To Tatsfield...

Two cup cakes. Fair enough, but I could have settled for one. Three walnut whips? I never needed to eat all of them. I could have eaten just one, or none. I could have left them for another day and made the two ill-advised cup cakes the only sin of the day. But I didn't. I should have stopped at one. But I didn't. I should have stopped at two. But I didn't. And when I'd finished I felt guilty. Not because I'd upset anybody else, just because I'd upset myself. What the hell was I thinking? Two cup cakes and three walnut whips. It had to stop, of course it did, but it didn't. And I'm losing track too. Somewhere along the line I found myself in Tunbridge Wells, but I think that was pre-cup cakes. Not that pre- or post- mattered. It was definitely pre-cup cakes, but I had every reason to feel guilty even then, probably because I'd fucked up the day before; I might have bought a Lindt or Lindor chocolate bar, because I love the salted caramel variety and even then, at the point of purchase, I might have said to myself 'no more' and then found myself in the Zero Waste cafe in The Pantiles, probably saying no the cake (inwardly) and then ordering it anyway. And then I have the nerve, the audacity, to eat the two cup cakes the following week and then indulge further with those three walnut whips. Well, let's face it, you don't see walnut whips these days. I mean, that must have been my motivation. Perhaps I looked at them as my long lost friends. Whatever. The fact is I ate them and I ate those two cup cakes and I started to berate myself, saying 'no more, no more, just say no'. But I knew then and I know now that I won't say no, not yet at any rate. And when I got home after the walnut whips I found a double box of Jaffa Cakes in the cupboard. Admittedly, most of the box had already been eaten, but I found three biscuits and enjoyed every one of them. The next day things got a little worse. I was in the office, there were stollen cakes slices, three of them, and these little star-shaped biscuits, similar to stollen, but not exactly the same. I ate quite a few of them, but I left one on the plate when I left the office after dark. I should have eaten it, but I left it and it was probably stale and inedible the following morning.

Sheree's Store and Tearoom, Tatsfield

When I looked at the iphone's weather app this morning there was sunshine spread throughout the day. It was an opportunity I couldn't ignore. Cycling over the past few weeks has been blighted by rain. Rain, wind and a silly cape. Not forgetting the realisation that there's no such thing as waterproof clothing. My trainers are still in the garage and they're probably still wet. The cape is not worth wearing. So I've resorted to a pair of red leather All-Stars that I've had for years. I bought them in Oxford Street probably in the late seventies and they cost me just £19. I love them. I remember once being on the tarmac in Barbados, queuing to board a flight back to the UK. It was 1993 and the same All-Stars were on my feet. A little kid, a local, asked me a question. "Are they leather All-Stars, man?" I confirmed his suspicion as correct. Clearly, the All-Stars had cred and now, in 2022, the maintain that cred. They're still around and they haven't really worn or anything and the fact that they're leather probably means they're a little more waterproof than the walking shoes in the garage. Alright, I said 'trainers' but they're walking shoes and they cost me £22 on Amazon. In the summer, they're fine, but when it rains they're useless. Today there was no rain so I headed for Tatsfield Village and Sheree's tearoom. I rode the 269, considering different routes as I rode along. The weather was wonderful. I wasn't wearing any gloves, that's how warm it was. When I reached the village I entered the teashop, ordered a pot of tea and then I weakened again, but I didn't choose a cup cake, I opted instead for a Twix. For some reason I thought it was the better option, but it did the trick. I sat down among the old ladies who were talking about visiting garden centres and read my book, The Bear Comes Home by Safi Zabor. I like it, but I'm reading it very slowly. I don't know what it is about me at the moment, but I'm reading very slowly, not even daily, just when I find myself in a coffee shop or a teashop. Last Wednesday I went to a Costa Coffee in Redhill, ordered a medium cappuccino, nothing else, and sat and read the book. The previous Saturday I found myself in a Caffe Nero, having cycled there, with an English Breakfast tea doing exactly the same thing and now it's Friday 25 November, almost a week later and the weather is good so I couldn't waste any time. I had to get out there for fear that tomorrow will be stair rods and a ride will be forfeited. Nobody likes riding in the rain unless it's the summer. Andy said in text on Strava that he had maximum respect for anybody who went out last Sunday. I would agree with that. The weather was grim, to use another of Andy's words. Grim summed it up. I stayed in and I wasn't happy about it, but I soon got over the disappointment. But today was good and when I finished the tea and the Twix I headed on out of the tearoom and mounted my steed. I'd tethered it outside, like a cowboy's horse outside a saloon. I rode off thinking about Biggin Hill. I hadn't been there for a while now and I found myself thinking of the hill that leads to the high street and the Costa Coffee. For a split moment on the way into Tatsfield I considered riding down Lusted Hall Lane and then into Biggin Hill, but no, too much, there was stuff to be done at home and I had that feeling that I was on a short leash and needed to get back. As it turns out I wasn't on a leash, but there were things to do and when I got home, feeling energised like I do when I've been on the bike, I set about doing what needed to be done. The weather held out and I have no idea what it will be like in the morning or whether I'll get to Oxted's Caffe Nero. If it rains I won't be going anywhere, but if it's dry I'll head along the 269 and down Titsey Hill into Oxted where I will read for 30 minutes before riding home.

I could be watching England play the USA, it's on now as I write this, but I can't be bothered. The World Cup is for the summer, not the winter and because of the latter the vibe ain't there. I remember my father watching sport on the television but in the back garden. He'd sit there, bush hat on, yellow swimming shorts, his 'Jansen's' as he called them. It was probably a brand name. He sat outside, smoking a cigarette with the television uprooted from it's original position in the living room and turned around to face out into the garden. Dad would have been drinking a beer, probably Tolly Cobbold bitter. I remember how he gave me a glass of it on occasion, diluted with lemonade and with an ice cube added. I loved it, the sharp bitter taste softened by the lemonade and of course it goes without saying that in later life I would go on to drink a lot of beer. 

It's 2115hrs, I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here has just come on and I'm relaxing on the sofa. I could have watched the football, but didn't. Instead I watched The English on iplayer and was tempted to continue watching it, but the temptation to watch crap was overwhelming. Better go, there's a whole hour of it ahead of me.

Just one ride this weekend...

Oxted on Saturday morning...

The day started with rain and I just knew I'd have to abort the ride. It was to be one of those days. The worst part of it was a little later - and by that I mean around 0900 - when the sun came out, but the momentum had already been lost. I don't know, sometimes it happens, the desire leaves me and I find myself envisioning being out there and I feel odd about it. I just don't want to go, the motivation leaves the building but it takes me a long time to realise it. I swan around, I fret, I look outside, I wonder, I sit and I think, I hesitate, but deep down I know darn well that I ain't going nowhere. Eventually I accept it and accept it I did, and then things were better, things levelled out inside my head, but I wasn't relaxed, not until later, on a drive to Sutton to see mum, but first we had to find something for her 93rd birthday, which is on Wednesday 23 November. The darkening skies and the fading light as we walked along Westmead Road was evocative of something, probably my earlier life at home. There was something very 'Saturday afternoon in the 70s' about it, soap opera teens on street corners, winter clothes on, front rooms illuminated but curtains not drawn, and then the shops advertising Christmas, festive music playing and gullible consumers buying into it all. I found it slightly annoying if I'm truthful, the gullibility mainly, the fact that the capitalists put on the music and we dance to their tune, and the goods aren't that good either. Women are still wearing Ugg boots, more's the pity. I spotted a few as I wandered the high street, popping into various shops and not wanting to be a part of the con, because that's what it is. The con depressed me as I considered the so-called cost of living crisis. I never seem to have any money around Christmas time, but I reckon this year will be the worse... or perhaps not. It's hard to tell to be honest. We reached mum's after dark, around 1642hrs. Tea and KitKats followed, mum had the heating on, and her coal-effect gas fire was in full swing. We sipped tea and munched the KitKats, mum keeps them in the fridge so there's no mess. We sat and we chatted. The house looked cosy. It always does. Christmas lights have yet to arrive, but it always looks like Christmas at mum's. I considered another KitKat, but that was all I did, consider another KitKat. There's more rain on the agenda. Only Tuesday is rain-free, according to my iphone, but who the fuck am I kidding? It's dark by 4pm, I won't be riding the bike, probably not until next weekend, but it looks like it'll be raining next weekend too. I really need to look at another form of exercise. Swimming, perhaps. I used to swim a lot, three times a week: two half-milers and then one mile. The only problem with swimming is the boredom. Counting lengths. Not a good idea if you're prone to miscounting. The World Cup is on. Qatar. Nobody likes the place with it's poor human rights record. Comedian Joe Lycett protested against Beckham's greed by shredding £10,000 of his own money*. Fair enough, I thought, as I considered Beckham pocketing £10 million for being an ambassador for the Qatar World Cup. Personally, I can't get enthusiastic about the footy, not in the winter. The great thing about the World Cup is the summer... but not this year. It's now Monday night. I should be in bed because I had a late one yesterday. I watch I'm A Celeb and then the news and soon it's 2300hrs. Put all this together and it's not good: less exercise, later nights, it's not good and it has to change and the key is motivation, which I'm currently lacking.

* Lycett didn't shred the money, he donated it to charity and instead shredded a copy of Attitude magazine in which there was an article on David Beckham. 

To Oxted...and no rain!

It's been raining a lot and when it's raining on the streets, it's raining in my soul too. I don't like it and over the past few weeks, as I've said in a previous post, it's pissing me off. I'm not too bothered with 'winter' as such, although it always means less cycling or having to 'wrap up' whenever I fancy a ride. I suppose the only real upside is arriving in the Caffe Nero (or wherever) after a cold ride and then settling down, preferably on the leather sofa near the window, to chill out a little before the cold ride home. But give me the heat any day, give me the sun and the smell of the hedgerows rather than the wind and the rain. In short, I hate it. 

Last week I went out on Saturday (this time last week) and yes, as always, I rode to Oxted and sat in a Caffe Nero with an English Breakfast tea reading my book, The Bear Comes Home. I'm taking my time reading this not because it's boring but because, for some reason, I can't apply myself to reading. It's a phase I go through, but I like to keep a book on the go at all times. So I'm reading but not a great deal. I'd like to force myself to read more frequently than I am at present and I do try to sneak in reading at lunch times when I'm not with anybody else and I suppose you might say 'read on the train home' and I'd say 'well, I do, but the journey is so short and involves a change of trains that I don't particularly want to get settled only to find I've got to 'down tools' and change platforms. Home is a good place to read but there are distractions, plenty of them, like the television and the fact that 'the conservatory' (I've said before that it's not a conservatory and never has been, it's a brick-built extension that I suppose should be referred to as the rather middle class 'garden room', but basically it's an extension and it was there when we arrived here many moons ago. The trouble is it's a kind of unwilling store room. At this present time, for example, there are two computer screens on the desk, a lot of wires and crap and it's like sitting in a store cupboard. There's also a clothes horse in there and often (very often) there are clothes draped over it, not to mention socks lined up on the radiator and this means there's also a damp atmosphere in there, combined with the smell of fabric conditioner. The wicker garden sofa (it's a two-seater) is uncomfortable in the extreme and the whole room needs to be decluttered so, as you can imagine, it's not a great place to sit and read.

I'm not the sort of person who can sit in bed reading, that's far to 'sitcom' for me, and I probably wouldn't get much reading done. For a start I'd have to come up early and then expect to be interrupted or told to switch the light off, so that's out of the question, leaving me with no option other than to find a coffee shop, in my opinion the best place to do most things (well, reading and writing). That's why I like my rides to Oxted. Sometimes I don't read when I get there. Sometimes I meet people, like the Illustrious Illustrator or my pal Garth and instead we chat about this and that for about 30 minutes before I head home up the hill and along the 269 praying that it won't rain.

During the week I took a walk to Halfords just outside of town and looked at loads of stuff: lights, water bottle holders, bikes and, of course, high-visibility waterproofs for the colder weather. I also found out that a gear service (which my bike needs more than an overall service) can be done for £20. Although I'm slightly suspicious as they're likely to say something like 'we've changed the block, we've done this, we've done that and that'll be £200 please, sir'. Well, no it won't be, so I'll have to ask about that little loophole before I hand over the bike and I'm only going to hand over the bike if I ride down there, although there's a branch close to where I live. But right now I can cope with the gear problem and, as Andy said recently, my changing up and down problems are more than likely exacerbated by the bike being dirty and in need of a clean. Talking of which, I've promised myself a jet clean at the Esso garage on the way home. When I say 'myself' I mean the bike, but it's whether the cleaning bay is free and whether I have time and whether I have the inclination. I probably won't have any if the truth be known.

This might sound odd, but at this moment in time I simply exist. I know we all do, but what I mean is I ride the bike, I put it back in the garage, I ride the bike, I put it back in the garage, and I don't think anything of it, I don't clean it, oil it, nothing, I just ride it until something happens that stops me riding it, then I get it serviced and then I ride it again. It's like this in all aspects of my life, I trudge on, I keep going, I clean my teeth, I get dressed, I get undressed, I sleep, I wake up, I watch television, it's a constant process through time, I eat, I sleep, I walk, I ride the bike, I just do stuff but there's no pit stop, no holiday, no break, no nothing, I just am and somehow I need to change this scenario. Perhaps forcing myself to read more would be a start, that's a kind of pit stop.

Around 0800 I set out for Westerham. Rain didn't appear to be on the horizon but it was colder than normal. I was wearing a fleece and jeans over my cycling shorts and headed the normal way through Warlingham out into the sticks on the 269 and then down Titsey Hill into Oxted. I rode 'no hands' along Granville as there's nothing, no cars, so it's safe to do so, and then placed my hands firmly on the handlebars to make the left turn past the library and then the right turn to ride up the high street towards my final stop, Caffe Nero. I ordered an English Breakfast tea and then took a seat and read my book for around half an hour. The place was crowded and noisy today but I shut myself off from the world until it was time to consider heading home (never a good moment as I know I've got Titsey Hill to climb). But all was fine. I rode down the High Street, along Granville and then followed the road towards the hill, which is never THAT bad. There was no mist at all when I reached Botley Hill so I sailed down the 269 towards Warlingham where the traffic picked up a little bit. I managed to pass a lot of stationary cars and soon found myself in Sanderstead, cruising down Church Way towards home. It had been a good ride and a dry one so here's hoping tomorrow will be just a good.

I tell you what never fails to get on my nerves and that's the patronising television ads that start appearing courtesy of the big retailers. Yes, it's the Christmas ads, designed to pull at people's emotions with the sole aim of getting them to 'buy stuff' and keep them in profit during these difficult times. What they fail to recognise is that we don't have any money, they simply ignore the cost of living crisis and pretend that nothing extraordinary is happening and they hope we're all going to buy their crap so that their profits maintain a level keel. And every year and I find myself thinking (actually, hoping) that people will see sense and not fall for it. There's nothing worse than these patronising advertisements featuring silly little bears in festive jumpers (Lidl), ridiculous scenarios depicting hordes of people running towards one house to have their Christmas lunch (Argos) another one with a little boy's Christmas list that somehow gets blown into the sky never to be seen again (McDonald's) and there are many more; all the rubbishy perfume ads from the likes of Paco Rabane and that stupid stupid ad in which three girls are in a field chanting Daisy Daisy Daisy Daisy. Fuck. Off. Perfume, aftershave, it's all ridiculously expensive, just have a good bath or shower is what I say. Anyway, I find it all annoying.

Equally annoying is that complete and utter wanker Matt Hancock in the jungle on I'm a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here. They had the first of the vote-outs last night and he's still in there, meaning the great British public have taken to him, they like him, they want to keep him in the jungle, he's been forgiven, he might even win. Even Boy George, who I thought was going to give Hancock a piece of his mind has yet to deliver. So there you have it: rising prices and Christmas ads that ignore the situation we all find ourselves in, a dodgy politician earning a six-figure sum to eat kangaroo bollocks and the rest of us seething quietly as the world approaches the year end. Next up is the Christmas songs, which are equally depressing. "And so this is Christmas...and what have you done?" I've done enough thanks for asking, Lennon, and I don't need you to make me feel guilty about anything. Again, all the songs are designed to make us all feel sad and guilty and perhaps in need of what? I know! Some retail therapy! Well, no. Once again, two words: Fuck. Off.

It's now almost a quarter to five in the afternoon (1642hrs) and it's dark outside. I'm alone in the house but the other residents are not far away and I expect them back shortly. I've drawn the curtains so that nobody can peer in to the living room and I'm now going upstairs to take off my cycling shorts, which I've had on all fucking day. Why? Because my trainers in the garage are still wet from the heavy rain of two weeks ago and I've been forced to wear my red leather All Stars. They have long laces and can't be slipped off, they have to be painstakingly undone and that's such a hassle if you've got to put them back on again, so I kept them and my jeans on all day and now that I know I've got nowhere else to go tonight, I've taken them off and can relax, but I need to get upstairs and take the shorts off. Better go.

Pissed off with fucking rain...

I'm fed up with rain. Today (Sunday) I headed off, for the second time, in a downpour. Yesterday I went out, wearing my ridiculous cape, and rode to Oxted. Today, the plan was Westerham to meet Andy and yes, it was raining; except that today it was much heavier than yesterday. Yesterday I managed to reach Oxted without getting too much of a soaking. Today, the driving rain meant that I was soaked through before I reached the top of Church Way, but I persevered. By the time I reached Knights Garden Centre, roughly four miles from home, I was completely drenched. My shoes were soaked and will remain so for the rest of the week. When I put them on this morning they were already wet from yesterday as was the cape, which is totally useless. It's like a tent. You know when you go camping and people tell you not to touch the walls of the tent because they will be wet, well, it's the same with the cape except that the cape does make contact with your body and so you get wet. If I wore the cape on a dry day I'd still get wet. 

I don't like cycling in the rain and this weekend has been the third in a row. By and large, up until now, it's been fine, although on all occasions I've taken a soaking, despite wearing so-called waterproof clothing. Today, however, was the worst ever. The rain was constant, never-ending, and initially when I stopped at Knights Garden Centre to send Andy a text saying I was diverting to Tatsfield Village, that was the plan. But the phone itself was malfunctioning because it was wet weather DESPITE being in a zipped pocket on the front of the cape. My feet were wet through, but the rain wasn't slowing down, there were huge puddles spanning the road. I'd moved on to the off-road track, like I did yesterday on my return from Oxted, risking again the chance of a puncture. I was fully expecting a puncture when I opened up the garage this morning but all was well. So, as I stood on the off-road path a few yards past Knights, I realised that there was no point going any further. Whether I reached Tatsfield or Westerham I would be thoroughly soaked through (I was already) and there was no way that I could possibly get any wetter, but had I continued I would have become more and more uncomfortable and when I reached wherever I was going I would have sat there, soaking wet. This was, I realised, not enjoyable at all and so I decided to return home. Even when I turned the bike around the rain didn't let up, but when I reached Warlingham I thought for a minute that things were slowing down. I stopped and reconsidered my position. Perhaps I should head back to Tatsfield Village, but I was deluded and time was moving on; and then I realised the error of my thinking: I was still soaking wet. The best option was to go home and dry off, which was what I did. In short it was too much. I would have been better off going swimming, I was just as wet.

Bike (and cape) back in the garage...

The cape is useless and dangerous. There are holes through which you can slot your hands, but this is not good as doing so means that you will get wet from the waist down. If you decide to keep your hands underneath the cape you then cover your legs BUT it's dangerous as you then find yourself preoccupied with keeping your legs dry, you don't have full control of the gears or brakes and you're not holding firmly enough to the handlebars because you keep thinking about keeping the cape stretched over your legs.

Today's rain was off the scale. The usual puddles by the gutters had been replaced by torrents of water, raging rapids, there were waves of rainwater crossing the road in front of me on the return ride, which made me realise that turning back wasn't such a bad idea. 

Incidentally, the reason I was on the off-road path once I reached Knights Garden Centre was because I knew that cars would be revelling in giving me an additional soaking, something they were denied. 

Andy made it to Westerham but he said it was grim. Now that's the word to describe it: grim. It was grim, terribly grim, and while a part of me felt a little rough for turning back, I knew I'd made the right decision. It would have been pointless to continue. As I write this, my trainers have been moved to the garage where they can dry off and not stink out the porch where I originally left them. My gloves are weighed down with rainwater and could probably be wringed out, similarly the pink woollen bobble hat I was wearing underneath my helmet.

Yesterday, as I rode in the rain with the cape to Oxted, I spotted a cyclist who seemed to be wearing the right stuff. It looked as if he was wearing a wet suit (not a bad idea) but of course he wasn't; he was wearing a waterproof cycling top and matching leggings and he looked as if the rain didn't matter, probably because it didn't. He wasn't billowing around like an idiot with what amounted to a huge high-visibility sail that flapped around and even collected water. 

Wet trainers...very wet trainers

There's riding in the rain and there's riding in the rain. Both are unpleasant and today was the final straw for me after three consecutive weeks of it. The only good thing about this week is that I managed three rides.

Later...

By 1515hrs the sun was out and there was no rain. While I had no intention of going out on the bike, the thought did cross my mind. I imagined myself cycling off in the sunshine and heading for Westerham's Costa Coffee. I might even have packed a book to read for when I got there. These were the thoughts going around in my head and I even started to wonder what would have happened. Would I have got there without any rain? Would it have rained as I sat in the Costa reading? Would I have been soaked? Well, my questions were answered. I would have been soaked. I reckon I might well have reached Westerham, I would have been sitting there reading and sipping English Breakfast tea as the light faded and the streelights came on and then I might have looked up and noticed the rain hammering down outside. I would have thought, 'I'll leave it a while and see what happens' but ultimately I would have to go out in the rain, don the cape and ride off; and imagine how I would have felt! Conned! I thought I could just get up and go and escape the rain but hey! I was caught out again. But! Great news! I didn't go out, I stayed in. I wasn't conned. I'm dry!

A break in the weather means a ride to Redhill...

It's Friday 4th November. It's 1130hrs and the sun is shining, the skies are kind of blue. But it's not warm, not like it used to be when I last rode to Redhill. Warm, no. Cold? Not really. Put it this way I didn't wear gloves or the bobble hat under the helmet but I did have a pair of jeans on over the Lycra shorts. I was planning on a visit to the Pop Inn cafe and my ETA was something like 1245hrs or thereabouts. As it turned out I was spot on. I followed the route I'd been taking throughout the summer: down Tithepit Shaw Lane, up Whyteleafe Hill, along Stansted Road, right on to Springbottom Lane, left at the end of it, over the motorway, Warwick Wold Road, Merstham and then into Redhill. It felt sluggish because I hadn't done it for a while, but I hadn't really lost much in terms of time. It was still roughly one hour and 10 minutes there and back.

Lunch at the Pop Inn...

My pal Garth joined me for a cup of tea and and we both ordered a sausage and egg bap, each paying a reasonable £5 - all week I'd been making my own sandwiches so I felt I earned a caff lunch. We sat and chatted about this and that and then walked in to town, me accompanied by the bike, which I had padlocked outside the Pop Inn. Once Garth and I had parted I walked to the park and then jumped on the bike and headed for home. I knew that in front of me there was White Hill Lane to conquer. In the summer I was fit enough to tackle the hill without much effort, although I would be the first person to say that however fit you are, White Hill Lane is always a struggle of sorts. Today was no exception, although, in all honesty, it was easier in the colder weather and I didn't feel any of the pain I had felt in the summer when I quickly broke into a sweat as I ascended the hill. Today was different, in fact I won't lie, it was fairly easy, although perhaps that's a lot to do with climbing Titsey Hill every weekend, I don't know. Tithepit Shaw Lane was easier too and soon I'd finished the ride and when I reached home there was nobody around so I chilled, watched Louis Theroux's interview with Dame Judi Dench. Is it Judi or Judy? Hold on while I find out. It's the former. The light faded and soon the house was in darkness. I switched on a small light not wanting to use up unnecessary energy and after a bit of faffing around on the computer I was no longer alone. I feel good having cycled around 24 miles. It means that if I go tomorrow I would have completed three rides this week so here's to riding to Oxted in the morning.

About to turn left and tackle White Hill Lane...

I said at the start of this post that it was 1130hrs, but that's wrong. It was 1130hrs when I was about to set off on the ride to Redhill. When I started writing this post it was around 1930hrs, or around that time. Right now it's 2007hrs and I'm back to chilling out. After a good ride I always feel chilled out. I can sit on the sofa and enjoy feeling restful rather than restless. So here's to tomorrow and that all-important third ride.

At the top of White Hill Lane...

While on the ride today I felt good. The fresh air, the breeze, the motion of the bike. All the hills were manageable, all the straights were straightforward, there wasn't much in the way of traffic. When I left the house there wasn't that much on the road and when I returned early afternoon things were relatively sleepy. I had a strong feeling of accomplishment as I rolled up on the front drive and checked out my Strava. I opened the garage, wheeled the bike in and then closed and locked it. Job done, I thought. Job done!!!

Last Sunday's ride to Westerham in Kent...

For the past two Sundays now I've bitten the bullet and taken a ride in the rain, but not just to shops and back, oh no: a 22-mile ride to and from Westerham in Kent. The first time, the Sunday before last, it was the result of knowing I had to sort out the sealant around the bath, a job I not only dislike but one I'm not particularly good at; and it was the latter point that drove me out in the pouring rain, the knowledge that I was taking on something I wasn't particularly good at made me throw caution to the wind and get out there to get one last bit of enjoyment before plunging myself headfirst into despondency, one last ride before the boredom of DIY. 

Last week, ie the Sunday just past, it was a case of 'if you can do it once, you can do it again' and by that I mean that being out in the rain isn't really that bad, not once you get used to it and accept that you're going to get wet and that's the end of it. I had the cape, the bright yellow and grey cape and while it did keep me dry, to a degree, I did get wet. I remember reaching home and taking off the cape only to discover that my fleece underneath it was damp, alright, wet, but that might have been the sweat created by the cape. The long and the short it is simple: whatever you wear you're going to get wet so get over it, which I did.

Cappuccino and an almond croissant in the rain

Last week, as I rode down to Westerham to meet Andy (if you remember, we didn't meet the week before because we got our wires crossed); initially we talked about Westerham, then I threw in Tatsfield Village and the end result was Andy went to Tatsfield and I went to Westerham. But anyway, as I was saying, I rode along in the rain, riding through puddles and, as I approached the northern Kent market town I started to wonder - or perhaps that's not the word - I started to imagine Andy not sitting inside Costa out of the rain, but sitting outside and I began to think: 'no, he wouldn't do that, why would he do that?' I couldn't get the thought out of my mind, mainly because I didn't fancy sitting outside in the pouring rain. Much to my amazement, when I reached my destination, there he was sitting outside in the rain, admittedly under a canopy, but right on the edge of it - he was sitting outside! And what's more, he didn't look too happy. Later, after ordering a cappuccino and an almond croissant, which set me back around £4 (Costa is far cheaper) I asked him why the long face? The answer was simple and totally understandable, it was the poor weather and also perhaps he was looking into the future and wondering what he would do when he retired or whether there was something else he could do with his life now. I understood what he was saying as it's something I'm always doing: wondering what if, what else I could do and then the chilling realisation that there was nothing (short of selling up and living in a cottage by the sea on the Isle of Harris). We sat under the canopy. I'd taken off my cape and was watching the rain and talking about futures and what ifs and this and that and it is a sobering conversation that lingers and gets me thinking. But I think something I don't take into consideration (and I'm sure Andy's the same) is that what we have is alright, at least we're both working in fairly steady jobs, we can afford to get our bikes fixed and sit in a cafe, in the rain, on a Sunday morning and what we're really dealing with here is what Ian Brown refers to in a song as 'first world problems'. He's right, that's what we have here, first world problems, we don't have to worry about Russian bombs or the Iranian Morality Police or famine, all we have to worry about is getting back home on our bikes in the rain.

When it was time to go I lingered, saying goodbye to Andy and adding that I'd see him next week, ie this coming Sunday and let's hope it doesn't rain this week.

I rode back via the Velobarn and along Pilgrims and then, while I considered Titsey Hill, the idea of doing it in the driving rain put me off so I hung a left up Rectory Lane and followed the more conventional route back from Westerham along Clarks Lane and then down the 269, all of which was fine.

Today is Friday 4th November, the 49th anniversary of the Battle of Kiln Castle, the big battle in my childhood home's back garden in 1974 when my brother and I decided to stop playing with our toy soldiers. Almost 50 years ago, can you believe that? I can't. Anyway, that's another story for another day, although I think I've written about it on this blog somewhere. In fact, click on the link to read more about the Battle of Kiln Castle 1974.