To Oxted and Westerham - two rides and I'm back in the game...

Cycling hasn't exactly been on the agenda these past weeks. Admittedly, a week or two ago, I did get to Westerham to meet Andy, you might remember how I rushed to get back in time to got out again for lunch for an Easter get-together and how I allowed myself to become dehydrated. Now that's not a nice feeling. I've done it before and it makes me feel a little light-headed, a little panicky even, so I must remember to hydrate properly, perhaps take a bottle of water with me rather than ride 11 miles, have a cup of tea and then simply ride back and have nothing for some hours afterwards. But that was a few weeks back, Easter bank holiday to be precise and in future I'll be prepared.

I took last Friday off but cycling was out of the question as the weather was a little on the poor side, although generally things are on the up, the blossoms are on the trees and life is becoming a little more hopeful than it has been. In truth, it's been cold and wet and unpleasant and, as a result, there has been little cycling action. So, now things are changing. Saturday was a lovely day so I kicked myself into gear and headed to Oxted for my usual lolling around the town, sitting in a Caffe Nero, sipping tea and on this occasion reading The Big Midweek: Life Inside the Fall by Steve Hanley. It felt good to be on the bike and I enjoyed riding into Oxted, parking up and sitting on the sofa by the window in the Nero. Of course the ride home eventually beckoned, but it didn't phase me, I just rode off down the high street, along Granville and then along the road that led to Titsey Hill. I can't remember the last time I rode up Titsey but it was just the same effort, I didn't feel in anyway physically challenged or out of condition (even if I know that I am to a certain degree).

I reached home and then, true to form, didn't bother rehydrating myself. Later, on a drive to Westerham and en route to a National Trust property somewhere near Ide Hill in Kent I had to stop at a NISA store and buy a huge 1.5 litre bottle of Evian (Naive spelt backwards). I swigged from it as I drove along, I was that desperate, but eventually I started to feel normal again.

Yes, it's raining in Westerham

Sunday morning, as I sat at my laptop, I checked out the weather on the BBC website and saw the familiar cloud and raindrops emoji; it looked as if I'd get there unscathed but would take a soaking on the return ride. And so it came to pass. Andy (as always) had arrived before me and had almost finished a large cappuccino with soya milk when I arrived. There was a strange old man making himself comfortable when I approached our table and tried to sit down. He was, shall we say, a little odd. He wore an old British Rail hat and great coat, both of which had seen better days and made what could only be described as extremely vague and hard to understand conversation about football, something about Bromley, which neither Andy nor I could get to grips with; Andy managed to say he didn't follow football, which was fair enough, nor do I, and while neither of us believed he was ever going to go, he eventually got up and left us alone.

Andy, quite rightly, berated me for continuing to eat cake - he'd been reading my blog posts about Finland - and while I tried to defend myself, there was no point, he was right and I was wrong. My only defence was that I'd started to ride again: Oxted yesterday, Westerham today. I started to discuss the moment on the plane from Helsinki to London last Sunday when I asked a member of the Finnair cabin crew for a bottle of mineral water. Earlier (as you can read in the previous post) I'd seen her pushing a trolley full of bottles of mineral water towards the front of the plane, but as she passed she ignored me. I had to press the overhead button and suddenly there she was with a look of 'can I help you?' on her face. I asked for a bottle of mineral water and she said she didn't have any. "But I just saw you walk past with a trolley full of the stuff," said I and she told me that was for business class passengers only. She offered me two miniscule paper cups of plane water and I won't say I wasn't affronted. But, as I said to Andy, imagine paying £1,100 for a one-way journey from Helsinki to London (as I was expected to do last Saturday, that was all that was available). Instead, I stayed in Helsinki for another night. Imagine that: I spent another night and I had dinner in the hotel and it was cheaper than flying back business class. As it started to rain outside, Andy and I sat there talking about the lunacy of flying business class, the unnecessary expense of it, and then we moved on to me giving up alcohol and Andy's veganism. It's amazing, said I, how many friends I've lost as a result of giving up drinking. I related the tale of how I suggested to an old mate of mine that we meet for a coffee somewhere, but he was having none of it. "No, let's meet in All Bar One... you can have a lemonade." We didn't meet. People don't like it if you don't drink, I told Andy, and that's because 'drinking' is ingrained. The focal point of all soap operas is a pub, be it the Rovers Return, the Queen Victoria or the Woolpack. Drinking never did me any good and I often wonder if it does anybody any good. Who needs a hangover? Who needs to wake up in the morning wondering whether they'd said something they shouldn't? Who needs to be unable to drive a car? There's no point in it and there's even less of a point to no-alcohol beer, it tastes very bad, compared to the alcoholic variety, and you're better off with a mineral water or an apple juice (as opposed to a no-alcohol cider, although it's debatable whether one is the same as the other). I doubt I'll be drinking again, although that sounds a little indecisive so let's rephrase that: I'll never drink again.

Andy said he gets a little frustrated when people assume that he can't eat certain things. I'd said something like, "Oh, you can't have milk can you?" and he said, "I can have milk, I simply choose not to". Fair point. It reminded me of Detectorists when passers-by asked Andy and Lance, "Are you metal detectors?" and they would reply pointing to their equipment, "No, these are metal detectors, we are metal detectorists."

Outside it was pissing down and the church bells were ringing out, but both of us knew we had to get up and go. We both knew it was going to be unpleasant, but it had to be done. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet up next weekend and then we parted. Andy followed the conventional route out of Westerham and I chose the route that would take me past the Velobarn and then left on to Pilgrims Lane.

"Look, you've just got to grin and bear it," I said to myself under my breath as I cycled along. "It's only around one hour in the saddle and you'll be home." 

To be honest, there was no alternative so I pushed on. It wasn't that bad and that was because it wasn't cold or windy and the rain lightened up, it was more of a persistent drizzle. I knew my clothes were going to be wet through by the time I reached home, but I also knew that there was one part of my attire that would be fine, my shoes. You remember, the waterproof shoes I'd bought on Amazon? I wouldn't have to put them in porch for the next three weeks and wait for them to dry out, just wipe them down and they'd be ready for the ride next week.

I reached home around 1120hrs and once again left the house without hydrating myself. Later, while having lunch in Flower's Farm - it's been extended since Andy and I were last there - the need to have two bottles of mineral water arose, but after that I was fine. We drove home and now here we are watching television and this 'Scooby Doo-alike programme called Outer Banks. Look, it's not high art, we know that, but we find it easy watching and that's the end of it. Until next week...