Two rides to Oxted and back up Titsey Hill

After my four consecutive 20-miler rides last weekend I'm afraid I didn't ride out again until yesterday (Saturday) meaning my riding was roughly 60 miles this week, thanks to the Easter Bank Holiday and the good weather. Having enjoyed riding to Oxted immensely over recent weeks, even climbing up Titsey was kind of fun, I decided to keep at it. On both occasions this weekend I chose Starbucks as my tea venue even if it is £2.88 for a cuppa, albeit a very large one. Although, oddly, I was a bit miffed at having to pay such a price. A cup of tea? Nearly £3? It was cheaper in the Caffe Nero, but the cup was smaller too, that's why I opted for the Starbucks. Also, the Starbucks was brand new and spacious and for some reason I quite like it. What I might do now that the weather is improving is buy myself a drinks container for £11.99 (Starbucks says it won't leak) meaning I could ride to Oxted with a cup of tea, perhaps bring a tiny drop of milk, and then sit in the park until it's time to ride home. The thing is I quite like being in the coffee shop, ie the Starbucks or the Caffe Nero so buying the container isn't a great idea. We'll see.

Sunday: Tea at Starbucks, £2.88!

Both rides were good, although the weather was certainly a little cooler than the Easter weekend. Not that much cooler, but definitely cooler. On Saturday I sat by the window reading a copy of the Daily Mail that somebody had left behind. I read my stars because, for some reason, even though I don't believe them, I like to think there might be some truth in them, especially if they're full of good news, which they were to a certain extent. I read a bit about Russia, Putin and Ukraine, skipped through some awful stories about children being killed by their parents (in one case a woman addicted to crack cocaine and a young boy with serious asthma problems). Once again, the young child was failed by social workers, which never fails to annoy me. Soon, as always, it was time to head home and the thought of riding up Titsey is no longer daunting. I plan to keep doing it. In fact, the ride to Oxted is good, albeit the 269 is involved, but the earlier I depart, the quieter it is and the return journey is always fine for some reason, although I'm aware that I need to keep a weather eye on motorists as some of them are not at all good and pay very little attention to cyclists. I could (and perhaps should) take The Ridge and ride into Woldingham, far safer it has to be said, but sometimes I like the idea of just getting back home and besides, for some reason, I don't like riding down Slines Oak Road for the top of Woldingham. I don't mind the steep bit at the other end and to be honest I should do my level best to avoid the 269.

Sunday: on the road towards Titsey Hill

The ride up Titsey is almost leisurely. I know that sounds daft when you consider it's a fairly steep and long hill, but once I get going and settle in to it, the ride up is fine and because it's so long and a little monotonous, it's possible to switch off and simply glide up thinking about other things or just losing myself in the scenery. On either side, for instance, there are woods and because the hill means travelling fairly slowly, there's enough time to take them in, enjoy the relative peace and quiet, listen to the birds and generally chill until the sign for Botley Hill appears and I know then that the climb is over. Last week, when I was riding down Titsey on the way to Oxted, actually when I reached the road and everything had levelled out, just before going under the motorway, I saw a massive bird of prey. It was huge, the wingspan must have been around four feet, I don't know, but it was amazing, great to see so early in the morning, and this is what I love about riding a bike into the sticks, which I do all the time. 

Woods on the ride up Titsey Hill

It's important to keep your mind on the road when you're riding down Titsey. It's a 16% drop and the bike can pick up a fair speed, you've got cars going up and down and then you've got White Lane on your left and very often a car suddenly appears and you don't want it pulling out in front of you. I keep my hands slightly pressed on the brakes, slowing the bike down, and it's important to remember that White Lane isn't the only turning on the left that could present problems should a car emerge from it; there's also Pilgrims Lane. Today I worked out that there's an off-road route all the way down on the left hand side of Titsey. I need to check it out. I know about the off-road ride on the right hand side as Andy and I have done it before. Somewhere on this blog there is a photograph of me, taken by Andy, circa 2011 I think, as we reached the end of the off-road track. I think a puddle is involved but my memory is sketchy.

On the downward ride, once the hill is out of the way, the rest of the journey is pretty smooth sailing, particularly after riding under the motorway and entering Limpsfield Village. There's a right turn on a bend into Bluehouse Lane and then a left turn in to Granville, which is a long road, fairly flat, flanked on either side by large houses. At the end there's another left turn and then, with the library on the left, it's a short ride to the high street.

Sunday: Tall trees on Titsey

Both rides this weekend were pretty similar. On Saturday I spent a little time in the charity shop next to the Caffe Nero. You might recall from a previous post that I found a pair of binoculars and a tiny violin in the charity shop. Well, they're both still there, albeit on different shelves. I spent all of three minutes in the store and then resigned myself to the ride back. On Sunday, I parked up the bike outside the Caffe Nero, as I did on Saturday, and then walked down to the Starbucks. The place was busier than yesterday and I momentarily found myself wondering whether to go back to the Caffe Nero, but in the end I stuck with Starbucks and this time sat outside next to a dad and his two kids. Saturday, as you know, I sat by the window reading the Daily Mail. There were five or six Vespa scooters parked up on the other side of the road and eventually the owners emerged from somewhere and rode off up the high street. It sounded like a bunch of petrol lawnmowers and all the riders were old blokes. There was something a little sad and corny about the whole episode, unlike the previous day (Saturday) when I complimented a motorcyclist on his great bike, a 2011 Honda 750 with a V-twin engine. We chatted briefly as I feared his motorcycle knowledge was greater than mine, and then I jumped on my bike and rode off, but not as fast (or as cool) as the guy on the Honda.

On Sunday, half way up the appropriately named Titsey Hill on the ride home, I stumbled across a soft porn magazine that somebody had clearly thrown from a car window. There was a lot of flange and tits aplenty as the pages were magically turned by the wind as I approached. All very surreal. 

I reached home before noon and carried on with my day. 

The iphone SE Third Generation 2022

As avid readers will know, my old iphone XS passed away the week before last, leaving me phoneless. It was great not having a phone, but now I've bought another one, the iphone SE Third Generation 2022, it's red (which means that Apple is giving a percentage of the sale to charity). It goes without saying that I've been faffing around getting the phone working, which it now is, but the key thing is that having a week without a phone has made me think about my future phone usage. I'm going to try not to look at it so often. In fact, I've set up the 'do not disturb' function so that only key people can reach me after 1730hrs during the week. At weekends the phone is totally out of bounds for most people. All I need to do is buy a case for it as the last thing I want is to damage the screen and have to buy another phone. I was going to buy the phone online, but decided to visit the Apple store in Bromley where I found myself down with the all trendy kids.

My new iphone SE Third Generation 2022, it's red!!!

Four rides to Oxted - 80 miles over four consecutive days...

It was looking like another piss poor week on the bike and all my own doing (again). While I got off to a good start last Sunday with a ride to God knows where (I can't remember exactly as I don't have my phone, it's broken, but I think it was Westerham), I then lost the plot on Tuesday and that set in motion the usual crap about riding or not riding. However, the plus point of this week was Easter, which means that Friday wasn't a work day so I rode to Oxted (roughly 20 miles, I think it's something like 19.36 miles). It was absolutely wonderful, it has to be said. Oxted on a warm and sunny morning, hardly any traffic about, the town slowly awaking, and me sitting outside of Caffe Nero with a cappuccino and an almond croissant, earwigging on the conversations of others and taking in a few rays. I realised pretty quickly that life doesn't get much better than this and vowed there and then to ride to Oxted every day of the Easter bank holiday. It meant climbing out of town on Titsey Hill, but that was not impossible. In fact, as the days progressed I got better and better at it and soon realised that it wasn't such a bad hill after all. I know that Andy and I have discussed this before (that Titsey ain't that bad) and it really isn't. The worst bit is early on and probably stretches to around White Lane, but once beyond that the ride beds in, it's not steep, just monotonous, but it's only a drag if you let it become one; I rode up nonchalantly, looking at the trees on either side of the road, listening to the birds singing and soon I found myself at Botley Hill and on the 269 heading for Warlingham and, ultimately, home.

My trips to Oxted can be remembered by what I had to eat (and let's not forget, today is Sunday so if I ride it'll be the third of four rides). So, on Friday (Good Friday) an almond croissant which, incidentally, had nothing on the almond croissants available from the AMT Coffee kiosk on East Croydon station; and then yesterday (a plain old bog standard Saturday) I ordered a cinnamon swirl. The reason I was having pastries was simple: Titsey Hill. Yes, it's not a bad hill - or not as bad as you expect it to be - but it's still a decent work-out and I figured that four consecutive days of such riding would mean I could justify a light snack half way through, which is what I did.

I sat outside of the Caffe Nero, there was little point in staying inside, not when the weather was this good, so I found a table, I'd padlocked the bike close-by and I loved every darn minute. On both occasions a large cappuccino and the aforementioned pastries and then, on the Good Friday visit and yesterday's ride, I nipped into the Sue Ryder charity shop to see what was on offer. Being as Oxted is a fairly well-to-do sort of place, the quality of the goods is pretty high. There was a small violin and a pair of binoculars and I have to admit that I was tempted to buy the latter, mainly because I remember my dad had a pair that he used to bring on holiday with us to the South Coast and watch the ships that sat seemingly motionless on the misty horizon. But I had no way of carrying such a heavy pair of binoculars back on the bike. They came complete with a case, which was even better and I'm guessing they were 10 x 50s but who knows, they might have been more powerful. But then the old reservations started to flood my brain and piss on my parade. You know the sort of thing: "What do you want those for?" "When will you use them for heaven's sake?" "What's the point?" and soon there was no point so I skulked out feeling, it has to be said, a little down in the dumps, but only temporarily. Once back on the bike and sailing along the empty high street in the sun, glad that I hadn't visited the new Starbuck's, mainly because they don't pay their taxes, I felt fine. And soon, as I rode along Granville Road, past all the massive houses and heading in the direction of the daunting Titsey Hill, my mood lightened again and all was well with the world. 

Today, Easter Sunday, my attitude towards Oxted's new Starbucks weakened. As I peered into the airy space inside, the brand spanking new wooden furniture and fittings and the fact that I was, at that moment, the only customer, I decided to order an English breakfast tea and an almond croissant. I sat outside and watched the occasional person walk up or down the high street. The sun shone down, there was very little in the way of sounds bar the purr of a coasting car or the sound of buildings (if there is such a thing). And all the while the nagging thought of the ride home was very real. Titsey Hill for the third time in as many days. If I ride here tomorrow, I was thinking, that's 80 miles since Good Friday - four days, 80 miles, not bad going. In an odd way, I was looking forward to the ride home, and yes, even Titsey Hill, it didn't bother me, I knew the deal, I was aware that any pain (there was no pain) was short-lived, there was a touch of monotony but not for long and soon there would be Botley Hill and the 269. I headed off down main street (as they'd call it in the USA), turned left, past the Library and then right into Granville Road. The weather was roughly the same as yesterday and as I rode along I felt good about life, it must have been the fresh air and the scented hedgerows, there was optimism in the air and is was brought about by the thought of another day off, Bank Holiday Monday, and the possibility of another ride to make up that magical 80 miles. I caught a weather forecast on the television and there was talk of overnight rain, occasional showers here and there, which might mean wet furniture and that would mean sitting indoors, but I was having new thoughts and they were all focused on the new Starbucks with its airy, woody interior. I know that there's free wifi and that means one thing: I can take my lap top, I can take a decent book and spend an inordinate amount of time chilling there, blogging, writing, reading, sipping tea and taking life easy. I can take the train from Sanderstead, it's only around 15 minutes, and then a short walk down the high street. I could hang there until lunch time and then get the train home again. A lot of the time it's remembering to do it; I'll be sitting at home wondering what to do when there's nobody else around and then I'll think a-ha! I could go to that Starbucks, take my lap top, take my book and just sit there all morning. My time will come, that much I do know.

Today, the distant sound of Easter church bells rang out as I started my ride up Titsey Hill. The ascent was fine and soon I reached the top and then rode along the 269. Soon I was heading along the Limpsfield Road towards home. And now, here I sit at almost 1800hrs, not really feeling hungry thanks to Lindor chocolate eggs and a large roast chicken dinner round at the mother-in-law's house. From where I am sitting now I can see another Lindor egg perched up high on the ledge of our brass mirror. It's not mine and I'm not in anyway interested in it because I know what it's about: there's an egg and there's a box of smaller wrapped eggs inside, all very nice, but I won't be going near it. Columbo's on! "I'll be the son of a gun! Where did you find that? I've been looking all over for it," says Columbo from inside a locksmith's shop. Can I be bothered to watch it? No, not really, so I'll sign off now, but I'm not planning on posting until I know whether or not tomorrow's ride takes place. I'm sure it will. Incidentally, I did watch Columbo as it starred Jack Cassidy (David's dad) and then I watched another one about a painter with three women attending to his every need.

My phone is fucked

It's now Monday, Easter Monday, and the sun is shining just like it was yesterday morning and every morning since Good Friday. I'm planning a ride to Oxted again, but there's around 45 minutes before I hit the road. I thought I'd let you know that I don't have a mobile phone at the present time. On Thursday I awoke to a frozen phone and ended up taking it to an Apple shop in Wallington where I was told I needed a new screen and that it would cost me £266, presenting me with a dilemma: do I fix it or buy a new phone, ie get into a contract (36 months at over twice what I'm paying now) or do I pay the money, get it fixed and continue with with £13/month SIM-only deal? What would you do?

It took me a day or two, but it's quite pleasant not having a phone. Yes, I'm out of touch, yes, nobody can reach me, yes, I can't reach anybody either, but there's something fairly liberating about it. I can't use Strava either, which means I can't see at a glance how many miles I've been riding. This is good and bad. Good in the sense that it doesn't really matter and bad in the sense that perhaps it does matter. Taking the former, not having Strava simply means going for a ride and not totting up the mileage and feeling either under or overwhelmed by the knowledge. Furthermore, I know it's roughly 20 miles to Oxted, it's 21-22 miles to Westerham, similarly Biggin Hill, I know that a ride to Tatsfield is roughly 16 miles and that a short ride to Botley Hill no more than 14 miles (or thereabouts) so who needs Strava? Conversely, it's nice to know the mileage, the elevation, the riding time, and it's good to record the ride, to be able to scroll back at past rides and so forth, not that I've ever done that. I suppose what I'm saying is I'm not too bothered about it. Likewise I don't have access to my work emails and why should I? They don't provide me with a phone, although, to be fair to them, they do pay my phone bill if I use it on company business. That said, it's nice to be on a train and not feel the temptation to play with my phone, but then on the other hand I can't take photographs, can't use WhatsApp and can't check out my blogs when I have nothing else to do. Crucially, though, I don't feel like a fish out of water without it. It's amazing how quickly one adapts to stuff like this and I often wish I had the nerve to do it, not have a phone, be out of touch. But the problems kick in when you're meeting somebody somewhere or you're running late or, worse still, you've had to cancel the meeting for some reason: without a phone it means leaving somebody stranded and wondering whether you're coming or not. So, in the round, it's probably best having a phone, which then begs the question of whether it needs such sophistication. Do I need a camera? Do I need any of the apps? Or do I just need a phone that somebody can call me on or I can call them? Ultimately, that's all I need. Or is it? I am a bit of a gadget freak (to an extent) and there's not much to get excited about with a Nokia 3310 is there? Besides, where would this blog be without photographs? I'd have to carry around a digital camera like I used to in the old days. Not that there's anything wrong with that, at least the image quality would be better.

Today I left the house around 0830hrs and followed the usual route into Oxted, arriving around an hour later. I seriously thought about not visiting the Starbucks and instead going back to Caffe Nero (decisions, decisions) but for some reason I found myself in Starbucks ordering a large English breakfast tea and an almond croissant, which was far, far better than the one I had in Caffe Nero on Good Friday. It was also much better than the almond croissant in Starbucks yesterday; perhaps they were fresher today for some reason. In terms of bakes, the sequence was as follows: almond croissant, cinnamon swirl, almond croissant, almond croissant, so thank the Lord for Titsey Hill is all I can say. I sat outside enjoying the sunshine and the peace and quiet of Oxted High Street early in the morning. The whole attraction of riding here was the peace, the laid back 'easy like Sunday morning' vibe, the odd person milling around, the occasional car purring along and me just sitting there sipping tea and thinking about nothing in particular. Eventually, of course, I had to ride back, and that meant preparing myself for the ride up Titsey, not that it required much preparation, it was, after all, just a case of doing it. Remember, I'd been doing it successfully over the past three days so I wasn't anticipating any problems today. Sure enough it all went well, just me, the bike and the chirping birds in the trees all the way to the top. I sailed along the 269 and then the Limpsfield Road and soon I was approaching home. I followed the usual route and then chilled in the garden drinking tea.

Cycling-wise, I redeemed myself. From Good Friday to Bank Holiday Monday I rode 4 x 20 miles to Oxted and back, via Titsey Hill, that's 80 miles in total. Last week I managed just under 70 miles, something like 68 miles, which is also good.

Imagine owning a gun...

I'm losing track of when I did and didn't ride the bike. Let's see if, from memory, I can work things out. Last Sunday was 3 April and I remember it because I phoned Geoff, the illustrious illustrator, to chat about his altercation with his next door neighbour's gardener. That was last Sunday. Prior to last Sunday I rode to Botley Hill on Friday afternoon/early evening and returned via Woldingham, meaning that the Sunday before Sunday 3 April was when I rode to Biggin Hill and had breakfast in the Spitfire Cafe, but either way, the trend has been two rides of roughly 42 miles in total; it was a similar scenario this week just past, if I can remember it. Well, I didn't go out on either Thursday or Friday of last week - more's the pity. So let's get back to last week's ride to Westerham when I was chatting with Geoff on the phone about his altercation with the gardener, that was a ride to Westerham of approximately 21.5 miles. Yesterday I rode to Westerham, roughly 21.5 miles again, so this week another grand total of 43 miles. Shit, really, when you think about it. I need to up my game, but I think my problem is coming home tired from work (especially if I walk from Purley) and then not really feeling like getting out there. I've considered a number of ways of breaking my current spell of laziness (and let's not forget that only a few weeks ago I was doing around 70 miles per week, well, for a couple of weeks at any rate). One way is to bite the bullet, not walk home from Purley and instead ride the Nobbler for just 35 minutes or so (six miles). If I do that Monday through Friday that's 30 miles, plus today's 22 miles = 52 and then, if I ride to Westerham next Saturday, a total of 74 miles with not too much in the way of inconvenience: that's the best thing to do; the alternative would be to ride to work one day during the week (the best day is Thursday when hardly anybody is in the office. I could leave the house around 0700hrs, get there for 0815hrs and just start working, then ride back around 1600hrs, meaning just over 24 miles. Alright six short of the daily ride scenario, making it a total of just 68 miles (two miles under the respectable 70 miles). As you can see, I'm fretting again: "Just go when you can, when you fancy it, when you feel like it, don't beat yourself up over it," I say to myself and of course I'm right. The weather's warming up now, the temptation to go cycling will take over from that feeling of not wanting to go out.

April 2nd in Westerham Costa

I rode 11 miles for a haircut

Today's ride was fine, but let's talk first about yesterday's Haircut Ride. I rode into Westerham, the fast way, on the 269. I'm a bit wary of Beddlestead Lane ever since I heard from Andy about somebody being robbed of their bike, but to be honest, I've been riding the 269 for some weeks now, I don't know why as it is fairly dodgy on the traffic front and people tend to speed along without a care for cyclists. In fact, they positively hate cyclists on the 269, they all think we should be using the cycle lane, but what they don't realise is that the "cycle lane" is peppered with thorns and guarantee any self-respecting cyclist a puncture, that's one reason why most of us use the road. Also, there are people and joggers on the pathway (it's not just for cyclists) and often they're wearing headphones and can't hear a cyclist approaching them from behind, making it all very annoying. For these reasons I stick to the road. Going out around 0800hrs is fine, but if leave a little later the traffic is heavier and there's always a belligerent cunt wanting to voice his opinion in some way or other. Only the other week (I might have mentioned it) there was a motorist stuck in a queue behind other motorists because up ahead was yours truly and one of the drivers at the front of queue was doing the right thing (giving me room and, in the process causing a short queue, a minor hold-up). But for some it's not acceptable and as I passed an irate motorist he beeped his horn and glowered at me. I deliberately pulled a manic, eyes glaring insanely kind of face and waved in slow motion as I passed him. He must have been fuming at that and I hope he was, but anyway, I think I've mentioned this before so I'll stop there.

So, where was I? Ah, yes, in Westerham. I ordered a large English breakfast tea to takeaway and I sat outside as the weather was warm and everything was laid back. The bike was padlocked in front of me and I sat there, as always, people watching. 

James Nesbit, Nicholas Cage or a child molester?

My hair is mess, it has been for some weeks now. It's always the same, give it a few weeks and I start to look terrible. My hair gets straggly and it's sort of half black, half grey, some people call it "salt and pepper", which I fucking hate. Anyway, once it gets a certain length, normally around eight weeks after cutting, I look terrible, especially if I don't shave (as I'm prone not to do at weekends). I start wearing a bobble hat to press it down so that when I reach the office I look mildly respectable. If it's a windy day I've had it, especially if I forget the bobble hat - or rather the bobble-less hat, so let's make that a beanie. My mum, much to my annoyance, likes my hair when it's long and straggly and grey and I can't help but feel that all the people who love my hair in such a state are just saying it so that I stay scruffy-looking, to my detriment. My mum also thinks I look like the actor James Nesbit, especially when my hair is short: let's get this straight, I look nothing like James Nesbit. Seriously. Somebody in the office said recently that I looked like Nicholas Cage, I'll take that. In fact, it's not the first time. I was once in Seattle and a woman sidled up to me as I sat at the bar of the Belltown Bistro on First Avenue. She sat herself down and said, "There's a little bit of Nicholas Cage going on there." The thing is, without being vain and conceited, I kind of know what she means, it's the high forehead, but he has a better mouth than mine, although there are similarities, especially when my hair is longer. Right now it's very, very short. I think a number two on the sides and back and a number four or three on top, it's convict chic and nobody likes it. When it's long and straggly I look like a child molester and then, when I cut it short, I look like a convicted child molester. I can't win. 

Having a haircut has been on my mind for a few weeks. I wake up in the morning and I don't even want to look in the mirror as I know I'll be faced with the Toecutter from the first Mad Max. I've considered having it done at the barber's next to Redhill station, but the last time I was there I went down with Covid the following Saturday so they've lost my custom. I started thinking about the Syrian barber in Westerham High Street, Star Barbers, there's a chain of them, but I figured that having a haircut in a sparsely populated town like Westerham would reduce my chances of catching Covid again. But when I reached the northern Kent market town I couldn't see the place and I think it has been replaced with a charity shop. Alright, I might be wrong, I might have just not seen it as I rode by, but anyway, it didn't matter as I suddenly noticed Westerham Barbers next door to the Costa. In I bowled, having decided prior to be ultra-chirpy. I had a short wait but this was pleasant enough as the place seemed to be run by a young couple, a man who was trying to make himself look older by having a thick beard and a woman who had now engaged me in conversation, she even, infuriatingly, said she liked my hair and said that lots of people were dying their hair grey. "Perhaps I won't have that haircut," I said, jokingly, as she started to wash my hair. Why, I wondered, was she washing my hair when the plan was to cut it all off. But apparently it makes cutting it far easier. Hmmm...I started to smell BS, but they were a pleasant enough couple who hailed from Hackney and I wanted the haircut so I rolled with it and went on to have my ears flamed by a ball of blue fire and then two hot wax-dunked sticks stuffed up my nose: yes, I was having my nose waxed. He pulled them both out rather aggressively, I yelped and then relaxed. Then he decided to do it again and on each occasion I winced at the momentary pain as he ripped my nose hairs from my ears. Then there was the hot towel. To be honest, I could have done that myself, perhaps I will. I have plenty of towels, but how would I get them so hot? Actually, I probably won't bother. I remember, years ago, whenever I visited an Indian restaurant, they used to bring out hot towels after the meal and myself and a pal would take them from the waiter who handed them to us on tongs, and slap them on our faces. There was always a moment when we thought they were simply too hot, but the heat subsided fairly quickly and soon they would be just wet towels and we would discard them in a bowl provided.

With my nose now sore and hairless, my head shaved, my face hot and smelling of Turkish cologne, I paid up (£15) and headed off. Putting my crash helmet on I was pleased to note that it fitted slightly better now that the hair had come off. I rode home happy, following the road out of Westerham and heading in the direction of the Velo Barn. I think I was singing. As my hair gets longer I tend to get more miserable and apathetic and once it's all cut off I feel free and positive again. I know that over the next five or six weeks my hair will be manageable and I won't need to wear that bobble hat.

I reached home, 21.5 miles better off, and knowing that my weekly total hovered around 42/43 miles. No, I wasn't happy about it, but it was the truth, the reality, and now, as of Sunday, my new cycling week would begin. When I woke up Sunday morning I had momentarily forgotten about the haircut, until I looked in the mirror. It was a good cut and I was happy. Not only that, the sun was shining and while I was distracted by the Sunday morning political TV shows and an episode of Tales of the Unexpected, I was soon on my way (to Westerham) on the 269.

Imagine owning a gun

Going back to belligerent drivers on the 269, today (for it is Sunday evening as I write this) today this arsehole in a black Range Rover, his boring-looking wife sitting next to him, slowed, rolled down the passenger window and said to me as I rode along, "There's a cycle lane right there," pointing to my left. I ignored him, but I was annoyed at his arrogance. Later, when I arrived in Westerham, I saw his car, parked just down from Costa Coffee, they were just leaving. They'd probably stopped for a coffee. I had thoughts of coining his pride and joy - but I never carry cash. I thought about walking over there and telling him that I hadn't paid a blind bit of notice to what he, a neatly trimmed, bearded bastard, had said earlier, but I simply couldn't be bothered. Sometimes I think that extreme violence is possibly the only answer to life's little annoyances. Of course, that's a ridiculous thing to say and I'm glad that I don't carry a knife or a truncheon or a piece of splintered wood penetrated with bent and rusty old nails. Still, I ought to be careful. I tend to give these people the finger and I'm sure they see it through their wing mirrors as they drive away. One day they might turn around and come after me and it is then that I imagine owning a gun. Many years ago, I used to own a blank-firing replica 357 Magnum. It was so realistic I reckon I could have held up a bank with it. Imagine if I'd pulled out a real gun and asked him to repeat what he said. 

"No, no, no, don't start weeping, you miserable little cunt, tell me what you were saying, something about a fucking cycle lane wasn't it?"

"I was just saying that..."

"You were just saying what, fuck face? What the fuck were you saying, what was your fucking point? Why did you slow down your fucking gas guzzling pile of shit to tell me about a fucking cycle lane? Eh? You going to answer me or just sit there weeping like a fucking baby?"

"I, I..."

"What's the matter, cat's got your fucking tongue?"

I then turn around sharpish and blow his wife's brains out and then turn again and splatter his brains all over the cream leather interior, just like in the movies, before simply riding off in the direction of Westerham, looking forward to my English Breakfast tea and leaving the police to sort out the mess. I wonder if they'd catch me? Probably not. It would be a case of "no arrests have been made".

So yes, you could say I was a little angry about it, but the anger subsided, as it always does, and I sat there sipping politely on my large paper cup of English Breakfast Tea until it was time to ride home.

Later I drove to Tunbridge Wells for a late lunch in a cafe: large cappuccino, a chicken burger and salad, a few chips dipped in HP sauce, chilled music from a band called Coin and then a leisurely drive home. And now I'm watching (half watching) Spencer with Kristen Stewart. My daughter and I like her movies and I was thinking only this morning how good she was in The Cake Eaters. But enough! It's Sunday evening and I'm going to simply chill out ahead of work in the morning.

Not a brilliant week...

The weather has been strange, schizophrenic almost, insane in a way, and neither here nor there in every sense of the phrase. The temperature drop was the most noticeable thing about it; when I think back to my ride into Biggin Hill last Saturday, when the sun was shining as I climbed Stock Hill en route to the Spitfire cafe, and all was well with the world; it's almost as if I travelled to another planet as the week progressed. 

Last Sunday: a trifle but no bike ride.

Monday through Wednesday I walked my traditional walk from Purley railway station to my house just over two miles away. 'Traditional' is, perhaps, too strong a word, so let's say my regular walk.  After a day at work, however, the walk is a bit of an ordeal and when I reach home I head straight for the kitchen and a sandwich of some sort. Generally speaking, the weather was fine for the walks, there was no rain and it was Thursday when the strangeness started. There was sunshine and a kind of fluffy snow to start with, and then the snow transformed itself into a hailstone and sleet combo accompanied by a wary sun. I remember the grass, freshly cut last week, glowing in the sunlight whilst being pelted by white hailstones and translucent sleet. The temperature dropped, the wind was cold and bitter and I decided to ride the Weeble. In fact, I named the ride on Strava as a 'Windy Weeble'. It was a good ride, but not overly pleasant. Put it this way, I was glad when it was over. It was alright, but even wearing my Parka I still felt the wind blowing through me as I rode along, remembering sundown the previous week when, as I turned right on to Washpond Lane, I spied burning orange skies and silhouetted trees as I embarked upon the return journey that would take me back towards Ledgers Road and ultimately the Limpsfield Road towards the warmth of home.

On Friday the weather seemed a little better. In fact, when I forced myself to get out of the house and on to the bike I decided to ride to Botley Hill along the 269. It was just gone 1700hrs, so the height of rush hour. I expected some abuse and I wasn't disappointed. A motorcyclist slowed to tell me I should be on the cycle lane to my left and then gave me the tosser sign, which I returned with gusto. Then there was a motorist who couldn't be bothered to slow down and wait for safe moment to pass me who was beeped by a motorist coming the other way. I was planning on returning along the same road, but fed up with the angry atmosphere created by impatient motorists I decided to ride through Woldingham on the quieter country lanes, which meant extra mileage. I had to climb the steep bit at the 269 end of Slines Oak Road, which I admit I was a little apprehensive about, but I still had it, the strength that is, and managed to reach the summit without really breaking a sweat. Well, almost.

The Eagle where I ate the trifle on Sunday 

Friday night meant slobbing around watching television. There was a new series of Have I Got News for You, hosted by Clive Myrie. I have to admit, having slagged Myrie off for promoting Mastermind while covering the war in Ukraine from Kyiv, I thought he did rather a good job of hosting the weekly news quiz. The jokes were good too. But I never know when to quit and ended up watching a harrowing movie, Landmine Goes Click, on Prime. I eventually hit the sack at gone midnight and then a late start the following morning prevented my usual Saturday morning ride. Not riding today (Saturday) meant just two rides this week (on Thursday and Friday). I decided not to fret about it; as I've said before, there's no point fretting. But I must ride tomorrow. I think it'll be Westerham for an English breakfast tea, but who knows how I'll feel in the morning. I don't think I'll visit Biggin Hill again as I drove there this afternoon and in all honesty, there's not much there. Right now I'm watching Rick Stein in Bordeaux. He's driving around in a blue 2CV saying how much he loves wine, that it makes him happy. "Nothing is quite as perfect as a great Bordeaux," he says, making me feel a little angry. There's nothing worse than watching a celeb enjoying his holidays, which he's getting for absolutely nothing, courtesy of the BBC and my licence fee money. But I don't wish to give you the wrong impression. I love the BBC's output and I'm happy to pay the licence fee, which I believe is good value for money (check out the other channels and you'll soon know what I'm talking about). Good to see my licence fee money going to good use (or not as the case may be); but in all honesty, I'm quite enjoying sitting here watching Rick eating good food and drinking good wine. I've just cooked chicken with mashed potato, carrots and watercress. 

Friday's Botley ride

It's 2045hrs, Rick Stein is sitting under the shade of a tree eating cote de boeuf and drinking red wine and I'm just sitting here wishing I was him, but I'm not. Time to close the laptop and continue slobbing in front of the television. And now Matt Baker is swanning around making a programme about his parents and his wife and his chilled and wealthy and smug life. I don't like Matt Baker, he's too nice, too sensible, every woman's dream man, perhaps, but I'm hoping he has a darker side that one day will be revealed to the world and all those women swooning over him and wishing all men were as smart and sensible as he, even when they're wearing jeans! I've never been smart and I've never been sensible either ... and I'm proud of the fact!

Sunday morning

There was a frost on the grass when I woke up and it lingered well past 0800hrs. I didn't go out until 0925hrs and must have reached Westerham around 1025hrs, or thereabouts. I bowled into the Costa and ordered a regular cappuccino and then took a seat by the window where I could watch the bike. Not that I needed to as I had padlocked it, but the seat was available so I took advantage. The Illustrious Illustrator called and told me about an altercation with a West Ham supporter who just happened to be his next door neighbour's gardener. We chatted for a while about the incident and then moved on to other stuff and soon, as is always the case, it was time for me to hang up and head home - never a good moment - especially as the weather was amazing, the sun had come out and my seat close to the window was warm. I could have sat there all morning, but as the time crept around to 1130 I needed to get a move on. I followed the road to the Velo Barn (I must pay that place a visit soon) and then did my usual: I turned left into Pilgrims Lane, crossed Clarks Lane, continued on Pilgrim's, turned right on Rectory Lane and then rejoined Clarks Lane and rode towards Botley Hill. Then it was a straight ride along the 269 again, past another irate motorist, this time near Slines Oak Road who seemed indignant about my presence on the road. He beeped his horn and said something abusive, but I couldn't hear because his window was up, but that didn't stop me pulling a stupid face - and I mean a really ridiculous face - and waving at him as I passed, he would have hated that!

Westerham today

I reached home around 1230hrs, had some soup for lunch and then bought a toilet seat. Yes, a toilet seat. Life doesn't get more rock and roll, does it? Then I went round to mum's for tea and fruit cake, a flick through a one-week-old copy of the Mail on Sunday and then I drove home. Now I'm sitting here watching Columbo and an episode starring Donald Pleasance (he's definitely the murderer). I've probably said this before, but I'll say it again: I've met Donald Pleasance, in Bristol, at the opening of a playing field back in the early nineties, it's a great claim to fame, or at least I think so.

Look, I'd better go. I'm glad that this week I managed my Sunday morning ride. Last week I forfeited it, which reduced my weekly mileage. I might have covered around 66 miles, but instead I only rode around 25 miles, but that was also because I didn't ride my usual Saturday ride (thanks to that late night watching Landmine Goes Click). I'm hoping that this week I'll get back to riding around 70 miles, or possibly even 90 if I make it to Redhill during the week and then ride a couple of Weebles next Thursday and Friday. If I then do the Saturday ride I'll be on for the 90, but let's not count chickens, or anything else for that matter.