Grim

First ride of the week and only ride of this week as it turned out, for reasons I won’t go into, other than to say 2024 is not turning out to be a classic year. A bit like this ride, I (alone naturally) left Great Ayton in a steady drizzle, which was forecast to dry up as the morning progressed - the forecast was wrong, if anything it got wetter the higher I rode into the cloud. My first objective was Captain Cook’s Monument, usually reached by a strenuous road climb, followed by a more strenuous fire road climb. Or you could go the other way, on the opposite side of Easby Moor, following wet and slippery tracks composed of squelchy bog and vertical mud, which is when the realisation the back tyre I have been meaning to change for ages is just too slick for these conditions. The monument was no place to be hanging about taking in the view, mainly because the view was a panorama of grey. The ride finished with an equally moist scrounge about Guisborough Woods before heading down into Great Ayton for the highlight of the ride - the butchers shop. Riding away with pastry wrapped comestibles safely stowed, I found myself bothering the little cogs on my cassette because my legs were spinning so freely. Conceivably I had suddenly developed legs like one of those Tour De France, drop handlebar, anorexic weirdos or my bottom bracket has gone. Considering I had a pasty in one pocket and a pork pie in the other, it looks like new BB time.

Sweltering At Swainby

One week later, not only do I have a new bottom bracket and a rear tyre with some sticky out bits to grip in the mud but that rarest of things - a companion. Keith has travelled down from the far reaches of our known universe to give his Billy Bosch Battery Boy bike an outing. In honour of his arduous journey from Wearside, through wild and lawless South Durham, holding his breath through the Teesside smog and into rural North Yorkshire, the weather has had a funny turn and treated us to a perfect spring day. We rode from Swainby to SIlton Woods, had a spin around a couple of trails, headed back to check out some of Rod’s recent handiwork around Cod Beck Reservoir before pedalling up to Scarth Wood Moor for more downhill trail fun. We rode a classic track in Clain Woods before following the Cleveland Way to Scugdale, passing through a field which is now more mud than grass, luckily followed by a stream crossing. And then it was back to Swainby for a tailgate picnic in the sunshine.

Wet 'N' Wild

In contrast to the previous ride, today's effort was an effort. Another wet start but at least the rain did dry up this morning although the trails were wetter than the inside of a drunk’s wardrobe. Another Great Ayton/Guisborough Woods combo, bereft of companionship, even Chad, my imaginary friend has returned to California to shred some loam and be able to talk about fanny packs without a chorus of sniggering. The route is largely immaterial, suffice to say it involved mud, water and grey cloud. The cropping of Guisborough Woods’ conifer population is creeping closer to the classic trails of Chevronz and Stripes, I imagine they will be mere memories this time next week. But at least we got to ride them, many times and something new will emerge from the debris, the trail pixies have probably already planned what to do once the trees are removed. The early rain might have moved on to bother someone else but the wind remained, carrying with it any last dregs of moisture it could find. Soon bike and body were saturated with more mud than ought to be permitted, so I headed down the hill to Fletcher’s farm shop for a forage amongst their pastry-enveloped goodness.

The Wicked Wind Of The West

Ultimate ride of the week and another perfect spring day - apart from the wind, which is brutal. For a change, this ride begins in Ingleby Greenhow, with a tarmac start, along the road to Clay Bank. Shortly after setting off I remember this is the twelve hundred foot start, twelve hundred relentless feet of ascent before even a smidgen of downhill appears. From the Dudley Arms car park to Round Hill, the highest point in the North York Moors. It wasn’t fun, it certainly wasn’t pretty but the sun was shining and the wind was predominantly a tailwind. There have been worse days. And it was mainly downhill to the car for another tailgate picnic in the sunshine. Apparently there is an affliction which prevents people from enjoying days like this, something known as work. Can’t see the idea catching on.