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.