The Coat Stayed In The Car.

If The Pensioner were still alive he would be viewing this late spring heatwave with more than a little suspicion, his naturally pessimistic nature would have hypothesised forces of cosmic retribution would make us pay for our pleasure by bestowing a “totally shit summer.” He never looked a gift horse in the mouth when he could stick his head straight down its throat. So confident was I of a day with zero precipitation, the coat stayed in the car as I rode away from an unusually quiet Birk Brow car park. A closed carriageway on the bank was being managed by a painfully slow traffic light controlled contraflow, obviously those in the know were simply avoiding the area. I managed to ride to Lockwood Beck on the road before a single car passed me. I turned off toward Moorsholm, later crossing the A171 and taking a farm road to Dimmingdale Farm, passing Freeborough Hill, where legend has it, King Arthur and his knights lie sleeping, ready to rise in England's hour of need. We’ll see how eager they are when Russia or China decide to bring us into line. The bridle way from Dimmingdale Farm to the start of Robin Hood’s Butts managed a few boggy patches but I still managed a no-dabs ascent. A quick blast along the Castleton road, then I turned off onto a track of dubious legality, which is an interesting alternative to Danby Park, bringing me out at the tail end of the Pannierman’s Causeway, above Danby. A brief road climb took me to the other end of Robin Hood’s Butts, which I pedalled back to famous North York Moors landmark, the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter. Obligatory pictures taken, I prepared to battle the Quaker’s Causeway, a roughly paved path across the moor, which turns many riders buttocks to jelly. I don’t mind it at all but some of my erstwhile companions, those who cycle so irregularly their arses are like unbaked bagels, seem to think it is akin to the morning after sharing a cell with Big Bad Benny, The Beast Of B Wing. Anyway, it was fine and dry, the speediest way to cross an open heather moor without resorting to tarmac. It wasn’t long before I was replenishing calories with the tastiest cheeseburger this side of Philadelphia.

The Coat Stayed In The House.

The forecast is so good, the coat stayed at home, missing out on a trip to Swainby and a scrounge about the hills in the sunshine. It was a fairly standard route, beginning with the Clain Woods walk of shame, up the steps on the Cleveland Way, eventually meeting the road at the top of Scarth Nick bank, over the ford at Sheepwash, up onto High Lane, followed by more climbing to Square Corner and Silton Woods. Only a single car parked at Square Corner, very odd on a day like this. Managed a pleasant hour or so on a few of Silton Woods’ finest trails, all drying up nicely, you’ll be glad to hear. I reversed my outbound route, with a small diversion onto Scarth Wood Moor for photographs (selfies obviously, there seems to be an epidemic of MTB phobia happening currently) and a nice downhill. I finished my route with a classic downhill in Clain Woods, if you know; you know. A tarmac run back to Swainby was all that remained, precursor to a little picnic by the river.

Staying Dry And Warm.

Another dry one, despite the threatening clouds and another Great Ayton start. Squeezed in a few tarmac miles to check out the deer herd in a field near Kildale, continuing to New Row and a slog up the Yellowbrick Road onto Percy Cross Rigg. Up and over the hill to reach the Unsuitables gate and straight into a route called The Forgotten Path - turns out I’d forgotten it is quite hard for a useless old bloke like me. A fair few routes followed, all drying up quite nicely but some so rutted it was like being on a Scalextric track, a legacy from many wet weeks, I guess. Gradually making my way along the woods towards Roseberry Topping was how I passed my day away and what a way to spend it, third ride in a row, dry trails, sunshine, windless. Retirement is heartily recommended. The Brant Gate bridleway, dropping down to Newton Wood was in tip top condition, drier than... No, I’m not going to lower myself to jokes about the private parts of nuns. I am so naive. I saw my first porn film last week, couldn’t believe how young I looked. The bridleway continues through Newton Woods, bluebells and garlic amongst the trees finishing close to Cliff Rigg Quarry, where young people congregate to fly through the air with the greatest of ease. I should have called in to get a bit of practice before next week’s half term holiday; when the kids are off school the chance of embarrassment is too great but the lure of pastry and meat concoctions from the butchers was too strong.