I'm losing track of when I did and didn't ride the bike. Let's see if, from memory, I can work things out. Last Sunday was 3 April and I remember it because I phoned Geoff, the illustrious illustrator, to chat about his altercation with his next door neighbour's gardener. That was last Sunday. Prior to last Sunday I rode to Botley Hill on Friday afternoon/early evening and returned via Woldingham, meaning that the Sunday before Sunday 3 April was when I rode to Biggin Hill and had breakfast in the Spitfire Cafe, but either way, the trend has been two rides of roughly 42 miles in total; it was a similar scenario this week just past, if I can remember it. Well, I didn't go out on either Thursday or Friday of last week - more's the pity. So let's get back to last week's ride to Westerham when I was chatting with Geoff on the phone about his altercation with the gardener, that was a ride to Westerham of approximately 21.5 miles. Yesterday I rode to Westerham, roughly 21.5 miles again, so this week another grand total of 43 miles. Shit, really, when you think about it. I need to up my game, but I think my problem is coming home tired from work (especially if I walk from Purley) and then not really feeling like getting out there. I've considered a number of ways of breaking my current spell of laziness (and let's not forget that only a few weeks ago I was doing around 70 miles per week, well, for a couple of weeks at any rate). One way is to bite the bullet, not walk home from Purley and instead ride the Nobbler for just 35 minutes or so (six miles). If I do that Monday through Friday that's 30 miles, plus today's 22 miles = 52 and then, if I ride to Westerham next Saturday, a total of 74 miles with not too much in the way of inconvenience: that's the best thing to do; the alternative would be to ride to work one day during the week (the best day is Thursday when hardly anybody is in the office. I could leave the house around 0700hrs, get there for 0815hrs and just start working, then ride back around 1600hrs, meaning just over 24 miles. Alright six short of the daily ride scenario, making it a total of just 68 miles (two miles under the respectable 70 miles). As you can see, I'm fretting again: "Just go when you can, when you fancy it, when you feel like it, don't beat yourself up over it," I say to myself and of course I'm right. The weather's warming up now, the temptation to go cycling will take over from that feeling of not wanting to go out.
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| April 2nd in Westerham Costa |
I rode 11 miles for a haircut
Today's ride was fine, but let's talk first about yesterday's Haircut Ride. I rode into Westerham, the fast way, on the 269. I'm a bit wary of Beddlestead Lane ever since I heard from Andy about somebody being robbed of their bike, but to be honest, I've been riding the 269 for some weeks now, I don't know why as it is fairly dodgy on the traffic front and people tend to speed along without a care for cyclists. In fact, they positively hate cyclists on the 269, they all think we should be using the cycle lane, but what they don't realise is that the "cycle lane" is peppered with thorns and guarantee any self-respecting cyclist a puncture, that's one reason why most of us use the road. Also, there are people and joggers on the pathway (it's not just for cyclists) and often they're wearing headphones and can't hear a cyclist approaching them from behind, making it all very annoying. For these reasons I stick to the road. Going out around 0800hrs is fine, but if leave a little later the traffic is heavier and there's always a belligerent cunt wanting to voice his opinion in some way or other. Only the other week (I might have mentioned it) there was a motorist stuck in a queue behind other motorists because up ahead was yours truly and one of the drivers at the front of queue was doing the right thing (giving me room and, in the process causing a short queue, a minor hold-up). But for some it's not acceptable and as I passed an irate motorist he beeped his horn and glowered at me. I deliberately pulled a manic, eyes glaring insanely kind of face and waved in slow motion as I passed him. He must have been fuming at that and I hope he was, but anyway, I think I've mentioned this before so I'll stop there.
So, where was I? Ah, yes, in Westerham. I ordered a large English breakfast tea to takeaway and I sat outside as the weather was warm and everything was laid back. The bike was padlocked in front of me and I sat there, as always, people watching.
James Nesbit, Nicholas Cage or a child molester?
My hair is mess, it has been for some weeks now. It's always the same, give it a few weeks and I start to look terrible. My hair gets straggly and it's sort of half black, half grey, some people call it "salt and pepper", which I fucking hate. Anyway, once it gets a certain length, normally around eight weeks after cutting, I look terrible, especially if I don't shave (as I'm prone not to do at weekends). I start wearing a bobble hat to press it down so that when I reach the office I look mildly respectable. If it's a windy day I've had it, especially if I forget the bobble hat - or rather the bobble-less hat, so let's make that a beanie. My mum, much to my annoyance, likes my hair when it's long and straggly and grey and I can't help but feel that all the people who love my hair in such a state are just saying it so that I stay scruffy-looking, to my detriment. My mum also thinks I look like the actor James Nesbit, especially when my hair is short: let's get this straight, I look nothing like James Nesbit. Seriously. Somebody in the office said recently that I looked like Nicholas Cage, I'll take that. In fact, it's not the first time. I was once in Seattle and a woman sidled up to me as I sat at the bar of the Belltown Bistro on First Avenue. She sat herself down and said, "There's a little bit of Nicholas Cage going on there." The thing is, without being vain and conceited, I kind of know what she means, it's the high forehead, but he has a better mouth than mine, although there are similarities, especially when my hair is longer. Right now it's very, very short. I think a number two on the sides and back and a number four or three on top, it's convict chic and nobody likes it. When it's long and straggly I look like a child molester and then, when I cut it short, I look like a convicted child molester. I can't win.
Having a haircut has been on my mind for a few weeks. I wake up in the morning and I don't even want to look in the mirror as I know I'll be faced with the Toecutter from the first Mad Max. I've considered having it done at the barber's next to Redhill station, but the last time I was there I went down with Covid the following Saturday so they've lost my custom. I started thinking about the Syrian barber in Westerham High Street, Star Barbers, there's a chain of them, but I figured that having a haircut in a sparsely populated town like Westerham would reduce my chances of catching Covid again. But when I reached the northern Kent market town I couldn't see the place and I think it has been replaced with a charity shop. Alright, I might be wrong, I might have just not seen it as I rode by, but anyway, it didn't matter as I suddenly noticed Westerham Barbers next door to the Costa. In I bowled, having decided prior to be ultra-chirpy. I had a short wait but this was pleasant enough as the place seemed to be run by a young couple, a man who was trying to make himself look older by having a thick beard and a woman who had now engaged me in conversation, she even, infuriatingly, said she liked my hair and said that lots of people were dying their hair grey. "Perhaps I won't have that haircut," I said, jokingly, as she started to wash my hair. Why, I wondered, was she washing my hair when the plan was to cut it all off. But apparently it makes cutting it far easier. Hmmm...I started to smell BS, but they were a pleasant enough couple who hailed from Hackney and I wanted the haircut so I rolled with it and went on to have my ears flamed by a ball of blue fire and then two hot wax-dunked sticks stuffed up my nose: yes, I was having my nose waxed. He pulled them both out rather aggressively, I yelped and then relaxed. Then he decided to do it again and on each occasion I winced at the momentary pain as he ripped my nose hairs from my ears. Then there was the hot towel. To be honest, I could have done that myself, perhaps I will. I have plenty of towels, but how would I get them so hot? Actually, I probably won't bother. I remember, years ago, whenever I visited an Indian restaurant, they used to bring out hot towels after the meal and myself and a pal would take them from the waiter who handed them to us on tongs, and slap them on our faces. There was always a moment when we thought they were simply too hot, but the heat subsided fairly quickly and soon they would be just wet towels and we would discard them in a bowl provided.
With my nose now sore and hairless, my head shaved, my face hot and smelling of Turkish cologne, I paid up (£15) and headed off. Putting my crash helmet on I was pleased to note that it fitted slightly better now that the hair had come off. I rode home happy, following the road out of Westerham and heading in the direction of the Velo Barn. I think I was singing. As my hair gets longer I tend to get more miserable and apathetic and once it's all cut off I feel free and positive again. I know that over the next five or six weeks my hair will be manageable and I won't need to wear that bobble hat.
I reached home, 21.5 miles better off, and knowing that my weekly total hovered around 42/43 miles. No, I wasn't happy about it, but it was the truth, the reality, and now, as of Sunday, my new cycling week would begin. When I woke up Sunday morning I had momentarily forgotten about the haircut, until I looked in the mirror. It was a good cut and I was happy. Not only that, the sun was shining and while I was distracted by the Sunday morning political TV shows and an episode of Tales of the Unexpected, I was soon on my way (to Westerham) on the 269.
Imagine owning a gun
Going back to belligerent drivers on the 269, today (for it is Sunday evening as I write this) today this arsehole in a black Range Rover, his boring-looking wife sitting next to him, slowed, rolled down the passenger window and said to me as I rode along, "There's a cycle lane right there," pointing to my left. I ignored him, but I was annoyed at his arrogance. Later, when I arrived in Westerham, I saw his car, parked just down from Costa Coffee, they were just leaving. They'd probably stopped for a coffee. I had thoughts of coining his pride and joy - but I never carry cash. I thought about walking over there and telling him that I hadn't paid a blind bit of notice to what he, a neatly trimmed, bearded bastard, had said earlier, but I simply couldn't be bothered. Sometimes I think that extreme violence is possibly the only answer to life's little annoyances. Of course, that's a ridiculous thing to say and I'm glad that I don't carry a knife or a truncheon or a piece of splintered wood penetrated with bent and rusty old nails. Still, I ought to be careful. I tend to give these people the finger and I'm sure they see it through their wing mirrors as they drive away. One day they might turn around and come after me and it is then that I imagine owning a gun. Many years ago, I used to own a blank-firing replica 357 Magnum. It was so realistic I reckon I could have held up a bank with it. Imagine if I'd pulled out a real gun and asked him to repeat what he said.
"No, no, no, don't start weeping, you miserable little cunt, tell me what you were saying, something about a fucking cycle lane wasn't it?"
"I was just saying that..."
"You were just saying what, fuck face? What the fuck were you saying, what was your fucking point? Why did you slow down your fucking gas guzzling pile of shit to tell me about a fucking cycle lane? Eh? You going to answer me or just sit there weeping like a fucking baby?"
"I, I..."
"What's the matter, cat's got your fucking tongue?"
I then turn around sharpish and blow his wife's brains out and then turn again and splatter his brains all over the cream leather interior, just like in the movies, before simply riding off in the direction of Westerham, looking forward to my English Breakfast tea and leaving the police to sort out the mess. I wonder if they'd catch me? Probably not. It would be a case of "no arrests have been made".
So yes, you could say I was a little angry about it, but the anger subsided, as it always does, and I sat there sipping politely on my large paper cup of English Breakfast Tea until it was time to ride home.
Later I drove to Tunbridge Wells for a late lunch in a cafe: large cappuccino, a chicken burger and salad, a few chips dipped in HP sauce, chilled music from a band called Coin and then a leisurely drive home. And now I'm watching (half watching) Spencer with Kristen Stewart. My daughter and I like her movies and I was thinking only this morning how good she was in The Cake Eaters. But enough! It's Sunday evening and I'm going to simply chill out ahead of work in the morning.
