunging down to the Cleveland Plain.

A few paragliders were taking advantage of a mediocre wind to float above the fields and woods. We left the trig point behind and rode down to the little known and even less frequented valley of Thackdale, where there are some caves, which are actually old mine workings. The entrances are sinking further into the valley floor and the caves themselves appear to be getting smaller with a lot of fallen rock inside, not what you really want to see when you are underneath thousands of tonnes of moor. The main passage goes into the hillside beneath a waterfall, guarded by a small pool, which today was a big waterfall and an even bigger pool, so we contented ourselves with a look in what we used to consider the most open cave, reached through a low opening, there is a tunnel leading from the right hand side of the cave which connects to the passage beneath the waterfall, the opposite side of the cave has a chute which leads down to a further cavern beneath the main cave, a muddy crawl which we didn’t attempt with only the lights from our phones. I first visited this spot when I was five years old, carried across the moors on the shoulders of my dad and his hiking mates and later my own daughter and her cousins used to love coming here and crawling through the passages, with a pound shop torch and a cheap waterproof jacket, emerging wet and muddy into the light, fizzing with excitement. We fizzed our way back to Lordstones, pausing briefly for an attempt on the shale jumps near the road, attempt being the correct word, although the prefix, pitiful, would have made things more accurate. As we were leaving the cafe, we met Climbing Simon, former chairman of the now defunct Cafe Racers, a kind of inferior roadie version of the Terra Trailblazers, which had a short-lived burst of popularity a few years back. He was enjoying the last of his days off from the cut and thrust of industrial life, keeping the nation’s farmers supplied with fertilizer and counting down the days to retirement. He pretended he was out for a walk but really he was just lurking around the car park looking for people to talk to. Mountain biking and caving in the same ride; does this make us multi-sport enthusiasts, like The Ginger One whose proficiency in the arduous disciplines of both snooker and darts is legendary?

Brian at his pond.

Playing In The Puddles.

Perhaps I ought to be changing my deodorant, or maybe even wearing some, I prefer the old-fashioned practice of just getting washed but three quarters of this week’s rides have been alone, my phone has been quieter than The Gary Glitter Babysitting Agency on a wet Wednesday. Nothing flash today, a scrounge about Guisborough Woods, setting off from Great Ayton, the usual can’t think of anywhere to go place. The ribs are feeling slightly easier nowadays so a few trails were attempted cautiously, despite a couple of dry days, the sheltered stuff in the woods remains greasy and wet tree roots are slippery whatever the weather. Quite a few people about though, biking and walking, must be a Friday thing. Still a lot of puddles about which gave me the opportunity to play with the GoPro on burst mode, the ultimate selfie fun, set camera up, press button, after a ten second delay for you to find your best side and get into shredder pose, it takes thirty pictures over the next ten seconds, ideal for blasting through puddles, although passing walkers might (will) look at you a bit strangely. I took the long way back to Great Ayton, via Kildale wanting to check out the herd of deer in a roadside field, being farmed for venison, I assume but still flighty when the fence is approached, except for one young buck which boldly stared me out while all his mates scurried off to the far corner of the field. He posed for a few pictures before I left him to it, whatever it is deer might do all day, which mainly seems to be eating grass and looking startled.