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.