Tick Magnet

 

Laughter In The Rain

Another one of those exploration type of days, delving into the secret trails, whose pleasures are hidden behind a jungle of bracken this time of year. The green menace is getting wilder, higher and more profuse, as one-time Terra Trailblazer, The Captain used to say in these circumstances, “It’s about time the council did something about this...” I think there is more chance of seeing The Ginger One spending some of his ample disposable income on a new bike and rejoining us. Me and Simon T, rode up to Captain Cook’s from Great Ayton, messed about in the woods for a bit, then rode across to Guisborough Woods and did the same. That about sums up the ride. I spent some time explaining the Major Tom (our guide in Spain) trail grading system to Simon. Whenever hazards lay ahead, Tom would warn us and describe them as “a bit spicy”. A little vague for inadequates like us, we persuaded him to introduce sub-grades based on the curry scale, so an easy track, something like a blue route at a trail centre, would be a korma, reds might be madras and blacks vindaloo. Anything so far out of our league it may as well be in the Red Bull Rampage would of course be a phall. Works pretty well, give it a try on your local trails. To sum up our ride, we baulked on some vindaloos (owing to the wet conditions, you understand), rode some madras’s and cruised a few kormas. Of course, Spain doesn’t have the bracken problem which infests out trails or the little passengers it delivers. Five ticks to extract when I got home, they just love me for some reason. Do I have an ovine odour? More felling is taking place in Guisborough, some old favourite trails have gone, including Les's 3, which was one of the original official routes of the forest. Despite the showers, we managed to stay dry for most of the ride, apart from the last ten minutes, as we were pedalling back to Great Ayton the rain became more prolonged but we were too close to shelter to stop and drag coats on. Luckily the butcher’s shop has a substantial awning to shelter beneath while we pondered the cornucopia of pastry wrapped comestibles on display in the window. 

Bye bye Les's 3

Peaceful Easy Feeling

Today’s ride was carefully chosen to be a bracken-free experience, open moorland and wide tracks to keep me away from certain little blood-sucking arachnids which love me more than fat kids love chicken nuggets. I wasn’t wholly successful in avoiding bracken but at least the ride was tick free, it is well on the way to triffid-like domination. Imagine if it didn’t die in winter, we’d be living in a green world. I parked up at Birk Brow and headed straight for the Quaker’s Causeway, exactly one week since me and Miles were in exactly the same spot, this week I was alone. I rode the whole causeway to the Castleton road, dropped down the road to the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter, so called because of the Karl Striker (Teesside's Banksy) mural on the inside. Turning right at the bus shelter, I got onto a bridleway leading to Commondale, a little thick bracken to contend with but at least it was dry. Another bridleway passes by Foul Green Farm, following the Esk Valley Line towards Castleton. The Pensioner and The Breadlad once mistook Foul Green Farm for a cafe, plonked themselves down at a picnic table and asked the farmer’s wife for a pot of tea for two and a menu when she came out to see why two strange men were sitting in her yard. A pair of Llamas in a field beside the bridleway seem content to have swapped South America for North Yorkshire and provide an interesting photo opportunity. The bridleway crosses the Castleton road and continues through Danby Park, terminating in the village of Danby, from where a long climb takes me up to Danby Beacon. Cool and breezy but at least the rain is staying away for a few hours. A newly resurfaced 4x4 track takes me down to Oakley Walls, the dolomite which has been spread liberally over the original Somme-like ruts is finally becoming consolidated so riding down is no longer an exercise in gravel surfing. Nowhere near as much fun as it was previously though, riding in and out of metre deep ruts left by the wobbly heads in their all wheel drive monsters. From Oakley Walls, I pedalled to Robin Hood’s Butts via Clitherbeck Farm, riding the whole length of Robin Hood’s Butts back to the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter, ready to retrace my outward route. Yes, the Quaker’s Causeway twice in the same ride; a bit of route planning which would meet outright refusal from some of our companions - those with buttocks made from cotton wool and fairy dust. My glutes are made from sterner stuff and it wasn’t long before we were queuing at the burger van, ready to replace some vital calories.  

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

Another Week Over

 

Bright Side Of The Road

First lone ride of the month, my sudden attack of popularity must have concluded, and first Great Ayton start of the month. Today’s weather might be described as dry but making threats, plenty of clouds, most looking like the sort of black-clad brooding hulks found outside pubs and clubs, scudding across the sky, ready to unleash a flurry of precipitation at the slightest provocation. At least there were plenty of parking spaces. I did the two farms start, up to Roseberry Common, then shouldered the bike for the walk up the steps to Newton Moor. One day me and The Breadlad attempted to calculate how many times I might have walked up these steps with a bike on my bike, at a very conservative estimate, twice a month for twenty five years, so six hundred ascents - give or take. And it never gets any easier. From the summit of the steps, there is a fine view of Roseberry Topping and beyond to my hometown, the sleepy fishing village of Hartlepool, renown worldwide for its no nonsense approach to undercover agents of the simian persuasion. Teesside was being strafed by a rain shower as we, me and my bike, enjoyed summer sunshine. Back in the saddle, I pedalled to the gate at the top of The Unsuitables, with a diversion to ride a trail which is losing the battle against bracken - another one shelved until winter. Continuing, I crossed Percy Cross Rigg, dropped to Sleddale and up the Codhill Heights bridleway, taking advantage of a favourable tailwind all the way to Highcliffe Nab. A great deal of felling is taking place in the woods east of Highcliffe, many favourite trails have succumbed to this season’s cropping, judging by the planing and strengthening on the fire roads throughout the forest, many more trails will be memories in the coming weeks. The forestry investment boom of the 1980’s and 1990’s is coming to fruition and shareholders are benefitting from the harvest. The machines will be gone soon and new trails will appear; in twenty five years, I have ridden trails that have been cropped twice and still remain. I enjoyed a few trails today with the roar of encroaching machinery and the crash of falling trees as a soundtrack, at least the pine scented logs they leave on the side of the trails are more pleasant than the logs The Breadlad leaves every ride. I made my way back through forest, cherry picking trails as I went until I was again on Roseberry Common, with only a couple of miles of downhill riding between me and some post-ride calorie replenishment.

Joyride

Another Guisborough ride today, starting from Miles’ house, which, as luck would have it, backs on to the woods. It’s always a brief one with Miles because he has returned to the world of employment, even after tasting the sweet fruits of retirement. We began with a flattish pedal along the old railway line to Slapewath before livening things up with an ascent of Birk Brow - sadly without recourse to the burger van at the top. Too early in the ride. Crossing over the road, we made our way to the Quaker's Causeway, one of the longest and best preserved stone trods which cross the moors. Some of our compatriots, those with buttocks made from cotton wool and fairy dust, find this track execrable but it is what full suspension bikes were made for. We turned off onto a bridleway bearing west across High Moor, taking us to Westworth Woods, an outlier of Guisborough Forest. This is a great track in the dry, dropping gradually downhill on moorland singletrack for a mile and half of varied riding, with humps and bumps, gullies, tussocks of grass and encroaching gorse bushes to keep things interesting. Just take note of the first part of that sentence - in the dry. There is a stiff climb up through Westworth Woods on a newly resurfaced track of loose gravel, deep and unconsolidated, despite years of carefully honed Terra Trailblazers’ skills being brought into operation, we were soon pushing, unable to gain traction in the gravel. It can’t be a walk of shame when you have no shame. We emerged onto the top fire road in Guisborough Woods, anticipating some friendly-gravity riding, on marvellous, dry trails, all the way back to Miles’ house. Forest Enterprise, however, had other ideas, closing trails with signage, either in preparation for felling or for more legislative reasons, mainly fear of the American disease, being sued by someone too stupid to grasp the concept of personal responsibility. Regardless, we still found enough trails to amuse ourselves with all the way down the hillside, arriving back just in time for Miles to resume his role in the corporate world and me to resume my role in the world of a bone-idle waster. 

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

25 Years - 8 Bikes

Back before the turn of the century, 1998 to be precise, I was a climber, maybe not a very good climber, only ever comfortable in the low E grades but certainly an enthusiastic one. Life revolved around climbing, most days - shifts permitting - you would find me either at a crag or an indoor climbing wall, occasionally both in the same day. Then people began mentioning mountain biking; good cross training, keep the weight down, get to crags quicker for bouldering. It certainly appealed, especially the weight management aspect because my commitment to climbing was only matched by my passion for drinking beer. 

April 1998 saw me lashing out the phenomenal sum of £600 for a push bike, this was in the days when the price of an ordinary rigid bike barely went over £100 and many people’s cars cost less than the price of my Marin Palisades Trail, a hardtail with, wait for it, 100mm of travel in the elastomer forks. Unless it was winter when they froze solid. And V brakes, most mountain bikes were beginning to move away from cantilever brakes. Except for Kona who still stuck with cantis, along with the cycling purists who maintained a correctly set up pair of cantis could be equal to new-fangled V brakes. No they couldn’t. The Palisades Trail was designed for XC racing because this was before anyone realised people could ride bikes for fun, it was either training or racing - something that has never changed in the roadie world.

A frame of springy aluminium with a long top tube and a stem the size of beer can, it had tyres made from Mythos rubber, which was also used for climbing shoes, to this day I have never owned a lighter set of tyres, I wore thicker condoms in my youth. The bike became christened “The Flying Machine”, nothing to do with my fitness because climbing is pretty poor cardiovascular exercise but because  in the right conditions it flew, quite often without the assistance of a rider, who could often be found in a crumpled heap at the side of the trail. But we had some adventures in this new wonderland, despite being well acquainted with the North York Moors, my companions and I soon discovered the biker bits, the popular trails and tracks. Accidents were many and frequent, after one close call with the trunk of an ancient and very solid oak tree, the bark actually grazed my nose as I flew headfirst, sans bike, past it, I resolved to start wearing a helmet. Amazingly enough, not that many people bothered with head protection in those days. The family became accustomed to me returning home with grazes the size of CD’s, bruises like badly inked tattoos and the odd broken rib or two. The springiness of the hardtail, combined with enthusiasm outweighing ability meant it was like riding a bucking bronco down rocky sections of trail. Eventually, tired of seeing a broken wreck of a man, laid on the settee with strategically placed bags of frozen peas on assorted contusions, my wife began to wonder if there was any safer way I could enjoy my new hobby.  

“Well,” I said, “they have bikes now with suspension at the front and back. It’ll stop me getting thrown off as often.”

“You better get one of those.” she replied. 

I didn’t need telling twice and soon the Palisades Trail was relegated to spare bike, regularly loaned to initiates wanting to have a try at mountain biking and I was the envy of my hardtail buddies with a shiny new Marin East Peak. I could tell they were envious by the amount of abuse I received, the sort of abuse nowadays reserved for electric mountain bike riders. 

“It’s cheating.”

“Full sussers don’t need to find a line, just point it downhill and shut your eyes.”

“You're just a passenger on a full suspension bike”

It was still rudimentary, 100mm of travel front and back, V brakes, a triple chainring drivetrain, quick release seat post clamps were just becoming popular; prior to them everything was ridden head down: arse up. Dropper posts were not even a concept to be imagined in someone’s wildest dreams. I now had a full suspension bike, a helmet, padded shorts, a couple of cycling tops, it was time to take the next step on my cycling journey (if that’s not an oxymoron) and give these clip in pedals a try. SPD, Shimano Pedaling Dynamics were industry standard back in the day, slapping a pair on the East Peak I soon became a Shimano Pedaling Dick, keeling over sideways a couple of times every ride until unclipping became second nature. Things improved when I learnt that Shimano SPD’s were mediocre to say the least, too many small screws to work loose or moving parts which clogged up with sand or mud or snow. A set of Time Z pedals greatly improved the experience. 

I can’t recount a history of my mountain biking endeavours with mentioning the Terra Trailblazers. Originally biking adventures were with people I also climbed with, until a friend and colleague from work began to take an interest in some off road action, we were both on the same shift, giving us plenty of free days during the week to enjoy the moors and forests without the hindrance of day people clogging up the trails as they do on a weekend. This continued for two or three years until some other process operators decided to see what all the fun was about. The firm we worked for was, at the time, called Terra, a so the Terra Trailblazers was born, A website eventually appeared, for no other reason than I fancied trying to build a website, shift workers from other firms caught onto the idea of spending weekdays shirking family responsibilities and soon we had a cohort of regular riders. Many characters have come and gone, all of whom will be the subject of an upcoming blog post, later this year when the twentieth anniversary of the first Terra Trailblazers ride is celebrated.

Back in those days routes were discovered through word of mouth or pursuing Ordnance Survey maps, the cycling magazines of the day published routes and there were a few guidebooks about, most of which were so old they advocated wrapping the tubes of your rigid bike in foam pipe insulation to make it easier to carry. Apps such as Strava and Trailforks were not even glimmers in someone's imagination, the internet was in its infancy, a plaything of computer nerds. Mobile phones appeared but solely for calls and a new-fangled thing called texting, usually they would be safely stashed in a backpack “for emergencies”. One day a youth turned up with his phone clipped to his belt, “In case anyone wants to get hold of me...” Much to the bemusement of us older generations, who went mountain biking predominantly so nobody could get hold of them. The weather was either cloudy and dry, cloudy and wet or occasionally sunny, sometimes snowing, we didn’t need an hourly forecast. After a ride we finished dry or wet and were not particularly bothered either way.

In our little group cafe stops were mandatory, either midway through the ride or at the end. 

In fact the cafe experience formed an integral part of the ride, from the mighty doorstep sandwiches of Glebe Cottage and the Hawnby Tea Room Daily Special, (which was so good we were pleased it never actually changed), to the garden centre cafe we called Zombieland owing to the large proportion of shuffling geriatrics making up most of the clientele and another place (which must remain nameless, despite no longer being a cafe) where the owner, nicknamed ‘Fat Bastard’ by some less eloquent members of our team, was so blatant in his lack of enthusiasm for the hospitality trade he would turn away patrons who wanted meals, directing them to the local pubs instead. We always got the impression he would be happier if customers came in, put some money on the table and buggered off.

 

I digress, back to my life in eight bikes, mountain bikes that is, there was a brief foray into road and gravel bikes but it didn’t last. The East Peak soldiered on for years, a few drive trains’ worth of North Yorkshire mud and water, through the soul-destroying summer of 2001 when we had a foot and mouth epidemic and the countryside was out of bounds. The off road bits anyway, it was still possible to cross the moors on tarmac but it wasn’t a pleasant experience, riding over disinfectant mats placed across the roads at regular intervals, no livestock in the fields, huge pyres burning thousands of animals. Travelling to rural areas whilst not forbidden was discouraged and we mostly amused ourselves on routes local to our homes. 

Shortly afterwards a bike shop opened around the corner from where I live, managed by an old school friend, needless to say a lot of my free time was idled away inside that shop and it wasn’t long before shiny bike syndrome beset me. The East Peak was cruelly cast aside in favour of a glistening, new Giant NRS, NRS standing for No Resonance Suspension, some sort of clever linkage which slackened or locked out the shock depending on the pedalling force of the rider.

Forks were still 120mm but now air sprung and oil damped, so they even functioned in the cold.  It worked pretty well in cross-country riding situations, although not designed for the big hits, it survived a fortnight of uplifted riding in Les Gets and Morzine, which were the places to be in 2005. It was also my first bike with hydraulic disc brakes albeit a curious closed system which required a large cap on each brake fluid cylinder to be screwed in to compensate for pad wear. The long Alpine descents didn’t do it any favours, the fluid would expand with the heat generated, jamming the brakes on, necessitating a lie down in some meadow until they cooled down or a handy stream to dunk the callipers. Again, the NRS lasted quite a long time and many rides, I don’t swap and change bikes too often, just find one I like and stick with it. 

In 2007 I lashed out a small fortune on my dream bike, a Santa Cruz Superlight, which benefited from many upgrades, the forks went from 100mm to a massive 120mm, the maximum allowed without voiding the warranty.

A decent set of Shimano XT brakes and some Hope wheels were added, other parts followed, always in gold (the colour not the metal); headset, jockey wheels, chainrings, grips, until the bike was blinged up like an American rapper. As well as our day rides, mini-breaks became more frequent, trips to the Scottish borders for the Seven Stanes, the Lakes and the Yorkshire Dales became favourites, mainly because of Belhaven Best, Jennings Bitter and Black Sheep Ale but we did ride during the day, enjoying mostly deserted trails. Our first coast to coast cycle ride, which was self-supported carrying everything in backpacks, saw me ditching clip in pedals for flats because I didn’t want the weight of an  extra pair of shoes. I never went back to cleats and clip ins. The Santa Cruz and I stayed together in perfect harmony until the seven year itch struck and I was wooed by the latest craze, 29” wheels.

The Santa Cruz found itself doing spare bike duties, sulking in the shadow of a hulking brute of a bike, Specialized Stumpjumper something or other 29er. There will have been some other words, letters, numbers or something after the word Stumpjumper but as with cars, I’m pretty vague on that sort of thing.

The beast was big and black, had massive wheels and weighed a tonne, it felt like riding an armoured car but was chock full of modern refinements. Suspension travel had increased to 140 or 150mm, we were down to two chain rings at the front, wheels were tubeless ready but never actually held air, despite many frustrating hours and so much sealant they ended up looking like a plasterer’s radio. But the main innovation was a dropper post, life changing, no more stopping to put the seat down for descents. Raising it afterwards could be traumatic, it went up like an ejector seat, emasculation was a genuine consideration but I was the envy of the manual seat post boys, who all rushed out to fit aftermarket posts. 29” wheels were a revelation; lips and drops, previously baulked at could be rolled over with impunity. However this big beast was nowhere near as durable or resilient as the Superlight and after less than 4 years it was looking more than a bit sorry for itself. Also wheel sizes had shrunk to 27.5” for general riding, so in 2018, when a local bike shop had an incredible offer on carbon frame Stumpjumpers I was soon lashing out the cash.

The new Stumpy was as different from the big beast Stumpy as F1 cars are from stock cars. It was light but solid, suspension travel was still around the 150mm mark, all the usual refinements were present, handlebars were beginning to lengthen, bigger is better, a complete U turn from twenty years ago when we were encouraged to cut our bars down to make weaving through trees easier.

Advancements in tubeless technology did away with the threat of punctures and riding became a much more relaxed affair, using reliable rims and decent sealant. For the first time ever, I ran a single chain ring set up, another step forward, although the lack of a granny ring made some of the steeper inclines a different proposition. That bike took more abuse than a blind cobbler’s thumb, numerous trips to The Lakes, Scotland, it even survived a week in Spain, battering down trails constructed solely from fist-sized rocks. The only maintenance it ever needed was a couple of drive train changes and fresh brake pads occasionally, everything else seemed to run along quite nicely until, inevitably it didn’t. During the strange days of the Covid lockdown, I put it in a local bike shop for a bearing change and a few other little jobs, it returned unfixed with a terminal prognosis. If it had been a family pet, the vet would be patting it on the head as he filled a syringe with pentobarbital prior to emptying my wallet. Beyond economical repair might be the phrase used to describe the situation. But this was the lockdown, bikes were rarer than a trustworthy politician, no they weren’t, nothing is that rare but they were few and far between and yet again the wheel size fashion had revolved back to 29ers.

A fair amount of internet searching produced a sole 27.5” offering from direct retailers Canyon. Much thought went into this purchase, I’d always prided myself on using local bike shops over the internet but on the other hand, I needed a bike, fast and the local shops’ stock had been severely limited by the pandemic, lead times on bikes and components were being measured in months, not weeks. Principals were temporarily shelved and I pressed the button on the last remaining small frame Canyon NEURON 8 in the whole of Europe.

The Canyon arrived in February 2021, just in time for the weather to crap out and the first few outings we enjoyed together were local affairs, along flooded cycle paths and through blizzards. The weather improved enough for it to be introduced to the local moors and some new playmates, Mr. Bronson, Mr. Giant, Mr. & Mrs. Orange 5 and one electric mobility bike, amongst others. WIth a full carbon frame and a massive 52 tooth rear cassette, the Canyon was a climber par excellence, not quite as solid on the downhills as the Stumpjumpers or the Santa Cruz but still a good all rounder. My new riding motto became “I’ve got a 52 tooth and I’m gonna use it.” Which was uttered whenever trails began to point in an upward direction; my Strava times suffered but I no longer arrived at the top of hills sweating like a footballer in a spelling test. I left the Canyon at home for our annual trip to the Spanish sierras, reluctant to let the carbon frame endure being stoned like an Old Testament adulterer but other than that it enjoyed the same places as its predecessors, coming into its element on the groomed pistes and gently graded uphills of Whinlatter.  Unfortunately, our relationship was short-lived, compared to my previous bikes, a mere 18 months; my shed was cleared out by some of the local underclass one night who took the Canyon, the Santa Cruz and two other bikes. The new untouchables apparently, despite names and CCTV footage, the police effort in the case will never be described as thorough or sustained. 

Thoroughly disheartened, I didn’t ride for about ten weeks I think, although the ten weeks did include a four week video project for a local charity, followed by a month in Australia. Returning from Australia, I had no enthusiasm to go and look for another bike, let alone ride, it was only when an old friend, visiting from the USA, wanted to have a look around the local bike shops that my mojo returned. After the longest hiatus in my mountain biking career, I became the owner of my present steed, a Whyte 140, again there are some letters and numbers suffixing the name but I never remember stuff like that.

29” wheels are standard nowadays, 27.5” are rare and 26” wheels are on the verge of appearing on the antiques roadshow. Weighing in at a phenomenal 33lb, I’m certain it is the heaviest bike I have ever owned, not really noticeable when riding it but lifting the brute onto my roofrack is like something from an Olympic clean and jerk. The handlebar shortening fashion has long gone and the bars on this new bike are about the length of a javelin, giving my poor shoulders some pain for the first few rides.

So, 25 years later, I have a bike which has, as standard, custom tuned (whatever that is) suspension front and rear, a single chainring drivetrain, hydraulic brakes, a dropper post, tubeless tyres, sealed cartridge bearings and internal cable routing. Long gone are the days when every moving part would be sprayed with GT85, chains had to be degreased and lubed with every wash. Modern wax lubes for chains are a revelation, just brush the dust off and whack another application over the top of the previous one, leave it to dry and away you go. 

Another 25 years at this and I’ll be 88 years old. It might be time to start looking at ebikes then.