Two Rides:One Reservoir.

All Alone In The Woods.

Wednesday 8th January 2020
Square Corner
Alone

Teesside, home of The Smoggies, pollution, smoke and grime. Why is it then, quite often I find myself heading south into North Yorkshire, leaving brilliant blue skies (why is it always plural - surely there is only one sky?) behind and travelling towards low cloud and gloom? As it was today, left a passable Spring day at home and found myself in a slate grey land of gloaming and drizzle; mind you it was Square Corner, which has a perpetually dismal micro-climate at the best of times. The two Terra Trailblazers regulars are at work and the irregular is probably playing in his van, everyone else will be TOFU, not the tasteless oriental foodstuff which looks as though it is made from the collected squeezings of a thousand teenagers pimples’ pressed into a block but Telly On: Feet Up. 

So it was Billy No Mates me riding about all alone in the woods like Little Red Riding Hood today, not going to see grandma, not without a shovel anyway, like those Mexicans celebrating Day Of The Dead. Rather than messing about with dead relatives, I went to Silton Woods for a mess about on the downhill track, which is still present despite the clearance going on in the forest, features come and go but the basic track remains. Returning to Square Corner after four and a half miles of riding is a bit slothful, even by our pitiful standards, the car was bypassed in favour of a little exploring in the woods above Cod Beck, discovering a couple of previously unexplored trails and riding Rod’s new trail again, properly this time, finding the extension over the tree trunk. (If you know, you know). 

The continuation tarmac slog up toward the antennas was no easier than it was forty eight hours ago, this time heading straight onto Scarth Wood Moor and enjoying the paved descent all the way to the road. And that was the fun more or less over for today, only a climb back to Square Corner between me and the little picnic waiting for me. And the sun managed to put in an appearance, sheltering in the lee of the car, munching the last of the Christmas cake, it was almost quite pleasant.

The Sun Brings Them Out

Friday 10th January 2020
Sheepwash
Oz

For the third time this week I’m in the environs of Cod Beck Reservoir, today, owing to a bit of winter sunshine, it looks like we are sharing it with everyone in Teesside and North Yorkshire who is not at work. The car parks are jammed, people driving around looking for spaces, luckily me and Oz managed to grab two of the remaining spots. Oz? Yes, he has returned to the world of blood,sweat and gears, ready to conquer all the mud and slop a Northern winter can throw at us. Except today, today was really nice, virtually windless, sunshine and blue sky, what more could we want? Best not go into that, it’s a long list. Our ride used more or less than the same tracks as the previous two outings, just in a different order, as Eric Morecombe might have said. Anyone under fifty will have no idea what I am talking about. We warmed up by riding to Silton Woods and enjoying the top part of the downhill, somewhat slippier than Wednesday, only to be expected because it rained for about eighteen hours yesterday. 

Our next objectives were Rod’s tracks, a treat for Oz because they were new to him, quite sheltered in the trees, the trails were moist but not muddy which was a bonus. The long climb up to Scarth Wood Moor came next, following the tarmac road which leads to the antenas, third time this week for me but it doesn’t feel any easier, so much for riding makes you fitter. Or maybe it is the lack of wind assistance on this attempt. 

From the top, we rode down, first on a glorious track through the woods before emerging onto the moor, where we passed by another herd of cows whose toilet habits seemed a little more refined than Monday’s herd. They weren’t wearing nappies, perhaps there are gigantic cat litter trays hidden discreetly behind trees and rocks where they go to powder their noses.  Maybe things are not as ‘concentrated’ when there are acres of open moor to wander around, dropping out a few Tracey Islands as you go, or, possibly Monday’s cows live on a diet of curry and beer, has a similar effect on me, that’s for sure. See, it’s not all riding bikes up and down hills in the mud, intellectual conundrums such as these keep our minds from stagnating while we pedal. David Attenborough never touches on these quandaries in his documentaries. Anyway, as Cupid Stunt might have said, everyone remembers Kenny Everett. No? Oh well. Anyway, emerging onto the moor, we followed the paved path all the way to the road, from where it is a short pedal back to Sheepwash. 

Darkness At The Edge Of Town.

Darkness At The Edge Of Town.

Monday 6th January 2020

Sheepwash

The Breadlad

What is it with days like this? Perpetual dusk blankets the land, not even a glimpse of sunlight manages to break through the cloud, as if we are in Alaska or somewhere. Conditions like these infect me with lassitude, sleep is the preferred option but instead I’m in a car park waiting for The Breadlad to turn up. He has forgotten to set his watch to GMT and is still operating on NMT (New Marske Time) which is fifteen minutes behind the rest of Britain, so, when he does roll into the car park, bouncing through the potholes, he’s actually early in his world. After the usual exchange of new year pleasantries, we are soon weaving between dog walkers along the banks of Cod Beck Reservoir, much to the disgust of one old biddy who took a dim view of having to share North Yorkshire with a pair of cyclists. Being the perfect gentlemen that we are, we completely ignored her whinging and carried on with our ride. Or maybe it was because she looked like a rugby player after a particularly dubious sex change operation from the cheapest hospital in Bangkok and could probably have filled us both in with one arm behind her back. 

After panting our way up to High Lane, we immediately launched ourselves back down the hill, on a rooty trail through the trees, in search of Rod’s new track, a handy cairn gave it away. A pain-free alternative to Gorse Bush Alley, nothing too technical but a good bit of trail building from Rod, he must have built it with my limits in mind. Venturing out from the trees, the full force of the wind hit us, the forecast threatened 40 mph, luckily it gave us a bit of assistance as slogged up the hill to Scarth Wood Moor and a quick blast on another of our favourite tracks through some woods, loam and leaves, trees and roots. Even though it is the depths of winter, most of the trails are dry, other than the odd muddy patch, this section was excellent. Emerging onto the moor, we followed the paved path down to the road, continuing into Clain Woods and down The Steps Of Doom, again, quite dry beneath a covering of leaves. 

An undulating bridleway took us down to Heathwaite in the Scugdale valley, fun over for a while, we climbed up to another favourite bridleway, which descends gently through Faceby Plantation, eventually reaching the outskirts Faceby, where we turned into the wind. Not became the wind on some hippy LSD trip, just crossed some muddy fields between High Farm and Whorlton House battling the headwind; the ultimate field is home to a herd of cows, who blocked the path like a gang of youths outside an off licence, daring us to go through them. All those John Wayne films weren’t wasted, although the Hollywood version of wrangling probably used less swearing; eventually they acquiesced with a bovine equivalent of feigned indifference, “yeah,whatever” and let us ride past so we could splatter their ordure all over ourselves on the ride down to the road. A bit of toilet training wouldn’t go amiss. The stench was pervasive, hardly surprising, when we realise there are very few areas of our bikes or bodies that don’t have essence of Fresian faeces clinging on somewhere. For the first time ever on a ride, rain would have been welcomed. The speedy blast down the road to Swainby helpfully shed it from our tyres; no prizes for guessing where it landed.

 A steady plod, literally as we went back up The Steps Of Doom, brought us to the top of Scarth Nick and half a mile of easy road back to Sheepwash. Except our old friend Mr. Headwind is back and owing to the extra height, showing us no mercy. At one point we were pedalling downhill at 5 mph, hoping it might blow some of the smell away. No, it didn’t, is the simple answer and now we have cars that smell like an episode of The Yorkshire Vet. All this talk of slurry and ordure couldn’t help bring back the memory of The Ginger One stalling in a farmyard and having to put his bare leg knee deep into a cocktail of filth way back in February 2004 (TTB 12).

First Ride Of The New Decade.

First Ride Of The Decade

Friday 3rd January 2020
Clay Bank
The Ginger One

Oddly enough the first ride the year, turned out to be pretty much the same as the penultimate ride of last year, as our quest for new trails away from the slop of Guisborough Woods continues. Me and the Ginger One met at Clay Bank car park, on a fine morning, none of the grey clag which greeted us last time. 

The push/ride/carry up Carr Ridge was no easier though and the wide sandy tracks over Urra Moor are becoming wide sticky tracks from the dousings they are suffering. We even repeated the long drop down into Baysdale Abbey despite knowing we would have to endure the snivelling pant back up the road. Advice in cycling magazines is generally of the “find an easy gear and spin” variety, these are the same magazines where no-one goes for a bike ride, for a laugh with their mates; it’s ‘training’ which is only preparation for the main purpose of having a bike - ‘racing’. Perhaps, in the light of how many cyclists actually race, they ought to be reassessing their demographic and secondly they need to move somewhere with real hills, hills where you are out of gears in the first ten metres and upward motion can only be achieved by stamping on the pedals and swearing on the exhale, where the only spinning is your head from lack of oxygen. Naturally, all this exertion prompted talk of electric bikes, my plan is to try and keep with the analog pedalling for another ten years, until the big seven oh before venturing into the murky world of pedal assistance. The way things are going I’ll probably be the last person in the world without an electric bike, an anachronism, like these twentieth century Victorians who still use cheques and think the internet is new-fangled. 

A little breather at the top before continuing to Turkey Nab, the new improved Turkey Nab, already showing signs that good old Mama Nature and our 4x4 brethren (one life: live it - so long as you can afford the diesel) are restoring the track back to a nice, slabby downhill. Another couple winters and it will be back to normal. From the gate we went searching for another trail spotted on Trailforks, Borrowed Time, not at first obvious, especially to the Ginger One, whose tracking skills tend to be limited to finding bars which sell John Smiths while he is in foreign lands but it soon became apparent. An enjoyable few minutes followed as we swooped up and down between the trees, weaving around on damp loam, following the trail downward to Guisborough style (vertical drop into a ditch) finish at a fire road. 

Passing Bank Foot farm, we stayed in the woods to ride the trail called Back To The Car, which Rod and me rode last week. Unfortunately back to the car is another four miles for us, we could see the sun glinting of our vehicles in Clay Bank car park, high above us, as we cruised undulating fire roads, gradually climbing until we reached the road and girded our loins for the last 500m. Think of all those rides with a lovely downhill finish, arriving at the car or the cafe, grinning like a baboon on MDMA, just reverse everything and imagine arriving at the car park like Sisyphus and his rock, ready to collapse in a heap and let the feral pheasants peck chunks off your debilitated carcass. Or perhaps that’s only me.

"Look I can see...

...my van from here."

The Mahoosive December Blog.

The Mahoosive December Blog.

Social comment and gratuitous insults loosely interwoven with tales of eight mediocre mountain bike rides which were definitely not as good as they look in the pictures; just in case anyone is thinking of travelling to our little patch of Northern grimness from down south. Especially cockneys.

Sorry no video, the illiterates will just have look at the pictures or finish off colouring in the books Santa brought them.





Back On British Soil, well mud anyway.

Wednesday 11th December 2019
Lordstones
The Ginger One

A bit late to begin a month’s riding, eleven days into the month but some hideous cold/chest infection left me expelling five to six drums a day of the sort of toxic secretions normally only seen on the opening credits of The Simpsons. Who would have imagined one head could generate so much unpleasantness?

The Ginger One has now joined the van owning mountain bikers club, proudly showing off his new purchase at Lordstones’ car park; stained duvet in the back, rags, chloroform and cable ties - typical van owner. Before he could go into detail, we set off riding, one of us coughing up a trail of mucus along the route so we could find our way back. Trying to stay on firmer tracks, we made our way around the back of Cringle Moor before shouldering the bikes for a hike onto Cold Moor, where we enjoyed the full, glorious descent to Chop Gate. The lower reaches were slightly moist, or, more honestly, the sort of full-on mud bath beloved of porcines and mountain bikers who are too wet and cold to care. We popped out onto the Raisdale Road looking like a pair of medieval night soil men and probably smelling quite similar. In a half-hearted attempt at breaking myself back into physical exercise gently, we rode up the road to Beak Hills Farm, continuing through fields of mud, grass and assorted excrement until we could retrace our tyre tracks back to the warmth of Lordstones.

Moister Than Mijas
Friday 13th December 2019
Danby
The Breadlad

Me and The Breadlad renewed our acquaintance at Danby Village Hall, assembled our bikes and were politely asked to park elsewhere because the hall was hosting an over 65’s dinner and “some of them aren’t too steady on their legs.” Of course we acquiesced and moved to the layby. If our own, sadly missed, pensioner had been present it might have been a different story, akin to the time a local busybody told him not to park in Great Ayton to go mountain biking but to use the railway station or Gribdale to avoid clogging up any of the multitude of parking spaces in the village. Let’s be polite and say some degree of vilification followed, leaving the busybody with no doubt that his suggestion was both unwarranted and ill-advised and that he had chosen to cross swords with a master of the expletive, someone whose proficiency with profanity was unmatched by even the bluest of comedians.

We rode up the hill out of Danby, my congested lungs still leaving a trail of oysters in the verge as we climbed. Still climbing, we went from Clitherbeck Farm to Danby Beacon, the off road track beginning to resemble a small stream such is the amount of water bestowed upon North Yorkshire over the past few weeks. After the usual breather at the beacon, we did an all-time favourite, the Roxby Moor singletrack, holding up reasonably well to the weather, a speedy blast through the heather, with a few rocks to catch out the unwary. Another bridleway, via the appropriately named Boghouse Beck, took us to the moor road at Scaling Dam, where we joined the traffic for a short while, riding up to the Danby turn, where the, thankfully, quieter road returned us to off-road riding at Robin Hood’s Butts. The puddles on this track are beginning to revert to their usual winter status as small tarns, an enterprising farmer could open a boating lake on some of them.

We turned off onto squelchy singletrack and plodded up to Sis Cross, ready for another sinuous moorland descent, where my lackadaisical attitude to tyre changing became my downfall. Still running the same rubber I have had all summer, the virtually non-existent centre tread was trumped by slippy mud and most of the time on the singletrack was spent sliding sideways into the heather, the front wheel choosing its own line around the curves, which meant a few little lie downs in the mud for me. Reaching the road, one of us somewhat dirtier wetter than when we began, we decided to finish on The Lord’s Turnpike, or, as we know it The Flying Bees, after the Beware Of Flying Bees sign which caused The Pensioner so much amusement over the years.

Winter Wonderland
Tuesday 17th December 2019
Pinchinthorpe
Alone

Now that the Terra Trailblazers seem to consist of two and a half men and one of them can only come when he’s not banging out crumpets for the great British public. The half is, of course, the one whose free time is predominantly reserved for overtime - his belief in reincarnation must be strong. Inevitably I found myself alone, in a car park resembling an ice hockey rink, ready to see what I have missed in Guisborough Woods since October. Ice and snow mainly by the look of things, sheltered fire roads were just huge sheets of ice, the snow became deeper the higher I got. Good job I’d took the plunge and fitted some new tyres, the novelty of having a bike which goes (roughly) where you point it was taking some getting used to. Maxxis Shorty 2.5 on the front, Maxxis Minion DHF 2.4 on the rear, for those interested in that sort of thing.  Recommended by Bobby at Peddlars, a good combination but hard work on tarmac.

A cautious scrounge about the woods followed, the trails are mainly a necklace of muddy puddles joined by sections of ice, only spiked tyres would have been suitable for some bits. At one point I stopped to check the time because it was getting dark - 12:30pm, don’t you just love the British winter? A dozen or so skittery miles later, the siren call of the cafe beckoned and was answered gratefully.

The Festive Toastie Ride
Thursday 19th December 2019
Hutton Village
The Breadlad

The look of love...

Do you ride on down the hillside

In mud that you have made?

When you land upon your head

Then you bin slayed.

Once we had an annual Christmas Dinner ride, which petered out due to lack of enthusiasm to be replaced by the annual festive toastie ride, the Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre cafe serves a mean pigs in blankets toastie. In the old days we could muster fifteen or so riders for a lunch and a few for toasties; this year I’ve seen more people in a phone box than we had riders, a whole two of us hit the trails. Obviously Terra Trailblazers most dedicated duo turned out, who knows where the rest are, must be Brexit or Stach - settee, telly and central heating. I can see a few mountain bikes for sale in the new year.

Our route was similar to my last outing but without the snow and ice, which has reverted to its more usual liquid form, filling the trails with slop. It hardly mattered, we were wetter and muddier than the tracks anyway. After a couple of hours moist slithering, we retired to the cafe for their festive concoction of bacon, sausage, cranberry sauce and stuffing, jammed between two slices of bread and toasted. Very festive and very tasty.

Festive Hamsters
Monday 23rd December 2019
Hamsters
Charlie, Keith, Ian, Dave.

A quick blast around the Hamsterley Hot Lap with the Nissan Nomads. The problem, as ever, with Hamsterley is if you are not going down, you’re going up, for someone whose climbing has gone from around 25,000 ft a month to 5,000 ft a month, I felt every inch. Not helped by the tip top rolling resistance of my new front tyre, or our 65 year old companion, Hamsterley habitue, Dave, who was speeding around like a man far younger, without recourse to motors or batteries. That stopped me playing the age card, I’ll just have to play the lazy, fat bastard card, I have a whole pack of them. The man-made trails were holding a few puddles but firm beneath, a nice change from our moorland slop. As often happens at Hamsterley, the car park was awash with people offloading bikes from cars and vans, yet out on the trails we barely saw anyone else. Paranoid thoughts begin to creep in; where is everyone? Could there be a whole network of trails we don’t know about? A secret door in an old oak tree which leads to mountain biking nirvana of dry, flowing trails and endless singletrack? Or maybe they just have a quick lap of the skills loop and head straight for the cafe. Which is where we found ourselves shortly afterwards, the best of the man-made trails ticked off, ready for a suitable reward. For anyone interested, Pike’s Teeth, Route 666, Oddsox, Two Wheels And Trolls, Polties Last Blast, K-Line, Transmission, Accelerator, Nitrous. The the heinous drag Cough Up A Lung Lane, where one of us almost took it literally, Section 13, Special K, Brain Freeze and finishing with a gentle pedal along The Gruffalo Trail.

Riding In The Land Of Midday Darkness

Friday 27th December 2019

Clay Bank
Rod

Picture the scene, single carriageway road, 60 mph speed limit, cruising along nicely, happy as ever to be heading toward a mountain bike ride. And in the distance a slowly moving queue of cars with the inevitably oblivious Hyundai i10 at the head, plodding along, occasionally bordering into the realms of G force by reaching 40 mph. What is it with i10’s? Are they programmed at the factory to be only capable of two thirds of the speed limit on whatever road they are travelling? Is anyone who shifts up beyond third gear banned from owning one? Luckily it turned off to clog the traffic on Stokesley High Street and the rest of the journey continued at a twentieth century pace. 

Being deep in the heart of twixmas, that curious hinterland between xmas and new year, where liquorice allsorts and lager is an acceptable breakfast, nobody has a clue what day it is and the day people haven’t returned to their cages, Clay Bank car park was a little more busy than it would usually be on a dull Thursday morning in the middle of winter. The surrounding hills were thrusting into the clouds, shreds of grey rolling down their flanks. Twenty minutes later, me and Rod were approaching Round Hill, today, the completely invisible highest point of the moors, barely able to see each other through a damp curtain which helpfully saved us from breaking out the factor fifty. Draggy moorland tracks took us to Burton Howe, where we dropped down the Coal Road and followed the speedy bridleway down to Baysdale. We dropped out of the mist into a damp and muddy world of grey, green and brown, soon picking up tarmac for the climb out of Baysdale, steep and long but a helpful tailwind give us some assistance. 

A quick blast down Turkey Nab followed, nowhere as much fun since it was... improved, to the gate, where we turned into the woods, searching for a pair of trails spotted on the Trailforks app. They proved somewhat elusive, utilising Trailforks and Google maps, we eventually tracked them down. They were worth the search, graded blue on the app, weaving between trees with a few rocky, rooty sections to keep us on our toes. We both agreed they will be phenomenal when the country dries up, which will probably be when the earth comes off its axis and spins uncontrollably toward the sun, it might lead to the extinction of a whole planet but at least the trails should be dry for a few days. And that was that, all that remained was the drag through the woods on fire roads and a quarter of a mile of hideously steep road back to Clay Bank. 

Moist and Muddy

Monday 30th December 2019

Birk Brow

Charlie, Keith, Ian, AndyT., The Youth

A whole crew out today, six bodies on bikes, although we did have to bus half of them in from Sunderland and North Durham to make up the numbers, such is the depleted state of the Terra Trailblazers nowadays.The Youth finally managed to drag himself away from whatever he does all day to put leg over crossbar and have a pedal, despite being forewarned we would be visiting his most hated track on the moors - the Quaker’s Causeway. Three quarters of the team met to fuel up in Greggs before meeting the remainder at Birk Brow car park. The forecast moderate winds were, in reality, blowing bikes off roof racks and second disappointment, the burger van was not there, one of us was only actually here for the post-ride bacon cheeseburger. 

A sketchy zip along the moor road, gusts of wind threatening to push into the Whitby bound traffic, took us to the Moorsholm turn by the new Sirius Minerals site, where they are building an interceptor tunnel for the ambitious mining project. So ambitious it has managed to lose over 80% of our investment in 9,000 shares we own between us, me, Oz, The Ginger One and ex-rider Captain Slow. Gentler roads through Moorsholm, then back across the moor road, following the rough road past Freeborough Hill to Dimmingdale Farm; according to local legend, King Arthur and his knights lie beneath Freeborough Hill, ready to rise up in the country’s hour of need. Or maybe they had a quick peek, realised we are now in the safe hands of Boris and pressed the snooze button for another century or so, waking again to a land of money-shuffling desk-jockeys embezzling the nation for corporate profit. 

The track to Three Howes Rigg was boggier and wetter than we would have liked, recent drainage work has improved things but it was hard work. Robin Hood’s Butts is reverting slowly to a canal, as is usual this time of year, puddles like Olympic swimming pools stretching the width of the track. We soon reached the Sis Cross track, following singletrack, slightly uphill, to the remains of the stone cross which marks the start of a magnificent downhill. Winter sun illuminates the heather moor, apart from the wind we were enjoying some marvellous weather. Six of us set off down the singletrack, carving turns through the heather, floating over muddy patches, manualling over rocks - in our imaginations anyway. Reality was more prosaic, wheels trapped in ruts, stuck in mud, bodies laid in the heather, wet feet and big grins when we eventually regrouped on the Pannierman’s Causeway. Still going down, the bridleway continues through someone's garden, across a soggy field before crossing a stream and climbing up over a small hill, then dropping again to join the path through the woods at Danby Park. 

A relatively straightforward path takes us to the road, where we begin the long climb back to the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter at the corner of the Commondale road. From here another half a mile or so of tarmac brings us to the highlight (other opinions are available) of the ride - the Quakers Causeway - a paved trod providing a firm passage across the moor, hundreds of years old and still usable today. Previous blogs detail the puzzling vehemence of the hatred some people hold for this track, particularly those with soft arses or hardtails, but suspension on full bounce, nice rhythm with the cranks and there is nothing to it, certainly better than plugging away through wet mud and heather. Pretty soon after we are back at Birk Brow car park, to the realisation a bar which appears to have been manufactured from sweepings in a cut-price cereal factory is a poor substitute for a bacon cheeseburger. 

Three And One,Thirty One. Last Ride Of The Decade

Tuesday 31st December 2019

Great Ayton
Bingo Bob

A lot of lasts in this ride, last ride of December, the year, the decade. Tomorrow we enter the twenties, a century ago the roaring twenties, a great decade of financial prosperity and cultural improvement. That might be a few roars in these twenties, just the bottom burps of a dying planet, if the environmentalists are to be believed. Call me cynical but I can’t help noticing everything that is killing the earth is also something the government can slap a tax on. 

Bingo Bob joined us for today’s ride, rocking a new electric bike, which was a great help to him on the uphills, of which there were a few, at the bottom of each hill, the words of an old headmaster, just as he was about to bray me with a cane or a size 11 sandshoe came to mind, “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.” In this case it was true, I was a puffing panting snivelling wreck as Bob glided uphill, kindly staying alongside me so complete demoralisation didn’t set in. We rode from Great Ayton, usual sort of start, Fletchers Farm, Aireyholme Farm, Roseberry Common and into Guisborough Woods, as we are still enjoying the crimbo limbo, day people were roaming about unconstrained by the fetters of their usual nine to five existence. Certainly a lot more than could normally be expected to be wandering about the woods on a Tuesday in December. 

Bob’s electric bike was put through its paces on a variety of Guisborough’s finest off-piste, from winding through the trees to steep and loose drops, with everything in between, rock gardens, grassy slopes, mud and water. Descending to Gribdale on Andy’s Track, we had a good view of the mayhem which ensues when day people are let loose, most of the parking spaces were full, nobody took the hint, as far as the eye could see, any bit of flat ground had a car parked on it. Where do they all come from? Shouldn’t they be in a two hour queue at a recycling centre with the rest of the day people? We rode down the road and still they were revving up the hill to add to the congestion. Forty years of shift work doesn’t prepare you for this, we’re used to our playgrounds being mostly empty. Back in Great Ayton, we ate snacks on a bench by the river, sitting in the winter sun, watching the devoted players on the tennis courts. Great Ayton must have the most hardcore tennis club in Britain, no matter what the weather is doing, there will be a bit of ball bashing going on. Another year over and despite missing a few weeks mountain biking, it has been a belter. And now we have the whole of 2020 to go at.