A Good Drying Wind

Bereft of companions and looking at a forecast when the wind was not going to drop below 40 mph the whole day, I thought I would have a Pinchinthorpe start, spurting away pounds of my pension just so I could finish the ride in a nice cafe. It is ludicrously expensive when you consider it only costs just over a couple of pounds more to park at Hamsterley, where we are rewarded with an awesome examples of the trail builder’s art, properly built to withstand the ravages of wind, rain and chubsters on electric bikes: in Guisborough, as far as can be ascertained, not a single penny is spent to benefit mountain bikers. I was glad of the shelter from the remaining trees as I made my way to the top of the woods, working on my old principle of tailwind high, headwind low, eventually ending up at the far eastern end of the forest, having a play about on some of the One Man And His Dog trails. All these trails and many more throughout the forest are the work of an octogenarian who has put more effort into the area than Redcar and Cleveland Council ever have. In spite of the recent wet weather, the more open trails are not too bad to ride, it’s a good drying wind as they used to say in the olden days, before tumble dryers. Riding down the Concrete Road into a headwind knocked more than a few seconds off my PB and I headed back to Pinchinthorpe on the old railway track which runs between the bottom of the forest and the top of Guisborough. Still feeling fresh, an unaccustomed burst of enthusiasm saw me turn off the nice, flat, sheltered track and begin climbing back into the forest, keen and eager to slot in a few more trails before the cafe. Could I be having some kind of mental breakdown? Evidently not because it wasn't too long before the siren call of coffee and toasties lured me to the steamy warmth of the cafe.

Not Bad For February

The wind dropped a bit today, so I was able to ride with Chad, my imaginary expat American mountain biking companion, he wouldn’t come out yesterday because it was too breezy. He went shopping instead but was thrown out of Go Outdoors after he asked an assistant to show him her fanny packs. Two nations separated by a common language and all that. Today’s venue was a sun-dappled Scaling Dam for a routine ride, nothing out of the ordinary but enjoyable nonetheless, especially for Chad who finds the mud of North Yorkshire more challenging than Californian loam. The brutal hill, we know as The Slagbag was especially challenging despite being almost mud free. The remainder of the ride followed a fairly standard sort of route, Lealholm Rigg, Oakley Walls, Clithebeck Farm, Danby Beacon, finishing with the superb Roxby Moor, a speedy track across a heather moor, with views across to Scaling reservoir and the North Sea beyond. Apparently it is “way rad.” whatever that might mean but sunshine and amenable temperatures meant it was a great finish to our ride. As a special treat, we stopped at Birk Brow on the way home so Chad could sample a proper British cheeseburger,a bit of a shock compared to the homogenised bland burgers he is used to.

Fickle February

Keith could have picked a better day for the inaugural ride of his new bike, despite it being the better day of two days of atrocious forecasts. He’ll need to be a bit careful out in the damp too because he has joined the battery boys, not the batty boys, who, I believe, are something quite different. He has succumbed to the lure of motorised legs and assisted breathing, leaving me and The Breadlad looking like relics from a bygone age, we may as well turn up on penny-farthings wearing top hats and frock coats. Frock coats, not frocks, that’s something we save for the weekend. We left Great Ayton in a steady downpour, me regretting the fact the incredibly expensive jacket I bought last autumn doesn’t have a zip to match the price tag and is currently in the process of heading back to Endura. As height was gained, rain turned to sleet, then snow, the trails were soon covered in a thin layer. We rode up to Gribdale, two thirds of us panting up the steep bank, the remaining third ambling upward, enjoying the view while Billy Bosch did the work for him. Not having a pair of Elton John’s windscreen wiper glasses, I had to remove mine as the lenses were being obscured by the white stuff, only to discover, snow plus wind plus bare eyeballs is a painful combination. Around the Lonsdale Bowl and along Percy Cross Rigg, snow being driven in by a bitter wind, we kept riding until the shelter of Guisborough Woods. A bit of local knowledge found us some dry(ish) trails and we spent a bit of time sliding off them into the trees before an unspoken agreement saw us heading in the direction of warm drinks and all-butter pastry, both requirements fulfilled admirably by the farm shop at Fletcher’s Farm. Despite being wet though, with numb extremities and shivering like nuns in a sex shop, we sat in an open barn as though it was a summer day, being watched by turkeys with face’s like prolapsed rectums. The snow had reverted to rain as we came lower but the temperature hadn’t got any warmer, the remaining couple of miles back to the cars would only have been enjoyable to that maniac Wim Hof and we were shaking like shitting dogs as we packed our bikes away. Then we all agreed it had been a thoroughly enjoyable ride and went our separate ways, hoping to do it all again as soon as circumstances permit.