Woodmansterne Green and then over to mum's...

I was just about to leave the house when I noticed a text from Andy. He'd had a late night and had decided to abort. I sent a text back saying 'ok' and then I sat and wondered what to do? There were many options: don't bother going out, call Bon and arrange a meeting at Woodmansterne Green or ride alone to the Tatsfield Bus Stop or Westerham. All were appealing but I chose to call Bon. We met around 0815hrs and I rode the usual route through Purley and along the Foxley Lane, which has become flat land. They're building loads of apartment blocks, knocking down the big houses and making what was a very pleasant road look ugly and Croydon-like. Not good.

Bon, the Green, Sunday 15 March 2020

As I approached the Green I saw Bon riding towards me. We both continued to the Green and set up camp underneath Jean Merrington's tree. Out came the flask and the tea cups and then we wandered around chatting until about an hour later when we parted. I could have gone straight home, but thought I'd kill two birds with one stone and ride down to mum's. When I got there I had a cup of tea and a couple of slices of cake while we both watched the news about the corona virus. It's all very boring. The over-70's are going to be forced to 'self-isolate', probably next week and who knows what else will happen. I checked Croydon and according to the BBC website there's just one case. Well that's good. There's two in Sutton.

I can't help but think the whole thing is overkill. Apparently most people will experience only mild symptoms and don't forget, thousands die every year from 'normal flu'. Anyway, I'm not going to let it bother me. I'll leave all the fretting and worrying to everybody else. Who are the idiots who are panic buying? And why toilet rolls? It's not as if it's an arse-related illness. And why pasta? If people eat too much pasta they'll find themselves constipated. That toilet roll won't be needed and they'll start to wish they'd bought a pallet of Senokot too.

I rode back from mum's through Wallington, skirting Beddington Park and riding down towards Five Ways and through the council estate, on to the Brighton Road, left into Upland Road and right on to the Selsdon Road, hanging a right on Carlton, a left on Essenden and a right on to West Hill. In total I must have covered around 15 miles.

Sussex Road, South Croydon on the way home, Sunday 15 March 2020

When I got home I made another 'English' breakfast, this time fried egg, toast, mushrooms, tomatoes and onion and it was perfect. Now I'm just chilling and wondering what the week will bring. There's talk about working from home, which would suit me, I'll get more done without the distraction of work colleagues and, of course, I'll save a fortune on fares and lunches. But nothing's been said yet and if I'm honest I prefer to work in an office. I don't like it when the line between work and home life is blurred.

The bike's been behaving fine, but I think I'm going to need a new front brake pad soon. The bike needs a clean too, but that can wait a week or two.

When I wake up around 0600hrs, it's light outside, and today the weather was warm enough to dispense with the balaclava, although I like the comfort it offers. It's a bit grey outside, but there's no rain.

To Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon...

I'd made the tea, I was dressed and ready to head outside and ride to the green to meet Andy when I decided to check the iphone. Andy had aborted and I nearly did too. Having woken up at 0500hrs thinking it was an hour later, I could have simply gone back to bed and it was tempting, but no, I texted Bon to see if he wanted to meet on Woodmansterne Green. He did, so off I went to meet him.

Our bikes on Woodmansterne Green, Sunday morning

Having not been on a ride for a fortnight, I was out of condition and found the ride a little sluggish, especially on the road leading to Woodmansterne Green. Bon met me half way and we both headed towards the green where I produced the tea. The weather was wonderful and we spent a long time drinking tea, wandering about, chatting about stuff and enjoying the warmth of a late October Sunday morning.

Bon and yours truly...

The ride from the green to the Croydon Road was freezing. My face started to ache, that's how cold it was, and I was glad when I made the right turn and headed, largely off-road, towards Foxley Lane. I decided to ride up the steep side of West Hill, which was fairly painless and when I reached home I went straight out again, but in the car, not on the bike. The bike, incidentally, needs a drop of oil. The car took me to mum's and all the way there I listened to Automatic For the People by REM.

It was good to see mum and eat some cake, but soon it was time to head home via the car wash. On the drive home I listened to Iggy Pop. "Here comes my Chinese rug...".

It was a lazy day, which was much needed.

To Woodmansterne Green to see Bon and then mum's, but rained off on Sunday

The sun was shining on Saturday morning and it was perfect cycling weather. I left the house around 0720hrs and headed for Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. The heat made the ride a pleasant one and I followed the usual route along Foxley Lane. Bon cycled down the road to meet me as I rode towards the green and we simply wandered about chatting about this and that and, of course, drinking tea.

When Bon left I carried on towards Carshalton. I was on my way to mum's house. Within seconds of arriving, a man dropped by to measure up her kitchen door, she's having a new aluminium one fitted in a week or two.

Recent pic of mum

While I was there I enjoyed a couple of slices of fruit cake (I can't help myself) and a couple of Twix fingers, but then cycling's a form of exercise that demands food.

The ride home, again following the usual route (see previous 'round to mum's' posts) was very pleasant, although tackling the south face of West Hill is always a bit daunting. I was home around 1100hrs and spent the rest of the day slobbing around, chilling in the back garden, not doing that much.

Strangely, Sunday's ride was rained off. Bon sent me an abort text. I thought the rain would stop and the sun would come out, and it did, but not until late afternoon.

All day I've felt a little down in the dumps and gradually a sore throat presented itself. I sat and watched Ben Fogle in Antarctica and then Peter Davidson and Christopher Timothy driving around the Scottish Highlands in a blue Morgan.

It is now Monday morning, and any thoughts I had of trying to cycle 10 miles before work have been put on the back burner, thanks to the sore throat. I'm even considering taking the day off sick, but I'm not sure if I feel THAT bad. It takes a lot for me to take a day off sick from work. There's no LemSip in the house (their never is when I need it) so I might just make myself a second cup of tea.

To Westerham for tea and toast, and a solo ride to mum's

The word 'moreish' is often used to disguise greed, as if the notion that something is 'moreish' somehow excuses one from admitting that he or she is simply a pig. You know what I mean, you stuff your face with a bag of non-salted cashew nuts and when somebody mentions that you've 'scoffed the lot' your rather lame excuse is simply that they were 'quite moreish'. As if the person accusing you of being a pig is going to say, "Ah! Moreish are they? Well in that case I take back what I said."

But let's face it, unsalted cashew nuts ARE moreish. Once a packet is opened they have to be scoffed. Likewise sultanas or raisins, purchased for the purpose of making a cake, are soon consumed and at the risk of no cake being made. It's a sorry state of affairs, especially for somebody like me who finds quite a lot of things 'moreish'. Beer and wine being a prime example.

The breakfast table was set when I arrived...

I must point out that, as I write this, I am sitting in my back garden on a newly weeded patio. The sun is shining, the skies are blue, I can hear the distant sound of a light aircraft making its way somewhere and there's a wind chime chiming away in the light breeze. In short, it's absolutely wonderful. I am sitting under a large green umbrella, there's a towel swaying silently in the breeze on a rotary drier, birds are tweeting and, as I look out on to the lawn, I spy what looks like the discarded antlers of a reindeer but is, in fact, a branch from a tree that needed pruning and now needs to be cut into tiny pieces ready for disposal. I look at it with other ambitions. I'm thinking that I might have a bonfire later, in the twilight, with a beer. I want to enjoy the full primeval wonder of the flame, fanned by the breeze as the sun goes down. I even have thoughts of one day, lighting up a wood fire and pitching a small tent at the top of the garden where I might even spend the night, under the stars, as they say, with, no doubt, other members of my family looking out after dark, from the warmth of the house, and wondering whether I might have taken leave of my senses. Perhaps they would be right, but then I often think about sleeping in the wild. Yesterday, while driving through Ashdown Forest on the other side of East Grinstead, I felt a strange yearning to be under canvas and, as avid readers of this blog will know, it's a subject that has come up before on many a ride. I would dearly love to combine the two, cycling and sleeping under canvas, but as yet a suitable situation has yet to arise. One day, perhaps.

The reason I bring up cashew nuts and, indeed, beer, is that I've just enjoyed both. I remembered that there were cashew nuts in the larder and so helped myself to a couple of handfuls and I had just finished a bottle of Golden Summer Ale, I think that's what it was called, from the Hepworth Brewery in Horsham, West Sussex. Both – the nuts and the beer – are moreish and that, perhaps, is a good reason why I only have one bottle of the aforementioned beer in the house. Had there been two I would, no doubt, be drinking it right now; and if there were three, well, it wouldn't be long before I tucked into that too, putting paid to any idea of finishing off the garden chores and, indeed, anything else other people might have had in mind for my otherwise relaxing Sunday afternoon.

It is unbelievably peaceful out here in the garden. Earlier I threaded the lap top's charger through the kitchen window, enabling me to engage in a bit of alfresco blogging and I have to say that it's the way to go. The wind chime continues to chime, the breeze occasionally blows and the skies are even bluer than they were a few minutes ago. That towel still sways on the rotary drier and, lo and behold, the sound of an aeroplane brings back memories of my childhood when, on a similar day to this, I might have been sitting in a paddling pool with my brother and sister, back at home in Carshalton, feeling, perhaps, a little cold in the breeze and getting mildly disheartened when the sun disappears behind a cloud and all I could hear was the sad sound of a crying airliner, invisible to the naked eye, making its descent towards Heathrow. There was something strangely depressing about the sun being extinguished and the sound of a jet engine, almost moaning, as the plane prepared for its final approach.

Amazing weather
The weather this weekend has been truly amazing. I was going to say 'like a summer's day' but in all honesty, it IS a summer's day. It's early May and, for the first time in many a month it was odd to see Phil in a tee-shirt and shorts and wearing no gloves. Yesterday we rode to Westerham with Steve, but before we set off I quickly fixed that bulge in my front tyre, which, Phil informed me, had something to do with catching the inner tube in the valve. Once fixed we headed towards the Limpsfield Road and then, on Church Way, Steve's rear wheel of his Boardman mountain bike, seized up and he had to return to get another bike. Phil and I pressed on towards Westerham wondering how far we would get before Steve caught up with us. Steve, it must be said, is fit and a keen road racer. We joked that he'd catch us at the top of Church Way, but in the end we were sitting comfortably outside of the Tudor Rose café sipping tea and munching toast before he arrived. We sat and chatted for a while about keeping fit and about bikes and Andy and I's long lost idea about setting up our own cycle café and shop and soon it was time to head for home.

Nobody likes the hill out of Westerham, but, as always, it was a case of heads down and get on with it – and that we did. Soon we had reached Botley Hill where Steve decided it was time for him to power home without us, leaving Phil and yours truly on the Limpsfield Road, quite content to make our way home at a steadier pace. The weather was fantastic. There and back we were graced with the presence of a warm breeze, blue skies and sunshine and it wasn't long before we were sailing down Church Way having enjoyed an excellent ride. I reached home at 1019hrs.

The great thing about riding to Westerham, as opposed to the Tatsfield Bus Stop (our default ride for many months) is that we feel as if we've had a decent ride and that's because it's a decent distance – a 22-mile round trip. I think we should aim to ride to Westerham on at least one day of the weekend. To be fair, there have been two successive Westerham jaunts (this week and last week) so we're getting back into our stride.

A Sunday morning ride to mum's
This morning I decided to ride to mum's and left the house around 0730hrs having enjoyed Weetabix, blueberries and sliced banana plus a cup of tea before departing. Once again the weather was amazing, better than yesterday if the truth be known. There was the blue sky and the sunshine and a mild breeze as I wound my way down West Hill, turned left into Essenden, right on to Carlton Avenue and then down Jarvis Road, past my pal Martin's house, up Hayling Park Road and across the mini-roundabout towards Purley Playing Fields. Today, the fields seemed to be endless and green and peppered with goalposts minus the nets. They stretched off into the distance like a giant game of croquet. Dotted here and there was a handful of early morning dog walkers. I rode towards the A23 and the grey, squat Hilton National Hotel and then I turned right and left and found myself on what became the Stafford Road.

Mum and yours truly in mum's garden, Sunday 8th May 2016

There's little traffic on the outward journey to mum's on a Sunday morning, but it gets a little heavier on the return trip. I could have riden to Botley Hill or the Bus Stop, but it's no fun on my own so I pedalled over to Carshalton with a view to a second breakfast consisting of boiled egg, orange segments and a couple of slices of bread and butter, not forgetting the tea and the chat. I'd hoped to see Bon there, but mum said he'd probably gone for a drive. The fact that he didn't respond to my text messages backed this up so I chilled for a while, went out into the garden with mum and reminisced about the olden days.

While the garden has changed considerably since we all lived at home, the surrounding trees and the general environment have remained the same and that's what brings back those memories of dad sitting in the garden with his Tolly Cobbold and the Sunday Times, back in the day when the term 'the right wing press' held little significance. In those days, reading the Sunday Times was a sign of intelligence and astuteness, while reading the Daily Mail was something only women did – the latter is probably still true.

I think the reason why the summer months bring home those times of childhood is because the warm weather takes us out of the house and into the garden and that's where the happy memories lurk: the swimming pool, the hose fights, the cups of tea in the garden, mum's homemade lemonade, dad and with his beer and cigarettes – the smell of tobacco smoke in the air, dad in his blue shorts and white bush hat, and burning old newspapers with magnifying glasses. And let's not forget the trains at the top of the garden, hidden from view during the summer months, but exposed in the winter.

As I cycled up Rossdale I noticed how nothing had really changed. The road was still a golden colour, just like mum's hair, although it was patched up here and there with stretches of black tarmac (the road, not mum's hair). The houses looked the same too, because they were the same. Mum and the Browns, however, are the only original residents, the ones who were there when I was a kid. John Brown, who used to play tennis with dad and run the odd London marathon, turns 70 this week. I know this only because I spied an envelope with his name on it in the kitchen and mum told me it was his birthday.

We sat outside in the garden for about 20 minutes or so and while it was just gone 0900hrs, it was already warm. In all honesty I could have sat there for longer, but I was conscious of the impending ride home, so I made my farewells and headed home, following my outward route, but slightly more warily due to the build-up of traffic.

I can't remember what time I reached home, but it was probably around 1030hrs and I had the rest of the day ahead of me. The sun continued to shine, the wind chime played on in a light breeze and I sat in the shade nursing that beer I mentioned earlier before deciding to write this post in the open air.

It's now just gone 1800hrs, the sun is still shining, the wind chime is still tinkling in the breeze and as the sun heads west the shade races across the lawn. Those towels are still swaying gently on the rotary drier and the skies are still blue. It's warm too and time to consider dinner so I'll sign off until the next time.

Gears fixed so we head for Westerham and I ride to mum's...

The bike is back. I strolled down to the bike shop on Friday afternoon to pick it up and, true to their word, it was £65. I was half expecting them to say something along the lines of 'we couldn't fix it without an X or a Y and that's an extra £20', but no, it was £65. I bought a pair of handle grips as one of my old Jack Shit grips had disintegrated completely and the other one was well on the way to a similar fate. At present, however, there's one bright yellow and brand spanking new grip on the right hand side and the old Jack Shit grip on the left.

Westerham shopkeepers get into the festive spirit

As Andy and I remarked as we rode out of Westerham on Saturday morning, if something's called Jack Shit it has to be worth buying.

One thing about taking bikes into repair shops is they never seem to come out the same as when they went in – obviously they're fixed rather than broken, but there's always something different about the ride quality; it's a bit like going to hospital for us humans: things are never quite the same (and sometimes we don't come out, let's not forget that either). The bike seemed heavier to me, leading me to wonder whether the new block was higher geared than the old one. It's harder work and while the gears are virtually as smooth as Larry as a result of the new block and the new chain, I've still had a couple of incidents involving the pedals slipping. In fact, they slipped on Sunday morning as I was crossing the Brighton Road and my left calf is grazed as a result. In other words, it wasn't a completely faultless job.

I'm both amazed and indignant. When I last took my bike to Halford's, for instance (some two years ago and it hasn't been back since) they messed with the front forks and now the bike bounces about all over the place. The fact of the matter is you simply can't trust anybody but yourself and if I had the time and, more importantly, the knowledge, I'd fix the bike myself. At least that way I'd only have myself to blame. But enough moaning.

To Westerham – where a miserable Christmas tree awaits us
Andy and I met at the usual time at the usual place and resolved to ride to Westerham, although, for some reason, it was a sluggish ride that seemed to be taking ages and there was no reason for this. We'd both left the green pretty promptly, we were talking too much and we hadn't stopped for any reason, but either way we didn't reach Westerham until around 0820 hours, a good 20 minutes later than usual, something we simply resigned ourselves to as we reached for the tea and biscuits.

Westerham's miserable-looking tree

Westerham is very festive. There's a Christmas tree on the green but it's not in anyway decorated, which makes it a bit miserable, although local shopkeepers are getting into the spirit of things, even if it is only 29 November. Why, I wonder, is everybody buying Christmas trees and thinking ahead to the festive season so early? Alright, the shops are doing their usual thing at this time of year – starting up the unnecessary hype – but the general populus appears to be joining in too. Later in the day I saw people buying Christmas trees from B&Q where Christmas carols were booming out on the sound system and I couldn't help but wonder what state those trees will be in on Christmas morning.

We normally buy our tree on or around 15th December, the weekend after my birthday. Buying the tree is a jolly affair: driving to the garden centre; choosing the tree and then ferrying it home ahead of a mildly stressful half hour of fixing it in place, realising it's bigger than we'd hoped and then trying to find somewhere in the house where it doesn't obstruct the television. There's always a moment where the dreaded 'next year we're having an artificial tree' is brought up, but I always counter this with the house rule: real fire – artificial tree; artificial fire (we call it the hairdryer) – real tree. Somehow I think we'll always be having a real tree.

Andy and I found ourselves having the 'why go abroad?' conversation, which led to reminiscing about childhood holidays by the sea and then, later than usual, we headed out of town towards the dreaded Westerham Hill. Andy joined me for the length of the 269 and we parted at Warlingham Green. I reached home at just gone 10am, a good 20 minutes to half an hour later than usual, and there was no real explanation for it: we were just slower than normal for no particular reason.

Sunday – out in the fog on a ride to mum's
There was, as always, a strong temptation simply not to go cycling when Andy says he can't make it. I could have remained in bed and not bothered, but that would have been wrong and besides, I'd enjoyed a good seven hours' sleep – uninterrupted – and woke up at just past 0600hrs. Yes, I could have stayed there, but I didn't. I got up, made a cup of tea, a boiled egg and porridge and then, after a few minutes' consideration, decided to deliver Christmas cards to mum using the bike.

Yesterday's weather was characterised by dramatic skies and fairly high temperatures for the time of year – it was warm, not cold. Behind the high cloud we could clearly see wonderful blue skies – great flying weather, I thought. Today there was fog. Thick fog – bad flying weather. It was like a scene from a Dickens novel or something involving Jack the Ripper. I headed out around 0830hrs and enjoyed a pleasant urban ride heading in the usual direction, reaching mum's around 0900hrs (possibly just after) and enjoying a cup of tea and a rest before walking into Sutton (a 20-minute hike) to retrieve a USB stick from Boot's the chemist.

A misty start to Sunday morning

I haven't walked to Sutton for ages, not from mum's at any rate, and it reminded me of times past. Walking along Westmead Road I passed the street in which we last resided and then the row of shops we would have used on a regular basis. It all looked a little run-down if I'm honest. A shop we once knew as 'the paraffin shop', because you could buy paraffin (what is parrafin?) there, was now a Thai restaurant, but there's nothing worse than a restaurant with letters missing from its name – if they're that slovenly with their fascia, what hope for the food?

The wine shop (as dad used to call it) has gone. It used to be called the Four Vintners and whenever we purchased a bottle of red wine for Sunday lunch (when I used to live at home with mum and dad and my brother and sister, Jon and Crissy) the man who ran the shop would wrap the bottle in a fine while paper – something that wine shops (alright, 'off licences') don't seem to do anymore: nowadays it's a flimsy plastic bag). Then, a few doors up, there was Beale's the butcher – a friendly man with a glass eye who would always ask "freezer bag?" before handing over my pound of minced beef (or whatever else I might have bought).

Further along the road is the Lord Nelson pub, a Young's house that used to be run by landlord Alex who used to front a jazz band called Nelson's Column – you see the link? Lord Nelson? Nelson's Column? He used to play the trombone and when it was time to close the pub, he'd bring it out and play it badly until everyone had knocked back their last drink and made tracks to go home. There are loads of great stories to tell about the Lord Nelson, although we called The Nelson. One thing I'll always remember was the handful of the regulars who looked like famous people: we had Malcolm Allison, the old manager of Crystal Palace; Fred Astaire as he appeared in the disaster movies; and somebody who looked like John Wayne. There was also an old man without a chin. Apparently it was shot off in the First World War and, as a result, he had to drink his beer through a thick rubber straw.

Alex used to stand behind the bar with a six-inch nail, scraping the wax from his ear and saying, "Well I think we need a government of national unity."

It was a pub full of Irish builders and was one of the last to have a public bar where the beer was a few pence cheaper than in the saloon – it was full of ragged trousered philantropists who enjoyed a pint or two, normally with a whisky chaser and there were often people staggering about outside wearing gravy-stained suits. What more can I say? It was and still is a great pub, although the public bar has since gone and I'm sure John Wayne, Fred Astaire and Malcolm Allison aren't around any more – and as for the man with no chin, well, I'm sure he graces a local churchyard somewhere, God rest his soul.

After walking back to mum's I enjoyed another mug of tea and then jumped on the bike and headed for home along the Croydon Road passing the Greyhound, the Duke's Head and the Plough en route and then, after negotiating the traffic at Five Ways I rode up Denning Avenue, past Whitgift School and along the Brighton Road towards home where I enjoyed another cup of tea.

A good weekend's cycling. I covered around 34 miles in total: 22 miles to and from Westerham on Saturday; and approximately 12 miles today. Andy's back next Sunday so I might pay another visit to Sutton next Saturday, but let's see how it goes.

Suburban ride to mum's, but no sign of Jon... (roughly 12 miles)

I left home around 0730hrs this morning having decided to get a ride in, despite plans simply not to bother. Mum's seemed like a good place to go as, normally, Jon is there and we have a chat about old times, check out our old bedroom and generally reminisce about dad and life at home in the good old days of childhood.

Mum and yours truly, Carshalton, Saturday October 4th 2014.

Normally I take a semi rural route through Purley, along Foxley Lane, down towards Woodmansterne Green and then right, passing the Oaks Park on the left and riding into Carshalton Beeches. Today, however, I took a busier route – heading down West Hill, into Essenden Road, on to Carlton, left into the Selsdon Road, left into Jarvis Road, on to the Brighton Road heading north for all of 10 yards and then hanging a left, going up the hill towards the mini roundabout at Pampisford Road and across towards Rockingham's Garden Centre, which used to be Purley Way Swimming Baths. I think they still have the old diving board, although it might have been taken down, not sure. Purley Way Baths, if I recall correctly, used to be an outdoor pool with a 15ft deep end and a high board that the school toughies would brag about. I don't think I ever swam there. My pools were Highfield Road in Carshalton, where I learnt to swim and which definitely no longer exists, and Westcroft, also in Carshalton, which has recently been transformed – it's still a leisure centre, but it has a library too as the old one off of the High Street has closed down.

The ride towards the A23 from Pampisford Road was great as there's a seemingly endless, vast expanse of lush, green playing fields, which used to form part of the old Croydon Airport and is now used for Sunday League footy and by those who fly huge kites that look like parachutes. There are houses facing the fields and I can only imagine that it must be lovely to wake up on a cold, misty (or snowy) morning and see the mist hanging heavy over the grass. I remember jogging around the fields in the late 90s with Sean Ferris, a work colleague. Or rather I remember doing it once or twice. We used to run around the edges and I think it amounted to just over three miles. However, as I've said many times before, running ain't my bag.

The fields near the A23 where kites fly and Sunday league footy is played.

I rode north along the A23 and then took a left, which took me along a lonely stretch of road flanked on either side by the rear ends of industrial units – it was a bit like riding through the mean streets of Grand Theft Auto, the video game. I rejoined reality when I emerged on the Stafford Road heading west towards Wallington.  I crossed the main lights at the top of the High Street and rode towards Boundary Road where I turned right at another mini roundabout before turning left just past the railway bridge. I followed Grosvenor Road for 100 yards or so and then turned right into Park Road. I skirted Carshalton Park and rode along Benyon Road, across the lights by the Windsor Castle pub, past the BP garage, right into Alma Road, left into Shorts Road, under the railway bridge and left into Rossdale and there I was – at mum's.

Tea and cake followed, we chatted about this and that, took the photograph accompanying this post (see top pic above) and then, after my customary mooch around the house, checking out my old bedroom, the one I shared with Jon for most of my first 24 years on this planet, I gave mum a hug and headed back home, taking roughly the same route as the outward journey except that I rode through Carshalton High Street and onwards past the Duke's Head and then the Plough, down towards Five Ways where I used the pavements to avoid increasingly heavy traffic before escaping up Denning Avenue, through the council estate in my ASBO specials, blending in, right into Nottingham Road, past Whitgift School and then right along the Brighton Road (A23) heading south this time and hanging a left after a few yards. I rejoined the Selsdon Road, passed the Rail View, under two railway bridges and turned right into Carlton Road, left into Essenden and right on to West Hill. The climb didn't feel too bad.

It was quite a good ride, but the traffic was a problem here and there: heavy in places, especially around Five Ways and this meant a lot of pedestrian crossings and using a mixture of the road and the path, which doesn't make for a relaxing ride, especially with faulty gears and one handlegrip. I've always maintained that it's more dangerous riding on the path than it is on the roads as not only are there pedestrians to deal with, there is also the risk of cars reversing out of driveways. Sometimes, however, it's easier – or it seems easier – than risking my neck negotiating busy road junctions.

Sometimes the path seems safer than the road, like here at Purley Way.

It was a good to see mum and nice to enjoy a cup of tea and a slice of mum's 'test cake' – she's been baking Christmas cakes and Christmas puddings to order and had made a kind of 'pilot' cake, which was lovely. In the old days I might have enjoyed three of four portions, but today, just the one as I didn't want to turn back into a fat bastard – not that any transformation would have been instantaneous.

My gears are seriously playing up. I dare not stand and pedal as the gears slip and crunch constantly and that means smashing my nuts on the saddle. A visit to the bike shop is going to be necessary...and there's a lot to be done, but I don't fancy my local shop in Redhill, or Halfords, so I might take it to Andy's shop in Caterham, the one up the road from where he lives, as the guy there seems genuine and the shop is not part of a big chain. But it'll have to wait for a while as I'm still languishing on Skid Row. Until then, I'll have to remember not to stand up when I'm riding.

Time to look back...

Nice to look back on old posts occasionally. Click on the links below to find out what we were up to three and four years ago:-

Three years ago

Four years ago

Round at mum's...

Sunday 2nd February: Yes, alright, we went to mum's again, but why not? Andy, Phil, Jon and yours truly were there early for tea and cake and very pleasant it was too, although I'm conscious that early visits to mum must be the exception and not the rule for many reasons. One, mum's 85 this year and I don't want her to feel that we're all suddenly going to turn up expecting tea and cake at some ridiculous hour – not that mum minds us being there, she rather enjoys it. Second, the whole point of cycling: to get some exercise. Of late we've been leaving the house later and, as a result, having much shorter rides. Fine, it's not so much of a wrench as getting up at 0600hrs, but it's not in the original spirit of NoVisibleLycra – that of getting up early, heading off to Westerham, quick cup of tea and a cereal bar and then back home before 10am.

Jon, his Kona Fire Mountain and mum talking to Andy.

The plan is to start the early runs again next week and while it might take time to get re-accustomed to the early starts and the frosty landscape of February mornings, we've got to break out of the sloppy, late starts and the short runs. Alright, even if we do go to the Tatsfield Bus Stop (the slow way – arguably a better work-out than Westerham) it's best to go early rather than late as we all have commitments during the day.

So, we went to mum's. Phil and I met Andy at the top of Foxley Lane at 0815hrs and we headed off in the direction of Woodmansterne Green but then turned right instead of left, headed down through the smallholdings, past the Oaks Squash Club, into Carshalton Beeches, past the railway station and down the hill towards the lights at the Windsor Castle pub where we turned left, rode along the Carshalton Road, past the Cambridge Road BP Garage and M&S Simply Food and then right into Alma Road. We turned left into Shorts Road, under the railway bridge, left again at Westmead Corner and left again into Rossdale.

Everything stops for tea (and cake) at mum's, Sunday 2nd February 2014

Tea, cake and chit-chat followed, our bikes safe in the garage, and then we headed back exactly the way we came; and what a work-out it turned out to be: up Cambridge Road, right into Carshalton Beeches High Street, up Banstead Road South to Staplehurst Road, right at the mini roundabout towards the small holdings, left on to the Croydon Road, into Foxley Lane (where we bade farewell to Andy) and then crossing the A23 into the Pampisford Road and winding through the back streets towards the Purley Downs Road, hanging left into Norman Avenue and eventually surfacing on the Sanderstead Road (B269) before the punishing, but short, West Hill and home.

A good ride was had by all and the weather, incidentally was fine all day, a bit like it is now as I sit here on a Monday morning (I have today off). It's bright and there are blue skies and white clouds, although poor weather is promised in the shape of rain and heavy winds.

Urban ride...

Breakfast at mum's - easily the highlight of the day.

The weather was grey and dark, but there were signs of clearer skies and I fancied getting out on the bike. Last week had been a poor show, yesterday was a good day, but I stayed away from the Kona and today there was no excuse. 

There are car problems; the pipe connecting the radiator to the engine blew last week, making us immobile for the weekend. Short trips became mammoth logistical nightmares and I figured the best way to see mum was to ride over there. It took me 35 minutes, possibly 40, but I got there; and what's wrong with the occasional urban ride?

I travelled down Barnfield to West Hill, hung a left on to the Upper Selsdon Road, heading towards Croydon, and then hung a left past the old Rail View pub (now The View) and on to the Brighton Road for all of 30 seconds before hanging right into Haling Park Road, riding a strenuous uphill route to the roundabout at Pampisford Road. Down past the vast expanses of playing field and round past Rockingham's garden centre and the ugly Hilton National towards the lights on the A23.

I turned right on to the A23 and then, about 500 yards later, swung left into a road that took me through an industrial estate, but brought me out on the Stafford Road beyond Fiveways. I rode towards Wallington, crossed the top of the high street and on to the mini roundabout at Boundary Road. Turning right, I headed towards the lights at the top of Ruskin Road where I turned left, passing Carshalton Park on my left and then finding myself at the Windsor Castle pub followed by a short burst of the Carshalton Road before turning right into Shorts Road, travelling the wrong way along a one-way street - but at this time in the morning, it mattered not.

At the end of Shorts Road, safely under the railway bridge, I'd arrived at Westmead Corner and it was only about 100 yards to Rossdale, where I turned left and cycled up the hill towards mum's.

A hearty breakfast awaited me: Shredded Wheat with hot milk and brown sugar, bread and marmalade and a boiled egg with fingers. Perfect! I washed down the lot with two huge mugs of tea, chewed the fat with mum for a bit and then headed for home again, getting back around 10.30am - just in time to get involved with a day of frustration - all based on just two words: jump leads.

Whenever the words 'jump' and 'leads' are put together, it means a day of shite lies ahead. There's nothing worse than getting them out of the boot, fixing them to the battery and then linking them to the battery of the car owned by the unfortunate other person who has to be involved to make them work - although later in the day, I went solo and jumped one of my cars with another. But let me explain that bit for you. 

On Friday the car seemed to explode while on the school run. The pipe joining the radiator with the engine fell apart and the car was abandoned a couple of miles from the house. Today, after my cycle, we went over there with my brother-in-law, got the thing moving again and I drove it home, being careful not to overheat it. 

Earlier in the day, my brother-in-law had connected his car to my dud one on the drive to charge the battery. This had been successful and I then drove the car to a nearby garage, filled the tank and drove home. Then (I hope this isn't boring you) after a spot of lunch we decided to drive over and see mum - except that we couldn't because the battery was totally dead. I then drove the fixed car on to the drive and jumped it with that, but it didn't work and now, as I write this, we have two crap cars outside, one on the road and one on the drive. What a nightmare!

One year ago...