To Oxted and Westerham - two rides and I'm back in the game...

Cycling hasn't exactly been on the agenda these past weeks. Admittedly, a week or two ago, I did get to Westerham to meet Andy, you might remember how I rushed to get back in time to got out again for lunch for an Easter get-together and how I allowed myself to become dehydrated. Now that's not a nice feeling. I've done it before and it makes me feel a little light-headed, a little panicky even, so I must remember to hydrate properly, perhaps take a bottle of water with me rather than ride 11 miles, have a cup of tea and then simply ride back and have nothing for some hours afterwards. But that was a few weeks back, Easter bank holiday to be precise and in future I'll be prepared.

I took last Friday off but cycling was out of the question as the weather was a little on the poor side, although generally things are on the up, the blossoms are on the trees and life is becoming a little more hopeful than it has been. In truth, it's been cold and wet and unpleasant and, as a result, there has been little cycling action. So, now things are changing. Saturday was a lovely day so I kicked myself into gear and headed to Oxted for my usual lolling around the town, sitting in a Caffe Nero, sipping tea and on this occasion reading The Big Midweek: Life Inside the Fall by Steve Hanley. It felt good to be on the bike and I enjoyed riding into Oxted, parking up and sitting on the sofa by the window in the Nero. Of course the ride home eventually beckoned, but it didn't phase me, I just rode off down the high street, along Granville and then along the road that led to Titsey Hill. I can't remember the last time I rode up Titsey but it was just the same effort, I didn't feel in anyway physically challenged or out of condition (even if I know that I am to a certain degree).

I reached home and then, true to form, didn't bother rehydrating myself. Later, on a drive to Westerham and en route to a National Trust property somewhere near Ide Hill in Kent I had to stop at a NISA store and buy a huge 1.5 litre bottle of Evian (Naive spelt backwards). I swigged from it as I drove along, I was that desperate, but eventually I started to feel normal again.

Yes, it's raining in Westerham

Sunday morning, as I sat at my laptop, I checked out the weather on the BBC website and saw the familiar cloud and raindrops emoji; it looked as if I'd get there unscathed but would take a soaking on the return ride. And so it came to pass. Andy (as always) had arrived before me and had almost finished a large cappuccino with soya milk when I arrived. There was a strange old man making himself comfortable when I approached our table and tried to sit down. He was, shall we say, a little odd. He wore an old British Rail hat and great coat, both of which had seen better days and made what could only be described as extremely vague and hard to understand conversation about football, something about Bromley, which neither Andy nor I could get to grips with; Andy managed to say he didn't follow football, which was fair enough, nor do I, and while neither of us believed he was ever going to go, he eventually got up and left us alone.

Andy, quite rightly, berated me for continuing to eat cake - he'd been reading my blog posts about Finland - and while I tried to defend myself, there was no point, he was right and I was wrong. My only defence was that I'd started to ride again: Oxted yesterday, Westerham today. I started to discuss the moment on the plane from Helsinki to London last Sunday when I asked a member of the Finnair cabin crew for a bottle of mineral water. Earlier (as you can read in the previous post) I'd seen her pushing a trolley full of bottles of mineral water towards the front of the plane, but as she passed she ignored me. I had to press the overhead button and suddenly there she was with a look of 'can I help you?' on her face. I asked for a bottle of mineral water and she said she didn't have any. "But I just saw you walk past with a trolley full of the stuff," said I and she told me that was for business class passengers only. She offered me two miniscule paper cups of plane water and I won't say I wasn't affronted. But, as I said to Andy, imagine paying £1,100 for a one-way journey from Helsinki to London (as I was expected to do last Saturday, that was all that was available). Instead, I stayed in Helsinki for another night. Imagine that: I spent another night and I had dinner in the hotel and it was cheaper than flying back business class. As it started to rain outside, Andy and I sat there talking about the lunacy of flying business class, the unnecessary expense of it, and then we moved on to me giving up alcohol and Andy's veganism. It's amazing, said I, how many friends I've lost as a result of giving up drinking. I related the tale of how I suggested to an old mate of mine that we meet for a coffee somewhere, but he was having none of it. "No, let's meet in All Bar One... you can have a lemonade." We didn't meet. People don't like it if you don't drink, I told Andy, and that's because 'drinking' is ingrained. The focal point of all soap operas is a pub, be it the Rovers Return, the Queen Victoria or the Woolpack. Drinking never did me any good and I often wonder if it does anybody any good. Who needs a hangover? Who needs to wake up in the morning wondering whether they'd said something they shouldn't? Who needs to be unable to drive a car? There's no point in it and there's even less of a point to no-alcohol beer, it tastes very bad, compared to the alcoholic variety, and you're better off with a mineral water or an apple juice (as opposed to a no-alcohol cider, although it's debatable whether one is the same as the other). I doubt I'll be drinking again, although that sounds a little indecisive so let's rephrase that: I'll never drink again.

Andy said he gets a little frustrated when people assume that he can't eat certain things. I'd said something like, "Oh, you can't have milk can you?" and he said, "I can have milk, I simply choose not to". Fair point. It reminded me of Detectorists when passers-by asked Andy and Lance, "Are you metal detectors?" and they would reply pointing to their equipment, "No, these are metal detectors, we are metal detectorists."

Outside it was pissing down and the church bells were ringing out, but both of us knew we had to get up and go. We both knew it was going to be unpleasant, but it had to be done. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet up next weekend and then we parted. Andy followed the conventional route out of Westerham and I chose the route that would take me past the Velobarn and then left on to Pilgrims Lane.

"Look, you've just got to grin and bear it," I said to myself under my breath as I cycled along. "It's only around one hour in the saddle and you'll be home." 

To be honest, there was no alternative so I pushed on. It wasn't that bad and that was because it wasn't cold or windy and the rain lightened up, it was more of a persistent drizzle. I knew my clothes were going to be wet through by the time I reached home, but I also knew that there was one part of my attire that would be fine, my shoes. You remember, the waterproof shoes I'd bought on Amazon? I wouldn't have to put them in porch for the next three weeks and wait for them to dry out, just wipe them down and they'd be ready for the ride next week.

I reached home around 1120hrs and once again left the house without hydrating myself. Later, while having lunch in Flower's Farm - it's been extended since Andy and I were last there - the need to have two bottles of mineral water arose, but after that I was fine. We drove home and now here we are watching television and this 'Scooby Doo-alike programme called Outer Banks. Look, it's not high art, we know that, but we find it easy watching and that's the end of it. Until next week...

Random thoughts from Lazyville...

You know when you come across as depressed or down, there's always somebody there to remind you that there are others worse off than you are? Well, there is something flawed about that position as basically it's stating that if, for some reason (or reasons) you're feeling down or depressed or pissed off, that, in reality, you shouldn't be in such a state, that it's wrong, unjustified, unreasonable, and so forth. So, in other words, whatever is bugging you, you shouldn't be depressed or upset or pissed off about it because of old so and so or this or that person who has something 'real' to be worried about. I understand that entirely and I'm sure that everybody who feels a little down or depressed occasionally, knows of somebody who's in a worse position than they are and that those people deserve all the support they can get. Think of those in Ukraine, for example.

I'm in the basement, thinking 'bout the government

I'm feeling aggrieved, depressed, annoyed, angry, pissed off, down and dejected for all sorts of reasons, not least the state of the UK and the awful government which has presided over the country since the days of David Cameron, Britain's third worst Prime Minister next to Boris Johnson and (at the top of the list) Liz Truss. I feel powerless, there's nothing I can do about it and, as I write this, I realise that there are a lot of people in this country who, for want of a better word, (although I realise this will sound very arrogant on my part) are basically ignorant (in my opinion). I'm talking about those who really thought that Boris Johnson was fit to run the country and those who support the current Tory government.

Harry and Meghan 

Then there is all the nonsense surrounding the royal family and in particular Prince Harry and the revelations from his book Spare, which publishes tomorrow. He's really let the side down and for no reason at all. What has he got to moan about in the overall scheme of things? He's got money, he's wealthy, he hasn't got to worry about where the next meal is coming from, he's living in a huge mansion in sunny California, he's married, he has kids and yet he feels the need to moan about his lot when, in the UK at this very moment, there are people who are nowhere near as well off as he struggling to pay their bills, there are people living on the streets and even ordinary, run-of-the-mill people like me dealing with the cost of living crisis, the strikes and so forth.

Why are we all so gullible?

The media is so obsessed with Harry and Meghan because they know that their stories will sell newspapers, it's that simple. And why is that? Because of the gullibility of the British people and, indeed, the people of the world who lap this sort of stuff up, particularly women for some reason who like nothing more than a gossip over a cup of coffee. There's nothing worse than gullibility. Why are we all so gullible? Why are we happy to go out on the days leading up to Christmas to buy stuff from shops, at extortionate prices, and then, a day after 'the big day' the shops that sold us that stuff are suddenly selling things (and the stuff we bought) at up to 60% off? There was I yesterday looking at the goods on offer in a clothes shop in Sevenoaks, a place where I had bought an expensive jumper only a matter of weeks ago, only to discover that everything in the store was now far, far cheaper. Ironically, the jumper I bought was still the same price. Perhaps next year just a small present to put under the tree (for the sake of appearances) and then a return trip to the shop (and others like it) a few days after Christmas to get greater value for money, perhaps two jumpers for the price of one and so on. But no, everybody is gullible. I wonder how many people will buy that awful book by Prince Harry? 

Looking out from Sheree's in Tatsfield Village, 8 January 2023

Cost of living crisis

The cost of living crisis is a nuisance. Every time I go out I have to fill up with petrol, restaurants are now charging extortionate prices (I say 'restaurants' when I mean cafes, snack bars, traditionally low-spend establishments). Tea at almost £3 a cup, sandwiches for around £8 - with a sad-looking salad garnish and some crisps so we all think the high prices are justified. Rail fares are going up. Can you believe that? All of last week there were no trains and we've all been inconvenienced, but they have the audacity to put up the fares, which are already extortionate. Once the weather improves and the evenings get lighter I'm going to ride to work like I did last summer, except I'll start earlier this year and make the most of it. I've bought waterproof trousers and shoes and there's nothing stopping me but my own lack of motivation, which is probably exacerbated by a lack of exercise brought on by the bad weather, those endorphins need to be stimulated but instead I'm sheltering from the rain.

Pot of tea at Sheree's in Tatsfield

Sunday 8th January 2022

Well, not today! Yesterday (Saturday 7th January) I'd checked the iphone weather app and realised that today (Sunday 8th January) there was a window of dryness that would enable Andy and I to get out there and ride the bikes. Now, it's worth pointing out that unlike me, Andy has continued riding throughout the bad weather using his trusty trainer in his garage. I should buy one too but I'm not sure it would provide me with much more motivation than a real bike to get out there and exercise despite what Andy says about how he warms up fairly quickly and even has to shed clothes as his exercise continues. I'm sure that's true. In fact, I know it is because whenever I jump on a stationary bike in a hotel gym I leave the place drenched in my own sweat. It works. But going out into a cold garage on a cold day is not easy and Andy understands this and it's good to know that somebody has my back and wants me to keep fit. Believe me, that means a lot. And the options are there: start swimming, by a trainer device, buy an exercise bike and put it in the conservatory, ride the Nobbler of an evening, all six miles of it, rain or shine, hot or cold. The easiest is the latter and the crucial ingredient is, of course, motivation. The best thing, of course, would be if the bad weather lifted, like it did this morning. I'll say this, I've felt on top of the world today and I put that down to the ride, the exercise. Remember: my last ride prior to this morning was Boxing Day. Something has to be done and Andy's right to bring it up. The other problem, of course, is the dark. If I opt to ride to work (and believe me I've seriously considered it for tomorrow (Monday 9th January) it will mean riding in the dark and that in turn will mean charging up my lights (both of which are USB-chargeable). Then all I need is some high-Viz clothing, but the lights should be enough. Am I going to ride to work in the morning? No, I'm not, but I might just get on the bike and ride the Nobbler when I get back home. It's no more than 35 minutes of hell and then I'll be back in the house with around six miles under my belt and that lovely feeling of achievement.

Tuesday 10 January 2022

It's Tuesday night, it's raining and I haven't been out since Sunday. I've checked out gym/swim membership at a leisure centre close to where I work, it's £34/month, not bad when you consider I could spend £8 per day on lunches, totalling £45 in a week, so if I take sandwiches then I save and can spend the money on the membership. But will I go? Or won't I? I might start off with all the good intentions, but then things will fall by the wayside and I'll stop, like most people do. I might not, of course, and if I can go just three times a week (and throw in a couple of lunch time swims while I'm at it) then it could be worthwhile. And when the days brighten I can ride to work and all will be well with the world. I might not need the membership for more than a couple of months. Either way I need to act, perhaps tomorrow, or the day after, I can't do anything as it's Tuesday night, it's 1919hrs and I'm waiting for dinner. I'm hungry. I've already eaten a toasted Marmite sandwich, two slices of toast and honey, one hot cross bun and that's all because I only had a peanut butter sandwich for lunch and a cup of tomato and basil soup. I don't know why I ate so much on coming through the door, but I did and, fortunately, that hot cross bun has done the trick. I won't eat any more until dinner is ready, in about 40 minutes or so (chilli con carne with rice). Then I'll be fine, I'll probably have my Snore & Peace tea, watch the box (or read) and then hit the sack.

Another ride to the bus stop...to discuss freedom

I wasn't expecting to ride anywhere today as rain had been predicted by the weathermen, but this morning it was fine, albeit a little cloudy. I was running a late, but not by much, and when I reached the green, Andy and I decided that another ride to the Tatsfield bus stop was all that was open to us.

There was nothing untoward about the outward journey other than a VW Golf driving on the wrong side of the road in order to overtake the car in front of it and basically heading straight for Andy and me. It was one of those moments when we found ourselves lost for words and lost for anything other than to look upon the situation with an open mouths, expressing nothing but incredulity.

"Was he deliberately aiming for us?" I asked Andy, who was equally confused.
"I don't think so, he was overtaking," he replied,  but there was an element of both shock and surprise at the situation that had briefly unfolded. Still, these things are sent to try us, we thought, as we ploughed on along the 269, past Botley Hill and down towards the bus stop.

My bike resting against a tree adjacent to Sanderstead pond.

When we reached our destination the conversation focused on freedom. We all regard, say, motorcycling and pushbike riding as offering the rider a sense of freedom and, yes, that's true; being on the open road, the wind in our hair, the freedom to stop and start whenever we wanted to and so forth, offers a great, liberated feeling that I'm sure other activities also offer. Sailing, perhaps, would be another freedom-inducing pastime, but then so is walking through the countryside, a stroll on an deserted beach, anything that takes the participant away from the stresses and strains of everyday life and offers a sense of escape from the drudgery of paying bills and going to work.

Is there such a thing as freedom of speech, freedom of expression or, indeed, freedom in general? It was at this point that we discussed those who, at face value, show the rest of us that there is such a thing as real freedom and that all you need to do is get out there. Think Mike Carter in his books Uneasy Rider and One Man and His Bike or Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman in their books and films entitled Long Way Round and Long Way Down – they, with the help of the media, set out to prove that true freedom is out there (but only if you have money to burn and little in the way of responsibilities). Or, perhaps, you have responsibilities, but you also have enough money – or the wherewithal to make money, lots of money, from your freedom-inducing activities. Cue book deals and film rights.

Now, I won't moan too much about the way the media tries to fool everybody into thinking that it's possible to simply up sticks and cycle around the country or, indeed, the world, with your dog on a specially-built plinth over the rear wheel of your bicycle; OR the way it makes you think that it's possible to be cycling to work one fine morning and then deciding, on a whim, to simply ride on past the office and embark upon a six-month journey of discovery cycling around the coast of Great Britain. I've said enough about this in past posts.

Sanderstead pond in the rain, Sunday 26 July 2015

So Andy and I are sitting at the Tatsfield bus stop looking out towards the road and watching the odd Lycra monkey ride by and I suddenly realise how we're all basically prisoners, slaves, to the society that supports us and that the media's role in all this is to hoodwink us all into thinking that we are perfectly free to do whatever we want; this is, after all, a 'free' country. Or is it?

"What would happen if you were cycling to the office and just kept pedalling past?" Yes, I know, I've mentioned this quote before; it's from the back cover of Mike Carter's excellent book One Man and His Bike – and we all know that Mike didn't 'just keep pedalling past' – otherwise he'd have been sacked. He had arranged everything prior to leaving, he was earning money through writing a column for The Guardian and, well, he simply didn't exist in the same world he might have existed in IF he had simply decided en route to the office, "Oh, sod this for a game of soldiers, I'm going to cycle around the coast of Great Britain instead."

I started to think about what would really happen. Say, for example, that this morning I'd decided, on reaching the Tatsfield bus stop, that I was simply going to ride further, not go home, not go to the office tomorrow, but continue cycling east towards the coast – I don't know, Margate, Sandwich, Deal, Broadstairs, wherever I happened to end up.

Let's take it step-by-step: first the immediate practicalities and the rows and upset that would be caused when I phoned home and announced that I wouldn't be coming home for, well, a few months. "What do you mean? You've got work tomorrow! You'll get the sack! And what are you going to do for money?"

That, of course, would be the big sticking point. What WOULD I do for money? I'm already up to my eyeballs in debt, I have no disposable income whatsoever – even if I was solvent – and I'm leaving a family back home with possibly just one more pay cheque to last them the month. Except it won't last them because the moment we're paid, we're in debt and living off an overdraft that is costing us dearly in terms of interest.

Let's assume, just for the hell of it that I did think ahead – just a little bit. I bought a tent from Halfords to enable me to camp in the woods or the fields or at camp sites. Even though there's no money in the bank, I'd have a tent and that's it. Sadly, however, 'wild camping' is against the law in England so I'd either have to break the law (I would definitely break the law) or pay for campsites with money I simply don't have.

Then there's the matter of sustenance: food and drink. I reckon I could survive on an M&S sandwich (or equivalent) for lunch with, perhaps, an apple or a banana, but that's not going to be cheap – let's say a fiver. Then there's dinner. I'll need at least one hot meal a day and it won't come cheap and when there's no money, it'll have to be cheap, which means nutritionally suspect. I won't have any means of cooking myself (unless I buy a camping stove, which might prove cheaper in the long run as I can cook fresh food, which would be cheaper than eating out even in the most down at heel 'caff') but it's going to mean additional weight and who said I had the money to buy a stove? If I ate out every night (not really an option) I'd have to limit myself to a tenner per meal, meaning my daily outgoings of roughly £15 would make my monthly bill just under £500. But this figure doesn't take into account potential problems with the bike. Alright, punctures are pretty cheap to fix, thanks to Leeches, but anything else (gears, brakes, wheels) would cost money that I don't have and this would leave me scuppered early on as I couldn't afford to fix the bike, especially once the money really dries up and the phrase 'refer to bank' stares back at me from a cash machine.

So I'd need to earn money on my way around the country, which means there would be long periods of standing still, living rough in a tent and working, say, in a pub. I might, perhaps, be holed up working somewhere for a month and then a situation might exist where I'm riding one month and working the next – one month on, one month off. And who's to say what would be happening on other fronts? My family would certainly be in touch to ask where I am, when I'm returning home and how the hell are they going to survive without me there earning money? My office would be in touch either to sack me or to ask me if I was considering returning to work any time soon. All of this aggravation would be pre-occupying me to say the least, making my cycling a little tense, a little uneasy. In short, I really would be an Uneasy Rider.

And who's to say the police wouldn't be involved? Back home bills would be mounting up, the power would be cut off and let's not forget my mobile phone account. Soon I would be completely off the radar and unreachable by anybody other than those who might have an idea where I'd be heading, but there would be nobody (apart from Andy) who would hold that knowledge as the whole 'adventure' was based on a whim. Remember the line? "What would happen if you were cycling to the office [or in my case the Tatsfield bus stop] and just kept on pedalling past?"

I couldn't even go on benefits because the Government has tightened things up and while there are people out there who know how to work the system, I'm not one of them. The best I could do to survive (apart from finding somebody who knew how to work the system) would be the aforementioned 'one month on, one month off' scenario of casual labour one month followed by a month on the road, living rough in a tent, doing a spot of 'wild camping', surviving on pre-packaged sandwiches during the day and one hot evening meal using the money I've made in the pub, or cooking something on a camping stove – and what's the guarantee I'll find work at the end of my month of cycling – unless I strike some kind of deal with a national pub chain?

In short, we realised, as we finished our tea and BelVita biscuits, that there was no such thing as true freedom, that all of us (let's make that 'most of us') are shackled to something – 'responsibilities' – and limited by a lack of funds that need to be replenished in order to survive. Most of us work to live, some of us live to work, but either way, if you just walk out of the rat race you won't last for long as the practicalities of life will gate crash your party, and if you wanted to ride around the coast of Great Britain or jump on a powerful motorcycle and ride around the world in any direction, you can't simply 'pedal past the office' and keep on going... unless you have the funds and the wherewithal to simply jump off the carousel of life in full knowledge that nothing much will have changed when you eventually return to the fold.

It started to rain and it was time to mount the bikes and ride home. We packed up our stuff, jumped on our steeds and, as the rain intensified, we accepted the sad fact that nobody was truly free. In short, the vast majority of us are prisoners, confined by a lack of wealth and a sense of responsibility for others. So much for Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, so much for Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, so much for road movies, so much for escapism... it all comes at a price that many of us simply can't afford.

On a lighter note, the photographs accompanying this post are of Sanderstead Pond. I'd taken a shot at the Tatsfield bus stop just prior to departure, but it was over-exposed thanks to somebody back home changing the camera's settings without me knowing. By the time I reached Sanderstead the heavens had opened, but I braved the elements to take these shots, which are not over-exposed... unlike yours truly who was well and truly over-exposed to the rain, which continued for the most of the day and only brightened up around 4pm when the sun made an impromptu appearance.

A total wash-out...

Just in case you were wondering, the weekend – last weekend – was a total wash-out. It rained almost constantly throughout Saturday and Sunday so there was no cycling. Andy wasn't planning on going Saturday, but it was pouring down outside so I didn't go either. Sunday? Rain. On and off all day. The weather has been like that: one minute sunshine, the next rain and it's set to continue. Outside now (on 2 May 2012 at 0713hrs) it's grey and a little blustery. Compare this year with last year when we had summer-like conditions throughout April and May.

That's it. What's in the news? Briefly: Rupert Murdoch has been described as unfit to run a huge media organisation like News International. I agree. There's loads of other news, but right now I've got to go to work.

Andy's not going cycling (with me) this weekend. He's off to cycle, largely off road, on the South Downs Way. Expect photos soon. I'll endeavour to drum up the enthusiasm to go alone, or I might meet up with Jon. Or, of course, a mixture of the two.

Avoided a soaking this morning...

Saturday 7 May: Sitting in the conservatory early on a Saturday morning is part of my routine. Ever since we've been cycling, I've sat here, on the computer, checking emails, sipping tea and generally enjoying an hour or so of chilling and waking myself up slowly.

Over the past few weeks, the weather here in the UK has been fantastic and, if you check out recent posts, you'll see the evidence: blue skies, sunshine – simply amazing.

Today, however, things are different. When I first looked out of the window, it looked promising, but grey clouds were gathering and then there was a spit or two of rain. After a short while it got heavier and now, as I write this, it's coming down in buckets.

I sent a text to Andy when it was just spitting and we thought we'd go for Botley Hill, but then it got heavier, so I sent another text and we aborted. The heavy rain has reached Andy as I then received a text saying he was glad we'd aborted the ride.

Looking out there now, it's pretty unpleasant, but the fact that we avoided a soaking is paramount as I couldn't face it after the recent bout of sunshine. Hopefully, we'll go tomorrow – weather permitting.