Only a three day week this week. I'm such a slacker.

All The Leaves Are Brown And The Sky Is Grey.

As the Mama’s And Papas sang in the black and white days. Most of the leaves were brown today and the sky was definitely grey. I found myself at Great Ayton again, which is always a sign of lacking inspiration for where to ride. Even had a long start to liven me up, dull days bring out my inner sloth and I need a bit of motivation, I found it riding up the Yellow Brick Road from New Row near Kildale - no dabs either. A bit of time was spent at the top, photographing fungi until my heart rate returned to double figures. A quick pedal up Percy Cross Rigg to the Unsuitables gate was followed by a scrounge about Guisborough Woods, on tracks old and new, the sun broke through, or tried its hardest and all was well with the world. And not much else happened, I rode round until hunger got the better of me and all that remained was the age old mental turmoil - butchers or bakers.

Caressed By Winter's Icy Fingers.

We have just had a couple of days of rain, which kept me off the bike because I’m turning into a - it’s difficult to know what to write without offending some group or other, so we’ll go for wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim’rous beastie, and prepare for the angry comments from keyboard warriors defending that persecuted minority, eighteenth century rodents. I had woken up with a vague plan of a route this morning, which changed several times before I set off and then the start point changed as I was driving down the A19, which was how Swainby got the pleasure of me on this bright and sunny morning. A grand day, except for the wind which was like the frigid breath of some Norse demon. Some epic climbing, through the Scugdale valley and up Barker’s Ridge, eventually found me pedalling the wide sandy moortop track to Arnesgill Ridge, which is another wide, sandy track, one of many which criss-cross the moors. Still heading downward, conditions were perfect, blue sky, dry sand a few degrees warmer would be appreciated but we can’t have everything. The new Bilsdale Mast, erected to replace the original 300m mast which was demolished after 52 years of service, looks tiny in comparison. There are about 200 times more TV channels than the three we had back in 1969, yet we can manage with a mast only three quarters the size. Progress I suppose. Anyway, the ride across the moor was grand, in a non-technical, wide open, hazard-free sort of way. On the way back, I made a quick detour to Osmotherley “Stone Circle” for a photo opportunity. Further on, a play on some of Rod’s tracks in the woods above Cod Beck Reservoir, made another interesting diversion, despite the shenanigans of The Colonel and his idiot army who relish spending the twilight years of their lives lugging branches and tree trunks across the trails. A quick blast down the Clain Wood steps to finish the ride and I was soon sitting beside the stream eating my sandwich, wishing I’d brought a warmer coat.

Playing At The Hub Again

Simon T. took pity on my lonely existence and joined me for a ride today, I introduced him to Ainthorpe Rigg, the Yorkshire Cycle Hub, Oakley Walls, Clitherbecks and The Flying Bees, or to those who know the area - up, down, round, down, up, down, down. Up Ainthorpe Rigg and down the other side, starting the descent on rock slabs in a heather gully and finishing on grassy singletrack. A quick blast along to the YCH and a few laps on their track, I plucked up the courage for a bigger jump, foot slipped off pedal on landing with predictable results, me sliding sideways through the only patch of mud on the whole track and the errant pedal reconnecting with my body through an unguarded tibia. Elbow pads, knee pads, shin pads - all in the car boot because “I take it easy nowadays.” An hour or so later, we left the trail behind, taking the bridleway through fields to Crag Farm, fields of sheep shit, it seemed. By the time we reached the end, bikes and bodies were splattered with green-tinged ovine ordure. The loose and rocky climb up Oakley Walls is a tester, a test which I have previously completed without putting a foot down and feel no compulsion to repeat the feat. Simon T., had a valiant but futile attempt, defeated by the damp, loose rock as Mr. ‘With Age Comes Wisdom’ ambled up behind him on foot. We continued along the Clitherbecks track, fresh gravel and a headwind stealing some of the fun, before turning off onto The Lord’s Turnpike, which is an old word for a toll road, I don’t know who the lord was collecting the tolls but I bet he wishes he could do it again, sticking it to the peasants for crossing his land. The lower part of this track used to have the sign board, “Beware Of Flying Bees.” Whether or not this is a tautology is open to interpretation but The Pensioner had no doubt that it was and would voice his opinions at length, with many profane aspersions on the intellect of the author. The sign is nowhere to be seen nowadays but the track will always be known as The Flying Bees. A little more downhill riding and we are in Danby, riding down Lodge Lane and straight to the cafe door.