That’s It, Another Year Over.

 

That’s it, another year over and a new one looming large on the horizon. The stats are in for 2022 because I don't imagine I’ll be out riding in the next 29 hours and 15 minutes. 

126 rides, a massive 51 rides down on last year.

1,786.41 miles, again down on last year, 764.11 miles down to be precise.

194,011 feet of ascent, 63,438 feet less than last year.

16 different riding companions over the year, with a couple of notable exceptions from previous years - those stats will be in a different post. 

Definitely a slacker year for me for 4 main reasons, caught Covid in April, after my first trip on a plane in two and half years, all my bikes were stolen at the beginning of August and I was involved in a charity project for most of August which didn’t involve riding bikes. September saw us in the land down under, travelling hundreds of miles on roads which aren’t really roads, arrived home early October with jet lag and piriformis inflammation which stopped me pedalling until the middle of the month. Things began looking up and I reintroduced myself to the rigours of off-road riding, gradually at first until some semblance of fitness reappeared. I was just getting back into the swing of things when a mini ice age struck North Yorkshire and rides were shortened in the spirit of discretion is the better part of valour.  Of course, I could have joined the legions of deluded fools spinning away in garages and kitchens with their CGI buddies but to be frank, that comes somewhat lower down the list of “Things That John Won’t Do” than unprotected sex with crack whores or eating mushy peas, although it is above finding religion, so it’s not totally out of the question. No one ever took pictures like this from their turbo-trainer. 

Without further waffle, here are the last two rides of 2022.

More Drag Than A Pig In Lipstick

The day after the Xmas Toastie ride and the sky has changed from grey to blue, the wind is light and the air is dry for a change. Still as cool as can be expected for the last fortnight in December, unlike yesterday’s aberration, when the thermometer hit 14 degrees celsius. Me and SuperBri met The Breadlad in Danby, his last ride for some time because he is casting us aside, shedding his bread factory worker disguise and going full international jet-setting playboy on us; rubbing shoulders with his peers on lifts and in the apre-ski bars of some transatlantic resort or other. Then he jets home for a brief stopover, just long enough to wax his skis before another few thousand gallons of jet fuel takes him to Bulgaria for round two. His cavalier attitude to the future of our planet will earn him a hefty kick in the balls if he ever bumps into Greta Thunberg, not that they are likely to move in the same social circles, unless she has a sudden desire to find out how they put the holes in bagels. (Whoops, I must be channelling my inner Donald McGill there.)

After the quick defrost and thaw, the moorland tracks are now soft and draggy, everyone having sly looks at their wheels to check the tyres aren’t deflated. We made our way up to Danby Beacon, hung about briefly in the chilly wind before heading down to Lealholm Rigg to turn off onto the Roxby Moor bridleway. Despite recent improvements, the start was as soggy as a New Orleans back garden but things soon improved and the track was as enjoyable as ever. On the top road, heading toward Lealholm, we found a bunch of parcels, evidently dropped from a courier van. We did our good turn for the season and took them to the post office in Lealholm - so if you were expecting a delivery from Evri on the 20th December, your parcels were rescued by the three not especially wise men. There was an ulterior motive for visiting Lealholm too - the unpredictable bowel habits of The Breadlad; preferring the public toilet to his more usual exposing of nether regions to the frigid air. It turned out conditions in the cubicle were something akin to a 19th century dysentery outbreak which coincided with a strike by the night soil men. As my grandad used to say, “It might be shit to us but it’s their bread and butter.” So his sphincter stayed more tightly clenched than a new prisoner in the shower block for the rest of the ride. It wasn’t long before we were back in Danby sampling the delights of the cafe while speculating on what Santa might be flinging down our chimneys in 5 days time.

Twixmas Tuesday

It’s all over, Christmas has gone for another year. I bought the wife a fridge, it was delightful watching her face light up when she opened it. A week since the last jaunt and I’m meeting Rod in a dull and drizzly Great Ayton for a peruse of some of the area’s trails, the ones which are not slurry-filled grooves running down the hillside. A couple of recent discoveries near Captain Cook’s Monument, which have, so far at least, escaped the conifer purge were okay, riding on a bed of pine needles and wet roots. A bit of exploration yielded a few more trails, the last one unfortunately requiring a bit of bush-whacking to reach Gribdale. Today is classed as a bank holiday, it seems a fair proportion of Teesside have parked at Gribdale to walk off the Xmas excesses, there were cars everywhere. We took advantage of a hefty tailwind to push us across Codhill Heights and over to Highcliffe for a few of Guisborough Woods’ trails, which are in a worse condition than the Easby Moor trails. Near the old Christmas tree car park we met trail building legends Ralph and Max, it’s good to see him out again after his hip replacement. Continuing onward we slithered down a few more trails before calling it a day and heading downhill from Roseberry Common, through Aireyholme Farm and Fletcher’s Farm back to Great Ayton. A quick detour to Cooplands and then we had a cold and drizzly tailgate picnic by the river. Some truly appalling weather forecasts meant, for me anyway, this was the last ride of 2022, although a few days off riding gave me the opportunity to grab a bargain priced helmet in the Bike Scene sale.

And that was 2022 gone, the hottest year in Britain since records began or something. There were a few scorching days, including the memorable forty degree day, the trails were solid for a little longer than usual but other than that I don’t remember anything beyond mediocre weather all year. Let’s see if 2023 can give us a 45 degree day - there’ll be some moaning then, this temperate nation struggles with extremes of weather, mentally more than physically but secretly we relish the opportunity for a good whinge. 2023 starts tomorrow. For a few weeks from Monday, the forests and fire roads will be filled with the usual New Year fitness enthusiasts, very few of them will last beyond January, once they realise mountain biking is actually quite hard work, as well as, more often than not, cold, wet and muddy. Come February the cosy cage of central heating, comfy couches and inertia will reclaim them and normality will reign, only the dedicated few lunatics like us still scrounging about the moors.

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

The Xmas Toastie Ride and Video.

 The Xmas Toastie Ride

Click here for video.

In far back times, the age before inertia, when people were keen to take themselves and their bicycles out and battle the elements for a few hours, usually returning wet and muddy, often bloody, sometimes broken. But always grinning (well, almost always) and glad they made the effort. In those halcyon days, we had an annual Christmas Dinner Ride, inevitably the most well attended of the year; a pedal round in the December slop, following which we would retire to a local hostelry to drip mud on the floor and polish off a festive feast. Gradually the numbers of riders has eroded as people take their enjoyment in other ways, ranging from the banal, sitting on the settee watching telly, to perversity, sinking to the sub-strata of pastimes and playing golf. Still each to their own and all that. As if in response to our dwindling participants, the Branch Walkway cafe at Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre initiated the Xmas Toastie, a hearty concoction of bacon, sausage, stuffing and cranberry sauce - the very thing after a spot of arduous adventuring. 

And it came to pass that the dedicated few converged on Pinchinthorpe car park and reluctantly lashed out four quid - extremely reluctantly in one particular case - for the privilege of parking there. Me, SuperBri, The Breadlad and Miles were joined by Tony who wanted to sample some proper riding on his annual venture away from road riding or AI rides in the garage. For the previous fortnight or so, we’ve had sub-zero temperatures and pleasantly firm trails, by some freak of nature it is 14 degrees celsius today and the wind is an autumnal 40 mph, literally overnight, the trails have thawed, which made for some “interesting riding”. Especially for Tony who brought, what can only be described as a retro mountain bike, a Scott hardtail with 8 speed cassette and V brakes. Easier to clean I guess. Our route was a pretty standard trawl around the trails of Guisborough Woods, today as soggy and slippery as they have ever been, there was a lot more banter than miles as it turned out but we didn't shirk on the climbing, plenty of ascent to stretch the lungs and keep us warmed up. Everyone finished the ride unscathed if not unmuddied.

At the cafe we managed to grab the last indoor table to indulge in our Xmas treat, garnering a few friendly remarks from the clean patrons at the other tables. I can never understand how folks can go out in the countryside and stay unblemished - I can get filthy just taking the bike off the car before the ride, never mind after the ride when I generally look like a bog-snorkelling contestant. Our Xmas toasties were duly served up and the speculation that Santa may be jolly because he knows where all the bad girls are, ceased as our mouths were too full of blisteringly hot Christmas flavours. Some time later we were back in the car park, packing bikes away and saying goodbye to Tony for another year as he retreats back into the cocoon of his garage for the remainder of the winter. In between churning out crumpets on an industrial scale, The Breadlad is resuming his jet setting, international playboy lifestyle, eschewing his mountain bike for a pair of skis and hitting the slopes for a few weeks; Miles and SuperBri will be back at work and I’ll begin 2023 wending my weary way around the lonesome moors. Perhaps a future blog post might feature an article on those we have loved and lost - they’re not dead (apart from The Pensioner), they just can’t be arsed. 

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

Colder Than A Polar Bear’s Toenails - The First Bit Of December 2022

Mooching About The Moors

A nice, crisp start to December and as the song goes - alone again, naturally. Great Ayton start, up to Guissy Woods, trail conditions - sloppy in parts but mainly good. It wasn’t a bad day to be out and far superior to the alternative, which is, of course, not being out. Especially this time of the year when it is either sitting on the settee worrying about how much it is costing to keep the heating on or doing the zombie plod around tinsel bedecked shopping centres to the sound of Cliff Richard and Slade. Returning over Newton Moor toward Gribdale, a phenomenal cloud inversion filled the valley below, blanketing Great Ayton, Swainby and Stokesley, the top of Whorl Hill near Faceby just peeking out above the cloud. You’ll never see that from the settee.

Lonely Quicky

John Steinbeck said in East Of Eden, “All great and precious things are lonely.” As I’ve long suspected. And here I was again, a solitary rider on a lovely clear day although it was a bit squelchy underfoot. Had a quick ride from Lordstones over Carlton Bank to Faceby Woods, rode a few trails before hiking up to Stoney Wickes from Scugdale. Took myself down the muddy ravine which Raisdale Mill Lane has become nowadays to the road. Pedalled back up to Lordstones and explored a few more trails around Carlton Bank before calling it a day and heading home. Just in case anyone gets the wrong impression, I don’t actually mind riding alone, to quote another writer: “If you're lonely when you're alone, you're in bad company.” A free ride to anyone who can name the writer.

Her Favourite Route

The first decent bit of sunlight following two days of rain. Me and La Mujerita drove up to Square Corner, where, it seemed, a number of other people had decided to take advantage of the weather too. Eventually got a parking spot and we had a whizz around La Mujerita’s favourite route, which is essentially down to Cod Beck Reservoir, via Chequers, up and down Scarth Wood Moor, return to the reservoir and climb back to High Lane taking the road back to Square Corner. There are plenty of variations in the general route depending how energetic or brave we are feeling, so it doesn’t become boring. Using the car as a windbreak meant we could even have a pleasant little picnic at the end of the ride.

More Smiles Than Miles - with Miles

A disturbingly (for me anyway) early start today because Miles wanted to spend the afternoon indulging in something he calls work, a concept I can only vaguely remember. I think it’s where you are trapped in a room for twelve hour shifts with a bunch of dickheads who’s conversational skills barely crawl above football and overtime and someone gives you money to compensate for the trauma. Or something like that. We rode from Miles’ house in Guisborough and had a concise scrounge about the woods on frozen trails, finishing with Guisborough classic - The Chute which I rode with about the same style and élan as Stevie Wonder falling down a cliff. Literally all over the place, I blamed the frozen ruts, of course. 

Cycling In A Winter Wonderland.

The Breadlad was allowed out to play today. We had a Great Ayton start because I had important business in the village - putting my Xmas meat order in at the butchers. Great Ayton and the surrounding area was grey, misty and bitterly cold, temperatures have been below freezing for days now and show no sign of rising. Climbing higher, we found ourselves above the cloud and spectators to the best temperature inversion I have seen in almost sixty years of wandering about the moors. I can hear what you’re saying. “He doesn’t look old enough.” “Surely not” “I thought you were just a teenager.” but, unfortunately, it is true. My dad first took me hiking with him and his mates when I was five and I’m sixty three now; or as I like to say, fifty and a few months, one hundred and fifty nine months to be precise. So, just on the verge of middle age. A lot of time was spent on Newton Moor, photographing the inversion from various angles, before we sped (relatively speaking) along the moor, down to Gribdale and up to Captain Cook’s Monument to recommence the picture taking. To be honest it would have been difficult to take a bad image. Reminding ourselves of the true purpose of today's outing, to do a spot of mountain biking, we took an almost wholly off road route back to Great Ayton because the road down from Gribdale looked as though the council have built a Christmas ice-rink on a twenty degree slope.

Not So Lucky With The Weather Today

The following day, I plunged back into the mist, only this time I would have needed to swap my Whyte 140 for an Airbus A380 to get above the clouds. An arduous prelude to the ride, you can tell I was alone, this start would never have got off the ground with companions, climbing up from Swainby, through Faceby Woods to the summit of Carlton Bank. For all this effort I was rewarded with a view of the trig point and the area around two metres beyond, after that a wall of solid grey. Not wishing to hang about, I rode to Brian’s Pond - frozen naturally. Not being in the company of anyone gullible enough to step on it (you know who you are), the thickness of the ice went untested. From Stoney Wickes, a grand ride down Scugdale opened up, as did the cloud, letting in patches of blue sky and weak sunlight. The road at Scugdale was equally as treacherous as Gribdale the other day, so I went off-road, through the yard of the oddly named Harfa House farm, greatly improved from the old days when we knew it as Cowshit Farm, after the legendary incident when The Ginger One (blast from the past) wobbled on his bike crossing the yard and put his foot down, only to find himself knee-deep in the foulest slurry imaginable. From the farm, a track across the fields picks up the Cleveland Way to Clain Woods, from where a bridleway leads back to Swainby.

Just Me And The Grouse Today

To paraphrase world champion virtue-signaller Bono  - it was a cold and grey December day but we didn’t touch the ground at JFK, only Great Ayton again, mainly because a lot of the roads further across the moors are impassable today, owing to snow. It has been below freezing for well over a week now, earth as hard as iron, water like a stone, as another song says. I made my way to Captain Cook’s Monument by a brutal route which involved pushing up an old downhill track in the woods but it offered a little shelter from the frequent snowstorms sweeping in from the sea. Captain Cook’s Monument was cold, snowy and deserted, only my tyre tracks marred the pristine whiteness. I didn’t hang about, descending through conifers to Gribdale before climbing back on to Newton Moor, where the snow started coming down in shovelfuls. Discretion being the better part of valour and all that, it seemed like a good time to reduce the chances of becoming a mountain rescue statistic and head downhill. Back in Great Ayton, big, fluffy, snowflakes became thin, bitter sleet. Time to get the bike in the car and home for an early bath, I’ll probably have a shower later, once the bike is warm, clean and dry.

Bonus Pictures. Cloud Inversion. Monday 12th December 2022.

Clicking on the route name will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.