The Borrowdale Bash - revisited

Mountain Bike Ride

William Sans Ami

26th May route.

This will be the fourth or fifth time I’ve done the Borrowdale Bash but only the second time the weather has been reasonable enough to include the cheeky Walla Crag start, since that glorious May day 11 years ago when the Terra Trailblazers had their first assault on Borowdale. TTB 20. And Borrowdale has almost won every time. Blazing sunshine, torrential rain and snow have all accompanied our various attempts, today was cool and slightly cloudy, eventually managing to get out quite sunny.

Earlier this year I sunk so low I actually went for a walk, trudging up Walla Crag, in howling wind, low cloud and rain. This came back to me as I trudged up Walla Crag with 31 pounds of Specialized Stumpjumper on my back; uphill is definitely less stressful without a bike. Some enterprising individual ought to start a sherpa firm, employing fitness fanatics who will hump mountain bikes up unrideable hills for a small fee. Just thinking like. Oddly for a school holiday week, the summit of Walla Crag was deserted, not a soul in sight. After a few snaps of the stunning view, it was time for the fun to start beginning with the track to Ashness Bridge, passing over Falcon Crags, this section a perfect illustration of the difference between the North York Moors and The Lakes. Moors tracks are grass or mud interspersed with the odd rocky section, the Lakes is rocks interspersed with odd grassy section, good job I’d dug out the elbow pads, no lovely springy heather to land on here.

A quick touristy snap at Ashness Bridge, then a steady plod up the road to Watendlath Tarn, a spot so picturesque most of the population of south east Asia had turned out to photograph each other standing in front of it. Pausing at the tarn to eat a peanut bar prior to the next hill, I was mugged by a pair of ducks who evidently tax tourists a proportion of their snacks. Puddingstone Hill - quaint name for another unrideable ascent (although it is doable according to the Vertebrate Publishing guide book), the descent seemed easier than it used to be, a bit of trail sanitisation or maybe the benefits of 29” wheels? A bit of more intelligent line choice and it would have been a no-dabber but who’s counting?

Back on tarmac, the day’s main challenge loomed large ahead, literally, glimpses of Honister Pass caught through the trees invoking silent prayers to the gravity gods, imploring them to turn it down for half an hour or so. Some sugar would have been nice, wine gums or jelly babies but both Rosthwaite and Seatoller are now bereft of shops, so I did not really have an excuse to stop, onwards and upwards I went, the bulky MTB frame and knobbly tyres adding to the ordeal. Last time I was here on the road bike and triumphed over the full length of the pass; this time it took an effort of will to prevent myself capitulating and resorting to pedestrianism. Slowly the angle eased, the cattle grid was crossed and it was in the bag, I could see people on the bridleway just above me but I had to follow the road until they intersected. And then it was over, the infernal tarmac was no more, the slatey bridleway stretched out ahead me, Castle Crag in the distance, beyond that the blue of Derwentwater glinting in the sunshine.

Suspension recomissioned, the payback from the gravity bank begin, following the rocky ribbon, bouncing over obstacles, riding through ruts, even splashing through the odd puddle. Unfortunately it’s not all downhill, little rocky rises halting the flow, nature’s own way of preventing terminal velocity. 29” wheels bossed the steep section alongside Castle Crag, first time ever with no dabs, practically cruising over the pillow sized blocks, the gate into the woods at Grange giving brake-feathering forearms a welcome rest.

Reaching the cafe in Grange, things were looking up, weatherwise, almost a spring day, except for the cold wind, still good enough for ice cream and a coffee sitting outside. The Catbells bridleway was next and felt rather tiring after the day’s ascent but the view is spectacular, looking across the lake to Walla Crag, where I was a couple of hours previously. All that remained from here was some tarmac bashing back to Keswick and a welcoming pint at The Pheasant - our next door neighbour for this week.

The Skiddaw Round

Mountain Bike Ride.

William Sans Ami

24th May Route

One thing about hiring a cottage almost at the foot of a mountain is it’s going to be a hard start to a ride but it does have a good finish, said cottage being next door to a pub and over the road from a cafe. The first day of a week in the Lakes, climbing and biking, and in the first five minutes of this ride it seemed I was combining both, a 700ft ascent up the side of one of the foothills of the mighty Skiddaw - little Latrigg. Although it did not seem so little as I puffed and panted my way way up the track, condescending walkers letting me pass, baffled smiles on their faces, puzzled that a fellow on the cusp of middle age should put himself through such trauma. Eventually I reached the Skiddaw car park and passed through the gate, branching off right from the main Skiddaw track and a very welcome bit of downhill to where the track doglegs, crossing White Beck and on to Lonscale Fell, climbing again but at a more amenable angle than the previous section.

This being a Bank Holiday weekend, the weather was dull and cold with a fair amount of standing water but the early morning dampness had been dried by the strong wind. The technical - and occasionally fatal - section of track above Lonscale Crags succumbed to a “discretion is the better part of valour” approach, my feet may have touched rock more than once. I stopped to let by a team of Cube riding continentals who were coming the opposite way, German or Dutch maybe, looking as though they were enjoying themselves immensely. Yesterday in Keswick, every other cyclist was a fat Geordie on an Orange Five, no sign of them up here, probably still sleeping off hangovers. The rocky track undulated it’s way to the remote Youth Hostel, Skiddaw House, usually a Terra Trailblazers NSP (natural stopping point) but the wind, blasting straight in from Iceland or somewhere did not encourage languid moments lounging on the grass and I continued down to cross the (deeper than expected) ford before recommencing my fight against gravity.

Soon the track levels out before gradually pointing downwards, becoming steeper, looser and faster as it winds around the Whitewater Dash waterfalls, following Dash Beck, a fun descent marred, or perhaps tempered,  by several gates. Flattening but still descending the track surface improves as it passes through fields full of stoic sheep and flighty lambs eventually joining a (very) minor road near Peter House Farm. From here it’s unfortunately tarmac all the way back to Keswick, although predominantly downhill tarmac so the six or so miles passes quite pleasantly even on the A591,  passing a potential cafe stop at Dodd Wood, deciding to press on to Keswick for refreshments. The Pensioner woud be horrified.

It was a difficut choice, carbs or protein, this month’s nutritional trend is for protein after a ride, according to the magazines, so the carbohydrate and mineral health drink from The Pheasant was put on hold in favour of a protein filled bacon sandwich from The Filling Station Cafe.

A Figure Of 8 From Chop Gate

A Figure 8 From Chop Gate.

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Youth.

16th May Route.

A somewhat depleted crew today, just me and The Youth, perhaps the climb, descend, climb, descend nature of the route put them off. Another blustery and unseasonably cold day, the three month heatwave we were promised lasted about three days before reverting to sub-arctic temperatures and freezing wind, the gloomy prediction of The Pensioner looks like coming true. “Summer was three days in April.”

We left Chop Gate village hall car park, The Youth having a break from his hardtail and giving full suspension a go on my old Santa Cruz. The first climb began almost immediately and ended three and a half miles  - and a lot of puffing and panting - later, on Cold Moor, where we took a breather but only a brief one, it was far too cold to sit about. The first descent beckoned, down Cold Moor, a nicely varied track, beginning fast and smooth before turning rutted and technical, leading into an unfortunate boggy section which did involve a bit of paddling to get through. Back on the bikes, singletrack all the way back to Chop Gate, The Youth finding the skill compensator a revelation on the rocky sections compared to the bucking bronco hardtail.

Reverting to ascending, we plodded back up the Raisdale Road again, keeping on to Raisdale Cottages, then the gruesome climb up to Stoney Wickes, followed by the more amenable Barker’s Ridge, which we were practically blown up. A quick scoot across the moor and we were making our way down the singletrack bridleway from Cock Howe to Head House, another fine descent which was despatched without drama. At Head House, we paused for a snack, sitting on the doorstep in the lee of the wind, it was almost pleasant, looking across the moor to The Bilsdale Mast, beneficent  provider of the modern opium of the masses.

Another climb, mercifully brief and shallow after the initial section, then were back at Cock Howe, preparing for Trennet Bank, a lovely, long bridleway, over varied surfaces, all in excellent condition today, it might be cold but it has not been too wet. And the best sort of finish to a ride, one which leads directly downhill back to the car park.

The End Of An Era.

The End Of An Era.

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Pensioner, The Bread Lad, Oz, Richie.

15th May Route.

Arriving at Kildale station five minutes before the usual meeting time of half ten, it was a surprise to find I was the lanterne rouge, even the normally tardy Bread Lad was present. He must have slept in his car all night to be there so early. Our departure time was no earlier than usual, as certain members caught up on their cycle lubrication and maintenance regime in the car park - good job the ever-impatient Ginger One had decided spectating some trivial sport was more important than a bike ride.

Perhaps nobody was keen to get going because they knew the route started up the Baysdale Abbey Road, a hill of some steepness and length, known to our roadie brethren as The Road To Nowhere, which might amuse the residents of Baysdale Abbey. Plodding upwards, we took things easy, chatting when we could draw enough breath, trying to ignore the moaning from the back. Reaching the top cattle grid, we regrouped and waited  for The Pensioner before heading down the bridleway into Baysdale. Somehow I’d never managed to ride this bridleway in seventeen years of mountain biking despite passing it probably dozens of times. An uninspiring start, following a barely discernible ribbon of singletrack through heather, soon opened up into a fine descent, not technical but with enough features to keep us on our toes, or head, shoulders, knees and toes in Oz’s case when his little utilised MTB skills deserted him. Unfortunately all that fun has to paid for and we were soon pulling our savings from the gravity bank, as we ascended  to Holiday Hill on Baysdale Moor, following a pensioner-friendly, wide and hazard free track all the way to Armouth Wath, former coal mine and arguably the most remote part of these moors.

Continuing with the upwards theme, we carried on up to meet the Cleveland Way at Burton Howe, turning right and following it northward to Tidy Brown Hill and the double track which leads back to the Baysdale Road. One of my favourite tracks on the moors, fast but non-technical apart from the drainage humps which appear at regular intervals. Rejoining the road, a consensus decision was made to try “the other” bridleway which leads from this road. Perhaps we thought it would be as good as the first bridleway of the day as it heads in the same direction, it is by no means unpleasant but short, grassy and pretty uninspiring. A short road climb took us back to the top and this time we took ourselves straight down the tarmac, passing Park Nab at unwise velocities considering the amount of sheep wandering about, most of them with less road sense than a flock of pensioners escaping from a care home. Speaking of pensioners, our favourite geriatric pulled his usual stunt, trailing at the rear all day then suddenly having more energy than a box of monkeys with ADHD, whipping past everyone and leaving us eating his dust as soon the cafe was in smelling distance.

The cafe being our main event today, an auspicious occasion, truly the end of an era, our last Glebe Cottage ride, the ultimate door stop sandwich, the doors are closing on Sunday as our hosts, quite correctly, feel they ought to be spending more time with their young family. Sixteen years of winter soup, summer sandwiches, spicy tea loaf and cheese and chorizo toasties, not to mention the  famous scones, never a bad meal in all those years. It was always a pleasure to visit Glebe Cottage and we wish Col and Heather all the best for the future.

"This is not mountain biking..."

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Pensioner, The Bread Lad.

8th May 2015 ride.

It all started so well, the sun high in the blue sky, casting a little warmth onto an unusually prompt trio in Kildale station car park. Bikes assembled, we exited with a vague plan to check out the Esklets track, near Westerdale. First we dragged ourselves up the road to Warren Farm, followed by The Field Of Heavy Gravity and the portage over Kildale Moor until we could remount for the technical downhill into Baysdale. This is rocky and becomes fairly steep, scene of many a Terra Trailblazers/heather interface; judging by the shouting and swearing coming from The Pensioner, who was behind us, today was no different. From the ruined barn, we took the bridleway, heading east along Baysdale to join the Westerdale road, the closed road, presently being resurfaced by a gang of road workers, one of whom came over for a chat as me and The Bread Lad waited for the elderly one. He wasn’t impressed by The Pensioner’s maturity, declaring he was just a lad and shouldn't be holding the other two up by dawdling.

A cautious descent to the ford at Hob Hole followed, loose chippings, wet tar and large machines belching flame and gravel meant we erred on the side of caution. The climb out of the other side was okay, mainly because the ford was dry, so we could carry our speed up the hill. A right turn onto the John Breckon Road took us past the bridleway for Hograh Moor, a North York Moors classic, which to be honest is (like The Curate’s Egg) only good in parts, a lot of it being un-pedallable ruts. 

The John Breckon road terminates to a track further along, we rode the track through farms and over fields before joining a better track to New House Farm where some more field bashing eventually deposited us on another dead end road, which took us to Waites House Farm, where we expected to ride uphill to meet up with another, more established track which would speed us south along the valley, passing Esklets Crag and onto the old rail track to Bloworth Crossing. A simple enough plan, it all looked so easy on the map; in real life - not so good. Arriving at the farm, it was all going so well, the name on the farm’s drive matched the name on the map, so far: so good, rounding a curve we were presented with a labyrinth of gates, heading in all directions, untracked ground and less signposts than we have ovaries. We knew where we wanted to go, there just did not seem to be any kind of track heading in that direction, so a spot of bushwhacking was required, the next half hour or so being spent pushing and carrying bikes through bogs and over heather moor, all relentlessly uphill, heading for the promise of a definite track which we ought to intercept just over the next rise. Oh. Maybe the next one, or just after those rocks, behind that clump of heather? Richie’s favourite phrase “This is not mountain biking” was uttered with various degrees of irony/disgust/dejection. Eventually the track was there, broad, firm and downhill, it’s amazing how quickly the trials of the previous half hour were relegated to the section of memory shared with other best forgotten experiences, Coldplay, jellied eels, root canal fillings, colonoscopies. The track carves sinuously down the valley, passing the crags of Esklets, a once popular climbing venue, now little troubled by chalk-handed cragrats who would rather climb indoors than walk to somewhere so remote.

As the saying ought to go: what goes down, must go up and the gentle rise I recalled, up to the old rail track between Blakey Ridge and Bloworth Crossing actually turned out to be three hundred feet of ascent. From here we knew it was all plain sailing, on familiar tracks, despite being only half way through the ride, we felt as though we were on the last leg. It must be said, the rail track is dull but the views across Farndale make it worthwhile. A last breather at Bloworth Crossing - once a genuine crossing with a few railway workers’ cottages, such a bleak location it was nicknamed Siberia by the staff. The crossing keeper had to leave his house twice a day and open the gates for the train to pass through on its way to and from the Ingleby Incline. Still slightly more work than The Pensioner managed in his latter years turning the wheels of industry. We followed the Cleveland Way to Kildale at a somewhat speedier pace than the first half of our ride, the last section - the Baysdale Abbey road, plunges down the hillside and speeds which might be considered unwise for pilots of two wheeled velocipedes are reached, particularly considering the suicidal sheep whose knowledge of The Green Cross Code could be improved. Or maybe they are simply playing chicken to enliven their existence, either way, the sight of a partially-sighted pensioner bearing down on them at 35 mph does not fill them with the terror it ought to.

Speaking of The Pensioner, now we were within smelling distance of the cafe, a sudden burst of enthusiasm or even, dare we say it, energy, saw him barge between his companions and forge ahead like Mark Cavendish sprinting for the line. Obviously not trying hard enough for the previous eighteen miles. Soon we were contemplating doorstep sandwiches at Glebe Cottage to replace the lost calories, unfortunately one of the last corned beef and pickle behemoths we shall ever eat, as Colin and Heather are taking a well earned break from the demands of mud-covered idiots and hungry walkers. Details here.

The Trainee Loses His Hamster's Virginity

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Pensioner, The Bread Lad, The Ginger One, The Trainee and Richie.

7th May 2015 route.

Following a blip in the time and space continuum or maybe a misunderstanding around start times, The Trainee and me eventually made it to Hamsterley, slightly later than advertised. As we dropped down the bank into Bedburn, I was pointing out the trail burglars car park where cyclists of low morals park to avoid paying the Hamsterley £4 parking fee. Amongst the vehicles parked were the cars of The Pensioner, The Ginger One and The Bread Lad obviously intent on some shameless freeloading such are their poverty stricken circumstances. The Trainee and I took the moral high ground and rode the trails happy with the knowledge we had contributed towards their existence.

Hamsterley is quite a large forest but a bit of careful planning and sign ignoring can have all the best bits (on the official trails) polished off in about 11 miles. As The Trainee’s Hamsterley virginity was to be lost today, this edited highlights approach was taken, sticking to the main tracks and missing out the unofficial bits through the deep woods - much to The Pensioner’s relief, who finds anything dark, narrow and slippery akin to a ride through The Devil’s colon. Shortly after we had PAID OUR CAR PARKING FEE, me, The Trainee and some trail burglars were plodding up to the first section, Pikes Teeth, which begins on an almost natural trail through the trees, with lots of roots to negotiate, then widens into a newly built trail (probably built with MONEY from the CAR PARK fees), nicely flowing with berms and drop offs depositing us on a fire road. A nice introduction. Moving on, we took a short drop to the river before a fire road climb to avoid the execrable Route 666, a trail which has no flow or any other redeeming features, heading straight to the newest bit of trail, Oddsox, a better example of the trailbuilders craft, fast and steep - so good we did it twice, followed by the continuation through the trees, which was differently pleasant, except for The Pensioner, it being a bit of devil’s colon.

A quick pedal on the flat to The Grove and we began the climb to Transmission, another worthwhile section, the top part was visited twice by our motley crew before we moved onto Accelerator, a contrasting trail to Transmission, seemingly flat, which as the name says accelerates the riders at remarkable speed between trees and shallow berms until the fire road is regained. Another double ride. The trainee was presenting himself well, doing all the trails without demur. As sure as night follows day, Nitrous follows Accelerator, another different type of trail more rocky and technical than the others, ending with a mini path jump into a bermed finishing section. Big grins all round as we congregated on the track to The Grove, prior to the lowlight of the day, the climb up the opposite side of the valley to reach Section 13.

Plodding up to the Descend huts for the halfway breather is never fun and it always seems as though the huts are moved a little bit further up the track every time the ascent is tackled. It was almost neck and neck between The Pensioner and The Trainee but 40 extra years of experience kicked and The Pensioner took the lead up to the huts. Section 13 is followed by some older sections of track which are essentially original routes tarted up a bit, Boneshaker is aptly named, the bottom section, down a root-ridden gully, rattles fillings loose, Special K has a bomb hole and a wooden wall ride, Brainfreeze has a wooden jump which very few of our craven contingent have ever attempted. Today was no different.

An excellent day’s riding was had in a brief eleven and a half miles, a compact circuit which still managed torture us with over two thousand feet of ascent.