Andy's back on the ride...

 "Possibly, if I'm fit enough," I said in reply to a text from Andy. Initially he was asking me if I made it out last Sunday, the day after my return from Pittsburgh (see previous posts). Because of the flight the answer was no. "Hobbling, hoping will improve," wrote I, adding, "Couldn't ride a bike today." It was Monday, I had decided to work from home rather than walk to and from the railway station unnecessarily. I was still popping pills trying to reduce the swelling in my right foot. By Wednesday things had improved somewhat and they got better on Thursday and Friday. 

Matt and Andy, but not recently!

Andy was hoping he'd get the okay from the hospital to ride the bike, adding that a short ride to Tatsfield would fit the bill nicely. I was a little concerned as to whether I'd be able to ride the bike, hence my comment about being fit enough. I told Andy I was well and truly on the mend, however, but needed to see if I could ride a bike comfortably. I could. Andy was discharged from the care of the hospital and I told him I planned a short ride so we agreed to meet in Tatsfield village at 1000hrs.

It was good to see him again and I was pleased he was still 100% determined to ride to Cornwall next month, although instead of doing it in one day he had decided to ride 150 miles on day one and then around 100 miles on day two. The plan was to spend some time with his sister near Bodmin and then take two days on the return journey home, stopping at  B&Bs on both the outward and return journey.

I was glad that Andy was determined to continue with his Cornwall project. He said the hip bone had completely healed and that he wasn't in any pain. Basically he was as good as new and was looking forward to the ride. A part of me wondered whether it might be a case of 'too much, too soon' but in all honesty, his determination to do it said otherwise and I was pleased that he was in a position to do it.

Andy had started training in his garage a while back, as soon as the hospital said he was on the mend and could put some weight on injured leg At first he couldn't reach the handlebars without a twinge or two so he cycled in an upright position until things improved a little more and then, last Thursday, he received the go-ahead to ride on the road. 

My bike awaits me on The Ridge!

We sat outside Sheree's. Andy got there before me and I guess he ordered a coffee. I ordered a cup of tea and biscuits and we chilled in the late May sunshine discussing Andy's ordeal. I told him how, when I saw him outside the hospital and drove him back home I felt very sorry seeing him in such a state, but he told me that it was the week before when he was in a real bad way. When I met him, the mending process had begun, he told me, explaining how, for the first few weeks he had to sleep downstairs in a chair, but within a very short space of time he was walking without the aid of a zimmer frame and was soon using a stick and was fairly mobile.

Riding wise, I didn't notice any difference between the way he was riding prior to the accident and he agreed: he felt that he hadn't lost a great deal of fitness. We rode back along Approach Road to Clarks Lane and then Andy rode home via The Ridge and I stuck with the 269. The plan was to meet again tomorrow in Westerham, which was great as this meant Andy was back on the road full time, so to speak. I felt proud of him for coming through the whole thing with such dignity and to be so focused on the Cornwall ride. A lot of people (including myself) would have put it on hold and possibly even cancelled the whole thing until next summer, but not Andy.

On Sunday we met at Costa Coffee in Westerham and again Andy was there before me and chatting to one of the customers sitting outside. I ordered a large English breakfast tea and joined him and we continued our chat, discussing stuff like the Lands End to John O'Groats ride, not that either of us were planning to do it, although I suspect, at some stage, that Andy will do it. He was saying how he'd take two weeks to do it (at roughly 15 miles/hour) and would aim to ride around 100 miles per day. I said I'd take three weeks, make it a little easier on myself, be, perhaps, a Mike Carter as opposed to a Mark Beaumont. Back to the Cornwall project and Andy plans to leave Caterham at 0400hrs on 21 June and arrive at his first stop in the early evening, possibly around 1830 to 1900hrs. He plans to consume fitness/energy foods during the ride but will stop for a brief lunch break before pushing on; while it is all about fitness on one level, he said, it's also about the mind and I know what he means. It's about having the determination to ride 100 miles daily from start to finish. Andy said he knew he was going to ride to Cornwall even immediately after his accident, although he was prepared to await the decision of the doctors. While there were a couple of touch and go moments early on, he did get the all-clear.

I needed a comfort break in the woods near Woldingham

Next week Andy rides again with his cycling club and things are slowly getting back to normal, which is good. While my own story is not so dramatic as Andy's, I too had endured a few minor health problems, well, one to be precise: my swollen foot. I too, however, was back on the bike yesterday and today (it's still Sunday as I write this). From my point of view I was having things really good prior to flying to the USA. I was cycling into Oxted on Saturday and Sunday morning, stopping for a much-needed tea or coffee (I'm reverting back to tea now) and then riding back up Titsey Hill (which is no walk in the park). I had gotten into a routine and was feeling kind of good about the riding and then came the trip to the US, the foot problem, which came out of nowhere, and suddenly everything was in disarray. Up until yesterday I hadn't riden the bike for a fortnight and I was feeling not only unfit, but tired and weary. So as things improved during the week and the pain ceased I knew I had to see if I could ride the bike and the great news was that I could and did. This past week has been bad for me, in fact, it's been a bad fortnight dogged by bad flights while in the USA, the jet lag, the foot problem and then the slowish recovery. The pills made me feel a little weary too but now I only have one more to take and I've finished the course, the foot feels better, the swelling has gone down and, as I say, I'm riding the bike again. I'm thinking about using a gym for week-day riding and then riding the bike at the weekends, mix things up a bit, but the aim is to try and lose one stone in weight, which I know is possible, it's just having the willpower to do it. Smaller portions, perhaps, no more cake or biscuits, I should be in the frame for it.

We sat outside of Costa for a fairly long time chatting about Andy's injury and Cornwall and my foot and this and that; it was good to catch up having not really seen a great deal of each other for some time. We're back again next week, which is good, and hopefully the summer will continue apace, I'll manage to lose that one stone in weight and all will be well with the world.

The ordeal was almost over...

During the week, somewhere along the line, I managed to injure myself. I don't know how I managed it, there was no trauma to any bones or joints, but at some stage I damaged my right foot. It's funny because whenever I say something like, "You know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" Or whatever, but if I say something like that I'll get a bad foot or I'll be stuck somewhere and inconvenienced in a big way.  Last week, that's just what I said, "Do you know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" And it was true, I hadn't. Occasionally, let's say once, possibly twice a year, I did something to one of my feet, God knows what, but it left me limping for a few days, my foot swelled up, I took a few Nurofen and that was it, but for a long time now, absolutely nothing wrong with my foot, until I mentioned it a week ago. I don't remember exactly when it happened, probably Wednesday, and I checked it out on the internet. "Lateral foot pain – caused by excessive walking wearing the wrong shoes." It might have said 'inappropriate footwear'. Walking in inappropriate footwear. Well, that's roughly what I was indulging in last week, excessive walking. In Doctor Martens shoes that have worn down a little on one side of the heel. In a nutshell, I can't walk and I'm in pain when I do. I hobble, that's the best way of describing it. One minute I was fine, the next I'm hobbling like a tramp and getting nowhere fast. Fortunately, my work was done (or most of it) so it had no detrimental effect on anything other than on myself. But I'm hobbling, right? Making slow progress. And its when I'm in this kind of state that things start to go wrong. 

I have shared most flights on this trip with my colleague Catherine, but not this last one, she was on an earlier flight that was severely delayed. As I write this I am sitting alone in Terminal 7 of JFK and I have two hours to go before I take off. Earlier, I had to queue for well over an hour to speak to one of two people who were dealing with passenger enquiries in a very slow and infuriating manner; it was painful to watch let alone be a part of, but there was nothing I could do about it. After a long while, however, I was given my flight documents, told to go from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7 and that it was advisable not to leave the airport. I stayed in Terminal 8 with a bunch of people who found themselves in the same boat. Some even slept under blankets provided, others, like me, sat chatting with other stranded people and there was, of course, an element of the Dunkirk Spirit about the situation. I found myself with Lisa Schiller, an American lawyer from Fort Lauderdale who had given up being a solicitor to run her own business. She was travelling to Oman for a holiday, but her flight from Miami had messed up in some way, leaving her temporarily stranded and wondering whether to call the whole thing off. She spoke of her dogs and how she gets a lot of iguanas in her back garden and how her dog chases them. I helped her book her seat and check in online and we chatted about this and that until I had to change terminals and she made her way to the Admiral's Lounge (the first class lounge for American Airlines). She was happy for me to be her guest, but I had to be in Terminal Seven, which was decidedly different from Terminal Eight, let's say a little more basic.

Air Train to Terminal 7.

I hobbled to the Air Train, which took me from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7, and nobody (I mean nobody) was going to come to my aid, offer help in the shape of a wheelchair, which was what I needed. Not that I was going to accept any assistance. Jumping into a wheelchair equals defeat in my book and I wasn't in any mood to surrender. I hobbled from the Air Train to Terminal 7 and started to queue for a boarding pass, but then decided I'd be better off using the terminals provided and, unusually, they worked and I was issued with a boarding pass. It was time for my favourite part of the game: security. I was told to put everything in one tray, I didn't have to take the laptop out of its case, which was odd, but I had to take my jumper off, revealing the legend of my tee-shirt: "I bring NOTHING to the table!" The slogan was absolutely right, I brought nothing to the table. I had to take my shoes off too, which was most annoying, thanks to Richard Reeve, the shoe bomber - I'm so glad he's in prison - and soon I noticed that, unlike in Terminal 8 and on every plane I'd flown in, everybody was wearing a face mask and the police were advising people to wear them. Plenty were, but a few broke the rule (including me). That was all I needed, to be arrested, so I stuck close to the gate was told that would start in 20 minutes.

The flight home was as boring as hell and there was plenty of turbulence to keep me on my toes, except that my foot was in a bad way so the likelihood of me being 'on my toes' was low. Like on the outward flight last Saturday, I couldn't really concentrate, I simply wasn't in the mood. Unlike previous trips abroad I wasn't particularly fired up about anything; normally I might read the papers from back to front, dip into a book, read the inflight magazine, enjoy the airline food and so on, watch a movie, listen to music. Not this time. It was my first trip since lockdown, perhaps that was it, but basically I simply endured it. You could say I 'did my time'. I sat there, talked to nobody (not that I ever talk to my fellow passengers), I didn't even look at the map of the plane as it made its way across the Atlantic, I wasn't interested. I started doing the 'time' thing: 'in one hour there will be two hours and 45 minutes to go' and so on and I tried not to look at my watch, and when I did look at it only five minutes had elapsed despite the fact that I thought otherwise. I ate what they gave me: a full English breakfast, which was quite enjoyable, and then a turkey and ham roll that I eventually discarded. There was a mini Milky Way chocolate bar (in the US they're more like Mars bars) I endured the flight and the turbulence and the severely cramped conditions and, as always, I built up a tremendous hatred towards class divisions, which are more than evident on a plane, which is sectionalised based on how much you're prepared to pay. If you're sitting at the front you get more space and better food and service, they call you 'sir' for heaven's sake. If you're at the back, 'sir' doesn't come into it, your conditions are squeezed and the food is basic and poor. Curtains divide the sections and you don't encroach on the space of those who pay more than you, they don't want to mix with plebs like you. But I always think that if the plane goes down we will all die, even if those at the front die clasping a glass of Champagne. Bully for them! 

Now boarding flight BA178 

The plane touched down around 10 minutes earlier than scheduled (big deal!) and then I discovered that British Airways had lost my luggage. After faffing around filling in forms I met my taxi driver and was driven home along the M25 and M23. I reached the house around 2200hrs and sat watching before I willingly hit the sack, waking late in the day. It was Sunday and sunny and the garden looked good. I checked out my swollen foot with the guys at 111 and a doc advised a visit to A&E to check out the swelling. I'm not in too much pain, I'm better than I was, but I'm still limping and the foot is red and swollen.

My lost luggage was delivered to the house later in the day.

The photograph on the left was of the interior of flight BA178 from JFK to London Heathrow. I'd just sat down. It was a full flight (always is) but there was no way that British Airways was going to give me a more comfortable seat to ease the hassle with my foot. They never help and I was stuck in the cramped conditions for just over seven hours. I found two vacant seats at the back of the plane and was told they were for the crew, but the crew never used them and later I found two men there when previously nobody occupyed them. British Airways is always like this and if you ever need to contact them, ALL the numbers listed are useless, even if it says 24-hour assistance and you call out of hours, there's always a recorded voice asking you to call between 0800hrs and whenever, but they're never available when you want them to be. In so many ways a sham of an airline. 

Hilton Garden Downtown, 250 Forbes Avenue, Pittsburgh

Little has been said about the Hilton Garden Downtown.

Located close to Market Square, the HGD is perfectly located, certainly for Pizzaiolo Prima, arguably the best restaurant in town.

Room 513, Hilton Garden Downtown

When I first woke up on Sunday 15 May I was feeling jet-lagged and not in a good place. I had a headache over one eye, I was feeling awful and it wasn't long before I ended up at the front desk wondering what to do and what to eat. There were wrapped chocolate bars and I needed them badly, I needed something to liven me up, revive me and, of course, I needed tea, English Breakfast, in a large mug. 

There was nobody around and as I peered out at the street from the hotel lobby I spotted a man carrying a paper cup of something, possibly tea, possibly coffee, but it meant that there was a store of some kind nearby. When a man appeared behind the counter at the reception desk I bought the chocolate bars and he told me there was a Dunkin' Donuts and a Starbucks a short walk away, both on the square. "But we'll have fresh coffee and baked goods here shortly," he added.  I couldn't wait for that, I headed out, turned left and then left again when I reached the square and there was the Starbucks. I ordered my tea and a small snack and sat there slowly sipping the tea, gently reviving myself before heading back to the hotel. And when I got back, there were wrapped pastries and a huge cannister of coffee. I might have had some of my tea left, I can't remember, but I didn't bother with the coffee and simply took a couple of cinnamon pastries. The revival process was in full swing, but I still felt awful.

The hotel room was pretty standard, although it did have two double beds. There was a flat screen television and a coffee machine that I couldn't understand, a complicated telephone on the bedside table, an armchair and a small, round glass table. The bathroom worked and that's always the main thing. The shower was perfect. It was easy to control and I soon broke into a routine: clean teeth, shave, jump in the shower and then get changed and ready for breakfast downstairs. All week I've been having the same breakfast: Strawberry Parfait, which is basically granola, sliced strawberries and blueberries under which could be found yoghurt, the flavour of which varied daily. The staff in the breakfast room were great, they were friendly and helpful and did a great job. Today, for example, they'd run out of yoghurt, meaning I couldn't have my Strawberry Parfait, but the man went out of his way and got me some yoghurt and all was well. Something else that's good about the breakfast is the selection of teas. They were all Bigelow's tea and my favourite flavour was 'Constant Comment', which kind of sums me up. It's their first and most famous blend flavoured with a secret recipe of orange rind and sweet spice and I loved it; so much so that I plan to order some online when I get home.

Funicular railway to Mt. Washington

That's really been my sole experience of the hotel. I haven't been to the gym or the business centre and I've been in bed around 7pm every night, getting over 10 hours' sleep and feeling great the next morning, especially when I remembered it was time for breakfast. 

The hotel's close proximity to Market Square is excellent and there's nothing better than spending an hour or two at Pizzaiolo Prima and then taking the short stroll back to the Hilton Garden round the corner. The view out of my hotel window is a cityscape, which is only to be expected in an American hotel in the city and I've grown accustomed to living here this past week. While I'm really looking forward to going home, a part of me will miss my room until it disappears into the ether of lost memories.

If there is a downside, the housekeeping guys haven't cleaned my room since I arrived, it's policy. Unless I ask for clean sheets I won't get them, which is fine, although, when I open the door I always hope that the bed has been made and the bathroom is clean – that's half the fun of staying in a hotel – but all week everything has been as I left it and I'm not a messy person, fortunately. I'm not complaining either, but it is rather odd that they're not doing it.

Tomorrow (Friday) is my last breakfast and then I fly home to the UK. I'm lying in a little and won't be down there until 8am, but I plan to enjoy the meal as I have done all week.

After Thursday's lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe Station Square (the food's okay here, I had Cedar Plank Salmon with mashed potato and green beans) we walked to Mount Washington, or rather I hobbled there thanks to the aforementioned lateral foot pain caused, according to the internet, by walking excessive distances in the wrong shoes. I've been in pain, but eventually I bought some Nurofen from the CVS across the street and things have improved somewhat. The weather was hot most of the afternoon and when we reached Mount Washington (using the funicular railway to reach the top) we stopped at the Coal Hill Steakhouse for a light snack while admiring the view of Pittsburgh on offer. Mozzarella cheese sticks and breaded chicken goujons with fries were fine as a snack while looking down on the city. All very chilled out. We went back to the hotel for about an hour and then headed out to find something to eat. We found a Mexican restaurant, Condado, which served its purpose (see previous post for more details).

Pittsburgh from the top of Mount Washington

It is now Friday morning, the day of departure, and, as always, I've grown fond of my hotel room, which has been my home for the past week. I'll miss the routine of early nights and I'll miss my Strawberry Parfait breakfasts, not forgetting Bigelow's 'Constant Comment' black tea. I keep thinking it's Constant Gardener, but that was a movie. Today the travelling resumes: we fly to New York then have a five-hour stop-over at JFK before flying across the Atlantic to the UK. I think we get home around 0745hrs, something like that. Right now, it's time for that last breakfast.

Room 513, Hilton Garden Downtown

Last night I had some vivid dreams and one involved meeting my uncle Jack and uncle David who were fixing something inside a car. They both looked really young, if that makes sense. My uncle David had gleaming, jet black, shoulder-length hair and my uncle Jack short, lighter hair and was unshaven. Why I note these details I don't know. The dream didn't involve talking to them, they never acknowledged my presence, but I was just there, peering through the passenger side window and trying to understand what they were doing. For some reason I'd taken a stroll to Poulton Avenue where they live and the car was outside David's house, that was the dream. I felt like calling mum to tell her for some reason, but figured it would be a bit strange calling her just to say I'd had a dream about her brothers.

American food – it still bugs me...

One thing I find hard to accept is the poor quality of American food. Whenever I visit an American city, like Pittsburgh, where I am at the moment, the food never fails to disappoint. Last night (Tuesday) was a case in point. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that the meatball joint I visited for dinner (Emporio) was, for me at any rate, the worst place I've ever experienced, not just here in Pittsburgh, but anywhere in the world. It was based on the notion of making your own meal, the deal was simple: you picked your style of meal (bowl, hoagie or whatever – there were clear choices) and then you chose the type of meatball (pork, beef, chicken, vegetarian) and then there were sauces and sides and what have you. I chose the hoagie, beef meatballs and a barbecue style sauce, the name of which I can't remember. Oh, I almost forgot the side of Brussels sprouts. What arrived later screamed God knows what, how about 'cardiac care unit, here we come'. It was simply awful. Three decidedly under par meatballs covered in a gloopy-looking sauce and accompanied by what can only be described as blackened, burnt-to-a-crisp Brussels sprouts. I tried a slice of one meatball, realised the whole thing was, in my opinion, a non-starter (let alone a main course) and simply gave up. I convinced myself that I wasn't that hungry anyway and just sat there waiting for somebody to take it away and leave me alone. The whole meal was made a little worse by an unnaturally chirpy waitress who bigged the whole thing up and made the arrival of the food a total anti-climax of the highest order. I will never, ever, visit the place again and as I left I felt like standing up and broadcasting to my fellow diners, saying something like "What are you doing here? Can't you see that what you're eating is not very good? Have you no pride in what you eat? Don't you care about your health?" But of course I said nothing of the sort, I let them carry on piling their meatballs and hoagies into their dumb mouths.

Pastrami and chip sandwich in Primanti Bros. Not even a plate!

But as with everything, there's always a silver lining and that came in the shape of Pizzaiolo Prima on Market Square. This, in my opinion, is one of the best restaurants in the city, it's small, it's intimate, it's very European in nature and I loved it. Earlier in the week I ordered salmon and today at lunchtime I had a chicken dish followed by bread pudding, which was pleasant, but the portion size was too much (two slices of bread pudding when one would have sufficed and far too much ice cream. If I was being particularly harsh I would say that they lost points for the size of the dessert, but no, I can't deduct any points because overall this is the sort of restaurant that Pittsburgh is crying out for and I know that if I come back to Pittsburgh, a city I love, then I'll certainly return.

Healthy hotel breakfast at Hilton Garden Downtown...

Tonight (Wednesday) my colleague and I were taken out to dinner. We visited a place called the Grand Concourse which, if I'm not mistaken, was once a railway station. It was a grand old building with high ceilings and decor to die for and we were given a table close to the river and, of course, the railroad track. The restaurant was located at Station Square. Avid readers will recall that in 2019 I stayed at the Sheraton Station Square. The whole area surrounding both the hotel and the Grand Concourse was village-like in nature and now they've added a Tupelo Honey restaurant, last seen by yours truly in Knoxville back in 2013 and probably worth checking out (perhaps tomorrow, who knows?). There's also a Hard Rock Cafe and a few other establishments. But let's get back to the Grand Concourse as this was a very grand establishment sporting white tablecloths, gleaming cutlery and a decent menu. The service was good too and so was the food. I ordered Dynamite Scallops as a starter and crab cakes for mains, both fantastic and washed down with a few Pellegrino sparkling mineral waters and an orange and spice tea from Bigelow. Not as good as their Constant Comment tea (a strange name) but pleasant nonetheless. I had two in the end, but didn't choose dessert as I'd had one at lunch time. 

Decent dinner at Pizzaiolo Prima on Market Sq, Pittsburgh

One thing is now for certain: I need to stop eating. I feel a diet coming on and it's about time, but there's little I can do this week as I'm here in Pittsburgh, I have a long flight ahead of me and I'll have to make a start once I reach home and have dealt with the jet lag. I need to get back on the bike and I need to cut out bread and sweets and cake and stop drinking cappuccino. In short, I have to pull myself together, but right now I need to hit the sack.

It's Thursday morning, I've been working all morning in my hotel room and I've damaged my right foot. Lateral foot pain, says the internet, and it's all to do with excessive walking and the wrong footwear, which sounds about right to me. I have difficulty walking. I've injured myself like this before, at the same event but in Philadelphia a few years ago. There's a CVS across the street and I might nip over there and buy some Nurofen or similar. But something says leave it, don't bother, grin and bear the pain and just hobble around for the next two days. Not sure, but either way lunch soon beckons and I think a light snack will be the order of the day as the food I've been eating this week (apart from in Pizzaiolo Prima and last night's excellent dinner at the Grand Concourse on Station Square) hasn't been that good.

Condado...better than expected...

On Thursday evening we went to Condado, a Mexican restaurant that specialises in Tacos. I had my suspicions. Other diners had messy tables, there was a lot of silver foil involved and I thought hey ho, here we go again. In truth, it wasn't that bad. I ordered a Plain Jane and was told that one taco is a snack, two qualifies as a meal so opted for the latter and it was fine, healthy is the word, lots of salad and some chicken that was it really. I ordered a couple of ginger beers, which were fine and then paid up and left. 

The hobble back to the hotel was fine, the sun was shining, it was warm and it was pleasant. The city was fairly quiet and the roads were empty, which you'll never get in London. Imagine roads with no cars on them, that's what a lot of American cities are like, they look almost deserted and I love it. There's something about the sun shining and the streets empty that warms my heart and makes me feel immortal. 

Flight BA 0067 to Philadelphia... Saturday 14 May 2022

We took off before 2pm on a relatively clear day. Having not flown for over two and a half years, I was uneasy, but there was no cloud so my unease was lightened somewhat, but only mildly.

I was in seat 37a, an exit seat, so plenty of legroom, but no window I could call my own. To see out I had to turn my head to the left, which is what I did for most of the first 30 minutes, watching land get further and further away. Very soon we were high above ground looking down at what looked like a patchwork quilt of fields. 

I am writing in the past tense, as if the flight took place yesterday, but we’re only two and a quarter hours into a seven-hour flight and already I’m a mess, a mixture of pensive, sad and a little unhappy too. I don’t want to be so far away from home, but with every second that passes I’m getting further and further away when all I want is to be back there, in the garden or in a coffee shop or just doing nothing too taxing. I just want to chill if the truth is known, but what’s new about that?

Lunch (which was served mid-afternoon UK time) was the usual airline food. I always order the chicken and it was fine. There was a pleasant dessert, something like a chocolate cherry crunch, very tasty. There was a cracker too, but I never eat the cheese. 

Once lunch was over, of course, there was nothing to do; the cabin crew normally vanish but on this occasion they were present throughout the flight, busying themselves with serving our every need. 

I was not relaxed enough to read Jonathan Coe’s Middle England. Instead I just sat there thinking about time and trying to sectionalize it in my own head. I tried to think about Philadelphia where it was 11.30 in the morning and then I imagined it being lunchtime and then I thought about how quickly lunch passed and how residents of that great city would soon be thinking “4.30pm, is that the time?” And how, when they thought that, I would be on the ground making my way towards the terminal building and wishing I didn’t have to endure one more flight, that short hop west to Pittsburgh.

The man next to me sported a baseball cap and a black mask; he was reading Cold Granite by Stuart Macbride, a Sunday Times bestseller, which has never been my scene. I’ve never been in to bestsellers. His wife (I’m assuming it’s his wife) was reading a book called Exit by Belinda Bauer, but she (like him) was asleep. I can’t sleep on planes and even less so when I’m anxious and sad. It’s got a lot to do with not having travelled for the past two and a half years.

Where masks were concerned, not many people wore them and nor was I, although I had one in my pocket. I guess if everyone on board had taken a test the day before the flight then I assumed the likelihood of catching Covid was pretty slim. Still, never say never. 

Loads of cloud en route to Pittsburgh

In roughly four hours from now there will be around half an hour to go,I thought.That was how I was thinking. Not that such a thought is in any way heartening. Outside, the white-out world of the clouds was below us. 

My inability to relax was annoying so I took a stroll to the back of the plane and found little to amuse or comfort me. I remember a flight to Tokyo, although it might have been New Delhi, when the cabin crew was a pretty friendly bunch, handing out Celebrations chocolates and happy to pass the time of day with a bored passenger like yours truly. While the crew of flight BA0067 was friendly they all seemed rushed off their feet and had yet to disappear as they normally do. It seemed there was always something to keep them occupied.

I paid a visit to the cramped ‘bathroom’ but was too on edge to give my fellow passengers the finger from behind the bulkhead. Perhaps I wasn't tired or irritable enough at that moment, or perhaps I was already far worse; in four hours time there would be roughly 20 minutes to go. Except the journey – or the hassles – wouldn't be over: there was US immigration to deal with, baggage reclaim and then another flight, albeit a short one. If I’m honest I’d rather have taken the train from Philadelphia, but I never thought of it at the time so now I had to endure another plane journey. As always, I just wanted to get there. Of course I did. As my dad would have said, “you’re not unique”. In a way, however, he was wrong, we’re all unique. Dad would be right in one respect: there can’t be anybody on board who wants to be here, it’s all a means to an end. A to B or A to Z  it all amounts to the same thing. 

“They will write and they will call in,” I heard in my head. I nodded off and had micro dreams that featured random phrases of this nature, but all in a split second. Time was not passing fast. 

“And I saw her standing there,” I heard in my head and immediately thought of a bearded Sir Paul in his younger days.

Outside the sun was shining brightly and was reflected off the white sheet of cloud below us. I could hear a baby laughing or crying, it’s hard to know exactly, but the sound of a baby crying really depresses me.

Back home it was coming round to 6pm and I just knew that my rear lawn looked smooth and velvety in the evening sun. I might have been sitting in the garden room reading or drinking tea and probably wondering what we were having for dinner. We might have been out on a drive somewhere, it was hard to know exactly. The only constant was the ride and I would no doubt be wondering whether to ride to Oxted again in the morning, Sunday morning. Nothing better than a lazy weekend, but not today.

I was amazed at how hard the cabin crew was working; the crew hadn’t stopped since we took off nearly four hours ago, but they were not working as hard as the mum with a daughter and two young sons, the eldest being around five years old. They were sitting across from me in the middle row, in front of the bulkhead. The mum never stopped. The older boy was quite happy entertaining himself whereas the daughter, who was not yet a toddler, needed constant attention. The middle child was so quiet he seemed invisible.

The man next to me was awake and reading, black mask on. People wandered around while others, like me, drank water from a small, clear plastic beaker supplied by one of the cabin crew. There really wasn’t a great deal to say.

I walked to the rear of the plane again just to get some exercise. The woman with the baby walked back and forth too, holding the baby, and I was standing at the back, close to the galley, and looking at all the small screens on the backs of seats. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, I watch enough of them at home, but for some reason I found it hard to focus or concentrate enough to read or watch anything, I was in a strange frame of mind.

Outside, the Atlantic below looked calm, but it would do at 38,000 feet. There was less cloud, which was encouraging, but it was still very hazy, almost steamy. There were around three hours and twenty minutes to go. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, or the music, although I knew the music would make me emotional. I thanked the Lord that I wasn't drinking. I remember once, on a flight to Chicago, when the euphoric nature of what I was listening to (I think it was Nessum Dorma) brought out the tears. A couple of Merlots at 38,000 feet can do that to me. I tried to conceal it and as nobody said anything I figured I got away with it, but I guess I’ll never know. Music can take me that way sometimes, and poetry (Milton Kessler’s Thanks forever) but it wouldn’t be so pronounced after a couple of glasses of water, although I’d say don’t push it, my frame of mind was such that I could crack at any moment. 

The pandemic was certainly a kind of watershed for me: pre-COVID travel (of which there was plenty) I took in my stride and I loved being away, even though it was always a wrench on day one. Eventually, once clear of the lag, I was fired up and full of the joys of spring, enjoying my hotel room in they way only I can (that’s an allusion to all the silly things I say I get up to, and to be honest most of it is true, although I don’t think I’ve climbed into the wardrobe yet, perhaps later). I don’t think my passion for mooching around the world has left me, it’s just that I’ve had over two years without it and need to get back into that space again. 

With three hours exactly before I reached Philadelphia, I was still regretting not organising the Amtrak to Pittsburgh. I could have checked into a hotel in the city and then taken an early train west, arriving late afternoon – perfect! But I didn’t think, which was typical. I think my problem is that I’ve always got stuff on my mind, things to think about, so that when it comes to something classy, like taking the train, I forget and then live to regret it. But why cry over spilt milk, there’s no point. 

The train thing was a result of the last time I found myself in Pittsburgh. The hotel I was staying in ‘stole' my laptop and passport forcing me to take the train to New York to get an emergency passport in order to fly home. It took 11 hours, but the whole experience was amazing and now I’m in love with long train journeys. I think I could spend days on a train without getting bored. I’d love to ride the Trans-Siberia across Siberia, all the way to China – and back again. You can’t beat sleeping on a train, eating on a train, reading on a train, writing on a train. Is there anything that isn’t more enjoyable than if you’re doing it on a train? I can’t think of anything. And even ‘that’ would be more fun as long as the guard didn’t knock on the door and demand to see my ticket. I wouldn’t mind riding the Polar Express, if it existed. Imagine that! A train with Tom Hanks on board. “Well in that case, tickets please!” That’s what he says in the movie, among other things. 

When I started thinking about elapsed time and how much more there was to go before we landed, I looked at the clock and found it was 7pm at home, and I thought, okay, the One Show had just started, had it been a weekday, and then I tried to think how long it took to reach the time I wanted it to be (in this case 9.30pm, UK time, which was when were destined to land) but it was pointless. Time is time and the only way to make it pass is to do something: watch a movie, listen to music, I don’t know, but I was just not relaxed enough and it looked as though I was going to remain in an unsettled state until we arrived. 

Spotted around Pittsburgh

Outside there was a watery blue haze and I couldn't see where the sky ended and the sea began. Sometimes I mistook clouds for land and my hopes rose until I realised it was little more than an illusion.

With around two hours to go, land appeared and I presumed it was Canada and that, at some stage, we would head south and follow the east coast towards our destination, but I don't think that happened.

View from room 513, Hilton Garden Downtown

The closer we got to Philadelphia, the thicker the cloud. The plane was full of pent-up energy and was chugging angrily towards its destination, but there was never any turbulence, just the threat of it, which kept me on edge and wishing I wasn't there, but I was there, and soon the plane started its descent and the cloud went on forever and didn't let up until we landed. I was glad to be on the ground, but had the hassle of US immigration to go through and then a grilling from a police officer whose surname was Santiago. I thought he was a cop on secondment from the police force of another country, but I was wrong. Santiago was his name. He was interested in my display unit, which I told him was very boring, but opened it nonetheless, telling him how it could be a rocket launcher; perhaps that was a silly thing to say, but he took the joke and eventually went on his merry way, or rather we did, but police officer Santiago was the least of our troubles. We had the possibility of a bumpy flight through stormy weather ahead of us and once again I found myself longing for Penn Station in New York and the prospect of an 11-hour train journey to Pittsburgh. But no, I didn't bottle the flight and while the rain outside of the terminal building intensified and the skies darkened, the flight was fine. A little dramatic in terms of the size and shape of the clouds that surrounded us like fluffy mines waiting to detonate, but all was well and we landed safely. I was tired but I was glad we had arrived and that all that stood between me and my hotel room was a short taxi ride into town. Our taxi driver was amused by my English accent and kept referring to me as James Bond. Funny the first time, perhaps, but he persisted and I was tired and just smiled politely, humouring him as the journey progressed. Soon he had dropped us at the hotel and my colleague tried to check in but was told by the man on the front desk, one Koda Rugg, that she didn't have a reservation. Puzzled, we asked him to double check, which he did, but then told us we were probably in the wrong hotel. There were two Hilton Garden hotels on the same road and despite the fact that I'd given our driver the address, he took us to the wrong hotel. Still, not a problem, we'll just ask for a taxi to take us to our hotel or perhaps we could walk it. "No, no, you can't walk, it's too dangerous," Rugg said as he pressed a button that ordered a z-Trip cab. But the z-Trip cab didn't arrive and the hotel where we were supposed to be staying couldn't help, other than give me the number of the same cab company the man at the wrong hotel had given us. All around us were people who were leading normal lives. They were fresh-faced and alive and dressed up for a night out and didn't feel dog-tired or jet-lagged like we did; and we both felt envious of their sprightliness as our pain continued. I felt as if this was the end, that we were destined forever to be sitting in the wrong hotel reception area surrounded by suitcases and two rocket launchers unable to leave or get any sleep, this was our lot, our destiny, our end. We wandered around like zombies and eventually, out of sheer luck, a z-Cab arrived and took us to our hotel. Tired and exhausted and feeling extremely low we checked in and went to our respective rooms. I decided to go straight to bed. I cleaned my teeth (or did I? I can't remember) and when I awoke the next morning I still felt awful, terrible, my right eye aching, my head throbbing. I phoned home and was advised to rest on the bed, which I did (thankfully) and I started to feel a little better. I walked to a Starbucks on nearby Market Square and ordered a large English Breakfast tea and a bottle of mineral water, not forgetting some weird egg dish the name of which escapes me. Earlier, in the hotel reception area, I bought a Hershey bar and some kind of almond and coconut chocolate bar, both of which I consumed with gusto before heading out for the aforementioned Starbucks. I started to feel better, but not 100%. In fact, it wasn't until I hit the sack, early, around 7pm – after another trip out to buy mineral water just in case I felt dehydrated during the night – that things started to look up. I slept for over 10 hours, more sleep than I'd had for a very long time, and I felt great. My eye was no longer aching, my headache (the first one in years) had gone and I was ready for what the world had to throw at me. It's Monday night now, but my day has been good and was rounded off with a wonderful meal in Pizzaiolo Primo on Market Square. Personally, I think it is the best restaurant in the whole of Pittsburgh and might say as much on Trip Advisor. I would like to return here soon. I know it's better than any of the restaurants I have visited in Pittsburgh and that's all that matters. And on that positive note, I'll sign off.

Air travel is back!

I haven't travelled abroad for over two years. The last time I went anywhere was in February 2020. Helsinki. Capital of Finland. I was there for a couple of days and when I returned, within a few weeks, the country was in lockdown. That was it. No more travelling. Up until that point I had been merrily flying around the world and you can read all about it by clicking on any of the links on the right hand side of this page. 

When the travelling stopped I was wondering how I would react to not whizzing around the world. I thought I'd be crawling up the walls, but I soon realised that it didn't bother me. This might have been because, throughout the lockdown, I spent an inordinate amount of time cycling and cooking and watching movies on Prime and Netflix. In fact, my entire 'lockdown experience' is documented on this very blog and starts here. I'm still riding and watching movies, but I've taken a back seat on the cooking and that's because we're back in the office three days out of five and that's been the case for some time now. Things are back to normal, but it's taken a little longer to find myself back on the travel circuit again. Now, however, I'm back... or I will be very soon, on a flight across the Atlantic to Philadelphia and then a little west to Pittsburgh. I haven't missed travelling one bit and now find myself mildly anxious about it. My weekends have been amazing over the past few weeks. I've been riding to Oxted and then sitting outside Caffe Nero in the sunshine, chilling with a cappuccino, or sitting outside of Starbucks with a large English Breakfast tea people watching. But for the next two weeks my routine will change, there won't be any riding, unless I can find a stationary bike in the hotel gym. I say 'two weeks', it's just one, but two weekends are involved so I'm going to miss two consecutive weeks of riding. I can't say I'm happy about that, because no cycling will be combined with American food and we all know what the Americans do with their food: they take something healthy and they make it unhealthy by adding creamy sauces and goodness knows what else. Either way the end result is not good. I am, however, looking forward to meeting some of the American people and being in America, a country I love to bits and I guess that now the travelling is returning I need to reset myself and get back into travelling mode again. The problem is not the travelling, it's having to wear a mask on a plane for hours on end. If it wasn't for that I think I'd be looking forward to it more than I am at this present time. Although I'd be looking forward to it a lot more if I could cross the Atlantic like Greta Thunberg did on a catarmaran, but that's not possible and they've yet to build a bridge across the ocean so flying is the only option. It's not just masks that make the whole thing unbearable, it's the hassle associated with the reason why we're all wearing masks: Covid. And that means tests before I fly and a ridiculous app, Verifly, that simply doesn't work. I keep thinking it must be something I'm doing wrong, but I've now submitted everything and have been told I'm ready to fly, but he BA website won't allow me to check in online because it hasn't received details, presumably from Verifly, that says I've tested negative and all is fine. As a result, I've ordered an early cab as the only option left to me is to check in manually, ie in the old-fashioned manner, ie I turn up and hand over my bags to a human being and hand over all my paper documentation and so forth. I'm leaving early for that reason alone and you know what? I know already that I'm going to have a lot of grief, they're not going to believe me, they won't accept my documentation when I present it to them and it's all going to be irritating and bordering on bad temper. I'm already uptight, I'm already getting bad-tempered about it all and now, of course, because I don't drink, I've got nothing to relax me, like a large glass of Merlot.

Anyway, the taxi is due any minute. Outside, the sun is shining. Normally, I would be cycling today, on my way to a chilled out cappuccino in the sunshine down in Oxted, like last week. But that's off the agenda this week and next. 

Just call me the hill climber...

Last week, five rides. This week, a bank holiday will help things along. Last week, almost 60 miles (59.1 miles) this week, so far, well, it looks as if it'll be something like 40 miles by tomorrow (2nd May) and if so I'll probably tip over 70 by Saturday, but only just.

This was a fairly tough hill.

Heaven for me at this present time is riding to Oxted. Along the 269 yesterday (Saturday 30 April) but through Woldingham this morning. Quite tough. I turned right on to Slines Oak Road and followed the road all the way into Woldingham, turning left at the top, riding towards The Ridge and hanging left until I reached Chalkpit Lane, the road opposite where Al Fayed used to live. It's a steep hill, much steeper than Titsey and there are plenty of twists and turns and I ended up in the suburbs of Oxted (if Oxted has suburbs, it's not that big a place). It's weird. I arrived into town from the other side of the tracks, so to speak, not a million miles from the Caffe Nero where I parked up and padlocked the bike, then I walked down towards the Starbucks where I ordered a large English Breakfast tea and a small bar of chocolate. The weather was good, not as good as yesterday, perhaps, but good enough to sit outside and watch the people pass by. This is why I like Oxted at the moment, it's because it's chilled and quiet and laid back and there's not much going on first thing in the morning. It's like nothing else, just being there, not really thinking but just taking things in. It's almost too good. I can see myself taking the train here one day soon, bringing the laptop and a decent book with me and chilling for the entire morning.

Having riden down Chalkpit Lane, I decided to ride back up. Titsey is a 16% incline, Chalkpit is 20% and I certainly felt it as I slowly made my way to the top. I turned right and headed for Botley Hill and I reached home around 1042 hrs, roughly an hour after I departed Oxted.

The Illustrious Illustrator (left)

I've got one more ride to go before work recommences on Tuesday and it looks as if I'll be going to the Tatsfield Churchyard to meet the Illustrious Illustrator. I'll leave the house around 0800hrs and should get there before 0900. It'll mean taking a flask and some tea, something I haven't done for a while, but I'm looking forward to it. In fact, I'm thinking of riding back along Pilgrims and then up Titsey Hill, just so I get that much-needed exercise... except that I didn't. I rode straight to the churchyard, chatted with Geoff for about an hour and then rode home following the outward route, a total of 16.10 miles.

It was strange being at the Tatsfield Churchyard after such a long absence. Memories of Andy and I sitting there in the sunshine, chilling out, talking about this and that and sipping tea, eating Belvita biscuits and preparing for the ride home. The rides seemed simpler back then, there was nothing gung-ho about them, no great urgency to cover a specific number of miles to feel on top of things. We just rode the bikes, invariably to the Tatsfield Bus Stop or the Churchyard or even the village itself. These were pre-coffee shop days when we spent absolutely nothing and only needed a flask of hot water, four teabags and some milk, not forgetting the biscuits. There was a division of labour too: I brought the tea and the water and the milk; Andy brought the biscuits and we did that for years and years. We sat on benchs, in fields, in churchyards on village greens near and far and were unconcerned that we hadn't covered more than, say, 32 miles in a week, riding only on a Saturday and Sunday. Things are more fretful now. We want mid-week rides to bump up the mileage, longer distances at the weekends, climbing big hills like Titsey and so on and then adding the rides to Strava and longing for kudos from fellow riders. There really is a clear pre- and post-pandemic thing going on with our rides and the long and the short of it is we're both riding a lot more and we tend not to visit our old haunts. These days we spend money in Costa or Caffe Nero or Starbucks, which is fine, there's nothing better in my book than riding to Oxted on a sunny day and sitting in a coffee shop chilling out before the ride home, in fact 'that ride' has become my current default, that's why it was so odd finding myself in the churchyard having to get used to the peace and quiet. The churchyard really is in a world of its own, it's away from the numbers, out of sight, out of mind, there's no cars, no people bar the odd gardener tending to the graves. Churchyards were our thing. Churchyards and covered bus stops, but now they're confined to the history books and can only be found, by and large, by scrolling back through this very blog to find shots of Andy and I sitting at the covered bus stop at the top of Approach Road, Tatsfield, or in the village. As I say, another era. Now we carry padlocks and mix with the general public. But there's no point standing in the way of progress. For a start, it's nice not having to carry a heavy rucksack full of water and teabags, which I did for many years. Now there's nothing on my back apart from whatever I'm wearing, I feel freer, I'm probably riding a little faster, it's certainly easier, and the thought of an English Breakfast tea (albeit one that costs me £2.88) makes the whole ride that little bit better. The destination, the halfway point, is a lot more appealing, there's little better than people watching in the sunshine, chilling while waiting for that moment when there's nothing else other than the ride home.

The Tatsfield Churchyard, it's been a long time!

Talking of the old days (as I was earlier) Andy sent me a direct message via Twitter talking about a past post, written back in June 2014. He said it's amazing how things have changed and I texted back saying totally, things have really changed. We don't see Phil from one year to the next. I remember him riding to Tatsfield Village not that long ago on his motorcycle, but that was it and I often wonder when (if at all) things will revert to what they used to be; not that they should, life moves on, things change, people change, circumstances change and, as I said earlier, while I wouldn't necessarily say things have changed for the better (that would mean that our times as a threesome were not as good as now) they have changed, mainly because of the pandemic. Phil remarried, he still lives nearby but he has different responsibilities. Andy and I still meet up, once a week (or we did until Andy's accident) but things are improving, Andy's on the mend and soon we'll be back, down in Westerham, sitting in the Costa having a chinwag. I'm looking forward to that. I'd like to say we'll see Phil again soon too and I hope we do, but it's whenever he feels the need.

Lastly, on how things have changed, if you compare the post Andy was referring to (click here) to recent posts, you'll notice a difference. While recent posts obsess about mileage and numbers of rides per week, the older posts focus on other stuff. The ride is there, of course, but it's not centre stage, we're engaged in other stuff, like cakes and biscuits, David Beckham and so forth, there is, if you like, a happier tone to past posts compared to more recent ones.

The Rockhopper, Monday 2 May 2022, Tatsfield Churchyard

Today is Monday and my cycling week has, of course, only just started. I rode 16 today and 20 yesterday (give or take) so that's 36 miles. If I can double that by Saturday I'll be laughing. Last week, five rides, so I'm not doing too badly.