Breaking Him In Gently

And he’s back, risen from his sick bed like Lazarus, The Breadlad’s first outing since mid-April, being a jet-setting, international socialite, he was still fashionably late. Owing to his delicate condition, known unofficially as Crumpet-Maker’s Malady, he was in charge of picking the route for me and SuperBri. And a fine outing it was too, The Half Round, not a description of my burgeoning beer belly (it’s the lockdown, honest) but half of North Yorkshire classic, The Rosedale Round. From Blakey Bank top car park, we followed the Rosedale rail track to Chimney Bank, flat gravel the whole way; at Chimney Bank we headed down the road, not as boring as it sounds, some 33% hairpin bends liven things up nicely. Entering Rosedale Abbey for a visit to Climbin’ Simon’s favourite toilets, by this point we had ridden five miles and according to my Garmin, done five feet of ascent - if Carlsberg made mountain bike routes etcetera. It all had to end, of course, soon we were slogging uphill, making for Rosedale East side and more relatively flat railtrack ambling, only a few hundred feet of ascent in our way. Once on the railtrack, SuperBri decided to have an extra workout and went off-piste on a parallel track way above our heads, where he could look down on the lime kilns and other post-industrial relics from a different angle. We waited for him at the bridleway which leads down to the all-important cafe at Dale Head Farm, luckily, waiting for him gave us time to read the notice at the top, informing us the cafe is not open on Mondays or Tuesdays. Wait, what day is it? Monday. Oh bugger. Car park emergency rations picnic for us then. Hot, thirsty, hungry and cafeless, the sun took no pity on us as we pressed on around the head of the valley, performing what could be the most scenic U turn in the country, back in the direction of the cars. The Breadlad felt well enough to squeeze in the extra loop behind The Lion Inn, which, today, is pleasantly dry and dusty. Another stretch of flat gravel railtrack brought us back to the road at Blakey Bank, mere feet from our cars. Stools came out, not the type The Breadlad usually leaves all over the moors and we had a meagre picnic in the sunshine.

Wot? No Mud?

Just me and SuperBri today, starting in Chop Gate because he's never had the pleasure of the Cold Moor descent, another of our moorland classics, happily for us, largely ignored by the trail centre contingent. To prevent the ride being too short, we hauled ourselves up the Raisdale Road, as far as the cottages, then ascended to Stoney Wickes at the end of the Scugdale valley, the climbing buttresses of Barker's Crags and Scott Crags, where I enjoyed a misspent adulthood, (I never got into the whole B&Q boy thing, wandering round with a codpiece size tape measure clipped to my belt, muttering about RSJs and paint coverage. I am a great disappointment as a husband) looked splendid in the sunshine. One day I might go back and see if my emaciated arms can lift my bloated belly off the floor, all the while informing anyone within earshot that I used to solo this route - in trainers. Enough of this digression, there's a bike ride to do. We continued to the summit of Carlton Bank, pausing at Brian's Pond en route, so SuperBri could check on his namesake. From the summit, a circuitous descent of dubious legality took us to Lordstones and a ride around the back of Cringle Moor, taking in the odd bit of enduro track. Before too long, we reached Cold Moor, circumnavigating its broad face on a pleasant singletrack through bracken covered shale tips, which lead us to Garfit Gap, the valley between Cold Moor and Hasty Bank, looking across to The Wainstones, another venue for my misspent adulthood (and youth, if I'm honest, thanks to my dad). Turning our backs on the crags, we shouldered the bikes and hiked up the bridleway to the top of Cold Moor, SuperBri leapt back on his bike as soon as things flattened out a bit and floundered his way up rocks and ruts, whereas Mr. With Age Comes Wisdom, carried until the definitely rideable bit. The top of Cold Moor is a wide ridge with the usual North York Moors broad, sandy track running along it, as the moor loses altitude, the track begins to point downhill, turning into a dried riverbed filled with rocks and drop offs, the odd chicken run on the outside for when it gets too much. Lower it becomes moorland singletrack, with enough lumps and bumps to keep things interesting before some shallow gullies, filled with man-eating vegetation at this time of year, lead to tree-covered bower which ends behind the church in Chop Gate. And we’re done, a stone’s throw from the car park and our picnics.

Brian At His Pond

Mad Dogs And Englishmen

Jesus, it must be hot, even the puddle in Kildale Station car park has dried up, the puddle which seems to have less to do with cloud borne precipitation and more to do with the adjacent toilet block. All dry today, looking like being a scorcher. We set off up Three Sting Hill, thankfully shaded by trees, from Little Kildale to Warren Farm, a nice two hundred foot climb to begin the ride. After dropping down past the Leven Vale Chimney, it was time for SuperBri to have his first acquaintance with The Field Of Heavy Gravity, so called because this seemingly flat expanse of grass has you in your lowest gear from the start, arriving at the gate onto the moor panting before shouldering the bikes for a carry up steep and unrideable (there’s a challenge) singletrack bridleway. From the top we made our way to the road and immediately descended another bridleway, down into Baysdale Abbey, a little used but excellent descent, through heather and grass, just steep enough to be fun. Of course, the problem with Baysdale Abbey is the ascent required to leave the place, today was no different and we climbed up to Ingleby Moor via Middle Head, which is usually a descent for us. It was not hard to see why we normally travel in the opposite direction, particularly when we combined it with an ascent of the Old Coal Road, to finish at Burton Howe. Burton Howe is a scheduled monument, once containing Bronze Age remains, removed during excavation in 1956, so two sweaty mountain bikers lounging on top, weren’t committing any sort of desecration, except, maybe to fashion. Suitably rested and refreshed, we had a quick spin to Bloworth Crossing and back via the Incline Top before picking up the Cleveland Way and following it to the Baysdale road, nothing technical, just wide, gravel tracks cutting across heather moors, under a big, blue sky. We could have ended the ride with a quick blast down the tarmac directly back to Kildale but we have suffered ascending Coleson Banks so many times in the past few months, it was payback time. Magnificent it was too, the old, rutted nightmare of a track is long gone, it has been relaid with steep gravel which becomes a stony doubletrack across a sheep field, still downhill, all the way into Battersby. Sheep laid across the track moved reluctantly as we approached, no wonder they couldn’t be arsed, they must have been sweltering in their thick fleeces, it took a bit of bell ringing and Pensioner style swearing to hurry them up a bit. And that was that, a bit of tarmac between Battersby and Kildale and we were back in the sheltered suntrap of the station car park, picnics out.

And On The Fifth Day...

Fifth day of cycling in a row for me, there was an unblogged local ride on car service day and fourth day with SuperBri - he’s in the forefront of the attendance stakes this year, mainly owing to The Breadlad’s bad back and indolence on the part of most of the others. We were at Chop Gate again, so SuperBri can tick off another North Yorkshire classic - Trennet Bank, which actually finishes in this car park. But first we needed a circuitous route to get us up there, to at least scrape the mileage into double figures. For the second time this week, we were pedalling up the Raisdale Road, this time turning off at the farm road which eventually reaches a termination at Beak Hills. As we rode through the farmyard, the early warning Jack Russell didn’t hare out, barking itself to laryngitis, to escort us off the property. Odd. Leaving tarmac behind, we climbed steadily until we reached The Fronts, SuperBri’s yellow top attracting every insect in a five mile radius. We enjoyed the roller coaster Fronts all the way to Lordstones, with only a brief pause while I inspected the rib breaker rocks from six weeks ago, pointless really, they didn’t apologise or anything. From Lordstones, we began climbing again, up Carlton Bank and across the moor to, yes, you guessed, Brian’s Pond, gleaming in the heather like the Koh-i-Noor diamond. Bypassing it today, we carried on and up Barker’s Ridge, from the summit a left turn would have took us easily to Trennet Bank but it was a nice day, nobody felt overtired, so another loop was tagged on, a speedy descent of Arnesgill Ridge to Head House, wide, sandy moorland riding at its best. The climb from Head House up onto Bilsdale West Moor was not quite as speedy, in the shadow of the Bilsdale Transmitter Mast we toiled as it beamed out invisible inanity to the nation’s passive, slack-jawed, couch-jockeys. From the top, more of North Yorkshire’s finest sand took us to Cock Howe, a Bronze Age barrow, an ancient relic marked with a standing stone, which our own sadly departed ancient relic, The Pensioner, once managed to topple by trying to sit on it. Luckily we were able to re-erect the stone before the archaeology police caught us. Trennet Bank is about a mile and a half of pure pleasure, beginning with grassy singletrack, turning to rocks and ruts, which lead to a steep drop down shale, discretion is often the better part of valour at this point. After the shale, the route enters a network of sunken gullies, plunging to the car park, gorse, brambles and bracken all grasping for the blood of unsuspecting cyclists flying past. Seconds later, we are back in the car park, another picnic in the sunshine, another stinking, sweat-soaked top heading for the washing machine. Five days and not a drop of rain, it can’t last, the thunderstorms are already rolling in.