To Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way!

Up just before 0600hrs and eating porridge before quarter past the hour, with tea. I was feeling chipper this morning, unlike Saturday, although I'm beginning to believe dear old dad and his words of wisdom about being 'out in the garden'. It's true, there's something therapeutic about it, being in the fresh air, doing things, like chopping down plants and shrubs that should have been chopped back weeks ago. Actually, it was Friday, not Saturday. Saturday was when I bagged up all the twigs and thistles and took them to the municipal dump; that's always a tad depressing. I get the feeling that the people I see down at the dump don't wash themselves. They turn up with a car full of crap in their grey track suit bottoms and lurid orange trainers and worn out old tee-shirts, pale, bloated stomachs exposed, and for some reason I think to myself, 'I bet you just jumped out of bed and came here'. I probably only think that because I too have done the very same, but not on this occasion.

Going to the dump is always miserable. There's the hassle of parking and then getting all the bagged up shit out of the boot, finding the right skip in which to sling it... it's a pain. But once it's done and dusted and I'm driving home, the boot empty, there's a feeling of accomplishment. Rubbish has been disposed of, the garden looks neat and tidy, something has been achieved, meaning I can relax a little.

Andy rides through an icy puddle on Saturday morning

Saturday there was no way I was going cycling, but I didn't realise this until it was time to leave the house. I'd gotten up around 0600hrs, just like today; I'd gone downstairs and made the porridge and the tea, just like today; and I'd made the tea for the ride, put four teabags in a mug and dispensed milk from the bottle into my special cycling bottle, just like today. But when push came to shove I simply wasn't up to it (see previous posts for the reason). So I sent Andy a late 'abort' text. Sending an abort text after 0700hrs is sinful because it means that the other person is likely to be out of the house and en route to the green, meaning that even if they'd wanted to lie in, even if they'd been hoping for an abort text before they left the house, it hadn't come and would only arrive once they were out in the cold, on the bike and on the way. I didn't feel good about it.

Having spent time in the garden yesterday, I had filled my heart and soul with hope and its little flame burned through the night and was still lively when I awoke this morning, at 0554hrs, minutes before Radio London piped up. I felt good and I was glad. Porridge eaten, tea finished, I found my boots, prepared the flask and headed outside. Last week I cycled along Ellenbridge feeling a little bit light-headed and when I reached the green I considered calling it day, but persevered and rode the fast way to the bus stop. Today I felt fine, just a little apprehensive, but all was fine and Andy was at the green when I arrived. We decided to head the slow way to the bus stop and the journey was fairly uneventful. It wasn't as cold as yesterday, Andy remarked, but that hadn't stopped me wearing the balaclava and four layers of clothing. Fortunately, there was no rain.

We sat at the bus stop and discussed cheap bikes with block brakes and how it's possible to buy one for £99. I said I'd put a new saddle on it and some decent gears and I might buy some new bars. Andy said that I had the opportunity to do just that last year, but decided instead to buy a more expensive bike (the Specialized Rockhopper 29). Yes, because I wanted something reliable and I wanted decent brakes, negating the entire argument about buying a cheap bike in the first place. Well, yes and no. The point was this: for what we do, a cheap bike would suffice, it's that simple. It's like owning an iPhone, nobody needs that much computing power.

It was time to head home.

"I hate the ride home," said Andy as we prepared to ride off. "I just want to be there."
"Yes, but that's the point," I replied. "The great thing about cycling is you cycle out somewhere and you have to cycle back."
"There's always a headwind too," Andy groaned.
"Yes there is and it's always on the ride home," I said as we pedalled towards Botley Hill and then put our feet on the gas along the 269.

At the green we parted company. I let Andy go first and then, delicately, I set off too. I was fine and I was glad to be out in the fresh air. While the weather was cold – let's make that 'crisp' – the skies were fairly clear and the light fantastic. Photographers' weather, Andy had said earlier, before admitting that he couldn't be bothered to get off the bike. "That means you're a cyclist, not a photographer," I said, but Andy said it was too cold to get off the bike. He had a point.