Another memorable month, memorable for being the coldest August since the last Ice Age or something, add an unreasonable amount of rain and you can’t help wondering why we put ourselves through it. Are we undaunted, indomitable or just particularly masochistic? The rides continued throughout the month and we enjoyed every one despite the vagaries of the British climate.

First ride of the month saw us at a gloomy Square Corner, my Santa Cruz glad to be back on fat tyres after the indignity of running 1.5” slicks for the C2C. Dave rejoined us, leaving the task of defending this green and pleasant land from hostile powers to the rest of the Army. We set off straight up the Mad Mile, not without some murmurs of dissent from the back marker, before too long we were being blown along the Drove Road by a distinctly nippy North wind. An enjoyable plunge down the rhododendron-choked gullies of Atlay Bank saw us loose the height we’d recently gained. Our altitude was regained with an ascent of Kepwick Bank, still a slog even though it’s on tarmac, at the top we continued straight ahead, thankfully downward, to Arden Hall, made our way to Hawnby via Coombe Hill, where the chip pan was fired up for the pork and apple burger special. Satiated we left the café into a light drizzle which became a monsoon-like downpour before we’d even left the village. Big, tough, men of the mountains laugh at such weather; we sheltered in the bus shelter until it stopped. A steady plod up to Low Thwaites was despatched with, it must be said, an undue amount of whining from certain members of our coterie, namely the most junior and the most senior, whose verbal abuse was mainly directed toward the route planner. The route planner was brought up to believe the opinions of those who employ foul language are beneath consideration, so they were ignored before being led down some sublime moorland singletrack which restored their previous good humour, except for the blind pensioner whose perpetual grumpiness is only relieved by tongue-lashing unwitting cold-callers or finding a toll-free layby outside a pay and display car park. Bashing our way through a section of wet, head-height bracken, ended with our bikes draped in greenery, looking like a camouflage bicycle patrol from the 1940’s Home Guard. We continued to Snilesworth, then tarmac took us to the Dale Head singletrack, fun as usual, before we rejoined the road near Square Corner, as we neared the cars it began to drizzle again, too late to bother us now, we thought. Within seconds some almighty force punished us for the casual profanity and blasphemy, which is the usual soundtrack to our rides, by hurling buckets of water from above, drenching us as we tried to get our bikes packed away. Simon almost caused passing motorists to crash as they marvelled at the sight of a thinly ginger-haired man wearing nothing but a pair of damp underpants sheltering from the torrential downpour under a golf umbrella. Probably wouldn’t seem out of place in his home town of Darlington.

Gluttons for punishment that we are, the very next day we assembled at a surprisingly dry Hamsterley Forest for round two. The weather gods were pleased by our attitude and gave us a good day, even throwing in a bit of sunshine. We rode a combination of the best bits of the red and black routes without the majority of the tedious fire-road drags which mar the designated routes. Great fun it was too, Transmission, Section 13, Route 666, Brainfreeze and all the old favourites. Finishing off on the skills loop, we found our skills mainly lacking. Karma came round and bit us back later though, when we went to our favourite café on the A68 and it was (again) closed. We’re beginning to think there’s a conspiracy of café owners to prevent mud-covered middle-aged men from leaving footprints all over their floors.

Our next ride was on more familiar territory, Clay Bank to Kildale via The Rim, that lovely singletrack around the edge of Urra Moor. Another sunny day for us to enjoy, things are getting a bit swampy underfoot however. Some futile attempts to style it up around a tricky boulder Gave us all a good laugh, especially Simon’s sideways topple into the bracken. After The Rim we rode back up to Round Hill, the highest point on the North York Moors, then followed the Cleveland Way to Kildale, or more importantly Glebe Cottage. Refreshed, we had a more leisurely ride back through Battersby and Greenhow plantations, even the last tarmac drag up to the car park didn’t seem too bad.

Back to Pinchinthorpe for our fourth ride of the month and another good turnout to explore some esoteric gems of around Guisborough Woods and further afield. Although most appeared more interested in trying out the new Purple Mountain café at the visitor centre, I can’t help feeling some would have preferred to miss out the aching legs and sweaty brows and pile straight into the coffee and cakes. Some robust encouragement soon had us making our way gradually uphill, after which it all went downhill in more ways than one. The recent wet weather which marred most of August left the tracks greasier than we’d have liked, this coupled with our prodigious lack of ability, meant the possibility of a fall was never far away. This possibility was realised many times by those of us who have yet to understand discretion is the better part of valour. Mud, blood and bruises ensued.

Last day of our eighteen days off, so we took ourselves off to Whinlatter for a blast round the Altura and Quercus trails, it even stayed dry, despite a gloomy start to the morning. The slate trails were a little slippy which calmed us down somewhat, Lakeland rock being a bit harsher to fall on than North Yorkshire mud. Everyone enjoyed the ride though, the trails flowed, the views were sublime and for a the odd brief moment we were cycling gods - well, in our imaginations anyway. One of our number let the side down by parking up the road to avoid the car parking fee. How does he imagine the trails are paid for? Being a half-blind, half-deaf pensioner is no excuse, you tight old git. No names of course.

Our last ride of the month and another good turnout, half a dozen of us met at Lordstones for what turned out to be quite a hard ride, which included the Cold Moor descent followed by an ascent of the Bilsdale Mast road which succumbed to puffing, panting and profanity. Howard and Oz’s slow-motion tussle to be first to top out kept the rest of us also-rans amused. From the mast we headed across the moor to Arnesgill Ridge, then Whorlton Moor and Swainby Shooting House, then down the bank in Clain Woods and along Scugdale before the usual heartbreaking ascent from Scugdale Hall to Bilsdale West Moor. Only the tantalizing proximity of the café kept weary legs turning as we passed 3,000 feet ascent.