The Bit Before Christmas.

 Here is a brief account of the rides in the bit before Xmas. 

Sunshine And Cycling.

A glorious December day, saw a hardy trio braving the wind at Birk Brow car park, the smell of bacon wafting from the van jeopardising waistlines and start times. SuperBri, The Ginger One and myself resisted the umami lure and headed off down the road toward Lockwood Beck, the route essentially the same as Rainbows And Llamas, only without the rainbows, which, on a day like today, could only be a good sign. We rode the semi-paved bridleway down into Commondale instead of plugging through sodden fields like last time. More or less mud free, we continued to Foul Green and along the Box Hall bridleway, passing the llamas. Those of us of a certain vintage will remember The Bash Street Kids from The Beano, in particular Plug, now imagine Plug doing a poor impression of a reindeer in a Bash Street nativity play. And there you have a llama - or maybe that’s just the way my mind works. Crossing over the road, we picked up the Danby Park bridleway, relatively mud-free until beyond the wooded section which features a few wheel-stealing dips, where mud and water combine to produce a clinging slurry. The next bit was all on tarmac, uphill, to Robin Hood’s Butts and it’s perpetual puddles; steady riding soon saw us at the Shaun The Sheep bus stop, artwork courtesy of Teesside Banksy, Karl Striker. Only the causeway remained, the dreaded causeway etcetera, we don’t need another venture into the world of jokes about battered buttocks. Three of us sallied valiantly forth, only two completed the journey, SuperBri’s rear mech became a casualty, courtesy of a small twig which destroyed the mech, screaming in a German accent, “For you Tommy ze ride is over.” A chain-shortening bodge was attempted but it was less than successful and SuperBri was compelled to finish the ride on tarmac. Putting aside such niceties as companionship and solidarity, we watched him trudge back to the road before we embarked on the causeway. Despite being a bright day, twenty minutes playing with chain splitters had left us chilled, it might be approaching the season to carry spare clothing for such eventualities. We rode the causeway without demur and spent a short time looking for a bike track on the hillside above Woodhill Gill, we didn’t find it, mainly because we were unwilling to lose any height and the allure of the burger van was enticing us toward the car park like Bisto kids. We arrived at the same time as SuperBri, who had pushed his bike up the moor road, so at least we could all have an almost civilised tailgate picnic, especially The Ginger One, for whom a Spam burger is the epitome of gastronomic delight.

Dull And Windy.

In an almost unprecedented fit of enthusiasm, The Ginger One has appeared, with bike, two days in a row, like the rest of us he is just avoiding Christmas shopping. We met at a dull and windy Swainby, yesterday’s sublime December weather couldn’t manage to stretch itself to two days. Soon we were marching up the Clain Wood steps with our bikes on our backs, I daresay there are some people who can ride up them but we weren’t those people, only because of the conditions naturally, on a dry day we’d have flown up them. We continued up to Sheepwash, over the ford and up the rocky slabs, an episode of passive aggressive head shaking from a JCB driver left us in no doubt that a Path Closed sign at the bottom of a path really does mean the path is closed. Definitely closed. That’s what happens when you listen to someone from Darlington. Still, a bit of headshaking is preferable to scowling and tutting from the dog walkers around the reservoir, which is where we headed next via a nice path through the woods. The big climb up to the antennas came next and the nice path which used to go through Arncliffe Wood. The path is still there but the trees have gone, felled to make way for more ‘natural’ woodland. Continuing down Scarth Wood Moor, to the road, we then revisited the Clain Wood steps in the benevolent gravity direction, before picking up the bridleway to Scugdale. Up and down but mostly well surfaced, the minimum of mud to battle through. At Heathwaite, we crossed the road and began the stiff climb up to Live Moor Plantation, a deer ran through the woods beside us, seemingly unconcerned about us because he was behind a fence. This prompted The Ginger One to get philosophical about why deer are perfectly camouflaged except for the white patch on their rump which can be seen for miles. Such quandaries didn’t make the hill any easier to climb. An excellent singletrack bridleway runs through the plantation before dropping down through a field into the village of Faceby. Eschewing the off-road options for returning to Swainby because they would be so muddy they will make the Okefenokee Swamp look like a snooker table, we took minor roads back to Swainby, like proper roadies, we monitored our heart rate and cadence, cut out all idle chit chat, changed our status from bike riding to training and threw a gel wrapper on the road every five hundred metres. Not really. In twenty two years of cycling I’ve never even tasted a gel, especially not after The Pensioner had his one and only gel, afterwards remarking, in his own inimitable style, “Why are you making me eat donkey spunk?”

Shortest Ride For The Shortest Day

The shortest day and the shittest forecast, eighty five percent chance of rain all day and they were mostly right. It never actually became properly light, we rode in a miasma of dull, grey drizzle but The Breadlad and me still savoured it because the alternative would be even more unpalatable - christmas shopping. Surrounded by crowds of people, desperately browsing in packed stores, despite the pandemic, because everyone must have their presents. We were safe out in the open air, although trench foot, hypothermia, being sucked into a bog and drowning were all possibilities. Our route meandered through Guisborough Woods across to Gribdale Gate and up to Captain Cook’s Monument, taking in the odd trail if it wasn’t too muddy. The path leading to the monument has a few festively adorned fir trees to brighten the lung-burning, leg-cramping ascent to Teesside’s most popular monolith. It’s even doubtful whether the old captain is Teesside’s favourite son anymore, with the fame of the two Chris’s, Kamara and Rhea; just imagine if Chris Kamara had discovered Australia, all those Aussies saying ‘unbelievable Jeff’ instead of ‘strewth cobber’. More mud and slop took us back down to Gribdale, slip sliding away as Paul Simon might have said, although the chances of him actually freezing his arse off in a North Yorkshire December are fairly remote. We returned around the Lonsdale Bowl and up Percy Cross Rigg, which were not too bad, before a couple more muddy extravaganzas eventually saw us reach the cafe at Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre for a festive toastie, eaten al fresco (the new normal). Suitably refuelled we pedalled back over the hill to Hutton Village and our vehicles.

Three Minutes Extra Light

The days are starting to get longer now, an alleged three minutes extra light compared to yesterday, just me and The Breadlad again, starting from Scaling Dam on a perfect winter’s day - bright, sunny and cold. The same couldn’t be said of the terra firma, or terra squelcha as it is now, anything not gravelled or tarmac is sodden, even where there are no puddles water is oozing out of the ground with the slightest pressure. We had noted the lack of the burger van at Birk Brow as we drove up the hill, post-ride sustenance may be a problem. Our route was pretty standard for a Scaling Dam start, High Tranmire, The Slagbag, Green Houses, reaching the road, we went through Lealholm Side, passing an old barn with the date 1680 engraved on the door lintel. It always amazes me that a three hundred and forty year old building is still standing. Dropping down through a sheep field, mud, water and sheep shit was slithery fun, through a small tunnel under the Middlesbrough to Whitby rail line, we rode through the farmyard of Underpark Farm and followed the river Esk into Lealholm. More years ago than I care to remember, my uncle was the landlord of the pub in Lealholm and there are many happy but slightly hazy memories of over-indulgence. The answer to our post-pedalling prandial problem lay a few doors down from the pub, in the shape of a handy bakery. We stocked up on vital victuals for later. Of course, this meant we had to carry them up the hill out of Lealholm because whichever direction you go in, every road is uphill. Continuing with the ascending theme, we cruised up to Danby Beacon, or hauled our sorry arses up to Danby Beacon, depending on your viewpoint and played with the drone for a time before finishing our ride off on the Roxby Moor bridleway, initially a bit squelchy but drying up nicely further on. A superb ride across the moor, a choice of singletracks cutting through the heather, Scaling reservoir glimmering bue in the distance, our only companions the odd startled grouse berating us with its curiously deep voiced, clucking, call.

The Best Way To Spend Xmas Eve.

A maximum of six people, check. Meeting outdoors, check. Following the guidelines to the letter despite the weather doing it’s best to discourage us, the forecast was for heavy snow showers but bikes were being assembled in a steady rainfall, verging on sleet. Undaunted we made our way up to Guisborough Woods, the largest bunch we’ve had out in a while, Charlie, Keith, Rod, Olly and SuperBri and me, all shirking our christmas responsibilities in favour of cold, wet, muddy fun. At Roseberry Common, a thin layer of snow reached all the way up the mighty Roseberry Topping, as usual, festooned with walkers, trudging along the paths. The weather took a turn for the better, drying up, even the odd patch of blue sky attempting to peek through the clouds. A short but very welcome stretch of downhill took us to Guisborough Woods, where we carefully cherry-picked some trails, trying to avoid the worst of the mud. Gradually working our way upward, we reached the flat top of Highcliffe Nab, the wind howling in an uninterrupted blast across the North Sea from a distinctly chilly Scandinavia, like the frigid breath of some Norse god, ensuring we didn’t linger to take in the view. At least it was a tailwind for our ride up Black Nab to Percy Cross Rigg, a heavy snow shower caught up with us on Percy Cross Rigg, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, as someone once said. We pressed on through it, like a team of unruly huskies pulling an invisible sled and continued around the Lonsdale Bowl toward Gribdale, even negotiating the snow-covered rocks of Fingerbender Bank without incident. Our final trail down to the car park at Gribdale had to be Andy’s Track, which has a couple of dodgy sections in the present conditions, as I found out three days ago when I rode it with The Breadlad. It would have been expedient to mention this to today’s colleagues but where would be the fun in that? Almost everyone managed to stay on their bikes and no serious injuries were incurred, a trip to A and E would put a bit of crimp on the festivities. The last leg back to the cars was mainly on tarmac but cold and wet, not the time to have a flat tyre, which was unfortunate for Keith. Luckily we were only a few hundred metres from the end of the ride. What a way to spend a Xmas Eve, the perfect mood lifter to the tedium to come - being trapped with non-biking relatives for the next two days.

As usual the ride titles are the Strava names, Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.

The First Bit Of December.

 Rainbows And Llamas.

Almost a fortnight since my last outing, for various reasons, mainly a failed attempt at tooth extraction, a professional failure I hasten to add, not an attempt at home dentistry and a jaw looking like the aftermath of Mike Tyson right hook. Me and The Breadlad found ourselves in a dry but breezy Birk Brow car park, already looking forward to the burger van. The dry part is unusual in itself, we’ve had more or less constant rain since the last ride, our route was carefully contrived to avoid as much sogginess as possible. Which, unfortunately, meant a few road miles to begin, pedalling along the A171 to Lockwood Beck before hanging a right along the Castleton road until we reached the Shaun The Sheep bus stop, where another right turn saw a pleasant bit of downhill towards Commondale. When I was in the Scouts, as a youth, we used to go to the county campsite in Commondale, sleeping on bunks in wooden huts, which looked as though they were army surplus from a 1940’s prisoner of war camp; big hut, long table down the middle, bunks around the walls, we thought it was great. The toilet block was across a (usually) muddy path, so, once the leaders had retired to their quarters, nocturnal urination was executed by standing on a top bunk to reach the open windows. Simple childhood pleasures, our concept of a playstation was a pack of cards and an incomplete set of dominos kept in the same box. That’s enough mooching down the memory lane, back to the present and our first bit of off road riding, or proper riding as it should be known,  we took a bridleway leading toward the unattractively named Foul Green. At a bifurcation, we chose to head down through a couple of fields, the track became vague and squelchy, a couple of damp ditches were deeper than they looked, we were lucky to emerge onto the Box Hall bridleway with only wet feet. A couple of llamas in a pen kept us amused for a while, attempting to get them to pose for a photo before we continued on the gravelled track, a few puddles but better than slopping about in a field. Crossing the road, we continued through Danby Park, this track is mainly surfaced, so it is not too sloppy, the bridleway continues almost to Danby, joining the road for the last few hundred yards. 

We were treated to some fine rainbows as we rode toward the village, of course rainbows cannot form without moisture in the air and it wasn’t long before the pleasant winter sunshine was blotted out by sodden clouds preceding a lengthy shower, keeping us dampened all the way to Robin Hood’s Butts. Looking on the positive side, we were safe from bushfires and spontaneous combustion. Robin Hood’s Butts, for those who don’t know, is a wide, stony track across Danby Low Moor, linking the Castleton road to the Danby road, it is a byway open to all traffic and has suffered some abuse from the “One Life: Live It” (so long as you can afford the diesel) wobbly heads in their ever so butch 4x4’s. It has recently been resurfaced, the worst bits cordoned off to recover and is always a preferable alternative to tarmac. This time of year it does hold some large puddles, if the puddles all merged into one continuous waterway it could be Robin Hood’s Canal. Our next objective was the Quaker’s Causeway, or the dreaded causeway as some lesser riders know it, a paved trod over the moors, allegedly built by monks long before Quakers and their porridge oats were even thought of. The irregular paving strikes terror into the buttocks of some of our companions, who fail to appreciate the convenience of a solid pathway across an otherwise boggy moor, preferring to focus on their pummelled posteriors. Me and The Breadlad are made of sterner stuff, we glided along, the sun had returned and the smell of frying onions was in our nostrils, although maybe we imagined the smell, seeing as we were still a couple of miles away from the burger van. Soon we were a socially distanced couple of metres from the burger van, shouting our entirely predictable order through the perspex screen. 

Looking windswept and interesting.

Muddy Meanderings.

A few days later, we were in Guisborough Woods, just me and La Mujerita, sticking mainly to fire roads and the less muddy tracks, although we did venture off the beaten track into what we used to call Teletubbyland, after a Teletubby which lived in a tree. Obviously it was a toy Tellytubby because the real ones live in a hill not a forest. Now the area has become home to fairy doors in the trees, overlooking fairy gardens and assorted elves, dolls, cartoon spiders, stars, ribbons, rainbows and all manner of glittering enchantment. Presumably constructed by local children or maybe tooth fairies blowing the cash they forget to leave under pillows. The snake of painted stones which ran alongside the old rail track is being made permanent, the stones are cemented into a long trench, the whole installation has been christened Covid The Cobra, as if we will need anything to remind us of this year. I still haven’t forgotten the Foot And Mouth outbreak of 2001, when most of the countryside was forbidden to us mountain bikers. We rode up some hills and down some hills, trying to avoid the worst of the mud, sticking to fire roads where possible but eyeing up likely looking tracks for post-monsoon exploration. Gradually we worked our way back towards Pinchinthorpe and La Mujerita could almost taste the hot chocolate but the Garmin hadn’t even made it to double figures in the mileage stakes, so I pointed her toward another hill, which is always a crushing psychological blow when you think you are finished but a paltry seven miles was not even worth the diesel and the parking fee. Our extra loop took us up the slippery slope to Bousdale Farm and through fields toward Roseberry Topping, from where the fire roads of Guisborough Forest funnelled us back towards the cafe. A special seasonal After Eight Hot Chocolate awaited - who says I don’t know how to treat a lady? The weather forecast proved correct for once and the rain arrived at the same time as the food, no sort of afternoon to be sitting at the picnic tables, so we sat in the car to replenish our calories.

Covid The Cobra.

Looking For Dry Bits.

Another week long gap in my riding - this must be what it’s like to have a day job but now I’ve had the troublesome tooth ripped from my head, jaw stitched up and strenuous exercise refrained from for the recommended 72 hours, I’m raring to go. Me and The Breadlad depleted Redcar And Cleveland Council funds of another eight quid by parking at Hutton Village - we’ll keep it up until the yellow lines appear. We made our way from along the old rail track, over the bridge and climbed gradually to the top of the forest at Highcliffe Nab, mainly using fire roads and one steep and muddy push up a likely looking track, which turned out to be so steep our 5:10’s were more of a hazard than the trail, no purchase at all in the steep mud, literally one step forward, two steps back. Eventually we made it to the top and had an “I know where I am moment”, yeah, on a fire road in Guisborough Forest. We climbed higher, actually riding the bikes this time, the steep trail we had just pushed up filed away in the “it’ll be okay when it’s dry” folder like most of the trails lately. Swerving around the back of Highcliffe Nab, we made our way out onto Codhill Heights and enjoyed the descent across the moor in low winter sunlight, courtesy of a virtually cloudless sky, a bit more of this and the trails might begin to dry up - about six months of drought ought to do it. At the end of Percy Cross Rigg, we took ourselves around the Lonsdale Bowl and onto Newton Moor, heading for the gate overlooking Roseberry Topping resplendent in the sunshine. 

Unwilling to lose our height yet, we swerved towards Guisborough Woods and had a convoluted ride to the top of The Unsuitables, which was descended for a change. The plan was to check out an old trail which used to head down to Hutton Village but the entrance had the dreaded red and white tape across the entrance and a danger do not enter men wielding chainsaws sign, obviously I’m paraphrasing there but it is a firm Terra Trailblazer’s rule never to enter men wielding chainsaws. Our route was hastily modified to include the maximum descending with the minimum of mud and it wasn’t long before we were consuming goodies from the cafe in a cold field while hearty dog-walkers attempted to control their animals. Replete we made our way back over the hill to Hutton Village arriving back at the cars just as The Breadlad’s unruly bowels began stirring - hopefully he’d make it home and before he turned his car seat into a makeshift commode.

Highcliffe Nab

As always the route names are the Strava names, Strava account under the pseudonym Lordy Lardy, where you can see maps of the routes and marvel at how slow men on the verge of middle-age can ride.

November 2020 Round Up and Video

 November Round Up and Video.

Video here. 

November wasn’t too bad a month, weatherwise, a bit cold and windy but really quite dry, although, like the poor (as Jesus said), the puddles and the mud will always be with us. We managed a selection of riders this month, The Breadlad topped the leaderboard with 5 outings, it ought to have been more but the month was cut short for me. The Ginger One managed to tear himself away from golf and overtime for a couple of rides, Olly the student only managed a single ride, too busy copying and pasting from Wikipedia, or whatever students call studying nowadays. La Mujerita managed a trio of outings, she’s less than impressed with all the mud and water and I’m sure she would like Boris to put us on a proper lockdown again, so we can spend more time on the red tarmac. And Benny The Brawl dragged himself from wherever he’s been hiding for one brief ride, he’ll back again when he realises gyms are about exercise not mirrors. We have been on lockdown all month, only able to meet one person outdoors for exercise and no cafes again. Except takeaways and the Branch Walkway cafe at Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre is doing a grand job of feeding hungry cyclists and walkers who don’t mind sitting in a cold field to drink their coffee, similarly the burger van at Birk Brow is keeping us fuelled up. Other than that we have been back to tailgate picnics, which aren’t quite as endearing in November as they were in June. 

Only one ride left to blog this week, as usual the ride names are the Strava rides, under the pseudonym Lordy Lardy.

Wind Colder Than A Politicians Heart.

I knew this wasn’t going to be the most productive of weeks, riding wise, appointments Tuesday and Thursday left only three days for bicycle-related japery. A vicious tooth infection wiped out the rest of the week - even I’m not crazy enough to go riding while my body is trying to fight off an invading horde of bacteria and I feel like a stand in for Dustin Hoffman in Marathon Man. But a ride was managed the first day of the week, mainly getting footage for November’s movie, so, bag loaded with camera, drone, batteries, GoPro’s and assorted metalwork, I left Great Ayton behind and had a wind-assisted pedal up to Roseberry Common, via Aireyholme Farm. At the steps I waited while a pair of fell runners made their way cautiously down the slippery incline, then bike on shoulders, I headed up onto Newton Moor and got my filming head on. Took a chance, sending the drone up into the buffeting wind, it was being shoved around like the contents of an anorexic’s plate but the footage came out mostly steady. Isn’t technology marvellous? Filming complete it was time for a few miles to fill in the rest of the day, a quick scoot round Hutton Moor, Guisborough Woods and Percy Cross Rigg, culminating with a descent of old time Gizzy classics, Les’s One and Two. The start of Les’s One has eroded a great deal but the actual track isn’t too bad, still a pleasant meander down, Les’s Two hasn’t changed at all, still has the drop through a gap in the trees, which may or may not fit your handlebars and the usual selection of greasy rocks to bounce over. Or clear with a stylish jump, lofting the bike into the air like Danny Hart  although in my case, not so much Redcar Rocket as Hartlepool Hippo. But in my imagination I was shredding, which is all that matters. From the bottom of Les’s Two, I reversed my outward route all the way back to Great Ayton, not forgetting the crucial detour to the butchers.

Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud.

 Fire Roads ‘R’ Us.

Another trawl around the fire roads of Guisborough Woods with La Mujerita, whose aversion to singletrack is well documented in this blog. We set off in drizzle and dullness but things did get brighter, the wind, however, was a different story and the soundtrack to our ride was a constant creaking of trees as they swayed and bent. We (of course, when I say we, that means me) lashed out the exorbitant four quid to park at Pinchinthorpe, just so we could finish closer to the cafe. Despite, or maybe because of, the covid restrictions, the cafe is as popular as ever, even though al fresco is the order of the day, North Yorkshire in November is a little lacking in the main essentials for outdoor dining compared to the Costa Del Sol in November, mainly sunshine and warmth. But first we had a bike ride to get done and off we went pedaling along the fire roads, threading our way through the dog walkers. Spaniels seem to be the dog of choice nowadays, the latest fashion accessory for the must-have people, along with German cars, Hunter wellies and an ebike for the occasional pootle round the forest. The crowds thin out a mile or less from the visitor centre and we only see occasional people for the rest of the ride, which consists of fire roads with a couple of trails thrown in to liven things up. Both trails a little muddy but very enjoyable - for one of us anyway, the other elected to take a more pedestrian approach. We rode up the track to Bousdale Farm, something I’ve not done for years, the one which comes from the A173, it’s still as steep. At the top is a relic from the days when Guisborough Woods was (almost) a trail centre, an old Black Route sign. 

There were two maintained and signposted routes, a Black and a Blue, the Black went through a few variations, although it must have been graded Black by someone in an office who had never rode a bike trail in his life, or possibly for the gruesome ascents. Guisborough aficionados of the era were dumbfounded when The Secret Path suddenly became an uphill. When the funding was pulled, most of the routes reverted to nature, with only a few bits remaining popular like Les’s 1,2, and 3; the route signs were removed leaving visitors to the forest blundering about looking for the good stuff and the previously bike only trails became fair game for the little bag of dog shit dangling from the index finger brigade. 

Stump Cross And The Incline.

Clay Bank was windy today, Round Hill was a lump windier, crossing Urra Moor an exercise in leaning into the side wind, trying to keep the front wheel vaguely straight, while vicious gusts attempted to have us off the edge of the track. Covid survivor Olly came out today, fresh from quarantine at university, Covid is merely this year’s version of Fresher’s Flu for the young ones, if it wasn’t for the student union bar being closed, they probably wouldn’t know there was a pandemic. Stump Cross was our objective today, or what The Breadlad used to call The John Deere Descent, his way of describing The Pensioner - “who goes on and on like a smoky old tractor”. The wind didn't lessen any as we pedalled across the moors on broad, sandy tracks, wide open to the elements, which are particularly elemental today. Using the wisdom of my years, I tucked in behind the younger and fitter party, prompting him to ask if I was slipstreaming him. Why else did he think he was here? Until we can round up young people to forcibly extract and synthesise the ichor of youth and vitality from their veins, ready to be injected into us of slightly more mature years, like the famous monkey gland treatment of the 1920’s, slipstreaming will have to do it. Eventually we reached Stump Cross, which is actually a stump of a cross, dating from medieval times and the start of a singletrack bridleway which cuts down the moorside to Bransdale, slightly squelchy peat threading through the heather, culminating with a drop down shale to the road. Seconds later, we were being pushed into Blowjob Woods by a welcome tailwind. Obviously Blowjob Woods doesn’t appear on any publications by the Ordnance Survey, or anyone else for that matter, its proper name is Bloworth Woods but The Pensioner, having a mind which rarely rose above the gutter, immediately christened it Blowjob Woods. The Pensioner was a frequent visitor to Blowjob Woods, more to do with the fact The Breadlad once found a £20 note blowing about, rather than the name being some sort of mandate. Perhaps he imagined there was a stash of notes hidden in a decaying sack secreted in a hollow tree, awaiting discovery by some geriatric prospector. The track through the woods was predictably grim, water-filled ruts, muddy trenches which would not be out of place in The Somme leading to a stiff climb up to Rudland Rigg, from where were able to gain the old Rosedale rail track and more importantly the Ingleby Incline. Despite it only being early afternoon it was like dusk and a steady drizzle pricked our faces as we descended at speeds which might be considered unwise for someone approaching middle age, Olly, of course, was significantly faster, disappearing into the gloaming with all the invincibility of youth. Only the standard plod through the woods to go and we were soon indulging in a slightly drizzly car park picnic, which turned into monsoon cloudburst while we rushed to get bikes away. 

Mud, Mud, Water. Gravel, Tarmac.

Me and The Breadlad thought we’d start from Scaling Dam for a change today, whoever is in charge of the car park obviously had other ideas, or maybe the bloke who is supposed to unlock the gate didn't turn out this morning. Anyway, no car park, no burger van. We used the small ‘fisherman's’ car park. A quick scoot through the mud at the side of the reservoir took us out onto the equally muddy moor for a few miles of slipping and sliding until we regained the tarmac of the moor road, climbing up to the Danby turn off. Robin Hood’s Butts is regaining canal status, puddles the size of small tarns nestling amongst the gravel, we splashed along to the Sis Cross bridleway, also a bit on the squelchy side, the descent was still enjoyable, as fine a bit of moorland singletrack as you will find anywhere. Refraining from dropping down into Danby, as tempting as the Stonehouse Bakery is, we splodged up the Lord’s Turnpike to Clitherbeck. The track from the farm to the road above Oakley Walls has benefited from some of the free lockdown gravel which has been scattered liberally round North Yorkshire this year; it might be nice for 4x4 drivers but it makes cycling hard work. The two water splashes on this track were getting to the sort of depth which would make a normal person think twice about riding through. The normal half of this duo walked around, finding a picturesque waterfall in the process; the idiot half of the duo ended up with wet feet. God’s gentle hand pushed us up the road to Danby Beacon, an NSP (natural stopping point) if ever there was one, we admired the view for a while but the bitter wind soon had us on the move. The track across Brown Rigg on Roxby Moor was our next objective, a bit moist in parts but still worth doing, we continued along Hardale Slack on a double track that was predominantly subaquatic, just when you think your feet can’t get any wetter. Eventually we reached High Tranmire Farm and the luxury of tarmac - imagine being a roadie and riding tarmac all the time, it wouldn’t be a luxury then. Life is nothing without contrast. Although, there are, allegedly, mountain bikers who switch to road riding in winter because they don’t want to get dirty and wet. Like I say, allegedly, I can’t imagine anyone being so tragic. Soon we were back at our cars, packing bikes and getting into dry clothes before zipping along to Birk Brow for a carefully balanced athletic snack, the three main food groups, carbs, protein and fat in almost the correct proportions with added soluble fibre, vitamins B and C plus potassium and calcium - more commonly known as a cheeseburger with onions. 

Smiles Not Miles.

In contrast to yesterday's sunshine, today is grey and gloomy (again) but we are not. Me and The Breadlad met at Hutton Village, ready for another few hours of trail hunting around Guisborough Woods. Found some, rode some, left some alone until the drier weather. It seems to be a day when the majority of the folk wandering or riding about the woods are either deaf or don’t understand English, as barely anyone responded to our cheery greetings. Shouldn’t being outside in the fresh air, even on a dull day like today cheer people up? Not leave them walking around looking as though they’ve lost a winning lottery ticket. We rode uphill and down dale as the saying goes, exploring likely looking tracks which generally ended in a tangle of vegetation or an impassable mud ascent. One foray into the undergrowth yielded a pair of Tarzies (rope swings to those of the middle class persuasion) which had to be tried. 

An area which we used to call Teletubbyland because a figure of a Tellytubby lived in a tree there, has been turned into a fairy dell, many of the trees are adorned with fairy doors, little gardens with fake mushrooms, statues and dolls are constructed around the doors, some even have little ladders leading up to them - I thought fairies could fly? Seems like a ladder is just overkill, unless it’s for those fairies who are banned from flying for spending all the tooth money on supermarket cider and were caught flying under the influence. Or maybe not, it’s too big a stretch of the imagination to envision fairy policemen with fairy breathalysers and fairy truncheons, although I believe furry handcuffs are quite popular amongst certain sections of society. It’s an enchanting little area and long may it continue. We had our fill of the elfin world and made our way to the sitting outside in the rain eating bacon sandwiches and drinking coffee, world, via a few more trails. The rain began in earnest, so we decided to quit while we were ahead and call it a day, despite only just scraping into double figures. It’s about the smiles not the miles. 

As usual the route names are the Stava route titles, if anyone wants to stalk old people on the moors and woods of North Yorkshire. Strava athlete name (it's the only time I have been called an athlete) Lordy Lardy. And how many have just Googled monkey gland treatment?