The Borrowers Do Hamsterley and other stories. The first bit of April.

 The first bit of April

The Borrowers Do Hamsterley.

Now we can travel a bit further, a large crew, up to the legal max, found ourselves at Hamsterley almost twenty years to the day since the beginning of the last devastating pandemic to wreak havoc through the country - 2001’s foot and mouth disease outbreak. Most of the countryside was out of bounds, everywhere off road anyway, except for certain self contained areas, Hamsterley Forest was one such area and it became the venue of choice for many weeks, either that or road riding, which was permitted but frowned upon because of the potential for cross-contamination. The forest was a very different place back then, most of the routes we know nowadays had yet to be conceived, it’s all a bit vague in my old memory cells but let’s have a think. Pike’s Teeth was definitely present in a different incarnation but following the same route, as was Route 666, which in those pre-Oddsox days led into the gone but never forgotten Star Wars. Boneshaker existed in pretty much its present form, except for the uphill bit at the end. There was lots of off-piste stuff, most of which I didn’t know the names of, except Beehives; Cough Up A Lung Lane, I seem to recall, was a downhill part of the red route but I could be mistaken. The red route was a fire road extravaganza, taking unsuspecting outsiders to the far reaches of the forest and probably somewhere bordering on Scotland it went on for so long. I can still remember the excitement, some years later when Section 13 was being constructed. There are vague memories of a downhill course somewhere between the main car park and the present Skills Loop, coming down from a fire road to the river behind the car park. Brain Freeze and Special K could have been old routes resurfaced but I can’t remember anything about the Polties, K Line, Transmission, Accelerator, Nitrous hillside, I’m not sure we ever had a reason to go up there. Today we just had a blast around the Hamsterley Hotlap, showing the Nissan lads how to do the best official trails without miles of pointless fire road slog, today we did it in this order (although it’s not mandatory) Pike’s Teeth, Route 666, Odd Sox, the bit after Odd Sox who’s name I can’t remember, up to Polties, K Line, Transmission (first half only, the bottom bit closed for maintenance, as was Accelerator and Nitrous). Big climb up Cough Up A Lung Lane, then Section 13, Boneshaker comes next but we like to give it a miss in favour of Swiss Tony or some other bit of off-piste, followed by Special K and Brainfreeze. If we have any energy left a quick scoot around the Skills Loop might follow but the burger van had too strong an allure today. Why The Borrowers? The majority of our little crew, myself included are what might be politely described as ‘vertically challenged’, especially Charlie and The Breadlad, who are so alike in height, looks and colouration, you have to wonder if one of their dad’s had a bike and a swooning paramour in every town. 

The Return Of The Oz

He's had more comebacks than Frank Sinatra

After a refreshing four day break over the easter holidays, not riding because there’s no way we were about to join the hordes of day workers giddy with excitement at the prospect of a four day break, when I worked shifts we were only on a four day break when we weren’t on a ten or eighteen day break, so fours were nothing to get excited about. Once they were all safely back at work, we ventured out again, one shift worker, one retired shift worker and one soon to be retired shift worker, namely Oz, who is putting in one of his rare appearances in the land of mud and water. A fairly standard route, up the Raisdale Road to Lordstones, continue climbing up Carlton Bank, ride across the moors and down Trennet Bank. A grand, sunny day but the wind is vicious, luckily behind us at most of the high points. Approaching Lordstones, The Ginger One’s back wheel decided to come loose, an investigation of the skewer revealed some stripping of the threads, as The Ginger One is slightly less mechanically-minded than the average chimpanzee, this provoked a lot of head scratching and wild theorizing as to the probable cause, naturally skirting round the most probable; some dickhead didn’t tighten it properly. Refitted and securely tightened, we set off up the old gliding club access track, only for it to slacken again, this did not bode well for the rest of his ride but a further torquing and it remained in place. It appears his bike would rather die on the moors than return to Darlington, a sentiment shared by any rational person. All the tracks are bone dry, it has been cold and windy but actual rain has been a rare visitor for the past few weeks, we’re riding in dust for a change. April and May or normally the best months on the moors, after June things usually deteriorate, reverting to mud and slop. One of the highlights of the ride is the Head House singletrack, a narrow track through heather leading to the lonely Head House, nowadays a shooting house and store for bird feed but judging by old photographs, once occupied; no electricity or sewerage, probably no running water and only a fire for heat, they must have been hardy souls. We left the house behind and rode up toward the Bilsdale Mast, invisibly beaming daytime television to the braindead, then, heading back into the wind, we rode to Cock Howe, the starting point for The Breadlad’s favourite track, Trennet Bank. It begins as a selection of pick your line singletracks across the moor, gradually becoming faster until it drops off steeply down shale overlooking the village of Chop Gate. After the shale bit a grassy drop through fields leads to a magnificent finish through a network of gullies, dodging gorse bushes and the occasional dead sheep. A last section of track leads directly to the car park where we huddle in the lee of our cars, as gusts attempt to snatch anything loose and turn it into airborne litter.

Icy Wind Straight From The North Pole

A venture out with La Mujerita today, ice on the puddles and ice in the wind, April is becoming colder as the month moves on, this time last year our apple tree was in full blossom, surrounded by pollen-gathering bees, this year the buds have barely opened and snow is forecast for later in the week. Our route was a usual sort of start, we parked up by the Sean The Sheep bus shelter on the road into Castleton and rode down the side road towards Commondale, turning off onto a nice bridleway which leads directly to Commondale, where we turned left, passing through the oddly named Foul Green, we can only speculate as to the origins of that name, Google’s auto-suggest adds the word discharge to Foul Green, which shows the sort of information most people are looking for. Digging a little deeper, it turns out Foul Green was a failed attempt at an ironstone mine, the expected seam of ironstone didn’t materialise. We continued along the bridleway, passing some llamas, who seem quite happy swapping the mountains of Peru for a field in North Yorkshire; the bridleway continues to the road above Castleton, we crossed over and continued through Danby Park. The tracks are in perfect condition, dry and dusty, if only it wasn’t so cold. A climb out of Danby took us to Clitherbeck Farm, a gravelled track followed by more tarmac took us to Danby Beacon, fine views across to Scaling Dam and the North Sea beyond. A bit more tarmac to Robin Hood’s Butts, then a final couple of miles of riding on this 4x4 track took us back to the car. Robin Hood’s Butts has had a bit of work done over the winter, the massive puddles have been drained and filled with builders rubble, old bricks and suchlike, which should, hopefully, prevent it reaching the usual canal status in winter. Too cold to be hanging about today, straight in the car and off to Birk Brow to take advantage of the burger van, we even sat in the car to eat, like those strange couples we see all over the place, who drive out to beauty spots then just sit looking at the view through their windscreen. 

Arnold Rimmer

Third day of riding, weather still cold but dry, met with Howard and SuperBri at Lordstones, Superbri got his first introduction to The Fronts and was suitably impressed. It is in pristine condition, a roller-coaster of hard-packed, dried mud, undulating across the north face of Cringle Moor. We turned off at Cold Moor, to ride some shale singletrack before dropping down opposite the Wainstones to rejoin the main track, even the usually nasty bit through the trees almost dry - only almost though. Eventually we reached the road at Clay Bank, crossing over and making our way up Urra Moor via “the electric bike alternative” a way through the plantation which reaches the top without having to tackle the stone steps of Carr Ridge. From the top, we joined the bridleway along the edge of Urra Moor, an ancient earthwork with protected monument status, known to us simply as The Rim, the source of a never ending stream of puns and innuendo based on the popular pastime of rimming. Not another word shall be said, it’s hard to speak when your tongue is... No, stop it. Now. The Rim is mainly peaty loam and rocks, the bridleway was diverted from the earthwork some time ago to protect the historical section, an entertaining downhill leads to a stream crossing before a more level track forges through heather and bracken toward Medd Crag above Chop Gate. We could have descended Medd Crag, which, despite recent sanitisation, is still a fun downhill but we thought we’d take advantage of the conditions and give East Bank Plantation a try. The steep, rocky drop in to the gate is now a steep and rocky bog, hard to understand when everywhere is so dry and this didn’t bode well for the rest of the descent. From the gate, a loamy path beckons through young bracken, a couple of turns to loose the unwary, we kept Superbri in the middle to avoid a repeat of the Benny The Brawl incident, when youth in his late teens couldn’t keep up with a bunch of blokes forty years his senior - on a downhill. The boggy bit in the middle is still boggy but mercifully brief and then it’s back to the sweet loamage until we emerge onto a farm track. More riding in a  downhill direction until we reach Chop Gate and we finish with a tarmac slog up to Beak Hills Farm before retracing our start along The Fronts. 

Day 4 of 4, Sunshine And Snow.

Last ride of the week, joined again by SuperBri, who is recovering from injuries sustained in a tumble from his road bike, a few days ago, he got through yesterday without too much trouble, so today ought to be okay. We met at our old favourite, Great Ayton, if I park there much more they’ll be wanting council tax. For a change, we made our way up toward the Red Run and along the side of Easby Moor on the limited use track, too muddy in winter and too much bracken in summer but today like Baby Bear’s porridge - just right and we sped along merrily, although some might have been more speedy than others, particularly the one who is not on his fourth day in a row. Sunshine and blue skies, coats off, sleeves rolled up, not quite budgie smuggler and flip flops weather but pretty grand for early April. We continued through Mill Bank Wood to Bankside Farm, then steeply uphill on tarmac to Coate Moor, not even pausing at the top to get our breath back, SuperBri still hasn’t got to grips with N.S.P’s (Natural Stopping Points). More climbing on fire roads took us to Captain Cook’s Monument, where a bit of a wind reminded us of the date, slightly icy and what’s that white stuff falling from the sky? Snow. In a very half-hearted way, a few meagre flakes. Time to move on, we rode Down The Wall, which was in pretty good condition, reaching the fire road, we crossed it and continued downward, Cook’s Descent, there is a tricky bit at the bottom where many an unsuspecting rider has come a cropper. I stopped and warned SuperBri, who sailed past and threw himself into a rocky chute, minus bike for most of the flight. That's probably not the sort of wound care they’ll have been expecting when he left A&E the other day. Sure enough, a first aid top up was required when we reached Gribdale. The climb to Newton Moor was about as much fun as having your scrotum turned into a coin purse, so nothing has changed there then. We continued around the Lonsdale Bowl and up Percy Cross Rigg, entering Guisborough Woods to avail ourselves of a selection of tracks, at the little doubles jump section, a bunch of pre-pubescents showed us how it should be done and we managed to slink away without embarrassing ourselves too much, using the tried and tested technique of not attempting a thing in front of kids. On another trail, SuperBri misjudged the depth of the only puddle in North Yorkshire and treated us to another trip over the handlebars; if he ever gives up being a teacher, I’m certain there’s a future for him in being a stunt double. Or a crash test dummy. Eventually, the lure of the butchers drove us from the hillside and we made our way back to Great Ayton, where incipient snow became explicit rain. A hurried bite to eat under the shelter of the tailgate and we went our separate ways; me, home to write this drivel, Superbri to A&E for a dressing change and doubtless a few nurses trying to understand how he’s in worse condition than when he left their care at the beginning of the week.

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Marching Away From Winter. March 2021 Round Up and Video.

 March Round Up and Video

Too many words? Video here

“March is the month God created to show people who don’t drink what a hangover is like.” 

 Garrison Keillor.

March, the calendar’s equivalent of a dystopian wasteland depicted in so many Hollywood movies; a dying planet of a month, a monochrome landscape of raw winds, water and mud, grey skies blocking out sunlight, contrasting with February's bright optimism. A border between seasons which manages to avoid the good points of either,  no-man's land with the razor wire of winter behind you and the golden promise of summer’s freedom ahead, between the two lies a charnel-ridden minefield. Like Yeats's great beast, March shuffles towards spring, which glimmers tantalisingly on the horizon, snowdrops and daffodils peek cautiously from the grave-cold earth, harbingers of better days to come. March is a month to be endured, not enjoyed, winter miles make summer smiles and all that. Enthusiasm is hard to come by when the trails are slurry and the wind has teeth. But it’s always better than the alternative: not having a bike ride, it’s difficult enough to fill those awkward moments between the end of one bike ride and the start of the next without letting the weather get in the way. 

I wrote this at the beginning of March and it must have frightened the weather into behaving, especially towards the end of the month when it was almost like summer. Great rides, decent weather and for the last bit, we were allowed to go out mob-handed, well, as close to a mob as we’ll ever get without recourse to bribery or sexual favours. 

The last three rides of the month are detailed below.

Shredding Those Gnarly Fire Roads.

Forgetting the Easter holidays have started, me and La Mujerita went to Pinchinthorpe, as did everyone else in the immediate vicinity with a bit of free time. The car park was almost full, cars disgorging toddlers and dogs all ready to enjoy a bit of fresh air; we cycled cautiously past the visitor centre and up the first hill, half a mile from the car park there was barely a soul in sight, not that we were complaining. We made our way through the forest on fire roads, stopping occasionally to check the state of trails or show La Mujerita some of the jumps we fail to clear every week. Climbing higher and higher until we reached Highcliffe Nab, then we repeated the exercise in a downward direction. A track we had rode in the depths of winter, when it was a slithering, sloppy nightmare was tried today - no change, still like trawling through the Somme without the trench foot or machine gun fire. Although trench foot is a possibility.  More amenable fire road riding  took us back to the visitor centre where the cafe was doing a roaring trade in ice creams. Not a bad start to the week’s riding, strong cold wind but otherwise quite pleasant. And as an added bonus there were jars of home made chilli jam for sale at the cafe, it went very well with my toastie.

It’s Grand To Feel The Sun On Your Back.

If the newspapers are to be believed, we are in for the hottest day of the year today, bring it on. Boris says six again and not wanting to break any government rules we stuck to five, just in case there were any covid police watching us from spy satellites in outer space, although being of a certain age we’ve all had the jab, so we’ll be monitored from the nanochip technology cruising round our veins and arteries. Miniature submarines crewed by Raquel Welch and assorted heartthrobs, checking out our internal organs, Hollywood predicted it back in 1966, Fantastic Voyage. Soon we were panting our way up Ainthorpe Rigg, heart rates increasing, Raquel strapped in her chair, hatches battened down, as blood flows went from lazy river to river wild in the space of minutes. A circuitous route brought us to the Jack Sledge bridleway, a mighty fine descent down the hillside, a diagonal slash of singletrack, angling through the heather to the road far below. A lot drier than last time me and The Breadlad rode it, confirming our suspicions that it would be a quality descent in the right conditions. The Breadlad sent us all ahead because he wanted a bit of quiet time at the top, so he could do what a bear does in the woods. No, not hibernating. The bridleway crosses the road for a short continuation which did not continue the earlier magnificence, a long dead sheep rotting away across the track, its bones crackling under our tyres, led to a small swamp before things firmed up as we reached the Fryup road. We followed the track through the fields from Stonebeck Gate Farm, which was pleasantly dry for a change and most of the gates were open which gave us a speedy run through, a little too speedy for Keith who was spat onto the grass by a reprehensible rut. His injuries were only minor and we were soon on our way again, regaining our lost height via tarmac and a gruesome ascent of Oakley Walls, which is looser and rockier than ever. A couple of hardy souls attempted to ride it but the rest of us worked on the discretion is the better part of valour theory and made like Sisyphus for half a mile. A quick blast across the Clitherbeck track and another climb up to Robin Hood’s Butts, eventually brought us to the Sis Cross, a favourite descent of ours, singletrack through the heather, a few muddy gullies to cross, or go over the bars depending how much attention was being paid, as Howard found to his cost. Potentially an expensive little tumble, as he lost his GPS, luckily The Breadlad’s eagle eyes discovered it again, those years of practice looking for euro coins on continental beaches paid off again. We did the continuation bridleway instead of heading straight down the road to Danby, this passes through someone’s garden and over a stream, shallow enough to ride through today, into a remote valley, green and picturesque but a stiff climb to find our way out. Then it was all pretty much downhill to the cafe, the almost forgotten  luxury of a post-ride cafe stop, it may have been takeaway only but still a magnificent improvement on the tailgate picnics.

Up George’s Gap.

Managed another decent crew today for a few loops around Blakey Ridge, starting from the Bank Top car park, which was significantly milder than our last visit, when we had to park nose first into the wind to prevent car doors being ripped off by the vicious gusts. Today was warm and windless, if anything better than yesterday which was allegedly the hottest day of the year so far. Our first trail was the short bit of singletrack cutting across Rosedale Head, a bit sloppy but improving, we emerged onto the road opposite the ancient moorland cross known as Fat Betty, continuing on the Fat Betty singletrack, an uninspiring name for a nice bit of trail, with grand views over the moors looking back to Castleton. A quick scoot up the road brough us to the Trough House track, a moors’ classic, although nowadays more for the views than the riding, which has been sanitised beyond belief. Trough House is a  shooting hut with a stone bench built into one end, always one of our N.S.P’s (Natural Stopping Points), we’d been sat a while, spouting the sort of bollocks which wouldn’t go down well in polite company, it’s a little known truth that any conversation between a group of men will inevitably degenerate to talking about faeces or fornication, or did during my forty odd years working in industry, where ladies were few and far between and even people who used shower gel instead of the free soap provided by the company were considered to be of dubious sexuality. So, there we are, laid about like loppy dogs, as a colleague used to say every time he walked into the control room, and two ladies cycle towards us, obviously Trough House is one of their N.S.P’s too.

“You’ve nicked our seats.” 

Being the gentlemen we are, we offered to move but she continued,

“At least you’re not on electric bikes. If you had been we would have come up there and tossed you off.” 

I’m sure she meant the seat but just in case, our electric bikes arrive next week. We got a good discount for ordering four. Un-abused, we continued along the track, detouring slightly to show Bri the infamous Glaisdale Corkscrew, a steep and broken singletrack along a cliff edge, the sort of place were mistakes will have a somewhat negative bearing on the rest of your life, if you survive at all. Curiosity sated, we turned off the Trough House track onto the George Gap Causeway, a partially paved bridleway crossing the moor towards Rosedale, normally we ride in the opposite, gravity-friendly, direction but it’s not too steep and as I said, partially paved so things oughtn’t to be too arduous. Except for the mud, the unpaved sections are showing no signs of drying up like the rest of the moors, narrow gullies filled with black peat the consistency of porridge made for hard going at times but the weather is pleasant and the banter is brutal, so nobody minds. We crossed the road and started on our next bridleway, the Daleside Road descent, three quarters of a mile of pure pleasure, terminating on the Rosedale East Side rail track just above (the unfortunately closed) Dale Head Farm tea room. One of those tracks we don’t like to publicise too much in case it is wrecked by overuse. An easy but scenic pedal, round the head of the valley on the old rail track brought us back to our start point, still feeling pretty fresh, we crossed the road to ride a little used track behind the Lion Inn. Or what previously was a little used track, it appears to have been used and abused by a convoy of bulldozers or possibly Challenger 2 tanks taking the long way round to Afghanistan, which have rendered dusty singletrack to muddy ruts, another little bit of fun ravaged by the guardians of the countryside. Shortly afterward we were enjoying a tailgate picnic in the sunshine, the last ride of March over, summer is on the way. We are coming up to Easter, predictably enough snow is forecast.

(Additional photos courtesy of SuperBri)

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