Does Your Granny Always Tell You The Old Ones are The Best...? April Week 2.

 Does Your Granny Always Tell You The Old Ones Are The Best...?

In a strange turnaround in the weather, we’ve woken to a covering of snow for the past two mornings, which melts away as soon as the sun caresses it, a few lingering patches on the moors are still clinging to the north facing slopes. Today is what has been dubbed the glorious twelfth, nothing to do with grouse being blasted from the sky by gadgies who can afford three grand for a day on the drink with deadly weapons but the day Boris said all non-essential shops can open, as can cafes and pubs but only for outdoor consumption. Some pubs took full advantage, opening at midnight for those hardy, or desperate, enough to want to spend the small hours in a snow-covered beer garden. Owing to the cafes reopening we arranged to meet in Swainby, where we would have a choice of two cafes for our post-ride calorie reimbursement - except they were both shut, not opening until later in the week - good job I had an emergency bag of crisps. For a change, we rode up by Whorlton Castle and along the road to the hamlet of Whorlton, at Whorlton House, a left turn took us onto a track through fields to Faceby, we paused to inspect, or be inspected by, a large, definitely non-native, species of bird, an emu I believe, who is probably wondering what he did wrong to be in a freezing North Yorkshire field instead of the Australian bush. We pressed on to Faceby, following the bridleway up a field of heavy gravity to Faceby Plantation, we rode through the plantation, up at first before, enjoying some downhill action all the way to the road at Heathwaite, we normally ride up this trail, so it was a rare treat. Sticking with the “change is as good as a rest” theme, we headed to the end of Scugdale and made the big climb to the gate at Stoney Wickes, this track is drying up a treat and is a great downhill in these conditions, not for the first time we questioned why we are going up it. Further climbing took us up Barker’s Ridge, at the top we were into the network of broad, sandy tracks which criss-cross the moors, mainly built to service the grouse shooting industry but a great, if none technical, way to blast over the moors, big skies and panoramic vistas, golden bracken and dull, winter heather, green fields and yellow tracks under the cerulean sky. Our thoughts extended to the poor suckers at work on such a day but only briefly. 

Arnesgill Ridge is an old favourite we don’t ride often enough, beginning more or less from the the top of Barker’s Ridge, the trail drops down, past Osmotherley Stones, to a sandy T junction, scene of many accidents from the over-enthusiastic and unwary over the years, where it joins Arnsegill Ridge proper and continues dropping until just before Low Cote Farm, three and a half miles later. Exhilarating. Less exhilarating is the road climb from Low Cote and back along toward Square Corner, we could have done the Dale Head singletrack as an alternative but it has deteriorated in recent years. From a pretty packed Square Corner car park, I thought all the day people were back on their treadmills, we continued to High Lane, passing Chequers and made our way to the ford at Sheepwash on the ‘improved’ track, undoubtedly speedier but no fun without the wrist-breaking, face-smashing potential of the stone slabs and rocky drop offs now buried under tonnes of dolomite. Someone sat behind a desk, shuffling papers, probably with a brother-in-law in the road construction business, will have thought it was a good idea as part of the ever-increasing quest to make the countryside less rugged wherever possible; cowering from the fear of litigation by the terminally stupid who need nature bringing down to their level. A bit more tarmac riding to Scarth Nick, where we rode our recently ‘discovered’ bridleway which runs parallel to the road, still a bit damp and greasy today, a little over-zealousness and I was skidding down, eating tree branches and wondering who to sue for this blatant disregard for health and safety, not to mention duty of care for a sixty one year old whose mental age can be found by reversing those two numbers. Shortly after we were back at the cars, emergency rations were being consumed in the sunshine, reflecting on a grand ride - an oldie but a goody.

The Shock Of The New.

Terra Trailblazers Trail Hunting Crew, out on the prowl, looking for new trails in a new venue, the woods behind Slapewath, at the bottom of Birk Brow, naturally we parked at the top, close to the burger van, ready for sustenance on our return. A “new to us” bridleway took us down to the Margrove Park road, a mile and a half, according to the sign, nicely downhill through trees all the way, pleasant. We followed a track behind the pub at Slapewath, climbing steadily until an obvious trail beckoned us into the woods, situated beneath the power lines which are visible to anyone coming down Birk Brow. Still climbing, we came to a clearing and found ourselves in a wonderland of off-piste trails, well I did, The Breadlad was “using the facilities”, shall we say, and I endeavoured to stay upwind. I won’t dwell too much on the tracks, suffice to say there are lots of jumps, (quite a few which are, amazingly, in our league) spread around a complex network of tracks which don’t seem to have been discovered yet by the militant branch of The Rambler’s Association, the Trail Liberation Front and their booby traps. 

We spent some time channelling our inner children, maybe getting our wheels, yes, plural, as much as 30cm in the air, before moving over the road to squeeze in a few of Guisborough Woods’ finest. A circuitous return route saw us underneath the redundant viaduct near Charltons, rather than where we should have been, on top of it. Some pretty determined methods have been taken to prevent people climbing up the hillside beneath the viaduct from the stream, although it looks as though they are to stop people riding down rather than going up. The thought of retracing our steps was almost considered but we are proper men, so that wasn’t going to happen and we ended up crawling over deeply stacked brushwood like a couple of intrepid explorers, dragging bikes behind us until we were back on solid ground. Which only left an ascent of Birk Brow to complete the ride, or as it is known (allegedly) in Darlington, Guisborough Bank, which probably says a lot about the parochialism of the inbreds who live in that festering sore of a town than anything else. It’s not a bad climb, nowhere near as difficult as it seems when driving up and we were soon joining the lorry drivers in the queue for the burger van.

Sauntering In The Sunshine.

The next day was just a local ride as La Mujerita was still feeling the effects of celebrating her birthday, two days earlier and it was a big one, a one with a zero; I am too much of a gentleman to reveal a lady’s age but she was born a month after black and white £5 notes ceased to be legal tender. Rather than the usual alcohol fuelled debauchery of previous birthdays, she celebrated by going horse riding for the first time in over twenty years. For those of us old enough to remember John Wayne, that’s how she walked after two hours on horseback. Suffice to say she was still a little stiff today, so we had a pootle around the local byways and back lanes. Not a very exciting ride but the sun shone, the tracks were dry, the dog-walkers were friendly and we were back in time for a Greggs. What’s not to like?

Dry And Dusty - Bring It On.

The car park at Chop Gate village hall is now home to a rather official looking parking ticket machine, obviously the honesty box and the pay by phone fee collection systems were largely ignored (and you know who you are...) so they have gone heavy. Not certain if anyone ever inspects the tickets but it’s only two quid, hardly going to break the bank. In other Chop Gate news, the pub is open again, doing tea room type things in addition to the all important beer. Handy for that post-ride snack, as well as the energy and mineral replacement shandy. Another day so glorious it’s hard to believe we’re in England, one of those days when people who have never been abroad say things like:

“See, there’s no need to go abroad...” 

Not unless you want cafes that stay open beyond four pm and consistent weather anyway. Keith has travelled down from the far north to join me and Simon T. for a trawl around Bilsdale, the plan is to finish down the classic Cold Moor Descent but first we had to put in a few miles or have a very short ride. We put a few feet in the gravity bank, getting ourselves up to Scugdale and across Carlton Bank, only to plummet down the old gliding club access track, heading for Lordstones. A minor detour to the little play area, saw us attempting to emulate teenagers, searching bushes for old copies of Razzle, smoking behind the bike sheds and bathing in Clearasil, no, not really, we gave the jumps another few goes, maybe improved slightly but Danny Hart still has nothing to worry about. My companions have never ridden The Fronts, so they were in for a proper treat as it is in first class condition, bone dry and practically devoid of other users, carving an undulating path across the north face of Cringle Moor. Suitably impressed, we moved to Cold Moor, riding the shale singletrack before a quick hike-a-bike got us onto the top of said moor, ready for the descent, a North York Moors classic, beginning on the broad ridge of moor top before dropping down a dried up stream bed, changing to singletrack lower down, still descending the moor, emerging at a gate grinning like baboons. If we had been Americans we would have been high fiving and whooping “yeah bro” and other such inanities while waiting for Donald Trump to make us great again. Being British, we made do with a muttered,

 “S’alright that like...” before moving on, still downward along a slightly enclosed gully until we were back in Chop Gate, the descent finishes at the village church. A quick scoot back down the road and we were back in the car park, a car park the ever frugal duo of The Breadlad and The Ginger One will never enter again owing to that sinister presence, an evil parking meter, the mechanical embodiment of a long-fingered witch, cackling while she empties their wallets, bleeding them of two whole pounds. Perhaps they ought to set up a Go Fund Me page, I can even imagine the opening lines.

“We are two impoverished working men whose hobby of mountain biking is being put in jeopardy by the spiralling cost of parking our cars. Barely earning a meagre £100k per year between us, we can’t afford to be lashing out hard earned cash whenever we want a bike ride in the countryside. Your generous donations will enable us to continue our passion, keeping us mentally and physically fit, so as not to be a burden on the NHS in these troubled times. And how will you benefit? If we can’t find anywhere to park for free, it may be your house we park outside, do you really want mud-spattered old men stripping off their stinking sweaty clothes outside your front window? In front of your innocent children? Your poor grandmother trying to bleach her eyes after they have been sullied by the sight of The Ginger One’s body hair or The Breadlad’s crumpets, pasty white and compacted after being jammed in his cycling shorts for hours? Give generously, for everyone’s sake.”

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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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