It's Warm And Sunny - Somewhere.

 

 The Finest View In England?

Some sinister alignment of holiday dates means all the fit and athletic blokes are off together this week, everyone else is keeping a lower profile than Gary Glitter at a primary school sport’s day, which leaves me to play the role of fat kid at the back. The most blatant typecasting since someone let Jason Statham think he is an actor. So, I can look forward to a week of being tag-teamed by Howard, Rod and SuperBri. Never in the field of human conflict have so many backs been seen by so few. Only Howard and Rod today for the first day and first ride of the week, incidentally 18 years and one day since the inaugural Terra Trailblazers ride (TTB 001), when me, The Pensioner (AKA Blind Bob) and The Ginger One (who was known as Granny Ring Robson, back in those days) had a gentle pedal around Silton Woods and along the Hambleton Drove Road, ending on a high with a descent of the Mad Mile. Sadly, The Pensioner has gone to ride trails between the stars and The Ginger One has gone to work overtime. Today we are at the opposite end of the Drove Road, lashing out a King’s Ransom just to park our cars at the top of Sutton Bank, Howard and Rod eager to be introduced to the new bits of the Sutton Bank trails. After the usual car park faffing and prevarication, we made our way round to the pump track, enjoying some not-unusual failed attempts at a pedal-free circuit, before we followed the remainder of the new bit back to the road. We carried on, passing the racehorse training track, none out today, provoking a discussion as to whether a four foot high, six stone man can actually control a couple of tonnes of horsemeat with a brain the size of an orange. Probably not was the verdict, jockeys are only there to stop the horses eating the grass halfway round, put the horses on a dirt track like greyhounds, greyhounds don’t need jockeys. We headed for the escarpment, Dobbin the carthorse following Red Rum and Shergar, which was me following those two, Howard was wearing a waist pack with a dodgy urethra, it kept coming loose and flapping about; Rod wore a small Camelbak, this was my view for the majority of the ride. The escarpment was sublime, trying to concentrate on the singletrack and not on the view over the edge was the difficult part; some years ago The Pensioner did manage to plunge off the track, luckily we were above one of the wooded sections and a handy tree trunk prevented him plummeting to the valley below. Another Terra Trailblazers favourite trail followed, which is part of the Sutton Bank blue route, dropping down to a quarry entrance before continuing down the valley of natural singletrack, which can be a bit dodgy in wet conditions, it was about perfect today. The Drove Road was regained with the power of pushing  - straight up the hillside, rather than the official fire road ascent, which is long and boring. A couple of miles further on, a nice descent took us to Boltby Forest where we checked out an old off-piste downhill track which was dry enough to be fun, it follows a shallow gully through the pine trees, many years of accumulated pine needles hiding the roots and rocks, finishing with a steep ‘Guisborough style’ finish to a fire road. A little fire road climb to get us back to the Drove Road, then we retraced our tyre tracks along the escarpment, heading the opposite way, finishing on the green family route which leads directly back to the Sutton Bank visitor centre - or more importantly - the cafe.

It's Warm and Sunny - Somewhere.

It had to be said - again - the British summer is proving to be somewhat of a disappointment, as it is every year. We have the best weather in February more often than not, the anticipation of weeks of hot weather in the summer doesn’t even reach the point of mild hope anymore. There was a nice summer in 1976 and another sometime in the early nineties, when even a fortnight in the Lakes felt like a proper holiday but since then we have the odd nice day occasionally, sometimes two rothree together but nothing that could be considered a full season. Me and Rod met in a grey and dull Danby, dreich as the Scots would describe it, cloud blanketing the surrounding hilltops, an ever-present moistness in the air, helped along by a buffeting wind. Yep, it’s the middle of August. Rod has never had the pleasure of the Jack Sledge track, so we rode up into the clouds on Ainthorpe Rigg only to plummet down the other side on a narrow, slightly greasy, singletrack, a drop to the right keeps us focused on the trail and we made it to the bottom without any body/heather interaction. We took tarmac to the Yorkshire Cycle Hub to enquire about the track they are building around the buildings, it is almost ready to open, delayed only by the scourge of the modern world - insurance. It looks as though it will be an enjoyable little loop when it opens. The bridleway through the fields from Stonebeck Gate Farm to Crag Farm is mainly dry and gave us an enjoyable little blast until we made it Lawns Road, ready for some more climbing, through Houlsyke and up Oakley Side to reach the gravel bridleway which passes Clitherbeck Farm. The constant drizzle turned a little heavier, waterproofs were donned only to be packed away again ten minutes later. Robin Hood’s Butts seems to have had some work done on it, the rubble filled sections have been covered with hard packed mud, giving us a pleasanter ride. Weather and 4x4’s will soon have it back to its usual condition. We reached Sis Cross, pausing to take in the view, shades of brown, purple and grey’ velocity not vistas for us today. We embarked on the singletrack, a little greasy, the track not us, we were wet and sweaty - nothing new there, I’ve rode the trail a few times this month, just about mastered the tricky bits, especially the muddy puddle with the hidden paving slab, which, if you hit it just right, gets you through while others flounder. We took the Pannierman’s Causeway again, the bridleway which passes through someone’s garden (really) and over a stream before climbing up again and dropping down toward Danby Park. This week, the correct trail was followed rather than the Danby Park Alternative and we enjoyed a pleasant drop down through bracken to reach the track back to Danby. Sitting outside The Stonehouse Bakery, replacing necessary calories, the clouds parted and a few minutes of intense sunshine caressed our damp bodies, a brief teaser of the season that time forgot. It didn’t last. 

Autumn In August.

Another grey start, despite the weather, barely a parking space was left by the river in Great Ayton; a few groups of roadies were unloading their bikes and the safety in numbers walking group were waiting until they had a full legionary cohort before venturing out to tackle whatever dangers the badlands of North Yorkshire could inflict upon them. So many walking poles, they could have used them like scaffolding and built a tower up to the summit of Roseberry Topping. And while all the available parking was being taken by red socks and roadies, where was The Breadlad? Parked up under his duvet, doing a Rip Van Winkle impression, a spectacular bit of oversleeping which reduced us to a foursome, SuperBri has returned to join Rod and Howard in running the fat old bloke ragged. If only I had drank that white filth they gave us free every morning in school instead of pouring it down the sink when the teacher wasn’t looking, I might be tall and athletic with big long levers to push those pedals round instead of being short and squat like a neanderthal in lycra and knee pads. But milk is disgusting, let’s think about it, humans are the only species which will drink the milk of another species and we’re talking here about carrion eaters who will make a banquet from roadkill. Or perhaps they just don't have the thumbs for udder squeezing. A usual Great Ayton start ensued, making our way up to Aireyholme Farm, in the shadow of Roseberry Topping, Howard stopped to fix a mechanical, which moved me out of last place for the only time this week. We waited at a gate as the lane filled with sheep which were being herded out of a field, until some orange- helmeted mountain biker rode up on his freshly fixed bike and scared them all back into the field again.

Just imagine what they would have done if it were The Ginger One, he’s from Darlington, where it’s not unheard of for an attractive ewe to have concubine status. Once Howard was through his flock, we continued up the hill, one advantage of being the lanterne rouge is never having to open gates, or close them, as kind companions wave you through, desperate to avoid slowing the anchor any more than necessary. Numerous trails followed, from popular to so obscure, the entrances have disappeared beneath a wall of greenery, nobody had a machete stuffed in their Camelbak, or anywhere else, so we resorted to brute force and ignorance. Brambles tore chunks from our legs, while nettles waylaid any exposed skin, bracken attempted to reel our bikes in like shiny, metallic fish and hidden potholes swallowed unwary ankles. One trail Rod introduced us to turned out to be the start of a trail, me and some riding buddies ‘improved’ way back in the mists of time, quite possibly in the previous century, the start was the same but then it went in a completely different direction to the one I remembered but there again, it was over twenty years ago, these trails change by the hour sometimes. As is the way of the world, what goes down, must go up and the descents were punctuated by some gruesome climbing, again, pretty standard for Guisborough. Inevitably, hunger pains steered us back toward Great Ayton, via the Brant Gate bridleway, a little used descent which is an awesome route down, especially when combined with Little Roseberry.

Bounding Up Barrow.

Mention a hike-a-bike up a mini-mountain or two and your half a dozen strong team is immediately halved, only a dedicated trio battled through the A66 traffic to reachThrelkeld. Me, Rod and SuperBri. Sometimes when the weather is grey and drizzly on the East coast, heading West brings an improvement, not so today, equally grey and drizzly in The Lakes. Much to The Breadlad’s disgust, the cricket club car park has replaced the old honesty box with a new-fangled pay and display parking machine - this might have a lot to do with his no show today. Numerous media reports this summer have highlighted atrocious parking by motorists in the lakes, yet here we were, apart from our three cars, a completely empty car park in the middle of the tourist season. Perhaps The Breadlad isn’t the only one who baulks at spending three quid. To begin we rode up an even smaller mini-mountain, Latrigg, if Skiddaw was a face, Latrigg would be a hairy wart growing from its chin but as a viewpoint it can’t be beaten, even by its grander neighbours. And, as any Borrowdale mountain biker is aware, the descent down Spooney Green Lane is phenomenal, even today, marred by walking pole panters, trudging their way upward, faces like slapped arses - I thought this walking lark was supposed to be enjoyable? To be fair, most were friendly, responding well to my jingling cowbell, which raises a few smiles wherever I go. They are called Timber Bells, clamped to the handlebars, they jingle whenever the going gets rough and the tough get going, or so Billy Ocean said. In less populated areas, there is a switch to silence the bell. I might buy a few and hang them all over my bike, so I can turn them on descents and pretend I am a World Cup downhiller being encouraged by the crowd. The sort of harmless fantasy that won’t get you arrested when the 5G, Covid vaccination, mind-reading, nanochip technology is up and running.  We rode through the outskirts of Keswick and made our way to Braithwaite, passing the village shop, nobody keen on stopping for ice cream, as we did last year on this route, it being at least ten degrees cooler and one hundred percent more cloud cover. After the shop the climbing begins and doesn’t really stop until the summit of Barrow is reached, tarmac at first, then gravel which morphs into typical Lake District stoney singletrack, turning to a spot of scrambling near the summit. Normally it is a leisurely ride/push/carry until we’re at the top, today SuperBri decided to become Superhuman and ride the lot, apart from the scrambling bit because he is definitely no trials rider. If he was trying to make a name for himself it certainly worked, although the name may not be repeatable in polite company. A superb effort though, if I was SuperBri’s age, I’d still have no chance.

At the summit, every flying ant in Borrowdale had turned out to watch SuperBri’s performance, floating around us like specks of ash from an erupting volcano. After a leisurely lunch, looking across Derwentwater, the fells on the far shore shrouded, barely visible, straight ahead of us the bottom half of the Skiddaw massif, solid green beneath a ragged grey hem. The descent of Barrow is given a blue grading on Trailforks which may give people whose only experience of blue routes is the groomed pistes of trail centres a shock, there are multiple lines, from grooves filled with loose pebbles to steep and jaggy rock drops. Line choice is paramount. For the first time ever, we made it down with no falls and a minimum of submissions, sometimes even sessioning sections just like the young people. In significantly less time than it took us to get up, we were back in Braithwaite, adventure over. We pedalled through back lanes to Keswick, passing through the centre of town, the usual collection of expensive walking gear defending those wearing it from the worst excesses of  weather blasting through wide expanses of Keswick Main Street. The refurbished rail track back to Threlkeld was our objective, the first time we have rode it following the floods which washed away two of the main bridges. Controversially, the surface is now tarmac for the whole length, rather than the gravel used previously, which gave a very smooth ride but I can imagine it will be all kinds of treacherous when old Jack Frost gets a grip. Next stop, the Horse And Farrier, which performed quite admirably in the food and beer for hungry mountain bikers department.

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

Excluded From The Exclusion Zone and other things we can't talk about. August 2021 Week 2.

 

It's Not The Miles, It's The Percentage Of The Ascentage.

Dry but disappointingly cool for the second week of August, me and Terra Trailblazers super-attender, SuperBri are in Clay Bank car park, both with new brake pads to bed in, hence a downhill blast down the road to Ingleby Greenhow. Which left the problem of regaining all the lost height, like trying to decide how you would like to be tortured, a choice you'd rather not have to make. All our options were steep and gruesome, Turkey Nab, Coleson Banks, the Baysdale road or our old friend 3 Sting Hill and the Field Of Heavy Gravity. All except the road alternative involve a push (for us mere mortals anyway), so we decided to make like roadies and before much longer we were panting up the tarmac beside Park Nab. Not before time the gate marking the end of our brief venture into the world of skinny tyres, illegal doping and complete boredom came into view. The track still climbed but at least we had something lumpy under our tyres, we headed up the track until the turn off to Ingleby moor and a welcome bit of downhill. As is the nature of these things, it was followed by more ascending, a steep climb out of the valley, then The Old Coal Road up to Burton Howe, an NSP, where we sat and took in the view, our cars twinkling in the sunlight far across a broad valley. We had rode eleven miles and ascended about 1200 feet but felt as though the ride had not yet started, a circuitous return route was a necessity, squeezing in some fun riding. At least we didn't have to contend with encroaching bracken here on the wide open moor which is a problem in the more fertile areas, seemingly worse this year, warm and moist seems to be what it likes, The Breadlad and Charlie could disappear forever in some places, prisoners of The Green Man. 

From Bloworth Crossing, the buffeting wind we had suffered so far became a welcome tailwind, pushing us along the old railtrack and down a paved bridleway which cuts off the corner. More climbing took us to the junction below Round Hill and for the second time in four days, I was descending the sandy track toward Medd Crag, this time turning right, instead of continuing straight down. Another reverse of The Rim, a Terra Trailblazers  favourite, although mainly for the puerile humour and innuendo engendered by the route name which something which is an important historical monument (Bronze Age linear earthwork) probably doesn't deserve. But seeing as we are not Time Team, the rimming jokes continued uncensored by any broadcasting constraints, although if they are ever looking to replace Tony Robinson, a cycling archaeologist could be a new gimmick. I wont let the fact I'm not an archaeologist stand in my way, let's face it I'm not really a cyclist but can just about scrape by for four or five days a week. The stony bits were still stony, the boggy bits squelched underfoot, we found another way to cross the stream, a stone flagged bridge. This is what happens when you break the habit of a lifetime and follow the official bridleway marker posts, can’t believe it has only taken twenty years to find the bridge. To be fair it looks fairly new, it’s certainly easier than the scramble up wet rocks we normally do. Gluttons for punishment, we turned right at the end of The Rim and headed back uphill as far as the bridleway for Jackson’s Bank. Jackson’s Bank was dry and even a little dusty, pleasant descending in the sunshine, looking across the valley to Ingleby Incline, which appears as an innocuous slope from this angle, I wonder how many people have been fooled by that. A slightly technical lower section finishes at a gate, through the gate a short rock garden leads to a fire road and it’s a steady pedal back to the car park and a picnic in the sunshine.

Danby Park Alternative.

Suitably refreshed following a rest day yesterday, me and SuperBri met at a breezy Birk Brow, ready for a Quaker’s Causeway double. The soggy buttocked will quake at the idea but we have glutes like over-inflated basketballs, so it holds no fears for us. The outward journey took us across the causeway - which for the uninitiated is an ancient paved ‘trod’ cutting across High Moor, allegedly built by monks so the faithful could get to the burger van in Birk Brow car park more easily, or it may have been Guisborough Priory, one or the other. A well constructed pathway of tightly packed stones, fairly uniform width but irregular height, giving a buttock-battering journey, especially on a hardtail, hence the unpopularity. Just open up the rear suspension and keep pedalling. A somewhat smoother bit of tarmac took us to the Sean The Sheep bus stop and the wide, stoney track of Robin Hood’s Butts, virtually dry today, we took this to the Sis Cross bridleway, classic moorland singletrack, curving through heather, only startled grouse to keep us company - it’s the Glorious Twelfth tomorrow, they’ll have to do a better job of hiding. The usual small, muddy drops are still there, waiting to have the unwary cyclist over the handlebars but we got through fine today. Towards the end, we turned onto the Pannierman’s Causeway, which drops down through someone's garden before crossing a beck and climbing back up, over toward Danby Park. A slightly alternative route found us on a track above the trees which constitute Danby Park, it looked promising, it was heading in the right direction, why not give it a go? It started well, a pleasant sheep track contouring the moor, a few small rock gardens gave way to larger boulder gardens and having the trials skills of a jellyfish, pushing soon became easier than riding. We crossed a more open section, only for the trail to disappear completely, leaving us with some undignified bracken-bashing to get us back to the official bridleway.  Which only left a road climb and the reverse of the causeway, which we laughed at, buttocks like pieces of old leather left to dry in the sun. Back at the cars, we just began tucking into our food, when the weather let us know in no uncertain terms, it’s still August in England - big fat raindrops strafing the car park, helped along by a driving wind. Tailgates make good umbrellas. 

Excluded From The Exclusion Zone

Catastrophe has struck North East England, the Covid plague, global warming, the resurgence of the Taliban in Afghanistan and wild fires in Turkey pale into insignificance because the telly has gone off. In the middle of yesterday afternoon an estimated million sets went from Loose Women to No Signal in the blink of an eye. To say it’s a bit of a talking point is an understatement. A fire at Bilsdale Transmitter Mast has definitely exposed a few weaknesses in the system, the most obvious being a complete lack of a backup or a contingency for such an event. The opinion that it hardly matters and nobody ever died from not watching television, is without doubt a minority opinion  - just me I think but as someone who can’t understand why a person would even dream of turning a television on during the day, I honestly can’t see what all the fuss is about. Things became more interesting when the media reported the structural integrity of the mast is a concern and the firefighters and technical staff had been withdrawn with immediate effect. A roundabout way of saying the mast might collapse. When something a thousand feet high falls over who shouts TIMBER...? A bike ride which passed the mast suddenly seemed appealing, let’s have a nosy and see what is going on and surely there would be something on my 36 piece multitool to get the telly working again. Anything to stop it being my mother’s main topic of conversation, as though the internet or even DVD’s had never been invented. Which is why me and SuperBri found ourselves in Lordstones car park, waiting for The Breadlad to transition from NMT (New Marske Time) to British Summer Time, arriving his customary fifteen minutes late, he gingerly exited his car like a man with a herniated spinal disc but still willing and eager to throw leg over crossbar and caution to the wind. 

To cut a long story short (thank God, I hear you saying), we rode up Carlton Bank, along to Brian’s Pond - SuperBri now takes a proprietary interest in the pond, checking the water level, making sure there is no litter etcetera. A bit of singletrack to the head of Scugdale, then it was back on the wide sandy tracks all the way to the mast, which was still standing but in need of a fresh coat of paint.  To cut another long story short, we were soon informed, in no uncertain terms, we were inside the 300m exclusion zone and it would probably be best if we could vacate the area - or words to that effect, accompanied by lots of whistle blowing, raised voices and men tramping through the heather to intercept us. It was all very amicable in the end, they realised we weren’t saboteurs from Sky or Virgin come to ensure a million new subscribers. Perhaps next time they have to make an exclusion zone they might want to call at Arco on the way and pick up a couple of rolls of red and white tape because invisible barriers are no deterrent to idiots like us. The interesting interlude signalled the halfway point in our ride, we made our way back on more wide, sandy tracks, pausing again while SuperBri checked out some beehives, standing too close for comfort as swarms of bees buzzed around. We rode past Head House and ascended Arnesgill Ridge to rejoin our outward route. A quick diversion to the summit of Carlton Bank, just for the hell of it and then we were hurtling down the track back to Lordstones.

Dales 1; Scotty 0

 The Youth ventured out today, for the first time this year, which just goes to show the huge disadvantage of the 9 to 5 existence. But at least he gets to go to bed every night. We were in the Dales because SuperBri had somewhere to be in the west of the country later today, parked at the Yorkshire Dales Bike Centre, bike shop, cafe, car park, bunkhouse and all round grand place. Could be even better if it wasn’t surrounded by huge hills, any decent ride from here is going to start with some significant uppage and today was no different. The weather is still disappointingly cold for August, we all donned windproof tops as we set off - staycation my arse. We rode up through the picturesque market town of Reeth, what makes it a market town? The post-industrial wasteland where I live has a market, every Monday, nobody calls it the picturesque market town of Billingham although I’m pretty certain that is the first time Billingham and picturesque have ever been used in the same sentence.  Carrying on the road to Arkengarthdale beckoned, obviously named on a day letters were buy one get: one free and we climbed steadily until just outside Langthwaite, the road began to drop. As my companions readied themselves for a well-earned descent, our route turned off onto a bridleway and continued climbing for another mile or so, until we reached the gate at the appropriately named Fore Gill Gate. We treated ourselves to a quick blast down tarmac and through a ford before returning to off-road climbing, on a typical Dales track, wide and stoney, a lot of the tracks around here are remnants of Swaledale’s industrial past, broad enough for vehicles or maybe even horses and carts and built in an era when it wasn’t imagined that people would ride bikes up them for fun. Fun might not be quite the correct word for the two miles of continuous ascent we dragged ourselves up, eventually reaching a characteristic Swaledale moonscape; grey shale tips, devoid of any sort of vegetation surrounded us, our track only visible as a slight indentation in the surface. We were close to the summit of Great Pinseat and the wind was doing it’s best to ensure we didn’t get any closer, we sheltered in a hollow to put back a few calories, wind howling around our ears. August in England - magnificent.  But we were happy, we’d broken its back as the saying goes and ahead lay a similar amount of descending. It was worth every bit of the blood, sweat and tears shed for the ascent. 

We dropped down from Great Pinseat along Forefield Rake, which is actually just another random scattering of spoil tips, continuing down, down, down, along Flincher Gill to the gate at Level House Bridge. More descending toward the Old Gang Smelting Mill, a barren landscape of ruined remnants of buildings and tonnes of loose rock spilling down the hillsides. This was the scene of a spectacular crash many years ago, when The Ginger One was young and enthusiastic and actually came out on his bike; hurtling along the track, neck and neck with Howard, The Ginger One misjudged a gully and did the next few metres on his head, no permanent damage, other than a fist-sized lump of helmet missing. Brain injury was suspected but it turned out his love for 1950’s sports and predilection to choose overtime over bike rides existed before the accident. It’s difficult to pass the old smelting mill without stopping and having a poke about in the ruins, today was no different. Despite (or maybe because of) the sign forbidding ‘clambering’, The Youth was soon demonstrating his climbing prowess, closely followed by SuperBri. In the manner of Victorian masters we attempted to send The Youth up a chimney but he kept complaining about dust in his eyes and crawled out again - no gruel for him tonight. A little more fun followed, attempting to launch our bikes off assorted spoil tips, cheered on by one of a convey of 4x4’s, heading along the track to a shooting house, no doubt ready to indulge in the traditional countryside pastime of mixing guns and alcohol, a cunning ploy by the estates to ensure none of their expensively reared grouse are ever actually shot. Hunger pangs moved us on, more gravel track descending took us to Surrender Bridge and a more usual moorland bridleway (grass, mud, rocks bracken) which leads to the village of Healaugh, which sounds like something Rachel Riley might put up on Countdown. This track is bisected by a deep gorge, known to one and all as Crinkley Bottom in memory of Noel’s House Party, something which passed for entertainment back in the 90’s, although it’s proper name is Cringley Bottom. The side we were approaching is steep and unrideable, somehow The Youth failed to get the memo, enthusiasm outweighed skill and he was soon sitting on the side of the track, covered in dust, sheep shit and assorted bits of bracken, wondering if his shoulder was dislocated - again. Fifteen minutes of moaning and sulking later, we were back on track, enjoying a splendid descent into Healaugh, it even returned the smile to The Youth’s face. A brief bit of tarmac riding and we were enjoying the hospitality of the ‘cafe and cakery’ at The Dales Bike Centre.

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.