Marching Back To Winter. The First Bit Of March.

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

― Garrison Keillor

Cheers Olly, now they can hear me coming.

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 Yeat’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. 

Getting A Bit Nippy Again.

The balmy days of February are behind us, temperatures have slid back toward zero, celsius that is, none of that Victorian fahrenheit nonsense here,. Young Olly managed to find a break in his schedule to fit in a ride, I would imagine now most students are studying remotely, productivity has increased without the distractions of the Student’s Union bar, Fresher’s Flu and university sports clubs. Anyway, we rode from Swainby to Silton Woods, riding the top bit of the downhill track, one of us rode it considerably speedier than the other, I’ll leave you to work out which one, we gave the rest a miss because it was a bit too soggy. Back at the woods above the reservoir, Olly had an introduction to some of “Rod’s” tracks, the ones he maintains and improves despite the best efforts of ‘The Colonel’, a local character who seeks out bike trails in the darkest recesses of the woods, far away from rights of way and sabotages them with branches laid across the tracks. Later, we pedalled up to Arncliffe Woods and onto Scarth Wood Moor, avoiding the track known as Olly’s Folly, where the youth of the same name broke his ankle, instead riding down the moor on the paved track, which is fun in a let the brakes off and go for it sort of way. Which only left the newly discovered bridleway beside the road at Scarth Nick, it’s still hard to believe we only found this recently, after over twenty years of bypassing it. The track had even dried up slightly since last time we rode it, making it even more fun. A short stretch of tarmac and we were back at the cars, first ride of March in the bag, a bit cold, a bit muddy and a bit grey but fun nonetheless.

Gorillas In The Mist.

The grey clag has descended, dampening the atmosphere and keeping us from prying eyes, so dense is the mist we almost missed (d’you see what I did there?) the Sean The Sheep bus shelter, opposite our parking spot. A downhill start - yes, that’s correct - a downhill start, took us out of the mist along the road towards Commondale for a short while before we turned off onto a bridleway which deposited us in the centre of Commondale. Hanging a left, the Box Hall track follows the Esk Valley rail line as it meanders towards Castleton, a few puddles but quite dry for the time of year. We crossed the road above Castleton and continued through Danby Park, the odd cloying clay pit attempting to suck down front wheels but we battled through like true Terra Trailblazers, which actually means getting stuck and swearing a lot. We passed through a very quiet Danby and an even quieter Ainthorpe on tarmac, leaving the road at the start of the Ainthorpe Rigg bridleway, where we paused to shed clothing in the unseasonal warmth. The climb over Ainthorpe Rigg took us back into the mist, shrouding the view of Fryupdale from the top. The descent down Crossley Side was as enjoyable as ever, rock slabs leading to a ridge of singletrack, followed by a grassy finish, all just enough to keep you thinking but not a pageant of prevarication as some descents are. Lulled into a false sense of security by the relative dryness of the tracks so far, the bridleway from Stonebeck Gate to Crag Farm was opted for, it wasn’t long before we were churning through mud like two-wheeled dung beetles. If “experience is never wasted” why do we never learn? Bridleways through fields are always shit - often literally - for eleven months of the year. More climbing ensued, Oakley Walls this time, before we made our way along the track to Clitherbeck farm, a beneficiary of the lockdown gravel which has plagued tracks since most of the country took a step back, it’ll be okay when it’s bedded in a bit I guess. Our final track of the ride was Robin Hood’s Butts, which has had many of the tarn size puddles filled with rubble, making our feet a bit drier if anything. The track took us directly back to the cars, which were parked at the end and it wasn’t long before we had decamped to Birk Brow for our first burger of the year.

Chilling In The Windchill.

The Breadlad finding out the machine doesn't take euros.

Despite no rain being forecast, we left Pinchinthorpe car park in the sort of precipitation you convince yourself is drizzle so you don’t have to admit it’s actually lashing down. Like the old blues song say, “The sky is crying” but not as much as The Breadlad, who found himself donating four quid to Redcar And Cleveland Council just so we could have a ride with a cafe at the end. A pretty standard fire road start took us up the forest to the edge of the woods below the SOW track, where we paused to take off coats and empty bladders (NPP) now the rain had passed over to moisten someone else. We needn’t have bothered, less than half a mile later, the rain was back even stronger and it was coats back on as we circumnavigated the contours of the mighty Roseberry Topping, heading for the Elephants Hole, a locally famous combination of steep shale and prickly gorse, even more exciting today from the added dampness. That particular bit of fun over with, we climbed back to Roseberry Common and up the steps to Newton Moor. The temperature was allegedly warmer than the past few days but wind and drizzle were making things feel much colder, even The Breadlad was feeling it and he has been known to ride with bare flesh in snow. Arms, of course, his other flesh has remained carefully covered since the restraining order. We made our way up a soggy Percy Cross Rigg and an equally damp Codhill Heights to the back of Highcliffe Nab. The original plan had been to continue east to the concrete road and return to Pinchinthorpe along the old rail track but the continual mizzle dampened even our enthusiasm, so the plan was abandoned in favour of a blast back through the woods finishing down the old blue route, passing the blue lake, which is usually green and today was no different, the colour is said to come from alum salts in the surrounding shale. A short time later we were sat in a drizzle-sodden field, shovelling food into our faces, inordinately pleased with ourselves for persevering through the cold and wet when lesser beings would be couch-captured.

Gentle Recovery Ride.

Another before work quickie with La Mujerita, trawling local lanes and cycleways congested with assorted humanity; the dog walkers with attitude, the dog walkers with more dogs than fingers, the ‘let’s stand and chat in the middle of the path’ people, the ‘let’s walk four abreast across the path’ types and my own personal favourite, the halfwit in the headphones, completely oblivious to anyone or anything coming from behind, a situation where common sense would dictate sticking to the edge of the path. Not a chance. And it’s become worse since lockdown now the shopping mall rats and the beer garden people have been forced outdoors. The old saying, “the further you are from civilization, the nicer the people” has never been so true. The odd bits of offroad riding on the local loops are at best mediocre and a poor substitute for the moors, not worth the amount of attitude which must be endured to reach them, from walkers and motorists, give me the wide open spaces any day. But at least the sun came out for a bit.

As usual the route names are the Strava names, Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.

From Ice Age to Global Warming. February 2021 Round Up and Video.

 February 2021 Round Up and Video.

Lexical lassitude? Video here.

February was a month of mixed weather, snow, ice, rain, wind and wet finishes; spare clothes and hot coffee sort of days. We still managed to squeeze in a few rides of a local nature, occasionally ‘too’ local, if I never see another stretch of red tarmac or a brain-dead pedestrian as long as I live it will still be too soon. Even trudging through snow drifts on top of the moors was preferable to running the gauntlet of passive-aggressive dog walkers on the Castle Eden Walkway. There were a few of those strange February days where early summer slips through the space time continuum and you suddenly find yourself riding around in shirtsleeves, always welcome though and a relief from ice-breaking on other days of the month. 

Slip Sliding Away.

The unofficial motto of the Terra Trailblazers has always been “Who Dares Wins”, which we cheekily stole from a long time role-model who comes to the aid of Britain in troubled times; nerves of steel, a backbone of titanium and an inspiration to us all - Del Boy Trotter. And today turned out to be a who dares wins sort of day, we defied the weather forecast, the lockdown, the covid police and Boris himself to meet in Great Ayton, ready to battle all conditions in pursuit of our daily exercise. Well two of us did, our absent companion, The Ginger One, motto: “If it looks hard it probably is. So let’s not bother.”, allowed the grim sight from his bedroom window to deter him. Hard to understand, he lives in Darlington, it’s always a grim sight from his window. So he stayed in his jimmy jams while real Trailblazers swung legs over crossbars and headed for the hills; somewhat moist, we rode up through Aireyholme Farm to Roseberry Common, pausing only to shed a layer or two, as coats became wetter on the insides. The tracks in Guisborough Woods are in appalling condition, one week ago they were frozen and we were ploughing our way through snow drifts to reach them, today they are like the philtrum of a snotty nosed toddler, runnels of water and mud coming down the hillsides like snail trails. Up through the woods we toiled, diverting occasionally to sample some of the less muddy tracks, we reached the top of the woods, did a U turn and headed back the way we had come, digressing behind Highcliffe Nab to take ourselves out onto the open moor of Codhill Heights. The wide bridleway descent is always fast and fun, even though it has had a dose of lockdown gravel in parts, the climb out from Sleddale is generally less fun and today was no different. We carried on around the Lonsdale Bowl in improving weather, to Fingerbender Bank, merely moist today, unlike last week when it channelled a small river. Muddier tracks took us down to Gribdale, any suggestions of extra loops remained unsaid as we followed the road directly back to Great Ayton, which basked in spring sunshine. We might have basked too but we’re uncertain if basking is permitted in the lockdown.

Only One Hill And No Mud.

I might have lied about the mud.

Drizzle and wind, not the best conditions for a ride but we were here anyway, so might as well get on with it. Like the title says, only one hill, but it’s belter, seven miles up and seven miles down. Climbing gradually all the way from Great Ayton, to Bank Foot Farm, then (a lot) more steeply up Turkey Nab, before more amenable ascending on the edge of Ingleby Moor above Battersby Plantation to our high point at Burton Howe. A lot easier than three weeks ago when this track was covered in knee deep snow and we met a bloke walking up with skis on his back. Just like the Grand Old Duke Of York, who had ten thousand... - teenage girls (allegedly), when we were up we were up and when we were down, we were down because it was too dank to hang about. Time for payback, first down the Old Coal Road, at the T junction turning north, back to Battersby Moor, plunging down the loose track, glasses fogged with condensation from the drizzle. The newly resurfaced Coleson Banks was our next target, it must be twenty years since it was completely rideable, having suffered from the predations of the wobbly-heads in their 4x4’s and guess what? Ruts are already beginning to reappear. How long will it take for them to end up head height again? Heading through the fields to Battersby, still nicely downhill, made a liar out of me. The no mud part of the description turned to loads of mud all the way down, luckily the water splash at the end of the track cleaned most of it off the bikes. But not us unfortunately because this was the day we all forgot our mudguards. Wet arses all round. From Battersby, we made like roadies all the way back to Great Ayton, concentrating on our cadence and heart rate, refusing to acknowledge other road users, especially scruffy bastards on mountain bikes and keeping our eyes firmly on those Strava KOM’s.

Glorious Tripsdale.

What a difference a day makes, positively spring like today, blue sky, temperature in double figures and no rain on the horizon. Perfect until we arrived at Clay Bank to be greeted with a stiff breeze and some ugly black clouds scudding across the moor tops. Just a regular Tripsdale run today but a first for SuperBri who has yet to sample the delights of the hidden valley. But first the Carr Ridge steps hike-a-bike to get over with, the monotony broken today by a call from the GP’s inviting me for my Covid vaccination; they must have got through all the old folks pretty speedily if they are inviting people on the verge of middle-age. From the car park to the gate at the top of the steps, leading onto Urra Moor, it is three quarters of a mile and four hundred and fifty feet of ascent, we’ve done it literally hundreds of times but it never gets any easier. From the gate, our route continued in a predominantly uphill manner to Round Hill, as has been mentioned before, the uninspiring highest point of the North York Moors. Pointed it out to SuperBri - he was less than impressed. Broad sandy tracks criss-cross this moor, all built to make things easier for shooting parties, who, it seems, are happy to lash out three grand per person for what is essentially a day on the drink with firearms; you can get that in some parts Middlesbrough for a lot less than three grand. The tracks are very useful this time of year, staying mainly mud-free and apart from the odd puddle, well drained, speedy non-technical riding in spectacular scenery, which we took advantage of today. Heading into the wind, we rode from Cockayne Heads, past the Badger Stone until we joined the Tripsdale bridleway, where we paused for a breather and to take in the scenery before heading downhill. Starting from Stump Cross, the bridleway drops almost six hundred feet in a little under two miles, imperceptibly at first, then becoming steeper and looser, dropping into the valley, some sharp hairpin bends calm you down before the final brakes off plunge over the bridge and up the other side to the NSP (Natural Stopping Point), where we revel in the buzz of the descent and contemplate the climb out of the valley. Being gentlemen of a certain age, the NSP’s are becoming NPP’s because there is an inevitable amount of bladder voiding at the stopping points nowadays. The climb out begins steeply and becomes steeper, modern cassettes take the sting out of it but it is usually the looseness which stymies most attempts. Today was no different. We stopped again, halfway up the ascent to look across at the descent, there is an awesome view of the track snaking down into the valley. We made our way back up to Round Hill, sticking on the broad sandy tracks, retracing our tyre tracks along Carr Ridge, getting a little payback from our deposits in the gravity bank. We turned off prior to the steps in favour of a muddy track through Greenhow Plantation, relatively clean bikes soon became splattered as we fought our way through a morass of clay and water, all for the fun of a few extra seconds of descent. 

Urban Industrial

Another before work quickie for La Mujerita, we rode to Newport and along the river to the Transporter and beyond, past the Temenos sculpture to the Middlesbrough football stadium and back home again. It was a lovely day for it, the dinosaurs have been freshly painted and are proving very popular with lots of young families walking around the park. Not much else to say really. Keep an eye out for a separate video which is upcoming, is that the same as coming up? It’s a funny language this English. The video mainly details the artworks along the river against the backdrop of industry.

As usual the ride names are the Strava names, find them on the Strava profile Lordy Lardy.

The MIddle Bit Of February.

 Another Before Work Quicky - For One Of Us.

The bitter weather is continuing, roads closed owing to drifting snow, windchill colder than a Tory’s heart and sheets of ice still blanket roads and paths like the sugar coating on a Krispy Kreme doughnut. If the sugar coating tasted of salt and dog shit. According to the questionable veracity of my phone, it is minus fourteen celsius when wind chill is taken into account. The silence from the global warming faction is deafening, the government is probably thinking of ditching the emissions taxes and looking for ways to tax sledges and de-icer. Another local ride for us, me and La  Mujerita, a quick scout about before she goes for a late shift at something called work; a dim and distant memory for me. She works in a residential home for children with challenging behaviour, which was similar to my employment, except they weren’t legally children and they didn’t live there, although some of them would have liked to. Other than that pretty close, especially the apprentices who scraped in during my latter years, whose concept of self-reliance didn’t really extend far beyond putting their phones away when a manager came in the room. Looks like I’ve digressed a bit again, whoops. Back to the ride, one good thing about the freezing weather, it has thinned out the number of pedestrians and dog walkers meandering across the paths. We rode alongside the A19 to Newport and over the bridge, dropping down the ramp - a lot more cautiously than usual, to pick up the cyclepath on the south side of the river, making our way along to the Tees Barrage. Beyond the barrage, the path follows a network of frozen canals leading to and from the river, unfenced canals, iced up paths, a You’ve Been Framed moment waiting to happen, further cautious riding required, I don’t need £250 that badly. We crossed Victoria Bridge to make our way back along the opposite side of the river, stopping to have a gander at the swans, which in the curious world of ornithological collective nouns might be described as a gaggle, bank, bevy, whiteness, herd, eyrar or gargle of swans but never a wedge unless the group is flying. Realising we hadn’t brought bread, they soon lost interest in us and continued drifting serenely, waiting for someone more generous in the sliced white department. We refrained from mentioning they can break a man’s arm with their wings, which seems to be the only fact everyone knows about swans, that and you can’t eat them unless the Queen has a bite first or something. I wonder if swans ever look at humans and think, “I bet I could break his arm...” Maybe they have a local league table and the one who breaks the most arms gets to be King Swan until they are overtaken by an ex-special forces swan, trained to break a man’s arm by countless devious methods. Arms thankfully intact, we continued along the riverside, the usual audience of smackheads and winos absent from the picnic tables, too cold even for them. More icy riding took us back to Newport Bridge, from where a convoluted route of pedestrian crossings led us under the A19 to pick up the cycle track on the western side and a steady ride back to Billingham.

Snow Drifts Or Dancing On Ice?

Following a weekend of sub-zero temperatures and gale force winds, snow has drifted over many roads, rendering them impassable, even to 4x4 drivers. However, some roads are still open, the sun is out, the sky is blue, there’s not a cloud to spoil the view and it’s not raining in my heart (not yet anyway) because me and my new baby are getting out in the countryside for her maiden moors voyage; leaving behind the tedium of red tarmac, intransigent dog-walkers and surly road bikers. The Breadlad is beginning an extended break from work, his usual shaken not stirred, eating caviar from the bellybutton of a naked supermodel, jet setting lifestyle curtailed by an invisible virus, so he was thrilled to be switching the pistes of the Canadian Rockies for the equally cold and wet snow of North Yorkshire. Just to ensure we actually pedalled a few miles, we rode from Great Ayton to Kildale before heading up to the moors via The Yellowbrick Road. The verges of the roads were piled high with rapidly melting snow, seeing as today the temperature is scraping into double figures. The Yellowbrick Road is the ideal place to try my new 52 tooth rear cassette and after The Breadlad had finished using the facilities, (does a bear shit in the woods? Not as much as The Breadlad.) the attempt was on. Short lived attempt. Extra teeth on the back cog don’t conquer ice and snow and it was not long before pedestrianism reared its ugly head. We made it to the top and continued along Percy Cross Rigg, the tarmac section to the gate onto the moor curiously devoid of snow despite the extra height. From the gate to the Unsuitables was a different story, a tale of water, slush and snow stickier than the pages of the magazines we used to find in the bushes near the bus shelter. Climbing up to the wartime building was a struggle, the descent worse, short sections were rideable but mainly we were stymied by snow, deep but not crisp or even, usually with a side order of water running beneath it. Finding it hard to believe we’d had to push and carry most of a downhill track, we arrived at the top of The Unsuitables, encountering two equally bemused cyclists, who had travelled up in the opposite direction. From them, it transpired, our options were “snow drifts or dancing on ice”, the ice bit being a descent of The Unsuitables or a bash through the drifts on the top track. We opted for the drifts, it wasn’t easy but it did lessen the chances of an unscheduled strain on the NHS in the form of an old bloke who should have known better. Newton Moor was a little better and we managed to pedal most of the way to Fingerbender Bank, or Fingerbender Force as we have renamed it for today, as every bit of water in North Yorkshire appears to be pouring down it. The gullies are rapids and the drop offs have become waterfalls, it didn’t stop us splashing down it like an afternoon at Wet And Wild. From here we descended to the road at Gribdale and carried on back to Great Ayton, pausing only at the butchers to reimburse our calorie expenditure.

At Least Me Feet Stayed Dry.

The following day, lesson learnt, our efforts were mainly tarmac based, although some off road had to be included, just to ensure we’d had a proper ride. Me and SuperBri rode to Ingleby Greenhow, from Great Ayton - I’ll be paying council tax if I visit that place any more often. We continued up towards Clay Bank, roads awash with melting snow but thankfully the ice seems to have gone. Turning off into Greenhow Plantation, we began removing layers, the ambient temperature has improved by again. Soggy fire roads through the trees took us to Bank Foot farm, the fire roads are so soaked with water it is like riding over a damp carpet, sucking the tyres down, making what is usually a pleasant blast into hard work. At Bank Foot, we turned right at The Grim Sheaper and powered up the hill towards Turkey Nab, my 52 tooth SRAM Eagle cassette being tested for the first time. Disappointingly, ascending wasn’t that much easier, the larger chainring on the front and the draggy track almost cancelling out the benefit. At the gate we headed into the woods to check out the trail called Borrowed Time, a green graded run we originally found on Trailforks. The start has suffered from some tree felling but we pressed on hoping it would improve, which it did but only in small sections before vanishing completely in an imbroglio of wood cuttings and undergrowth towards the end. It goes without saying we weren’t lost, only temporarily misplaced, especially when we came to a roaring stream I’ve never seen in my life. Unlike Hansel and Gretel, we managed to find our way out of the forest without a cannibalistic witch trying to get her teeth into our flesh (sounds remarkably like a night out in Darlington) and rode without incident back to Great Ayton.  

Watch Out For Overhanging Branches.

Third day on the trot, we gave the village of Swainby the benefit of our company for a change, rather longer than we would have liked, as we waited for The Breadlad to enter the same time zone as the rest of the UK. Most of the rides from Swainby begin with ascending the steps in Clain Wood, why should this one be any different? Well, it was slightly different only in that The Breadlad didn’t stop at the top to lay his usual cable, maybe a touch of constipation or perhaps more to do with the group of lady ramblers enjoying the view from the seats. Luckily for them today’s vista didn’t include a squatting crumpet maker. On to Sheepwash, across the ford and up the newly graded (ruined) track; it did yield first ever ascents for all of us though, pedalling the whole way. Along High Lane to the road and continuing to SiIton Woods, where we rode sodden fire roads and the top section of the downhill track, which wasn’t in too bad a condition, before retracing our tyre tracks to High Lane. A few of Rod’s tracks came next, dropping down through the woods to Cote Ghyll, some of his best efforts have been destroyed by tree felling, even the infamous gorse bush alley has suffered. From Cote Ghyll, a couple of miles climbing on tarmac brought us to Arnecliffe Wood, where we rode around the edge of the trees to Scarth Wood Moor. Concentrating on negotiating a patch of snow, I almost failed to see an overhanging branch, the last minute duck was enough to save my Hollywood heartthrob good looks but it caught my bag leaving me briefly hanging while the bike continued riderless along the trail, before dropping me, still in the seated position, into a puddle. The only concern of my companions was that the whole sorry incident hadn’t been captured for posterity. So, with laughter-induced rib-cramp (them) and a wet arse (me), we rode down the paved bridleway crossing Scarth Wood Moor, especially good with today’s tail wind. Reaching the road at Scarth Nick, we decided to explore a track we had spotted earlier in the day, running through some scant woodland at the side of the road. What a piece of serendipity, even in its present winter condition it was a superb bit of track, running parallel to the tarmac, an off-road alternative to the steep bends of Sneck Yate Bank. Twenty odd years I’ve been riding past this spot and never noticed it before. What a finish to a ride.

Dicking About In The Mud.

A slightly iffy weather forecast saw us flinging four quid in Redcar council’s direction for the privilege of parking at Pinchinthorpe Visitor Centre, ready for a scrounge about in Guisborough Woods. Predictably, it was raining lightly when we first arrived, so The Breadlad waited until it had ceased before joining us, ensuring we wouldn’t have to ride in rain; his kindness and forethought are unlimited, the bread factory’s loss is our gain. Our route consisted of riding up fire roads soggier than the Spongebob’s square pants, the only exclamations between the panting being;

“By it’s draggy”

“Does my back tyre look flat?”

“This is hard work.”

“Is it time for the cafe yet?”

What goes up must come down, usually slithering in muddy ruts which are decent trails in the summer. A few of the higher trails were still filled with (deep) snow, as we found to our cost but generally the lower we went the better things were. The weather turned out surprisingly good, apart from the gale force wind and a grand day was had by all - if sliding about in mud and wading through knee deep snow drifts is your idea of a grand day. It was a brief route, low on miles but big on smiles, with a disproportionate amount of ascent, so pretty standard for a Guisborough ride out. And the cherry on the top? The cafe is open, takeaway only, of course, apparently there's a virus or something going round, so we have to sit in a field to eat our food, which is no hardship really, looking at the state of us, wet and mud-covered we shouldn’t be allowed indoors anyway. 

As usual the route names are the Strava names. Strava pseudonym Lordy Lardy.