Lockdown, Part 30: Whatever!

The weather's been changeable. There's been rain. It's stopped me riding the bike. The frequency of my cycling has dipped from six days a week to three. Not cycling isn't good, it always makes me feel sluggish, unhappy, doomed and I get a little depressed as a result. I shouldn't be like this. The less I go the more difficult it is to motivate myself, I start to find it all too much. I find myself in the garage, looking at the bike and wondering whether it's worth unpadlocking it or simply going back in the house and forgetting about everything. It happened last week. I started imagining myself riding along Ellenbridge, heading up Church Way and then riding along the Limpsfield Road and it made me feel weary. I went back inside the house and forgot about it. It's different at the weekend. At the weekend I don't have to work so I can go cycling in the morning, meet Andy at the churchyard and if the sun is shining I feel good about the world. Last week I managed three rides (Sunday, Thursday and Friday) and to be fair, I feel good about that too. Today I started the second week of riding since the bike was returned to me - or rather since I went to the bike shop to get the Rockhopper. I've decided not to fret about riding or not riding. I'm accepting that things change. The run of good weather that motivated me to ride six days a week has gone so from now on it's the luck of the draw and also whether I'm feeling up to it. I hope that nine times out of 10 I do feel motivated to get out there, but if I don't, then so be it.

Swimming in the sea...

I think the lockdown is starting to get on people's nerves, it's getting on mine. People are looking for change and it's coming, of course it is, but it's more about what kind of change and the fact that we've all got to socially distance and people keep talking about the 'new normal', which nobody wants. We all want the old normal, although I'm thinking that I don't want the cars back on the road or the planes in the sky. I quite liked it without them, but now things are looking like the old days. When I cycle along the Limpsfield Road there's increased traffic, so while it's supposed to be 'the new normal' there's some of the old normal too. But hey, the economy has to bounce back somehow or we'll all run out of money.

What annoys me about 'the lockdown' is the way it's portrayed on the television. I keep seeing advertisements showing people 'stuck at home' tutoring their kids or exercising in the living room or singing from their balconies and I find myself thinking why are they doing that? Since lockdown I've been riding miles and miles on the bike, going out shopping, walking, you name it, there's no need to be stuck indoors and yet that's the picture the media wants to portray, that we're all at home, stuck indoors and slowing driving ourselves crazy.

Wisborough Green

I was listening to LBC on Saturday and the presenter (I can't remember his name) was asking listeners what drastic changes have they made to their lives or their way of thinking as a result of lockdown. And this is something else I find odd about the media portrayal of the situation, the assumption that the experience, for all of us, has been life-changing and that whole World War ll analogy. My problem with this is that I don't think it has been life-changing at all; we've all been stuck indoors, that's all. We haven't been at war, or under siege, there's always been food around, even if we've had to queue for it, so why should we be experiencing anything life-changing? And then I started wondering how things had changed for me. Well, I need a haircut, that's for sure, but I'm not getting uptight about it. I mean it's only been possible to have a haircut since yesterday. Up until then it's been a case of leave it alone or reach for the clippers. In all honesty, I can't be bothered, let it grow, that's what I've been thinking. Who cares if it's long? I've been eating more than normal, but all good stuff. I'm buying more food than I was pre-lockdown. I get through a family pack of Alpen in a week, I'm eating lots of fresh fruit and I've started eating bread like I used to, but I try to limit myself to just four slices per day maximum. Chocolate bars are back on the agenda. I often find myself eating a Wispa bar while waiting in the queue for the check-out. That's got to stop. And I'm staying up late watching box sets, that's new. I'm now on Season Six of the X Files, I watched the whole of Ozark, the whole of Cardinal and now I'm on to The Sinner with Bill Pullman and the jury's out on that at the moment. I've stopped watching the news. And that's because we've become a one news story nation. It was Brexit and now it's the pandemic and I've started taking a different perspective on it all. I mean, with the pandemic, what's the story? There's a virus, it's bad news for some, but not so bad for others, it's highly contagious and the Government has been bungling everything as it goes along. End of story basically. And it looks as if Brexit is going to come back. There's also the intensifying soap opera of the Epstein case, that's hotting up now that the FBI has arrested Ghislaine Maxwell, and here's hoping she's going to blow the gaff on all the establishment figures involved, especially Prince Andrew. But other than that, there's little else.  I swam in the sea, that's the big news from me of late. About a week ago I headed down to Felpham on the south coast on a very hot day and hit the beach, there was nobody there (hardly). I shared the sea with a couple of people and their kid and I went straight in, without hesitation. The sea was warm and I spent around 40 minutes in the water. The last time I swam in the sea was in 2015 in Brazil, Copacabana Bay, and the following day I went down with an upset stomach. Not nice and you can read about it here. Sea swimming again was great fun and reminded me that I'd really like to live by the sea, but I doubt I ever will.

The shops are empty...

I must point out that I know people have suffered from the lockdown. I feel sorry for anybody stuck in a flat without a balcony or a communal garden, I feel sorry for people who are getting on top of one another in a small space with no possible escape, I feel sorry for those who haven't discovered cycling or a means of escape like I have. 

What I can't get to grips with is the future and how it's all going to change or get back to normal. And by normal I don't mean the new normal, I mean the real normal, the old normal, the world we used to know. I don't want to have my haircut by somebody wearing a visor. I don't want to put my name down to go to the pub.

I suppose I wish the whole thing would stop and go back to normal. I guess everybody feels the same way.

Today I rode to the churchyard to meet Andy. We sat there in the sunshine chatting and chilling for around half an hour and then we headed home, parting company at The Ridge like in the old days. I carried on down the 269 and reached home at 1220 hrs. The weather's been great today. 

When I reached the churchyard, Andy had yet to arrive...

Lockdown, Part 27: A need to recalibrate - and a sense of foreboding

I suppose if you really want to know what's bugging me it's my lack of cycling. I completed my last full week on Tuesday just passed having riden just 74.7 miles. The previous week I'd covered around 83 miles and this week, well, let's not talk about it. After last Tuesday, when I noted the 74.7 miles, I took my traditional day off on Wednesday, meaning I needed to ride Thursday through Tuesday (this coming Tuesday) to build up a reasonable mileage. But no, it wasn't to be: there was rain on Thursday and Friday and while I managed between 27 and 30 miles on Saturday, I didn't go out today (Sunday 14th June) leaving me just tomorrow and Tuesday to up the ante, but it will only be by 30-odd miles meaning, at best, this week's total will be 60 miles. It's not good and I can't say I'm happy about it. In a nutshell I need to get my act together.

Andy leaving the churchyard last weekend...

Yesterday I almost rode to the lakes, which was good. I was in the saddle from 0910hrs until around noon, so almost three hours and I must have averaged around 12 miles/hour so I'm guessing I put in around 27 to 30 miles. My iphone ran out of power so I couldn't rely upon Strava to give me an accurate mileage, but I know I'm in that ballpark. And now I'm sounding like a Lycra monkey obsessing about miles and my Strava.

Not cycling bugs me a lot and I'm prone to fretful thinking. I've noticed that all my fretfulness revolves around achievement (or lack of it). It's a kind of obsession and it used to be much worse than it is now. I mean, up until lockdown I cycled twice a week at most, which could mean anything from a mere 30-odd miles per week to, at best, 66 miles if Andy and I managed, say, three trips to Westerham (at roughly 22 miles per trip). The latter, of course, was extremely rare and could only really happen if there was a bank holiday. Invariably, we'd average 32 miles a week and the rest of the time we'd be working and I'd probably get a couple of walks in at the office. I say 'at the office' but I mean in the surrounding area, clocking up a couple of miles on each walk.

We're all eating too much...

But because, since lockdown, I've been riding daily I think that's why when I don't ride for a few days I start to feel guilty and I shouldn't. But try telling me that, as I do every time the dilemma arises. I just don't listen to myself and I'm not listening now as I write this. 

A bit of armchair escapism!

It's crucial that I do get the exercise. Lockdown's fine, but it involves staying in most of the day; there's no 'lunch break' walk with Paul, no wander around the shops. I tend to spend most of my day confined to a desk, sitting down, so when I don't get that bike ride it's not good, especially when you consider that there are more chocolate bars in my life and more apple pies with custard. Pre-lockdown they were both rare and they need to be rare again, but they were counteracted by the daily cycling, the 100 miles per week that I was doing for four consecutive weeks. Miss a day or two and I start to feel sluggish, fat, heavy, whatever you want to call it.

The weekend weather has been very pleasant. Yesterday's ride along Pilgrim's Lane towards Longford Lake was idyllic. There was sunshine and blue skies and scented hedgerows, it was wonderful. I stopped at the end of Ovenden Road and turned back towards the churchyard where I was meeting Andy. We both estimated my ride to be 'in the high twenties', meaning it could have been anything from 27 miles to 30. I'm gunning for an average speed of 12 miles per hour, meaning 30 miles, but I reckon the reality is probably 28, bearing in mind that had Strava been on, that's what it would have been. I'm guessing, of course, and my plan next weekend, weather permitting, is to leave the house around 30 minutes earlier and head for the lakes. I might even have breakfast there: a small dish of Alpen, a slice of bread and some tea would be amazing, sitting there in the early morning sunshine on a mid-June day just admiring my surroundings. Let's see.

I'm getting a sense of foreboding about things and I don't know why. It's the lockdown and the uncertainty of the future I think. I was driving to the coast this morning and it was bugging me. I think I need a holiday. I need to be in one of those houses on the beach down at Felpham on the Summerley Estate, just a week, although two would be better, doing nothing but reading and walking and possibly even swimming in the sea.

I was remembering times on the beach with my pal Andy back in the eighties. We'd go in swimming and then we would head for the Castle Tandoori in Arundel, the whole thing was a laugh from start to finish, but these days I notice I'm no longer laughing and that's for many reasons not least the awful news we've been subjected to these past four years: Trump being elected the leader of the free world, Boris Johnson being the Prime Minister of England (the least deserving and truly awful leader this country has had since, er... oh, his pal David Cameron, who many commentators have branded the worst Prime Minister in British history (they're not wrong, but I'm sure Boris might take that prize too). Then there was Brexit, engineered by that cock-a-like cunt Cummings. And now the fucking virus that has basically fucked everything, although I'd love to discover that David Icke was right all along and the whole thing was some kind of hoax. If that ever came to light I wouldn't be able to stop laughing, seriously, but it won't ever happen, let's face it.

Lastly, the protests over the killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, USA. They're all making out that Floyd is some kind of saint when we all know that the man was a criminal. Fine, he didn't deserve to die over a fake $20 bill and that, of course, is the argument, which I totally understand, but why there are protests in the UK I don't know. This is not a racist country. Yes, there are racist incidents, of course there are, what country avoids them? But I wouldn't say black people or Asian people or anybody gets a particularly rough ride over here. I mean that's why there are so many boats crossing the English Channel full of migrants: everybody wants a piece of the UK - until the realise what a shithole it's become. Unbridled immigration has caused problems and one of them, of course, is Brexit.

So I'm looking out on my garden, the sun is shining, it's 1931hrs and I'm thinking of walking off an apple and blackberry pie I've just eaten, not to forget the Madagascan Vanilla custard. As I've said, it's got to stop, especially if my cycling is sloping off a bit. Next week the bike goes in for a service and a clean. The front brake has been buggered for many weeks, but can I find a cycle shop that will just take it in and fix it? No I can't, so it's got progressively worse. Andy took a look at it when I arrived at the churchyard yesterday and he thinks I might need a new disc too. Well, so be it, I thought.

Putting the bike in for repair, of course, means no riding from Saturday next week for a few days so I need to make the most of next week. I know there's rain floating around, but I'm just going to get done what I can and hope that will satisfy me. I hope that disc is alright, but I'm not going to fret about it.

It was great on the beach today. I love it down there. It's the only place that I feel real, relaxed, at peace with the world and somehow immortal, or at least full of life. I don't know why that is, probably because I have a lot of happy memories from my childhood holidays along that stretch of coastline. For me it's a house with a garden, with a gate at the end of it and beyond that the sea. 

To Woodmansterne Green with Jon (and then round to mum's)

One thing that has characterised the weather of late has been a cold breeze or rather a general coldness masked by blue skies and sunshine. Yesterday there was little in the way of sun, but it was fairly bright and, as Jon remarked as we made our way from Woodmansterne to mum's, a little on the cold side.

Felpham beach will soon be Jon's back garden

We had met earlier on Woodmansterne Green – now there's a place I hadn't been to for a long while – and spent an enjoyable time just chatting about various things, in particular Jon's impending move to Felpham, pronounced 'Fellfam', a small town on the south coast nestled between Bognor and Littlehampton, but much closer to the former. As avid readers of this blog will know, Felpham was where we spent our summer holidays in various houses on the beach. We loved those holidays and often spoke about how nice it would be to live there, close to the sea, and now Jon is living the dream; he's moving out of Epsom, where he currently resides and moving 60-odd miles to the south coast. I mentioned that he could develop a few decent rides, like Felpham to Arundel, and we spoke of other, longer journeys, like Felpham to Pulborough or Arundel or simply into the South Downs. Needless to say that Jon will be doing just that in a few weeks from now.

Woodmansterne Green is a great place and a fine destination for cycling. For yours truly it involves riding into Purley and following the leafy Foxley Lane towards the top of Wallington and beyond and turning left at the lavender fields close to the Oaks park. From there it's about 10 minutes and soon the green appears. It's dotted with big, mature trees and plenty of grass, there are tennis courts and surrounding fields, a decent village pub and a newsagent and there are plenty of places to sit down. The green was once a regular Boxing Day ride destination and there are many occasions, documented here on NoVisibleLycra, when Jon, Andy and yours truly would meet here to discuss this and that and sip tea and cereal bars (BelVita biscuits came later).

Mum, 86, and her two sons: me on the left, Bon on the right, in the garden

Today Jon and I discussed his new house close to the sea – I say 'close' and I mean close, there's a road in front of the house, then another house and then the sea; you can see it from the upstairs windows, he told me.

We spent a fair bit of time on the green before jumping on the bikes and heading for mum's. Jon's bike is in dire need of an oiling. It creaked its way towards a considerably lengthy piece of off-road track, which we both followed into Carshalton Beeches and then down Park Hill towards the Windsor Castle pub, passing on the way the Village Bakery where Jon and mum often enjoy lunch. At the lights there's a left turn and then, opposite the garage, a right turn, but with the traffic heavy we both dismounted and then jumped back on once safely across the Carshalton Road.

Mum knew we were coming and already had two mugs, with milk and teabags ready, on the counter top. We both opted for a slice of the wedding cake I mentioned a couple of posts back and then sat in the 'lounge' (as we always call it) chatting to mum about this and that, one of the topics of conversation being the amount of cars in the road and how the family in the house across the street have five cars to their name – one each for the mum and dad, one each for the two sons and one for the girlfriend of one of the sons, who also lives there. They can get three on the drive, which has been concreted over, and two are parked, along with many others, on the road itself. Back in 'our day', of course, had there been so many cars we would never have been able to play football like we used to as there would too big a risk of damaging parked cars. It's a shame in many ways that people allow cars to rule their lives.

Cake eaten, tea finished, we donned our helmets and bade farewell to mum. Instead of parting company at the bottom of the road, where traditionally Jon turns left and I turn right, we both turned right and retraced our route to Carshalton Beeches, going off-road again and parting at the crossroads by the lavender fields, which pretty soon will be in full bloom. Jon continued off-road and so did I but going in opposite directions. I rode along the Foxley Lane and through the back streets of Purley, which eventually became Sanderstead, my last exertion being the ascent of West Hill's south face. I reached home at 1033hrs, later than usual, but it was good to see Bon and, of course, mum.

The Tatsfield Churchyard with Phil and Andy, followed by a drive to the coast

On Saturday we rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard on what turned out to be a tremendous day. Phil met me outside the house at 0700hrs and around 0730hrs we were at Warlingham Green debating where to go; Westerham was a strong possibility, but I was a little reticent as I was planning a day out in West Sussex. We set off, however, intent on reaching the Northern Kent market town, but a few yards into the ride I switched and said the churchyard would be best.

Felpham, late afternoon, Saturday 23 May 2015

Andy had been away on holiday and we chatted about the heat of the Canary Islands and the pointlessness of buying a time-share holiday and then moved on to the subject of 'Golden Ages' and how most of them – politics and pop music being the most obvious – had gone, or was that because we were getting older? If it's all just a matter of opinion, I thought afterwards, then the entire argument is redundant. In 20-30 years from now, perhaps there will be people mourning the relative quality of X Factor contestants and the charismatic David Cameron and Nick Clegg, although I would argue that today the only charismatic politician is Nigel Farage, the rest are faceless, 'career' politicians who, let's face it, are basically dull. We said goodbye to Andy at the green and then Phil and I cycled on to Sanderstead where we bade each other farewell.

It was a pleasant day but the really good weather was yet to break through. That would come later on the south coast with the family: a flat, blue, almost Grecian, sea and a kind of muted sunshine that hugged the coast for most of the day. By late afternoon, dark and foreboding clouds had gathered inland and contrasted with bright skies over the sea casting a magical light on the water.

We enjoyed a packed lunch on the beach followed by a walk to Old Point and then, after tea and a cookie, a bowl of chips and a hot chocolate in The Lobster Pot (my favourite restaurant) we headed home.

Looking east towards Littlehampton from Felpham

To Westerham for Mary Berry's Christmas cake...

It's been discussed and now it's become reality. Mary Berry's Christmas cake, made by Phil, has made it on the ride. It was fantastic.

We met on Warlingham Green at 0700hrs, waited a few minutes for Andy and then, heads down, we set our sights on a 22-mile round trip to Westerham, knowing full well that when we got there, we'd be eating cake.

Happiness is a huge slab of cake: Matt, Andy and Phil (LtoR).

We parked our bikes, took our seats and tucked in and Andy had the audacity to bring biscuits too.

Great weather characterised the ride. Cloudy but warm and bright and later sunshine.

But Mary Berry's Christmas cake won the day and we all enjoyed what can only be described as 'chunks' or 'slabs' of the cake.

We arrived at Westerham at 0750hrs and were getting a few strange looks from passers-by as we made ourselves comfortable at the wooden tables behind the statue of General Wolfe. People were quite clearly envious of the cake, the biscuits and the hot tea that we were enjoying.

I struck up a conversation with a Lycra monkey from Tunbridge Wells. He didn't look as if he ate cake. Quite the contrary, he was lithe and Lycra-clad and was putting in a good 67km, he said, before breakfast. I pointed to our mountain bikes with their fat tyres and clumsy demeanour and said we'd be tackling Westerham Hill later, but he spied the cake on the table and I don't think he took me seriously.

Around 0830hrs we headed out of town and up the hill, stopping halfway along the 269 to say goodbye to Andy. It takes me just under one hour to ride from Westerham back to South Croydon, not bad considering the hills.

I reached home around 0930hrs and then drove to Felpham for a long walk on the beach.

It's just a thought at the moment, but...

A typical shot of the beach at Felpham.

.... on 22 July I'm free to do a long ride and was thinking of Bognor (Felpham). It's about 60 miles but an early start and a steady pace should see us there at a relatively decent hour, hopefully in time for a splash in the sea (that's optional and weather-dependent) and a meal in the caff on the beach (The Lobster Pot or the one further up the beach).

Like everything, this isn't certain, but it's more certain than normal, so worth considering. If I do it, I was thinking of the usual early start and heading through Woodmansterne, Kingswood, down Pebblecombe Hill, through Dorking, Horsham, Ockley, Billingshurst, Pulborough, done past Ford Open Prison, then head west into Felpham running parallel to the coast or dip south into Middleton-on-Sea and then head west, possibly going to Old Point and the beach there or simply heading for the civilisation that is Felpham.

I've done this ride before and it's not a walk in the park. It'll certainly mean the train back home, but let's  also remember that there are trains stopping at Purley, Purley Oaks etc so we don't need to go all the way back to East Croydon.

The other thing is the weather. Obviously all the usual 'abort' rules apply.

As I say, this is all just a thought. It might be that I just head further south on one of our normal rides, ie head down towards Edenbridge or explore unchartered territory, not sure, but a longer ride is on the cards and if I'm feeling energetic, a run to Felpham would, for me, be spirtually uplifting.

Memories of sunny summers on the South Coast of England

Quality weather in the UK at the moment and it looks like continuing for a few more days yet. Needless to say it makes for good cycling: no coats and scarves, no gloves and, this weekend, no backpack either. I guess I was taking a risk assuming that I wouldn't be getting any punctures, but on Sunday I was only going to Woodmansterne Green (still a good six or seven miles from home) and most of the cycling surface was tarmac. As Jon and I commented, it's amazing how you can have a bike designed for rugged terrain (hefty frame, huge tractor-like tyres) and yet, the Achilles' heel, the tyres and the constant threat of punctures.

Felpham beach as I'll always remember it. Photo: Simon Carey .

Anyway, no punctures were experienced. On the Saturday we cycled the long way to Merstham, meeting Jon, who was a little bit late, at Hunger's End. Jon's pedal was still broken and Andy had bought his old pedals to the caff but couldn't fix them. I'd ambled off to the guitar shop to ogle at the bass guitars and then, on my return, we paid up and headed for home. Going down Gangers Hill, through Church Town, up the Enterdent, along Rabies Heath Road on on towards Merstham was fantastic in the early morning heat, but Sunday was promising to be what tabloids call a 'scorcher', 32 degrees. England was due to play Germany in a knock-out match later in the day and it was hard to ask for more.

Andy couldn't make Sunday so Jon and I ambled around at Woodmansterne Green reminiscing on our childhood holidays on the South Coast at Middleton and Felpham in the days when all summers were scorching hot and seemingly never-ending. We were very young when we first started going to a house called The Heron in Ancton Lodge Lane, Middleton-on-Sea. It wasn't on the beach as later houses would be, but only a short walk. Jon and I both remember the metal garden furniture and I'll always remember the woman who rented us the house, Mrs Turtle. She lived in another house next door. There was also a clock over the mantelpiece that reminded us of the Play School clock, but Jon doesn't remember that; I'm sure Criss, our sister will remember it.

Dad traded up to house on the beach after the Heron and we moved a mile up the road to Seafront, a house next door to the Southdown Holiday Camp, which I think has been knocked down. We had some good times there – apart from the time dad found a dead body, that of of young bloke who lived further up the coast and, apparently, had endured an epileptic fit while out on his sailing dinghy in rough seas. A week later dad,  Criss and mum (I wasn't there for some reason and I'm not sure if Jon was with them) were out looking for crabs in the rock pools at low tide and dad spotted what he thought was somebody dipping their head in the water to see what life was like under water, but it turned out to be the body of the guy with the dinghy. He'd gone missing about a week earlier. The whole thing was weird: that morning we saw a white horse galloping rider-less on the sand followed by a group of nuns and the sea went a funny colour too.

Dad had to attend an inquest and he got himself a mention in the Evening Argus, but the weird thing was that nobody wanted to help him drag the body from the water and bring it ashore. I remember him telling us about how the fish had been eating away at the guy's eyes. Not a pretty sight I'd imagine. I think the whole thing bugged dad for some time afterwards, but we were very young and it didn't spoil our holidays at Seafront, which continued for a couple more years before we traded up again, this time Merryweather on the Summerley Estate where, arguably, we had our defining south coast holidays. In fact, whenever I go down to the South Coast, it's always Felpham and I often go down and take a look at a couple of the houses we rented.

In the early nineties we went back en masse when Dad rented a huge house on the coast called Georgia in Limmer Lane but we were grown up with our own kids and while the magic was still there in a way, being grown up made it different, although I know that whenever I go to Felpham, that old magic is still there.

Jon and I were trying to remember dates because in between the joys of the Heron, Seafront and Merryweather, mum and dad, for some reason, decided to try a holiday in Hastings in a house called The Croft. It was one of those old, three-storey affairs but none of us liked the house and we came home early and then took a week at the Heron to compensate. I remember how dad bought our Action Men new outfits by way of compensation for a crap week. I said it was 1974, but Jon said it was earlier and so did dad when we called him from the Green to see if he remembered.

I remember how we used to count the days down as our holiday got nearer. I certainly recall sitting in the classroom at school when the lawnmowers were out on the playing fields and there was that lovely smell of cut grass. We used to walk around the block chatting about it over the weekends and I clearly recall the phrase, "when you come to think about it, 70 days isn't much really" referring to the amount of time to go before we went on holiday.

I'll stop there as there are so many memories I could write an entire blog on the subject.