It turned out to be a bit of a grueller for The Breadlad’s third ride since he returned from resting his poorly back. Let’s rewind to Danby Village Hall car park, me and SuperBri waiting for the the imminent arrival of The Breadlad, he has to travel through a rip in the space/time continuum which interferes with the passage of time between New Marske and Danby, minutes become 120 seconds long rather than 60 seconds, so he invariably arrives for the 10:30 am start at 10:45 am. Gives us time to listen to Popmaster on Radio 2. A brief route planning conversation took place, mainly around which way we wanted to ride Ainthorpe Rigg, steep up and steady down or steady up and steep down. We chose the former as The Breadlad did not want to risk his delicate vertebrae on 45 degree rock slabs. It just meant a steeper start out of Danby, hauling up the road toward Clitherbeck Farm, turning off onto the Flying Bees bridleway as soon as we could. Passing the farm, we continued climbing on the gravel bridleway to the road below Danby Beacon. Another upwards pedal saw us at the beacon and and our first breather of the ride, spent admiring the view and, as we were alone, watering the parched heather. A welcome bit of downhill followed, half a mile along Lealholm Rigg, we turned off onto the Roxby Moor bridleway, dry, dusty, loose rocks, sunshine, blue skies, almost like being in Spain, except in Spain they can be bothered to keep the cafes open, unlike England where it is getting more and more difficult to find somewhere to eat after a ride. The cafes are there but are either closed on random days or, if they are open, stop serving mid-afternoon. Hobby cafes as The Ginger One calls them.
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| The Slagbag |
The ride across Roxby Moor was grand, as can be expected (but not guaranteed) this time of year, a last bit of descending took us down to Hardale Beck, which means only one thing - The Slagbag. Short but steeper than the price of a pint in a London pub; consisting of grass, random patches of loose gravel, even more random ledges of crumbling turf, if the angle doesn’t get you, the surface will. SuperBri ramped up it like a gazelle, The Breadlad played the bad back card and resorted to being a hiker, Mr. 52 Tooth here, engaged the big cog and concentrated on keeping the front end in contact with the soil. The summit is a flat moorland track for us to get our collective breaths back. Some tarmac riding is a necessary evil on this ride; as we were spinning along Oakley Walls, wondering how roadies get pleasure from such a dull way to spend a bike ride, SuperBri’s front tyre became more flaccid than Pele before he started on the Viagra. Cue, lounging in the sunshine, while SuperBri did the required faffing with inner tubes and stuff. Inner tubes? It’s like riding with a Victorian, he may as well be wearing a tweed jacket and sitting on a penny-farthing. Suitably reinflated, we continued, dropping down another loose and rocky track with the occasional flesh grabbing plant keeping things interesting. More tarmac to Crag Farm, where a wobbling front wheel signified SuperBri’s tyre had deflated again, the tyre and rim were fondled by three pairs of hands and nothing which could cause a puncture could be found, SuperBri licked the whole circumference of his inner tube but no air leak was apparent, we could only conclude he ought to keep his rubber fetish more private. Tyre again firmly inflated, a gradual drag through fields took us to Great Fryup and our last hill, the ascent of Crossley Side to Ainthorpe Rigg, a ride/push/carry affair to us mere mortals. SuperBri attempted to ride the majority of the track and The Breadlad, who was feeling the pace by now, attempted to ride none of the track, opting for a leisurely stroll instead. The descent is worth every step, every bit of lung-burning agony is forgotten as we thrash down the rocky trail, thrash being a relative term considering our combined ages total in excess of 160 years. Too soon we reach the gate, a last bit of grassy descending takes us to the road, from where it is, thankfully, pretty much downhill all the way to Danby. Being fairly late in the day by now, The Stonehouse Bakery cake display case was horrifyingly empty, were we to be denied sustenance after our gruelling adventure? No, they had moved the cakes to a different shelf and it wasn’t long before we were sitting in the afternoon sunshine stuffing our faces.
Another Swainby start for the keenest trio in North East mountain biking, well, definitely the keenest trio in the Terra Trailblazers, me, SuperBri and The Breadlad, both cafes were closed, so, it would have to be a mid-ride cafe stop in Osmotherley. But first we had a bike ride to get through. We rode straight up the hill to Whorlton Castle only to find the gates firmly padlocked, never known that before, we knew where we were not wanted, so it was back on the bikes and along the road to the hamlet of Whorlton, then over the fields to Faceby. The pair of ostriches have been joined by a large herd of goats, which regarded us with their Devil eyes as we rode past. Beyond Faceby, we rode up Bank Lane, another field of heavy gravity awaited us, leading up to Faceby plantation. More climbing, through the plantation rewarded us with a steep downhill through the trees, loam and roots, better than last time when a bit of overenthusiastic braking on greasy soil led to a closer look at the loam and roots. We stopped at Heathwaite and waited while about 40 walkers trooped across the road. Why do they have to go mob-handed into the countryside? Frightened of wolves, or bears? It’s very odd. A further field of heavy gravity calmed us down a bit, this one had a herd of cows lounging at the top, Highland cattle with shaggy coats and horns like 1970’s bike handlebars, plus a little cow creche of calves, luckily they were about as interested in us as we are in ballet.
The roller-coaster bridleway passing through Clain Wood came next, quite a few walkers were ambling along, exchanging pleasantries with us except for one duo who stood frozen on the track, regarding us as though we were a gang of marauding Hell’s Angels. SuperBri made a brave attempt on the Clain Wood steps, pedalling to within sight of the top before capitulating which makes him a failure just like me and The Breadlad, who only managed the first few steps. We made our way up the newly resurfaced hill at Sheepwash and entered Rod’s country, the woods above Cod Beck and Cote Ghyll, where Rod likes to ‘improve’ the trails. It looks as though Rod’s arch-enemy, The Colonel has been busy. The first trail we rode was blocked with everything from leafy branches to tree trunks, which we cleared away. Obviously The Colonel will return and find new ways to block the trail, it’s nice that old people don’t vegetate and get out in the fresh air for some exercise, it is probably only the hatred and bitterness which is keeping him alive. Judging by the size of some of the obstacles, he must have found himself a like-minded colleague. Perhaps it is time to buy a trail camera. We made our way down to the reservoir via a variety of trails and continued into Osmotherley in search of food, recently declared by Google to be the prettiest village in England, Osmotherley turned out to be bereft of cafes, although the three pubs all serve food, it wasn’t the quick service, high calorie snacking we desired. Luckily the village store does a superb line in food and drinks, including sandwiches and pies, there are seats outside and the sun is shining. Refreshed, we stormed up the last hill, summiting on Scarth Wood Moor just for the ride back down and it was well worth the effort. Our recently discovered track, down Scarth Nick, has became too overgrown with stingy, stabby vegetation to be braved by our bare legs, so we took some revenge on the Clain Wood steps by riding down them instead. As The Who once said, meaty, beaty, big and bouncy, wooden steps of irregular height and width, punctuated by gravel flats, no chance of getting a rhythm going, just hang on and let the suspension soak it up. Only the bridleway to Swainby to contend with and that’s another ride over.
It looks like a return to lone riding for today, as The Breadlad returns to work, ensuring the country is kept supplied with essential crumpets and SuperBri is otherwise engaged. Clay Bank for a change today and the downhill start, through the woods to Bank Foot Farm, which of course, only means one thing - Turkey Nab, which is only the start of about five miles of ascending as I make my way upwards, ever upwards, along the western edge of Ingleby Moor. The tracks are wide and stony, the sky is big and blue, the headwind is vicious, all the way to Bloworth Crossing, where I had a well deserved breather. Back on the bike, the headwind became a welcome tailwind and it was not long before I was following a singletrack through the heather to the trig point on Round Hill, as mentioned numerous times previously, the staggeringly unimpressive highest point of the North York Moors. The official height is 454m, or 1,489 feet to us old timers; according to my Garmin, I’m at an elevation of 1,557 feet. Either Garmin’s measurements are somewhat awry or my bike is 68 feet high, good job I didn’t buy the large frame.
All today’s ascending was rewarded with a sublime descent, from Round Hill, down to Medd Crag, continuing down to Bilsdale Hall, some 800 feet below. A short stretch of rock-strewn singletrack, leads to a typical wide and sandy moorland track, passing grouse butts sunk into the heather, when the track turns left, we keep straight ahead on ruts and mud to a steep grassy bank, terraced with turf ledges, terminating at a gate. Another grassy section turns into a shale gully, split by a winding channel threatening to claim your front wheel, a further gate opens to a gravelled doubletrack which passes a wooden bungalow before finishing at Bilsdale Hall, which is actually a mere farm. Only tarmac now separates me from my picnic, ascending through the hamlet of Urra before joining the infamous B1257, beloved by the motorcycling fraternity. I had a steady plod back up to Clay Bank car park. A husband and wife staring team are sitting in the next vehicle to mine, silently ignoring each other, eyes ahead on the view across to Turkey Nab, where I was hauling myself upwards a few hours earlier. I’m sure they wouldn’t understand the motivation lunatics like us have for such torture - I’m not certain I do myself. Couples like this are a regular sight all across the moors, pulling into beauty spots to sit vacantly gazing through the windscreen, occasionally one will read a newspaper, possibly a picnic may be slowly munched, ruminant style, all in total silence, still never venturing out of their car. Most odd. Although they probably think the same about the sweaty, dust-covered bloke, almost on the verge of middle age, sitting on the wall eating everything he can find in his car.
As the saying goes, another day: another bike ride. Me and SuperBri defied the forecast, meeting in a deserted Kildale station car park, the mysterious puddle is back but there was torrential rain during the night. Today, so far, is sunny and almost pleasant, if we ignore the threatening clouds. A bit of a harsh start today, climbing to Bankside Farm, followed by more climbing through Mill Bank Wood, not an often used start this time of year because of bracken further on but I thought we could check out an old track on our way up to Captain Cook’s Monument. Half way through Mill Bank Wood, a heavy shower had us putting our waterproof jackets on, naturally, by the time we had sheltered under a handy tree, dragged coats from bags and put them on, the rain passed. We rode a little further before packing coats away again, ready to push up the remains of the old Rock And Roll trail. Remarkably it is mostly intact, there are rumours the landowner has been having a purge on trails in this area but this seems to have escaped. The test-piece rock slab which gives the trail its name is still there, although the chicken runs either side seem to see more traffic. Continuing up toward Cook’s Crags, we were soon immersed in a sea of green; wet bracken higher than us, the perfect place to attract a few passengers of the blood-sucking kind. Ticks obviously, everyone knows vampires don’t come out in daylight but speaking of vampires, here’s something I have often wondered about. A lot of God-botherers nowadays are using the fish symbol instead of the cross for virtue signalling their faith, fair enough but would a cod work as well as a cross to keep vampires away? And, for those who might happen to be taking an extended journey through Transylvania, could you hang a small fish, like a sardine on a chain around your neck for protection? It would need changing every few days, when it went rotten. Or would the sardines be equally effective if you kept them in the tin? These are the questions that need to be asked. Or perhaps we should just get back to biking.
We pushed on, quite literally, through the bracken, eventually exiting on to Easby Moor and pedaling to Captain Cook’s Monument, a Terra Trailblazers NSP, (Natural Stopping Point) where we joined everyone present in eyeing up the wall of grey cloud heading toward us from the south, obliterating the view. We managed to ride down the hill to Gribdale, up the other side, onto Newton Moor, around the top end of Guisborough Woods and half way across the Cleveland Way path to Codhill Heights before it caught us up. The rain meant business this time, a prolonged soaking rather than a brief shower. Working on the principle we would be drenched riding back through the rain to Kildale, it seemed entirely feasible to polish off a few trails in the woods first, once you are wet, you can’t get any wetter and all that. Wet roots, wet mud, wet trees, wet bracken, wet rocks, you know the score. Soon we were back at the start point of this little extra loop, wet but happy with a pair of fun descents to look forward to, Codhill Heights and The Yellowbrick Road. They were just as enjoyable in the rain. Back in Kildale, we rolled into the car park, completely “satched” (as they say in Darlington, or at least one of the inhabitants does. Although his grasp of the finer nuances of his mother tongue may be a little tenuous.), legs splattered with mud, posteriors looking like the aftermath of a dysentery attack. Dry clothes, food, hot coffee, a handy tailgate to shelter under and everything was right with the world again. Another week successfully wasted.
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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