This and that...

At the Lookout Cafe, Biggin Hill, Kent

Last week I rode 60 miles, two 21-milers and 18 miles during the week, not bad going, I thought. The two longer rides were both to Biggin Hill, which is a funny old place. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's certainly the home of 'white van man' and there are plenty of England flags on lamposts, but that's not really it, there's something else and whatever it is, it depresses me, it always has. Riding up Sunningvale Road was tough, easily the steepest hill I've climbed. On the first take, I lost momentum because the gears weren't lined up properly. In other words I was in the wrong gear and had to dismount and start again. At one point the chain came off on the first ride, but I was a little more prepared on the second ride and managed to get all the way to the top even if I was half dead when I got there. I cycled across the road to the Lookout Cafe, which was right on the airport, almost on the tarmac. Next door there was a flying school and no, I didn't even think about it. 

The Lookout cafe is ok but again, it lacks something, there's no atmosphere, but the place itself is good, there's a decent menu, you can order toasted crumpets, for example, there are plenty of cakes too, but I'd advise you not to have the 'farmhouse fruit cake', its far too greasy and left a greasy residue on my plate. I ordered it on the first trip out and left half of it, but on the second trip I bought a London cheesecake and I love London cheesecakes. When I was a kid I referred to London cheesecakes as 'whisker cakes' because of the shredded icing on top. They remind me of being a kid and they are really good cakes, but I was glad, after eating it, that I had a good 10 miles of riding to do. You need something to burn the calories after eating a 'whisker cake'.

On my first trip to the Lookout, it was packed and I couldn't figure out why the people were there: were they going to have flying lessons, were they flying off somewhere, were they airplane spotting or, like me, were they just there for the cake and the tea? Without asking them, there was no way of knowing. 

Light aircraft behind barbed wire at Biggin Hill, Kent...

On the second trip, I met Andy. It was his idea that we visit the Lookout and I'm glad we did as the ride to Biggin Hill, especially coming up Sunningvale Road, made the trip a proper work-out even if Sunningdale was the most punishing hill I'd ever climbed, even more of an ordeal than White Hill Lane on the way home from Redhill to my house. I think if I go back at the weekend, which I might, there's a strong chance I'll go up Stock Hill (or is it Stocks Hill?) as, for some reason it's psychologically better for me; I get this way sometimes, it's a bit the ride to Godstone when we go through the golf course, there's a bit I simply don't like and I can't put my finger on why, it just depresses me in some way. While Stocks Hill is fine, Sunningvale isn't and there's no rhyme nor reason for it.

I like a decent cafe, mainly because I like to sit there reading a book and sipping a mug of tea. The pastry or the cake is a bridge too far and I always feel disappointed in myself if I weaken, which I often do, especially if I find myself in Coughlans in Oxted, all those delicious-looking cakes staring at me, it's hard not to order one. But that's because I'm weak, I can't leave them alone however much I try and believe me I try, but not hard enough. I tend not to eat cake in Sheree's in Tatsfield, where a cup of tea will suffice, but everywhere else I'm tempted.

I try not to eat cake but last week I enjoyed a carrot cake in Busy Beans in Redhill. At least it's a carrot cake that has real carrots in it, I don't think carrot cakes elsewhere are like that; and yet, oddly, it's the thought of a cake with carrots in it that puts me off carrot cake. There's a big difference between cakes and pastries and normally, if I'm sitting in Caffe Nero in Oxted, I order the apricot croissant, sometimes an almond croissant, but in all honesty, the best place for the latter is Coco & Nut in Sanderstead, it's the filling, it's to die for. In Coughlans I often opt for the Bakewell tart and elsewhere anything goes unless I'm in Costa where I'm tempted to eat their rather processed version of the Bakewell tart. For me, the biggest sin is the millionaire's shortbread. Whenever I have one I regret it in the same way that I regret ordering tiramisu for dessert in a restaurant. Where eating is concerned I tend to regret a lot. The other day I found myself in the village of Graffham in West Sussex, I'd driven out of nearby Petworth and found a general store. In I went and found that they offered food. I ordered a sausage sandwich, another mistake and even more so when they fill the thing with half a dozen sausages sliced in half long ways. I munched my way through layers of sliced sausage, enjoying every bit of it but also regretting it. I've kind of given up on being frugal with food and this has been going on since the pandemic, although I'm getting better. We tend to eat well and by that I don't mean we stuff our faces. The food in our house is light and healthy and my breakfasts are always on the money: porridge with cacao powder and milled flaxseeds, a few grapes and a segmented orange. If I'm going to let myself down it's at lunch time. Normally, if I take sandwiches (egg, or egg and avocado or turkey slices off the bone with mustard pickle) I might wander over to Busy Beans and order a tea and a slice of their aforementioned carrot cake. In fact, of late, they've added a coffee and walnut cake, which is pleasant. 

This week I haven't been on the bike as much as last week. Sometimes I just don't feel motivated enough, it's weird. Last week I was up for it every night after work, Wednesday through Friday, and then the aforementioned Biggin Hill rides. I think it was the weather. There was spring sunshine and it put a spring in my step too. This week I did nothing. Tomorrow will be my first ride, probably Oxted or Westerham depending on how I'm feeling, or the non-stop ride, who knows? Not me. Not yet at any rate, it all depends on tomorrow.

Work has been a bit stressful of late, so I took a half day today and went into town, Battersea Power Station to be precise. I bought a pair of trainers and what a palaver it was too. Not today so much as I'd learned my lesson from the previous weekend, the weekend when my week totted up to 60 miles of riding. 

I hate buying clothes and shoes

I don't know about you, but I really don't like buying clothes, that's probably why I always end up walking out of the store with the wrong-sized trousers or shoes that should be bigger or smaller than what I bought. I always look a bit of a mess. Last week I drove to Bluewater to look for a decent pair of trainers. It all started three years ago when I purchased (from Clarks) a pair of ATL boots made with Gore Tex. They were great and, give or take, I wore them every day for around three years. Recently, I noticed that they were starting to wear through so I figured it was time to go looking for a new pair of shoes. What I really wanted was the same pair of ATLs that I was replacing, but Clarks no longer sold them and it was impossible to get them anywhere else. The key to the ATL's success was the soles, especially the upturned bit at the heel, but it was all academic, Clarks didn't sell them and nor did anybody else. So, I figured a decent pair of trainers would be the next best thing, something understated enough for use at work. But would a pair of trainers do the job? Would I be wearing them for the next three years, daily? I thought not, but I decided to take the gamble and give it a go; it was just a case of getting out there and buying the right pair. Fine, you might think. I know my size (size 44) so it should be a doddle. But no, it wasn't. For a start, when I tried on a size 44 it didn't fit. Why? That's my size! But no, I'd have to try on a half-size bigger. Fine, so I'm 10.5, not 10, when it comes to trainers. I found myself in a shop called Snow and Ice and, for the first time ever, I found the best salesperson... IN THE WORLD! She said she had my interests at heart. Yeah, right, but ultimately, I think she did. She scanned my feet and to my surprise I wasn't a size 10 (44), I was, according to the machine, a size 9! That simply can't be true. If I try on a size 44 and they're too small, I'm definitely not a size 9. In fact I know I'm not a 9 (43) because none of the shoes I have ever worn were size 9, my feet are too big for a size 9, end of. And now it looks as if I'm not a size 10 either, I'm a size 10.5, when it comes to trainers at any rate. My brain was frazzled by the end of the day, probably because of all that cycling, and I left Bluewater with nothing. All I knew was that if I wanted a pair of trainers I was a half-size up on my normal shoe size. I am now, a week later, the proud owner of a pair of Adidas trainers, they're black and they're Gore Tex but whether they last as long as those ATLs, well, I'm sceptical. But think about it for a minute. I have my feet scanned and they tell me I'm a size 9, not 10, which ain't true. I'll say no more. 

After one ride to Biggin Hill and a drive to and from Bluewater, not forgetting the wandering around trying to find a decent pair of trainers, I think I tired myself out if I'm honest with you; I felt so weary. The thing is, I can't do everything, I'm not Superman. I rode 60 miles on the bike, drove all the way to Bluewater shopping centre and then, when I got back I lifted sections of a rotten tree trunk into the back of the car and took them to the dump. I was knackered basically. This week my workload has been less and that makes me more likely to get out on the bike. The trick is to be motivated enough to go early and not to forget things and have to come back, that's always very annoying, but it happens to me a lot, mainly because I've always got loads of things on my mind. I often leave without my rucksack, which I need if I ride the Kona as it doesn't have a crossbar bag in which to carry a pump and puncture equipment. The problem, of course, is if I take the rucksack with pumps and puncture kit one week because I'm on the Kona, I then take the other bike out the following week and forget that I don't have a pump or puncture gear in the crossbar bag. Sometimes I go back for it; most days I do, but sometimes I don't realise until it's too late and I end up gambling. Yes, there's a good chance I won't get a puncture, but if I do and I'm miles away from home and nowhere near a railway station then I'll have to walk and believe me, it takes forever, pushing a bike 10 miles takes hours which in turn ruins/wastes the day. So I have to get my shit together or at least remember what's where and when: if the Kona's coming out to play I need to take the rucksack with all the gear in it; if it's not and I use the Rockhopper then I must ensure that the pump and other stuff is in the crossbar bag. I often put a beanie hat on and then forget to put on my crash helmut. Whenever this happens I return to get it unless I've gone too far before I realise and then I just carry on (it's rare that that happens).

It's nice going shopping during the week when there's nobody around, less people, no queuing for the toilet, the restaurants have vacant seats and so do the trains unless you leave it until rush hour. Because we were all too tired to cook I went out and bought a few things (pasta, a vegetable samosa and other stuff that would be needed during the week). I bought a tin of Nutella. I'm sure it's not that good for you but if I'm determined to take a sandwich to work (and save money) sometimes it's good to have something like Nutella hanging around as it's easy to spread and I'm good to go. The downside is that it's great and that means it's addictive and even now I'm thinking about a Nutella sandwich, but I think I can resist.

I'm obsessed with Pellegrino sparkling mineral water, I could drink it all day and all night. I normally have a glass first thing in the morning with my breakfast and then another when I get home from work. I've always liked sparkling water. I remember drinking a lot of Badoit back in the day and now that I don't drink alcohol, it's been over eight years, it's a drink I can enjoy both inside and outside the house. Incidentally, on the not drinking thing, I don't miss it, never have, not once, and I'll never ever go back to beer or wine or anything. It is a poison, remember, and poisons don't do anybody any good. I just don't need it anymore, that's the key thing. I gave up overnight back in October 2017 and I haven't touched a drop since. In that way I have great willpower, but when I think about it, I didn't need willpower, I just stopped and never went back. It's one of the best things I've ever done outside of marrying my wife and having a son and a daughter. I often wish I'd stopped earlier, I'd have probably been a better person, who knows? Was I such a bad person? No, I wasn't. A bit boisterous on occasion, made a fool of myself here and there, got a bit of reputation, but now it's all gone, the whole damn lot of it. No hangovers, not many late nights, and I suppose that makes me a more sensible person. 

It's almost 2100hrs, 9 o'clock in old money, and I'm going to be moving to the conservatory to read. I've got two books on the go at present: Charles Bukowski's Ham on Rye (what a brilliant book!) and Geddy Lee's My Effin Life, also an absolutely brilliant book. I'm really obsessed with Rush at the moment. I've been watching interviews on YouTube, I know all about them touring the UK next year (I'm guessing they'll be at Glastonbury and if they are, I'd be tempted to go). Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson are great people, I envy their friendship and I like the fact that they're not rock and roll casuaautiful Booklties. One of these days I'm planning a post dedicated to them. I really want to buy Geddy's  Big Beautiful Book of Bass, it's a coffee table book and I must get it soon. Geddy Lee is a collector, he collects bass guitars and baseballs and he is the lead vocalist and bassist for Rush and they're a great band, enriched by Geddy and Alex's friendship. I won't go on now, I want to write something a little more meaningful and that takes time. Right now I'm too tired and I need to be in the conservatory reading, it's a new routine. Normally I don't read that much at home, I leave it for train journeys, plane journeys and sitting in cafes (my favourite place to read and write). I'm going now, see you again soon I hope.

Heading back to Blighty...

I never set my alarm, but was up by 0600hrs anyway and looking forward to what the hotel offered for breakfast, although I had a pretty good idea: cake, of course, and plenty of it. I was right... and I was happy!

A cream-filled croissant, a custard-filled slice of cake, some small round pastries full of custard, it was all happening on my table. The friendly waitress offered me a cappuccino and I accepted. Later she offered me another and again, I accepted. There was fruit, fresh fruit and a fruit salad which, I think, I ordered and then didn't eat, at least I can't remember eating it, such was the excitement of the cake and the frothy coffee. I had time and so indulged myself. A yoghurt followed and an apple, which I munched away as other guests arrived, well, two – make that three – other guests: a mother and daughter combo, actually five other guests, there was a couple of slightly rotund ladies and an edgy-looking woman with a roughish face who sat alone, like I did, and looked pre-occupied. 

Through the gate and waiting for the bus to the plane...

Breakfast over I went to my room and packed, not that I hadn't done most of it already, it was just the electric toothbrush and toothpaste to put away and then I waltzed downstairs to the rather baronial hall lobby where I checked out, told them how much I loved the hotel and then ordered a cab to the airport. It arrived in minutes and soon I was on my way. The journey took all of 15 minutes and then I was faced with the chaos of the airport which seemed to be unnaturally busy. There were school kids and holidaymakers queuing up for something or other, probably a flight, one queue wound its way out of the building (I saw it when my taxi pulled up). There were soldiers with guns and sunglasses and I was asked where I was going. I said "London" and all was well, I could continue into the terminal building. What the hell was going on? I would never find out. Perhaps it was because it was Saturday, who knows? Once inside I found the BA check-in and waited for it to open, then it was a case of handing over (ahem) my case, getting my boarding pass (seat 35F, a window seat) and then heading for another queue (for security). It all went pretty smoothly and I found myself standing with a lot of red-faced people, clearly skiers and those who follow other outdoor pursuits, like climbing. I wasn't bothered. There are so many things I won't do and climbing and skiing are just two of them. I won't jump out of an aeroplane either or go diving looking for sharks.

On the plane...

Once through I sprayed myself with a Polo aftershave tester (it was free so why not?) and then ordered a ham and mozzarella roll as I knew that BA would only offer a bag of shitty pretzels and a small bottle of mineral water. Once microwaved, the roll melted and became a spludgy mess on a white plate...but that didn't stop me.

The flight was alright. Most of it was clear, but as we approached the UK the cloud thickened and I found myself thinking of the Tory party, Dominic fucking Raab in particular, and all the shite the UK liked to pile upon its people who, like cockroaches, scuttle around under the cover of cloud, moaning about their lot. I, of course, was one of them too and now I was heading home to be as much of a cockroach as everybody else. Soon, little gaps appeared in the cloud, revealing England's green and unpleasant land. The plane shuddered as it penetrated the big chunks of cumulus dotted around the skies and I started wondering why the pilot doesn't aim for the clear bits and avoid the cloud? But of course, he never does, instead he heads straight for a fucking great lump of the stuff and we all suffer as a result... or I do, nobody else seems to be bothered. Soon we were down on the ground and from then onwards, everything was fairly easy.

I found a sign saying "last toilet before passport control" and thought: that's where I'm headed! There was something intriguing about the last toilet before passport control and the walk there was interesting too because there was nobody around. I started to wonder whether, when I left the toilet, I'd be 500 years in the future or something whacky of that nature. But no, I was still in the 21st Century and I was back on track. 

Looking down on Italy...

There was nobody at passport control, my bag was on the reclaim when I got there (reclaim conveyor 8) and soon I was swanning through customs without a care in the world. I headed straight for Costa Coffee, from where I write this blogpost, as there's a train strike so I thought I'd get my bearings, have something to eat (prawn and mayo sarnie, a Millionaire's Shortbread and an English Breakfast tea) and then head for home either in a taxi or by train. 

It was a good trip overall and while I had been inwardly moaning about air travel from the minute I reached the airport, as we approached Gatwick today I asked myself whether there had really been any major hassles. The answer, of course, was no, there was nothing from the outward flight to the inward one that was really bad... apart from BA cancelling my return flight, but even that meant a few free hours in Verona, a wander around the city, a really nice dinner in Caffe Dante and, of course, a night in a decent hotel.

On Wednesday afternoon when I flew out to Italy I had the choice of queuing for a human being to check me in or use the machines; I opted eventually for the latter and it was alright. The flight out was ok, there was no turbulence, and when I reached Verona there was Maria waiting to pick me up and take me to Storo and the Polentera hotel. 

Approaching Gatwick airport.

On the return trip it was roughly the same: the taxi arrived within two minutes of being ordered, I checked in fairly successfully and yes, I queued for security but there's no way around that. It didn't take long and soon I was through and chilling (if that's the word) before the flight and, as outlined above, that was fine too. That said, however, I'm annoyed that flying is so cheap. Certainly, when I can, I'll take the train (like to Dusseldorf in June). I can't get the train to Detroit sadly and I'm guessing that a cabin on a cargo ship will be beyond my company's means and will add around 10 days to the trip. So I'll have to put up and shut up and make the most of what is thrown at me.

I'm not a great fan of flying, but I do a fair bit of it one way or the other. I don't mind it on a good day when there's no weather to deal with, but if it's cloudy and rainy (or worse) then I invariably get a little anxious. I'm  not overly keen on long flights because there's bound to be turbulence somewhere along the line and I hate it. Also, long haul flights leave me knackered and incapable and in need of recovery, so yes, more rail travel, certainly in Europe is on the cards, but when it comes to the US or the Middle East of the Far East I'll have to put up with flying.

England's green and unpleasant land, well, it's not that bad...

In search of the last toilets before passport control at Gatwick airport.

"Last toilets before Passport control!"

Totally wired...

 "Legends were born surrounding mysterious lights, seen in the sky, flashing". I've been listening to Jethro Tull in the car on a trip over to Sutton to see mum. Passion Play was the only track I could listen to again and again, I kept pressing the repeat button in between trying to drive the car. I love those lyrics in quotes for some reason and, oddly, I remember there used to be an ad on television back in the seventies for the Passion Play album. Strange.

Covid left the building a few days ago and we're all testing negative. Last Sunday was an amazing day. We were all 'allowed' to be out and about so we drove to Wakehurst Place for a long walk in the winter sunshine. It was amazing. In fact, it was an amazing day all round, which kicked off with a ride to Westerham to meet Andy. I was wondering how I would perform on that ride and it was alright, although I need to get my act together in terms of exercise and diet, the latter is becoming a problem as I appear to be addicted to crap: chocolates, cake, the usual vices, but it simply must stop. Up until going down with Covid, I was doing well: cycling daily - or almost daily - and then riding on Saturday and Sunday. But going down with the virus put a stop to all that. For two weeks I felt a little weary and decided not to ride anywhere until I was allowed to go out. So, two weeks of no exercise, although I managed a lone walk on one or two occasions, roaming the streets after dark in the cold, although it wasn't that chilly.

This has got to stop, but the cake is far worse, and the chocolate bars

It was good to get out on the bike and it was great seeing Andy again. The ride was perfect all the way, there and back, but it was the only ride I was going to do; all week I didn't ride, despite having planned to get out there. I don't know why, but I simply didn't have the motivation. Instead I made myself comfortable in front of the television. On the diet front I found myself nipping down to Tesco Express solely to buy a Wispa Gold. On a walk home from Purley railway station, on two occasions, I bought Wispas, and on one occasion two cinnamon buns (I ate both). You can see I'm having a problem.

Last week's bowl of coffee and Millionaire's shortbread

My growing addiction to coffee is a problem too, cappuccino to be precise. During the week, while in a place called Amersham in Buckinghamshire - a strange place full of rich people who, for some reason, I think are unhappy - I found a Costa Coffee inside an enormous Tesco. Why Amersham has a huge Tesco and not a massive Waitrose, I don't know, but Tesco it is and I was foolish enough to order a large one. A large one! And when I say 'large' I mean enormous. It was huge. So huge that it required two handles instead of one, I was drinking a kind of cappuccino soup and it was doing me no favours whatsoever, as I found out later in the evening. I made matters worse by eating two, yes, two, and then, as time progressed I noticed that I was pretty wired. Over a dinner I was almost holding on to the table, trying to keep my head together. I was tanked up with caffeine and sugar and it would continue into the night. I went to bed around midnight but didn't get to sleep until 0200hrs, but then I woke up again at 0500hrs and then I awoke at 0700hrs, took a shower (a luke warm shower) and then hit the breakfast room, feeling a little weary. I had a full English, plus Alpen, two pastries, a yoghurt, two slices of toast and a glass of fresh orange juice. That kind of did the trick. The hotel was in Old Amersham, a 25-minute downhill walk from the station, meaning just one thing: I'd have to endure a 25-miniute uphill walk to catch a train home.

Cake, cake and more cake, it's got to stop

On the train home I did little but stare out of the window at the passing countryside and then, along with a colleague, I crossed London to Victoria where I took a train home. As I write this, it's Saturday. I should have gone for a ride this morning, but I didn't, although I'm 'getting there' and by that I mean that the bad habits of the past fortnight or so are on my radar, and that's a good thing. It means that I'm aware of what I'm doing and I need to stop the cakes, the biscuits, the cappuccino and so on. Today, for example, I drove to a place called Trading Boundaries where I consumed not only a sausage roll and a bowl of butternut squash soup with bread, but also a slice of coffee and pecan nut cake and, yes, a cappuccino. If that was not enough, earlier, while filling up with petrol, I purchased a sneaking Wispa Gold and kept it secret. Later, on that drive to Sutton mentioned earlier, I decided that I would enjoy the chocolate bar with a cup of tea round at mum's. I followed up with two milk chocolate digestives and then headed home listening to Jethro Tull.

There's a track on the Tull album called Fat Man and I reproduce the lyrics here as they seem kind of appropriate:-

Don't want to be a fat man

People would think that I was just good fun, man

Would rather be a thin man

I am so glad to go on being one, man

Too much to carry around with you

No chance of finding a woman, who

Will love you in the morning and all the nighttime too

Don't want to be a fat man

Have not the patience to ignore all that

Hate to admit to myself

I thought my problems came from being fat

Won't waste my time feeling sorry for him

I've seen the other side to being thin

Roll us both down a mountain and I'm sure the fat man would win