A Ride From Square Corner

Mountain Bike Ride

The Trainee

8th October 2015 route.

The Trainee reappears after a month on days where he was being taught how to distribute nitric acid and deal with customers; in the form of tanker drivers, who feel they ought to be loaded within seconds of arriving and are never wrong because the customer is always right and they are The Trainee's customers. Putting the trauma of being on days behind him, he put leg over crossbar for a ride from Square Corner. Not a bad day weatherwise but it was following a couple of days of continual rain so we expected things to be a bit squelchy underfoot, especially our first objective - The Dale Head singletrack. Things were predictably damp, although not too muddy, standing water above a hard surface, so the going was wet but fairly firm and our progress was not as hindered to any great degree.

The road bank up toward Scotland Farm, Hall Lane, came next and The Trainee thought he would make a name for himself by powering up the hill like Chris Froome on Mont Ventoux; with age comes wisdom and the knowledge that Murton Bank had to be conquered later in the ride, so the older generation opted to pace ourself. A few tarmac miles followed pleasantly to Moor Gate, where we went off-road again, following a damp track to the lonely Hill End House. From here the track goes downhill through a couple of fields, then even more steeply through Low Wood, slipping on the muddy slope to the bridge over the River Rye. A quick climb up to New Hall Farm, then it is downhill on tarmac all the way to Hawnby, or more importantly, the tea room at Hawnby, which has been rather neglected by the Terra Trailblazers lately, mainly because The Pensioner has now renounced mid-ride cafe stops in favour of gallons of tea when the pedalling has finished.  The other reason why Hawnby is infrequently visited loomed large following our repast, Murton Bank, less than 450 feet of ascent in just under a mile but some steep sections which sort the men from the boys. The Trainee’s previous display of youthful power seemed to have deserted him, winching slowly uphill until the road levels out past Peak Scar and merely a gradual rise all the way to Sneck Yate car park.

Sneck Yate translates from the old Yorkshire vernacular as “gate with latch”, the gate is long gone but it is the point where the Hambledon Drove Road becomes a track leading through the top of Boltby Forest and northward to rejoin the road at Square Corner above Osmotherley. Following the scenic track along the Western Edge of Arden Moor, fine views across the flatlands of Northallerton to the Yorkshire Dales, Wensleydale and Swaledale. Pausing only for a little play in the bomb hole near the exit from Boltby Forest, we continued steadily north until we reached the highlight of the ride, what surely must be the highlight of many rides, The Mad Mile. A glorious 1,600 metres of gravity-assisted ecstasy, banishing all previous hardship and agony as the investment in the gravity bank is paid back with interest, all the way back to the cars at Square Corner.

Lakeland Monster Miles 2015

Cross Bike Ride

The Fireman.

4th October 2015 route.

An otherwise empty breakfast room in a Lake District guest house, one lonely lycra-clad figure chomping cereal and trying to drink scalding coffee as the clock ticks on at this unfeasibly early hour on a Sunday morning. Outside the window a cyclo-cross bike bearing a number, lubed and raring to go, more so than its owner whose quick pint before bed somehow extended to a second, then a third and maybe a fourth as the England rugby team were given a comprehensive lesson in how to actually play the game by the Australians.

A quick blast through Keswick, into Fitz Park to meet The Fireman at the start of this year’s Lakeland Monster Miles, a decent forecast, dull but windless - that’ll do nicely. We managed to jump onto the end of a batch of riders about to set off, seems to be a lot less entrants than previous years but maybe we just caught a quiet moment. And we’re off, directly onto the old rail line between Keswick and Threlkeld, familiar territory for us from other days mountain biking in the area. Twenty years ago, no thirty years ago, God was it really so long ago? We used to use this path as a shortcut into Keswick before it was officially a footpath, climbing through barbed wire to access the bridges before they were boarded over, just walking on the girders with the river flowing beneath our feet. We rode on, into Threlkeld, passing the Horse And Farrier and The Salutation, many a night of drunken excess in both pubs, The Salutation had an eccentric jukebox in those days, where the numbers chosen bore no relation to the song which actually came from the speakers. The slight rise leaving Threlkeld, catches people unaware, some already off and pushing; they are in for a hard day if they’re pushing now. Onward to Scales, then the lonely road to Mungrisedale, then Mosedale,  beneath the cliffs and boulders of Carrock Fell, most riders pedalling steadily all too aware of what is ahead. This is The Fireman’s first Lakeland Monster Miles, my third, I’m pacing myself to the point of indolence, through the ford, smile for the camera.

Then it’s upon us, the climb, in my mind, the first of three hard climbs the route offers - we are only doing the mini-massif - a loose track stretching upward as far as the eye can see, down through the gears running out of teeth too quickly, every year I vow to get a bigger cassette, never get round to it, still running the quirky traditional cross bike gearing which works fine at home but is no match for Lake’s gradients. The Fireman, running a triple chainring on his Giant, cruises ahead as I resort to a short stretch of pedestrianism. Back on the bike, still climbing but at a more amenable angle, we are soon at the summit and a grassy, greasy, lumpy, bumpy descent across a damp moor, mountain bikers getting revenge on the cross bikers as there more stable steeds fly down the hill. Back on tarmac for a while, passing the ridiculously picturesque Over Water, glistening in the sunshine, we pull up at the feed station for our first breather, eat a few carbohydrate dense snacks and do some half-hearted leg stretches to prepare ourselves for the second half of the route.

From the feed station, it’s straight into Sector Bogtrotters, this year almost mud-free but still a single file plod over slippery rocks, watching the back wheel of the rider in front flicking from side to side until he eventually manages a full blown, feet clipped in tumble which brings the whole line to a halt as he remounts. The second climb of the day looms, The Allerdale Ramble through the woods at Setmurthy Common, a climb which comes at you by stealth, one minute cranking steadily upward, then it becomes steeper, muddier and looser, one by one feet unclip and begin the walk of shame. Once again my gear choice lets me down and I watch The Fireman triple ring into the distance, little did I know it would be the last I’d see of him for a while. From the top of the woods, another grassy descent leads into Cockermouth and I’m regaining my breath as I hurtle down (hurtle down is of course a relative term when applied to a slightly craven bloke in his mid-fifties), scanning the riders ahead for The Fireman, of whom there is no sign.

The route continues through some residential streets in Cockermouth and onward to where the route splits. The marshall advises sensible riders to go straight ahead, the short route, that’s me and on I go, toward what I think of as the last climb of the day, the ascent from Low Lorton up to the summit of Whinlatter Pass. Not to put too fine a point on it, I hate this stretch of road, possibly even more than telephone cold-callers or music made by computer programmers, it saps energy, it drags, it goes on forever, a slight respite near the end where it drops down, losing height which must be painfully regained, eventually joining the main Whinlatter Pass road, which still drags upward, past another route split, the long route climbing an even more difficult track up into Whinlatter Forest. The visitor centre comes into view and happy switch is thrown, it’s done, in the bag, all downhill from here. Speeding through the forest on fire roads, down on the drops, too frightened to attempt moving my hands to the top of the bars, a quick flash from my right and I’m immortalised onto the photographer’s memory card. Do I look as though I’m smoothly cruising to the finish, or like a man on the verge of middle-age wondering how much damage coming off at this speed will do?

Rejoining tarmac at Thornthwaite all that remains now is to follow minor roads back to Keswick, bikers everywhere now, some ambling along; a few putting the power down, obviously intent on beating some Strava record; others riding only by pure determination, heads down, mouths open, shoulders sagging as they battle the last few miles. On the road between Braithwaite and Portinscale, a shout from behind and The Fireman appears, he’d been watering a tree at the top of the Setmurthy Common climb when I’d rode past, fourteen miles of chasing later he caught me up. We crossed the finish line together, rather disappointingly on foot as is the rule here, collected our medals, kissed our wives, refrained from kissing each other (we are proper Northern us like) and went for a cup of coffee. The Fireman went back to Teesside and I made my way to Saddleback Cafe for a congratulatory bacon sandwich, the equivalent to a protein shake for those of us old enough to be on solid food.

Three Good Hills

Mountain Bike Ride.

The Pensioner, The Ginger One.

2nd October route

Another Great Ayton start on a day whose weather would not have been out of place in midsummer, probably superior to midsummer 2015 to be honest. The Pensioner smeared his ample proboscis with sunscreen and we were off, making our way through the metropolis of Great Ayton and up Station Road to Dikes Lane, where we began the long drag to Roseberry Common through Aireyholme Farm. Today must have been the day when all the people who had been putting off their ascent of Roseberry Topping decided to get it over with, the hill was swarming with ramblers, the cliched column of ant-like stick figures lining the path, congregating on the summit like cheapskates round the reduced price aisle in Tesco. We went the opposite way, shouldering bikes for the plod up the steps to Newton Moor, pausing at the top to take in the view of Teesside and check the state of our chemical plants. Moving across to Guisborough Woods, we descended Les’s 1 to check out the recent improvements, nicely bermed at the bottom and most of the ruts smoothed out , definitely better than it used to be.

Fire roads through the woods to our second big hill of the day, The Unsuitables, a well known horror for regular Guisborough Woods riders. Eventually the gate at the top came into view, where we rested in the sunshine as The Pensioner eventually came into view. Continuing up Percy Cross Rigg, the track drier than it’s ever been, even the usually permanent puddles were gone. Around the Lonsdale Bowl was similar, soon we were down at Gribdale contemplating the third big hill - the fire road to Captain Cook’s Monument, perfect conditions for a flawless ascent of the stepped section around the memorial plaque. Over the stones, up to the steps, weight perfectly balanced, nose of the saddle massaging the prostate, keep that front wheel down, around the left hand kink, apply the power to the rear wheel, weight back slightly to get the front wheel over the big step and stop dead - another failure and the ignominious push up the remaining steps.

From the monument, we immediately plunged downhill, through a forest of handlebar-grabbing bracken to the edge of Mill Bank Woods, from where we followed the bridleway which contours Easby Moor, past the Red Run and down the eroded rooty track leading back towards Dikes Lane, a technical test almost causing a few dodgy moments from The Ginger One as his brutish Darlington lack of finesse came to the fore. Within sniffing distance of Fletcher’s Farm Coffee Shop now and The Pensioner’s trademark cafe spurt was employed, leaving his juniors behind as he flew down the track like Mark Cavendish sprinting for the tape.

A ride of some brevity - barely into double figures but  three good hills and a lot of face-splitting grins from the downhills. Blue sky, dry tracks, an Indian Summer and tea: we’re easily pleased.

September Round Up and Video

A quick round up of the routes which were not blogged in September, owing to time constraints or perhaps because nothing notable actually happened.

For those of you who don’t like too many words (Andy) jump straight to the video.

Mountain Bike Ride

2nd September 2015 route

The Fireman, The Trainee, Oz

A pleasant ride from Lordstones taking in The Fronts, Cold Moor, The Head House singletrack, returning to Lordstones over Carlton Bank. This may have been the day it rained slightly but I can’t quite remember.

Mountain Bike Ride

19th September 2015 route

The Pensioner, The Bread Lad

A Saturday excursion from a busy Clay Bank, after being caught in the Stokesley Show traffic. The weather was kind to us for a brief ride along The Rim to Medd Crag, followed by the long climb to Cock Howe for the descent of Trennett Bank. The Bread Lad was on top form today, doing Trennet Bank like Danny Hart before storming up Clay Bank back to the carpark. We decided rather than brave the show traffic again we  would head toward Great Ayton and give Fletcher’s Farm Cafe a try. Very nice it was too. The Pensioner was in something approaching seventh heaven when a pot of water was supplied with his and The Bread Lad’s pot of tea - a pot of water bigger than the pot of tea. Needless to say he was unable to leave the cafe until both pots were drier than a camel’s foreskin, several cups of gradually weakening tea later.

Road Bike Ride

26th September 2015 route

Dom

The last remnants of the once mighty Cafe Racers dragged themselves on a bacon butty run to the market town of Richmond in North Yorkshire. Both of us on road bikes and wearing the full compliment of Lycra. The route was fairly undemanding apart from a detour to ride a steep cobbled street in Richmond, which, it would appear, we had to do to win the approval of The Chairman, who was conspicuous by his absence. Probably sunning himself in an equatorial tax haven, lighting cigars with twenty pound notes and planning hypothetical routes of unrivaled ascent. However, he did miss a rather excellent bacon butty in The Station.

Click HERE for video.

A Ride From Sheepwash

Mountain Bike Ride

The Pensioner, The Bread Lad, Oz.

18th September route.

According to that arbiter of journalistic standards, The Sun, the world as we know it is to be wiped out between 22nd and 28th September this year. If you are reading this in October we must have got away with it and that paragon of truth must have been misinformed. If the world is wiped out perhaps you ought to have found a more constructive use for the last hours of earth than reading this nonsense.

And it came to pass, in the days before the Great Cataclysm, four men congregated at the place known as Sheepwash, an area of countryside for the peoples of Teesside, along the great highway whose name was A19, it was exceedingly popular with these Teessiders because they could enjoy bucolic natural delights without losing sight of their cars. Of the four men assembled, one was The Bread Lad because he held the profession of baker, providing humankind with sustenance in the form of crumpets; two were employed in the arcane trade of process operating, in the chemical industry which thrived in these lands, archaeologists have struggled to find the exact nature of process operation but have ascertained from ancient scripts it mainly involved drinking coffee, reading the popular tabloid misinformation sheets and occasionally pressing buttons; The Pensioner completed the quartet, so called because his three score years and ten were almost at a culmination and he was gifted with a “pension” some free money generally given to those who “grafted” during their working life, in The Pensioner’s case it is unknown how he managed to qualify for a pension. A further process operator was to join the group but was bound under the spell of a sorceress and forced to spend his leisure time in the 21st century pastime of “shopping”. Three of the men idled in the car park as they waited for The Bread Lad, for he resided in a different land with a curious  time aberration which made him perpetually lacking punctuality, eventually he arrived and assembled his two wheeled velocipede, while some idle chit chat was made, using a curious parlance consisting predominantly of expletives, insults and references to sexual deviations.

Eventually they began to make their way through some woods, passing a reservoir and cycling against gravity until they reached a summit from where they rode along a broken track before cautiously descending some jagged rocks which led them almost back to their start point. Anthropologists are at a loss to describe this strange behaviour which is predominantly a trait of the male gender. Entering some more woods, our quartet proceeded to ride down some steps keeping a wary eye out for their arch-enemies - The Ramblers, a dour sect, mainly bordering on sub-human who took offence at the sight of others enjoying themselves on velocipedes, sometimes setting primitive traps or indulging in a ritual form of verbal abuse known as “whinging”. Continuing unmolested, a swooping  track was followed with obvious enjoyment, to field where their downward progress was constrained within a small area defined by blue-topped wooden posts, at the request of the “landowner”, a guardian of the countryside who allowed the common people onto his land only on sufferance.

More uphill riding ended at a set of ancient stone steps, which could only be surmounted with velocipedes being pushed and carried with much heavy breathing and blasphemous utterings. Apparently it was worth it for “the next bit”, featuring what appears to have been the Holy Grail of their pastime, “singletrack”, all attacked it with vigour, at a speed which may have been considered imprudent for a quartet whose combined age exceeds ten score years. A short while later, to the obvious displeasure of The Pensioner, a field was crossed, not without some effort, for the grass was long and the path vague, which brought them to the hamlet of Whorlton, abandoned some four centuries earlier in the time of The Great Plague. After passing through Swainby, The Pensioner opted to walk back up the steps descended earlier while the remaining trio conquered the bank known as Scarth Nick, a notch in the hills, cleaved by the axe of the giant Scarth.

Once again, within sight of their starting point, a further diversion was embarked upon, ascending gradually to the summit of Scarth Wood Moor from where they descended through mud, rocks and water with almost infantile enjoyment.

Regrouping at the car park, they prepared for what seems to be the most important part of the ritual - the cafe. The proximity of the cafe appeared to have engendered in The Pensioner a beneficial performance effect, suddenly going from gasping rear gunner to trailblazing athlete in a few pedal strokes.