A three day week, not a return to 1974 and one of the Tories more drastic policies to ‘solve’ a crisis but a week with only three days riding. When was the last time that happened? Still, three times a week is better than three times a year which seems to be the average for some of our erstwhile riders.
Monday Miseries On The Moors.
The first ride of the week and me and La Mujerita were at Square Corner for a pedal around her favourite ride. It seems the six weeks school holidays have begun, not that it makes much difference, the kids have been off for months anyway. This may explain why there were so many miserable people out today, mainly walkers but the occasional cyclist would also ignore any sort of cheery greeting. But it was walkers who were keen to smother us in waves of passive aggressive hostility, opprobrium by the barrow-load, as we rode past.
Are they envious of us for looking as though we are enjoying ourselves while they trudge along with faces like slapped arses? To paraphrase Yeats “the worst are full of passionate intensity/slouching toward Bethlehem”. The idea of being out in the countryside is to relax and let life’s worries and cares drift away, instead it seems a significant minority use a trip to the moors to find more things to wind them up, venting their displacement anger, when they ought to be examining their own motivation for avoiding any venture into the world of adrenaline-fuelled excitement. Loosen up, live a little, this is the only life you get, find a better way to enjoy yourselves than reproachful rambling around the moors, which, believe it or not, are there for everyone to enjoy, not just the bitter cliques who are becoming more prevalent nowadays.
Other than the Paddington Bear hard stares and more tutting than an episode of Skippy The Bush Kangaroo, we had a good ride, although an extra layer or two of clothing wouldn’t have gone amiss, the autumnal weather is continuing, seeing as we had summer in April. It is rather colder than we would have liked, actual teeth-chattering cold on some of the descents. Check the calendar, yep, still July.
In The Tyre Tracks Of Danny Hart.
The following day was a day for somewhere different, a few miles around Errington Woods, the place where World Champion Danny Hart began his downhill career and practically on The Breadlad’s doorstep. To extend the ride a little, The Breadlad showed us some of his other local singletrack, through woods and fields before we returned to Errington Woods to throw ourselves down some of the downhill tracks. No doubt, they all have names, as they do at Guisborough and other places but we don’t know any of them.
Once The Breadlad’s, admittedly, not extensive knowledge was exhausted, it was a case of following a likely looking track, hoping we didn’t find any unavoidable trail features which might earn us a ride in a helicopter and trying not to stray into the big boys area, which is steep and rocky, or steep and rooty, steep and rutted, steep with the odd vertical section, steep with extra steepness, or any other variation on steep and too scary for blokes on the verge of middle-age you can think of. The S word features a lot in Errington because after your 30 seconds of pleasure (oo, er, missus), it’s a slog up the, you’ve guessed it, steep, fire roads back to the top. We lost count of the number of routes we rode but they were all fun and (mostly) within our comfort zones, the sun even put in an appearance which makes a change.
Four Go To Fryup
After an unprecedented two days of rest, we were out on the moors again, this time practically mob handed, a whole four of us, me, The Youth and Brian, all waiting at Danby for The Breadlad to turn up. Predictably late despite living the closest, such are the trials and tribulations of his executive lifestyle. It is fair to say our route began with a climb, almost a thousand feet in under five miles, from Danby to the top of Ainthorpe Rigg, then continuing up tarmac to the Trough House track.
We took a breather at said house, sitting outside in the sunshine, while the odd blood-sucking insect had a nibble at us, the dark clouds and drizzle from the drive to Danby gave way to something resembling summer and we had the scenic trail around the head of Fryupdale unwinding before us. Magnificent, apparently there are people who would choose overtime, golf or walking round shops in preference to this - there are not enough mental hospitals to hold them all. The local builder’s merchants must be having a special offer on gravel at the moment because the track has been liberally doused in the stuff, making it harder work than usual but the views make up for it.
We continued down Bainley Bank, no sign of the usual canine hecklers at the bottom and continued along the road through Great Fryup Dale until we reached Lawns Road, a mere two miles from cafe and cars. Then again, it’s a nice day, nobody is too tired, it must be extra loop time. The extra loop turned into an extra loop on the extra loop sort of extra loop idea. We climbed up to Oakley Walls, took the bridleway to Clitherbeck Farm, another bridleway that has been treated to some extra gravel - where is it all coming from? After the farm, we gained a bit more height via the Pannierman’s Causeway, all thoughts of the paved trod’s historical significance ignored as we strove to keep up with Brian. Eventually we arrived at Robin Hood’s Butts, which, despite the mediocre weather of the past few weeks, has dried from its usual semi-canal status.
Our treat for all this extra climbing was a descent of the Sis Cross track, narrow singletrack carving through the heather blah blah blah, you’ve heard it all before. Today also almost dry, only the occasional puddle to lend us that rugged mud-spattered look when we reached the Stonehouse Bakery, 50% of our little crew forgetting that today is the day it becomes mandatory to follow fatter tory’s diktat and go in shops looking like The Lone Ranger. A bit of Buff shuffling and we were soon tucking into some fine baked goods, sitting outside in the sunshine.
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