Lockdown, Pt.42: Autumnal weather, The Grateful Dead, Phil's back, weird dreams...

Last night a strange dream. I was in a hotel and I think it was in Dusseldorf. Next thing I know I'm leaving the hotel dressed only in a duvet. I remember reaching a wall with a sliding door and when I opened it there was another sliding door and another and once through I found myself in a huge, empty, white space, like some kind of hangar. At that point I seemed to come to my senses. Perhaps it would be a good idea to wear some proper clothes and not a duvet, perhaps it would be best to return to the hotel room and collect my stuff before departing. And then, of course, I woke up. Actually, I'd woken up earlier, just before 0400hrs and debated going downstairs when the clock moved round an hour, but instead I just stayed in bed and eventually I drifted off until, all of sudden, I heard the sound of birdsong, my alarm. It was time to get up and make breakfast, listen to LBC's Steve Allen, eat some Alpen, drink some tea and start writing this blogpost. I can't remember whether I had the dream before I woke up at 0400hrs or after I'd drifted off. Why, I wonder, are all of my dreams fretful? The weird thing is that, in the real world, wearing only a duvet on the streets would seem less strange than it did in the dream. If I was stuck in a foreign city dressed only in a duvet, I'd see the funny side and do something about it and, of course, I'd go back to the hotel, I'd need my passport and my wallet, credit card and so forth.

Friday evening at the Churchyard

Anyway, enough of walking around wearing only a duvet. It was a reasonable week. I was working at home again so the cycling was in the late afternoon. I managed something like 82 miles, down on last week's 90 miles, but good enough. I only had one day off (Tuesday). The weather was good, but I've heard that summer is preparing to leave the building next week some time. The weather guys on the television are using the word 'autumnal' but they're not fooling me. There's going to be colder temperatures and rain as the country plummets towards winter and I'm sure it's going to restrict my cycling. Not that I can complain. If nothing else, 2020 has been great for cycling and, as you know if you've been reading previous posts, I've been riding up to 100 miles a week, sometimes more. And the weather's been great. The heat hasn't really let up either, apart from a few days of gusty wind and showers, but not much. So the fact that we're going to get some 'autumnal' weather, well, bring it on. 

Not sure if I've mentioned this yet, but I bumped into Phil as I was about to head into Westerham last week. He was riding a restored Honda CB750 that's around 40 years old. It looks good. According to Phil he was taking the bike on its inaugural ride. We chatted about this and that and how he's been getting on with his life and (surprise surprise) has had little time for cycling. We agreed to meet up the following week but nothing materialised, until yesterday (Saturday 19 September) when he arrived at Tatsfield Village on the Honda. We'd planned to check out Sheree's tearoom, but it turns out it's not open until 0900hrs and we were there at 0800hrs. I considered cycling into Westerham, but Andy and Phil were reluctant and besides, the woman in the store said there was a coffee machine. The weather was fine so we ordered a black coffee, a cappuccino and a hot chocolate, plus three Twix bars and sat outside on the tables close to the lake and it was fine. In fact, it was more than fine, it was great. It was as if Phil hadn't been absent at all and in a sense we kind of picked up where we left off. He told us about Fred, his new baby, and the new house that he was fixing up and we chatted about the vast amounts of cycling we'd been doing throughout lockdown. It looks like Phil might start riding again – he needs to, he claims he's put on two stone in weight. So the plan is to meet next week, on Saturday, but let's see what the weather will be like. Either way, it's great that Phil's back. The NoVisibleLycra committee met to discuss whether he needed to re-apply for membership, but it was okay, his existing arrangement had yet to lapse so all was well with the world.

Temporary lights in Woldingham

Around 0900hrs we headed home, Phil on his Honda and Andy and I on our bikes. I rode along The Ridge towards Woldingham with Andy, although he was heading for Ditchling Beacon (now that's a climb!). We parted company at the top of Gangers Hill and I suddenly remembered I had to ride up Slines Oak Road on to the 269. As it turned out it was easy, probably because of the all the riding I've been doing. Riding to the Churchyard and then heading home via Woldingham bumps up the mileage to over 18 miles so I did it again this morning after meeting Andy at the Tatsfield Churchyard where we drank tea and chatted about The Grateful Dead. During the week I watched a six-part documentary, produced by Martin Scorsese, on the band and it's members, including, of course, the iconic Jerry Garcia. The Grateful Dead is/was a peculiarly American band with international reach that embodied everything good about hippy notions of freedom and sunshine. Alright, the whole thing revolved around psychedelic drugs, but the guys in the band looked surprisingly good on it. Garcia, however, developed weight problems and diabetes and had started 'using' other more dangerous drugs. He died aged just 53 of a heart attack, which, while probably inevitable, is a big shame because, well, he seemed like such a nice guy. I've been watching interviews on YouTube and he's remarkably lucid and together when you consider the amount of acid he's taken. In fact, he's a great interviewee, somebody who answers the questions in-depth and has an enthusiasm that is infectious and life-affirming. When I was younger I used to think that The Grateful Dead was some kind of heavy rock band moving along similar tracks to the British psych-rock band Hawkwind, but nothing could be further from the truth. The music, by and large, is light and breezy and easy to get on with. I don't think the Grateful Dead would have been the same had they originated in the UK. The band had such a massive following. The Dead Heads – that's the name of Grateful Dead fans – used to turn up for concerts even if they didn't have tickets. Instead of watching the gig on the inside they'd simply congregate around the venue and have their own party outside. It's funny how the band and its lead guitarist Jerry Garcia took on almost religious significance for the Dead Heads, with Garcia a kind of Messiah figure. Interestingly, the band claims it didn't have a leader and nobody was allowed to tell other band members what to do. The egalitarian set-up seemed to work. I'm now thinking about finding the definitive book on the band and Jerry Garcia, who, incidentally, had a Ben & Jerry's ice cream named after him (Cherry Garcia). There are many many Grateful Dead albums out there. I remember buying Blues for Allah back in the late seventies, but 'the Dead' were a very prolific band and I'd like to know what albums are regarded as their best. There's an album entitled American Beauty and I'm wondering whether it had any influence on the film of the same name starring Kevin Spacey (something to Google later).

Phil's Honda CB750, Tatsfield, 19 September

Moving away from The Grateful Dead, there's always the fucking virus to talk about. As I suspected a long time ago, a second wave is upon us. I made three predictions: that Trump would get a second term, that there would be a second wave of COVID-19 and that we'd have a no-deal Brexit. Looks like they're all going to come true, although I'm possibly on shaky ground where Trump is concerned as the polls are predicting a win for Joe Biden. The problem with Biden, in my opinion, is that he's kind of the walking dead. He always seems on the verge of falling flat on his face, and when he talks he's often unintelligible. In a way I can't believe that Biden could ever be president of the USA or, if he does make it, he won't be there long as the guy's simply too old. I still think Trump will win and then we'll follow up with a no-deal Brexit (while a new lockdown has been imposed on the nation). You could say I'm a purveyor of doom and gloom, but in my world it's looking like a reality we all have to deal with. 

Andy's bike at the top of Ditchling Beacon in East Sussex

Right now there are regional lockdowns here, there and everywhere and we're no longer allowed to congregate in groups of more than six. Pubs are being told to close at 2200hrs and there's rumours floating around that people won't be able to meet members of other households. Bang goes my tea and cake round at mum's, although nothing's set in stone yet. The problem, of course, is the 'covidiots' who simply don't believe there is a virus and will probably refuse to be vaccinated when a vaccine becomes available. There are also rumours that the Government could force us all to take an unproven vaccine if it so wished, although that might have been an inflammatory story generated by a newspaper designed to pedal doom and gloom and incite revolution.

Jerry Garcia, The Grateful Dead...

Winter is coming and that means it's all going to get worse. The Government has basically lost control of the virus. It wants the kids back to school, the students back to university and the people back to work, but that will all lead to more infections. They can't have it both ways. They've made a fiasco of testing and all the while you must remember that Boris Johnson is, quite simply, a fucking arse. He's not to be trusted. He's not even 100% committed to Brexit. Remember when he wrote two articles for a newspaper, probably the Daily Telegraph, one being pro-leave, the other remain. In fact, there are rumours that he might resign, which would be great. I can't stand it when I hear people say, "Boris Johnson should take charge of the situation". Actually, that's the problem, he IS in charge and look at the mess he's making. He's a blathering, bumbling, obese man with a stupid haircut, but then don't they all have stupid haircuts? Look at Donald Trump! The problem we have here in the UK is that there's four more years of Bojo. At least the Americans can ditch Trump in just over eight weeks if they so wish. I better sign off before I go crazy thinking about what a mess the country is in. 

To the Tatsfield Bus Stop – the slow way

Sunday 20th August: A reasonable day greeted me when I woke up and headed downstairs for a spot of breakfast before heading out on the bike. It was Sunday morning. I hadn't gone out on Saturday. Met Andy at the Green as usual and we decided to head for the bus stop. The original plan was Westerham because Phil had indicated that he'd be coming and bringing sausage sandwiches, but it was not to be: he aborted due to a late night.

"Don't forget the biscuits! Phil's aborted" was the gist of a text I sent to Andy. It also meant that I wouldn't need to bring extra water as Phil had instructed.

Library shot of bus stop

An uneventful ride to and from the bus stop. When we got there we discussed this very blog and whether it should be discontinued. This came about because we were at the bus stop again, there's little one can write about it that hasn't been written before, we've photographed it many times and, well, what's the point? The question – of not writing anymore blogposts – was never answered and while there are a few people who don't like this blog (ignoring the fact that it's not written for them) I have no intention of stopping it. What would I do when I'm sitting in my hotel room abroad, bored?

We rode back, as always, the fast way, and parted company at the green. No Andy next week so I'll probably ride over to Woodmansterne to see Jon or go over to mum's for some cake. Until then...

Andy rides to Godstone Green...

While yours truly had family matters to attend to – mum came round for lunch – Andy and Phil both went out, but not together. Andy rode to Godstone Green and Phil went out with Steve for a 50-kilometre ride and later texted me the details. I say 'the details', he said he rode with Steve for 50km.

There's nowt worse than not going cycling when the weather's fine, as it was on Sunday, but these things happen.

Andy's racer on his ride to Godstone Green, Sunday

Here's a shot taken by Andy, of his racer, which he rode to Godstone Green, somewhere we haven't visited together for a while, mainly because of recurring gear problems with my old Kona. Now, of course, I can tackle any hill and there's a nice caff in the farm shop on the A25, although a cup of tea and some biscuits on the green would be just as enjoyable. That said, there's no cover, another reason for not going there.

To the Tatsfield churchyard – the slow way (part two)

It was another fine morning. No direct sunshine as such, but it was warm. Very warm. Tee-shirt weather. I sat in the house, on the computer, writing a review of Tiffins, a teashop in Petworth, West Sussex – click here for more – and also for Trip Advisor. When I looked at the clock it was almost 0700hrs and I knew that Phil would be outside and raring to go so I switched off the computer, ran into the kitchen, made the tea, put on a pair of trainers and managed to be on the doorstep – actually in the garage unlocking the bike – at 0706hrs. Not bad going.

Yesterday, Phil and Steve had cycled a good 50km (he'd returned home around 11am) while as regular readers will know already, Andy and I headed for the Tatsfield churchyard where we stuffed our faces with biscuits before remounting our bikes and heading home.

Beddlestead Lane – it looks harmless, but it's one long uphill struggle...

When we reached the green we waited for Andy, pretending, when he arrived, that we'd been sitting there for ages. Then we decided that another visit to the Tatsfield churchyard would be good as there's nothing better on a hot day than an English churchyard. We also decided to go the slow way so that we could chat a little and not have to worry too much about cars on the 269, although there was plenty of loose gravel in the road, especially at the bottom of Hesiers Hill. "Gravel!" I shouted, and we all managed to stay on our bikes and continue up Beddlestead Lane, the long, inclining Beddlestead Lane that never seems to end.

Phil had bought himself a small saddle bag that amazingly managed to contain a large china cup and a puncture repair kit; he'd also been given, by Steve, a Garmin mileage monitor.

At the churchyard we discussed many things, even that philosophical argument about nothing really existing and how we all saw reality differently. We moved on to discuss how everything we see before us is made up as we go along so that, for example, nobody else exists except for us and we make up, create, our own reality as we move along. I started to mention a book by Philip K Dick, UBIK, and a character called Jory Miller and I think at that point Phil got a little bored. Perhaps rightly so.

We all loved the Englishness of the Tatsfield churchyard, we all loved its peace and tranquility and we all agreed that it was very the best place to be on a day like today – warm, hazy sunshine and a very slight breeze every now and then. The perfect setting.

The conversation turned towards how we could all sit there for most of the day doing nothing and this in turn morphed into a conversation about the traditional Bavarian breakfast of white sausage with sweet mustard washed down with a chilled German beer. This came about because we were discussing what would make a stay at the churchyard a little more appealing – what would keep us there for hours on end. In fact, it started by discussing down-and-outs and their penchant for churchyards. We talked about drinking cans of Special Brew, crushing them after use and generally making a mess of the place and how such behaviour would certainly be frowned upon by those in charge of the churchyard. I said we could move to an adjoining field, if things got nasty, and sling our used cans over our shoulders and into the churchyard – and this led towards the conversation about the Bavarian breakfast.

It was then decided that after Phil's wedding – and when he returns from his honeymoon – we would enjoy a Bavarian breakfast of our own making at the Tatsfield churchyard – weather permitting. Phil would make the sausage sandwiches and Andy and I would provide chilled beer (we opted for Stella, but we could always buy a German beer, there are plenty of different brands available). The idea, however, was Phil's sausage sandwiches washed down by two cans of Stella each. Here's hoping for continued good weather, in the sense of no rain or cold temperatures, when we eventually pick the day for the mad, early morning Bavarian breakfast.

We walked our bikes down the steps to the roadside laughing about the idea of the Bavarian breakfast caper – something that would now definitely be happening. Secretly, I think we're all looking forward to it.

Sunday was Phil's last ride this side of his forthcoming marriage on 29th July – NoVisibleLycra will be represented in the shape of Andy and yours truly.

The Sunday weather continued to be unbelievable – and, like yesterday, would remain so. In fact it improved and the sun came out. The rest of my day was fairly lazy. I cleaned up a tent in the back garden and let it dry in the sun before stuffing it back into its bag. I visited mum's for tea and cake. We all sat in mum's garden, which was in full bloom, and talked about this and that.

Dinner later was chicken risotto followed by an early evening lounging around in the garden as the sun went down. There was a full moon that later illuminated the entire garden like a spotlight. I talked about how we should camp out in the garden, but I think I'm alone on that one.

I went to bed early, opening the rear and front windows to let in some fresh summer air. I started to nod off but had to go downstairs to lock things up. This act, however, led to me watching Long Way Down, a movie starring Pierce Brosnan and Sam Neill, all about four people who, I think, make a suicide pact. It was a comedy, oddly, and I had to stick with it to the end, eventually retiring to bed around 11.30pm.

To Westerham...

Yesterday (Saturday) Andy, Phil and myself rode to Westerham. Phil might have to face the NoVisibleLycra disciplinary committee, it was decided, following his admission that he was wearing those 'clickety-click' cycling shoes worn by Lycra monkeys. You know what I'm talking about: those shoes that lock the wearer to the pedals and require him or her to remember to twist their foot in order to get off the bike. He was also riding a dropped handlebar, racing bike, although we'll let him off on that rule violation. All he needs now, though, is the tight fittting, 'sponsored' clothing and, well, we'll have to reconsider his membership if he goes that far – or at least request that he rides 200 yards ahead or behind us.

There were plenty of Lycra monkeys en route – the hot weather brings them out in droves – and as they whizzed past us, talking about pension plans and corporate strategy, we winced and patted our trusty tractor-like machines on the crossbar, safe in the knowledge that we were not wearing Lycra and probably never will. Let me take out that word 'probably', we'll never wear Lycra.

The weather was perfect. Not sunny, but warm. As we passed the Tatsfield Bus Stop, however, we noticed that somebody (or something) had smashed it up. The bench – our beloved bench – was broken and it looked as if the back wall had been taken out too. We assumed that something had crashed into our favourite covered, wooden bus stop, probably a car, but it's not a good sign. We resolved to visit Tatsfield Village the next time we needed shelter from the rain as there's another covered bus stop there.

Andy rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop Sunday and took this shot of the damage.

Once at Westerham we 'set up shop' at the wooden table on the green and drank tea. Andy brought out the Milk & Cereal Belvita biscuits and then Phil decided to buy himself and Andy a bacon roll from the Tudor Rose (I ordered a slice of fruit cake instead).

Library picture of Winston Churchill's statue at Westerham

The conversation revolved around the forthcoming European Union referendum and all the usual stuff you'd expect to hear people going on about. Soon it was time to head home. We had to deal with the awful hill going out of Westerham, but we're used to it, and soon we were at Warlingham Green bidding Andy farewell and then heading home to Sanderstead along the Limpsfield Road. We got there around 1015hrs.

There was a plan to ride out today, but I woke up in the dead of night and couldn't get back to sleep so I aborted, which was just as well as it was raining. Right now, at 1124hrs, it's stopped, but the forecast is for more.

• The Tatsfield Bus Stop – Andy rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Sunday – today – (on his Lycra monkey bike!) and took this image of the damage done. He said it looks as if a car hit it. Well, there goes my 'sleeping rough at the bus stop fantasy'.

I'll be back in the saddle next week.

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.

Last minute change of plan means we head for the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

I often wonder if there's any end to my cockery. How foolish am I? Talk about 'engage brain before opening mouth'. Yesterday, having returned from a windy, rainy, damp ride to Westerham – see previous post – I ventured the opinion that waterproof clothing was a load of old tosh. Not waterproof in other words. I explained – to anybody who would listen – that I'd been on a wet and rainy ride wearing my waterproof clothing and that when I peeled off the trousers and my stylish Peter Storm, hooded top, the clothes underneath were still wet.

The Tatsfield Bus Stop, Sunday7 February 2016

Well, today I went out in the same waterproofs and there was no rain – we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop (of which, more later). When I say 'we' I mean Phil and Andy and yours truly. We met at the usual place (Warlingham Green) and off we went, initially with the idea of riding to Westerham again, but Andy changed his mind and we stopped at the Tatsfield Bus Stop. But I digress. Let's get back to those waterproofs. So it wasn't raining. It was, in fact, a wonderful morning. Yes there was a few puddles left behind from overnight rain, but the skies were bright and blue, the temperature fairly mild and it was, in so many ways, perfect cycling weather.

When I reached home I took off the waterproof trousers and, lo and behold, the trousers I was wearing underneath – an old pair of brown Donnay gym trousers that had not only seen better days, but were splattered with white gloss paint from the olden days when I embraced decorating – were wet. How could this be? Not only was I wearing waterproof outer trousers, but also... it wasn't raining. And then, of course, it struck me. The dampness wasn't rain. How could it be? It was sweat. As I said earlier, there clearly is no limit to my general cockery.

Later in the day I remembered how I'd buggered up my daughter's bike while trying to fix it, so today I free-wheeled down to Cycle King, arguably the best bike shop in the Croydon area, to get it sorted. The bike was given a brakes service for under £15.00 and then I walked home with the bike and a small amount of shopping – Lurpak and some hot chocolate. I know how to live!

Andy, Phil and yours truly at the famous bus stop

Earlier in the day we'd ridden to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. It was a good ride as the weather was much improved on Saturday's rain and wind – and still very mild. The daffodils are already out and have been for a week or two.

Phil was waiting outside my front door around 0700hrs and we rode to the Green where we met Andy and headed south towards, well, initially Westerham, but then the Tatsfield Bus Stop. But you know all this as I've mentioned it earlier. We chatted about all sorts of things, one subject being push bikes powered by electric motors. Why? Surely they defeat the object – of getting some exercise.

Phil's sausage sarnies were simply the best (as always) and so were Andy's chocolate-flavoured Bel Vita biscuits. My Taste the Difference tea from Sainsbury's provided liquid refreshment and soon it was time to head home.

It was a clear day and at one point, riding along the 269, we could see the whole of Central London laid out in front of us. Andy said goodbye at Warlingham Green and Phil and I continued along the Limpsfield Road towards Sanderstead. We coasted down Church Way and then went our own way.

Andy's not going Saturday, but I'll be there and so will Phil. Andy's considering Westerham for next Sunday, which is fine by me.

• Photography: both shots accompanying this post taken by Phil.

To the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Saturday, but rear wheel puncture aborts Sunday's outing...

Yesterday morning, when I left the house around 0730hrs, I was amazed by how dark it was outside. It was pitch black. I put this down to the fact that the last few rides over the festive period were later than our usual departure time and, for some reason, I thought it would be lighter than it actually was.

Phil texted me just before I left saying he was coming and please wait for him. Not a problem. When I waltzed outside – I didn't 'waltz' outside at all, but it sounds good, even if it does make me sound a little dandy – there he was, bike parked by the kerb. He'd brought along the last of his Mary Berry Christmas cake, which we later enjoyed at the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Yes, despite New Year Resolutions it's still our preferred venue, although yesterday we reached it via the slow route.

An unwelcomed rear wheel puncture put paid to my cycling this morning

The slow route is fine if you want to chat and not worry so much about the traffic, as avid readers will already know, but there is one killer – Beddlestead Lane. Phil was out of condition and cited half a bottle of wine and some cheese and Port on Friday night, plus little in the way of cycling over Christmas – as the chief reason behind his sluggishness.

As we trundled up and along the tiresome Beddlestead Lane we chatted about this and that, but Andy powered ahead. It was a clear day and at one point I could see him in the distance ahead, his rear light flashing like a beacon, as Phil and I continued to chat and 'mosey along' trying not to over-exert ourselves. Eventually Andy returned to see if we were alright and we all cycled along together for the last 200 yards or so to Clarks Lane.

The weather was fine. In fact, the mild weather I've been going on about since November last year continues and while there was a few angry clouds dotted around, all was fine. Or rather it was kind of alright. It had been raining heavily through the night, leaving puddles everywhere – not ideal if, like me, your bike doesn't have any mudguards. Later, when we embarked upon on our ride home, there was a mild drizzle that quickly gathered momentum.

Once at the bus stop, however, out came the tea and biscuits and, of course, three huge slabs of Phil's interpretation of Mary Berry's Christmas cake. The guy is a genius! His culinary expertise knows no bounds – savoury or sweet – and it goes without saying that we all enjoyed the cake. We had a couple of Belvita biscuits too and soon it was time to head home in the aforementioned mild drizzle which, by the time we reached Warlingham Green, was bona fide rain.

Sunday morning...
And now it's Sunday morning and the time is 0646hrs. I was softly awakened at 0600hrs by Radio Four's Something Understood, which today, ironically, was all about 'sleeping on it' – something I wished for at that moment, it has to be said. I remember waking up in the middle of the night and then again around 0500hrs. I still managed to summon up the energy to jump out of bed, skip downstairs (alright, I didn't skip) make tea, toast and Weetabix and sit downstairs, at the dining table, laptop on, writing this post.

Today it's just Andy and I on the ride and, judging by a cursory glance outside, it seems to be pretty dry out there, which is good. Yesterday it rained on and off throughout the day and well into the night, so I'm hoping it'll need a rest this morning. The roads were dry and the trees were still, so I'm hoping for a trouble-free ride.

But then...
When I ventured outside to the garage and unpadlocked the bike I discovered a rear wheel puncture. How frustrating! I'd It would mean an 'abort' text so there would be no riding for me today, more's the pity.

Weather note: it's still fairly pleasant and mild, but of late there's been a lot of rain and today (Sunday) it's definitely turned a little colder and more in tune with standard January weather. As I walked back to the car park in Petworth, West Sussex, around 4pm this afternoon – after an enjoyable lunch in Tiffins – there was a cold wind and rain and it wasn't pleasant, especially considering my leaking Sports Direct trainers.

Sausage sandwiches at the Tatsfield Churchyard...

Last Sunday Phil and I rode to Warlingham Green to meet Andy and then onwards to the Tatsfield Bus Stop for the usual round of tea and biscuits. I think both Andy and I half expected Phil to reveal his revered sausage sandwiches, but he didn't. Instead, he waited until yesterday (Saturday 26th September) when we reached the churchyard. We stood there enjoying what amounted to a kind of alfresco 'full English' – tea, sausage and bacon sandwiches and a few BelVitas for good measure.

Phil, Matt and Andy last week at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

Avid readers of this blog will know that at any particular time my bike has something wrong with it: either the gears or the brakes are playing up OR there's a puncture. Well, in many ways, all three boxes can be ticked. I've only recently fixed a long-term slow puncture, the front brakes are highly ineffective (new pads are needed) and for the last week or two I've been permanently stuck in the lower eight of my 16 gears, having previously been stuck in the higher eight. Right now I'm back in the higher eight after we examined – and attempted to fix my gears – at the churchyard. The problem, it seemed, was the cable, which was a little on the slack side, nothing an alun key can't fix!

The weather was perfect yesterday – clear skies and sunshine – and, as I look out of the conservatory window now at 0636hrs on Sunday morning the skies are a light grey colour, but there's plenty of brightness too and wispy grey clouds.

While both Andy and Phil have resorted to gloves, I'm still riding without them despite the 'chilly starts' mentioned fairly regularly by the weather forecasters. As I mentioned to Phil and Andy yesterday, I'll probably keep the gloves off for some weeks until, suddenly, it's colder out there than I think it is and spend an entire ride quietly freezing. After that day, whenever it comes, the gloves will be back on until the start of next summer.

Yesterday's ride was pleasant. After the sausage sandwiches there were BelVita biscuits and it goes without saying that I bought the tea (I always do).

The conversation was one of our staples – the relative merits or otherwise of high-specification bikes over more conventional models. I mentioned my view that the less complicated a bike is, the better. When I was a kid my bike had block brakes and a single gear. Nothing ever went wrong with it apart from the occasional need to replace the brake blocks or fix a puncture. If there was a major hill I remember riding up as far as I could and then getting off the bike and walking the rest.

Andy countered my argument with the story of his pal Richard who bought a low-spec bike and spent the next few months in and out of the bike shop having been recommended higher-spec brakes and gears. He eventually bought a better bike. 

Phil is considering getting rid of the Kona Smoke (it's too small for him – remember, Phil is tall, very tall). He asked me if I wanted it and while my desire to have a 'normal' bike would be achieved by taking him up on the offer, I'm kind of attached to the old Scrap (for better or worse). Incidentally, in May next year, the 'old' Scrap will be just that – 10 years old.

With a bike loan scheme operated by his company, Phil is likely to buy a new bike towards the end of the year and hand the Smoke to his girlfriend who might then join us on a ride, replicating, perhaps, that moment on Long Way Down when Charley Boorman appears visibly irritated by Ewan McGregor's decision to bring his wife along on what was essentially a lads' adventure. Not that we would be even slightly annoyed. I've always welcomed people to ride with us, but so far nobody has taken me up on the offer. My mate in the office, Martin, has a bike stored at the top of his garden. I said to him last week, "get it out and meet me outside my house at 7am." But I doubt he'll ever do it. Likewise my pal Geoff. Still, it doesn't really matter.

On the ride back it was good to be back in the higher eight gears. We stopped halfway along the 269 to bid farewell to Andy. Phil said he wouldn't be going on Sunday so it's just Andy and I. In fact, I'd better get going as it is Sunday morning and I need to make the tea.

Sunday's ride
I'd endured a restless and somewhat sleepless night, but felt fit enough to rise at 0600hrs and start writing this post. By around 0700hrs I was out of the house and riding towards Warlingham Green. Outside it was bright and wonderful, but a little chilly so I wore the gloves for the first time since the beginning of summer. Not that I really needed to, the weather was great and improved by the minute.

Yours truly at Tatsfield Village, Sunday 27th September 2015

At the time of writing this post (Sunday, 1302hrs) the sun is shining brightly and I should be out in the garden doing something rather than sitting here, alone in the house, writing this blog. But, there you have it, while there's no time like the present, as they say, I simply lack the motivation to do anything that might improve the well-being of the household.

It was just Andy and I this morning and we decided to ride to Tatsfield Village and sit in the sunshine at the covered bus stop opposite the pub, which was in the shade and, therefore, colder than where were sitting. We drank tea, we ate BelVita biscuits and then we rode home, parting halfway along the 269 and both vowing to be on the green at 0730hrs next week.

I rode leisurely along the the Limpsfield Road towards Sanderstead and home and then padlocked the bike until next weekend, although I've seriously considered riding to work next week – apparently the good weather is set to continue. Let's see if I get out of bed feeling motivated.

Good weather, Belvita biscuits and Phil's sausage sarnies – a top weekend's cycling

The first good thing about this weekend was the weather; at last a break in the cold and frosty starts. Saturday had been bigged up all week by the TV weather bods and lo and behold they were right – it was a positively balmy 8 degrees Centigrade, the sun was shining and the skies were blue and what's more, it wasn't just confined to Saturday. While the forecasters had warned that Sunday would not be as good as Saturday, they were wrong. Big time! On both days the weather was simply amazing.

It was so good that we should have bitten the bullet and paid a visit to Westerham, but we went to the Tatsfield Churchyard – me, Andy and, wait for it, Phil. It was really good to see him again, especially as he brought his legendary sausage sarnies with him, made with home-made bread. Amazing. What with Andy's Belvita biscuits and my flask of tea, it meant that we were to enjoy a feast when we reached the churchyard.

Phil (centre) back on the ride... along with the sarnies!

As for Phil, he's alright. It's been a while, but Phil detests the cold weather so he's stayed away from the bike and what's more the bike in question (his dad's old Raleigh) is in serious need of replacement. So, Phil's back and he's already gained the first 'respect is due' commendation of 2015 – for once again proving to be NVL's catering manager. Alright, I bring the tea, Andy's in charge of the Belvita biscuits and Phil? Well, he's more the executive chef, the guy behind the famous Bakewell tarts and cakes of last summer and, of course, the sausage sandwiches, all of which never disappoint.

When we reached the churchyard we parked up the bikes, I made the tea, the bikkies came out and Phil revealed the sausage sandwiches. Andy and I had to share as I forgot to inform Phil that Andy would be on the ride. He'd originally planned for riding only on Sunday, but changed his mind late in the day and, if the truth be known, I didn't want to simply presume that Phil would be making the sausage sarnies, so I didn't say anything like, "make it three rounds, Phil, as Andy's coming". How presumptuous would that have been? As a consequence he made just two rounds so I shared with Andy, although, to be truthful, bearing in mind my new rules surrounding the eating of too much bread and 'junky food' I was quite happy to let Andy have the lot, but relented when I saw the wonderful home-made bread and sniffed the aroma that flew out from the silver foil once the aforementioned sarnies were unwrapped.

We chewed the fat as usual – not that there was much fat in the sausage sarnies – and it was good to have Phil back on the team.

One of Andy's new gold wheels

Sunday and it was more of the same. We met on the green as usual and then debated where to go. Westerham was mentioned, but we aimed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop (the slow way) which, as always, proved to be a bit of slog. The worst bit is Beddlestead Lane to Clarks Lane because the former is such a slow and tiresome hill and it seems to go on forever. After flying down Hesiers Hill it's not long before the speed slows and riders find themselves putting in the effort along the first uphill stretch, which ends when they encounter two cottages on the left hand side of the road. Then there's a smallish glade which, during the summer months is like a tunnel of greenery, but in the winter is characterised by bare branches that let in the daylight. The next milestone is a mobile phone mast and then, fairly soon after, Clarks Lane. We turn left and sail towards our destination – the wooden bus stop we talk so much about.

Unbelievably, Phil had done it again – this time he unveiled THREE rounds of his famous sausage sarnies and then Andy produced chocolate Belvitas. I poured out the tea. Wonderful. We sat there doing what we usually do: see who could flick their teabag the furthest using Andy's teaspooon, the goal being to hit the road from the bench in the bus shelter. Andy's managed it, but alas, both Phil and I need some practice.

Tea consumed, biscuits munched and sausage sarnies scoffed it was time to get back on the bikes and head towards the green, this time along the B269. We parted company with Andy at Warlingham and then continued on along the Limpsfield Road, through Hamsey and then Sanderstead High Street, down Church Way and home.

What a brilliant weekend of riding. Alright, we didn't go that far – just two rides of approximately 16 miles each (32 miles or thereabouts in total) – but what with Phil back on the team, sausage sandwiches, Belvita biscuits and, of course, a decent cup of tea, we had to ask ourselves: what could be better? Not much! And the good weather is set to continue for a few more days and hopefully it'll last until next Saturday when we'll be back on the bikes and heading out towards, well, towards the Tatsfield Bus Stop probably, although we have said we'll aim for Westerham. Let's wait and see.

Long way to the bus stop, rain stops play Sunday, but Andy braves Hurricane Bertha for Ride London (and I buy an old fashioned telephone)

It's been a great weekend, put it that way. I was expecting Hurricane Bertha to hit early Friday and ruin the entire weekend, but no, there was rain Friday night – a lot of rain – but on Saturday morning the sun was shining and it didn't stop shining all day. While there was a strong chance of an 'abort' text to Phil (Andy was taking a rest) by the time the alarm went off at 0600hrs I'd been out of bed for a good 20 minutes and was ready for a ride.

A chirpy Phil was outside at 0630hrs and despite a bit of faffing about on my part, we were soon on our way. The plan was the slow way to the Tatsfield bus stop, giving us the space to chat, and when we reached the bus stop, Phil brought out the Mr Kipling cakes – Bakewells and a Battenburg. Now, I've got to start watching this. I've managed to lose a fair bit of weight lately, but over recent weeks I've succumbed to the odd bit of cake and a few biscuits. It's generally alright on the ride as we burn it off, but either way, it's got to stop.

Mr Kipling does make exceedingly good cakes...

Having said that the cakes were good. Phil and I were in a great frame of mind. Phil had a broad grin on his face for most of the ride (apart from when he was eating cake) and I was feeling pretty chipper too. But then we chatted about religion and life after death – always a bit of a downer, but there you have it. Where do we stand? Well, it's hard to say. I'm a believer in Pascal's Wager, which basically stipulates that you might as well believe in God and the after life and that way, if it's all true you won't be turned away at the Pearly Gates. For me (and I guess most people) the big fear of death surrounds the notion of being able to experience non-existence, but then, as I said to Phil, I can't remember what I was up to in, say, 1914, and I'm guessing that's what being dead is like. Who knows? Not me, that's for sure. I live by the phrase 'I am me and this is now' because in my book it's all about the here and now, nothing else. We're all like Gromit in The Wrong Trousers, throwing track down in front of the locomotive as we progress through life.

Andy's time on Ride London 2014

So we rode home the fast way and later in the day met Andy who was coming over to pick up Phil's cycle rack for the Ride London event on Sunday. This was going to be some achievement in my opinion. A 100-mile cycle ride over some tough hills and the weather – as it turned out – was abominable: driving rain, wind, hailstones (an 'abort' text in the making if ever there was one) but Andy was having none of it. He was up a some ridiculous hour and I have to admit, his progress was always somewhere on my mind as I went about whatever it was I was doing on Sunday morning. I went to the Bluewater shopping centre where I bought a retro telephone from John Lewis. Yes, I'm now the proud owner of a black Bakelite telephone with a traditional English ring tone from days gone by. Whenever it rings I'm reminded of those great old black and white movies. You know the sort of thing: Richard Wattis, Will Hay, The Titfield Thunderbolt, James Robertson Justice, good old 'Inspector here!' movies.

[The phone rings.]

"Inspector here!"

[Pregnant pause.]

"What? Right away, sir!"

Cue old-fashioned black police cars with bells embedded in their radiator grills.

Ever since I plugged it into the wall I've been whistling the theme from The Dambusters and thinking about Barnes Wallace and the bouncing bomb. Brilliant!

But let's get back to Andy's mammoth jaunt. The weather was terrible but he finished well within time and, taking into account the ride home from the finish line (at The Mall) to his house in Caterham, he rode, in total 112 miles in seven hours and 34 minutes – in appalling weather. Respect is due, especially when you consider that there was no cake waiting for him at the other end, just the finish line and the prospect of a 12-15 mile home. A top man!

"Inspector here! What? Right away sir!" My new telephone.

The odd thing about the weather was that it improved around lunch time. In fact, the sun shone from thereon and while it's looking a bit dull out there now (at 2030hrs) it's been a fairly good day.

We'll all be back in the saddle next weekend and I'm hoping we'll be heading for Westerham, although I'm going to pass on the cake... but until then, I've got a new telephone to play with; it's definitely a 'telephone', not a 'phone'. It's also heavy, like a 'telephone' should be and I love it. Yes, I know, I'm very sad. Very, very sad, but it's great and I also feel good because I got a bargain. You can buy this phone for £49.95 today from John Lewis, but I got mine for just £15! Now that's a bargain! I'll shut up now. Mind you, Made in Chelsea New York is on so I'll probably remain in the conservatory. Now, who can I call? Mind you, I wish somebody would call me as the ring tone is the best. Seriously.

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.

Red sky in the morning...

A lull in the bad weather meant that we could get out on the bikes. Saturday was terrible and had to be aborted, but Sunday was wonderful with an amazing red sky as Phil and I crossed the churchyard in Sanderstead and headed towards Warlingham Green for an 8am meeting with Andy.

Sanderstead Churchyard, Sunday 5th January 2014, around 8am.

The journey was punctuated by potential puncture problems for Phil who was convinced his rear tyre was deflating. We stopped on a couple of occasions to check it out, but in the end, pumping it up by the pond at the top of Slines Oak Road seemed to do the trick.

As we pressed on along the 269 towards the Tatsfield Bus Stop – our chosen destination – the sky turned into what my father used to call a 'mackerel sky' for all the obvious reasons (it looked like the grey, scaly body of a fish – perhaps a mackerel).

Temperature wise it was fine, albeit a little chilly, but not unbearably so. Phil led the way and it wasn't long before we found ourselves free-wheeling towards the bus stop and the promise of some Christmas cake supplied by Phil, which was very tasty, based on a recipe by Phil's grandmother.

Phil, Matt and Andy at the Tatsfield Bus Stop, Sunday 5th January 2014

We haven't seen Phil since early November, but he's back and plans to keep up the riding.

After tea and three slabs of cake (one slab each – and note the word 'slab' as opposed to 'slice') we packed up and headed home the way we came (along the 269). Andy, as usual, branched off halfway along and Phil and I continued towards Warlingham, through the Green, down through Hamsey and into Sanderstead High Street before crossing the churchyard and free-wheeling down Church Way towards home.

Now, as I write this at 0717hrs on Monday morning, the weather is, once again, appalling. The rain has been hammering down on the conservatory roof and the wind has been blowing strong all through the night. So much for my plan to ride out to the Green this morning for a quick eight-miler!

Andy's not riding next Saturday or Sunday, so it'll be down to Phil and I, but we'll all be back on the bikes the following week, weather permitting.

18th and 19th May – Botley Hill and Longford Lake

Botley Hill.

A good weekend of cycling. We covered 46 miles in total having riden first to Botley Hill (on Saturday) and then to Longford Lake in Chipstead, Kent (on Sunday).

There were three of us on Saturday – Andy, Phil and yours truly – and on Sunday's run to the lake, it was just Phil and yours truly.

The weather was good on both days and, as last week, the pace was slightly quicker with a third person in the mix.

On Saturday, among other things, we discussed movie stars and how the greater publicity they attract (mainly through chatshows) the more diluted as actors they become. Ewan McGregor was a good case in point. His Long Way Round and Long Way Down programmes, his general popularity outside of his various film roles has, in my opinion, lessened his believability as an actor. I'd better explain myself: the more you see an actor in person on chat shows and documentaries, the more you associate them with themselves and not the character they're supposed to playing. I can't watch a movie starring Ewan McGregor without seeing Ewan McGregor and not the character he's billed as playing. This is, of course, very annoying.

It's not just Ewan McGregor and, let me make this clear, Long Way Round and Long Way Down were both excellent productions – especially the latter in which Charley Boorman seems to be visibly pissed off that McGregor brings his wife on the trip. There are many other actors who court the spotlight and, therefore, make an audience's ability to suspend belief, falter slightly. I was watching Jonathan Ross a few weeks ago when they had the actor playing the role of Spock in the latest Star Trek movie. So, we heard that he was gay (nothing wrong with that) and we heard that he plays the banjo (nothing wrong with that either) but if I went to see the new movie, as soon as I saw 'Spock' I'd be thinking about that gay, banjo-playing bloke that was on Jonathan Ross.

Alright, there's that thing about promoting movies and we all know that that's what actors have to do these days. In fact, Vin Diesel was on Ross's show recently and he was texting his daughter or sending her videos on his iPhone, showing us his tender side, perhaps, showing us that he, like us, was just a human being with a family. But we don't want to know that, do we? Now, though, if I watch any Fast & Furious movies, I'm going to remember Diesel being all soppy about his daughter and sending her videos from his iphone. This is not good and it's much more prevalent than it used to be: did Gregory Peck or Kirk Douglas constantly appear on shows like Saturday Night with Jonathan Ross or get involved in riding motorcycles around the world for a television documentary OR appear as the 'star in a reasonably-priced car' on Top Gear? No, of course not, They were proper actors.

It all reinforces my theory that, with the exception of advances in medical science, in most cases, everything is getting worse, not better. Movie stars ain't movie stars anymore; they're multi-tasking careerists (is there such a word) who are quite happy to discuss their career progression with a chatshow host. And then there's rock music; rock stars just ain't rock stars anymore for similar reasons, although talent (or lack of it) plays a greater role than with actors. In fact, take out that word 'talent' as it's diminishing rapidly in rock music where there will never be the great Rock Gods of yesteryear as we have to contend with bands like Coldplay headed up by the very sensible Chris Martin. I mean, he's not a rock star and the band's music is the sort of stuff you're likely to hear more often in a shopping mall than anywhere else. These days, rock stars don't rock, they don't drive Rolls Royces into swimming pools or throw televisions out of hotel windows, they don't even take hard drugs! I'm with Bill Hicks; I want my rock stars to rock! But they don't, not anymore, and film stars are not film stars anymore, as we've already discussed.

I'm sure it's the same in other spheres of life and culture – there are no more 'golden ages'.

Longford Lake

Longford Lake, Chipstead, Kent

On Sunday, Phil and I headed out to Longford Lake. The weather was good all the way there and back and we had a couple of chunks of fruit cake, courtesy of my mum. It's great riding to the lake for all sorts of reasons. Obviously, the ride itself is key. While being not that far from Croydon and, indeed, London, once we hit the Pilgrims Lane, we could be in the middle of rural Wiltshire or anywhere, despite the fact that, in reality, we're only a few hundred yards from the M25.

Chipstead village is lovely too. There's a Harvey's of Lewes pub and some nice houses, but also, of course, Longford Lake.

Phil and I sat on the bench enjoying the view and chatting about this and that before jumping back on the bikes and heading home. I was home just before 1045.