It's Not The Miles, It's The Percentage Of The Ascentage.
Dry but disappointingly cool for the second week of August, me and Terra Trailblazers super-attender, SuperBri are in Clay Bank car park, both with new brake pads to bed in, hence a downhill blast down the road to Ingleby Greenhow. Which left the problem of regaining all the lost height, like trying to decide how you would like to be tortured, a choice you'd rather not have to make. All our options were steep and gruesome, Turkey Nab, Coleson Banks, the Baysdale road or our old friend 3 Sting Hill and the Field Of Heavy Gravity. All except the road alternative involve a push (for us mere mortals anyway), so we decided to make like roadies and before much longer we were panting up the tarmac beside Park Nab. Not before time the gate marking the end of our brief venture into the world of skinny tyres, illegal doping and complete boredom came into view. The track still climbed but at least we had something lumpy under our tyres, we headed up the track until the turn off to Ingleby moor and a welcome bit of downhill. As is the nature of these things, it was followed by more ascending, a steep climb out of the valley, then The Old Coal Road up to Burton Howe, an NSP, where we sat and took in the view, our cars twinkling in the sunlight far across a broad valley. We had rode eleven miles and ascended about 1200 feet but felt as though the ride had not yet started, a circuitous return route was a necessity, squeezing in some fun riding. At least we didn't have to contend with encroaching bracken here on the wide open moor which is a problem in the more fertile areas, seemingly worse this year, warm and moist seems to be what it likes, The Breadlad and Charlie could disappear forever in some places, prisoners of The Green Man.
From Bloworth Crossing, the buffeting wind we had suffered so far became a welcome tailwind, pushing us along the old railtrack and down a paved bridleway which cuts off the corner. More climbing took us to the junction below Round Hill and for the second time in four days, I was descending the sandy track toward Medd Crag, this time turning right, instead of continuing straight down. Another reverse of The Rim, a Terra Trailblazers favourite, although mainly for the puerile humour and innuendo engendered by the route name which something which is an important historical monument (Bronze Age linear earthwork) probably doesn't deserve. But seeing as we are not Time Team, the rimming jokes continued uncensored by any broadcasting constraints, although if they are ever looking to replace Tony Robinson, a cycling archaeologist could be a new gimmick. I wont let the fact I'm not an archaeologist stand in my way, let's face it I'm not really a cyclist but can just about scrape by for four or five days a week. The stony bits were still stony, the boggy bits squelched underfoot, we found another way to cross the stream, a stone flagged bridge. This is what happens when you break the habit of a lifetime and follow the official bridleway marker posts, can’t believe it has only taken twenty years to find the bridge. To be fair it looks fairly new, it’s certainly easier than the scramble up wet rocks we normally do. Gluttons for punishment, we turned right at the end of The Rim and headed back uphill as far as the bridleway for Jackson’s Bank. Jackson’s Bank was dry and even a little dusty, pleasant descending in the sunshine, looking across the valley to Ingleby Incline, which appears as an innocuous slope from this angle, I wonder how many people have been fooled by that. A slightly technical lower section finishes at a gate, through the gate a short rock garden leads to a fire road and it’s a steady pedal back to the car park and a picnic in the sunshine.
Suitably refreshed following a rest day yesterday, me and SuperBri met at a breezy Birk Brow, ready for a Quaker’s Causeway double. The soggy buttocked will quake at the idea but we have glutes like over-inflated basketballs, so it holds no fears for us. The outward journey took us across the causeway - which for the uninitiated is an ancient paved ‘trod’ cutting across High Moor, allegedly built by monks so the faithful could get to the burger van in Birk Brow car park more easily, or it may have been Guisborough Priory, one or the other. A well constructed pathway of tightly packed stones, fairly uniform width but irregular height, giving a buttock-battering journey, especially on a hardtail, hence the unpopularity. Just open up the rear suspension and keep pedalling. A somewhat smoother bit of tarmac took us to the Sean The Sheep bus stop and the wide, stoney track of Robin Hood’s Butts, virtually dry today, we took this to the Sis Cross bridleway, classic moorland singletrack, curving through heather, only startled grouse to keep us company - it’s the Glorious Twelfth tomorrow, they’ll have to do a better job of hiding. The usual small, muddy drops are still there, waiting to have the unwary cyclist over the handlebars but we got through fine today. Towards the end, we turned onto the Pannierman’s Causeway, which drops down through someone's garden before crossing a beck and climbing back up, over toward Danby Park. A slightly alternative route found us on a track above the trees which constitute Danby Park, it looked promising, it was heading in the right direction, why not give it a go? It started well, a pleasant sheep track contouring the moor, a few small rock gardens gave way to larger boulder gardens and having the trials skills of a jellyfish, pushing soon became easier than riding. We crossed a more open section, only for the trail to disappear completely, leaving us with some undignified bracken-bashing to get us back to the official bridleway. Which only left a road climb and the reverse of the causeway, which we laughed at, buttocks like pieces of old leather left to dry in the sun. Back at the cars, we just began tucking into our food, when the weather let us know in no uncertain terms, it’s still August in England - big fat raindrops strafing the car park, helped along by a driving wind. Tailgates make good umbrellas.
Excluded From The Exclusion Zone
Catastrophe has struck North East England, the Covid plague, global warming, the resurgence of the Taliban in Afghanistan and wild fires in Turkey pale into insignificance because the telly has gone off. In the middle of yesterday afternoon an estimated million sets went from Loose Women to No Signal in the blink of an eye. To say it’s a bit of a talking point is an understatement. A fire at Bilsdale Transmitter Mast has definitely exposed a few weaknesses in the system, the most obvious being a complete lack of a backup or a contingency for such an event. The opinion that it hardly matters and nobody ever died from not watching television, is without doubt a minority opinion - just me I think but as someone who can’t understand why a person would even dream of turning a television on during the day, I honestly can’t see what all the fuss is about. Things became more interesting when the media reported the structural integrity of the mast is a concern and the firefighters and technical staff had been withdrawn with immediate effect. A roundabout way of saying the mast might collapse. When something a thousand feet high falls over who shouts TIMBER...? A bike ride which passed the mast suddenly seemed appealing, let’s have a nosy and see what is going on and surely there would be something on my 36 piece multitool to get the telly working again. Anything to stop it being my mother’s main topic of conversation, as though the internet or even DVD’s had never been invented. Which is why me and SuperBri found ourselves in Lordstones car park, waiting for The Breadlad to transition from NMT (New Marske Time) to British Summer Time, arriving his customary fifteen minutes late, he gingerly exited his car like a man with a herniated spinal disc but still willing and eager to throw leg over crossbar and caution to the wind.
To cut a long story short (thank God, I hear you saying), we rode up Carlton Bank, along to Brian’s Pond - SuperBri now takes a proprietary interest in the pond, checking the water level, making sure there is no litter etcetera. A bit of singletrack to the head of Scugdale, then it was back on the wide sandy tracks all the way to the mast, which was still standing but in need of a fresh coat of paint. To cut another long story short, we were soon informed, in no uncertain terms, we were inside the 300m exclusion zone and it would probably be best if we could vacate the area - or words to that effect, accompanied by lots of whistle blowing, raised voices and men tramping through the heather to intercept us. It was all very amicable in the end, they realised we weren’t saboteurs from Sky or Virgin come to ensure a million new subscribers. Perhaps next time they have to make an exclusion zone they might want to call at Arco on the way and pick up a couple of rolls of red and white tape because invisible barriers are no deterrent to idiots like us. The interesting interlude signalled the halfway point in our ride, we made our way back on more wide, sandy tracks, pausing again while SuperBri checked out some beehives, standing too close for comfort as swarms of bees buzzed around. We rode past Head House and ascended Arnesgill Ridge to rejoin our outward route. A quick diversion to the summit of Carlton Bank, just for the hell of it and then we were hurtling down the track back to Lordstones.
The Youth ventured out today, for the first time this year, which just goes to show the huge disadvantage of the 9 to 5 existence. But at least he gets to go to bed every night. We were in the Dales because SuperBri had somewhere to be in the west of the country later today, parked at the Yorkshire Dales Bike Centre, bike shop, cafe, car park, bunkhouse and all round grand place. Could be even better if it wasn’t surrounded by huge hills, any decent ride from here is going to start with some significant uppage and today was no different. The weather is still disappointingly cold for August, we all donned windproof tops as we set off - staycation my arse. We rode up through the picturesque market town of Reeth, what makes it a market town? The post-industrial wasteland where I live has a market, every Monday, nobody calls it the picturesque market town of Billingham although I’m pretty certain that is the first time Billingham and picturesque have ever been used in the same sentence. Carrying on the road to Arkengarthdale beckoned, obviously named on a day letters were buy one get: one free and we climbed steadily until just outside Langthwaite, the road began to drop. As my companions readied themselves for a well-earned descent, our route turned off onto a bridleway and continued climbing for another mile or so, until we reached the gate at the appropriately named Fore Gill Gate. We treated ourselves to a quick blast down tarmac and through a ford before returning to off-road climbing, on a typical Dales track, wide and stoney, a lot of the tracks around here are remnants of Swaledale’s industrial past, broad enough for vehicles or maybe even horses and carts and built in an era when it wasn’t imagined that people would ride bikes up them for fun. Fun might not be quite the correct word for the two miles of continuous ascent we dragged ourselves up, eventually reaching a characteristic Swaledale moonscape; grey shale tips, devoid of any sort of vegetation surrounded us, our track only visible as a slight indentation in the surface. We were close to the summit of Great Pinseat and the wind was doing it’s best to ensure we didn’t get any closer, we sheltered in a hollow to put back a few calories, wind howling around our ears. August in England - magnificent. But we were happy, we’d broken its back as the saying goes and ahead lay a similar amount of descending. It was worth every bit of the blood, sweat and tears shed for the ascent.
We dropped down from Great Pinseat along Forefield Rake, which is actually just another random scattering of spoil tips, continuing down, down, down, along Flincher Gill to the gate at Level House Bridge. More descending toward the Old Gang Smelting Mill, a barren landscape of ruined remnants of buildings and tonnes of loose rock spilling down the hillsides. This was the scene of a spectacular crash many years ago, when The Ginger One was young and enthusiastic and actually came out on his bike; hurtling along the track, neck and neck with Howard, The Ginger One misjudged a gully and did the next few metres on his head, no permanent damage, other than a fist-sized lump of helmet missing. Brain injury was suspected but it turned out his love for 1950’s sports and predilection to choose overtime over bike rides existed before the accident. It’s difficult to pass the old smelting mill without stopping and having a poke about in the ruins, today was no different. Despite (or maybe because of) the sign forbidding ‘clambering’, The Youth was soon demonstrating his climbing prowess, closely followed by SuperBri. In the manner of Victorian masters we attempted to send The Youth up a chimney but he kept complaining about dust in his eyes and crawled out again - no gruel for him tonight. A little more fun followed, attempting to launch our bikes off assorted spoil tips, cheered on by one of a convey of 4x4’s, heading along the track to a shooting house, no doubt ready to indulge in the traditional countryside pastime of mixing guns and alcohol, a cunning ploy by the estates to ensure none of their expensively reared grouse are ever actually shot. Hunger pangs moved us on, more gravel track descending took us to Surrender Bridge and a more usual moorland bridleway (grass, mud, rocks bracken) which leads to the village of Healaugh, which sounds like something Rachel Riley might put up on Countdown. This track is bisected by a deep gorge, known to one and all as Crinkley Bottom in memory of Noel’s House Party, something which passed for entertainment back in the 90’s, although it’s proper name is Cringley Bottom. The side we were approaching is steep and unrideable, somehow The Youth failed to get the memo, enthusiasm outweighed skill and he was soon sitting on the side of the track, covered in dust, sheep shit and assorted bits of bracken, wondering if his shoulder was dislocated - again. Fifteen minutes of moaning and sulking later, we were back on track, enjoying a splendid descent into Healaugh, it even returned the smile to The Youth’s face. A brief bit of tarmac riding and we were enjoying the hospitality of the ‘cafe and cakery’ at The Dales Bike Centre.
Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.
