If Only There Had Been Some Fog... then we’d have had every type of weather.

 Sunshine...and snow, hail and thunder. Welcome to May.

There is a distinct lack of personnel this week, I’m sure a Jimmy Saville appreciation society would have a better turnout than people wanting a bit of off-road excitement on the moors. It appears everyone is busily engrossed in something called work, or having car problems, or laid up with a bad back like The Breadlad, who has been diagnosed with sciatica from a slipped disc. Unkind people have suggested it was piriformis syndrome, which mimics the symptoms of sciatica, its other name is Fat Wallet Syndrome, caused by sitting on a bulging wallet, considering the legendary frugality of The Breadlad, it is an obvious but erroneous,  conclusion which is why we are not doctors. And The Ginger One is not a gynaecologist but he’s always willing to have a good look - free of charge. All this prolix (or bollox, if you prefer) is to explain why I was the lonely boy on a bike, contemplating the dubious puddle in Kildale Station car park, next to the toilet block, never been known to dry up, obviously a leak but is it ‘before’ water or ‘after’ water? Best not drink any to be on the safe side. But it was a fine sunny day, if we were in early February it would be a grand day, kind of disappointing for early May though, with a temperature well below double figures. As we’re trapped on this damp and chilly island for the foreseeable future, until Boris decides we can have a proper holiday, we’ll have to make the most of it. Would you look at that, I’ve just bashed out the thick end of three hundred words and we haven’t even left the car park.

Anyway, some bike riding happened, starting with a road warm up, all the way up Percy Cross Rigg and down to Sleddale, an ascent of Codhill Heights, through the gate to the seat behind Highcliffe Nab. A quick push up beside the wall, the rutted path has been filled in but only with soil, which the recent rain has left a bit squelchy. Approaching the start of The Riddler, I spotted another trail disappearing into the trees, being a companionless outcast with nobody’s feelings to worry about, a bit of exploration was in order. At first I thought I was riding the trail the wrong way, it climbed for a bit but when it dipped down in the good gravity direction all became apparent, it is a superb trail, a little slippery but a few dry days ought to sort it. I rode it as far as the trees near the path to Codhill Heights gate but according to Trailforks it drops down the old track beside the wall, the one parallel to the Highcliffe fire road, joins the new extension to the start of The Chute, ultimately joining The Chute for what will be an awesome experience; I only rode the top part because I didn’t want to lose too much height, forty odd years as a process operator taught me nothing but how to conserve energy. It is called The SuperChute on Trailforks, link here.

Some other trails were ridden, mainly old favourites, on Milkman Vs Batman, I was indulging in a spot of selfie gratification with the GoPros when, once again, God’s dandruff began to fall from the sky, an unwelcome aggregation of snow, hail and sleet. Charming. Fortunately it was brief. I made my way back toward Codhill Heights, slipping in another loop of the top of SuperChute before I headed back toward Kildale, arriving just in time for a bout of sloppy wet snow to make a mockery of the calendar. 

The Novelty Of Snow In May Is Beginning To Wear Off. 

Just to prove I’m not a sad loner, bereft of companionship, I was joined today by Oz, a newly confirmed member of the retired gentlemen’s club, ready to enjoy his first ride as a free man. He’s having a hard time believing he doesn’t have to go back to work, at present still thinking he is just on a ten day break or something. He asked if I had the same problem when I retired, me being someone who could forget about work while I was actually on shift, sitting in the control room, he’s probably asking the wrong person. Although I still have an occasional dream that I’m trying to get to work, running round the shops for food to last the shift, when I’m already late for the shift change over.  It was a bit of a late start or various reasons, so we met at the old favourite Great Ayton at the tail end of another sunny but cold morning. We rode to Guisborough Woods via Fletchers Farm and Aireyholme Farm; The Ginger One, who hasn’t graced us with his presence for over a month now, has taken to calling Guisborough Woods, Jizzborough Woods as a way of expressing his disapproval of the place, or maybe he had some sort of #vanlife bukake party in Pinchinthorpe car park, which went tragically wrong. Either way, he refuses to countenance the place, will not sully his tyres with the fine North Yorkshire loam, hard to understand  but he is from Darlington, where logic and reasoning don’t rise much above the need for food and alcohol.

As Oz found out today, there is a lot to go at nowadays in Guisborough, new trails are appearing overnight and old trails are being opened up again, perhaps one of the positive aspects of furlough? We rode trails old and new, failed at jumps, slithered down muddy chutes and panted up slopes, two retiree’s enjoying the last of the summer wine - there could be a TV series in this, until snow stopped play; big, claggy wet flakes, drenching us and everything around us. Cold and wet, we stopped in the shop at Fletcher’s Farm for a coffee, the seating area is an open-fronted barn in the farmyard, where two turkeys with faces like melted plastic, strut around like Max and Paddy. They took an audible dislike to Oz, gobbling at full volume and chasing him round the barn, audible became physical, with pecking and jumping attacks. Oz took refuge in the shop while the young assistant tried, unsuccessfully, to shoo them away. Eventually, they got bored of waiting for Oz to reappear and wandered off so we could have our drinks in peace. Cold, wet peace as the weather again reverted to December standards.

If Only There Had Been Some Fog...

Then we’d have had every type of weather.

When Andrew Gold released his song, Lonely Boy in 1977, he couldn’t possibly have envisaged it would be an earworm for a lone cyclist on the highways and byways of North Yorkshire forty four years later. Again I have less companions than Smelly Robertson, the loneliest person at our school, his lack of hygiene and dubious personal habits made you wonder how he ever became a teacher at all, let alone the headmaster. But there I was, slogging up The Yellowbrick Road and Percy Cross Rigg, heading to Guisborough Woods for the third day in a row, on a mission, should I choose to accept it,  to find more new trails, which might tempt a few people away from settee and central heating and into the wide blue yonder (wherever that is). And successful it was too, a few dead ends but a couple of belters, one of which looks like it is the work of Ralph, of One Man and His Dog fame, giving a very enjoyable ride down from the Hanging Stone.

Everything is a bit treacherous after days of rain and snow but in the dry, they will be awesome. In the dry, now there’s optimism for you, although back in 1976 when we had the heatwave to end all heatwaves, when I had finished college and was waiting to enter the world of employment, six weeks of Mediterranean temperatures, which unfortunately didn’t lead to six weeks of relaxed Mediterranean attitudes, the longer the heat lasted, the more surly and ill-tempered Britain became, culminating in a steep rise in the incidence of violence and murder. This is why God doesn’t let us have nice weather. The point being, May 1976 saw bitter cold and snow which led to the best summer of the century. Could history repeat itself? Are weather patterns cyclic? Did David Bellamy get sacked from the telly for being right? Anyway, back to May 2021 and the sound of hailstones bouncing of my napper as I ride along, exposed skin stinging, misery being compounded by the fact that under normal circumstances, we would be in Spain this time of year, enjoying dry and dusty trails courtesy of Sierra Mountain Biking, instead of freezing our metaphorical tits off in North Yorkshire. On the way back to the car, I looked into Cliff Rigg Quarry, not a kid in sight, so it was safe to continue with my efforts at getting both wheels in the air at the same time without fear of barely-contained sniggers from the youths of Great Ayton. After another fusillade of unseasonal weather, I took the hint and headed back for a soggy and cold tailgate picnic.

As usual clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page. 

April Showers. April 2021 Round Up and Video.

 April Showers. April 2021 Round Up and Video.

April started so well but like the story of my life, failed to fulfil its early promise. We began the month riding dry, dusty trails in the sunshine and finished with wet, greasy trails, mudguards and waterproofs. The penultimate day of April flung a blizzard at us, just so we didn’t get complacent. We had some grand rides though, a trio of Hamsterley trips, the Cold Moor descent in first class condition and plenty more channelling of our inner teenagers at various jump spots. Naturally we only attempted anything when said teenagers were elsewhere, just because we didn’t want to embarrass them. A good selection of riders out this month too, thirteen different people - it just goes to show what a bit of sunshine can do. 

 

The rides for the last week of April are blogged below, and as usual, clicking on the title will take you to the Strava page.

Too many words? Video here. 

Was That A Drop Of Rain I Felt?

It looks as though our glimpse of summer is to be cruelly curtailed this week, if the forecast is anything to go by - and forecasts are always right when they predict bad weather. Keith managed to people traffic more Wearside refugees into North Yorkshire, smuggled, with their bikes, across the treacherous waters of the river Tees, balanced precariously on a lilo from Whitburn Poundland. The dynamic duo of me and Rod swelled us to a quintet when we were joined by Keith, Dan and Paul, all ready and eager for whatever the moors can throw at them. Not as warm as it looks about describes the weather today, being bold, we started cold and warmed up nicely climbing to Roseberry Common ready to point ourselves down some of Guisborough Wood’s finest trails, all in tip top condition owing to a dearth of precipitation for the past few weeks. Unfortunately, the enjoyment of shredding trails must be tempered with the pain of riding up to the next one; shredding, hah, with a combined age well in excess of 250 years, enthusiasm was more evident than style. We introduced the Sunderland crew to loads of our favourite trails, which were steep and dry, which is better than the more usual steep and wet, casualties were kept to a minimum.

Eventually we ended up below Highcliffe Nab and had a think about our next move, travel further into the woods or one last down and up to finish the day. We decided on option two, Lover’s Ledge, a long and varied Guissy classic, with a stereotypical steep finish, always better in the dry. It begins on a singletrack through the trees below Highcliffe Nab before turning left to traverse a felled hillside, some of us more ‘vintage’ riders can remember when the route went through trees all the way, plunging all the way to the bottom of the woods. And now we had to get ourselves back over the hill to regain our picnics. Tired and hungry, we climbed back through the forest, taking in the double track of Shin Diggerty as a penultimate treat, a weave through trees and roots, always good for a laugh as deeply subjugated competitive tendencies come to the fore. Rather than climb back up to Roseberry Common, we took the old Brant Gate bridleway, curving around the side of Roseberry Topping, first time I’d been on it for years, a treat today, narrow, dry and rocky all the way down. A mainly level track through Newton Wood took us back to Great Ayton and picnic time by the river, a grand day out and the weather stayed dry, although a few drops of water did manage to squeeze their way out of the clouds, unknown to us then but a harbinger of the days to come.  

When Life Throws You A Rainy Day - Play In The Puddles

Light showers and sunny intervals, weather man speak for waiting for a call from Noah, the showers merged into a continuous downpour and the sunny intervals were less frequent than The Breadlad paying to park. As the saying goes “we’re here now...” and we had driven all the way to Hamsterley Forest because Simon T. enjoyed it so much last week. Today a bit of off-piste was planned, so, in defiance of the weather, we climbed up through the forest onto the moor of Doctor’s Gate and dropped down the rutted 4x4 track back to top of Rocky Road in the forest. The Doctor’s Gate track seems to have tripled in width since  last time I rode it but it was still fun despite having to remove my glasses, I wonder what Elton John did with his windscreen wiper specs, they would have come in handy today. An off-piste trail called Hidden Gem was next on the agenda, we thought being deep in the woods it might have escaped the soaking but no, more wet roots than a hairdressers after lockdown. Beehives wasn’t much better, I’ve never been 100% certain whether Beehives is an official route or not, the lack of signage makes me think it isn’t but there are some features which do look man-made (or at least ‘improved’), like the rock drop near the end; it is the most well known bit of off-piste, it seems to have been there forever, even though the beehives which gave it the name have long gone. Realising today is probably not the day for off-piste, we reverted to the hot-lap, beginning with Odd Sox, riding slippy rocks and wet gravel to the valley bottom before the long climb up to Polties Last Blast, the start of the Quintet Of Quality, continuing down K Line, Transmission, Accelerator and finishing with Nitrous. The usual snack stop at the stone altar on Transmission was brief today, some people think the raised rock slab is a table but it looks more like an altar for sacrifices to pagan gods; this close to Darlington anything is possible, although I imagine virgins are in very short supply. 

By now, the rain had became an unrelenting drizzle, that sort of fine rain which sneaks into every nook and cranny but, as the saying goes, “once you’re wet, you can’t get any wetter.” and we had an ascent of Cough Up A Lung Lane to warm us up. Reaching the Descend car park at the top, lungs burning like the devil’s arse crack, we began our descent of the ‘other’ side of the valley, sticking to the official routes, wet rocks, teflon roots and no spectacles making for a cautious ride, for me anyway. Simon was in his full power ranger outfit and showed no such qualms. As is usual on days like these, the sun came out as we hit the car park, although it didn’t last for long. It’s a long time since the spare clothes in the car boot were brought out but today was the day and trying to get changed beneath a tartan travel rug (all old people have a tartan rug, the government issue them when you turn 60, along with a spatula and an envelope - you’ll find out what that’s for when you’re 60) and not be arrested for indecent exposure is never easy, especially when you forget to remove your knee pads first.

An Actual Blizzard!

Another showery with sunny intervals start, in a turn up for the books we were joined by Oz which makes two rides in the same month, he must be practicing for his impending retirement. Keith had driven down from Sunderland and Rod’s week off work is continuing, so we had a little crew to tackle whatever North Yorkshire could throw at us. The latest in a long line of Terra Trailblazer’s gruesome starts is the ascent of Coleson Banks, from Battersby to the Baysdale Abbey road on Battersby Moor, formerly this track was destroyed by 4x4’s, ruts two metres deep in places but it has been filled in and resurfaced, although some ruts are beginning to reappear on the steeper sections. I imagine there are people who can cycle up this while chatting and pulling wheelies - we were not amongst them, it wasn’t long before pushing was the name of the game. From the gate near the top, it is possible to ride the remainder, unless your technical riding is not up to mud and loose rocks and your stalling ruins the no-dabs ascents for the rest of the team. Sorry lads, I’ll do better next time. We followed the Cleveland Way for a little while, heading south, before turning off onto the bridleway across Ingleby Moor, a typical broad and stoney North York Moors track, plunging down to Black Beck before climbing steeply out again, as we panted upwards, the grey clouds caught us up and  began drop celestial dandruff, a combination of light snow and hailstones, not what you would expect when it’s May in two days. Wind behind us, we rode towards Armoth Wath, turning off onto the Old Coal Road before the track drops down to Armoth Wath; we climbed steadily to Burton Howe, still with the benefit of a tailwind. The fantastic foursome, looking like an advert for Sanatogen Tonic Wine or Saga Holidays,  scooted along to Bloworth Crossing, following the Cleveland Way, did a U turn into the wind and headed back on the old rail track, stopping at the Incline Top to inspect the scale model of the track and buildings which used to be there.

My childhood memories of playing in the remnants of the buildings were largely ignored as the flurries became heavier, coalescing into clumps of snow and we were heading back straight into it. Regaining the Cleveland Way, we pedalled bravely on, like Arctic explorers pushing for the North Pole, keeping an eye out for polar bears and igloos built without planning permission. Our usual meandering route back to Turkey Nab was shelved in favour of the more direct, straight down the hill approach, steamed up glasses removed again for the descent, exposed skin numbed by the blasting of horizontal snow and wind. Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the wee donkey, as Superintendent Hastings might say, it was getting worse, we were now riding in an actual blizzard, finding out that snowflakes in the eyes smart like being flicked across the eyeball with a tea towel. And the other three all had bare knees, ignoring my sage advice to keep them covered until May. We dropped down Turkey Nab to the gate and entered a different universe, a universe where the sun shone and bathed the land in it’s munificent warmth. Some dog walkers looked at us quizzically, four men on the verge of middle-age, covered in melting snow, eyes streaming, faces glowing red as the blood supply was restored, wringing out wet gloves, while they strolled the path, oblivious to the icy hell a couple of hundred feet higher. Revitalised by the change in the weather, we went for a play in the woods, introducing Keith and Oz to the trails of Battersby Plantation, we sessioned a few sections with the enthusiasm of youths but doubtless without their lack of regard for personal injury. Eventually hunger lured us back to the car park, where the weather was so kind we were even able to get the picnic chairs out. Things couldn’t have been more different from an hour or so earlier.

Playing In The Woods - Again.

It was looking quite promising this morning until I started getting the bike out and the first few drops of rain began to spatter my ever-expanding forehead, once I wouldn’t have felt it for all the hair. Owing to the lockdown, I’m looking like the love child of Bill Bailey and Max Wall, if everyone had been sticking to the lockdown rules, you’d all look similar; like Chicago speakeasies in the Prohibition, those underground barber shops must have been making a killing. Driving to meet Rod at Birk Brow, the rain evolved into lashing showers, streaming from the grey sky like arrows at Agincourt, Birk Brow was virtually in the clouds, all around was opaque, we were viewing the world through a giant cataract, or what little of the world we could view, the other side of the road behind the burger van was about it, a road thronged with Bank Holiday traffic heading for Whitby or Scarborough or perhaps, Pickering. Twenty grand spent on a caravan so you can sit in a field and watch Coronation Street - each to their own. We headed down towards Slapewath via a wooded bridleway and amazingly the weather began to improve, not to the early summer standard we’re used to on the last day of April but the rain eased off and the clouds lifted. The trails in Spring Wood were suffering though, wet and greasy and nowhere near as much fun to ride than when me and The Breadlad were here... I’m tempted to say, in the summer but it was only a fortnight ago, in those halcyon days of sunshine and dry trails. We still attempted a few though, in our own inimitable style - cautious with extra caution. After a while, we moved on, crossing the road, pedaling to Guisborough Woods, where the more heavily wooded trails were still quite dry and fairly enjoyable. A little play about on the One Man And His Dog trails finished the day for us, hunger had set in and we couldn’t be tardy riding back up Birk Brow because if you leave it too late there are no onions left for the burgers.