Take Me Home Country Roads.

The start of what turned out to be another slack week and I am in Scaling Dam car park, defying the weather forecast which was for a band of showers sweeping in from the west around lunchtime. As I rode toward The Slagbag, the weather couldn’t have been more pleasant, even a touch of warmth from the sun. I was checking out a pretty standard, leisurely route with a view to taking some relative beginners for a go at mountain biking in the near future. So I pedalled to High Tranmire Farm, dropping down to Hardale Beck, where the crossing gets bigger every time we are here and began the lung-flaying ascent of the climb known on Strava as The Slagbag. Only a tenth of a mile in length but gaining a hundred feet in height on a combination of steep grass and gravel, one of those short, sharp beasts where your mind ponders the possibilities of an exploding heart, as you pant upward. Not really the place to bring tyro mountain bikers but it is the only significant climb on the route and it’s an easy push. The track continues over the moor, dropping down to Green Houses, from where a scenic few miles on tarmac lead us along Oakley Walls, high above the Esk valley, riding between heather moor and farmland. Eventually the gravel doubletrack to Clitherbeck Farm comes into view, Strava name: Watersplash singletrack, it wasn’t the only thing coming into view, an ominous build up of black clouds massing on the western horizon like an angry mob dominates the sky. Initially I thought it might blow out to sea and miss Clitherbeck completely; I thought wrong and it came in with Biblical fury, or Tyson Fury or some kind of fury. Black sky, howling wind, lashing rain - that'll teach you to doubt the weatherman. Luckily I’d had the sense not to leave the incredibly expensive jacket in the car but could have done with a pair of waders to accompany the jacket. Within minutes my bottom half was drenched, trousers soaked through, feet sloshing around in 5:10’s full of water. I looked as though I’d been open water swimming without the raw sewage, unless you count the watered down, ovine excreta which was splashed liberally up my legs. As the track turned toward the road, the full force hit me straight on, fortunately not for long, when I turned off onto the road to Danby Beacon the wind and rain were behind me, reducing the impact but now I was riding through a minor cascade running down the road. I believe mudguards are very popular this time of year, must buy one, one of these days. No lingering at the beacon today, straight to the Roxby Moor singletrack, (yes, for the pedants out there it is actually a doubletrack) and a nice wind-assisted blast across the moor. The rain travelled faster than me, blowing out to sea, so at least the remainder of the ride was dry, apart from the water squelching from yours truly. Back at the car park, the flask of hot, black coffee in the car hit the spot, as I divested my wet gear. If there had been a wet T shirt contest for dad bods I could have entered. But of course, there is no such thing, so I settled for second best and went for a cheeseburger at Birk Brow, just to keep my figure in shape.

Here I Go Again

It’s Friday already and this is only the second ride of the week, my 5:10’s are still damp, four days after their soaking and I am pedalling away from Great Ayton with pretty much the same weather forecast ringing in my ears, intending to do nothing more than a quick scrounge about Guisborough Woods before the rain hits. One of the usual starts, up through the farms to Roseberry Common, before shouldering the bike up the steps to Newton Moor, seven hundred and odd feet of ascent from the village, enough to get the lungs opened up. Taking the obligatory picture of Roseberry Topping from the gate, I played ailment Top Trumps with a random dog walker (you'll find out when you get to my age), his two heart attacks beat my stroke and off he went on his victorious way. I went around the Lonsdale Bowl to Percy Cross Rigg and continued to Sleddale, adding an ascent of Codhill Heights to my climbing tally. At the seat behind Highcliffe Nab, owing to the wonders of modern technology, I chatted electronically with my daughter in Australia, whilst admiring the view and keeping a deja vu eye on the encroaching clouds. Cooling sweat was starting to chill me, as she complained about her local temperature dropping to a frigid 25 Celsius overnight. My sympathy for her plight may not have been overwhelming. We said our goodbyes and I made my way onto Highcliffe Nab while she probably made her way to her balcony to look at the twinkling light of downtown Brisbane, I looked down at the less than twinkling Guisborough town, the earlier sunshine turning to shadow as the clouds scudded in. I pushed on toward the east end of the woods, a lot more felling has occurred since my last visit, the muddy and puddle-ridden top track, which accessed the starts of Screwball Scramble and Mintballz, is no longer a track through the trees, there are no trees and the track is now two deep ruts forged from black mud, where the tree harvesters have churned their way through the conifers. I enjoyed a couple of lower down tracks before the rain revisited, the incredibly expensive coat made a reappearance as recent history repeated itself, albeit in a much gentler fashion. I managed a few more, slightly damp, trails before hunger lured me back to Great Ayton and the pastry-wrapped delights in the window of the butcher’s shop. As is usually the case, the sun reappeared as I rode along the High Street.