Christmas comes and goes...

Christmas has come and gone and it's been good. I wish it had lasted a little longer. I've enjoyed chilling out, reading books, going for a swim in a virtually empty pool, riding the bike, once through a blizzard and once in thick fog. I lost track of what day it was, and that was good, that's how it should be. I started writing this on New Year's Eve as the whole thing was coming to a close, one more day and then it was back to work and everybody had to knuckle down and get on with the new year, which, for most people, will be exactly the same as the old one. "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss."

During the holidays I spent time in darkened streets, visiting cosy places like the Sevenoaks Bookshop, where I bought Over the Rainbow by Alex James, bassist of Blur and, of course, a cheese aficionado and farmer. I sat and watched Outdoor Boy on YouTube and other non-terrestrial stuff. These days there's nothing on 'normal' television that appeals. Who wants to watch Gavin & Stacey?

And yeah, it did all end and I did find myself back at work and it has been more of the same. An element of cosy remained in the shape of the fireplace, which I'm looking at now. The weather has been cold and the fire has made all the difference. We continued watching Outdoor Boy as it's one of those shows that makes us look forward to bedtime. I've been wearing pyjamas, that's how cold it's been, but wearing something warm and getting cosy has its drawbacks: I over-sleep and don't particularly want to get out of bed and go to work! I always struggle the week I return to the office after the Christmas break, but eventually everything clicks into place and normality reigns once again.

The swimming has been good and I've enjoyed it. I'm still hitting a length a minute, which is good, although the pool is a 25-metre affair and in the past, the pools were longer, ie instead of 32 lengths to the half mile, they were 24 lengths or, in Cheam, Surrey, 27 lengths, so I'm not sure exactly what it all means, but let's say I'm doing the half mile in around 30 minutes and I'm sure I'll improve as the journey continues. You have to be organised when you go swimming, you need to remember stuff, like shower gel and having a one pound coin for the lockers although, for £1.50, I purchased as false one pound coin that I have permanently on my key ring. Then there's the car park. Perhaps I should walk to the pool, now that would be something, and it might take around 35-40 minutes, but at least I wouldn't have the worry of paying for the car park. It used to be straightforward, you paid 50p to park, a one-off fee, and then the leisure centre would refund it, but now you have to call a number and register your number plate and key in the number of hours you'll need. I always do one hour and it seems to be fine. After the swim I have a refreshing shower and then, after drying and dressing, I head out into the cold air to the car park and drive home. 

My plan is to combine swimming and cycling: two rides per week, two swims per week. That's four days out of seven getting exercise. I've yet to factor in the gym, but if I can do a couple of days at the gym I will, let's see how that progresses. The whole deal is £34 per month, which means I need to use the place at least twice a week to make it all pay. I'm still in the process of getting that bit right and the best way to play it (at present) is to swim Thursday and Friday and then cycle on Saturday and Sunday morning. The gym will come later.

This morning I fixed up the lights on my bike. I'm currently charging my rear light. The front light has already been charged and is now on the bike. I had to take off two handlebar attachments that had previously held front lights that have since been lost. One fell off during the ride and I couldn't find it. I'm amazed, thinking back, that I didn't hear it falling off, but I didn't; and I can't remember the fate of the other light, but it was similar. I think it fell off the bike and smashed into smithereens somewhere near Redhill in Surrey, but that's a foggy memory.

There has been bad news this year. I was round at mum's house trying to get her central heating working and suddenly I received a text from an old friend who informed me her husband, one of my best mates died. He'd been suffering from cancer for the past two years. We had drifted apart and hadn't seen each other for at least 30 years, but it was still a huge shock. There are certain people I regard as immortal and he was one of them. He inspired me to read more than I would have done had I not met him, he had a great sense of humour and we got on really well, but suddenly that weekly phone call went to every fortnight, then we might have spoken once a month, soon it was longer and longer and then it seemed odd even to think about calling him. I did, for a few years, call him once a year as we shared a birthday and on one or two occasions we spoke on the phone, but nothing came of it. Perhaps we'd both left it too long and there didn't seem any point, but that's life. Just to avoid any confusion, it's not my cycling pal Andy but somebody I first met back in the mid-seventies at college. After that text from his wife I spent a lot of time thinking about Andy, and I'm finding the whole thing unbelievable. I think I'll always find it unbelievable on some level, but it's happened, it's true and there's little more to say. I have referenced Andy on this blog once or twice. I remember him saying that had they cut out all the sound effects from Quadrophenia by The Who,it would have been a very tight single album. Perhaps, but I guess that  album is a story and the story needs embellishment. We all have opinions on stuff like that and who's to say that there's only one answer?

I'm hoping for a ride with Andy Smith tomorrow (Sunday). I know there might be fog and that's why I've put the lights on the bike as it's bloody dangerous without them. We'll be going to Sheree's Tearooms in Tatsfield, our first joint ride of 2025, and I'm looking forward to it. I'll have to set my alarm as I've been getting up late. Today I didn't get out of bed until 0800hrs so the alarm is important. I've just set it on my iphone so all is fine.

While I was hoping for a ride with Andy and it did happen, it was the first ride for me since Boxing Day and it was only 2 degrees Centigrade, meaning it was a little on the cold side. Being my first ride for such a long time and bearing in mind that I had new lights, the rear one needing securing to the saddle post, and adding in the fact that I left the house without my crash helmet and had to go back for it as well as having to look around for stuff to keep me warm, I didn't get moving until 0810hrs, which made me later than expected, late enough for Andy to have finished his coffee when I arrived. Yes, I should have left earlier as it seems to be taking me around an hour to get to Tatsfield. I was feeling a little out of condition and I struggled a little up Church Way and whenever there was a hill, like the one on the 269. As always, of course, having kitted myself out with lights, it worked out that I didn't need them, there was no fog, which was a shame as I was hoping I'd put them to good use. I'm sure the opportunity will arise, possibly even next weekend.

We chatted about writing, which was good. Andy's writing his autobiography, which is great. It's something that I should consider too. I bought Andy another coffee and we chatted on, leaving at around 1030hrs, possibly a little later. The ride back was just as cold as the ride out, and I kept the bike on the top cog at the front, which I hadn't noticed at first on the outward ride. I must have reached home at gone 1100hrs and then sat around drinking tea before heading off to Tunbridge Wells in the car, one of my favourite weekend destinations.

Imagine owning a gun...

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

April 2nd in Westerham Costa

I rode 11 miles for a haircut

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

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

James Nesbit, Nicholas Cage or a child molester?

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

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

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

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

Imagine owning a gun

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

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

"I was just saying that..."

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

"I, I..."

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

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

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

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

Tatsfield Churchyard...and I get a puncture on the way home...

Sunday 14 June 2015 – I get a puncture on the B269

A far better day than yesterday in terms of the weather; it was warmer and brighter and the Tatsfield Churchyard seemed like a good destination. We got there, drank our tea, munched our biscuits and then I set about trying to take a decent image that would, in some way, epitomise the ride. Except that most of the shots we've tried before and, let's be honest, when you're in a churchyard it's all a little morbid. One of the shots I snapped today featured Andy and I between two headstones – very depressing – another was a shot of me posing, crouched down, at the end of a wooden bench; this shot was over exposed for some reason and so was another shot of the grass and bushes in front of our bench.

However, on the way home my bike wobbled slightly – I had a puncture! The shot above proved the most exciting. It shows my bike having its rear wheel puncture repaired and Andy's somehow defying gravity in the background.

Fixing the puncture took about 20 minutes and soon we were back on the road. As usual we parted company at Warlingham Green. I reached home around a quarter past ten and I'm guessing Andy got home at roughly the same time.

Finding the source of the B269...on another solo ride to Botley Hill

You know, it's odd how anybody can be SO boring, but here I am being just that: boring. I mean, who in their right mind would be interested in finding the source of a B-Road? As if 'the source' of a B-Road even exists! They simply start and finish. They're not rivers, like the Nile or the Amazon, they're simply tarmac roads that, most of the time, go to boring places – just like the writer of this post.

The Red Deer, South Croydon, marks the start of the 269.

The B269 goes to Edenbridge. It starts in South Croydon next to a pub called the Red Deer, except that the pub in question doesn't exist anymore; it's now a Morrison's Local (a small supermarket) that has cashed in on the fact that pubs all over the UK are closing at a rate of knots, thanks to a number of reasons. One reason is the amount of duty the Government puts on beer. The brewers simply pass it on to the customers and now a pint of bitter will set you back almost £4. In some parts of London, a pint is even more expensive than that!

Another reason for the pubs closing down is home entertainment. Rather than go out, a lot of people stew in front of their flatscreen televisions with cheap beer they purchased from the supermarket. In fact, there's a kind of irony in the fact that a former pub has been transformed into a supermarket, but there you have it; the Red Deer isn't the first and it won't be the last. In fact, there's a pub in Sutton (or there was a pub in Sutton) called the Woodman and it is now a Tesco Express. What a sorry state of affairs.

So the B269 starts by a former pub. The Red Deer used to be a live band venue 'back in the day.

Further along the 269 – Sanderstead Church and pond

I was on my way to mum's this morning. I'd left later than usual as it was raining heavily when I was originally due to leave the house and meet Andy at Warlingham Green. We agreed to abort, but then, as the sun rose, the rain stopped. I sent Andy a text saying I was going out, but he didn't reply until later in the day (Andy rode out locally). It was around 0800hrs when I found myself on the bike and decided to head for mum's, but then I changed my mind. I didn't fancy the suburban ride. I didn't change my mind, however, until I reached the Brighton Road and saw, in the distance, the Red Deer.

I decided to ride the length of the B269 from beginning to end (wrongly thinking that it ended just past Botley Hill. Why I thought that, I don't know, but when I reached Botley, my heart sank as I saw a road sign stating that Edenbridge – not Botley Hill – was the end of the line for the 269.

Reaching familiar territory – Warlingham Green

The ride from the Red Deer to Sanderstead (the only bit of the 269 that I haven't riden along with any purpose) is basically one long suburban hill flanked by residential property. It levels out when it reaches Sanderstead High Street and remains relatively flat until it passes Ledgers Road, where things get a little more rural and, for a short while, a little steeper. But I ride this section of the road virtually every weekend and I've probably told you about it many times before; I've even riden the bit beyond Botley, down Titsey Hill and around the corner into Limpsfield, but I've yet to ride to Edenbridge, although that's likely to be next on the agenda.

The 269 soon leaves suburbia behind it...

Today I rode all the way to Botley Hill (I say 'all the way' as if it's miles and miles when, in reality, it's our shortest default ride) from the Red Deer in South Croydon and then, because I was riding alone, there was no tea or biscuits. And when there's nothing to eat or drink, there's nothing else to do other than get home, so off I went, getting soaked in the process, but not from the rain. It was the puddles left behind from the rain and the spray that caused the problems. The rain had stopped ages ago – around 0700hrs to be sort of precise – but it had left behind wet roads and puddles. My bike has no mudguards – it's never had mudguards as it's not that sort of bike – but when it rains, well, put it this way, it's a bit of a hassle keeping dry. When I reach home under such circumstances I'm not allowed to sit down (understandably) so I take everything off, change and then have a much-needed cup of tea.

Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that the 

B269 continues to Edenbridge. And there was me thinking

it came to an end just past the Botley Hill Farmhouse.

I might ride down Titsey Hill again one of these days and follow the 269 to the end, to Edenbridge, let's see, but today I was happy with simply taking a ride as the rain had threatened to keep me indoors. Fortunately, it stopped.

I like this shot of the old Scrap, taken Sunday on the 269.

Tatsfield Village

The rain-laden B269. I liked those trees.

It had been raining, the roads were still peppered with puddles and it looked as if it was going to pour down any second.  In fact, as I left the house it was raining, but I carried on, albeit slightly late due to writing the last post on Nestles. Andy sent me a text as I arrived at the Green. It simply said, "Hmmmm". He was right, I was late, but not THAT late.

My Kona waiting on the B269 for Andy who was inspecting his front wheel.

My rear brake is playing up. I thought it was the front, but it's the back, so the bike needs to pay a visit to the shop. Perhaps on Monday, it's still rideable.

We decided to go for Tatsfield Village where there was shelter if it did rain, but it didn't, although I got a really wet arse, thanks to no mudguards. That's something else I'm going to have to fix soon as it's ruining all my clothes and making me feel cold. I can't bear to sit down when I reach the bus stop so I've got to get some mudguards.

Andy talked about Top Gear and how much we like it, we drank our tea, ate our cereal bars and then headed home.

They – the local council – were fixing a part of the B269, just for the record.