Kendo Rides Again.

Cross Bike Ride

Oz, The Breadlad, Kendo

5th January 2017 route (to follow)

After almost a dozen years in the wilderness, well, Norton Working Men’s Club, Kendo has entrusted his delicate parts to a bicycle seat and once again joined The Terra Trailblazers for a bit of pedalling. He enjoyed his first ride (TTB 036) in December 2004 so much, he rushed back fourteen months later (TTB 067), for another go and then nothing for the thick end of twelve years. He requested a gentle re-introduction. 

2006

2018

Times have moved on since those early days and most of us also have cyclocross bikes in addition to our stable of mountain bikes, so a pootle around some of the less well-known areas of Teesside seemed like a fine idea and a good way to let The Breadlad have a bash at the genteel but generally muddy art of CX biking. Consequently, a quartet of seedy looking gentlemen, some on the verge of middle age, gathered on a street corner in deepest, darkest Norton on cool but dry day, the preceding forty eight hours of rain had left the odd icy puddle around, or more realistically, the odd bit of dry land between the icy puddles. We pedalled along Norton High Street, resisting the lure of those fine British institutions, Greggs and Wetherspoons, passing the picturesque duck pond and the church of St. Mary, dating back to Saxon times. Kendo has vague memories of being the apprentice hod carrier when it was built.

We reached the Calf Fallow Lane area, an oasis of rurality, sandwiched between Norton and Billingham split by Thorpe Beck, today in spate, brown water lapping the banks. We crossed the bridge over the beck and came to our first test piece of the day, The Stoney Bank, not too steep but littered with uneven, slippery rock, an ascent relies on weight distribution, body positioning and cautious pedalling rather than purely powering up the beast. It also gets you out of breath and warmed up. We regrouped at the top and made our way along a gravel road with more craters than the Sea Of Tranquility and joined the Wynyard road. 

After a little tarmac riding our ragged peloton passed through The Golden Gates, under the ever-watchful eye of the security camera and onto the silky smooth roads of the Wynyard Estate, nothing as plebeian as potholes here. Continuing into the adjacent housing estate; surely the most soulless community in Britain, dead-eyed mansions overlooking streets deserted except for the occasional huge 4x4 piloted by a Stepford wife; we pedalled past the Disney inspired village green, fringed with expensive dormitories, feeling as though we were riding through a film set. Turning into the woods, a muddy bridleway cuts through to the Castle Eden Walkway, recent tree felling making things more difficult than usual but we battled onward to reach the firmer, flatter walkway; apparently the sort of track Kendo had imagined we’d be riding on. He’ll learn. 

The cafe in the former Thorpe Thewles station refreshed and replenished us for the return leg, which took a more direct route on minor roads back to Norton where we dropped off a suitably exercised Kendo and said goodbye to Oz. I introduced The Breadlad to some singletrack which wouldn’t be out of place in Dalby Forest - except for the perimeter fence and Keep Out signs of Holme House Prison. More singletrack, hidden metres away from the cacophony of the A19 took us home.

We had clocked up almost twenty miles of riding and barely scratched the surface of the hidden world beyond the chemical factories.

December Video and 2017 Round Up

December Video and 2017 Round Up

Too many words? Video click here.

Regular readers/viewers will have noticed the lack of a November video - or pretty much the lack of November. The final days of October were marred by an unfortunate collision, not hurtling down a mountainside or carving berms at excessive speed like a geriatric Danny Hart but on a suburban cycle path. Injuries received meant November was more or less cancelled but December arrived ready for a gentle (the doctor’s word, not mine) re-introduction to the delights of offroad riding. The weather did have other ideas, some days it was barely possible to leave Teesside for nine to fivers skidding into each other. The majority of December’s riding featured a view of Roseberry Topping, including the less than clement Christmas Ride - the highlights of which were dry clothes and hot food, the ride itself was a trifle damp and slightly cooler than ideal.

As for the whole of 2017, it must be said it was a pretty good year, as well as the usual local rides there were several successful and enjoyable trips away, most notably the Terra Trailblazers’ first venture to foreign climes when 4 of us went to Fuengirola in southern Spain with Sierra Cycling for a few days dry and dusty riding. 

A week long trip to Keswick, in the Lake District saw atypical Lakes weather and a few days were probably hotter than when we were in Spain. Luckily our rented house is next door to a pub, so rehydrating at the end of rides with cold lager became virtually mandatory. 

The weather gods were kind to us again in Scotland and we had a trip to Glentress in unheard of temperatures for The Borders - approaching 30 celsius at some points. Hot nights sleeping in sheds with a bunch of methane machines, at least we could leave the doors open. Belhaven Best has a lot to answer for.

The most memorable and poignant ride of 2017 had to be The Pensioner’s Ashes when we fulfilled Bob’s wish by riding his very own Nidderdale route and scattering his ashes at the furthest point. I’m not ashamed to say a few tears were shed, although that may have been just ash in the eyes. It even got it’s own movie. We found a worthy replacement for The Pensioner with a hulking brute of a teenager, cantankerous, opinionated, complaining and unable to have a thought in his head that doesn’t eventually come blurting out of his mouth - step forward Benny The Brawl. What he lacks in years he makes up for in dogmatism.

Me and The Fireman did our usual two cyclocross events, The Moors And Shores in April and The Lakeland Monster Miles in October, either we’re getting older or they are getting harder, it must be the latter, the routes are longer and more hills are creeping in but liked the dogged old mules we are, we just keep on turning the pedals. 

Oddly enough, one of the year’s major highlights came a little closer to home with the opening of K Line in Hamsterley Forest, arguably a pinnacle in the art of trailbuilding, a superb, swooping, non-technical trail; deceptively fast, as the regular air ambulance landings will testify, but a satisfying blast and a great addition to the usual Hamsterley hot lap.

And what will 2018 bring? For me a welcome lack of gainful employment, hopefully less accidents and more trips away interspersed with lots of riding on our local North York Moors. Is it too much to ask?

Bollocks To Christmas

Mountain Bike Ride

Benny The Brawl, The Breadlad, The Youth

24th December route

It’s the time of year when the majority of the “christian” world completely lose their shit and throng the shops and car parks in celebration of being let loose from the usual nine to five existence. Give a day person a day off and the first thing they’ll do is head to a retailer, apparently shopping is now considered a leisure activity rather than a grim necessity to be endured while imagining all the better places we could be. After several days of attempting to thread a way through aisles packed with manic shoppers determined to make it the best christmas ever by panic-buying anything which can be consumed and a home-life consisting of the expungal of every trace of pre-christmas existence by hiding anything not featuring  tinsel or glitter. Christmas eve has finally rolled round signalling the beginning of the end and the gratifying feeling that in two days it will all be over. In a quest to separate ourselves from the rapacious hordes, a few of us decided being wet, cold and muddy would be preferential to an ill-tempered trudge around another supermarket.

Me, The Youth, Benny The Brawl and The Breadlad met up at a surprisingly well-filled Gribdale car park, plenty of like-minded folks about, well, almost like-minded - mountain bikers were conspicuous by their absence - all prepared to brave the dull, drizzly day and  tree-bending wind. Unseasonably warm temperatures have left the tracks in a predictable state, gloopier than medieval midden after a plague of dysentery. This, plus the wind, a muddy car park and actually being outside his bedroom, put Benny The Brawl into an epic rage, riding the rutted track across Great Ayton Moor while being blown sideways into the ruts, raised his blood pressure to the level which would put us blokes teetering on the verge of middle-age in an electric bed surrounded by nurses and beeping machines. Reasonably flat ground calmed him down a little and we continued around the Lonsdale Bowl with tailwind assistance, although he didn’t seem to find the water splash as enjoyable as everyone else, using some very unchristian language this close to Jesus’s birthday.

A quick scoot along the Percy Cross Rigg tarmac and up Codhill Heights took us to Guisborough Woods, where we decided to sample the full force of the wind by continuing to the top of Highcliffe Nab. We almost came close to the mythical £250 from You’ve Been Framed when The Youth’s lightweight body proved unequal to the strength of the wind which blew him steadily toward the cliff’s edge; a hurried dismount robbed us of £250. The novelty of being buffeted wore off eventually and we cycled through the woods back to Roseberry Common and took the steps to Newton Moor. The weather took a turn for the worst and The Breadlad modelled the latest in waterproof fashion, digging out his Niagara Falls ponchos: who needs Gore Tex? Retracing our tyre tracks around the Lonsdale Bowl and Fingerbender Bank, finishing, without further incident, down the steep hillside back to Gribdale car park. After some hesitation, Benny rode it like a pro, probably down to our special coaching, which mainly consists of profanity, shouting and casting doubts on his sexuality. We kept the camera rolling, just in case, you can never have enough blooper reel footage.

Xmas Dinner Ride 2017

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad, Trainee#2, Oz, The Fireman, Rod and a special guest appearance from The Captain.

Xmas Dinner Ride 2017. Route.

The annual festival of alcohol-fuelled joviality and consumerism of a more rampant nature than a priapic ram rampaging round a field of ewes after a two day ovine pornography binge, trundles into view again bringing with it the kind of weather which might be considered slightly nippy in some parts of the world but in England leads to multi-car pile ups as the nine to fivers spend the morning rush hour slithering into one another. Those day workers on vacation from their their daily grind seem to think they are entitled to use our moors on a weekday, clogging the car parks and cafes where us salt of the earth shift-workers, the horny handed sons of toil responsible for keeping the wheels of industry ticking over, are often the only patrons.

A further inevitability of the Santa season is the Terra Trailblazers’ Xmas Dinner Ride, this year in its fifteenth incarnation; two days  previously we'd have been in stereotypical winter wonderland but some warming rain had erased the snow, letting the greenery reappear. We congregated in the pub car park, beneath the jagged tooth of Roseberry Topping, our original ten reduced by thirty percent as seems to be usual for these occasions. The weather forecast was not too promising but the sun shone in a barely above the horizon winter fashion. The mandatory ‘before’ picture taken, we pedalled along the road for a short distance before turning off, into Cliff Rigg Woods for a steady climb on frozen mud and a few patches of snow and ice. Riders from the generation that have no notion of a time before central heating were already complaining of the cold, while those of us who can remember ice on the inside of the windows and put another coat on the bed, were more stoic.

Carrying on, we pedalled through through Aireyholme Farm - boyhood home of Captain Cook (Roseberry Topping’s Cook Connection) and up to Roseberry Common where the tailwind which had so kindly assisted us the hill, brought a few drops of rain who soon invited all their mates to come and join in soaking the only idiots people on the moors. Jackets were dragged out of bags as we battened down our metaphorical hatches and loins were girded for a moist ride. Route options were discussed between the riders who had an idea of where we were in relation to the rest of the world, while the geographically challenged stayed silent. The general idea of staying in tree shelter and keeping the wind behind us was agreed and we headed eastwards through Guisborough Woods, sticking to the fire roads, which was a bit exciting today seeing as they were mainly solid ice, the lumpy, bumpy sort of ice caused by thawing and refreezing, like riding on a gigantic, slippery golf ball. We made our way through the forest, passing all the tracks we usually ride as they were either sloppy mud or large puddles, rain still beating at our backs, numb extremities were frequently and bitterly vocalised - not a Ranulph Fiennes amongst us, the concept of the British stiff upper lip now something from 1950’s novels.

The Concrete Road, today the concrete waterfall, a broad river coursing down it, six pairs of fat tyres surfing the break, reaching incautious speeds heading for the old railway line which skirts the outskirts of Guisborough, our route turning into the wind and rain, thankfully significantly less powerful than on top of the hill. A broken and dejected sixsome pedalled toward Hutton Village, the usual witty banter conspicuously absent, spirits not even enlightened by the rain ceasing. Back in Guisborough Woods we regenerated some body heat with a nice uphill fire-road but the thought of a nice warm public house was all that kept  some people from laying down on the subarctic tundra and letting hypothermia take them to a better place. At the end of the fire-road we turned right instead of left and headed back to civilisation, some liveliness reappearing as the traumatic ordeal nears its end.

Wet clothing shed, spirits revived by hot drinks and cold beers, we were joined by erstwhile Terra Trailblazer and retired process foreman, The Captain, who, like all retirees, looks twenty years younger than he did in the days when he spent hours in the control room toiling over the daily tabloids. The meal was a splendid, no complaints were made in that regard, the conversation descended to the usual gutter level which is only to be expected when a bunch of men get together, especially those riding high on the endorphin rush from battling the killer elements of a North Yorkshire December day and living to tell the tale. And thanks to The King’s Head for putting up with us.

December Breaks Us In Gently

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad.

4th December route

Two men on the verge of middle age, one so close to that verge he’s practically jaywalking, meet in a cold and snowy North Yorkshire car park, ready for a mountain bike ride. Fresh, crisp air and blue skies, one man recovering from an operation to repair a detached retina, the other has compressed thoracic vertebrae following an accident. They are the only people present; younger and more able bodied compatriots are conspicuously absent. It seems trivial matters of domestic administration have suddenly become more important than life itself. The usual seasonal defection, (cue David Attenborough voice): as the temperature reaches single figures, vicarious becomes the new watchword, saddles are replaced by sofas, real life experience is usurped by You Tube, the sultry lure of central heating stultifies enthusiasm. Who wants to be cold/wet/muddy or - horror of horrors -  have a dirty car, when the cocoon of indolence grasps, her smothering tentacles gently pulling you back into the warmth? The fair-weather cyclist has returned to hibernation, slumbering like a grizzly bear, twitching on the settee, no doubt dreaming of dusty singletrack and mud-free downhills.

Meanwhile, these remaining enthusiasts are discussing their respective surgeries as they assemble bikes and decide how many layers of clothing might be required. Finally ready, me and The Breadlad venture out into the frozen wilds of North Yorkshire, skirting the remnants of two day old snow, thawed and refrozen, the day is virtually windless and only the occasional cloud mars a cerulean sky. Warming up steadily on tarmac, we climb to the crossroads, then left onto Percy Cross Rigg, still climbing before the drop to Sleddale, then offroad for the inevitable reascent of Codhill Heights. The tracks are drier than would be expected and still frozen for the most part, giving us speedy progress across the moor until we reach the outskirts of Guisborough Woods.

Being rebels, we take our bikes to the top of Highcliffe Nab and enjoy the vista, Guisborough spread out below us, the North Sea in the distance, Redcar’s wind turbines turning sluggishly in their saline enclosure. A quick descent through the forest - mainly on fire roads (not taking too many chances yet) until the siren song of a previously unridden track lured us in, plunging through conifers, a ribbon of russet pine leaves tempting our tyres, beneath the pine needles - a skating rink of slippy mud. Fishtailing, we slithered down to reach firmer ground. If we were thirty years younger, high fives or fist bumps might have ensued but being proper emotionally repressed Northern gadgies and not rad dudes from North California, we restrained ourselves and settled for a wry smile before raising our seat posts and pedalling on.

Making our way via the steps to Newton Moor, opposite the magnificent bulk of Roseberry Topping, we encountered a few walkers, also enjoying this magnificent day. We pedalled across Newton Moor to the top of The Unsuitables, passing through gates and onto the offroad portion of Percy Cross Rigg, up then down, through frozen puddles to regain the tarmac. Another offroad track leads down to the hamlet of New Row, just outside Kildale, sketchy gravel with a few rocks and roots but not enough to catch out grizzled old riders like us. The road back to Kildale is in the shade as the sun dips below Warren Moor, it’s dying rays burnishing the opposite moor where we’d been riding minutes before, for the first time in the ride we noticed the cold, moments later it is forgotten as steaming mugs warm cold fingers in  Glebe Cottage Tearoom. Smugger than the smuggest people in Smugland, we ate and drank in an endorphin haze. It’s not about the miles in the ride, it’s the smiles in the ride that matter and all that. Another great day in the memory bank for times of injury or commitments that can't be shirked.

Winter uses all the blues there are.

One shade of blue for water, one for ice,

Another blue for shadows over snow.

The clear or cloudy sky uses blue twice-

Both different blues. And hills row after row

Are colored blue according to how far.

Robert Francis 1901-1987