Sometimes I have trouble with cycling on a Saturday morning, especially during the winter months. I think it's got a lot to do with having worked all week and wanting a lie in; although, just a later start would sort things out. Still, I got up, looked out of the window (hoping it might be raining so I could crawl back in to bed) and then got dressed for the ride. I checked my phone (perhaps Andy had aborted) and then, all that was between me and the cold air was a puncture, but both tyres were as hard as rock.
I was running late. I couldn't find the balaclava. This could have been a big issue as I've been wearing it on every ride and couldn't face the cold without it. In fact, it was likely to be an 'abort' issue. After rummaging around in the cupboard, getting, it has to be said, a little annoyed, I found it and basically, bar that potential for a puncture, had to ride the bike. But the faffing around had cost me dear and I wasn't going to reach the green until 0745hrs. When I got there I was still weary and dreading a long ride. Andy was tired too so my suggestion of St Leonard's Church was welcomed and we headed off on the two-mile ride (it can't be much further). I reckon, in total, it was a 12-mile ride, but 'that'll do pig' I thought to myself.
The weather was fine. It had been raining heavily overnight and there were some massive puddles, in some places spanning the road. I rode slowly through the first one and, indeed, the second, and on the return ride there were two cars coming in the opposite direction. I slowed to avoid a soaking. Andy had already gone through. The second car slowed and I waited. Then I rode through the water, the bike slowing as I reached the middle. There were waves, caused by the car, which made the whole thing childishly exciting. Normally, when I see a large puddle, I wish I had a small clockwork motorboat, but, as always, I leave it at home.
When we reached our destination we chatted about our early rides and our inability to grasp the fact that having a puncture repair kit in our rucksack would have been a good idea now and then. We reminisced on our long walks from Westerham to Oxted pushing our bikes along the street listening to the squelchy sound of a flat tyre. In those days we only rode to Westerham, 22 miles in total and we used to stand outside the Co-op eating a Danish pastry, but we didn't have any tea as we hadn't worked out that we could bring a flask with us and sit somewhere, like the small bench next to the Co-op, chilling out.
The churchyard at St Leonard's is pretty sparse and damp. There was a recently made grave that still needed its headstone and all we could hear was the sound of paper rustling, the paper the contained the flowers. Graveyards always bring it home to me, my mortality, and thinking back just 13 years made me realise how long Andy and I had been doing this, getting up at 0600hrs every Saturday and Sunday morning, rain or shine most of the time.
"When I look at some of the photos my hair was blacker," I said. "I suppose I could always dye it."
We joked about it, although it was never something I'd considered. What's best, I often wonder, being bald or being grey? I suppose it has to be the latter because I could always resort to dyeing my grey hair, but if I was bald I'd have to get a wig.
As we stood around sipping tea, a robin arrived and flitted nervously from branch to branch of the bushes behind our chosen bench. It was too wet to sit down so I set about trying to take a photograph of the robin with my iphone. Andy tried with his camera, but the bird kept its distance and eventually hopped off.
"It's strange the way it all happened. A curry in Whyteleafe, a suggestion that we go for a ride at the weekend and we haven't stopped since, it's been 13 years," I said.
It had been six years since Phil started riding with us and for the past two or three years we've not seen nor heard from him. I often wonder if he's still riding. "For Phil it was therapy," I said as we started to pack things away and consider the shortish ride home. It was nice not being far, far away and it was nice not to be contemplating the dangers of the 269.
Andy rode all the way to the green where we parted company, vowing to meet on Sunday, weather permitting.
As it turned out the weather was fine and as it was Sunday and the sun was shining we headed for the bus stop. The thought of Beddlestead Lane dragged me down as always, but not for long. Overnight there had been heavy rain and those puddles from yesterday were even bigger than before. The big puddle on Church Lane was deep and as I rode through it my left foot was completely submerged and remained wet throughout the rest of the ride.
Riding side-by-side along Beddlestead Lane Andy asked an interesting question. "I wonder what the media will find to talk about now that the election is over."
I couldn't think of anything and instead suggested that there would probably be a natural disaster, like a tsunami or something to focus their minds. "What about that volcano in New Zealand?" I said.
The conversation edged round to adrenaline junkies. "I've never been interested in anything like that," I said as we passed the totem pole, riding side-by-side, and made our way towards the mobile phone mast and the final straight towards Clarks Lane. And that's when Andy said he'd jumped out of a plane and had bungee-jumped half a dozen times. The parachute jump was a two-day affair over at Headcorn in Kent. Day one in training learning how to land and then the jump from around 2,000 feet. The bungee jumping was with a pal who bottled out at the last minute, but not Andy.
At the bus stop we engaged in less dangerous activities, like flicking teabags off the end of a teaspoon and watching the Lycra monkeys with their luminous overshoes as they passed by heading east on Clarks Lane or west towards Botley Hill.
On the return ride I joined Andy on the route through Woldingham. Sometimes I can't face the 269 and even the hill on Slines Oak Road seemed like a better bet. I reached home just before 1000hrs.
I was running late. I couldn't find the balaclava. This could have been a big issue as I've been wearing it on every ride and couldn't face the cold without it. In fact, it was likely to be an 'abort' issue. After rummaging around in the cupboard, getting, it has to be said, a little annoyed, I found it and basically, bar that potential for a puncture, had to ride the bike. But the faffing around had cost me dear and I wasn't going to reach the green until 0745hrs. When I got there I was still weary and dreading a long ride. Andy was tired too so my suggestion of St Leonard's Church was welcomed and we headed off on the two-mile ride (it can't be much further). I reckon, in total, it was a 12-mile ride, but 'that'll do pig' I thought to myself.
The weather was fine. It had been raining heavily overnight and there were some massive puddles, in some places spanning the road. I rode slowly through the first one and, indeed, the second, and on the return ride there were two cars coming in the opposite direction. I slowed to avoid a soaking. Andy had already gone through. The second car slowed and I waited. Then I rode through the water, the bike slowing as I reached the middle. There were waves, caused by the car, which made the whole thing childishly exciting. Normally, when I see a large puddle, I wish I had a small clockwork motorboat, but, as always, I leave it at home.
 |
| There's a robin in there somewhere! |
When we reached our destination we chatted about our early rides and our inability to grasp the fact that having a puncture repair kit in our rucksack would have been a good idea now and then. We reminisced on our long walks from Westerham to Oxted pushing our bikes along the street listening to the squelchy sound of a flat tyre. In those days we only rode to Westerham, 22 miles in total and we used to stand outside the Co-op eating a Danish pastry, but we didn't have any tea as we hadn't worked out that we could bring a flask with us and sit somewhere, like the small bench next to the Co-op, chilling out.
The churchyard at St Leonard's is pretty sparse and damp. There was a recently made grave that still needed its headstone and all we could hear was the sound of paper rustling, the paper the contained the flowers. Graveyards always bring it home to me, my mortality, and thinking back just 13 years made me realise how long Andy and I had been doing this, getting up at 0600hrs every Saturday and Sunday morning, rain or shine most of the time.
"When I look at some of the photos my hair was blacker," I said. "I suppose I could always dye it."
We joked about it, although it was never something I'd considered. What's best, I often wonder, being bald or being grey? I suppose it has to be the latter because I could always resort to dyeing my grey hair, but if I was bald I'd have to get a wig.
As we stood around sipping tea, a robin arrived and flitted nervously from branch to branch of the bushes behind our chosen bench. It was too wet to sit down so I set about trying to take a photograph of the robin with my iphone. Andy tried with his camera, but the bird kept its distance and eventually hopped off.
"It's strange the way it all happened. A curry in Whyteleafe, a suggestion that we go for a ride at the weekend and we haven't stopped since, it's been 13 years," I said.
It had been six years since Phil started riding with us and for the past two or three years we've not seen nor heard from him. I often wonder if he's still riding. "For Phil it was therapy," I said as we started to pack things away and consider the shortish ride home. It was nice not being far, far away and it was nice not to be contemplating the dangers of the 269.
Andy rode all the way to the green where we parted company, vowing to meet on Sunday, weather permitting.
As it turned out the weather was fine and as it was Sunday and the sun was shining we headed for the bus stop. The thought of Beddlestead Lane dragged me down as always, but not for long. Overnight there had been heavy rain and those puddles from yesterday were even bigger than before. The big puddle on Church Lane was deep and as I rode through it my left foot was completely submerged and remained wet throughout the rest of the ride.
Riding side-by-side along Beddlestead Lane Andy asked an interesting question. "I wonder what the media will find to talk about now that the election is over."
I couldn't think of anything and instead suggested that there would probably be a natural disaster, like a tsunami or something to focus their minds. "What about that volcano in New Zealand?" I said.
The conversation edged round to adrenaline junkies. "I've never been interested in anything like that," I said as we passed the totem pole, riding side-by-side, and made our way towards the mobile phone mast and the final straight towards Clarks Lane. And that's when Andy said he'd jumped out of a plane and had bungee-jumped half a dozen times. The parachute jump was a two-day affair over at Headcorn in Kent. Day one in training learning how to land and then the jump from around 2,000 feet. The bungee jumping was with a pal who bottled out at the last minute, but not Andy.
At the bus stop we engaged in less dangerous activities, like flicking teabags off the end of a teaspoon and watching the Lycra monkeys with their luminous overshoes as they passed by heading east on Clarks Lane or west towards Botley Hill.
On the return ride I joined Andy on the route through Woldingham. Sometimes I can't face the 269 and even the hill on Slines Oak Road seemed like a better bet. I reached home just before 1000hrs.
