What A Grand Day For A Mad Mile

A Swainby start today, reached by driving through a widespread fog which seems to be covering the whole of our little corner of North East England. One of those lucky quirks of meteorology occurred as I unloaded the car, the sun began to shine on the righteous. As everyone knows, mountain bikers are more righteous than most other humans, so we deserve a bit of good weather, especially those who haven’t yet succumbed to Billy Bosch mobility bikes. The mist began to drift away and the pedal out of Swainby was in bright sunshine, the uphill pedal, followed by the uphill walk (up the Clain Wood steps) leading to more uphill pedalling until I was at the gate on Scarth Wood Moor. A couple of pictures, a glance at the view and I was withdrawing my deposit in the gravity bank with a downhill blast to the road outside Osmotherley. And a quick left turn to Cod Beck reservoir, looking resplendent in the winter sunshine. I pedalled up through the woods to High Lane, making my way to Square Corner, from where I would usually go for a scrounge about the trails in Silton Woods but not today, some type of perversion overcame me and I found myself puffing and panting up the Mad Mile, all four hundred loose and rocky feet of it. From the cairn at the top, I made a short detour to the summit of Black Hambleton, somewhere I haven’t been since I was a kid despite many subsequent visits to the Mad Mile. It is another of North Yorkshire’s collection of uninspiring summits, a trig point in a sea of heather, the only way to get a pleasing view is to stand on the trig point. And then I rode down again, somewhat more speedily than I rode up it must be said, the descent untroubled by ramblers, canines or stray sheep. Magnificent, worth every moment of toil on the ascent. I retraced my tyre tracks to High Lane, all the way to the ford at Sheepwash, from where tarmac, with the exception of one minor off-road diversion took me back to Swainby and a picnic for one in the bus shelter.

Greyer Than A Tramp's Y Fronts.

Misplaced optimism, a phrase more usually used to for the gambling fraternity, especially where erstwhile Terra Trailblazer, The Ginger One was concerned with his succession of equine errors. Today, however, it was a misguided belief the weather would improve - it didn’t, the whole day remained grey, there was only one splash of colour in the comprehensive palette of greyness and that was me. The car park at Birk Brow is no place to be on a day like this, judging by the lack of vehicles, a sentiment shared by many. The Quaker’s Causeway was even lonelier, sandstone paving, darkened by drizzle, in an ocean of black heather, stretching up into an anaemic sky, already a place which strikes terror into the hearts of those soft of buttock and weak of core. Suffice to say, I was alone. Mud was more of a nuisance today, the unpaved sections gelatinous, it was a relief to emerge onto the road and follow it to a better bridleway above Commondale, which leads down through fields to the village itself. From Fowle Green, on the edge of Commondale, a wide track parallels the Esk Valley railway to Castleton, keeping low, out of the claggy conditions higher up. I paused for a picture of the two resident llamas which are probably as baffled as anyone why they are in North Yorkshire not Peru. Crossing the road at Castleton, I continued through Danby Park, which has none of the attributes of a real park, no bandstand, playground or seedy toilet block filled with paedophiles or discarded syringes. No idea these country folk. I pedalled up the road from Danby, back into the murky sky, turning off onto Robin Hood’s Butts and following it all the way back to the Shaun The Sheep bus shelter, ready for the return match with the Quaker’s Causeway. Some of my compatriots regard riding the causeway twice in one ride as only marginally less perverse than Fred and Rose West but some of us are made of sterner stuff and it wasn't too long before my fortitude was rewarded with a bacon cheeseburger from the van at the car park.

A Few Miles With Miles.

Managed to score myself a companion today, albeit briefly, before the world of work reclaimed him. We set off from Miles’ house, which is attractively situated next to Guisborough Woods, if Carlsberg did riding companions and all that and made our way, predictably enough, into said forest. As always in Guisborough things began with a substantial chunk of climbing, which is okay for battery boy Miles but not so much fun for us un-electrified kids. Despite the wintry conditions, the trails are showing slight signs of drying up, making them a bit more fun to ride. Essentially we cherry-picked our way from one end of the forest to the other before heading back into Miles’ estate - housing estate, that is, he’s not a lord or anything. Or he’s keeping it a secret if he is. He had to resume his labours, as they say, while I had to return to indolence for the remainder of the afternoon. Sometimes a time constraint can focus the mind and we had still managed to squeeze in almost a dozen miles, a canny bit of climbing and some classic trails, time spent like that is never wasted.

Clicking on the route names will take you to the Strava page for the route. Where you can marvel at how slow we are.

Not Bad For A Wet Day In February

Wending my lonely way from Great Ayton (yes again) towards Guisborough Woods, my mind suddenly had other ideas and I found myself heading for Ingleby Incline. Yes, that Ingleby Incline, a brutal climb or a personal speed record descent depending which way you are going; 47.6 mph for me but that was when I was younger and injuries were less traumatic. Today, however, it was the fight against gravity direction and it was every bit as difficult as it has always been. At the summit there is a cast model of how it used to look when it was a busy terminus, where trains pulling wagons of iron ore from the mines in Rosedale would uncouple and send the trucks hurtling down the incline, attached to a steel rope which pulled up the empty trucks from the previous delivery. As recently as when I was a child, buildings were still standing, even though the line last saw use in 1929, the only remains now are some chunks of masonry by the trackside. More information on the history can be found here.

Suitably refreshed, I rode up to the Cleveland Way, climbing gently to the turn off at Tidy Brown Hill, where the track drops down across Battersby Moor to eventually meet the Baysdale Road above Kildale. This is still one of my favourite tracks to ride, a gravelled double-track, declining just enough to get a decent bit of speed without having to bring the coward levers into action. The road down to Kildale is steeper and straying sheep are the main hazard. At Kildale, turning left would take me directly back to the car but being in a masochistic mood, for various reasons this was my first ride of the week - on a Thursday and despite the gloom and the drizzle I wanted more riding, so I took the right turn, through Kildale and along to New Row. More climbing, from New Row, up the Yellowbrick Road to Percy Cross Rigg, which I followed to the moor gate, pedalling around the Lonsdale Bowl before dropping down to Gribdale via the infamous Fingerbender Bank. One pensioner, one finger, one tumble onto the rocks, six weeks of moaning, you get the idea. From Gribdale, a pleasant if moist descent soon had me back to the metropolis of Great Ayton.

Old Blokes In The Mud

It has been a sparse week on the riding front, so I broke the habit of a lifetime and rode on a Saturday, mingling with, as guys from the wonderful world of shift work, what we knew as day workers, or as The Ginger One liked to designate them “day scum” but he is from Darlington. Anyway, plenty of them turned out today, Superbri, Miles and Rod all trying to squeeze a bit of joy into a mere two days before they return to work. We converged on Swainby and rode uphill towards Whorlton, pausing when we noticed the gate to Whorlton Castle (which is actually the keep) was unlocked. Some of our party have never visited the old place so we popped in for a scrounge about. Curiosity satiated, we continued to Faceby Woods for a play on the trails and jumps scattered throughout the wooded hillside, prior to climbing most of the way up Carlton Bank before breaking off across the moor to the head of Scugdale. Our next treat was the long bridleway which drops down to Scugdale Hall, as this winter has been wetter than a nun in cucumber field, the track was in a shocking state, filthier than a Hartlepool hen party and we slithered down half a mile of mud and water, emerging onto the road at Scugdale Hall looking as though we had been pebble-dashed. Tarmac took us to Harfa Bank, where we made our way into Clain Woods to ride a last trail before heading down into Swainby to sample the ‘new’ cafe, which is actually the old cafe, except it is under new ownership and only open on weekends. Quite nice too, it made having to spend time with day scum worthwhile.

Hail! The Hard Rain.

Less than 48 hours after mingling with day workers, I am back in more familiar company, with a shift-working, crumpet-fiddler, albeit one who has found a tiny window in his international jet-setting diary to fit in a ride. We were politely but firmly asked to remove our cars from the village hall car park in Danby by a lady wearing an official looking lanyard because “there are events on all day.” We acquiesced because we are nice guys but mainly because we didn’t fancy spending the rest of the day inside a wicker man waiting to be burnt alive at nightfall as sacrifices to make the crops more productive. Our ride began with a climb, followed by some more climbing, culminating in another climb, which (eventually) brought us, via Ainthorpe Rigg and New Way to the gate at the start of the Cut Road, or as we know it, the Trough House track, a glorious piece of moorland riding which curves across the head of Fryup Dale, offering spectacular views down into the valley. Somewhat less than glorious today, a wintry shower froze our faces and gave us ice cream headaches before turning to hail, brutally solid rain which flayed any exposed areas of skin. We emerged onto the road at the other end of the track cold and wet, dropping down the tarmac to pick up another off-road track which leads down from Hart Leap to Bainley Bank. The rain and hail had moved on by now but it was so cold the dog from the house near the bottom of the track couldn’t even be bothered to come out and bark at us. Some road riding, on a very minor road, along Great Fryup Dale took us to Duck Bridge, below Danby Castle. After crossing the bridge, we continued through the hamlet of Ainthorpe to Danby and the plethora of delights on offer in the cafe.

Wicked Wind

It looks as though we have reverted to situation normal, me, alone, starting from Great Ayton, being buffeted by a brutal wind, climbing up through the farms to Roseberry Common ready for another scrounge about Guisborough Woods. I entered the woods via Highcliffe Nab, heading directly for the base of the cliffs rather than risking being blown off the top. A pleasant trail took me to the fire road below the nab, where things were a bit more sheltered. I was lacking companions today, even Chad, my imaginary friend wouldn’t come out, the creaking and groaning was emanating from the conifers not the old gadgies who occasionally venture out with me. Living life on the edge, I rode a few trails anyway, the possibility of being crushed beneath a fir tree while angry squirrels gnaw at my extremities adding an extra frisson of excitement to the day. Excitement couldn’t trump hunger and it wasn’t long before I was retracing my tyre tracks through the farms to Great Ayton and the myriad delights of the local butcher’s shop.

Back Before The Rain.

In the face of a truly appalling afternoon forecast, I got out as early as I could manage and had a quick spin around the moors, which was quite early seeing as there was no waiting about for The Breadlad. To maximise the mileage versus time equation, the long start was utilised, Great Ayton to Kildale, to Percy Cross Rigg, about eight miles of tarmac before going off road into Guisborough Woods. Every trail I looked at was about as appealing as an evening watching soap operas, mainly mud and water-filled ruts where there once flowed berms. The more open Little Roseberry trail was surprisingly dry though and furnished me with an exhilarating descent to Roseberry Common. I considered looking for more trails but the ominous cloud build up reminded me why I had begun the ride so early. Pausing only to visit the farm shop at Fletcher’s Farm, I made it back to Great Ayton and had everything packed away as the first fat raindrops got settled in for an afternoon of lashing down.