Another week of this year’s early autumn and another 4 rides polished off, 4 days successfully wasted, another 4 days on the slippery slope towards senility, infirmity, morbidity and the gadgie with the scythe and the hourglass. Do it now: it’s later than you think. This was a public service announcement from the Terra Trailblazers, successfully shirking adult responsibilities since 2003. The titles of the rides on this page are what they have been named on Strava, as if anyone is interested enough to look them up because let’s face it, sometimes the most difficult part of our rides is thinking up a catchy Strava title.
A Bit Grim For July.
The first brace of rides were Billy No Mates affairs as it appears other people still have the encumbrance of gainful employment to contend with; what a gruesome thought. My first lonely ride began at the famous Sean The Sheep bus shelter on the Castleton road on a cloudy morning, threatening showers and featuring the new normal unseasonably cold wind. A quick blast along Robin Hood’s Butts, with a right turn to Sis Cross, one of our favourite moorland singletracks, carving its way through a carapace of heather, unfortunately suffering the sort of seasonal deterioration usually seen around the end of October, puddles and deep mud at the start of July, it doesn’t bode well for the rest of the summer. I continued to Danby Beacon and across Roxby Moor toward Scaling Dam, another fine track which is nothing but fun, blasting along multiple lines, rocky ruts and peaty hollows under a big sky.
Further on I spent half an hour attempting to photograph a colony of sand martins, which mainly involved laying in the damp grass, being rained on, as small birds screeched past faster than The Ginger One answering the phone for a call out.
The remainder of the ride was a standard pedal back along Lealholm Rigg to Danby Beacon, followed by a reversal of Robin Hood’s Butts, as usual into a headwind,with the added bonus of a shower or two. Returning to the car and the ‘new normal’ tailgate picnic, inevitably the wind dropped, the rain stopped and the sun put in an appearance, exact conditions for hordes of midges to come hurtling out like fat kids at an all you can eat buffet, searching out the bare flesh of the only blood-filled sack of skin in the vicinity. Me.
9 Miles Up: 3 Miles Down.
The following day I went to Chop Gate for a ride which,it must be said, had seemed a fine route when I planned it out, laid in bed that morning. In reality it was nine miles of ascent for 3 miles of downhill, give or take the odd flat bit. For those masochistic enough to give it a go, (I won’t be repeating it anytime soon), Chop Gate, road to Lordstones, along The Fronts to Clay Bank, Urra Moor, Round Hill - highest point in the North York Moors and end of the climbing for today. One short sentence, a world of pain. What was I thinking? Mostly, I wish granny rings were still a thing or is it electric bike time yet? There was a plan involved in riding all the way up to Round Hill, to make a hyperlapse video (like a timelapse) of the descent from the highest point all the way to Chop Gate via Medd Crag, a technically easy but speedy way down. Sat at the trig point, preparing for the descent, faffing with cameras, a swathe of rain heading directly for me like a wet, grey blanket, I tried to decide if it might swerve a bit and save me from a drenching. Not happening, most of the descent was spent wiping mud and water from GoPro lens; obviously any sensible person would have waited until the rain passed over before setting off but it was difficult to say how long the shower would last and the lure of the car park picnic was reaching out to my tired and hungry body.
A Bit Of Sunshine And Roseberry Topping Is Full.
Day three saw me and La Mujerita having a gentle pedal from Great Ayton, the car parking spaces already filling up at ten thirty. It’s about time people were back at schools and jobs or just wandering aimlessly around shopping malls instead of clogging the place up like arterial plaque, this virus has a lot to answer for. We did our usual road warm up, riding to Kildale, up Percy Cross Rigg to the gate where tarmac ends and proper riding begins. For a bit of variation we rode around the Lonsdale Bowl almost to Gribdale, then doubled back along Newton Moor until we were at the Little Roseberry steps. Looking across to Roseberry Topping, it seems a bit of sunshine triggers a mass ascent, it looked as though a significant minority of the population of Teesside had decided to get away from it all with a stroll to the summit. Definitely more bodies than can be seen at a Darlington FC home game,although I’m sure their loyal supporter, The Ginger One would disagree.
We headed into Guisborough Woods and bypassed most of the trails in favour of some fire road blasts, La Mujerita is not a fan of thin and technical or steep and rooty or loose and rocky. Probably another reason women live longer than men. I managed to squeeze one trail in, The Captain’s Seat, La Mujerita followed in a more pedestrian manner - one foot in front of the other. One last hill took us back to Roseberry Common, from where it was gravity-assisted riding all the way back to Great Ayton and a quick detour to the butchers for some delicious concoctions of pastry and meat, just the thing for a riverside picnic in the sunshine. Shame the temperature couldn’t have managed to be a bit more in keeping with the calendar - it didn’t encourage any lounging.
Slippier Than A Lubed Up Mermaid.
The last ride of the week was with Rod, who mooted the idea of a bit of trail exploring in Guisborough Woods, which basically meant a whole lot of climbing in a short distance, interspersed with near death experiences. And it came to pass. Unhappily the rain which dampened everything for the previous twenty four hours had done the trails no favours, although still firm, the top layer was slippier than a lubed up mermaid, which, combined with the Guisborough trail fairies penchant for the sort of steepness which might be experienced falling down a well, made for an interesting day’s riding. Brakes were largely ineffective and more than once I regretted taking the Maxxis Shorty off the front wheel as the bike decided to, in the words of Fleetwood Mac, go it’s own way. Luckily there was always a sturdy tree or two to break our falls, the only payment they demanded being the odd bruise. It wasn’t the day to be riding unknown trails - or any trails really but there is always that vain hope the next one will have been more sheltered and be the perfect ribbon of dry loam weaving through the trees. It didn't happen.
One trail we encountered was a ride down memory lane, over twenty years ago, with two riding buddies we ‘improved’ an existing track with the help of some army surplus tools, to give a sweet ride back to one lad’s house in Guisborough. It has some steep sections which were terrifying back in the day, all on hardtails, those were the days when full suspension was looked at with the mixture of disgust and jealousy reserved for electric bikes nowadays, white knuckles squeezing V brakes, which were only of cosmetic value in the wet anway, scrotums scraped by rear tyres all the way down the trail because you had to get back as far as possible to ride steep stuff. It all seemed quite tame today with the benefits of modern bikes and twenty odd years experience. I only recognised the trail because it passes two iron stanchions left over from the days an aerial ropeway carried buckets of spoil down from the mines which are still scattered about the forest. To Rod’s amazement some combination of lunacy and dehydration made me suggest one last climb back into the forest, to squeeze in a couple of trails before the cafe. Which we did, managing to escape the ‘one last run’ curse (usually the extra run is the one where you have the accident) and making it to the cafe unscathed for a socially distanced bacon butty.
