The First Touch Of Autumn
Well, here we are leaving September behind and tipping a toe into the frigid waters of October, there may be people wondering what happened to the last half of July and all of August in the blog. Some riding did happen, a lot less than normal though because I am involved in a charity project for the school summer holidays, so time was at a premium and the hours to write rides up couldn’t be found. For anyone interested enough, I’ll put the Strava links to the missing outings at the end of this blog. This is September’s efforts.
Owing to time constraints - you wouldn’t think I am retired - the first ride of September ended up being a local outing. Looking back, I can’t even remember what the problem was, only that it was too nice a day to waste, so I hopped on the bike and headed for the internationally renown resort of Seaton Carew, jewel in the crown of the North East coast. Often referred to as Seaton Canoe - twinned with Panama, following the antics of John Darwin, who faked his death in a canoeing accident to claim the insurance money, intending to start a new life in Panama. The whole affair was depicted in the TV mini-series, The Thief, His Wife and the Canoe, fairly accurately, except for moving his house a few miles up the coast to Hartlepool - which upset a few pedants. From where I live, Seaton Carew can be reached using a collection of minor roads, tracks and bridleways, taking the scenic route following a beck which eventually flows into the Tees estuary. There is still a modicum of industry remaining around the estuary. The Brent C oil rig dominates the skyline after being towed into a dismantling yard, the same yard where similar rigs were constructed back in the seventies. A bridleway crosses Seaton golf course, from where a detour can be made on to North Gare, or The Slaggy as it used to be known locally because it is constructed out of slag, a byproduct of the local steelworks. Along with its neighbour across the water, South Gare, they delineate the entrance to the river Tees, which still sees plenty of sailing traffic, mainly gargantuan oil tankers. On a pleasant day like today, a canny palace to have a snack and stare out to sea like Otis Redding, before continuing into the coastal village of Seaton Carew. When the tide is well out, it is possible to ride along the beach but today I took the bridleway along the edge of the golf course. Showing iron willpower, I resisted lemon tops and fish and chips (for those who may not be aware, lemon tops are a unique North East coast delicacy, a scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with a scoop of lemon sorbet, every bit as tasty as it sounds). The return journey is significantly less pleasant than the outward, mainly cycle tracks beside busy roads until Greatham, then quiet tracks between fields almost all the way home but it is still not bad for a leg stretcher.
Yet another Great Ayton start but with a purpose this time, after a tip off from Miles that Chevronz and a variation of Stripes have been resurrected from the mass grave of trees which that area became, sampling one or both became an aim. But first a few miles in the legs, earning the descents and all that. Some scrounging about around the back of Highcliffe Nab led me nicely to Chevronz via a few trails. Chevronz seems to follow the same route as it did when it was surrounded by trees, to me it felt more enjoyable in the open but that is just my personal opinion. I thought about hauling back up to do Stripes but the weather was forecast to crap out around 1pm and there were some ominous clouds on the horizon already. I made my way back through the forest and up onto Roseberry Common where the first drops of rain made their unwelcome presence felt. Three downhill miles back to the car, I could make that before it got too heavy surely? Thirty seconds later I was dragging the moderately expensive coat out of the bag at the same time as trying to keep any exposed areas of skin from being flayed by hailstones of bitter malevolence. Hood pulled so far up only my eyes were visible, I continued down through Aireyholme and Fletcher’s farms, deafened by the hail, like being strafed by a squadron of BB fighter jets. I reached Great Ayton wetter than SpongeBob Square Pants in a swimming gala.
Lesser mortals might have been discouraged after Monday’s icy flaying but us monkey-hangers aren’t made from tissue paper and fairydust, 48 hours later I was hauling my bike off the roof rack again. Only after a cautious assessment of today’s weather forecast, one drenching a week is enough for anyone. It has been a while since two rides have happened in the same week, so the easy Scaling Dam loop was the obvious choice. Maximum enjoyment with minimal effort. This ride has been documented myriad times on this blog, I won’t bore you with the details, suffice to say, the first mile or so, which unfortunately is on the A171 Moor Road is still an ordeal to be endured. Thankfully it is brief and for the remainder of the ride, tarmac is kept to a minimum. The Sis Cross track remains a superb example of moorland singletrack, still holding up well despite the recent poor weather and the second classic descent, across Roxby Moor was also dry and firm but a North wind, blasting straight in from the sea meant Strava PB’s remained unmolested. The ride finishes with a pleasant mile along the side of the reservoir, on top of the dam.
Miles has jumped off the hamster wheel of employment for a couple of days and dragged his battery boy bike out for a ride, tempting a gentleman of more advanced years into riding some of the trails he has spotted while perambulating about Guisborough Woods with his pooch. And most enjoyable it was too, meandering around the woods, pointing ourselves down trails which often turned out to be more suitable for riders with a prudence deficiency. But the sun was beaming down on us like a beneficent uncle spreading beatific good-tidings on his two favourite nephews, there was even a hint of warmth in the air. At one point, we ended up on the SOW track (Skip Off Work), which neither of us had ridden for quite some time. It looks as though the trail pixies spent some time bringing sections up to their standards before abandoning the route to the encroaching vegetation. The pleasant jumps which us guys on the verge of middle-age could just about manage have hypertrophied to monstrous doubles and the finishing section needs a bit of attention with a machete - which is a shame because they are now a banned item joining knuckle dusters, ivory, telescopic batons, CS gas and Sunny Delight in the pantheon of illegal accompaniments. More trails led us back through the forest until we returned to Miles’ handily situated abode on the outskirts of the woods. And Miles made a video of our jolly boys outing, which, owing to the wonders of modern technology, may be thrust onto your screen by clicking on this word.
A perfect day for some wide open skies, especially when they are blue, cloudless and the sun is beaming down on the righteous and the morally dubious alike. Today was a slight variation on an old route from the beginning of my mountain biking life; back when I thought one decent hardtail would last many years and be perfectly adequate for cruising across the moors and thrashing down rocky slopes. Six months and a plethora of injuries later, I bought the first in a long line of full suspension bikes, much to the disgust of my riding companions, who viewed a 100mm of elastomer travel (which froze solid in winter) as merely a “skill compensator.” My skill level has improved only marginally over the last 25+ years, not helped in the least by advances in suspension technology, tyre compounds and braking systems. My almost on the verge of middle-age body still hits the ground at depressingly regular intervals. I set off from Swainby and followed road and trail to the head of Scugdale, shouldering the bike for the climb up the steep and loose hill, stopping at the top gate to take in the magnificent panorama looking back along the Scugdale valley. Along one edge of the valley, the climbing crags are scattered amongst the heather like dandruff on a fur collar, one of the places where we mis-spent our youth and early adulthood, climbing routes instead of career ladders, living for rest days from work so we could get back out on the rock. From the head of Scugdale wide tracks bisect the moor in all directions, a product of the grouse shooting industry but a marvellous way to cross moorland on a pleasant day like this. Made even more fun because there was finally some downhill involved, a long cruise on a sandy track the width of a road, all the way to Low Cote Farm where I joined the road between Hawnby and Osmotherly, turning right and following tarmac for a while. Eventually the former droving inn, Chequers, was passed, signifying the end of tarmac and a return to the rough stuff. Keeping with the xc theme, a quick fire road blast down to the reservoir ensued, considering the amount of rain we have had lately, the water level is pretty low. I continued on, negotiating packs of hostile dog-walkers, subjecting me to the full battery of glares, sniffs and pained sighs which are the ordnance of the passive aggressive British pet owner. The only section of singletrack for the whole ride beckoned, a varied little track which runs parallel to the steep road bank of Scarth Nick, slightly overgrown but fun all the same. A mile or so on a road so minor it hadn’t even started school and I was back in Swainby, still languishing in the autumnal sunshine. Perfect.
It's time to put you on again.
There is nothing like fitting a mudguard while rain plays Keith Moon paradiddles off the shed roof to question one’s sanity and reason for living. And it is not as though the forecast was set to improve: it wasn’t. 80% chance of heavy rain all day. Yet here I was, fiddling with Allen keys prior to loading my bike on the roof rack and heading to Great Ayton, to meet my companions for the day, Keith and Charlie, who had ventured south from the metropolis of Sunderland for a day on the moors. Nobody wanted to be the first to capitulate, which explains how we came to be sheltering under tailgates, donning wet weather gear. They are both ‘friends of Billy’ nowadays, Keith has groomed Charlie, perverting him into the debauched underworld of electrically assisted pedalling. Us analog diehards are getting fewer and fewer. I had tempted them down to North Yorkshire with tales of newly reopened singletrack in Guisborough Woods, rescued from beneath the detritus of tree-felling, unfortunately they were to be disappointed, hours of persistent precipitation has rendered them into mud slides, so we considerately left them for a drier day and had a scrounge about the forest and surrounding moors on better surfaced trails. In the spirit of “who dares wins, Rodney” the rain actually stopped about ten minutes into the ride, the clouds never lifted though and we spent the majority of the excursion enveloped in a wet, grey blanket. At the beginning of the ride Charlie predicted eight miles before we called it a day, we ended up doing double that distance and enjoying every minute of it, especially the pies from the butcher’s at the end.
It has been quite a while since I ventured up to Clay Bank and as soon as I drove through the wooden pillars at the entrance to the car park I remembered why. It is now pay and display, the nemesis of most of my riding companions. It doesn’t look as though it is working out too well for Forest Enterprise either, seeing as me and a lonely Vauxhall had the whole car park to ourselves, the ticket machines have both been vandalised into dereliction and the parking app wouldn’t connect, which left me no option but to dial the last resort number on the signage and go through a lengthy process to finally plonk three quid in their coffers. Numerous cars drove to the gate, read the signs and reversed away again to park in one of the free laybys within spitting distance of the car park. I’m sure some suit and tie wearing corporate minion on a committee in an office somewhere thought the whole pay and display thing was a grand idea - at this rate they’ll have recouped the outlay on the parking machines by the next ice age. The Old Coal Road is a standard sort of big sky moors route, a carry up the steps onto Urra Moor is followed by a slight detour to Round Hill, as I may have mentioned before, the wholly uninspiring highest point on the North York Moors, carrying on to the tumulus of Burton Howe via the Incline Top. From Burton Howe, The Old Coal Road is a broad, sandy track which descends to Armoth Wath, formerly an area of coal extraction, hence the name of the track. At a T junction, I went left and followed another gravelled double-track which joins the Cleveland Way above Battersby. A short section of varied singletrack, think, ruts, puddles, mud and heather takes me to Turkey Nab, or as the Ordnance Survey like to call it, Ingleby Bank, where I had my first breather and stopped to take on board some calories and chat to the few bypassers who were also enjoying the first decent day in a while, there were even a couple of wobbly-heads crawling uphill in their Chelsea Chariot. I headed downhill, over rock slabs and baby's-head gravel, at the kind of speed some might consider unwise for a gentleman on the verge of middle-age. From the prosaically named Bank Foot Farm, which is, yes, you’ve guessed it, at the bottom of the bank, it is a five mile pedal back to Clay Bank, four and a half miles on gradually rising fire roads through conifer plantations, finishing with a brutal half a mile of tarmac which levels out at the car park entrance. At least now it is pay and display there are no sightseers to witness the panting, wheezing wreck of a man riding a bike into the deserted car park.
The unblogged rides
Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.
