Thoughts on this and that...

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

Night sets in early

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

More mid-week Washpond Weebles are needed

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

Rain stops play

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

Billionaire's shortbread in Costa Coffee

I love coffee shops

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

Sunday: the start of my cycling week

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

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

Notes from the ride...

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

For fear of missing out...

Right now, at this very moment, I'm listening to John Martyn. Arguably, Martyn is the most laid back you'll get. I'm listening to the album Bless the Weather – in fact, as we speak, the title track is playing. It's great if you want some peace or if you want something murmuring in the background, helping you get along. I first got into John Martyn during my troubled teenage years, although I don't ever recall buying an album by this great musician, who is sadly not with us any more. It was always put on the turntable round at somebody's house and we'd all simply chill out – in fact we'd get so chilled out we'd fall asleep, which was nice. For a long while I didn't listen to John Martyn. I don't know why, but it's difficult as I don't possess any material of his – but since it's been possible to download music from operators like Spotify, my life has changed and now the man is back in my life, albeit at the crack of dawn. You can bet, certainly over the next few days at any rate, that I'll be listening to John Martyn at around this time in the morning. And if you're interested, one of his best albums was entitled Solid Air, an album title I can understand.

A clean bike at last! It was getting to look a bit like Andy's Kona!

So here I am, it's 0632hrs now, dark outside and I've enjoyed eight hours of sleep, which is rare for me. I normally hit the sack around 2300hrs and sleep badly, waking around 0430hrs and then having trouble getting back to sleep. Last night, not so much fed up with the quality of British television, but simply feeling too tired to stay up and watch Manchester by the Sea, which I really wanted to watch, I hit the sack at 2200hrs and after listening to the news on Radio Four, none of which I can remember, I switched off just as Joan Bakewell was about to embark upon a programme about death – not the sort of thing I wanted to listen to last thing at night. Why does Radio Four do that? I've often put the radio on at night, with a view to distracting myself from the fact that I can't sleep, and there's something miserable on, like programmes about disease or death; and it's not just in the dead of night, often it's at 2100hrs. Depressing.

I'm going to make a point of hitting the sack at 2200hrs from now on because there is nothing worth watching on television these days. Why is James McAvoy ALWAYS on Graham Norton's show? That man must be making so many movies. Norton is always on after the news on a Friday night and invariably I sit there and watch it, because Norton is probably the best thing on television when it comes to 'entertainment'. I love the big red chair, but invariably don't like the musical bit, it's invariably the lame part of the show. I mean, Cheryl Cole was on the other day. That said, Cole is one of those people who is so bad she's good. She mimes, she's not a rock and roller, there's a lot wrong, most of all the huge tattoo on her arse. I don't know about you, but that would definitely put me off. Just knowing that tattoo exists would annoy me, but it's not something she's going to get rid of easily, meaning it's there for life. Imagine lying in bed next to her knowing that her tattooed derriere is festering under the bedclothes, just inches away. I hate tattoos and would never have one done. It's a bit like scribbling in Biro on your exercise book: you start with one squiggle and soon the cover is peppered with drawings of some sort – ruined in other words – and I guess Cheryl Cole has ruined her arse. If ever I interviewed her it's the first question I'd ask: "How do you feel about ruining your arse?" Or, "Don't you think you've ruined your arse?" She's looking in need of a good meal too, somebody give her an ice cream, anything, a Belgian bun (like the one I ate in Morrison's in Reigate yesterday afternoon). What she really needs, of course, is a roast dinner: chicken, roasties, greens, gravy, apple pie and custard, that's what I'd offer her if I saw her in the street.

So I went to bed early and managed to get eight hours' kip. Fantastic. Cycling takes it out of me, I've noticed. Yesterday we rode the slow way to the bus stop. We were going to ride to Westerham and visit the Tudor Rose for breakfast, but I had stuff to do and couldn't really afford to be back late. I stormed up Beddlestead Lane and felt great on my return, using the off-road path on the 269, talking to myself here and there, as you do when you find yourself alone in a wide open space, nobody around for miles, as it seemed to me yesterday morning. When I reached Warlingham, having said goodbye to Andy at The Ridge, I stopped off at the gas station to jet clean my bike. The bike is clean. Very clean. And I don't want to get it dirty on today's ride so it'll probably be the long way to the bus stop again.

One reason I stay up late is the fear of missing out. The truth of the matter, however, is that I won't miss anything. In the same way that nothing is that funny, nothing is that good either, so I'm going to try and set myself a new rule: hit the sack at 2200hrs. I mean, Fiona Bruce presenting Question Time, who's idea was that? It's the BBC and it's awful political correctness. Have you noticed how Doctor Who is doing its bit for diversity? There's a white, black and Asian assistant for the female Doctor Who. PC is everywhere at the BBC. Didn't they get rid of that long haired bloke on Countryfile to make the programme more diverse? I think they did. They couldn't get rid of Craven because that would have been ageist. Is that how you spell 'ageist'?

Anyway, I'd better go and make a flask of tea for the ride. See you later...

To Westerham for breakfast – and then a weekend of painting

Warlingham Green around 0730hrs on Saturday

Wednesday, 31 October: On Sunday morning I walked across Warlingham Green in the cold. There was wind and rain and it was very unpleasant. I felt thankful that I aborted as I knew a soaking was on the cards. I was headed for the Co-op as I'd run out of milk. I was home alone and had been since last Thursday, although, as I write this, the wanderers have returned and normal living has been resumed. I don't like being alone. It's fine in a hotel room, when I'm away on business, because I'm sharing the hotel with many other people, but being alone in the house simply doesn't feel right. When I'm alone in the house, I don't like going to bed, but I know I have to so I lock up the house in the normal manner, switching off lights as I do so, and then make my way upstairs where I have a choice of three beds. It's a no-brainer: my bed is the best, so I climb in, switch on Radio Four, listen to the 10 o'clock news and fall asleep, waking later in the night and noting the radio has switched itself off. I always leave the bathroom light on, mainly because, since childhood, I prefer to have a light on at night.

The weather is cold and while there's nothing wrong with our central heating, something is definitely up: one of the four nights I was alone I went downstairs to check it out and found it was off, so I switched it back on and returned to bed. On another night I slept almost fully-clothed, even with the heating on, it was freezing.

The reason I was trudging across the green around 0800hrs, possibly a bit later, was that I had aborted the ride late on Saturday night. The reason was simple: I'd committed myself to decorating the living room, a job that needed doing. I'd started around lunch time on Saturday having visited B&Q and buying the paint and brushes and white spirit. I sanded and washed the paintwork and then made the decision to go straight for the ceiling, a job I was dreading.

From Saturday through Monday I listened virtually non-stop to Radio Four, listening to a dramatisation of DH Lawrence's Women in Love and a spoof of The Archers, The Wainwrights, which was one of the funniest things I've listened to in a long while. Mix in Woman's Hour and a few comedy shows, including Just a Minute, and you'll get a fair idea of my extended weekend.

Andy at the Tudor Rose, note pot of tea...

A ride had been on the cards. Having spent a week in Tokyo, I had missed two weekends of cycling, so I vowed to go out on Saturday. With nothing much to rush home for I suggested breakfast at the Tudor Rose in Westerham so Andy and I got our heads down and rode there. A sausage sandwich, scrambled egg with mushrooms on granary toast and a pot of tea was most welcomed. The ride had been good, although I did lose half of my chain guard. It just snapped and fell off. Now I need a new chain guard and some touch-up paint for the frame.

The breakfast was good, it always is, but the ride home loomed large and neither of us wanted it. Riding out of Westerham is hard. It's a long hill all the way to Botley and we hate it. Who wouldn't? But when we reached the top, Andy took The Ridge home and I cycled along the off-road path of the 269.

It's weird arriving home to an empty house, but on this occasion it wasn't just returning to an empty house, it was also the prospect of decorating the living room that was nagging at me. Let's be honest, I didn't have to do it, but I'd been thinking about doing it for weeks, it seemed so straightforward. However, the prospect of doing nothing was shouting at me too. I could have a lazy weekend, go and see mum, then, perhaps, a stroll to Sutton, a browse of Waterstone's and then a mint tea and a cake in Caffé Nero. And who know's what after that? But the decorating nagged and nagged so, after visiting mum, I headed for B&Q in Sutton and bought all the stuff I needed: a huge tub of brilliant white Matt emulsion, two large tins of 'Timeless' – a colour that looks very much like brilliant white, but isn't – a few brushes, white spirit, sandpaper and a roller.

Scrambled egg, mushrooms and granary toast at the Tudor Rose, Westerham

Even when I got home I didn't want to do it, but I pushed myself and by the close of play on Saturday, I'd sanded and washed the skirting board. On Sunday, the prospect of painting the ceiling hit me hard, but I did it and then, on Monday, it was time to paint the walls. My aim was to finish by Monday evening, but I was about a wall and a third out and had to take Tuesday off to complete the task. It looks good, if I say so myself and now, of course, I have caught the bug. I'm viewing rooms as flights: the bathroom is a short haul flight to Dusseldorf, while the living room was most certainly long haul, like my recent trip to Tokyo. The hall way is probably akin to a flight to Greece or Moscow, not quite a long haul, but borderline. Anyway, it looks like the hall is next, but I'd rather do it alone, meaning I'd rather not have others in the house, it's far easier when I'm alone and don't have other people saying "you missed a bit" and so forth. It's also nice to listen to the radio. Actually, it's quite relaxing painting the house. The key is to keep the house well ventilated. On Sunday, I didn't bother opening any windows and ended up with a bad headache. On Monday, all the windows were open and it made a big difference. Another key is to keep things tidy, clean up as you go along and wipe up any paint spills immediately.

Decorating finished! A great job, if I say so myself...

The living room looks good and I feel good as a result.

Andy did go out on Sunday, but only for a short ride and he escaped a soaking, he told me. We're both on for a ride next weekend.

On a wing and a prayer...

... was the subject of this morning's Something Understood on Radio Four, but my normal, enjoyably slow wake-up process, which involves listening first to the news and then to the first five minutes of the aforementioned Something Understood, was ruined this morning. There's nothing worse than when routine is broken. Normally the radio springs to life at 0600hrs just in time for the pips, followed by the news. But not this morning. The alarm went off, which itself was a stroke of luck as I recall checking the volume switch last night and finding it had been turned down to complete silence. Had I not noticed this the radio would have come on, but I would not have heard it. But it wasn't the news I could hear. Oh no, it was white noise, because whoever had turned down the volume the day before had also been fiddling with the tuner. For a few minutes I tried (in vain) to find Radio Four, but I was still sleepy and it proved impossible. No dreamy start for me this morning, I thought, deciding there and then to get out of bed and get ready for the ride.

Library shot of the Tatsfield Bus Stop

Problem number two. Yesterday I had put various items of my 'cycling kit' on the radiators to dry – there was a dribbling of rain yesterday, but nothing to write home about – but they had gone, which meant disturbing my wife's sleep to ask her, in a whisper, of course, where they might be. Sure enough they were on top of the wardrobe (they must have dried off). But where, pray, were the waterproof trousers I had left downstairs in the conservatory? I thought I'd better ask because I knew that if I went downstairs they wouldn't be where I'd left them. Remember, it's pitch black at 0600hrs and my iphone was downstairs. There was, however, a Maglite at hand and, after a fashion I found the waterproofs. I then had to shake a sock out of a pair of corduroys I'd been wearing yesterday and finally, I was ready to rock. And by 'rock' I mean go downstairs and make some tea and toast.

Is it just me or are clock radios a law unto themselves? Sometimes it's impossible to switch them off and, because a clock radio is invariably used as an alarm clock – and, therefore, is often found in the bedroom – the whole process of shutting the blasted thing down gets a bit frantic. This, I fear, is what must have happened yesterday morning while I was out cycling. Our clock radio (and I'm sure all clock radios) can be switched off by tapping a button, but it mysteriously switches itself back on at intervals and sometimes stubbornly refuses to be silenced. It leads, pretty quickly, to bad-temper and the pushing and turning of any available button or dial to keep the thing quiet. The end result, however, is that the clock radio will always get its own back, as it did this morning, with me, when I awoke to nothing but so-called 'white noise'.

Yesterday, I mentioned dieting and I must say that Saturday was characterised by restraint in this respect. First, unlike at work, the temptation of cakes and biscuits was absent, although there were some bite-sized chocolate cakes from M&S in the house, and I admit I treated myself to two of them, but, as I think I said in yesterday's post, I can eat frugally at home and Saturday was no exception. A cheese sandwich for lunch and cottage pie for dinner, no wine, just water, and nothing for dessert.

Incidentally, it's light outside now and it's not even 0700hrs yet. Mum said yesterday afternoon that it gets light at a quarter to seven and that's fine by me. Everyone in the UK waits for summer and while it's still only February, the fact that it's getting lighter in the mornings can only mean we're heading in the right direction.

The faffing around continued and eventually I sent Andy a text informing that I would be nine minutes later than usual.

The weather today was much improved on yesterday. There was a bluey-grey sky against which bare trees were silhouetted and still. As I rode along Ellenbridge I stood up on the bike, swinging it from side-to-side and then, as I climbed Elmfield Way I slalomed the front wheel like a downhill skier until I reached Morley. There was no wind, not even the slightest breeze, and when I reached the green Andy was waiting. We headed off without discussing our final destination, but I think we both knew it would be the Tatsfield bus stop and sure enough, as we edged our way along the 269 we both agreed.

I had some of mum's Christmas cake, but unfortunately I'd left it behind in the fridge, but only realised it around 1130hrs, a good two hours after getting home.

The weather remained fantastic. We eventually parted at Warlingham Green. I continued along the Limpsfield Road, into Sanderstead High Street and down Church Way towards my house, while Andy made his way home to Caterham.

Quote of the ride: "I don't really give a stuff about cars – that's why I drive a Toyota Corolla."

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.