Boris Says Six.

Boris Says Six

The new covid 19 rules are out and we can now ride out in groups of six, long as we socially distance. Why six? Who knows. Maybe Boris is worried the Magnificent Seven will come riding in and put everything right, or the seven samurai, the secret seven, the seven dwarfs or even S Club 7 - they couldn’t make a worse job of it. As for the Terra Trailblazers, what Boris fails to realise is the chances of getting six of us out on the same ride at the same time are rarer than a trustworthy politician. We would have to kidnap stray cyclists, luring them with Haribo and fictional puppies, a concept well known to the van owners amongst us. 

The promise of a post-ride Christmas dinner used to tempt a few dilettantes off the settee but it is June and all the pubs and restaurants are closed, so it was a surprise to find four of us enjoying the last of the summer weather together one day. June did continue with May’s heatwave for a short while until nature knocked fifteen degrees off the ambient and the central heating went back on. Now it is grey, cold and wet which ought to empty the car parks a bit, the sooner the furloughed revert to their nine to five drudgery the better, or at least re-open the pubs so they can go back to spending sunny afternoons in the beer garden instead of driving to the countryside, getting pissed and leaving their shit all over. This crisis has highlighted the surplus of two-legged, breeding, voting vermin in our midst.

Our rides have been taking place away from the obvious lemming runs, where the regulars have been joined by an influx of helmet-less organ donors, we chose the open moors around Danby and Castleton or Bilsdale for our socially distanced fun. Recent weeks of dry weather have left the trails in first class shape, shirt sleeves and dry lube conditions. Three fifths of this year’s failed Spanish trip did Tripsdale one day, the long loose descent almost replicating Andalucia’s dry and dusty conditions, a few track-side cactuses and a mid-ride San Miguel would have made it complete.

Still anxious to avoid becoming mountain rescue statistics, our rides are sticking with the “No Gnar” mantra from early in the crisis. Familiar trails, moorland singletrack, wide, open tracks, sensible speed and both wheels on the ground (most of the time). Riding like a bunch of blokes on the verge of middle-age, no change to the norm really. Just cruising through the slowzone layer.

The latest ride was after the weather had changed, me and The Breadlad shivering in Clay Bank car park, higher up, approaching Round Hill being strafed by hailstones, ground-skimming clouds sweeping in from the north, dumping their contents. Luckily the showers mainly occurred when we were close to tree cover although a Strava PB or two happened as we sped down Turkey Nab for the shelter of the trees at the bottom. 

Now the cafes are not open, the post-ride picnic has become a new tradition, evolving from scoffing an energy bar while finishing the dregs in the hydration bladder to the full-blown, bait box and camping chair experience, which has been very pleasant in the sunshine. Can’t see it being quite as popular in drizzle and a lively north east wind. 

Released Back Into The Wild.

Released Back Into The Wild.

After 57 days, 40 local rides and 850 miles pedalled around the epicentre of our little universe, Billingham, we are back on the moors. Boris relaxed the rules and decreed we could travel to exercise, much to the displeasure of rural communities, seaside resorts and mountain rescue teams. Understandable when it meant most of Teesside, using the mentality of day people on a Bank Holiday, went either to Whitby, Seaton Carew or Sheepwash and the majority of them were only in those places because they couldn’t queue up at the household waste recycling centre (the tip in other words) or shuffle round B&Q intent on improving their homes rather than their tiny minds. And Boris has generously allowed us to exercise with one other person not from their own household, which is a great relief for The Breadlad (not a fan of lonesome riding) who had been eying up my spare room like a labrador watching someone eat their dinner. We left it a few days until things quietened down before venturing out and chose easy rides in less popular areas, eschewing  Guisborough and Hamsterley which were overrun with forest rats. 

Our first meeting for 57 days, Blakey Bank top car park, The Breadlad slightly hairier but still as tardy, the weather bright but windy, scenery magnificent - not a chemical factory in sight. Our route was a truncated variation on the classic Rosedale Round, missing out the ‘easy’ section where I managed my first ever broken bone at the grand old age of 52, prompting numerous nurses to let me know they only ever see children with broken collar bones. I’m just a late developer. 

Our route took in somewhat more climbing than the Lockdown Locals we’ve been used to, the first 6 miles clocked up more feet of ascent than a local 25 miler. Mud, flies, sheep shit, nettles, brutal rock-strewn ascents, singletrack downhills weaving through heather, unbroken vistas of Farndale and Rosedale, only a cafe would have made our day complete. But Boris hasn’t gone that far yet, like good Boy Scouts we brought a picnic; after spreading our tartan rug and unravelling our damask napkins from their antique ivory holders, we tucked into quail eggs with truffle shavings, Beluga caviar and hand-crafted artisan bread, washed down with Moet and Chandon, followed by port and finest Cuban cigars. Taking great care not to torch the moors naturally. Or maybe we didn’t but it tasted just as fine, sheep even came to watch in between chewing some appetising grass. 

An old geezer rode off from the car park on what can only be described as a contraption; a bike with a two stroke engine fitted in the triangle and a dinky little petrol tank fastened to the cross bar. And off he went along the rail track in a cloud of exhaust fumes. 

The following day we met at a layby on the outskirts of Castleton, heat haze shimmering the heather, as we geared up for the alleged hottest day of the year (so far). A few of our old favourite tracks passed the day quite nicely, bone dry because there has been no significant rain for weeks, the Sis Cross bridleway particularly splendid, the usual mud wallows dried up - hopefully for the rest of the year. We continued to Fryupdale which is in similar exemplary condition, fields full of spring lambs, waiting as we were last week, to be let loose on the moors. 

Further on we ascended the rough track up to Oakley Walls where the almost forgotten skill of bike pushing was employed up the loose rocks, the unaccustomed sting of sweat in the eyes and aching calves reminding us it’s not a Terra Trailblazer’s ride without a push. A couple more tracks, safe and wide and we were back in our layby, ready for another post-ride picnic in the sunshine. It ought to have been San Miguel and ice cream on a Costa del Sol paseo maritimo rather than a redundant quarry surrounded by charred heather with a view of Captain Cook’s Monument replacing the blue Mediterranean. We spared passing motorists from the full sun-lounger and Speedos look, tempting though it was but it was quite pleasant lolling about, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee on what did turn out to be the hottest day of the year, not forgetting the all important, so far. Because there is probably a remote chance we’ll get another one and we’ll need it because it looks as though foreign travel will be off the agenda for quite a while, especially as from next month it will be a fortnights quarantine after returning from abroad, not much use to anyone who has a job. The Breadlad’s international playboy lifestyle is being severely curtailed.

Grouse Chick.

Lockdown Locals - Part Two. (And Video)

Lockdown Locals - Part Two. 

Riding through the pandemic.

Even managed to scrape together a video - here.

Nothing has changed since the previous blog, we’re still virus dodging as best we can, riding is still leisurely and local for us. This ought to be day four of our Spanish sojourn but instead the pleasures of this green and pleasant land must suffice. At least the weather has been reasonable, mainly dry and sunny, although not necessarily warm, east wind no good to man nor beast and all that. 

Mine and La Mujerita’s rides have all been from the door, stretching the distance and finding the odd bit of off-road to liven things up while everything is bone-dry. In the wider world, most of the others have been active. The Breadlad is still the lucky one, being in riding distance of Guisborough Woods, where he is able to go and dodge the booby traps being laid on the trails by the Viet Cong of North Yorkshire, the intention is to maim a mountain biker and the traps have graduated from the old logs across the trail to broken glass, scattered tacks and nail-studded boards, the most worrying thing is these people are legally allowed to breed and vote. More devastating for The Breadlad is the news parking is to be banned on the roadside at Hutton Village, meaning riding from the front door to Guisborough Woods will be permanent for him rather than the trauma of paying three quid to park at Pinchinthorpe. 

Closer to (my) home,someone decided to use the pandemic as a good excuse to try and close a local footpath using a sign so blatantly fake it looked like a baboon had discovered cut and paste. 

Bingo Bob has got into the video game, chest camming his way around the area to show us the less industrial villages and towns. Give it a glance here.

The Youth decided he would take his bike to the local quarry jump spot, where grown men on £4k bikes are completely humiliated by pubescents on Apollos and Carreras. The Youth used all his hard earned coaching skills to demonstrate falling off and the importance of wearing a helmet, he was so convincing, his first purchase when the bike shops reopen will be a new helmet. 

Oz has been clocking up a few road miles in the Yarm area. 

The Ginger One has been finding routes around his beloved Darlington, as Chubby Brown once said,"The only town in England where the football season finishes in July.", when he is not  working as much overtime as possible and praying for the snooker club to open its doors and save him from all this fresh air. 

My road bike went to a forever home after being in the shed for the past three years or so, oddly enough, when I took it for a test ride prior to adoption almost every roadie had a wave or a cheery smile to return my greeting, when I rode the same route a week later on a mountain bike, I must have been wearing Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, never in the field of human conflict has so much eye contact been avoided by so many.