Is Someone Giving Bikes Away?

For a few hours it looked as though summer might have arrived. I did my usual Great Ayton start, up through the farms, in bright sunshine with a sky which wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Mediterranean. The sweat trickling down my spine let me know I had underestimated today’s temperature and I had nothing lighter to change into. A standard trawl about Guisborough Woods followed, with fire road riding between trails. There are still some fairly hefty puddles about and patches of lingering mud, not helped by the razing going on in the forest at present. It doesn’t seem to have stopped anyone from riding about though, normally there would be more chance of finding a nun in a glory hole than bumping into another mountain biker on a weekday. Today they were everywhere, mainly ‘friends of Billy’ which is the norm nowadays but a few old-school analog bikers huffing and puffing around the woods too. Free bikes? Mass redundancy? The big yellow ball in the sky luring people out into the countryside? Who knows but there were plenty about today. Around the same time as I was contemplating heading back to Great Ayton for food and coffee, the blue turned to grey, courtesy of an ominous cloud bank slowly but inexorably muscling in from the North. Using knowledge, experience and careful consideration of wind speed and direction, I estimated the unpleasantness would pass behind me, giving the east end of the woods a good drenching but leaving this bloke on the verge of middle-age un-moistened. Turns out I was less accurate than my mate, One Blot, the one eyed darts player. We went to a pub one night and the barmaid had her nipple pierced, he was banned for life. The drizzle began as I was heading down the road into Great Ayton, I just managed to get under the tailgate as it turned into a proper downpour. Never mind, I’d had the best part of the day.

The Pensioner Would Have Been Proud

Today looked very promising for a big sky day, wide open moors and all round visibility, as the title says - The Pensioner would have been proud. He preferred his rides to be like his conversation, open and unfettered, the former by trees and rocks, the latter not hindered by social niceties, tact or diplomacy. I rode out from an unusually busy Swainby and pedalled directly to Whorlton Castle, stopping for a quick photo of the keep, glowing golden in the sunshine. Some tarmac took me to the hamlet of Whorlton, from where a track through fields led to Faceby.I climbed up through Faceby Woods, continuing across and up the moor until I reached the summit of Carlton Bank. It sounds easy in that short sentence but it is a constant climb to reach the trig point, gaining 1,100 feet in a little over 4 miles. Breathing back to normal, photos taken, I was back on the bike, heading south across the moor on wide sandy tracks, pausing for a stop at Brian’s Pond. There are many theories as to the identity of Brian and none of them pertain to our very own SuperBri. Onwards and upwards, I stormed up Barker’s Ridge at the sort of pace only a bloke on the verge of middle-age without the benefit of an electric bike can manage, so perhaps storm might be too strong a word for my leisurely plod. More wide, sandy tracks took me to the Bilsdale Transmitter Masts, 3 of them now, following the fire which wiped out the original mast and left most of Teesside bereft for a few days. The knock on effect being a sudden interest in cable tv packages, followed nine months later by a spike in the birth rate for those who found something more entertaining than the offerings from Sky or Virgin. Anyway, after staring at the masts for a suitable amount of time, I had a superb downhill ride to the abandoned but unruined Head House, A pleasant place to sit in the sunshine and have a snack. Energy replenished, another climb followed, sticking with the wide and sandy theme, it was up Arnesgill Ridge and across the moor, tackling Barker’s Ridge in the gravity friendly direction this time. I left the sanctity of the wide tracks to follow some rutted grass to the top of a BOAT (Bridleway Open To All Traffic) which descends into the valley of Scugdale. The gate at the top gives a splendid vista down the valley, the right hand edge fringed with the craglets and boulders where we squandered the best years of our lives. When other people were building careers and moving up the property ladder, we spent our free time with chalked hands and the smell of heather in our nostrils, looking for more difficult ways to defy gravity up the same lumps of rock. The BOAT gives a good ride down on varied terrain, from grass to mud, passing through a rock garden or two, to reach the dead end road at Scugdale Hall. There are a few variations and detours I could have done on the return from here to Swainby but although my heart said yes, my stomach said no and the predominantly downhill tarmac led all the way back to the village, soon having me back to my picnic bag.

Alcock And No Balls

Following three rides with fewer companions than Gary Glitter standing outside a primary school singing “Do you wanna be in my gang”, I am suddenly inundated with hairy-arsed mountain bikers, well, three anyway, and I have no knowledge of the pilose state of their posteriors. We were all keen and eager to try The Breadlad’s new Lakeland epic ride. Keith making the journey from Sunderland, Rod has a week off work and I have rather longer off work. We met up at a car park carefully curated by The Breadlad, his main criteria being, 1 - it’s little known, 2 - payment is made to an honesty box 3 - there are usually spaces; it is grand find for a place like Ambleside, which attracts tourists like The Breadlad’s trailside deposits attract flies. His enthusiasm for today’s route cannot be described with mere words, so keen was he, he was almost on time, on what turned out to be a magnificent day, possibly the hottest of the year. Our start was brutal, straight up a tarmac cliff onto Loughrigg Fell, only to ride down a lumpy bumpy singletrack descent which brought us back to the road. The unique guiding strategy of The Breadlad became apparent on the first climb, he stayed firmly to the rear, making sure nobody gets left behind he assured us. We crossed the A591 and pedalled up the hill behind Rydal Mount, home of famous Lake’s poet William Wordsworth, part of the Romantic Movement in 18th century literature. There was nothing romantic about the climb we embarked upon, especially for Keith who has gone over to the other side and became a friend of Billy, he learnt the hard way ebikes and vertical steps are not a good combination, especially when the steps rise up like the Biblical Jacob’s Ladder. We ascended slowly, The Breadlad once again bringing up the rear, making sure nobody dropped off the back of the party. He is so conscientious. Eventually we gained a summit, not the summit but our stopping place because it was time for some payback from the gravity bank. The views were magnificent, the lakes of Grasmere, Windermere and Rydal gleaming blue in the sunshine, green fells and verdant forests, we couldn’t have picked a better day. Below us lay Alcock Tarn, butt of many, less than wholesome, puns which may not be repeated in polite company and the first objective of a superlative descent - to paraphrase The Breadlad’s NSFW descrition. We put our bikes into bouncy mode and set off down the hill, accompanied by a few RAF fighter jets, which came screaming through the sky to check out four rad dudes on the verge of middle age, shredding down a hillside. They must have been on the radio to their mates because they were around all of the ride. It was a good descent, The Breadlad switched into full guide mode and became the vanguard of our party as we wound our way down the fell. There may have been a few occasions when discretion was the better part of valour but we all made it to the bottom intact, ready for our third descent of the day. Not before the third ascent of the day though, three quarters of us developed a severe case of EBE (ebike envy) as Keith glided effortlessly past us up and along Loughrigg Terrace, The Breadlad kindy resumed keeping an eye out for stragglers at the back. We reconvened at the end of Loughrigg Terrace, preparing ourselves for another chunk of climbing, which took us to the start of our final trail - when our guide eventually found the entrance. A steep and technical descent, rocks and roots, bracken, heather, gullies and steep drops, for the internationals in our party, which is everyone bar The Breadlad, it is reminiscent of some of the routes we do in Spain, just with more vegetation. Arms and shoulders aching, brakes burning, we emerged onto a road which led us back to Ambleside, a very slight detour led us into a beer garden, where it seemed only fair to reward our guide for his diligence in ensuring the safety of everyone in the party. We sat at a table, surrounded by tourists, none of whom were drenched in sweat, cut, bruised, battered, bitten, stung or had brake rotor burns on their lower limbs. Some people just don’t know how to enjoy themselves.

Our guide, worn out from caring for us

Skiddaw House And Dash Falls

As the saying goes (or is it a song?), what a difference a day makes, me and Rod stayed over at the Lakes last night and today began dull and grey coupled with the sort of cloying heat which makes you think of thunderstorms. We revisited an old favourite route today, one which Rod had somehow missed, riding from Threlkeld to Skiddaw House, then down to Bassenthwaite, passing Dash Falls and then returning on the resurfaced rail track to Threlkeld from Keswick. A nice steady ride, not too arduous after yesterday’s minor epic. Low cloud clung to the fell tops as we pedalled through Threlkeld and began our climb into the Glenderaterra Valley, which is a cleft between the mighty bulks of Skiddaw and Blencathra, we rode along the Blencathra side of the valley on a wide gravel track, still climbing at first before dropping down to the head of the valley and crossing the Glenderaterra Beck. The classic Glenderaterra route performs a U turn here and continues on the opposite side of the valley, contouring the Eastern flank of Skiddaw on what must be one of the best situated stretches of singletrack in the country. Today however, we turned right and resumed climbing, up a rocky track, which terminates at Skiddaw House, the highest hostel in Britain, a former youth hostel, now under private ownership. This morning’s heat has been usurped by a cold wind, making us doubt the wisdom of leaving our coats in the car. Our route continues along what is the access track to the hostel, just wide enough for a vehicle, it drops to a stream crossing before climbing up into the cloud. We paused at the top of the climb, shreds of cloud blowing around us, scudding across the moor like wraiths, cold and damp, reducing the mid-twenties temperatures of yesterday to mid-teens. We weren’t bothered, not with three miles or so of descent before us. It may not be singletrack but it is rocky, loose and exhilarating with a couple of hairpin bends and a lot of wandering sheep to contend with. Rod’s grin when he reached the bottom of the falls said it all, the descent was so engrossing he completely failed to notice Dash Falls roaring away beside him. A lot more descent follows, changing from gravel track to farm track and eventually tarmac before we reach the main A591 near Bassenthwaite. Anywhere else this road section would be a tedious grind - the sort of thing those anorexic weirdo road cyclists appear to gain pleasure from - but here the magnificent scenery takes our minds off the monotony of tarmac pedalling and there is a tea room at Dodd Wood to break up the journey. Our final stretch, the old railtrack between Keswick and Threlkeld, is flat and picturesque, crossing the River Great several times, quite sheltered too, which is just as well because the 14% chance of rain became a 100% chance of getting wet. And not a coat between us. We reached the village hall cafe in Threlkeld as the rain began in earnest, eating our late lunch in the shelter of a large umbrella.

Thrusting Through George's Gap

Back on home turf now, June’s on/off summer continues. Yesterday we had a rest day and it was scorching: today the wind is cold enough to make coats a consideration. The title of this route leaves a lot to be desired but my mates entered me in an innuendo competition and I got to the semi, so I didn’t find it too hard to come up with the descriptive moniker. We met on a windswept Blakey Ridge, the wind so strong it was rocking our cars and pedalled past The Lion Inn to our first off road section, the bridleway which cuts off a corner between two roads. It is short but sweet, in fine condition, dry and loamy, it is just a shame it ends by climbing back up to the road. Our next off road section was the George Gap Causeway, another of the paved trods or pannierways which are prevalent in the North York Moors. A fair amount of the paving is missing now but it is still a superb ride down to the Cut Road, varying from ancient stone paving to loamy singletrack. The grassy section which is normally muddy has been gravelled over which was a nice surprise. We joined Cut Road in the middle, right at the head of Fryup Dale, which was spread out beneath us, a verdant panorama of patchwork fields, trees and hedgerows, sprinkled with the occasional orange roof of a farm or barn. At the Glaisdale end of the Cut Road there is a singletrack which leads through the heather, dropping down into Fryup Dale. It starts well, a ribbon of trail, carving through heather to gate in a wall, the character changes here, becoming steep, rocky and enclosed by vegetation. The closer to the valley floor we go, the taller the bracken gets, at points only Rod’s helmet is visible, like a buoy bobbing on a sea of green fronds. The valley of Fryup is our lowest point, physically but not metaphorically, we had just enjoyed three nice descents, the sun is shining, we’re sheltered from the wind, it is pleasantly warm, there is only the matter of a 700’ climb back to the Cut Road to cast a dark shadow over our mood. We make our way to the head of the valley to the foot of what is known locally as The Glaisdale Corkscrew, a challenging descent with the potential for a trip in the air ambulance at some points. Pushing a bike upwards was more controlled but not exactly a walk in the park, a little sit down and a snack were in order when we reached the top. The Cut Road is known to us as the Trough House track, named after a shooting house at the Western end, we pedalled to this and continued onto the road, riding back toward Rosedale for another classic descent which drops down to the old Rosedale Rail Track. It was also in tip top condition, dry all the way down, I’m being a bit vague on the location to keep it in good condition although I’m sure the remoteness of the track and the ever-changing terrain will be enough to keep away trail centre habitues. Only two or three miles along the Rosedale Railway remained, steady pedalling on a gentle gradient with fine views along the valley of Rosedale, relics of the ironstone mining days still prominent on the valley sides. Back at Blakey Bank Top, where our cars were parked, the wind had not relented, still blasting in from the West like an avenging force. Sandwiches were eaten sheltering behind a wall, where we could fool ourselves into thinking it was summer.