That’s It, Another Year Over.

 

That’s it, another year over and a new one looming large on the horizon. The stats are in for 2022 because I don't imagine I’ll be out riding in the next 29 hours and 15 minutes. 

126 rides, a massive 51 rides down on last year.

1,786.41 miles, again down on last year, 764.11 miles down to be precise.

194,011 feet of ascent, 63,438 feet less than last year.

16 different riding companions over the year, with a couple of notable exceptions from previous years - those stats will be in a different post. 

Definitely a slacker year for me for 4 main reasons, caught Covid in April, after my first trip on a plane in two and half years, all my bikes were stolen at the beginning of August and I was involved in a charity project for most of August which didn’t involve riding bikes. September saw us in the land down under, travelling hundreds of miles on roads which aren’t really roads, arrived home early October with jet lag and piriformis inflammation which stopped me pedalling until the middle of the month. Things began looking up and I reintroduced myself to the rigours of off-road riding, gradually at first until some semblance of fitness reappeared. I was just getting back into the swing of things when a mini ice age struck North Yorkshire and rides were shortened in the spirit of discretion is the better part of valour.  Of course, I could have joined the legions of deluded fools spinning away in garages and kitchens with their CGI buddies but to be frank, that comes somewhat lower down the list of “Things That John Won’t Do” than unprotected sex with crack whores or eating mushy peas, although it is above finding religion, so it’s not totally out of the question. No one ever took pictures like this from their turbo-trainer. 

Without further waffle, here are the last two rides of 2022.

More Drag Than A Pig In Lipstick

The day after the Xmas Toastie ride and the sky has changed from grey to blue, the wind is light and the air is dry for a change. Still as cool as can be expected for the last fortnight in December, unlike yesterday’s aberration, when the thermometer hit 14 degrees celsius. Me and SuperBri met The Breadlad in Danby, his last ride for some time because he is casting us aside, shedding his bread factory worker disguise and going full international jet-setting playboy on us; rubbing shoulders with his peers on lifts and in the apre-ski bars of some transatlantic resort or other. Then he jets home for a brief stopover, just long enough to wax his skis before another few thousand gallons of jet fuel takes him to Bulgaria for round two. His cavalier attitude to the future of our planet will earn him a hefty kick in the balls if he ever bumps into Greta Thunberg, not that they are likely to move in the same social circles, unless she has a sudden desire to find out how they put the holes in bagels. (Whoops, I must be channelling my inner Donald McGill there.)

After the quick defrost and thaw, the moorland tracks are now soft and draggy, everyone having sly looks at their wheels to check the tyres aren’t deflated. We made our way up to Danby Beacon, hung about briefly in the chilly wind before heading down to Lealholm Rigg to turn off onto the Roxby Moor bridleway. Despite recent improvements, the start was as soggy as a New Orleans back garden but things soon improved and the track was as enjoyable as ever. On the top road, heading toward Lealholm, we found a bunch of parcels, evidently dropped from a courier van. We did our good turn for the season and took them to the post office in Lealholm - so if you were expecting a delivery from Evri on the 20th December, your parcels were rescued by the three not especially wise men. There was an ulterior motive for visiting Lealholm too - the unpredictable bowel habits of The Breadlad; preferring the public toilet to his more usual exposing of nether regions to the frigid air. It turned out conditions in the cubicle were something akin to a 19th century dysentery outbreak which coincided with a strike by the night soil men. As my grandad used to say, “It might be shit to us but it’s their bread and butter.” So his sphincter stayed more tightly clenched than a new prisoner in the shower block for the rest of the ride. It wasn’t long before we were back in Danby sampling the delights of the cafe while speculating on what Santa might be flinging down our chimneys in 5 days time.

Twixmas Tuesday

It’s all over, Christmas has gone for another year. I bought the wife a fridge, it was delightful watching her face light up when she opened it. A week since the last jaunt and I’m meeting Rod in a dull and drizzly Great Ayton for a peruse of some of the area’s trails, the ones which are not slurry-filled grooves running down the hillside. A couple of recent discoveries near Captain Cook’s Monument, which have, so far at least, escaped the conifer purge were okay, riding on a bed of pine needles and wet roots. A bit of exploration yielded a few more trails, the last one unfortunately requiring a bit of bush-whacking to reach Gribdale. Today is classed as a bank holiday, it seems a fair proportion of Teesside have parked at Gribdale to walk off the Xmas excesses, there were cars everywhere. We took advantage of a hefty tailwind to push us across Codhill Heights and over to Highcliffe for a few of Guisborough Woods’ trails, which are in a worse condition than the Easby Moor trails. Near the old Christmas tree car park we met trail building legends Ralph and Max, it’s good to see him out again after his hip replacement. Continuing onward we slithered down a few more trails before calling it a day and heading downhill from Roseberry Common, through Aireyholme Farm and Fletcher’s Farm back to Great Ayton. A quick detour to Cooplands and then we had a cold and drizzly tailgate picnic by the river. Some truly appalling weather forecasts meant, for me anyway, this was the last ride of 2022, although a few days off riding gave me the opportunity to grab a bargain priced helmet in the Bike Scene sale.

And that was 2022 gone, the hottest year in Britain since records began or something. There were a few scorching days, including the memorable forty degree day, the trails were solid for a little longer than usual but other than that I don’t remember anything beyond mediocre weather all year. Let’s see if 2023 can give us a 45 degree day - there’ll be some moaning then, this temperate nation struggles with extremes of weather, mentally more than physically but secretly we relish the opportunity for a good whinge. 2023 starts tomorrow. For a few weeks from Monday, the forests and fire roads will be filled with the usual New Year fitness enthusiasts, very few of them will last beyond January, once they realise mountain biking is actually quite hard work, as well as, more often than not, cold, wet and muddy. Come February the cosy cage of central heating, comfy couches and inertia will reclaim them and normality will reign, only the dedicated few lunatics like us still scrounging about the moors.

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