What A Grand Day For A Mad Mile

A Swainby start today, reached by driving through a widespread fog which seems to be covering the whole of our little corner of North East England. One of those lucky quirks of meteorology occurred as I unloaded the car, the sun began to shine on the righteous. As everyone knows, mountain bikers are more righteous than most other humans, so we deserve a bit of good weather, especially those who haven’t yet succumbed to Billy Bosch mobility bikes. The mist began to drift away and the pedal out of Swainby was in bright sunshine, the uphill pedal, followed by the uphill walk (up the Clain Wood steps) leading to more uphill pedalling until I was at the gate on Scarth Wood Moor. A couple of pictures, a glance at the view and I was withdrawing my deposit in the gravity bank with a downhill blast to the road outside Osmotherley. And a quick left turn to Cod Beck reservoir, looking resplendent in the winter sunshine. I pedalled up through the woods to High Lane, making my way to Square Corner, from where I would usually go for a scrounge about the trails in Silton Woods but not today, some type of perversion overcame me and I found myself puffing and panting up the Mad Mile, all four hundred loose and rocky feet of it. From the cairn at the top, I made a short detour to the summit of Black Hambleton, somewhere I haven’t been since I was a kid despite many subsequent visits to the Mad Mile. It is another of North Yorkshire’s collection of uninspiring summits, a trig point in a sea of heather, the only way to get a pleasing view is to stand on the trig point. And then I rode down again, somewhat more speedily than I rode up it must be said, the descent untroubled by ramblers, canines or stray sheep. Magnificent, worth every moment of toil on the ascent. I retraced my tyre tracks to High Lane, all the way to the ford at Sheepwash, from where tarmac, with the exception of one minor off-road diversion took me back to Swainby and a picnic for one in the bus shelter.

Greyer Than A Tramp's Y Fronts.

Misplaced optimism, a phrase more usually used to for the gambling fraternity, especially where erstwhile Terra Trailblazer, The Ginger One was concerned with his succession of equine errors. Today, however, it was a misguided belief the weather would improve - it didn’t, the whole day remained grey, there was only one splash of colour in the comprehensive palette of greyness and that was me. The car park at Birk Brow is no place to be on a day like this, judging by the lack of vehicles, a sentiment shared by many. The Quaker’s Causeway was even lonelier, sandstone paving, darkened by drizzle, in an ocean of black heather, stretching up into an anaemic sky, already a place which strikes terror into the hearts of those soft of buttock and weak of core. Suffice to say, I was alone. Mud was more of a nuisance today, the unpaved sections gelatinous, it was a relief to emerge onto the road and follow it to a better bridleway above Commondale, which leads down through fields to the village itself. From Fowle Green, on the edge of Commondale, a wide track parallels the Esk Valley railway to Castleton, keeping low, out of the claggy conditions higher up. I paused for a picture of the two resident llamas which are probably as baffled as anyone why they are in North Yorkshire not Peru. Crossing the road at Castleton, I continued through Danby Park, which has none of the attributes of a real park, no bandstand, playground or seedy toilet block filled with paedophiles or discarded syringes. No idea these country folk. I pedalled up the road from Danby, back into the murky sky, turning off onto Robin Hood’s Butts and following it all the way back to the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter, ready for the return match with the Quaker’s Causeway. Some of my compatriots regard riding the causeway twice in one ride as only marginally less perverse than Fred and Rose West but some of us are made of sterner stuff and it wasn't too long before my fortitude was rewarded with a bacon cheeseburger from the van at the car park.

A Few Miles With Miles.

Managed to score myself a companion today, albeit briefly, before the world of work reclaimed him. We set off from Miles’ house, which is attractively situated next to Guisborough Woods, if Carlsberg did riding companions and all that and made our way, predictably enough, into said forest. As always in Guisborough things began with a substantial chunk of climbing, which is okay for battery boy Miles but not so much fun for us un-electrified kids. Despite the wintry conditions, the trails are showing slight signs of drying up, making them a bit more fun to ride. Essentially we cherry-picked our way from one end of the forest to the other before heading back into Miles’ estate - housing estate, that is, he’s not a lord or anything. Or he’s keeping it a secret if he is. He had to resume his labours, as they say, while I had to return to indolence for the remainder of the afternoon. Sometimes a time constraint can focus the mind and we had still managed to squeeze in almost a dozen miles, a canny bit of climbing and some classic trails, time spent like that is never wasted.