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| Saturday 22nd December, Tatsfield Bus Stop. Pic by Andy Smith |
Saturday 22nd December: It's the day after the shortest day and darkness is on the menu. I leave the house at 0700hrs with my lights on and don't switch them off until I reach the bus stop. We opt for the slow way and it's far warmer than last week when black ice took Andy off his bike. He tells me that it was, after all, pretty painful, blood was drawn, he discovered on returning home and all week there was pain, but he's better now. We take it easy, riding down Hesiers Hill with our hands covering the brakes, slowing us down, it's not safe, but it's not icy either and I'm feeling energised all the way along Beddlestead. Little in the way of Lycra monkeys as we climb the hill, emerging on to Clarks Lane and hanging a left. We freewheel to the bus stop, park up and I serve tea. Andy hands out the BelVita biscuits, but I'm not that hungry, I've already eaten a hearty breakfast. I make do with just one. A bunch of monkeys ride past
en route to Westerham as we continue to sip our tea and watch the cars travelling east and west. With Christmas just up the road, it's busier than normal, more cars on the road, plenty of bustle and it gets worse as the day progresses. Well, at least it's not raining. We ride back the slow way, very scenic, amazing how the landscape looks totally different when we turn the road inside out, ride backwards almost, rewind the tape so to speak. I wonder whether it's possible to free wheel all the way to Hesiers Hill, but then I forget to try and start pedalling. The hill is hard, harder because I get muddled with the gears, change up instead of down, lose momentum, end up stopping and find it difficult to get going. I'm on the move again, I don't stop until I reach the top and then we wind our way around the lanes, past St Leonard's church, then another hill, I mess up again, in the wrong gear, a constant problem, but I'll remember next time, perhaps tomorrow, except there is no tomorrow, it's rained off. I'm awake early, around 0430hrs, I lie there, right hand fretfully on forehead, thinking bad thoughts about the day ahead, it's going to be hectic one way or another and all I want to do is nothing, but that's not on the agenda, not today. I hear the rain falling and it doesn't stop. I finally get out of bed at 0600hrs, it's still coming down, I look at the puddle on next door's conservatory roof, stair rods, well, not quite, but it's relentless. "Looks like 'abort' as it's pissing down here," I write and send to Andy. "Yes, fingers crossed for tomorrow," he replies. Later on it is still raining and I am downstairs listening to
Green by REM, the ride is off and I try to keep a tally on what day it is, soon I will lose it completely, that's the way it is with Christmas, I lose track of time. "What day is it?" A frequently asked question, but time to start reading
Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Coupland, a book that's been hard to find. I like Coupland. I read
Generation X, it has a special quality, reminds me of the America I love. Right now I feel slobby. I haven't been on the ride, but today would have been cut short as there's stuff to do, people to give lifts to, jobs to be done, visits to be made and I've got a new coat that I'm excited about wearing, makes me feel like Kurt Russell in
The Thing. I've always been a big baby and still am, I can't really grow up, that's my problem.
Paddy Ashdown has died, aged 77, after a short illness and I am reminded of the time I met him, on a train, somewhere near Salisbury, a six-pack of Wadworth's 4X, time travel, he had a view, a good man for engaging in a crazy conversation, he didn't ignore us, he got involved, clearly a proper politician, a dying breed, literally in his case.
