The First Bit Of September.

A First Ride As A 61 Year Old.

First ride of the new month, I had a day off yesterday because it was my birthday, which equaled a surfeit of food and alcohol to ease the pain of approaching middle-age. Second ride of the week with Rod, who conceived a marginally less arduous route for the day. No complaints from me. Clay Bank car park, dry but surprisingly windy, becoming more windy as we climbed higher. On top of Urra Moor, it became a tailwind, grand being pushed along the tracks toward Burton Howe and the old coal road, our first significant descent of the ride. Continuing with the downward theme, we continued to Grain Beck Plantation, a superb downhill section, turning from rocky gravel to rutted grass as it approaches the plantation gate, a few kamikaze sheep doing their best to baa banzai as they leap in front of our bikes. Through the plantation, still greasy and slippy, to another gate, then down to the grandly-named farm of Baysdale Abbey. After descending 800 feet in almost 5 miles, there is payback to be done and the road out of Baysdale Abbey takes its pound of flesh as we regain 350 of those feet. A short bit of the Cleveland Way takes us to a moist singletrack leading to the newly sanitised Turkey Nab, or Ingleby Bank to give it its proper name, a speedy descent follows, no more rocky slabs or deep ruts to contend with, just as little braking as cajones and common sense allow.  A vegetated track through Ingleby Plantation leads to a pair of trails we have been waiting to come into condition, winter greasiness dispelled by beaming sunshine and warm summer winds - not this year. Still moister than a nun in a cucumber field. A welcome change from the wide open, sandy tracks on the moor tops, we even sessioned a few bits, just like youngsters do - didn’t seem to make us any better though. All that remained was the fire road drag back to Clay Bank and our tailgate picnic, where an excellently timed rain shower brought a close to the ride.

Too Steep For Terra Trailblazers.

 Another day with Rod, who is lucky enough to have wangled a whole week off work to sample the lifestyle of a peripatetic retiree, riding bikes where and whenever you want, which is most days. Rod was keen to risk life and limb again on the off-piste trails of Guisborough Woods, guaranteed to be extra treacherous today following an epic rain storm the previous evening. But danger is our middle name, once we’d recovered from the trauma of Pinchinthorpe car park having gone up to £4 per day. This will break The Breadlad. Our route was meandering, riding typical Guisborough trails, steep verging on precipitous. We made our way to a trail, I had spotted a few times previously but only when accompanied by riders not willing to plunge themselves into the sort of unknown which might end with a helicopter ride and wheelchair - no such reticence from Rod. After a brief, on-foot, inspection, we began a cautious descent, it began quite nicely, curving round to a small stepped section, dropping down into trees, a bit drier would have made things easier but it is North East England in September. Things became steeper, wetter and slippier, until Rod dismounted, looking down the next section, which was probably at about a seventy degree angle, crossed by roots, plunging down to a tight left hand bend. Hmm, it’s fair to say, from this moment our bikes became two very expensive Zimmer frames, as we struggled to walk down the slope. The best was saved for last, most Guissy routes finish with a steep drop to a fire road, this one simply stopped in mid-air, around twelve feet of nothing between the end of the trail and the fire road. A few tyre tracks led over the edge, significantly more tyre tracks led to a well used chicken run, we couldn’t be any more cowardly if we were covered in the colonel’s secret blend of eleven herbs and spices and deep fried, so the chicken run it was for us. We finished the day with a bit of sessioning on the more amenable One Man and His Dog trails at the Eastern end of the woods, before a socially-distanced burger back at the Branch Walkway cafe, although the increased parking charges will probably do more to keep people apart than any amount of signage and speeches by Boris.

 

This Time Last Year...

 

...I was in Australia. It may have been bikeless but at least there was sunshine and warmth, two things distinctly lacking today, along with companions. I managed a lonely schlep around Guisborough Woods, riding in from Great Ayton via an ascent of Coleson Banks, which is a hell of a detour, as well as a hell of a climb, riding up the newly surfaced track from Battersby to the road at the top Baysdale, only to ride down to Kildale. Why? No idea. Perhaps it’s true I shouldn’t be allowed out without a carer. The usually pleasurable blast down the road was a little hairy today, owing to a playful sidewind nudging the bike toward the grass verges, not ideal on drizzle-slicked tarmac at 30mph. From Kildale, I took the Yellow Brick road and Percy Cross Rigg into the woods where I indulged in the sort of aimless wandering and exploring which only a lone rider can do while there is nobody to moan about vegetation and dead ends. A few miles of added knowledge later, the car was my umbrella after a butcher’s shop exploration provided a most satisfactory lunch.

 

A Reet Grand Ride Out.

 

International playboy and jet-setting man of mystery, The Breadlad has seen his worldwide wanderings severely curtailed this year, owing to a bug going round, this year the only time zone he has had to cross is the one between NMT (New Marske Time) and BST. Arriving at Scaling Dam within fifteen minutes of the agreed time was practically early for him. Today was dry, windy and the sky couldn’t have been any more threatening if it was Bert The Bender from B wing, looking for you with a pool ball in a sock. Nothing surprising on the route front today, usual Scaling start, High Tranmire Farm, up The Slagbag, up Lealholm Rigg to Danby Beacon, down the rutted 4x4 track, now recovering a little since motorised traffic was banned, down Oakley Walls to our literal lowest point, not metaphorical because we were having a grand time despite the wind which defied physics and made itself a headwind as often as it could. We rode through Danby and climbed to Robin Hood’s Butts, just to ride down again on the Sis Cross track, a bit squelchy in parts today but not yet returned to winter slop. We hauled ourselves back to Danby Beacon, where the surreal sight of Dick Dastardly’s car from Wacky Races greeted us, along with another, evidently homemade, car. The Roxby Moor singletrack has been resurfaced, for once in a good way, it has escaped the curse of the lockdown gravel and been given a properly compacted top making it even more fun than previously, superb practically all the way back to the car park.

 

 

Another Reet Grand Day Out...

 ...although it could have been warmer, and a bit sunnier, and less hills would've been nice. Other than that...

 

Three of us today, almost a crew, meeting at Danby village hall, me and The Breadlad, with the intention of re-riding some of our last ride’s route to introduce old friend Paul to the delights of proper off-road riding. He’s spent a few years in the weird subsect of cycling where riding is training for events or entering events, where having a ride for the fun of it just doesn't happen, he joined the roadies in other words. Now he is being gradually weaned back into proper cycling, via trail centres; today he is venturing into the real world, away from groomed pistes and trail features cautiously graded by the threat of litigation. But first we had a big hill to climb, the same one two of us were slogging up in the wind forty eight hours ago: same hill, same wind. Robin Hood’s Butts to Sis Cross, Sis Cross a bit drier than two days ago, narrow singletrack, ruts, mud, puddles, loose rocks, suicidal sheep and a whole lot of fun. Followed by another climb to Danby Beacon and another helping of Roxby Moor, big skies, speedy tracks and lovely soft heather for the occasional unscheduled landing. Uphill test piece, The Slagbag, was conquered by us all, although a binding rear brake made things somewhat more difficult for me, that’s my excuse for the excessive panting and swearing anyway. A few miles of tarmac took us speedily to the brief but rocky descent of Oakley Walls which we followed with a slog through grassy fields to Fryupdale, to give Paul his last treat of the day - Ainthorpe Rigg. Obviously, as we do to all Ainthorpe Rigg newcomers, the story of the time we saw someone ride up the ascent was recounted but Paul wasn’t biting and resorted to pedestrianism like the rest of us. The descent, once we had got our collective breaths back, was awesome, in perfect condition today, dry, rocky, mildly technical and not a foot of ascent to be seen, surrounded by purple and green moors under a blue and grey sky - nobody is complaining about being out on a day like this. If we were American we would have been whooping and high fiving at the end but utilising the British dearth of emotion which enabled us to conquer the world, a muttered,  “yeah, s'alright that, like...”  had to suffice.

 

 

Gribdale Shorty

 

Spent a bit of time this morning giving the bike some much needed TLC and now the binding brake is no more. A post-lunch start from Gribdale felt like riding an e-bike, that brake must have been dragging more than I realised, no wonder so much of my time recently has been spent looking at The Breadlad’s back. After three quite hard days this week, today’s ride was never intended to be a record breaker, more of a leisurely scrounge about, take some pictures, fly the drone and generally do things at a more relaxed pace. I stopped by the gate on Newton Moor, to grab some shots overlooking Roseberry Topping, trying to get a picture of my bike stood up with the Cleveland matterhorn in the background but the wind had other ideas, repeatedly blowing the bike over. What is it with wind these past few weeks? Is it nature’s plot to spread the coronavirus more widely and take a tithe of pesky polluting humans? A few more miles, with a bit of selfy-filming thrown in and for the first time this ride I went to move the chain onto the big cog at the back, that shows how much easier things were running, when there was a distinctly expensive sound from the back of the bike. The derailleur had decided on an excursion into the spokes, snapping one, it must have been bent when the bike fell over earlier, the loose spoke nipple was leaking tubeless sealant like a one man bukake party after a lettuce eating competition. The short ride suddenly became even shorter and I headed, more or less directly back to Gribdale. Amazingly, the sealant did its job after a while, the tyre barely lost any air and I was able to ride the whole way back.

Autumn In August. Round Up And Video

Autumn In August

 I guess 2020 will be a memorable year, for obvious reasons to do with the pandemic but to me it’ll always be the year autumn started in August. There have been two named storms, Ellen and Francis and plenty of unnamed freak weather days, mainly cold, wet, windy or any permutation of the three. A few hot days sneaked in but were generally followed by several more days of grim and grey to stop us getting too excited. Even I couldn't be bothered with getting soaked some days, although, of course, I only stayed in out of deference to the mountain rescue team, which is as good an excuse as any. So this month’s ride total only came to a meagre thirteen,that’s worse than someone who is employed - well apart from the people employed at my old workplace who probably don’t even manage thirteen rides in a year. Here are the last two rides of August which haven’t been blogged yet.

Video here

Whinlatter, North, South and Blue.

It’s about time we had a blast round Whinlatter and the weather gods were kind to us, after a few days of this month’s typically mediocre weather, a sunny and windless day presented itself. Me, Olly and The Breadlad met in the overflow car park, Whinlatter is proving a popular destination for furloughed layabouts to idle away the hours, the sooner they are back at work the better, leaving more space for us professional idlers to move in and they don’t get much more idle than a retiree, a shift worker and a student. We embarked on the north loop first, local expert Olly leading the way, zipping along while me and The Breadlad followed at a more sedate pace, getting used to the slippery rock and wet roots again. It may not be raining today but the trail kindly saved some of the previous days’ water for us and soon we were back to the days before potty training because who puts a mudguard on in August? The trail was, as usual, excellent, culminating in the Big Dipper/Grand National sections, a set of bermed zig zags, going from forest to open moorland and back again several times. 

From the finish we jumped straight onto the south loop, slogging upward, ever upward to a brief rest at a fire road before more of the same, up the top section, recently upgraded as a black route to take into account the trail erosion and newly exposed bedrock. The south loop descent is usually considered to be the better of the two Altura trails, downhill all the way, no sneaky uphill sections to spoil the flow. The uphill climbing and the summit midges are soon forgotten as the varied sections of trail speed under our tyres. We returned to the car park because Olly, local hero that he is, had called at the butchers in Keswick en route to provide us with the finest cycling nutrition known to man - pies. The Car Park Full sign was prominently displayed at the entrance, which is odd because the overflow car park was only about seventy percent full, plenty of spaces about, I suppose they had their reasons. Pies demolished, we warmed down with the blue Quercus trail, which has a couple of nice flowing sections and the climbs are not too arduous. 

Which only left coffee in the sunshine, sitting at a table on the decking, reaping the rewards of Boris’s Eat Out To Help Out scheme, which meant our goodies were half price, which was just as well, as it went a small way to alleviating The Breadlad’s trauma when it came to the most gruesome part of the ride - paying for parking. The Breadlad, being a committed trail burglar, would prefer to park anywhere in the vicinity rather than splash the cash but the free parking spots are being whittled away and his usual time constraints preclude parking at Luchini’s View and pedalling up the pass. I daresay people have walked to the electric chair with less reluctance than The Breadlad approached that pay station; like the person heading for the electric chair, he was praying for a power outage but it wasn’t to be so and his card entered the slot, damp with bitter tears of frustration and injustice. 

Last Ride As A 60 Year Old.

And then Storm Francis came howling in, followed by a bikeless trip away, more bad weather which meant a whole week gap between bike rides - unheard of this year. The gap that is, not the shit weather. But it was time for my last ride as a sixty year old and the weather has managed to improve a bit, odd because it is also a Bank Holiday. Me and Rod met up in one of our usual Bank Holiday parking spots - a layby above Danby and made our way uphill to Robin Hood’s Butts, which we followed partially, turning off onto the Sis Cross bridleway, in soggy condition today but still a pleasure, skinny singletrack, slicing through the heather in a fashion the groomed pistes of the trail centres could never emulate. We reached the road above Danby and decided on our next objective. Rod fancied the Trough House track, followed by the Birk Carr singletrack, which would involve a lot of climbing but it wasn’t as though we had anything better to do. 

And climb we did, out from Danby, up and over Ainthorpe Rigg, followed by the brutal tarmac of New Way, until the gate to the Trough House track appeared on the horizon. A beautiful track with spectacular views down into lumpy fields like ruffled green baize of and moguls of heather and grass, contouring around the head of Fryupdale, unfortunately suffering from the curse of the lockdown gravel; has Boris been giving out free gravel to kickstart the economy? At the end of the Trough House track we turned onto the Birk Carr singletrack, a trail of two halves; firstly a genteel plunge through heather to a gate, where the character changes to overgrown, steep and muddy. Rod’s idea had been to get the track ridden before the winter weather spoils it - about two months too late by the look of the encroaching vegetation and mud-covered rocks.

 Discretion may have become the better part of valour at some points and we made it to the bottom unscathed, if somewhat damp and mud-splattered. Tarmac took us back to Ainthorpe Rigg, where our earlier route was reversed, giving us a pleasant downhill return to Danby. From Danby, a steady plod through Danby Park and a last bit of uphill tarmac saw us back at our layby, ready for a tailgate picnic in the sunshine. The next time leg is cocked over crossbar, I’ll have reached the ripe old age of sixty one, which, at one time, would have been considered old but now it is just the final approach to middle-age, preparation for golden years of unconstrained leisure time and the headlong rush to appreciate the disposable in disposable income. In the game of life, if you check out with cash left - you’ve lost.