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.

Thoughts on a flight from New York to London...

I reached the airport in good time and I'm glad I never weakened and took a cab. Besides, these days I'm getting a little tired of taxi drivers because, in the UK at any rate, there's a growing number of drivers who want to get their racist beliefs out in the open and they always assume that everybody holds the same views and just need a little coaxing. I might have mentioned a British taxi driver who was so racist, his own colleagues called him Gupta.

The New York subway is just like it looks in the movies, but not as edgy. It's full of commuters and, on the E line, travellers like myself and holidaymakers heading for the Air Train. I forgot to check the terminal, but discovered, once on the Air Train, that all BA flights arrived and departed from Terminal 7. I checked my bags in, handing over my emergency passport, and then walking away unfettered by cumbersome luggage.

It's a six-hour flight and we're due to land in London half an hour earlier than scheduled. Food eaten, two hours have flown by and I'm listening to REM on the plane's sound system. It's a Jumbo jet and I'm sitting in seat 39K, a bulkhead seat with plenty of legroom, which is all I ask for on flights of over four hours. The jackpot is to get a window too, and that's what I've got, but being as it's a night flight, there's little point - until things brighten up, that is. I like to see what's going on outside, especially when there's turbulence.

Daylight as we head towards Ireland

In life, there's very little that upsets me more on a flight than a baby crying and I can't work out why. It makes me feel really, terribly sad. I find that flying can be emotional too, so putting the two things together is the most awful thing for me. There's always a baby crying somewhere on a plane.

I remember having trouble once on a flight to Chicago, although I hasten to add that babies were not involved. By 'having trouble' I mean being in danger of getting a little over emotional about things. Music is the trigger and certain compositions can bring a tear to my eye and I then have to spend time concealing myself from prying eyes, which is difficult if you're on a plane. On that occasion, I had a window seat, so I could turn my head to one side and try to calm myself down. Sometimes, listening to music can be my downfall.

There was an occasion in Manchester, in a boutique hotel, when I was caught unawares. I'd bought a Supertramp CD on Euston station and when I reached the room, on discovering there was a CD player, I played it and found that a certain track took me over the top again. I remember lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with tears in my eyes. Fortunately, I was alone. The problem (if that's what it was) can be traced back to the late 1980s. I was driving to work and had reached a multi-storey car park when a certain piece of music, by a band called Spirit, grabbed my attention and took me by surprise. It took me a while to recover. I simply sat in the car on the top storey of the car park staring at the tree tops until I felt sufficiently normal to head into the office. Such vulnerability lasted for almost 20 years, possibly longer, but it's not there anymore. It sometimes happened with other art forms. I remember reading Milton Kessler's Thanks Forever, a poem from the London Underground; and then there was Bruce Robinson's The Peculiar Memoirs of Thomas Penman, both tearjerkers in their own strange way. It still happens occasionally. There's a fine line between euphoria and grief.

During the flight, turbulence on a couple of occasions made it difficult to write long hand, but looking at my notes as I copy type them into the lap top, the handwriting wasn't too badly affected.

I keep replaying tracks from REM at the BBC, it's the only thing worth listening to in my opinion. REM has it sized in my opinion; tracks like Orange Crush, Radio Song and Man on the Moon pass the time and I listen to them over and over again.

I'm still finding it hard to believe that I was in New York and later I'll be finding it hard to believe that I was up here, at 38,000, looking down as the skies brighten around me. But New York! I was there: Madison, 42nd Street, Park Avenue, Lexington, it's as if it was a dream. While I was there I mooched endlessly around the city, I drank mint tea in a Starbucks on Second Avenue, I sat in the back of a Yellow Cab and I stared upwards to find the tops of skyscrapers. The last time I was in the Big Apple I was staying at the Parker Meridien hotel and on one occasion, while waiting for the lift to the ground floor, the lift doors open to reveal Brian May, Roger Taylor and John Deacon of Queen. It was one of those moments I dined out on for many years - and still do. It was when Radio Ga Ga was in the charts.

By my reckoning, there's around two hours left of this six-hour flight. There's nobody in the seat next to me, but there's a woman in the aisle seat who has spent the entire flight covered from head to toe with a blanket. Outside it is getting light and there's nothing but cloud and we're high up.

I am starting to tire of REM, but perhaps I'll listen to Orange Crush one more time and then call it day. "We are agents of the free," warbles Stipe. Perhaps I'll listen to Radio Song again too. I remember when Out of Time was released; good and bad times, mainly uncertainty caused by looming redundancy, or had I already lost my job? Yes, I had. I remember the blue Cavalier I was driving, E108 HPH was the licence plate. I can remember all my plates. You could say I'm a sad, sad man.

I've switched on the map and we've passed the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and have just one hour and 45 minutes left before we land. I've put on Orange Crush again, it's so good, and I simply had to act fast as the song starting up was Love is Around Me, you know, the theme to Four Weddings and a Funeral. Surely that wasn't REM. Tell me it wasn't REM. I always remember it being Wet Wet Wet. Truly awful. Either way, I don't want to be reminded of that terrible movie.

Outside, it's getting a little choppy again. I think I prefer my turbulence when it's dark. We're headed towards Ireland and there's 90 minutes to go. We touch down at 0812 hrs. The seat belt signs have come back on and now it's clearer outside; I can see cloud below now. We're heading towards Porcupine Bank on our left and Porcupine Plain on the right and again I'm intrigued as to what they both are. I remember trying to learn more about the Charlie-Gibbs Fracture Zone and getting nowhere. And what, pray, is the Maury Seachannel? Time for Orange Crush again. I'm getting boring (was I ever anything else?). I'd better sign off.

Taking the slow way...

Saturday 22nd December, Tatsfield Bus Stop. Pic by Andy Smith

Saturday 22nd December: It's the day after the shortest day and darkness is on the menu. I leave the house at 0700hrs with my lights on and don't switch them off until I reach the bus stop. We opt for the slow way and it's far warmer than last week when black ice took Andy off his bike. He tells me that it was, after all, pretty painful, blood was drawn, he discovered on returning home and all week there was pain, but he's better now. We take it easy, riding down Hesiers Hill with our hands covering the brakes, slowing us down, it's not safe, but it's not icy either and I'm feeling energised all the way along Beddlestead. Little in the way of Lycra monkeys as we climb the hill, emerging on to Clarks Lane and hanging a left. We freewheel to the bus stop, park up and I serve tea. Andy hands out the BelVita biscuits, but I'm not that hungry, I've already eaten a hearty breakfast. I make do with just one. A bunch of monkeys ride past en route to Westerham as we continue to sip our tea and watch the cars travelling east and west. With Christmas just up the road, it's busier than normal, more cars on the road, plenty of bustle and it gets worse as the day progresses. Well, at least it's not raining. We ride back the slow way, very scenic, amazing how the landscape looks totally different when we turn the road inside out, ride backwards almost, rewind the tape so to speak. I wonder whether it's possible to free wheel all the way to Hesiers Hill, but then I forget to try and start pedalling. The hill is hard, harder because I get muddled with the gears, change up instead of down, lose momentum, end up stopping and find it difficult to get going. I'm on the move again, I don't stop until I reach the top and then we wind our way around the lanes, past St Leonard's church, then another hill, I mess up again, in the wrong gear, a constant problem, but I'll remember next time, perhaps tomorrow, except there is no tomorrow, it's rained off. I'm awake early, around 0430hrs, I lie there, right hand fretfully on forehead, thinking bad thoughts about the day ahead, it's going to be hectic one way or another and all I want to do is nothing, but that's not on the agenda, not today. I hear the rain falling and it doesn't stop. I finally get out of bed at 0600hrs, it's still coming down, I look at the puddle on next door's conservatory roof, stair rods, well, not quite, but it's relentless. "Looks like 'abort' as it's pissing down here," I write and send to Andy. "Yes, fingers crossed for tomorrow," he replies. Later on it is still raining and I am downstairs listening to Green by REM, the ride is off and I try to keep a tally on what day it is, soon I will lose it completely, that's the way it is with Christmas, I lose track of time. "What day is it?" A frequently asked question, but time to start reading Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Coupland, a book that's been hard to find. I like Coupland. I read Generation X, it has a special quality, reminds me of the America I love. Right now I feel slobby. I haven't been on the ride, but today would have been cut short as there's stuff to do, people to give lifts to, jobs to be done, visits to be made and I've got a new coat that I'm excited about wearing, makes me feel like Kurt Russell in The Thing. I've always been a big baby and still am, I can't really grow up, that's my problem. Paddy Ashdown has died, aged 77, after a short illness and I am reminded of the time I met him, on a train, somewhere near Salisbury, a six-pack of Wadworth's 4X, time travel, he had a view, a good man for engaging in a crazy conversation, he didn't ignore us, he got involved, clearly a proper politician, a dying breed, literally in his case.

St. Leonard's Church and the Tatsfield Bus Stop...

Saturday was a wonderful day, but we didn't venture very far, and despite the fact that it was only yesterday – today being Sunday – for a minute I found myself trying to remember the reason for such a short ride. Well, I've remembered it. I was due to make a long drive to a place called Perch Hill near Burwash in East Sussex (long in the sense that I was knackered). Perch Hill is the name of a house, not a place. Perch Hill is in Brightling, which is a short drive from Burwash. If you like 'life style' stuff (like soaps and candles and books) and gardening – I wouldn't say I was a keen gardener, but Perch Hill is a nice place to go if you want some ideas, not that I want any ideas. It's very boring, but having agreed to go, I needed to be back off the ride early so we rode to St Leonard's Church, just Andy and I. Phil aborted, but then realised that his reason for aborting was next week, not this week.

Our bikes at St. Leonard's Church, Chelsham. Pix by Andy Smith.

So Andy and I rode to the church, entered the churchyard, found a bench and then ate biscuits and drank tea. After taking a few photographs we rode home, parting company at Warlingham Green and vowing to ride to Westerham in Kent for breakfast at the Tudor Rose café today (Sunday). The rest of my Saturday was characterised by feeling tired. I should never have driven to Burwash and beyond as I was knackered. A lot of things had conspired against me – cycling followed by a long drive, a stressful week at work. It was bad. Falling asleep at the wheel kind of bad and dangerous too. On the drive out I stopped at a McCafé for a cup of strong tea, which seemed to do the trick; but then on the way home it happened again. I could barely keep my eyes open, until, for some reason, we reached Tunbridge Wells, but either way, I was more awake from then onwards.

When I reached home, the weariness continued and I was glad to get to bed, having realised that Jonathan Ross wasn't going to be very entertaining – he's been superseded by Graham Norton, in my opinion, who seems to attract all the best guests and the best banter. Ross, in my opinion, should be put out to pasture.

By Sunday morning I'd forgotten all about our plan to go to the Tudor Rose for breakfast. I woke up at 0600hrs and listened to the news, none of which I can remember. Then I got up, dressed and went downstairs for Shredded Wheat, tea and toast. I made the tea for the ride, as usual, and it wasn't until Andy later reminded me about the caff that I remembered, but by then it was too late and besides, I really wasn't up to Westerham. We decided upon the Tatsfield Bus Stop and headed off, but while I had brought the tea, Andy hadn't packed the biscuits. It didn't matter. When we reached our destination we engaged in more chat and our usual game involving flicking tea bags off the back of a teaspoon – I managed to fling mine the furthest, well, the first one at any rate. The second fell short. Andy put in a similarly unimpressive performance.

Earlier, as we approached the bus stop, a thick fog had descended over Botley Hill. It had been raining overnight too so everything was damp and there were many roadside puddles. And yes, I got a wet arse too. The Lycra monkeys were out in force, some alone, murmuring psychotically to themselves about their pension plans, while others rode in large groups, occasionally shouting "Gravel!" or "Car!" at the slightest sign of either. I suggested to Andy that if a Lycra monkey spotted an auctioneer on the road ahead, he'd probably shout "gavel!"

We chatted about bicycles and how expensive they were getting and how even our bikes were far too good for what we do. It was a tired conversation that we'd had many times before and we both agreed that despite the fact that our bikes were too good for what we do, we liked them and wouldn't consider replacing them – not yet at any rate. My bike still needs a service, it still needs a front brake and it still needs a gear service.

Tea finished we mounted our bikes and headed for home. The thick fog had lifted as we reached Botley Hill so we sailed down the 269 bidding 'good morning' to passing monkeys. At Warlingham Green we parted company, vowing to meet up again next weekend AND to visit the Tudor Rose café for breakfast. "Send me a text to remind me," I said.

I reached home at just gone 0930hrs, but fortunately there were no plans to go driving anywhere, apart from John Lewis at Home on the Purley Way. I love that shop, but I can't afford to buy anything, which gets a little frustrating. I sat on sofas I couldn't afford, messed around on desk chairs with wheels, like a little kid, and rummaged around the 'gifts for men' area – torches, telescopes, multi-purpose tools and stainless steel and enamel mugs, sadly with the words "I'd rather be in my garden" written on the side. I'd rather be on my bike – or in my garden in the sunshine, drinking a cool beer, but the weather ain't hot enough yet.

Andy's Kona Blast. Pix by Andy Smith.

For lunch a cheese salad sandwich – one of my specialities – was followed by a walk around the block (roughly 45 minutes) and then I drove over to mum's alone in the late afternoon listening to the Stone Roses on the outward journey and REM on the way back. I need more music in my life.