The Twenty Day Month. March 2020 Round Up and Video

The Twenty Day Month. March 2020.

Video here

A bit of a shorter video this month, about three weeks worth of moors riding until Boris got a bit of backbone and enforced social distancing, after mother’s day weekend when the great British public demonstrated their aversion to anything approaching common sense and made like day workers on a bank holiday. (Day workers: (pl noun)  sub-species of humanity who seek safety in large shoals and comfort in following the same routines and timings as their flock. Antonym: shift worker.) Which left us in lockdown like 25% of the world at this moment, which means staying at home except for one exercise session per day (albeit of unspecified length), near to home and only with members of the household. Shopping as infrequently as possible, only for essentials and keeping two metres apart from anyone and everyone. No unnecessary travel and no unnecessary risks; go big or go home is now just go home and what were you doing here in the first place? For me and La Mujerita, it is local rides for the time being, swapping towering hills and verdant dales for steaming cooling towers and brackish mud flats. 

Until the lockdown it had been a pretty good month, riding mainly old favourite routes on the moors, which are beginning to dry up quite nicely and a trip to the lakes. For something completely different, I went to Sunderland to ride with Keith and Charlie on one of their local loops, which took us along the banks of the Tyne and beneath the same river using a 70 year old tunnel specifically for pedestrians and cyclists. The weather has been windy (still) on occasions but some fine days fooled us into thinking it was early summer, it is now the last weekend in March and the weather has taken a step back, treating us to gales, snow and hail as temperatures plunge towards freezing.  

For most of us, 2020 will be remembered with the same anguish as 2001, the year of foot and mouth, when off-road cycling was completely out of bounds - although roads through the countryside were still open. Riding across the moors on tarmac, passing closed bridleways was torture, who could be a road rider? We can still ride local at the moment, this country may follow some European nations and prohibit cycling all together, especially if people keep taking the piss. Don’t fight it, the tree that bends with the wind does not break as Confucious almost said, probably after he’d been up Guisborough Woods before the lockdown. Relax a bit, enjoy the break, the hills and moors aren’t going anywhere, by the time we get back it’ll be dry trails in the sunshine and tales of “what did you do in the great lockdown of oh twenty?” “Sat on the settee and sulked” isn’t going to make a great conversation.

Last pint of Jennings before the pubs closed.

Social Distancing

Pedalling Through The Pandemic...or maybe not.

Squeezed One In Before The Lockdown.

Monday 23rd March 2020

Danby

The Breadlad.

Mother’s Day weekend 2020 will be remembered as springlike, warm, sunny and responsible for countless deaths as thousands of halfwits ignored the social distancing protocols, thronging beaches and resorts as though there is no such thing as coronavirus. Finally realising a significant section of the great British public have the intelligence of  brain-damaged baboons, Boris pulled the plug and grounded everybody with new legislation, effectively semi-lockdown, which, of course, can never be enforced because police numbers are so reduced they don’t have the manpower to deal with regular crime let alone rounding up retards. Bit of an own goal there government. Already, instead of staying home if they can and stopping the virus spreading, people are looking for loopholes and alternative interpretations so they don’t have to alter any aspects of their lives. I guess some people will only take this seriously when there are armed soldiers patrolling the streets, keeping them indoors. I wonder if they kept the rubber bullets and water-cannons from the bad old days of Northern Ireland? Just a thought.

“There is no life without change. The real tragedy is that we are always fearful of change and resist it vehemently.”

― Debasish Mridha

Genuinely observing social distancing, two metres apart at all time, The Breadlad swapped Las Vegas for Danby and we had a cautious ride over the moors. This is no time to be ending up in hospital, never mind the strain on the NHS, to my mind hospitals are gigantic germ factories, If we could see germs, as though they were,say, cockroaches, I always imagine every surface in a hospital covered in crawling insects; walls, door handles, seats. See, nothing wrong with me a good psychiatrist couldn’t solve. Danby was deserted, no amusement arcades or chip shops to attract the lemmings I guess, a grand day too, slightly cool wind but sunny and bright. 

We rode up the road to Clitherbeck Farm and followed the bridleway across the moor, joining another road which took us to Danby Beacon, where we saw our first human of the day, some bloke in a camper van. Next came the Roxby Moor singletrack, drying up a treat, followed by The Slagbag which is never a treat, a near vertical climb on grass and gravel. Reaching the top, lungs like punctured bagpipes, we took a breather before continuing across the moor and down to the hamlet of Lealholmside, beside the road there is a ramshackle building, a barn by the look of it, with the date 1680 engraved on the door lintel, 440 years old, amazes me how it escaped being ripped down and replaced with a carbuncle of asbestos sheeting. The stones were laid when Charles II was on the throne and will probably still be there when Charles III (if he ever gets the throne) is gone. 

Bit of a digression there, back to the ride; a bridleway through a field and a riverside track took us to Lealholm, where we saw another couple of people, sitting on a bench in the sunshine. A few miles of road took us to Crag Wood, in the distance a lone child sat on a swing in front of a farmhouse, as soon as he spotted us he scurried into the house, no doubt shouting, 

“Ma, Pa, get the gun.” As they do in all the best post-apocalypse dramas. Keeping a wary eye out for the glint of a telescopic sight, we carried on through fields to Stonebeck Gate, ready to shoulder the bikes for the ascent of Crossley Side onto Ainthorpe Rigg, a plod but worth it for the descent. Not a soul in sight at the top as we took a breather before embarking on the descent, no Strava PB’s today, just a steady roll back to Danby, where the bakery was still doing takeaways, with sensible precautions. 

It looked like being a fine week and we planned to have more socially distant rides while we could, until half eight when Boris addressed the nation and suddenly we can only exercise once a day, either alone or with a member of our household - The Breadlad immediately began packing his bags ready to move in with me, until he found out my room rates. The remainder of the time we stay at home except for essential shopping or medical stuff, or work for some unfortunates. Theoretically it is permitted to drive somewhere to exercise, still alone or with a household member but probably best not to, the hills will still be there when this blows over and we’ll soon be out there again enjoying the smell of heather and peat, the sound of tinkling laughter as so called friends watch you going over the bars when your front wheel sinks into a mud-filled trench. The trails in the woods ought to dry up and recover now they are not being wrecked by people riding them while wet. In fact everything could be dried up by the time we are allowed out again. So for me and La Mujerita it’s going to be local loops, from the front door, passing through the shadow of the chemical factory and into the urban rurality that surrounds us. Keep up the banter on the WhatsApp group, an insult a day per person seems about right, photos, rides, walks, generally talking bollocks - it’s what the internet was invented for.

See you on the other side.

Pedalling Through The Pandemic - Week One

Pedalling Through The Pandemic - Week One.

This‌ ‌is‌ ‌the‌ ‌week‌ ‌when‌ ‌measures‌ ‌to‌ ‌contain‌ ‌coronavirus‌ ‌really‌ ‌kicked‌ ‌in,‌ ‌people‌ ‌are‌ ‌beginning‌ ‌to‌ ‌see‌ ‌the‌ ‌sense‌ ‌behind‌ ‌social‌ ‌distancing‌ ‌and‌ ‌self‌ ‌isolation,‌ ‌it‌ ‌has‌ ‌not‌ ‌stopped‌ ‌a‌ ‌significant‌ ‌minority‌ ‌from‌ ‌panic‌ ‌buying‌ ‌their‌ ‌way‌ ‌through‌ ‌the‌ ‌supermarkets,‌ ‌crowding in like termites and stripping‌ ‌the‌ ‌shelves,‌ ‌even‌ ‌though‌ ‌there‌ ‌is‌ ‌no‌ ‌shortage‌ ‌of‌ ‌anything‌ ‌except‌ ‌common‌ ‌sense.‌ ‌In‌ ‌the‌ ‌old‌ ‌days‌ ‌people‌ ‌would‌ ‌maybe have band‌ed ‌together‌ ‌to ‌tar‌ ‌and‌ ‌feather‌ ‌such‌ ‌enemies‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌community,‌ ‌of‌ ‌course‌ ‌that‌ ‌would‌ ‌be‌ ‌a‌ ‌terrible‌ ‌thing‌ ‌to‌ ‌happen‌ ‌in‌ ‌today’s‌ ‌civilized‌ ‌society.‌ ‌Although‌ ‌they‌ ‌could‌ ‌always use‌ ‌their‌ ‌mountain of stockpiled‌ ‌toilet‌ ‌paper‌ ‌to‌ ‌wipe‌ ‌themselves‌ ‌clean.‌ ‌Anyway‌ ‌the‌ ‌government‌ ‌has‌ ‌decided‌ ‌cycling‌ ‌is‌ ‌a‌ ‌good‌ ‌thing,‌ ‌so‌ ‌long‌ ‌as‌ ‌it‌ ‌is‌ ‌within‌ ‌your‌ ‌comfort‌ ‌zone,‌ ‌so‌ ‌probably‌ ‌not‌ ‌the‌ ‌time‌ ‌to‌ ‌try‌ ‌that‌ ‌ten‌ ‌foot‌ ‌drop‌ ‌off‌ ‌you‌ ‌have‌ ‌been‌ ‌eying‌ ‌up‌ ‌or‌ ‌in‌ ‌our‌ case,‌ stay away from ‌any‌ ‌highish‌ ‌kerbs.‌ ‌ ‌

 ‌

Airtime‌ ‌Oz‌

Monday 16th March 2020

Great Ayton 

Oz ‌

 ‌

Great‌ ‌Ayton‌ ‌was‌ ‌a‌ ‌little‌ ‌less‌ ‌busy‌ ‌than‌ ‌usual‌ ‌this‌ ‌morning‌ ‌but‌ ‌everywhere‌ ‌seems‌ ‌quiet,‌ ‌perhaps‌ ‌it‌ ‌is‌ ‌the‌ ‌reduced‌ ‌number‌ ‌of‌ ‌planes‌ ‌or‌ ‌something‌ ‌but‌ ‌the‌ ‌usual‌ ‌background‌ ‌hum‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌world‌ ‌seems‌ ‌absent.‌ ‌We‌ ‌rode‌ ‌up‌ ‌to‌ ‌Guisborough‌ ‌Woods‌ ‌passing‌ ‌through‌ ‌Fletcher’s‌ ‌Farm‌ ‌and‌ ‌Aireyholme‌ ‌Farm‌ ‌to‌ ‌Roseberry‌ ‌Common‌ ‌and‌ ‌onward‌ ‌into‌ ‌the‌ ‌forest,‌ ‌sticking‌ ‌mainly‌ ‌to‌ ‌fire‌ ‌road‌ ‌as‌ ‌most‌ ‌of‌ ‌the‌ ‌trails‌ ‌are‌ ‌still‌ ‌soft‌ ‌and‌ ‌vulnerable.‌ ‌We‌ ‌endured‌ ‌the‌ ‌mess‌ ‌of‌ ‌mud‌ ‌and‌ ‌puddles‌ ‌which‌ ‌leads‌ ‌to‌ ‌a‌ ‌pair‌ ‌of‌ ‌trails,‌ ‌Mintballz‌ ‌and‌ ‌Screwball‌ ‌Scramble‌ ‌to‌ ‌be‌ ‌greeted‌ ‌with‌ ‌the‌ ‌noise‌ ‌of‌ ‌ravening‌ ‌chainsaws‌ and forestry work signs. It looks as though someone is cashing in their crop. 

Deciding against being chased by chainsaw wielding maniacs - now there’s an idea for a movie - we rode back to Roseberry Common and around the bulk of the mighty Roseberry Topping, ending up in Cliff Rigg Quarry. The bottom section of the quarry is filled with jumps of varying degrees of difficulty, we occasionally go and give them a try, as long as there are no kids about to a) show us up, b) snigger at our feeble efforts as they casually fly through the air. We were in luck and spent half an hour or so attempting to get both wheels off the floor before realising pedalling up and down the same hundred metres of track over and over again is actually quite an exhausting way to have fun. Back in Great Ayton, we had coffee and cake in a cafe, doing our bit for the rural economy before the lockdown.

Can’t Catch Coronavirus From Sheep.

Tuesday 17th March 2020

Clay Bank

Alone

It turns out I have been something a trailblazer in this social distancing game and here’s me thinking I was merely anti-social, riding about the moors, seeing more sheep than people, being shunned by stoney-faced walkers who don’t have the decency to return a friendly greeting and generally going by the teaching of that fat, baldy bloke “Be unto oneself an island.” Or maybe people are socially distancing themselves from me? Either way today was a lone ride, Mr. Billy No Mates trudging up the Carr Ridge steps onto Urra Moor, as the sky became greyer, eventually unleashing a flurry of cold drizzle to keep the thought of winter fresh in our minds. 

The broad, sandy tracks across the moors are perfect for munching miles in the fresh air and it wasn’t long before I reached Turkey Nab, admiring the view across to Easby Moor and Roseberry Topping. A ‘keeping within government guidelines’ descent followed - now is not the time to be ending up in a hospital bed - culminating with one of the new trails in the woods after the gate. The weather brightened slightly as I made my way back to Clay Bank for my social distancing picnic, sitting on the wall, being eyed up by one of the tame pheasants which lurk about waiting to be fed, looking like feral pigeons dressed up for a Rio De Janeiro carnival.

A Bit More Social Distancing.

Thursday 19th March 2020

Great Ayton

La Mujerita

The next ride began, once again from Great Ayton, mainly so we could visit our regular butcher for some meat, seeing as our local shops appear to have been ravaged by a tribe of loose-boweled carnivores with an obsessive compulsive hand-washing disorder and a potato addiction. My better half, it’s not as though I could have a worse half, some might say, La Mujerita joined me today, we ought to have followed government guidelines and stayed two metres apart but seeing as we sleep in the same bed it seems a bit pointless. 

A warm up on quiet roads took us to Kildale and New Row, where we ascended The Yellow Brick Road up to Percy Cross Rigg, continuing over the top to The Unsuitables. There are a lot more people out and about than usual, biking and walking, as the restrictions are realised and employments are put on hold. All schools and colleges are to close indefinitely tomorrow, just what we need - teachers everywhere, telling us to stop chewing, not to run in the corridors and stop picking on The Ginger One. 

We made our way through the forest, ending up again in Cliff Rigg Quarry where the intention was for La Mujerita to build up a bit of confidence on the more gentle slopes, however most of Great Ayton’s bike jumping school children seemed to have decided if school was out indefinitely from tomorrow afternoon, another 48 hours wouldn’t make a difference. The efforts of a couple on the verge of middle-age were soon put to shame by fearless youths who spent more time in the air than EasyJet are at the moment. Chatting to a few, their disappointment at the prospect of missing untold months of education was well hidden, I believe “buzzing” is how it might be described in the vernacular. This is probably the best thing to happen since the latest Playstation was released, or whatever it is that excites kids nowadays. As they used to say in the newspapers, we made our excuses and left, leaving them to their fun.

Skiddaw House Social Distancing.

Friday 20th March 2020

Threlkeld

The Breadlad, The Ginger One, Keith, Gary.

You can’t get much more remote than the highest youth hostel in England, out in the fresh air, two metres apart, group of five or less. The Breadlad’s international playboy lifestyle has been abruptly curtailed by none other than the president of the U.S.A., Donald Trump, who won’t let him into Las Vegas, well, him and every other European, regardless of their status in the world of crumpet production. So The Breadlad has shown it takes more than the leader of the free world to stop him holidaying and gone to his caravan in the Lake District, where we joined him for a ride. Me, The Ginger One and Nissan Nomads, Gary and Keith, who are making the most of Nissan suspending production. 

In keeping with government guidelines, we opted for the less than perilous ride to Skiddaw House, starting along the track on the side of the Glenderaterra Beck valley, nestled between the twin bulks of Skiddaw and Blencathra; which begins with a lot of climbing, followed, after a brief respite, by more climbing up to the highest youth hostel in England. Typical Lakeland trails, rock-strewn and puddle infested, the place for big tyres, a world away from Whinlatter where we had intended to go until they closed the road. The Cumbria Way heads roughly north west from Skiddaw House, down to cross Dead Beck, which can be ridden through at some times, quinquennial droughts and the like. We opted for the bridge. 

Another climb was slogged up before we arrived at the highlight of the ride, the descent to Peter House Farm, about two miles distant and eight hundred feet lower, the track runs down beside the picturesque Whitewater Dash waterfall, a delightful vista utterly wasted on my companions as they pounced on the descent like fat kids on chicken nuggets, payback time for all the climbing we had done and heedless to the natural beauty around them. 

It’s a great ride marred only by the miles of tarmac which must be done to get back to Keswick. Of course, we were parked at Threlkeld which meant another four miles further, although we did return via the old Brundholme Woods road, which, owing to subsidence, is closed to traffic nowadays and being reclaimed by nature. Before we left Keswick however, we had to take Gary to the park and let him have a go on the pump track, he astounded us by having both wheels in the air at the same time and not while somersaulting over the handlebars, which is the only time we can manage that feat. Probably something to do with him being so young the ink is not yet dry on his birth certificate. Two more hills later we rolled into the beer garden of The Farmers Arms in Threlkeld for what turned out to be our last pint of Jennings for the foreseeable future because this is the day Boris closed all pubs, cafes and restaurants. 

Terra Trailblazer’s rides without a cafe stop! There is a bit of background noise now, it’s the sound of The Pensioner turning in his grave, not so much turning as spinning like a centrifuge. 

Before The Lockdown...

Before The Lockdown. 

Four rides while the everyone else is out panic buying. Under martial law could panic buyers be shot like looters? Just a thought. Sniper towers in supermarket car parks, anybody walking out with 100 toilet rolls, 4 kilos of pasta and 20 litres of hand sanitiser, bullet through the forehead, instant cure for the empty shelf problem and Britain's inconsiderate retard problem. I'd vote for it. 

Stump Cross Descent

Monday 9th March 2020

Clay Bank

The Breadlad/Oz

One of The Breadlad’s favourites today - the Stump Cross descent, a North York Moors classic, taking a singletrack bridleway from the aforementioned cross down into the remote valley of Bransdale but first we had to slog our way to the cross. Starting with an ascent of Carr Ridge, a staircase of stone steps climbing up Urra Moor, a ride/push/carry, helped and hindered today by the gusting wind, which has returned, as strong as ever, after a week’s holiday. I am again on the old Stumpjumper while the new(ish) Stumpjumper is still in surgery. If you have been paying attention, the old stumpy has no rebound adjuster on the rear shock, my cunning plan for today was to pump the shock up to maximum, 300psi, in an attempt to counteract the bobbing. Not wholly successful, long ascents induced motion sickness as the bike bounced uphill like a rubber horse. 

After passing over Round Hill, broad, sandy tracks took us to Stump Cross, which is literally a stump of rock, fitted into a socket chiselled in a boulder. I imagine the stump will have been part of a larger cross at some point lost in the mists of time. The all natural descent is a beauty, thankfully too remote for overuse from the trail centre boys, starting with a gentle singletrack through heather, becoming technical as the heather gives way to grass, then more singletrack before finishing with a satisfyingly steep drop on shale. 

Our return takes us through Bloworth Woods, although, nowadays there is less wood than an erectile dysfunction clinic, it’s only a matter of time before they get Pele in to do an advert. The fire roads through the woods vary from hard packed gravel to Shrek’s swamp and everything in between and we were unusually pleased to reach Rudland Rigg, even though this ancient thoroughfare cutting across the moors is, by some quirk of the cosmos, uphill whichever direction you ride it and we were now riding into the wind, it still felt easier than battling through the mud with Shrek and Princess Fiona. We retraced our tyre tracks back over Round Hill and took revenge on the Carr Ridge steps by shredding down them in the style of Red Bull Rampage competitors, although Pink Calf Panic may be a more accurate description of our brake-squealing, cross-country mincing style.

A Bit Blowy On’t Tops

Tuesday 10th March 2020

Pinchinthorpe

The Breadlad/Oz

Oz out two days in a row? I wonder if he is building up his stamina ready for retirement? He’s normally not even spotted two days in a month. And The Breadlad paying for parking: what is happening? Is everyone trying to get as much riding in as they can before the whole world goes into coronavirus lockdown? The country has already gone insane, panic buying pasta and toilet rolls, or in the case of Billingham Tesco - frozen chips, while ignoring essentials like beer and cheese. Perhaps if women didn’t feel the need to use a wad of toilet paper the size of a tumbleweed every time they take a piss, the toilet paper might last a lot longer. Just saying like. 

The wind is still harassing trees, bullying them into bending and screaming as we ride through Guisborough Forest in a quest for dry trails. The wind behind high, wind in front low strategy is being employed and we zipped across the moors with the wind at our backs like cycling gods, taking in the odd trail until we reached the One Man And His Dog trails, which are in an open section of the forest and drying up nicely. 

We sessioned a few trails, just like the sick, young dudes we are, shredding the gnar, getting some roost (whatever that is, I have no idea what I’m talking about, I saw it on a video once), rolling all the jumps - far too windy for wheels to be off the ground, falling sideways into spiky undergrowth, (okay, that was just me, proves I was trying the hardest). Eventually the lure of the cafe overpowered the attraction of mud and wood and we made our way into the headwind, along the old rail track back to Pinchinthorpe where we bade farewell to The Breadlad, whose international playboy lifestyle precludes him from joining our rides for the next month and depriving the rarefied world of crumpet manufacturing of his years of knowledge and experience, it has been noted that some of the local chemical factories probably have a smaller carbon footprint than The Breadlad.  

Still Windy 

Wednesday 11th March 2020

Sheepwash

La Mujerita

Would you believe it is windy today? As windy as the windiest day in windy land. Again. The bikes were practically blown off the roof rack at Sheepwash as the car was unloaded. We rode up through the woods to High Lane, accompanied by the usual cacophony of shrieking swaying trees. Continuing past Chequers to Square Corner and on to Silton Forest we had a sidewind but once in the forest we were quite sheltered and it was almost pleasant. La Mujerita was introduced to Silton Woods downhill track, only the amenable top section but she still greeted it with the same amount of trepidation as a free fall parachute jump or getting Michael Jackson in to do a spot of babysitting. Her descent was not entirely dab-free.

We moved on, returning to Cod Beck Reservoir, crossing the dam and climbing up to Scarth Wood Moor, to ride the gently descending paved track down the other side, which she does enjoy. Nice with a tail wind today, marred by an unfortunate skid and fall for La Mujerita, almost at the end of the trail. The only injury was to her pride, laid in the mud in front of a pair of walkers but coffee and cake in The Rusty Bike soon cured that.

Well, That Was Different

Friday 13th March 2020

Sunderland

Charlie/Keith

They say a change is as good as a rest and today was certainly a change, I joined Charlie and Keith of the Nissan Nomads for one of their local rides. We rode from Sunderland on a network of cycle paths until we reached the river Tyne and followed its south bank toward the centre of Newcastle, the iconic Tyne bridge, easily recognised from the labels on the brown ale bottles, always ahead of us. We crossed the river using the millennium bridge, the Blinking Eye as it is known locally and rode along the north bank to the cycle hub, well placed to lure cyclists nearing the end of coast to coast routes.

Around this area, there are plans to erect the usual giant ferris wheel found in most cities nowadays but this one will not be known as the Newcastle Eye; in a nod to the vernacular, probably by some received-pronunciation, home-counties, desk-jockey who once saw an episode of Auf Wiedersehen Pet, it is to be called the Why Aye.

Both sides of the river, heading east from Newcastle city centre are part of the national cycle route network, being the finishing stretches for Hadrian’s Cycleway and the C2C amongst others, it must come as a shock to visitors who have ridden miles through stunning countryside, to find themselves weaving through piles of rubbish in the back streets of random trading estates, with a vista of security fencing corralling the weed infested courtyards of shuttered industrial units and a general air of abandonment. Picturesque for fans of post-industrial dystopia but no way to end a popular cycle route.

To return to what Keith likes to think of as the superior side of the river, we used the Tyne pedestrian tunnel, which has recently been reopened to cyclists and pedestrians after a six year refurbishment, local gossip maintains it took less time to actually build the tunnel originally. The ceramic tiled tunnel is reminiscent of a pre-war swimming baths, similar to the old Billingham Baths which Charlie and myself frequented in the late sixties, being Grade Two listed means it will not suffer the same fate as the old baths, demolition. Riding through the tunnel, forty feet below the river bed is a unique experience, which ought to become more popular when the new glass elevators, which can accommodate six bikes are brought into operation.

From here, I think we largely retraced our route back to Sunderland, sections looked familiar anyway, the right hand horizon dominated by the mighty Nissan plant, where Keith would be spending the remainder of his day while Charlie and me, free from the constraints of industrial life, had a whole afternoon and evening to squander as we saw fit. Don’t know about Charlie but I am going to cut election manifestos into squares for when the toilet paper runs out and experiment with making hand sanitizer by mixing anal lube with vodka, this time next year I could be a millionaire, although there might be a few sore arses about.