Grey

There’s nothing like a downhill start to begin a bike ride, lulling the unwary into a false sense of energy expenditure. From the Shaun The Sheep bus stop, I headed down the road toward Commondale, peeling off after half a mile or so onto an old bridleway of hidden paving and gorse bushes, ending up in Commondale in a more interesting fashion than sticking to tarmac - the sort of fun roadies miss out on. Another bridleway runs from Foul Green - which is neither foul nor green, roughly paralleling the track of the Esk Valley railway between Commondale and Danby, a pair of llamas in a field watched impassively as I rode past. The bridleway crosses the Castleton road before heading into Danby Park, eventually terminating just outside Danby. I slogged up to Ainthorpe, continuing to Danby Castle and along Little Fryup Dale. When the road begins to head skyward at New Way, I went off road, up Crossley Side onto Ainthorpe Rigg, readers familiar with the area will be thinking, “I wonder if he rode it all?” There is a point on the track where two large rocks form a sort of gateway, normally I capitulate about here, today, however, was no different and the bike was shouldered the rest of the way. We did see an incredibly fit, young man do the whole thing once, rock slabs and all, seeing as I am not incredibly fit, young and according to some ex-colleagues, barely a man, owing to my indifference towards the beautiful game which Americans call soccer, I’m not about to riding up there anytime soon. A handily placed boulder at the top is the perfect place to regain breath and take in the view, usually, today a churning mass of grey cloud blocked out the sun, rendering the landscape virtually monochrome. But it hardly mattered because the whole Ainthorpe Rigg descent lay before me, like a sensual temptress, enticing me with her seductive curves, raised outcrops and moist crevices; a mile of pure pleasure. All too soon, I was riding back through Danby, passing the Stonehouse Bakery ( a rare occurrence) and panting uphill to reach, eventually, Robin Hood’s Butts, from where it is a couple of miles back to the car at the Shaun The Sheep bus stop. The Butts, as we know it, is a permissive bridleway open to all traffic, regularly used by off road motorcyclists and wobbly-heads in their 4x4’s, as portrayed by, with uncanny accuracy by Paul Whitehouse and Charlie Higson in The Fast Show - “Let’s offroad.” There were none about today and I had an uneventful pedal back to my flask of coffee.

Gloop

Noun: a cross between glue and poo

Contrary to the alarmist predictions of the populist press, whose weather forecasts have similar veracity to their horoscopes, we haven’t been weather-bombed by the new Beast From The East, thousands aren’t stranded without electricity or stuck in snow drifts the height of a double decker bus, the country hasn’t disintegrated and cannibalism has been kept to a minimum. Everywhere above ground was rather splendid to be honest, blue sky, fluffy clouds, gentle wind, I can’t vouch for what it was like below ground, having never had a predilection for subterranean troll sports, it was the surface of the ground which caused the problems. A thin layer of draggy mud coated the whole of my world, every inch my tyres passed over which wasn’t tarmac had the potential to suck at the wheels, like riding over a consortium of octopuses and their suckery tentacles. Yes, it is octopuses not octopi and the collective noun is consortium - I googled it so you don’t have to. Thank me later. It’s possible suckery might be a new word I have just invented, I’ll await a verdict from Susie Dent. This whole ride contained the minimum of tarmac, probably less than half a mile, or three and a half percent of the distance, to put it another way, ninety six and half percent of the ride was either just pedallable, barely pedallable or bollocks to this just walk. The route, as if anyone cares, even I don’t and I rode it, went from Clay Bank down the hill into the woods. First bit of disaster, some of our equine brethren had worked their magic, turning the soft bits of the forest track to quagmire. Draggy but rideable fire roads to Bank Foot Farm, then disaster number two, the track between Bank Foot and Coleson Banks sucks you in by starting as firm fire road, which turns to a grassy trail, the condition of which can vary between passable with care to diabolical, today it was diabolical with extra bolicals and I ended up walking the majority of the track. Nobody I know has ever ridden up Coleson Banks, although to be fair almost everyone I know is as crap as me. From the junction at the top of Coleson Banks, a network of broad sandy tracks lead all over the moors, except today the sand was soft and wet making the whole distance harder than it needed to be, even the downhill bit to Bloworth Crossing was wrecked. I turned back on myself to return to Clay Bank, over Urra Moor and realised I’d had the benefit of a tailwind for the whole ride so far, quite a hefty tailwind judging by the headwind I was now battling. Plus the gloopiness of the tracks. Riding over the highest point of the North York Moors, Round Hill on Urra Moor, there was no respite from the headwind and I went from cycling god to cycling dud within minutes. Things eventually relented until I was flying downhill on a paved path, saying adios to sticky mud all the way back to Clay Bank car park.

Gloop 2: The Sequel.

The overnight temperature was allegedly minus six last night, plenty cold enough to freeze the slop of the past few days and give us a decent ride. Brass monkey weather when I left Great Ayton and headed through the farms to Rosebery Common, the grassy drag from Aireyholme farm to Roseberry Common is especially muddy lately, owing to farm traffic but I was relying on it being frozen solid today. That worked about as well as relying on The Breadlad to arrive on time. Someone must have been adding antifreeze to the mud to make it that particular shit to a blanket consistency we all love so much. By the time I reached the gate, my bike was several pounds heavier and it is weighty enough to start with. After knocking off as much mud as possible, I shouldered the brute for a walk up the steps to Newton Moor. A brief pause to add yet another picture of Roseberry Topping to my collection, I headed across to Guisborough Woods and set about some trails. Conditions were dire until I reached The Secret Path, which is neither a path nor very secret, it was in almost summer shape, dry roots, springy loam and sheltered from the winter weather. Superb. I spent a bit of time selfie-filming, so those who are constrained to the settee can see what they are missing. This was followed by a fire road climb to Highcliffe Nab, just in case I was having too much enjoyment for one ride. Even the descent of Codhill Heights to Sleddale was marred by gloop. I decided to have a rest from mud for the remainder of the day, by riding down The Yellowbrick Road to New Row and Kildale and making like a roadie all the way back to Great Ayton, where the greatest disappointment of the day awaited me - the bakery was inexplicably closed, no sign on the door or anything, just lights off, no-one home. Never mind, at least the butcher was still open to fulfil my calorific replacement requirement with a cornucopia of pastry wrapped animal flesh.

Pure Filth

The predicted weather bomb has finally arrived, hitting us with all the force of a swarm of midges, consisting of nothing more than constant sleet which turned to light snow the higher we went. Yes, that is a we; The Breadlad’s enthusiasm outweighed the weather forecast and he turned out to suffer the delights of North Yorkshire’s finest mud. Yes mud, despite the cold and the snow, still nothing has yet managed to freeze beyond semi-flaccid. We had a steady pedal to an almost deserted Gribdale, passing two horse riders heading the opposite way, the only other humans we would see for the whole ride. Continuing around the Lonsdale Bowl, the snow never stopped falling but melted as soon as it touched the ground, adding to the general sloppiness. Up and down Percy Cross Rigg to Guisborough Woods we rode, like a Poundshop Scott and Oates battling through the elements to reach our goal, not the South Pole but The Secret Path, which is probably more fun than the southernmost point on the planet. The exemplary condition of yesterday hasn’t prevailed, the loam is now covered in a layer of soggy snow and the roots are wetter and slippier than the wettest, slipperiest thing you can think of without descending to prurience. We were thoroughly moistened by the time the fire road at the end of the trail appeared. Our bikes, seemingly of their own volition, pointed themselves back towards Great Ayton and we were merely passengers, riding up to Roseberry Common and down the muddy track to Aireyholme Farm. Looking like two idiots who had attempted to camouflage themselves with liquid ordure, we called in the farm shop at Fletchers Farm for coffee and pasties, sitting in an open fronted barn while snow continued billowing outside, our clothing shedding mud onto the concrete floor. After another cold, wet, mile or so of pedalling, we were back at the cars, hands and feet numb despite waterproof gloves, socks and shoes, our whole bodies glowing with the perverted pleasure of being out on such a day.