Marching Out Of WInter

 

Top Of The World

Reaching the top of the world in North Yorkshire only involves driving up a big bank, providing there isn’t a lorry jack-knifed across the carriageway, which is not an unusual occurrence. Today, however, was a clean run and I parked up opposite the “This way to the finest view in England “ sign. A bold statement which is difficult to challenge. Sutton Bank is where the moors stop, abruptly; an escarpment of cliffs and trees looking across a flat valley which doesn’t rise again until the Pennines. As well as the finest view, there is some fine mountain biking on the plateau, greatly improved since it became part of the Sutton Bank Bike Trails network. The old bridleways we rode for years have been properly resurfaced to make them more weatherproof and they have added a cyclocross track and a pump track in the woods adjacent to the visitor centre. All the marked trails begin by passing through this area, so it is always worth a quick lap or two of the pump track as a warm up before continuing around the cyclocross track, except today - the cyclocross track was closed while the forest is being thinned out a bit. The marked routes diverge just after Dialstone Farm, which is reached by a road and a parallel off-road track. This bit of trail runs alongside some gallops and today I was treated to the sight of huge horses, ridden by fun-sized jockeys, thundering along beside me. My own route was a mix and match mash up of trails up and down the escarpment, utilising bits from all the marked routes, my outward journey taking in the singletrack in and out of Boltby Scar, High Paradise Farm, the Hambleton Drove Road and Boltby Forest. The return route was more direct, following the edge of the escarpment until I reached “The finest view in England” According to the signage on the approach, this view may only be enjoyed by pedestrians, so the bike had to sit this one out, left hurt and dejected like a wife in the club watching her husband play snooker instead of performing his husbandly duties, while I went on foot to take some pictures. Not that it was an especially spectacular view today, the weather was grey and gloomy, with low clouds and less sunshine than the inside of a teenage computer gamer’s bedroom.  Only the last mile or so of the green Cliff Trail remained before we were back at the car.

A Necessary Evil.

Route sections of this nature remind me why the road biking got knocked on the head years ago. Two and a half miles of uphill tarmac, it might have been in a beautiful setting, cutting through the heather moors of North Yorkshire but it was only marginally less boring than those death by Powerpoint meetings endured back in the days of gainful employment. At least this interminable slog had been preceded by an exciting off-road descent, down the steep side of Ainthorpe Rigg and it was leading to the Trough House track, a moors classic. Unlike every road ride I ever did, where the only things to look forward to with pleasure were the cafe in the middle and the pub at the end. Apparently, beating your Strava time on a bit of smooth road is one of the few things to get excited about when you’re a roadie and beating someone else’s Strava time brings with it the genuine possibility of premature ejaculation. So long as skinny saddle induced penile numbness hasn’t consigned erectile function to a distant memory. Anyway, some time after embarking on my tarmac trauma, the welcome sight of the turn off onto The Cut Road came into view. The Cut Road is definitely not a road but a gravel track around the head of Farndale, passing the lonely stone hut, Trough House, which is why it is more usually known as the Trough House track. A quarter of a century ago it was regarded as one of the finest technical trails in the North York Moors, a veritable smorgasbord of rocks and ruts, sanitisation has tamed it nowadays but it is still a pleasant blast high above the valley of Fryupdale. For those in search of more adventure, a side trail, halfway along takes you to The Glaisdale Corkscrew, a steep descent into the valley with the potential of a helicopter ride to James Cook hospital for the unwary. A trail to sort the men from the boys. Being a big boy, I stayed on the Trough House bridleway to its end, where a short bit of downhill tarmac took me to another off-road descent. This one also seems to have had the attention of the gravel fairies, definitely a lot smoother than it used to be. A road so minor it has grass growing along the middle runs along Fryupdale, passing isolated houses and farms until I eventually arrive at Duck Bridge, where I have a breather and snap a few pictures around the bridge. More minor roads take me back to Danby and a sandwich in the sunshine, sitting on the grass outside the cafe.

Life Choices

What a day for a bike ride, in deference to those unfortunate enough to still be employed, I won't mention the windless blue sky or the dry trails or the warmth of the sun, well, not much anyway. In the interests of fitness or maybe masochism, I put in a long tarmac start, from Great Ayton, through Kikdale, up Percy Cross Rigg, down to Sleddale, then off-road up Codhill Heights to the back of Highcliffe Nab. Downhills earned, it was time to take to the trails. The open trails are beginning to dry up nicely, in the woods the more popular routes are not faring so well, winter riding has reduced parts to water filled ruts. Or might it be these heavy beasts, ebikes, which are so popular nowadays, or perhaps it is the heavy beasts who ride them. Although most people I know who have bought an ebike come out less than they did previously, so maybe not. Anyway, it was a grand day, trails were ridden; going by the old maxim “If you’re not falling off, you’re not trying hard enough” I must have been trying very hard because more than one unplanned dismount occurred. The ride culminated with a bridleway around the base of the mighty Roseberry Topping and through Newton Wood before heading back into Great Ayton and the lure of pastry-wrapped animal flesh. 

Off-Camber Slipperiness

Guisborough Woods again today but in an attempt to wean myself off the calorific delights of the butchers, I took a sandwich and parked at Hutton Village. No tarmac warm up to break the legs in gently, straight into a loose and muddy off-road climb, fortunately only as far as the Blue Lake, which is currently hosting an orgy of fornicating frogs. Leaving the amorous amphibians behind, I crossed the culverts and entered the woods, intent on exploring some new trails which have appeared in this area of the forest. Pushing up through the trees, I spied a few new trails heading downhill, either towards the Blue Lake or further across the hillside to above the cow field at Hutton Village. Mentally filing them away for later, I continued upward and soon reached familiar territory, one of the main fire roads through the forest. Starting from Hutton Village misses out the road warm up from the Great Ayton side, so the choice is either a short but intense session of up and downs on the trails or a longer meander on fire roads and moorland tracks interspersed with trails. I opted for the latter and had a grand tour around and about, riding up under Highcliffe, continuing on towards the east end of the woods before U turning and heading back along the top track. The top track is usually muddy and puddle-ridden, today was no different, it doesn’t seem to have joined the dry trail trend like the rest of the woods. Moving out onto open moorland, the descent of Codhill Heights was speedy and lacking the usual death-wish sheep for a change. I made my way back to the woods via Newton Moor and dropped down the hillside on a few carefully chosen trails, eventually arriving at the trails I had pushed up at the start of the ride. It was time for a bit of an explore. There were some enjoyable bits until the end section of the last trail I tried, which was where I met my nemesis - steep switchbacks. All I can say is despite spending a week in Spain every year, riding switchbacks down large mountains, our own local steep and muddy variety are still ridden, by me anyway, in the style of a piano falling down a spiral staircase. Never mind, they’ll always be there for another day. And I had coffee and sandwiches waiting in the car. A horse joined me for the tailgate picnic, taking no interest in garlic sausage butties but quite keen to eat my elbow, until I moved out of reach when it turned its attention to my tail light, trying to chew it in between giving me blasts of its silage breath. Luckily someone turned up with carrots and the beast quickly ditched me. 

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

Marching Back To Winter.

 

Spring Is In The Air. (Until It Snows Anyway.)

If The Pensioner was still with us, he would have viewed today’s weather with deep suspicion, as he did all fine days occurring early in the year. As I trudged up the Carr Ridge steps from Clay Bank, I could hear a ghostly voice from the ether.

“We’ll pay for this, you know. We won’t get away with it. The summer will be shit, it always is when we get nice days in the winter.”

It definitely was unseasonably warm, another day without a coat, seems like a good way to begin a month. I pedalled across the roof of the moors, passing Round Hill and continuing to Bloworth Crossing, the wide, sandy track pleasantly dry, not wheel-sucking for a change. I stopped at Bloworth Crossing to take a picture. Nineteenth century railway workers who were stationed here called the place Siberia but today it was more like Algeria. A continuation of Rudland Rigg carries the Cleveland Way north from here and I followed it to Burton Howe, where I turned off for a blast down the old Coal Road to Armoth Wath - blast of course being a purely relative term, a cursory browse at the stats on Strava reveals my blast to be more sightseeing tour than speeding arrow. From here, another track links back to the Cleveland Way, I take the track, when it meets the Cleveland Way, I cross over and take a singletrack bridleway to the 4x4 track down Ingleby Bank. About half way down the bank there is a singletrack alternative which makes a nice change from the gravel. From the gate at the bottom of the bank, I head into the woods, Battersby Plantation and seek out some old favourite tracks; unfortunately a combination of storm damage and tree felling has not done them any favours and I arrived at the old rail track wishing I had stayed on the main track, directly to Bank Foot Farm. All that was left was the up and down fireroad plod through the woods,  gradually climbing until Clay Bank was reached. It was a grand day for it though.

Travelling Ancient Tracks

Double Causeway day today, a bit of route planning, which, back in the days when I had companions to ride with, would have caused mutiny amongst those soft of buttock. The Quaker’s Causeway is almost two miles of roughly paved path across Stanghow Moor, it has been there for hundreds of years, constructed to provide the pious a respite from bog and mud on their journey to Guisborough Priory, or maybe it was for the burger van at Birk Brow. Anyway seeing as I was alone, I could plan a route which went out and back along the Causeway without any whinging from the dilettante. Not that a great deal of planning went into this excursion; the first bit was Birk Brow, Causeway, road to Shaun The Sheep (bus shelter), Robin Hood’s Butts, Sis Cross. The relative dryness of the past few weeks fooled me into thinking the Sis Cross track would be in decent riding condition. There was more chance of The Breadlad paying for parking. The gentle climb to the ‘cross’ was soggy, the singletrack downhill was slippery mud, the wheel-sucking peat hags were sucking like a Geordie lass in a Bigg Market toilet. From the end of the trail, I crossed the road and accessed another ancient track, the Lord’s Turnpike, which leads down into Danby, although I went the opposite way, to Clitherbeck Farm. I could have continued north on another bygone trail, the Pannierman’s Causeway but opted instead to follow the gravel doubletrack across the moor bringing me out on the road to Danby Beacon. A few miles of tarmac plodding got me back to Robin Hood’s Butts, via the beacon. I rode the full length of Robin Hood’s Butts, back to the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter and continued for my second buttock-battering encounter of the day, with the Quaker’s Causeway. I don’t know what all the fuss is about, a bit of rear suspension, a nice steady rhythm and before you know it, you’re at the burger fun being handed a cheese and bacon burger with extra onions to replace the lost calories.

The End Of The First False Spring

The unseasonably pleasant weather has returned to hibernation for another few weeks, bitter wind, grey sky and incipient drizzle , nothing to fill us full of the joys of spring. No wonder the closest anyone else comes to cycling nowadays is the cycle on the central heating thermostat. It is definitely coats on weather. But nobody told the daffodils which are beginning to bring a bit of colour to the drab landscape. I pedalled up the road to Whorlton Castle, from Swainby, taking a few pictures of said flowers around the old keep, the only remnant still standing, all that remains of the castle are a couple of arched cellars. The keep is firmly locked up today but a path leads around the outside. I found an arrow stuck in the ground, any speculation it may have been lost by a yeoman archer practicing for Agincourt was dispelled by the plastic shaft, nylon feathers and stainless steel tip. A path across fields from Whorlton takes me to Faceby, from where I climb up to the woods, or what is left of them, another set of trails lost to conifer harvesting. At least the bridleway to Heathwaite is still intact, I follow this and make my way to Clain Woods, shouldering the bike for the steps, as usual. Twenty seven years of mountain biking and I still haven’t conquered them, mainly because I have never tried, as the great Homer (Simpson) said: “If something looks too hard, it probably is.” It is the visions of my heart exploding like Mr. Creosote after just one wafer thin mint which hold me back, nothing to do with my general air of lassitude. Anyway, enough of this waffle, there’s a lot more ride to get through. Out of the woods and on to Scarth Wood Moor, riding from east to west in a reversal of the usual route, all to take advantage of a hefty tailwind. Down the other side and around across Cod Beck Reservoir, via the dam because my Jesus credentials only extend to a surfeit of hair and a beard. Climbing up between the log piles which were recently a forest, I reach High Lane and continue to Square Corner, following the track upward to check out a bridleway on the outskirts of Silton Wood. Last time I rode this particular bridleway it was ruined by some gruesome muddy patches, it was some years ago, so it seemed about time to check if things had improved. The short answer is no. Retracing my tyre tracks back along High Lane to Sheepwash, the amenable tailwind became a tiresome headwind, the plummet to the ford tempered by Nature’s firm hand. The sky was darkening, the miles were in the legs and heading back to Swainby seemed the best option, particularly as that option included riding the Clain Wood steps in a gravity-friendly direction for a change. 

  

Back To Reality

The sky hasn’t got any less grey, letting us know the false spring is over with the occasional snow flurries, the north wind is blasting straight off the sea, just the sort of day for a quick scrounge about Guisborough Woods. Taking advantage of the remaining tree shelter. The trails are not drying out anything like as speedily as we would like, so it was mainly a miles in the legs fire road extravaganza, climbing to the far end of the woods, doing a U turn, climbing some more to the top track, finishing on top of a bitterly cold Highcliffe Nab. Not the place to be hanging about on a day like today. So it was a quick zip down the back of the nab and across to Codhill Heights, for a tailwind assisted cruise down to Sleddale. Percy Cross Rigg took me to the Lonsdale Bowl, around onto Newton Moor, following a broken, rutted track to FingerBender Bank, so called from one of The Pensioner’s accidents, which resulted in him bending a finger a long way beyond its normal range of movement, even more impressive when you consider that normal range for him was either holding a handlebar grip or a roll up so thin we were convinced he had spent some time in prison. The bank itself is a collection of rocks, some loose, some planted, usually wet, nothing to a modern full suspension bike but back in the day when we had to think about things like line choice... Let’s just say The Pensioner’s poor eyesight let him down on many occasions. Another bridleway curves down to Gribdale, a gruesome concoction of loose rocks, mud and water; the car park at Gribdale is practically empty, testament to the weather. Winter miles make summer smiles, the saying goes but cycling in mud, up to the eyes means you deserve those butcher’s pies. 

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

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