|Yours truly and Andy at the Tatsfield Churchyard.|
|St Mary's Church, Tatsfield.|
"...yes, but the problem with that ride is the hill on the way back."
"Coming out of Godstone, prior to crossing the motorway?"
"Oh, you mean the Eiger?"
"Well, no, it's Ganger's Hill, isn't it?"
"That's what we call the Eiger."
I started to wonder whether another sad blog like mine existed somewhere else in cyberspace, but decided to say nothing. Instead I texted Andy. "Are you awake?" I wrote, cockily, and then, as if by magic, he arrived and we headed for the Tatsfield churchyard, followed by our new acquaintances who overtook us on the 269 and disappeared.
As always, it was a straighforward ride to the churchyard where we sat on a bench, munched our cereal bars and drank tea. Andy told me about his ride to Brighton. I thought he'd cycled there with work colleagues, but apparently they'd all pulled out at the last minute with various excuses, leaving Andy to ride there and back alone. It took him two hours and 30 minutes to get there (39 miles) and three hours and 15 minutes to get back. The racer did well, but it was much more uncomfortable than the mountain bike as every pot hole, every irregularity on the road, rankled.
|Andy makes it to Brighton alone. Photo: Andy Smith|
The ride home was fine until I reached the green. Andy and I had said goodbye and then, as I followed the road round, some stupid idiot decided to open their roadside car door just as I was passing. I swerved and somehow managed to avoid a collision, but only just. All the way home I was dreaming up expletives that I would have used had I come off the bike.