Storm Chasers. The Third Bit Of February 2022.

 

The Calm Before The Storm(s)

Still pretty windy.

 

 

It seems as though we're in for a bit of a battering, weather-wise, as two storms worthy of nomenclature are set to inflict biblical wind and rain upon us. Like a suspicious wife following her husband to work, Storm Eunice is to follow Storm Dudley, giving fencers, roofers and arborists a nice winter bonus. Following a full day of rain yesterday (Monday), Great Ayton was bright and breezy this morning, only the lingering puddles evidence of hours of precipitation. It looks as though everyone else has gone in for a bit of premature hatch battening, there was less interest in riding today than there is in the latest plot of Eastenders. Figuring the trails wouldn’t be in the best condition, a long road warm up seemed in order, all the way to Kildale, continuing to Percy Cross Rigg and down to Sleddale, saying adios to tarmac for an(other) ascent of Codhill Heights. After 9 miles and a thousand feet of ascent, I stopped for my first rest, a pace as alien to a Terra Trailblazer as telling the truth is to Andrew The Sweaty Nonce. Now it was time to find out how much the trails in Guisborough Woods had suffered from the past few days’ weather. Things were pretty dire it must be said, mainly mud with a side order of extra mud, specifically imported to fulfil the North Yorkshire mud quota. The few trails attempted all involved some degree of rider/ground interfacing and a predictable amount of profanity; despite Destructive Dudley being a few hours away, trees were swaying and creaking, shouting into the wind as their shallow roots began to lose grip in the wet soil. Not that keen on becoming the meat on a conifer kebab, I took myself out of the danger zone and headed up to the breezy but relatively tree-free Roseberry Common. Still feeling quite fresh, I shouldered the bike and trudged up the steps to Newton Moor, rather than pointing the bike straight down to AireyHolme Farm. A quick spin along Newton Moor, down Fingerbender Bank and along to Gribdale completed the ride, leaving only tarmac between me and the calorific delights of Great Ayton.

Staying Low To Avoid The Wind.

Didn’t avoid the rain though.

Storm Dudley is heading this way, an unstoppable force of nature, operation media doomwatch is well underway, post-apocalyptic dystopia beckons for those who make it through to tomorrow morning. Imagine if we lived somewhere which has real storms and hurricanes, the Daily Express would run out of superlatives. Me and La Mujerita had ourselves a little pedal along the river, the wind was already showing us who is boss. We rode into a headwind, as we headed west along the riverside cycle track, passing under the A19 flyover gave a perfect illustration of the canyon effect, where wind force increases as it is funnelled between the supporting pillars. It was like pedalling through an invisible force field. After crossing the river via the Millennium Bridge, we were treated to a tailwind, which came with an extra treat of rain. A few squally showers to stop us having too much fun. Our wind-assisted journey continued all the way back to Newport Bridge, where we left the river behind us and continued home, arriving just in time to get the bikes locked away before Dudley arrived.

The Calm Between The Storms

Storm Dudley did his worst last night, leaving the usual trail of fallen trees and trashed fences. We are in a lull until Dudley’s big sister Eunice arrives tonight, a very windy lull but a lull nonetheless. Forty to fifty mile an hour winds were being predicted for today, so what better time to be blown across Urra Moor by a vicious tailwind? By the time me and The Breadlad arrived at Ingleby Greenhow car park, the forecast had downgraded the wind speed by half, the sun was shining and the only problem was deciding how many layers to wear. Pedalling up the road to Clay Bank, it dawned on The Breadlad that we were embarking on the infamous ‘1200 foot start’, which was true but the expectation of being blown up a fair few of those twelve hundred feet kept our spirits up. Everything went to plan and it wasn’t too long before we were at Round Hill, as everyone ought to know by now, the highest point on the North York Moors. It turned out, The Breadlad had never actually been to the trig point, a situation soon rectified; the excitement was all too much for his overactive bowels and he disappeared into the heather, thankfully downwind, to use the facilities and lose a little biodegradable part of himself to the North York Moors. Someday, aeons in the future, archaeologists will be baffled by the curious coprolites they keep finding dotted about the moors, too large for sheep but too small for bears.

Near the Incline top, we encountered the only other person we had seen all day, some gadgie who had carried a stove plus windshield, water, milk, tea and sugar, just so he could have a brew in a windblown cutting on a redundant railway track. I’d rather carry a bank card and go to a cafe. Attempting to stay as mud free as possible, we stayed on the wide, sandy  tracks across the moor, following the Cleveland Way all the way to the Baysdale road, which includes the gravel double-track from Tidy Brown Hill to the road. Still one of my favourite tracks on the moors, it felt like the Mad Mile today with the wind directly behind us, I thought I was on for a PB but Strava decided otherwise; not that I’d have any faith in the accuracy of Strava - or GPS’s in general. Until the technology is used to time world championships and the Olympics it can’t be taken seriously, which will come as a blow to all the KOM collectors. Coleson Banks was our chosen descent, a bit of revenge for the gruesome ascent we did a few weeks ago, it is starting to get a bit rutty again, as the ‘One life: live it’ brigade take advantage of the resurfacing. I wonder how long it will be before the ruts go back to being so deep you could hide an elephant or two? The last section, through fields of sheep, to the road at Battersby was a stinking miasma of ovine ordure, mud and water, luckily I had the sense to attach my mudguard before we set off. A bit of road pedalling soon had us back Ingleby Greenhow and our little wooden shed outside the cafe.  

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

Entering The False Spring. The Second Bit Of February.

 

Not A Bad Turn Out For A Monday.

Even if we had to bus them in from another county.

Me and Miles were joined, in Great Ayton, by two of our northern brethren, Keith and Dan, eager and ready to sample the best of what Guisborough Woods has to offer. They had been tempted down from the farthest reaches of England by reports the trails were dry and running like a dream. It was a bright, sunny morning, a little cool as one would expect for February but an improvement on the past two days which have been damp and drizzly. A regular tarmac warmup followed by a climb to Roseberry Common, got us to the moors - or rather shouldering bikes up the steps got us to Newton Moor. Percy Cross Rigg afforded us a welcome bit of downhill, after Sleddale, one last climb (believe that and you’ll believe anything) took us over Codhill Heights and eventually to the start of Superchute, which was a little damp but not too bad. Our next trail is called Three Drops and was in excellent condition - a week ago; today it was disastrous, the top surface a thin layer of mud which was like riding on ice. Disappointing, instead of flowing down the trail, we were more like a Wallace And Grommit stop-motion video. The Walker’s Path was better and raised a few smiles by the time we landed on the fire road. The Brant Gate bridleway, down the side of Roseberry Topping was almost as bad as the day me and The Breadlad rode it a couple of weeks ago, we slithered down towards Newton Wood, Dan summing things up by asking if this was called The Porridge Trail. The gravelled trail, Bluebells And Garlic, was more enjoyable, finishing near Cliff Rigg Quarry. Seeing as it isn’t quite half term, the possibility of being embarrassed by pubescents is low, so we ventured into the quarry for a play. The jumps look as though they are on steroids, bigger every time we visit, reaching heights and widths way beyond the limited skill set of blokes on the verge of middle age. By weaving about a bit, we could link some lesser mounds into a sort of course, which passed half an hour for us, sometimes managing as much as three or four inches of air beneath our tyres, maybe not both wheels at the same time but we were having fun. Eventually, the lure of food dragged us back to Great Ayton, where the bakers had the pleasure of our cash today. 

Jets And Walkers.

It’s a disappointing start to the ride when you get your days mixed up and pick a start on a day the cafe is closed. We were in Swainby, the Rusty Bike is closed wednesdays and thursdays and it is a wednesday - schoolboy error. Another cold but sunny day, me and The Breadlad made our way upward, ever upward, through Clain Woods, past Sheepwash, along High Lane eventually arriving at Silton Woods for a quick spin on the downhill track, in common with the previous ride at Guisborough, it was greasy and slippery. We rode back to High Lane and pointed ourselves down a few of Rod’s tracks, which were a little better, being more sheltered and it looks as though Rod’s nemesis, The Colonel, has been having a few days off, the trails remarkably free of strategically placed branches. A quick detour into Osmotherley for some post-ride food came next, we eschewed sandwiches in favour of some pasties, which we stashed in our bags ready for the end of the ride. For a cold Wednesday in the middle of February, there were an awful lot of walkers about and jets ripping through the sky like starfighters. The pilots no doubt looking down at us, wishing they could be idling through their days away riding mountain bikes across the moors instead of blasting about at the speed of sound. The Breadlad is threatening to ride three days in a row this week - not quite like us retired folks but it’s a start. With this in mind, we missed out the hill up to Arncliffe Woods, sticking to tarmac back to Scarth Nick, heading for Clain Woods and The Steps Of Doom. Before we reached the steps, a trail was spotted through the trees at the side of the fire road; it would have been rude to ignore it and after a couple of false starts trying to find the beginning of the trail, we made the acquaintance of Fifty Shades Of Brown. Very pleasant it is too, gently flowing down the hillside to the road below Scarth Nick. A short pedal and we are soon back at the cars. Settling down to eat our pasties on a sunny bench beside the stream, we are immediately joined by the local mallard flock, scrabbling around our feet for pastry crumbs from what were probably the worst pasties we’ve ever eaten. The filling was some kind of minced meat, with very few of the traditional pasty vegetables, the texture was coarse and greasy, tasting mainly of uncooked onion. Worse than the time I was late for the Cannibal Society dinner and they gave me the cold shoulder, even the ducks turned their bills up at the filling, although they enjoyed the pastry. 

Blowing In The Wind

Sunny, cool, windy, dry. And forecast to be proper windy later, the sort of wind which has roofing and fencing firm owners rubbing their calloused hands together. Our plan was to get round before it appeared. Just me and The Breadlad today - day two of three for him, meeting in the car park at Danby, the wind already significant. In an attempt to avoid North Yorkshire’s mud problem, a route mostly utilising decent (but boring) tracks was agreed on. The wind was mainly behind us we made our way along the Clitherbecks track and up to Danby Beacon, continuing on tarmac for a short while, we then turned off onto the northern section of the Pannierman’s Causeway, which allegedly leads across the moor to the A171 near the Danby turn off. The first part, which I did previously, was really nice, a firm ribbon of peat, carving through the heather, slightly downhill and the added bonus of a firm tailwind. At the lowest point there is a small bridge over a boggy patch, which could really do with being a much larger bridge, as we soon found out, splodging through the sphagnum with water seeping through our 5:10’s. The bridleway splits in two around here, our trail continues due north - on the map at least; on the ground, a faint disturbance through the bog grass which may or may not be a track is all we have. Although it is pretty difficult to be lost when the road you are aiming for is only a few hundred yards away, filled with cars and lorries speeding toward Whitby. A combination of pedalling, pushing and paddling soon saw us at a little used gate and we climbed up to join the road for the worst five minutes of the ride,  motorists doing their best to force us into the grass verge. Not without some relief, we turned off onto the minor road which goes to Danby, we could have stayed on the road and been in the cafe in ten minutes, but not hard core dudes like us, we headed straight into the teeth of the wind, riding the full length of Robin Hood’s Butts as the wind attempted to push us backwards. When I say us, of course I mean, me, as my companion’s dubious drafting technique ensured his turn on the front happened less frequently than he arrives on time. The sanctuary of the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter couldn’t arrive fast enough. We enjoyed some relief from the wind while replacing burnt calories before the next leg. Surely a tailwind must occur at some point? Still into the wind, we headed toward Commondale, first on the road, then down the partially paved bridleway which leads to the centre of the village. Turning toward the oddly named Foul Green, the wind became our ally along the bridleway to Box Hall, we passed the resident llamas, who don’t seem to be pining for Peru too much and after crossing the road (us not the llamas), we continued through Danby Park, spying a few sneaky tracks emerging from the trees. Something to check out another time. Usually we stay on the bridleway after Danby Park until it reaches the road just outside Danby but today The Breadlad spotted another track heading down the hillside. Well, why not, it’s headed in the right direction. Apart from a deep gully cutting across the track it was another good find - that’s two new tracks in two days, we’re on a roll, a roll down the hillside and yet again a nice finish to the ride. Obviously not as good as the cafe, which is so sheltered from the wind, we were able to sit outside in the sunshine to eat our sandwiches.

The Rosedale Half Round.

Another decent turn out, even though, once again we have to fetch them in from the industrial wastelands of the frozen north - or Sunderland as some people know it. We were starting at Blakey Bank Top today, high on Blakey Ridge, a long way from anywhere, particularly Sunderland, so we met half an hour later than usual, of course The Breadlad, who lives almost round the corner compared to everyone else, arrived three quarters of an hour later, while we passed the time breaking the ice on the puddles in the car park. The plan was to do the Rosedale Half Round, which is, for the lexicographically challenged, half of the famous Rosedale Round; it begins with a track named on Strava, Aldi Lager Decent (sic) and as a descent it is quite decent, especially for Keith and Charlie, who have never had the pleasure before. From the bottom, a bridleway leads through sheep-filled fields to a minor road which emerges at the bottom of Chimney Bank -  the steepest road bank in England, luckily our route heads the opposite way, down not up, into Rosedale Abbey. Of course, we still had to climb to reach the old railway track on Rosedale East side to continue our route, as usual this involved a photo stop at the improbably named Bell End farm, whose original occupant was either unpopular or a member of the cabinet. Further climbing gained the rail track and we rode past the remnants of the ironstone industry, huge kilns and derelict huts, passing long disused junctions until we reached the bridleway which leads to Dale Head Farm tearoom; the path down is steep and recently gravelled, becoming muddy approaching the farm, all good fun until we released we had to come back the same way. The tearoom boasts the finest view of any tearoom in the country, surrounded on three sides by hills, the fourth side has a vista along the Rosedale valley; despite the cool weather we sat outside in the winter sun. Charlie and The Breadlad had rejected mugs in favour of genteel flower-patterned tea cups for their pot of tea and were sitting drinking like a pair of upper-class ladies who lunch, while arguing who was the tallest. Seeing as they both look like the product of a hobbit orgy, there wasn't much in it. The climb back to the rail track was as steep and hard as we expected, mud-filled tyres picked up as much gravel as they could hold, stopping wheels turning, carrying was equally onerous, the extra weight more than noticeable. The remainder of the rail track passed without incident, we turned round the head of the valley into a headwind, gentle compared to the past few days. After some prevarication, our usual extra loop was added on, a quick descent behind The Lion Inn to rejoin another branch of the redundant railway which leads us back to Blakey Bank top and our vehicles. The end of a pretty decent week for February and three days on the trot for The Breadlad - a bit of retirement practice for him.

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

The First Bit Of February.

 

Sheltering From The Wind.

Honing our skills...

 

February is continuing where January left off, dry, sunny, windy; the wind was predicted to be ramping up to storm force (again) this afternoon, so a cunning plan was hatched to avoid open moorland and stay in the shelter of trees as much as possible. We could spend the day honing our skills (as if they needed it), sessioning tracks like the youngsters. Getting out of the car at Birk Brow, it soon became obvious, this afternoon’s wind had arrived early, unlike The Breadlad, whose eternal struggle crossing from the New Marske time zone to GMT is well documented. We set off from the car park, the lady in the burger van questioning our mental health and turned straight onto the Jenny Frisk road, another example of odd North Yorkshire nomenclature, there was no Jenny to frisk and it wasn’t a road. It may have been a road once, of the green lane nature but our wobbly-headed brethren have reduced it to a collection of vast puddles linked by muddy ruts. Thankfully we didn’t have far to go, soon hitting the Stanghow road, from where we accessed the bridleway into the forest above Margrove Park. Our plan was to ride a few of Old Ralph’s trails, although we had to do a spot of tree clearance in parts, the recent strong winds have given the place a bit of a battering. We rode a trail called Ripper, which took us to the bottom of the woods, before pushing up and doing another trail, Last Anthem. Near the start, we passed through an archway formed by a fallen branch, the trees around were swaying and creaking in the wind, one trunk was split vertically along its whole length, ready to join its companions having a little lie down on the forest floor. Just in case, we stayed upwind, apart from sending The Breadlad through the arch for a photo opportunity. Thirty seconds later we were back at the bottom of the forest, ten minutes of pushing for thirty seconds of pleasure - it’s the story of my life. We rode across the valley, passing the Margrove Ponds and into the woods behind the pub at Slapewath, these, more established trails, were by some quirk of topography, sheltered from the wind and it was more like a spring afternoon than the first day of February. We entertained ourselves on trails old and new, the loam dry beneath our tyres, getting a bit of old man’s air on the jumps, which is the same as normal air but lower and slower.

An awesome double (or is it a gap jump?) has been built by the trail pixies since we were last here, something to aspire to, when we are proper phat air, rad dudes, shredding the gnar and doing some sick hucking. Am I even writing English anymore? I’ve no idea. Hunger and a welcome tailwind pushed us back up Birk Brow, where, despite the brevity of the ride, cheeseburgers could not be ignored. Less than nine miles in length, this ride but almost sixteen hundred feet of ascent. It’s harder than it looks, this messing about in the woods business.

 

Like A Summer's Day...

...to start with.

 

As the title says, Ingleby Greenhow was positively basking in sunshine, blue sky, birds singing, only the occasional gobshite road cyclists pedalling past, communicating with their companions at full volume to spoil the idyll. There was plenty of time to take all this in while waiting for The Breadlad to escape NMT (New Marske Time) and enter the GMT time zone. Our ride was to be a simple up and downer but we threw in an extra loop, just to make things more difficult. Beginning by dragging ourselves up Coleson Banks, which is steeper than the steepest thing in steepland, to reach the Baysdale Abbey road, from where we immediately flung ourselves downhill on the Baysdale Bridleway, which, in common with most of the moors, is drying up nicely, in fine condition today. Unfortunately, it does end at Baysdale Abbey from where, as the song says, the only way is up. Girding our loins with our best girds, we climbed back up the road to join the Cleveland Way track. As we followed this upward, the sky greyed out like an unavailable option and a light drizzle moistened us as though we were delicate flowers which mustn't be over-watered. The summer weather usurped by Mr. Grey Sky, ELO’s less successful follow up single. We plodded on up to Burton Howe, from where our route went, pretty much downhill all the way back to the car, beginning with the Old Coal Road and continuing down Turkey Nab. The trails in the woods near Bank Foot Farm were a nice finish to the ride, pleasantly loamy now the all-encroaching bracken has died back. The proper finish to the ride was, of course, the cafe and the new coffee shop at The Dudley Arms didn’t disappoint, it even has outdoor sheds for filthy mountain bikers to sit, complete with a roof mounted heater for when the sweat begins to get cold.

Wynyard: The Most Expensive Dormitory In Teesside.

The last ride of the week was a local run out with La Mujerita, aiming for the Castle Eden Walkway which may be called Wynyard Woodland Park nowadays, they keep changing the name. It is one of those places where cyclists go when proper mountain biking all seems too much, or they're short of time. It’s a poor substitute for the moors but it does as a leg-stretcher. Our route took us onto a bridleway, which has recently been diverted owing to construction, although it has been left to the individual to find the diversion. All the signs have been removed. This bridleway leads into the housing estate of Wynyard, an aspirational postcode for some Teessiders, especially the type who feel there is some kudos to be gained from living near a footballer. It’s like riding through a film set, I don’t think I have ever been to a more soulless place - and we have listened to our lonely footsteps echoing around Dumfries town centre on a wet Monday night in winter. Wynyard is even more deserted, even in the school holidays there are no kids playing in gardens, or playing anywhere for that matter, a few vans from gardening and cleaning firms are buzzing around the empty streets. Next time we pass through, I’ll round up a few more riders, we can hold hands and have a seance to see if we can contact the living. The rest of our route passes through the grounds of Wynyard Hall, former home of the Marquess Of Londonderry - whatever a marquess might be. Probably some more mediaeval privilege bollocks we’ll be well rid of one day. From here it’s a steady ride home, a spot of lunch and then off to work for one of us. Not me obviously, that particular internment is long past.

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

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