Cold And Muddy But No Finer Place To Be.

For the fourth time this month, Redcar And Cleveland Council have relieved me of four quid for the privilege of parking at Pinchinthorpe, that’s £16 to ride some trails they don’t even bother maintaining anymore. I can feel a new year's resolution coming on. But we were meeting a person from afar and it is easy to find. In a complete change of personnel SuperBri’s son, Terry was borrowing his dad’s bike to give mountain biking a go along with SuperBri’s cousin Randal who is visiting the area from his home in the midlands. SuperBri has spent the past few weeks riding the settee owing to having a bionic leg fitted or something. In view of the recent mediocre weather, the woods seemed like a good place to have a trawl around, plenty of sheltered options and escape routes. An unseasonal amount of climbing took us (eventually) to the summit of Highcliffe Nab, from where it was, as the saying goes, downhill all the way. Terry handled the steep track off Highcliffe Nab like a pro downhiller, despite us both being under strict orders not to let any damage befall SuperBri’s bike. Being only nineteen, ink not even dry on his birth certificate, Terry embraced the gravity assisted part of mountain biking, steep, muddy, rocky, slippy roots, wet leaves, none of the subsequent trails fazed him. Randal was a little more circumspect, being closer to my generation, where falls generally equal months of pain and suffering, us folks on the verge of middle-age don’t bounce, although a few bits do wobble but I blame the Guinness. We flung ourselves down assorted trails for a couple of hours, until we were thoroughly wet and cold, then got ourselves to the cafe for a nice warm drink, except for Terry, who, despite wearing a minimum of clothing, opted for an ice cold can of coke.

It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like...

… a grey, wet, cold place in North Yorkshire.

Another day when the predominant colour is grey, rain was forecast for this afternoon, so I thought a quick whizz around from Great Ayton would have me back at the car before the wetness began. I pedalled, along with a multitude of roadies, to Ingleby Greenhow, leaving the skinny-tyred weirdos behind when I turned off to Bank Foot Farm. The track to the gate on Turkey Nab has not mysteriously flattened over the past few weeks and the slog is still as much fun as a rectal examination. I had one of those once, the doctor gave me the thumbs up. Today the woods beckoned and the remainder of the climb up Turkey Nab was given a swerve in favour of checking out the trails through the trees. Last time we visited the trails were so overgrown they were unrideable - no such problems today, the all-encroaching bracken has died to form an orange carpet with a trail running through and a pleasant hour or so was spent reacquainting myself with them. More tarmac, to Kildale, more roadies and even more unwelcome, the rain arrived unfashionably early, a steady drizzle to match the gloomy sky. The climb up through Mill Bank Woods to Easby Moor, had more sticky patches than a celebrity marriage and the usually muddy trail which contours Easby Moor was exceptionally muddy. I could have hiked up to the monument but seeing as it was barely visible through the rain and cloud, I stuck with the mud - literally in some places. Beyond the infamous Red Run, the trail finished with a last rooty downhill, especially challenging in the moist conditions but the skills and techniques garnered from twenty odd years of mountain biking saw me floating over the roots like Cedric Gracia. Alright, I walked some bits. Soon I was back in a decidedly damp Great Ayton, roadies still passing through like the ghosts of Christmas future. How can anyone go for a bike ride and stay so clean? Where is the fun, or the adrenaline? It’s hard to understand.

The Last Ride In The Old 5.10's

What a way to spend Xmas Eve.

The last of the pre-Christmas rides and we managed a bit of a crew today for a companionable pedal through the clouds for Christmas Eve. The Youth almost joined us for the second time this year but cried off with food poisoning - why he would want to eat poisoned food I’ve no idea. Which left Rod, Keith and The Breadlad, all meeting up in a dank and damp Chop Gate car park. The machine to pay for parking appears to be solar powered, the designers obviously not taking into account days like the past few, when sunlight appears less often than The Youth. The inevitable pay by phone signs are dotted about the car park - a car park without a phone signal. They may as well go back to the old dishonesty box, which people could ignore without the conscience-salving breakdown of modern technology. Starting down in the valley gave us the opportunity for a nice tarmac warm up, along the Raisdale Road to Lordstones before we rode a proper hill to the summit of Carlton Bank, over a thousand feet higher than where we had begun. The view from the trig point was limited to say the least, in fact the trig point was the view, everything else hiding behind a thick grey shroud.

A few snaps and we were away down the trail, all the climbing was worth it as we descended for miles, first along the moor, then down into Faceby Woods, riding the trails there and emerging at Heathwaite in Scugdale a lot muddier and wetter than when we started. My old 5.10’s are now cracked and worn, letting in water at every opportunity but through the magic of Christmas, I know that when Santa empties his sack all over our front room tonight, there will be a pair of size ten Impact Pros there. We rode across the road and climbed to Harfa Bank Farm, where Keith began to have some problems with his shaft, basically not staying up even when he tried jerking it up and down several times, luckily Rod was carrying a ring which fitted tightly around the base, keeping his shaft tall and proud for the rest of the ride. Seat post of course, who knows what was going through your mind but remember the first rule of Innuendo Club is that you can only enter via the back door. Anyway, puerile jokes about Keith’s shaft and Rod’s ring kept us going all the way up the long ascent to Stoney Wickes and further, up Barker’s Ridge and onto the moor, again we rode into the cloud, making our way to Cock Howe ready to descend moor’s classic - Trennet Bank. The Breadlad’s favourite and a treat for Keith who had never before had the pleasure. To be honest it was in pretty mediocre condition, water-filled ruts, mud, slippy shale, puddles and many a sketchy moment was had by all as we made our way down. One of the highlights of Trennet Bank is that it finishes in the car park, so a bit of pre-planning means hot coffee and sandwiches await. Four grown men, cold, wet and muddy, celebrating Christmas in their own peculiar way, enjoying another day avoiding adult responsibilities.