The Pensioner Memorial Ride 2018

Mountain Bike Ride

The Breadlad, The Ginger One, Climbing Simon, The Sheik Of Bristol, Young Briggs, Oz, Rod, Tom.

15th June route.

Almost a year to the day since The Pensioner’s Ashes and Ashes To Ashes - The Movie, we congregated in a windy and unseasonably cool car park ready to celebrate his memory in our own peculiar fashion. This year we chose his most iconic bit of route planning, The Pensioner’s variation on the classic Gunnerside route, formulated by a combination of the Ordnance Survey, YouTube and getting off his arse and pedalling, quite often in the wrong direction, until the route became the polished gem we know today. 

Owing to the paucity of parking in Gunnerside village, we met at Surrender Bridge, nine of us, ready to celebrate The Pensioner with a bit of wind-swept suffering and a few laughs along the way. In something approaching close formation, we set off along the track to The Old Gang Smelting Mill, we had Jordan, The Sheik Of Bristol, newly returned from the forty degree heat of Saudi Arabia to the only just scraping into double figures temperatures of The Yorkshire Dales, his first MTB ride for four and a half years and Climbing Simon, who had decided to attempt the route on his cyclocross bike and seven others in varying stages of fitness. At the ruined buildings of the smelting mill, we took a happy, smiling group photo before the trauma of the first proper hill was inflicted upon us. The track up to Moor House from Level House Bridge definitely split the peloton, the irregular riders trailing behind but everyone was puffing like a bunch of asthmatic paedophiles in a playground by the time the track levelled out. 

From Moor House, some steady riding across the moor, on a typical Pensioner track, wide open without anything to block the light because “if you had these eyes, you would never even get out of bed on a morning”. Today is dull, cold and blustery but a few hot days earlier in the month probably constitute the British summer for this year, so we mustn't grumble. The track begins to descend, the more skill drifting into the loose turns, we turned off the gravel track onto a grassy, rutted downhill, crossing a small stream, The Ginger One managing to avoid the testicle/cross bar interaction he suffered last time he sped through this water. 

Regrouping at the oddly named Barf End Gate, euphoric gurning all round, we continued across some snooker table sward to pick up the bridleway down to Gunnerside. This is probably the highlight of a ride filled with highlights, starting with a steep, grassy descent, which becomes a gully before turning to a clatter bang rock garden popping out onto the famous electric gate road. Climbing Simon emerged from the rock garden, still on his cross bike, wild eyed and white knuckled with a grin on his face which could only be described as manic. 

Fun over for a bit, we began the long climb out of Gunnerside, passing Dyke Heads prior to taking another typical gravel track for the steady slog up and along Jingle Pot Edge. Despite being less than halfway round, some of our team were beginning to feel the pace and we became a little strung on the long drag. We were now high above the Gunnerside valley, its green flanks’ rent by the scars of hush mining, grey keloids formed from tumbles of barren rock running down the hillsides. Botcher Gill Gate brought us all back together and shortly after we were all enjoying the grassy descent to the 18th century mine buildings in the bottom of Gunnerside Gill. Young Briggs produced some more of The Pensioner’s ashes and with an irreverent lack of ceremony he would have appreciated, we took turns to scatter him around another of the places he enjoyed so much. 

And then - the climb out, steep, narrow, rocky and brutal, we shouldered bikes and plodded upward, sticking faithfully but maybe not thankfully to The Pensioner’s original route, until we reached the lunar landscape of Melbecks Moor. Cold and gloomy, a vista of bleak spoil tips remnants of the mining, what would be classed as an environmental disaster nowadays, acres of land rendered infertile by industry, merely making a living in days when the countryside was not valued so highly and food came before aesthetics. Decidedly nippy on top, windproofs were donned as we made our way to the next downhill, essentially just riding back along the opposite side of Gunnerside valley but what a ride, a little bit of technical stuff preceding a grassy blast downhill, speed only limited by the size of your cajones. All too soon we were back at Barf End, heading for the hamlet of Blades and the last climb of the day before some pleasant singletrack, just the right side of horizontal took us back to Surrender Bridge.

Despite the mediocre weather, everyone appeared to have had a grand day out and it was a fine tribute to The Pensioner and his most excellent route planning. A few people had been introduced to the delights of Swaledale for the first time, for others it was deja vu. Tired and hungry, we decamped to The Black Bull in Reeth, only to find we were three hours early for eating. Some suitable liquid refreshment was imbibed, courtesy of The Pensioner, before we had to withdraw to The Dales Bike Centre for food. 

May 2018 Round Up and Video

May 2018 Round Up and Video.

Click here for video.

Life’s not so bad when you start the month’s mountain biking off in Spain, return to England, go back to work for four shifts, then spend the next four days in The Lakes - and the weather remains sunny. Not warm particularly but sunny nonetheless. A theme which continued through the month, bright but cool. Several rides of a local variety didn’t make the blog but the routes and pictures are below.

Bank Holiday Monday saw us parked up outside Castleton for a long ride in unprecedented temperatures, no new trails but we managed to join a load of old favourites into a twenty-odd miles blast through the heather. Even though we were disgraced by some youthful super-hero who pedalled up the steep side of Ainthorpe Rigg, as we carried our bikes. He didn’t even have the decency to be out of breath at the top. Route

Our next ride was around Guisborough Woods, relishing the dry trails. The Youth entertained us with a spectacular airborne dismount when a vertical drop off took him by surprise. If only I’d had the camera rolling when I came round that bend to see him dropping out of the sky like Wile E Coyote in the Roadrunner cartoon. Even the elusive Benny The Brawl managed to tear himself away from whatever dubious delights Redcar has to offer to join us for one of his sporadic appearances of 2018. Route

Another day saw us congregating in a disappointingly chilly Chop Gate for a spin over the moors and ultimately down Trennet Bank back to the cars. The sun did put in an appearance eventually and we enjoyed a good ride on dry trails. Route

The penultimate ride of the month did see a brief return to winter, low temperatures, even lower cloud, continual drizzle but we did not let it discourage us, naturally when I say us, I mean me. I was out there in my raincoat, everyone else must have been wearing their Harry Potter invisibility cloaks or perhaps they just stayed in and watched the drizzle from the settee. Route

Me and The Youth finished the month off at a sweltering Hamsterley. All the red and black man-made trails except for Boneshaker and Route 666, we can’t be bothered with them any more, plus a few off-piste runs, which although dry were a bit greasy under the tree cover. It is the school holidays, everywhere within half a mile of the car park was packed, bikes everywhere yet the trails were virtually empty. Is there a whole network of routes we are unaware of? Route

Three Rides And A Walk.

Funny how life works out, one minute you’re enjoying Spanish sunshine, a week or so later it’s a touring site in the English Lake District, surrounded by people who look as though their only attempts at an erection are the awnings on the side of their caravans. Me and The Breadlad had been brought in to lower the age profile of the site before the coffin-dodger van came collecting and one of us isn’t exactly young. We felt like youths, objects of curiosity for the beige people to curtain-twitch at, fat-tyred bikes and colourful clothing, as though they had suddenly caught a glimpse of the twentieth century. To be fair, the sun had followed me from the Costa Del Sol, turning the Lake District into the perfect corner of England. We had come for three rides and a walk - yes, a walk; anyone who knows me will be well aware of my aversion to the whole red socks and map cases thing, having got all that nonsense out of of my system by my mid-twenties but it was for a good cause, a sponsored jaunt up England’s highest mountain in aid of Cancer Research. 

Day One - route 

Once we had attached all the umbilicals to The Breadlad’s little home from home; who’d have imagined there was so much to do just to stay a few nights in a caravan, like a space shuttle just before take off, doors, sockets and ports all waiting to be connected to some service or other: water in, water out, electric in, bodily fluids out (no solids) and the all important TV aerial because the greatest pleasure of a caravanner is to sit in a field and watch Coronation Street. 

We were in no rush, our ride for today actually started just across the A66, in Threlkeld, an old favourite route, a pedal along the Glenderaterra Beck valley, that gargantuan cleft between the mighty Skiddaw and the slightly smaller but equally majestic Blencathra. But first we had the road climb which passes the Blencathra Centre, a heartbreaking start to any ride, steep tarmac which mellows to become only slightly less steep tarmac, tarmac turns to gravel after a small car park but still keeps climbing gradually upward. Eventually it levels out, dropping for a speedy descent to the head of the valley, where we perform a U turn and climb up to the the singletrack on the opposite side, a ribbon of gravel, hugging the elephantine flank of Skiddaw, high above the beck, beckoning us onwards, goading us to go faster regardless of the drop to our left. Towards the end, gravel is thrust aside by slabs of jagged rock, off-camber igneous eruptions trying to push us into the valley below, riding on a clifftop, Lonscale Crags, no coming back from a tumble over this edge, just a few lines in the mountain rescue book. Will discretion be the better part of valour today? I’ll leave that for you to find out. 

Turning a corner, the trepidation evaporates and a wide, fast track drops us to a stream crossing and the inevitable climb back out again. A couple of hundred metres later we are in the Cheat’s Car Park, between Latrigg and Skiddaw before heading eastward down the long spine of Latrigg, back to Threlkeld. A perfect little mountain bike ride, compact but not without adventure, away from the masses, a whole fellside to ourselves even on a Sunday afternoon.

Day Two - A walk.

Went for a walk. Enough said except to say walkers are friendly folk if you are not on a bike.

Day Three - route.

Whinlatter, some days it’s just nice to have a trail centre day, no route finding and steady climbing. Numerous diletantes came crawling from their winter hibernation, lured by the promise of graded trails and predictable riding. 

Even though most of us have done Whinlatter more than a few times, it is still fun, the climbs are reasonable and the downhills are superb. Our usual routine of Blue Loop, North Loop, South Loop, cafe was followed, dry tracks, sunshine and plenty of rests while we waited for “much improved” (his description) gym-rat Benny The Brawl to catch up. 

The trauma of actually being outdoors seemed to have interfered with the ability of his legs to maintain an actual cadence; or perhaps, this being his first visit to the Lake District in his short life, the awesome vistas unfolding before his peepers were awakening an appreciation of life beyond the Playstation. 

Day Four - route.

The final day of our mini-break and the excellent weather is continuing, me and The Breadlad decamped the caravan while Rod was enjoying a full english in his B&B. Owing to the Open All Hours shop in Keswick being shut by 10pm, our breakfast was a rather frugal affair but fasted riding is in vogue at the moment so we soldiered on. A short drive took us to Ings, a small community scattered each side of the A591 but with a microbrewery and pub serving food all day - most important for our return. We had came to have a crack at Garburn Pass, a lakeland classic, so they say, then again, they say that about the Ullswater lakeside path and we would rather stick spokes in our eyes than venture there again. Following a route from VP Guidebooks’ Lake District Mountain Biking, we crossed the road and followed the instructions, whose bland words gloss over a lot of graft, for example, follow the bridleway, climbing easily at first but then with more difficulty near the top, or, more realistically, virtually unrideable rock-filled chute. 

We carried on, ascending gradually and negotiating gate after gate. Do farmers get buy one, get one free on gates? Three miles in some short, steep ascents elicited disturbing noises from The Breadlad’s back end, nothing to do with last night’s beer and everything to do with his freehub, which withdrew its labour shortly afterward. The usual two B’s, bouncing and braying, failed to re-engage the pawls, so for him the war was over, luckily downhill back to the car. 

Me and Rod continued as a duo passing through a few more gates until we eventually reached the descent to Kentmere, which is loose, rocky and fast, we juddered our way downward, standing on the pedals and scanning the way forward for pedestrians. We reached tarmac at Kentmere church, where we turned left (eventually, the moral of that story - don’t let the one without the map go in front) and headed up Garburn Pass. Some pedalling may have been involved at first but that soon gave way to carrying and pushing up the scree and loose rock tumbling down from heights as yet unseen, onwards we plodded, covering (for the North Yorkshire riders) three Turkey Nabs, we reached the top, before realising we’d only surmounted the foothills and something akin to Ingleby Incline stretched out ahead of us - it was almost rideable at first but bedrock shouldered its way through the gravel, giving birth to small boulders as it reared upward.  

And then we really were at the top, sandwiched between grassy fells, the track leveled out and our remaining Scooby Snacks were munched while breathing returned to normal, both secretly hoping the descent would not be in similar condition to the ascent we had just dragged ourselves up. We wanted flowing and fast riding not brake-jerking, technical, over the bars, bonce boulder-bouncing. We needn’t have worried, the descent is worth every back-breaking moment, brakes off, fast as you dare, watching out for my new friends - the walkers. Like all good things it came to an end, inevitably at another gate, the book recommends turning round and reversing the route, our stomachs recommended a swift return to the pub. Stomachs won.