Thoughts on this and that...

It's hard trying to get back into the swing of cycling, especially now that the weather is closing in. We're in November, heading towards the middle of the month, but the weather seems pretty mild. Last Saturday I rode to Westerham and sat outside munching on a billionaire's shortbread. Yes, you heard me, a billionaire's shortbread. It was fantastic, so good that I didn't want it to end, but I started to realise that I'd been falling back into my old ways: no exercise for a start (or not much) and then the food. The snacks. The white chocolate cookie, the chocolate brioche rolls, the Wispa Gold, the stale cinnamon brioche bun from Costa the week before last and that's just the sweet stuff. I bought some ham as I thought I'd be making my own sandwiches for work, but in the end I couldn't face the ordeal of eating a sweaty homemade sandwich when I could simply walk to the caff and enjoy something a little more substantial. But I digress, the billionaire's shortbread: it was worth every penny and even now, five days later, I'm still thinking about it. During the week I raved about it to colleagues, under the mistaken impression that only I knew what a billionaire's shortbread was. I was mistaken, which made me wonder why I hadn't enjoyed one before. A few days prior to my Saturday ride to Westerham (I think it was Wednesday) there was trouble on the trains. Somebody had jumped in front of a train close to East Croydon station. The emergency services were dealing with it. For me it meant 'no trains'. I wandered away from the station in the dark and made my way to the Costa Coffee opposite the bank for a large English breakfast tea and a millionaire's shortbread. Fortunately, I had a decent book on the go: Dave Grohl's excellent memoir, which I have since finished. I sat in the Costa reading it and then moseyed on back to the station and jumped on a train. The problem had been sorted out.

Night sets in early

It starts to get dark around 4.30pm. I started thinking about riding the bike into work and while the morning ride would be fine, for a while at least, the return journey would be a race against time. It takes around one hour and 15 minutes to ride to work and roughly the same going the other way, so I'd be home around 5.15 and would probably be riding in the dark for roughly half of the ride. I can't say the idea appealed to me and I don't remember doing much in the way of night riding last year, apart from the odd Norfolk Nobbler, talking of which, I did one today, a 7.30-mile ride. It's always a bit of a work-out riding the Nobbler, thanks to the hills, but I always feel good when I get home. I went out around 1345hrs and the ride was around 40 minutes in duration. A good way of bumping up the weekly mileage is to ride short distances, like the Nobbler, and while fairly easy on a Thursday and Friday (when I'm working from home) it's a little more difficult on a work day. Would I be motivated enough to ride at 0600hrs before eating any breakfast? Well, I wouldn't get any time for my Alpen and fruit as when I get home it'll be time for walking to the station to catch my morning train. I should really stick to Washpond Weebles on Thursday and Friday lunch time, but today's exercise was to determine the mileage of a Norfolk Nobbler with a view to riding one every day. Big thoughts! But I know only too well that when I wake up in the morning the last thing I want to do is get on the bike without drinking tea, munching toast and eating my Alpen and fresh fruits. It's just not going to happen. Actually, I really must get my act together; what with the aforementioned chocolate bars, cookies and billionaire's shortbreads, I must seriously slap myself into shape. For most of October I avoided the cakes and while I've only just started to weaken, I must stop it. That stale cinnamon brioche bun from Westerham Costa last week put me off, making me wonder at the time why I even bothered. Perhaps I should have taken it back.

More mid-week Washpond Weebles are needed

It's Friday and if there's any justice in the world I should be looking at a Washpond Weeble at lunch time. Right now, as I write this, it's breakfast time and today I admit I went over the top: in addition to my bowl of Alpen and porridge oats topped with blueberries, grapes, raspberries and sliced banana, I enjoyed two slices of toast with honey AND a couple of fried eggs on two pieces of toast. I'm thinking about another cup of tea as I write this.

Rain stops play

Friday brought rain and in the end I didn't go out so it all rested on Saturday, but instead of my usual ride to Westerham, I rode a 9.72-mile 'special edition' Norfolk Nobbler, a local ride extraordinaire (basically three loops of the Norfolk Avenue/Arundel Avenue/Ridgeway route). Last Sunday I started my week as usual with a ride to the Northern Kent market town, which is my long-winded way of avoiding using 'Westerham' twice in the same paragraph, but now, of course, I've done just that. So my weekly total was around 38 miles (one 21-miler, one 7.20-miler and a 9.72-miler, you do the math).

Billionaire's shortbread in Costa Coffee

I love coffee shops

Coffee shops have taken the place of pubs in my world. While, in the dim and distant past, a pint and a cigarette used to be my idea of relaxation (it never ended well) I now prefer sitting in Caffe Nero or Costa with a large cappuccino or an English breakfast tea. Alcohol never did me any favours, quite the opposite, and now, four years after giving it up, I found myself in Caterham, home of Ross Cycles, sitting in a Caffe Nero (I think it's the best brand around) reading a new book, Willy Vlautin's The Night Always Comes, his sixth novel (I've read them all). A couple of weeks ago, when I walked from Ross Cycles to Caterham railway station after dropping off my bike for its silver service (click here and here for more details) I stopped off at the Caffe Nero for a large cappuccino and a slice of cake. It was chilled and cosy. Yesterday I found myself alone in the house and decided to jump on a train to Caterham and head back there, book in tow. Again, I ordered a large cappuccino and this time a millionaire's shortbread. There's a tinsel Christmas tree at the front of the store, making it that little bit more cosy. I loved it and I sat there reading until I'd finished my coffee and cake. I found myself on the 1450hrs train back to Purley Oaks from where I walked home.

Sunday: the start of my cycling week

And now it's Sunday morning, almost 0700hrs. I've been up since 0600hrs and managed to listen to Radio Four's Something Understood (I'm guessing the subject was commemoration). I've since switched to the World Service and I'm guessing the news is about to be broadcast. Time to hear more about what is essentially a climb-down on climate change now that COP 26 has come to an end. I'm about to listen to Weekend with Celia Hatton. Coal is being phased down, not phased out, thanks to India, but who can blame them? We've had our industrial revolution, let them have theirs. I just hope that industry worldwide continues with its plans to reduce emissions. I know for a fact that the global steel industry is doing more than its bit to reduce emissions.

But enough of all this. There's around 30 minutes before I need to ride to Westerham to meet Andy and start my cycling week. Hopefully I'll be able to put in some decent mileage this coming week.

Notes from the ride...

The ride in itself was absolutely fine. I rode the standard route along the 269 and down Clarks Lane and when I arrived Andy was inside the Costa drinking a large Americano. He was halfway through a toasted tea cake. There was a long queue and everybody was ordering complicated drinks so I decided to wait it out and chat with Andy before getting up and ordering my English breakfast tea. But the queue never quietened down and in the end Andy left and I had a dilemma on my hands: queue up again or just ride home. I started to queue again, but immediately got annoyed with the whole situation and decided to ride home. I considered the Tudor Tea Rooms, but what was the point? I rode towards the Velo Barn, turned left on to Pilgrim's Lane and then crossed Clarks Lane and followed Pilgrims Lane to Rectory Lane where I turned right and joined Clarks Lane again but a little further up the hill. Loads of stuff was going through my mind. Do I take The Ridge into Woldingham? Do I take Beddlestead Lane and Hesiers Hill? Do I take Beech Farm Road and Washpond Lane? Nothing appealed and I felt I wasn't quite ready or motivated enough to tackle any big hill. This has plenty to do with being overworked. Instead I rode the 269 and reached home around a quarter to eleven (1045hrs). We slobbed for a while, had burgers for lunch and then headed out for a drive to Ightham Mote where I (foolishly) ordered a large cappuccino and a gooey mince pie. I can't say I really enjoyed either of them and vowed there and then to stop cake, biscuits, bread and cappuccinos. On the bread front, no more than three slices a day. Dinner was a light pasta dish with a tasty tomato-based source, home-made, the perfect end to the weekend. Tilly Ramsay survived another dance-off in Strictly.

Respect is due: Redhill and back alone and in the rain...

Pot of tea for one and a pain au raisin in West Central, Redhill

Yesterday I should have gone out cycling. The weather was fantastic, but I dawdled about. At 11 o'clock I thought it was time to hit the road, but I stayed put, and then, at noon, I almost left the house, but ended up not bothering. It was, to put it mildly, the worst possible example of apathy and general laziness made worse by the fact that I knew Sunday was going to be a terrible day characterised by rain and blustery winds.

Sunday morning and the weathermen were proved right: it was a mildly blowy and wet day, but the rain was almost invisible; the sort of rain that is only visible if I strain my eyes while looking at the trees – it didn't even reveal itself in the birdbath. But drizzle, as such rain is often called, is known to get worse and turn into full-blown rain. So I hesitated again.

Standing in the bathroom I stared at the shelf on which brightly-coloured toothbrushes, like alien flowers, stood to attention among the shampoos, conditioners and disposable razors. There was a bar of soap resting on the ledge of the sink and the shower curtain was drawn across exposing its colourful pattern to my tired eyes. Outside, through the frosted glass, I could see the green blur of the garden and I found myself thinking that I simply had to go out on the bike. The alternative was to have a day like yesterday of just sitting around the house not doing anything – other than reading Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged (I'm nearly on page 900!). So I metaphorically slapped myself around the face and resolved to take a ride.

I didn't want to ride to Botley or the Tatsfield Bus Stop, or even Westerham, so I decided to head for Redhill. The drizzle had stopped, the skies were grey but bright and, crucially, it wasn't cold. I rode the normal way, as if I was meeting Andy at the green, but halfway along the Limpsfield Road I turned right onto Wentworth Way, followed the road to Warlingham School and then headed down Tithepit Shaw Lane and into Whyteleafe. I crossed the railway track and headed up Whyteleafe Hill, turning right into Burntwood Lane and then left into Caterham, past the Esso garage and through Caterham-on-the-Hill along Town End and then High Street, which turned into Church Road. I realised that instead of turning right into Burntwood Lane I could have carried on along Whyteleafe Road, emerging on to Church Road shortly before the right turn into Stanstead Road where I was greeted by a leafy suburban street characterised by gated communities full of right wing people so scared of the proletariat they have to lock themselves and their families away from what they perceive as the cruel world – not far removed, perhaps, from the Michigan Militia and those awful people who store tinned food in hidden caves in preparation for the apocalypse.

Rural roads between Redhill and Caterham

Whyteleafe Hill was long and tiresome and time-consuming and so was Stanstead Road. I kept expecting to see the pub, the Harrow, but it kept me waiting as the aforementioned gated communities and the odd private school caught my eye as the bike took me into more semi-rural terrain. Soon I found myself on White Hill Lane – murder coming the other way but a piece of piss when you're riding downhill. I turned right into Spring Bottom Lane and then left on to Warwick Wold Road, which took me down into Merstham on the Bletchingly Road where I eventually turned left into Nutfield Road and then a short stretch of Battlebridge Lane before hitting Frenchies Road, which took me out on to the A23 for a couple of hundred yards and into Redhill.

I got there at 1055, having left the house at 0930hrs, and decided to find somewhere to chill and drink tea. I hadn't brought the flask so instead I headed for West Central, a 'not-for-profit coffee shop run by the church – although it cost roughly the same as other high street brands, such as Costa. I padlocked the bike outside and then ordered a pot of tea for one (£1.70) and a pain au raisin (£1.80) and sat at a table that allowed me to keep my bike in sight, not that any thieves would get far; it's a heavy bike and they'd have to carry it so I knew it was relatively safe.

West Central in Redhill – quite pleasant

Soon it was time to head home. I glanced at the time, it was 1140. I unpadlocked the bike and rode out of town, heading north along the A23. I'd decided not to hit the back roads for the return journey – or rather not all of them. Instead I rode along the A23 and through Merstham, turning right on to Shepherds Hill, which turned into Alderstead Road and then Dean Lane, which took me into the leafy suburbs of Chaldon on the outskirts of Caterham. Dean Lane became Rook Lane and then Chaldon Road. I turned left on the Coulsdon Road and cycled down towards the pub where I turned right on to Westway and left into Money Road before turning right on to Banstead Road, crossing into Burntwood Lane and turning left on to Whyteleafe Hill. I coasted downhill and across the railway line and then crossed the roundabout on the A22, up Hillbury Road and then up Tithepit Shaw Lane, a steep hill. Unfortunately my gears were playing up. I couldn't crank it down to the smaller cog at the front so I had to dismount and walk a few yards before jumping back on and hanging a left into Wentworth Road and then another left on to the Limpsfield Road. I rode through Sanderstead High Street and down Church Way where I encountered tragic circumstances. A woman called Jennifer Waller lay face down in the road in a distressed state of mind. According to a man driving a white van she was jogging down the road and simply fell flat on her face. An ambulance was called and when it eventually arrived I continued my journey down Church Way, left on to Morley, right into Elmfield Way and home.

While drizzly rain was present for most of the journey – and I was wet through – it was warm and, I must say, rather pleasant, although there was a heavy downpour around 2 o'clock, but, fortunately, I was back in the house by then.

The journey time to Redhill was one hour and 25 minutes at an even pace (and the same coming back) meaning that if I  cycled to work of a morning I'd need to leave the house by 0715hrs at the very latest.

Rural surroundings on the return journey from Redhill to Sanderstead

This week and last week

Last week, possibly Sunday, I can't recall, we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, mainly because the bus stop is covered and this means the seats are dry when the weather is been cold and wet. However, not having mudguards meant that I was wet so from my perspective it was pointless; we could have gone to Westerham and stood up to drink our tea. Either way I would have been wet. I need mudguards or a sensible bike, let's face it.

So, we rode to the bus stop on, I think, Sunday 9 November. We haven't spent a great deal of time at the old Tatsfield Bus Stop of late. We've been riding to Westerham or taking suburban rides or, as the week before last, to the Tatsfield Churchyard where the seats were dry but then it started to rain and, as avid readers will be only too aware, there's no cover at the churchyard.

This week we planned to ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, mainly because of the aforementioned dry seat argument, which, as I've said, means nothing if you're wet anyway, thanks to no mudguards. But I won't labour the point.

Last Sunday at Tatsfield Bus Stop

Yesterday, as we rode along the Limpsfield Road, past the new cycle shop opposite Sainsbury's, we decided to take the slow route, until we remembered the state of my gears. Whenever I ride up any hill they slip and clunk and then the chain falls off or slips on to the smaller front crank. The bike needs a service, but, as always, money is short so, like everything else in my life at present, I leave it until it gets so bad I have to fix it. Like now. However, today I had to make do with dismounting every time a hill approached. Yesterday morning, as I reached the top of Church Way, I had to dismount and then, as we weaved our way around the country lanes adjacent to the B269, I found myself dismounting again and again.

Instead of riding the slow way to the bus stop – Andy figured I'd be walking the length of Beddlestead Lane (a long and winding hill) – we decided to investigate Scotshall Lane, one of the very few roads in the area we haven't explored. It was pleasant for a while, but when we reached the end we found ourselves in the Farleigh area (turn left for the Harrow pub and then?). Opposite the pub we found a covered bus stop but it was so depressing and cramped with its fold-up, heavy duty plastic seats and its ugly green paintwork that we decided to ride back into Warlingham and part ways at Warlingham Green – without drinking tea or munching biscuits. Not a brilliant ride but at least we know what to expect at the other end of Scotshall Lane – nothing!

To make matters worse (what with the faulty gears, the rubbish bus stop and the short ride) it started to rain and we both got soaked.

Last night I had sent Andy and Phil an 'abort' text. I was tired and feeling a little despondent, but I texted Andy and said that I might change my mind in the morning. Clearly, if you have read this far, you already know that I did change my mind. I texted Andy again and said I'd meet him at the usual time on the green. Perhaps I should have stayed in bed.

Sunday 16th November – to Tatsfield Village!
Another place we haven't been to for a while is good old Tatsfield Village. After yesterday's miserable ride, we decided to pay it a visit. The weather was much better: no rain for a start and it brightened up as we headed along the 269. Perfect cycling weather and, once I'd got underway there were no problems with the gears. I found that the bike rode well if the chain was on the smaller crank at the front and mid-way through the rear gears.

Tatsfield Village hasn't changed a bit since our last visit – why would it, I hear you ask.  It's the same old, same old, so we sat there for a while discussing our bikes and my gears and other bicycle-related chat as we sipped tea and munched our biscuits.

Tatsfield Village, Sunday 16 November 2014 – 

manic expression due to almost missing the self-timer

The journey home proved very troublesome for yours truly. Those gears decided to play up big time. In fact, there was no way the chain was going to slip on to the larger front crank, making the ride home extremely slow. Andy must have been relieved to say goodbye half way along the 269. As for me, I limped home at a snail's pace. Despite the fact that we only went to Tatsfield Village, I reached home just before 1000hrs – half an hour later than I would have returned had we gone to Westerham (and my gears had been working properly).

So the bike needs to visit the repair shop and I'm thinking of Ross Cycles in Caterham. I can't abide the thought of Halford's. Every time I've taken my bike to Halford's it comes out worse than when it went in or there's something wrong with it. For instance, the last time I had it serviced in Halford's they did something to the forks – making them more springy than necessary and, it has to be said, for their own ends, not mine! I'd told them to tighten up the front forks; they loosened them – probably so they could mess around doing jumps in the car park. Either way, I wasn't happy and resolved there and then never to get the bike serviced in Halford's again. I'm also a little reticient about Evans Cycles (where they're bound to come up with some spurious reason why they have to charge me a fortune. Equally off the list is the bike shop in Redhill as I believe he's miles too expensive and probably suggests things that need doing when they don't. I wouldn't mind, but I'm at rock bottom financially. I've even considered buying a secondhand bike for £75 rather than shell out more on getting my existing bike serviced. Andy says it would be a big mistake – a false economy – as a cheaper ride means cheaper parts and cheaper parts mean more frequent servicing. It's looking like Ross Cycles, but that means no riding next Saturday or Sunday, although I can live with that. The only problem will be getting over there as the ride is hilly and the bike ain't up to it.

There's leisurely cycling...and there's cycling to work

I'm amazed at how life is made up of many different dimensions. Is there anything, I wonder, that isn't in some way multi-faceted? Take cycling. For me and those who read this blog, cycling is, in the main, all about riding out early in the morning on a weekend to a destination some way off where tea can be sipped and cakes eaten. Where cereal bars and bacon sandwiches are enjoyed in the open air and where light-hearted conversation completes the experience before the ride home begins.

There's such a difference between riding for pleasure and riding for a purpose – like getting to work in the morning. Some time ago now I remember cycling to Camden Town from my home in Sutton, Surrey. That was a terrible experience. I remember being one of those idiots wearing a mask as I headed in to town, breathing in all the fumes and generally watching my back for mad drivers. I never did it every day and I recall leaving the office later just to avoid the rush hour traffic.

This shot taken in Warwick Wold Road. I'd just come through that tunnel
underneath the M25. It's on the outskirts of Merstham.

I'm not working in London at the moment, but in Surrey, so you might think that the journey to work would be better, but in reality, it's the same old thing. It's not so much about the location or the ride, it's about the inherent stress of relying upon the bike to get you to work, rather than a train or a bus or a car.

My ride to work is, in fact, very similar to my route to Merstham at weekends when we head for Hunger's End, the caff. But the difference is that I'm not riding that way for pleasure. I'm not riding at my leisure. The moment I leave the house, the tension is on; the hourglass has been turned over, the stopwatch is on and it's all about getting from A to B.

The tension builds up when you think about what could go wrong. The worst thing, bar an accident, being a puncture. That would slow you down, demoralise you, get you worried about whether you'll arrive on time – or not!

So I off I go, having tried my best to remember everything I'll need: a clean shirt, a towel, some soap, the padlock for padlocking the bike outside the leisure centre, a pair of trousers to wear...the list is endless. But I remembered everything and was happy as I weaved my way through the suburban side streets towards the A23. I'd like to have avoided the A23, but that meant some punishing hills that would slow me down so I had to risk lorries, buses and idiotic office workers on their way to the office.

Yes, it's the Warwick Wold Road!

I got into my stride and as soon as I was on the A23, all was fine. I felt as if I was in control as I raced towards Coulsdon Town, under the bridge and on towards the M23 turn-off and then the first big landmark (the only big landmark) of the journey – Merstham. But this wasn't a lazy Sunday morning. Andy wasn't with me, nor was Phil, and I didn't have any tea in my rucksack.

Suddenly, something was wrong. The bike wobbled and I had a rear wheel puncture. I suffer frequently from punctures. This time it was a nail, but I didn't know that until I reached the bike shop. Stressed, pissed off and angry, I turned the bike upside down by the side of the road with a view to fixing the problem. But I was harassed. I could hear the clock ticking. It was 0745hrs and I had planned to be in Redhill by 0800hrs. Not any more. I had to unpack my rucksack to locate the pump and then, having taken off the wheel and levered the tyre off the rim, I pulled out the inner tube and tried, in vain, to pump it up. It refused. Standing there for a split second, swearing to myself, I figured I had two choices: wheel the bike to the railway station, take it home and then get a train to the office. Or, walk the bike into Redhill, buy a new inner tube, possibly get the puncture fixed in the shop and then walk to the leisure centre, take a shower and get into the office.

Looking down on the M25 from the Warwick Wold Road. This is a good
cycling route for our weekend rides, lads...but not for commuting.

First I went to the railway station. It was only a couple of quid to get a train into Redhill, but I'd have to wait 30 minutes so I decided to walk, listening all the way to the sound of the deflated rear tyre squealing and squeaking as I headed to work. I went straight to the bike shop where a new inner tube would cost me £5.99 and to have it fixed in the shop a further £10. "I'll take the inner tube," I said, remembering how, a week or two ago I forked out the best part of £200 for a new rear brake and various other things (all detailed in a recent post).

I then walked the bike to the leisure centre where I paid £2.15 for a shower. I had to unpack the rucksack to find the soap and the towel and then, after the shower, I changed into my suit trousers and a shirt and headed towards the office where I padlocked the bike and started work.

It had taken me two and a half hours to get from my house to the office. By train it takes just 45 minutes. I'd forked out the same money, roughly, as a return ticket so I hadn't gained at all, certainly not financially.

At lunchtime I fixed the puncture myself and then after an afternoon of working I changed out of my suit trousers and donned the moleskins again, leaving the red tee-shirt featuring Sheldon Cooper in the rucksack. I headed home along Frenches Road after a short burst of A23 and rode into sleepy Merstham. I turned right where School Hill joins the Bletchingley Road and cycled through the housing estate towards Warwick Wold Road.

The journey home isn't pleasant after a day in the office and a morning from hell just trying to get to work. Fortunately the bike didn't let me down on the return trip. The terrain was very hilly, especially White Hill Lane, which I think I've mentioned in previous posts. Before that, however, I had to cross the M25 both under and over.

White Hill Lane is truly punishing, but when you reach the top you're in Chaldon and that means you're in Caterham and that means you're almost home. I was tired out. All I wanted was for the ride to end, but it persisted and the hills kept coming. Nothing is worst that White Hill Lane, but Tithepit Shaw Lane, going up from Whyteleafe is pretty close. You really have to knuckle down for hills and that's what I did. Once it was over I was sailing down Wentworth Road, taking speed bumps at my leisure, heading towards the Limpsfield Road, Sanderstead High Street, the Gruffy, Church Way and home. My temperament improved considerably as I was so utterly relieved to be on the home stretch. When I opened the garage door, padlocked the bike and entered the house, I felt great, but I vowed never to cycle to work again – not for a while at least. Secretly, however, I wished it hadn't been such an ordeal.

I was so tired I hit the sack around 2100hrs. I had a broken night, probably because I'd overdone it with the tea during the day. I had trouble sleeping and woke up feeling worn out and heavy-lidded. All day I felt down and tired and grateful for the fact that my bike wasn't waiting for me to ride it home.

Give me leisurely cycling any day. Even the route from Redhill via White Hill Lane would be enjoyable if the end game was a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge and then no work until Monday.