Another Four Ride Week.

 Another Four Ride Week.

Does Everyone On Furlough Get A Free Dog?

The start of another week in the life of a retiree and his motley crew of (shift) cyclic compatriots, roaming the mudflats and floodplains which pass for countryside nowadays. First out of the blocks this week is The Breadlad, who was even early, an anomaly in NMT (New Marske Time) no doubt. We parked up in Hutton Village, ready to do some more exploration around the lower reaches of Guisborough Woods. Somewhat overcast when we set off but soon weak winter sunshine forced itself through the clouds, not enough to dry the trails unfortunately. Some steady pedalling through the woods, from bottom to top, where we did an old trail called Grooverider, which once cost me a camera, when a tumble onto a punji spike masquerading as a tree stump wrecked the camera but saved me from being impaled. Older and wiser, today’s descent was less traumatic but equally muddy in parts. A quick pedal took us to Highcliffe Nab, where we admired the view for as long as we could stand the wind, which is gaining a bit of winter coolness. From Highcliffe we dropped down through the forest to ride a trail we had pushed up a few days ago, it turned out to be pretty nice but they are never as long riding down as they are walking up. We were now at the very bottom of the forest; call it a day and head for the cafe or one more hill? You’ve guessed it. Ten minutes of puffing and panting later, our trail hunting continued. Remembering an often passed but never ridden trail, we decided to try it on the way back. We normally bypass it because it is near the start of the ride, when we’re concentrating on gaining height and our return leg generally doesn’t take us this way. Today we found it, rode it, enjoyed it. Not too steep, not too muddy, except for the short push at the end, back to the fire road, a pleasant change from the usual routes down. At the cafe, once we'd weaved through every dog walker in three counties, we sat in a socially-distant field, fooled by the bright sunshine. It wasn’t exactly sun’s out: guns out weather, even The Breadlad, who is usually warmed by some mysterious inner glow, like a Ready Brek kid, had to put a coat on. Lunch break over, back on your heads, as the old joke says. All we had to do was put in a gentle pedal back to the cars in Hutton Village but fuelled by cheese and onion toasties (me) and Rocky Road (The Breadlad), another extra loop was proposed, seconded and accepted. The story of our life - just one more hill.

Windy, Dull And Grey.

Sticking with lockdown v.2 rules, me and La Mujerita travelled the short distance to Great Ayton and pedalled our way up to, yes, you’ve guessed it, Guisborough Woods for another trawl around the fire roads. The weather was not too clever so a bit of shelter couldn’t hurt. We did a spot of exploration, finding a few tracks, which, to be honest, were best ignored, unless your particular fetish is for mud and gorse bushes. If it is, I know just the place for you. We eventually made our way onto the open Newton Moor, heading toward Gribdale, still plenty of people strolling the track, no doubt returning from an ascent of Teesside’s very own mountain, Keswick has Skiddaw, Zermatt has the Matterhorn, Cape Town has Table Mountain, we have Roseberry Topping, its rugged grandeur belying a modest height, just scraping over the thousand foot mark. As a change from mud, water and rocks, La Mujerita was introduced to Andy’s Track, a steep plunge down the hillside, through bracken the colour of raw umber. We always enjoy it, she didn’t seem too impressed. A damp and leaf-strewn road took us back to Great Ayton and the all important butchers for the all important post-ride pies.

Does Everyone On Furlough Get A Free Electric Bike?

Met up with The Ginger One on his own turf, today for a quick blast around our Hamsterley Hot Lap on a cool but sunny day. The thing with the hot lap is it takes in all the ‘official’ highlights without the winter slop of the off-piste routes but there is a lot of climbing in a relatively short distance. It is often remarked that riding at Hamsterley is either up or down, leave your level pedalling legs at the gate as you come in because there is nothing for them  here. For those who are not aware our Hot Lap (other hot laps are available) is thus: Pikes Teeth, Oddsox, Two Wheels And Trolls, Kate’s Trail, Polties Last Blast, K Line, Transmission, Accelerator, Nitrous, Section 13, Special K, Brain Freeze, Skills Loop. Hamsterley aficionados will realise we miss out Route 666 and Boneshaker - too much climbing for not enough return. Especially for us, two of the minority still pedalling around using leg and lung power, everyone else was whirring past us with pedal assist. I’m not getting into the electric bike argument, if people feel the need for assistance, why not? We whipped round quite adequately on our analogue bikes, climbed our hills and rode our trails to the best of our abilities and had a grand old time doing it. My first visit to Hamsterley since before lockdown v.1 and it is good as it ever was. The groomed man-made trial centre routes are pleasant as an occasional change from the unpredictable changeability of natural trails but to have it as your only riding experience, as some folks do, is not for me. It’s like eating KFC, nice as a periodic treat but the novelty will soon wear off. Mud-splattered and slightly damp, legs knowing they’d had a ride, we made our way back to the vehicles for a socially-distanced car park picnic, our matching CF coffee mugs marking us out as true grafters - well one of us anyway.

Last Minute Quickie To Finish The Week Off.

I almost didn’t bother today, the forecast was mediocre, having been riding three days on the trot and The Breadlad had stood me up in favour of a romantic walk with his beloved - which, it turns out is not me. The forecast, however, was erroneous (no surprises there) and after an early shower, the sun beamed in a most inviting way and despite being almost half-way through November, not one mb of footage has been filmed toward this month’s video. So, selfie-filming day it was to be. A pedal up from Kildale to Guisborough Woods led to some stop/start descents of a few trails, as I did my best to look like a proper shredder in two takes or less. The sun was shining, I had a whole day to squander and what better way to do it, the only constraints being memory cards (full), batteries (empty) or stomach (ravenous), stomach failed first and a late lunch in the car park ensued. If only I had the sense to take the food with me, or maybe not, I would probably end up blundering about the woods in the dark, like the day people do this time of year - only without the benefit of their high-powered lights.

A Quartet of Quickies.

The first bit of November. As usual, the titles are the Strava routes, Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.

 A Suspicious Lack Of Precipitation.

The Breadlad waiting for me? There’s a first. A lapse in concentration sent me down the A174 instead of the A19, looking for a U turn, I ended up, for a while, in a part of Middlesbrough unknown to me, I wasn’t offered drugs or sexual services, so it may have been a fairly respectable suburb, eventually I reached a point I recognised and made my escape. Better late than never though and the sky a curious colour - blue, light wind, not raining, not bad for the first ride of November. We could have happily sat outside with a couple of pints of Hophouse 13 but it is Lordstones not Wetherspoons, where the proportion of pre-breakfast drinkers is significantly lower, we pretended we aren’t council estate scum and went for a bike ride first. Predicting the least muddy tracks left only a couple of options, up the hill was favoured and minutes later we were slogging up the old gliding club access track on the side of Carlton Bank. It hasn’t got any easier. More tracks, composed predominantly of mud, sand and water brought us to Brian’s Pond, reflecting the blue sky, like a scale model of the Mediterranean, we were in North Africa and the heather moor stretching toward Scugdale was southern Europe. Similar tracks took us up Barker’s Ridge, eventually we reached the singletrack bridleway which leads to remote Head House. Starting narrow and waterlogged, the trail improves to narrow and rocky before becoming narrow and steep as it drops to a stream; we cleaved through heather and peat like a pair of locked-on Exocet missiles, wheels finding  optimum traction as we carved through the ruts, men and machines in perfect harmony. The video in our minds played on as we sputtered and stalled along the trail, imagination and reality as far apart as government ministers and real life. Our return route was back along the broad sandy track of Arnesgill Ridge, passing Osmotherley Stones and getting a bit of payback from the gravity bank retracing our tyre tracks down Barker’s Ridge. A masochistic urge saw us delay the cafe in favour of a ride to the summit of Carlton Bank, just to take in the view, clear all the way to the old home town, the sleepy fishing town of Hartlepool, a jewel of the North East coast nestling beside the azure North Sea, the complete antithesis of The Ginger One’s birthplace, Darlington, a sleazy hovel of a town which makes Beirut look good.  Once the view had been thoroughly inspected, the landmarks identified and the lack of haze commented on, we headed directly downhill, back to Lordstones, for a play on a couple of other tracks prior to a socially-distanced outdoor snack as fearless chaffinches stalked the table, polishing off our crumbs. 

Keep It November - you’re doing well so far.

It is, of course, inconceivable The Breadlad could be early two days in a row and today normal service is resumed but on such a splendid day as today, time hardly mattered. Glittering sunshine, golden leaves, verdant fields, slight wind and too warm for coats, all welcome after the dreich October we have just left behind. In a change to the usual programme, we rode through Hutton Village and followed the bottom track through the forest, which passes the bottom of The Chute and Lover’s Ledge routes, continuing past a newly felled area to where there was once a set of awesome jumps, twenty odd years ago. Sticking with the low level theme, we passed the end of Hips And Whips, continuing upward through the woods, following barely remembered tracks until we reached more familiar territory at the pond near Belman Bank. Still heading eastwards, we reached the track leading to the One Man And His Dog trails, although track is too good a word for it, gloop, dictionary definition - sloppy or sticky semi-fluid matter, typically something unpleasant sums it up perfectly. Pretty soon we were on our feet, still slipping and sliding as upward progress was attempted. A bit of local knowledge yielded a shortcut which quickly but steeply got us to the top track, less muddy and rideable. Pretty much a fire road blast back through the forest, stopping to assess trail conditions here and there, soon reaching Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre, or more importantly, the cafe. As we were economising, or to put it more bluntly, refraining from giving the council eight quid of our hard earned to park in their carpark, we did have to drag our overfilled stomachs back over the hill to Hutton village where we were parked.

It Took A While...

...but the sun came out eventually.

The bright sunny days couldn’t last forever, couldn’t even last a week, the unwelcome trio of dull, grey and misty has returned. First day of lockdown V.2 as it is being dubbed, Boris said outdoor exercise is to be encouraged and you may meet with only one person from outside your household. I guess I drew the short straw today as former colleague and ex-Terra Trailblazer, Benny The Brawl decided he’d “like to get back into biking”, after two and a bit years of...well, who knows what? It certainly hasn’t been bike maintenance or exercise, although his love of conspicuous consumerism is undiminished, he is a perfect example of Veblen’s theory. It was a slow start from Great Ayton, as Ben’s unlubed and unloved chain, after a couple of years lounging in the garage, rebelled against the idea of actual motion. We headed through Aireyholme Farm, climbing steadily to Roseberry Common, Ben usually so far behind only Marty McFly and his Delorean would stand a chance of seeing him. He always had the cardiovascular efficiency of an asthmatic sloth with C.O.P.D., a couple of years as a feet on the table process operator have done nothing to improve it. But apparently as long as you have a shiny German car with some special letters after it’s name it doesn’t matter. Things improved once we were on Newton Moor and flatter ground, the sun began to have a sly peep through the mist and it turned into quite a pleasant day, splashing down Percy Cross Rigg in the autumnal sunshine. We continued around the Lonsdale Bowl and down Fingerbender Bank, Ben even rode down some of Andy’s track, the steep, grassy plummet to Gribdale, a bit of a tester after two years off the bike. Most normal people feel some sense of elation after such a descent, Benny just moaned about the possibility of mud getting inside his car, which would be a tragedy on par with a stone chip or a dent from a supermarket trolley. Gribdale is lockdown gridlock again, why is it people who get time off with no shops or pubs to go to end up at Gribdale or Sheepwash? The North York Moors covers an area of 544 square miles but everyone tries to jam into the same two car parks. Odd. We had a date with a butchers, so it was downhill all the way back to Great Ayton and a pie eating picnic beside the river.

Playing In The Mud.

The following day me and La Mujerita pushed the boat out and paid the four quid to park at Pinchinthorpe, just so we could finish at the cafe. Who says I don’t know how to treat a lady? As we were getting ready to set off, the attendant was going round the car park, checking all the cars had valid tickets; he wore a stab-proof vest. Nobody I know is keen on the excessive parking charge but knifing council staff could probably be considered protesting a bit too strongly, even for Redcar and Cleveland. Another misty start, we followed a similar route to the other day, staying low in the forest, exploring trails dimly remembered from over twenty years ago. And some new trails, well, new to us anyway, which turned out to be predominantly mud and slop, much to the despair of La Mujerita, who harbours secret desires for red tarmac cycle paths and country lanes leading to twee tea shops with checked tablecloths and nice toilets. Slip sliding through gorse bushes as unidentifiable ordure splatters her delicate cheeks didn’t exactly feature in the vision of cycling she used to have before we introduced her to proper biking. I thought mud facials were popular with the ladies? Here she is getting one for free. But the sun reappeared, we had a good explore, adding to the knowledge bank, although mostly the ‘never ride down that track again’ type of knowledge and the recovery of a tipped over piece of forestry machinery saved us from having to ride up a long, steep hill. Naturally the height was gained another way but it was marginally easier. Not too much later we were again at The Branch Walkway Café, sat outside as is the new normal, watching the furloughed wandering past to explore this strange new shopless world.

The Last Bit Of October. Round Up and Video.

  The Last Bit Of October.

October 2020 can be summed up by one three letter word, wet and a lot of four letter words, dull, drab, grey and slop being some of the less profane. And still we ventured out, over 200 quality (?) off-road miles ridden with ascent ramping up towards 25,000 feet. A trip to Swaledale, was even managed, to ride the Gunnerside route, The Pensioner's legacy, undoubtedly the best ride he ever devised. As usual, the titles are the Strava routes, Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.

For those who don't do words, video here.

Made It Back Before The Proper Rain.

The Ginger One found a small window between overtime shifts and Mark Twain's "good walk spoilt" to join me in Kildale station car park on a damp, drizzly and windy morning. The dubious puddle next to the toilet block is not quite so obvious now everywhere else is covered in water and mud; it is a permanent fixture though, even in what passes for drought in North Yorkshire. Owing to his irrational aversion to Guisborough Woods, our attention was directed towards Baysdale, beginning with Three Sting Hill, from Little Kildale to Warren Farm, passing the Leven Vale chimney and up The Field Of Heavy Gravity - extra gravitational today because it is so soggy. After a bit of a carry over the moor, we dropped down the rocky track to Three Barns in Baysdale and revised the original plan, which was to cross the valley and climb up to Great Hograh Head, continuing to Armouth Wath, following the old coal road to Burton Howe, then taking the Cleveland Way back to Kildale. Most of this would be uphill into a fierce headwind, with the odd lashing shower to make our joy complete. A bit of local knowledge and we were soon being pushed through the puddles along the Baysdale bridleway to the road above Hob Hole, where a stiff but again wind-assisted tarmac climb took us to the end of Percy Cross Rigg. For The Ginger One, we were straying dangerously close to Guisborough Woods, which, for some, reason he abhors (and he’s from Darlington, a town where the internal combustion engine is considered new-fangled). We went through the gate and around the Lonsdale Bowl, this green and pleasant land transformed into smeary Degas landscape of grey and brown, a splash down Fingerbender Bank was followed by Andy’s Track, in surprisingly good fettle despite the meteorological abuse of the past month. Grinning like a pair of damp, mud-spattered baboons, we arrived at Gribdale, took a deep breath and blasted up the fire road to Captain Cook’s Monument, blasted, of course, being a relative term. A brief pause and we were plummeting down again, on a slightly overgrown trail called Down The Wall, wet heather, wet bracken, wet grass, wet pine trees,  Wet, Wet, Wet with extra wet, all generously sharing the moisture with us, we couldn't have been any more hydrous if we’d been cycling through a kelp forest. A straightforward fire road and tarmac downhill blast got us back to the car park just as the drizzle transformed to proper rain. “Who dares wins, Rodney.”

The Gunnerside Route.

The Pensioner’s legacy, I don’t believe the departed can control the weather. Or can they? Was that a ghostly tittering I could hear, or just the sound of persistent rain bouncing off my ear drums? It is half term or something, one of those weeks when teachers are let out on licence, like well-behaved prisoners, so long as they promise to come back and not kill anyone while they are out, which is how I came to be meeting SuperBri in a rain-lashed Gunnerside, ready to introduce him to the delights of the Gunnerside route. It didn’t rain the whole way round, it didn’t rain most of the way round, in fact, the sun came out later and things became almost pleasant, which must be considered as a reward for our persistence. The trails, however, were a different story, anything with a width less than 30cm was transformed into a watercourse, Alfred Wainwright described the Howgill Fells as looking like a herd of sleeping elephants, today the Yorkshire Dales were like a herd of perspiring elephants, rivulets of sweat pouring down grey flanks, swelling the becks feeding the river Swale. The actual route has been described many times in this blog, no point going over it all again, suffice to say the clip-on mudguard which lives in my car boot saved me from being a lot wetter, we couldn’t have rode through more water if we’d been on jet-skis. Most of the tracks are remnants from the old mining days, tending towards rock and gravel, which, thankfully, kept mud-plugging to a minimum but grassy patches were like wet sponges, oozing water as we rode over them. Despite the brevity of the route, there is a lot of climbing to be done and we were glad to find a café open in Gunnerside at the end of the route. Once again we had taken on the weather and won - if you can call being soaking wet and covered in mud winning. Just an average day in the life of a retiree I’d say.

A Day Of Drizzle.

Meteorology seems to be joining astrology in the made-up, pseudoscience bollocks printed in the media and blighting the internet if the latest forecasts are anything to go by. Several sources told us, with complete confidence, that today would be drizzly for a couple of hours in the early morning, clearing to give a cloudy but dry day. Maybe in Cairo or somewhere, North Yorkshire had consistent, persistent and insistent drizzle, which did actually stop for around twenty minutes, just long enough for me to get the drone in the air for a few last bits of footage for the video. The route is hardly relevant, Great Ayton, through Guisborough Woods, Percy Cross Rigg and back to Great Ayton. Perpetually dull and wet but still superior to the alternative - which is not being out, possibly trapped at home, or work, or, horror of horrors, walking round a windowless shopping mall with the consumer clones, George A Romero’s vision, just stopping short of the brain-sucking flesh-eating bit, all believing the latest gadgets or designer labels will improve their lives when all they need to do is go to one shop - a bike shop - and all their problems will be solved. Or maybe just beginning.