Totally wired...

 "Legends were born surrounding mysterious lights, seen in the sky, flashing". I've been listening to Jethro Tull in the car on a trip over to Sutton to see mum. Passion Play was the only track I could listen to again and again, I kept pressing the repeat button in between trying to drive the car. I love those lyrics in quotes for some reason and, oddly, I remember there used to be an ad on television back in the seventies for the Passion Play album. Strange.

Covid left the building a few days ago and we're all testing negative. Last Sunday was an amazing day. We were all 'allowed' to be out and about so we drove to Wakehurst Place for a long walk in the winter sunshine. It was amazing. In fact, it was an amazing day all round, which kicked off with a ride to Westerham to meet Andy. I was wondering how I would perform on that ride and it was alright, although I need to get my act together in terms of exercise and diet, the latter is becoming a problem as I appear to be addicted to crap: chocolates, cake, the usual vices, but it simply must stop. Up until going down with Covid, I was doing well: cycling daily - or almost daily - and then riding on Saturday and Sunday. But going down with the virus put a stop to all that. For two weeks I felt a little weary and decided not to ride anywhere until I was allowed to go out. So, two weeks of no exercise, although I managed a lone walk on one or two occasions, roaming the streets after dark in the cold, although it wasn't that chilly.

This has got to stop, but the cake is far worse, and the chocolate bars

It was good to get out on the bike and it was great seeing Andy again. The ride was perfect all the way, there and back, but it was the only ride I was going to do; all week I didn't ride, despite having planned to get out there. I don't know why, but I simply didn't have the motivation. Instead I made myself comfortable in front of the television. On the diet front I found myself nipping down to Tesco Express solely to buy a Wispa Gold. On a walk home from Purley railway station, on two occasions, I bought Wispas, and on one occasion two cinnamon buns (I ate both). You can see I'm having a problem.

Last week's bowl of coffee and Millionaire's shortbread

My growing addiction to coffee is a problem too, cappuccino to be precise. During the week, while in a place called Amersham in Buckinghamshire - a strange place full of rich people who, for some reason, I think are unhappy - I found a Costa Coffee inside an enormous Tesco. Why Amersham has a huge Tesco and not a massive Waitrose, I don't know, but Tesco it is and I was foolish enough to order a large one. A large one! And when I say 'large' I mean enormous. It was huge. So huge that it required two handles instead of one, I was drinking a kind of cappuccino soup and it was doing me no favours whatsoever, as I found out later in the evening. I made matters worse by eating two, yes, two, and then, as time progressed I noticed that I was pretty wired. Over a dinner I was almost holding on to the table, trying to keep my head together. I was tanked up with caffeine and sugar and it would continue into the night. I went to bed around midnight but didn't get to sleep until 0200hrs, but then I woke up again at 0500hrs and then I awoke at 0700hrs, took a shower (a luke warm shower) and then hit the breakfast room, feeling a little weary. I had a full English, plus Alpen, two pastries, a yoghurt, two slices of toast and a glass of fresh orange juice. That kind of did the trick. The hotel was in Old Amersham, a 25-minute downhill walk from the station, meaning just one thing: I'd have to endure a 25-miniute uphill walk to catch a train home.

Cake, cake and more cake, it's got to stop

On the train home I did little but stare out of the window at the passing countryside and then, along with a colleague, I crossed London to Victoria where I took a train home. As I write this, it's Saturday. I should have gone for a ride this morning, but I didn't, although I'm 'getting there' and by that I mean that the bad habits of the past fortnight or so are on my radar, and that's a good thing. It means that I'm aware of what I'm doing and I need to stop the cakes, the biscuits, the cappuccino and so on. Today, for example, I drove to a place called Trading Boundaries where I consumed not only a sausage roll and a bowl of butternut squash soup with bread, but also a slice of coffee and pecan nut cake and, yes, a cappuccino. If that was not enough, earlier, while filling up with petrol, I purchased a sneaking Wispa Gold and kept it secret. Later, on that drive to Sutton mentioned earlier, I decided that I would enjoy the chocolate bar with a cup of tea round at mum's. I followed up with two milk chocolate digestives and then headed home listening to Jethro Tull.

There's a track on the Tull album called Fat Man and I reproduce the lyrics here as they seem kind of appropriate:-

Don't want to be a fat man

People would think that I was just good fun, man

Would rather be a thin man

I am so glad to go on being one, man

Too much to carry around with you

No chance of finding a woman, who

Will love you in the morning and all the nighttime too

Don't want to be a fat man

Have not the patience to ignore all that

Hate to admit to myself

I thought my problems came from being fat

Won't waste my time feeling sorry for him

I've seen the other side to being thin

Roll us both down a mountain and I'm sure the fat man would win

Gears fixed so we head for Westerham and I ride to mum's...

The bike is back. I strolled down to the bike shop on Friday afternoon to pick it up and, true to their word, it was £65. I was half expecting them to say something along the lines of 'we couldn't fix it without an X or a Y and that's an extra £20', but no, it was £65. I bought a pair of handle grips as one of my old Jack Shit grips had disintegrated completely and the other one was well on the way to a similar fate. At present, however, there's one bright yellow and brand spanking new grip on the right hand side and the old Jack Shit grip on the left.

Westerham shopkeepers get into the festive spirit

As Andy and I remarked as we rode out of Westerham on Saturday morning, if something's called Jack Shit it has to be worth buying.

One thing about taking bikes into repair shops is they never seem to come out the same as when they went in – obviously they're fixed rather than broken, but there's always something different about the ride quality; it's a bit like going to hospital for us humans: things are never quite the same (and sometimes we don't come out, let's not forget that either). The bike seemed heavier to me, leading me to wonder whether the new block was higher geared than the old one. It's harder work and while the gears are virtually as smooth as Larry as a result of the new block and the new chain, I've still had a couple of incidents involving the pedals slipping. In fact, they slipped on Sunday morning as I was crossing the Brighton Road and my left calf is grazed as a result. In other words, it wasn't a completely faultless job.

I'm both amazed and indignant. When I last took my bike to Halford's, for instance (some two years ago and it hasn't been back since) they messed with the front forks and now the bike bounces about all over the place. The fact of the matter is you simply can't trust anybody but yourself and if I had the time and, more importantly, the knowledge, I'd fix the bike myself. At least that way I'd only have myself to blame. But enough moaning.

To Westerham – where a miserable Christmas tree awaits us
Andy and I met at the usual time at the usual place and resolved to ride to Westerham, although, for some reason, it was a sluggish ride that seemed to be taking ages and there was no reason for this. We'd both left the green pretty promptly, we were talking too much and we hadn't stopped for any reason, but either way we didn't reach Westerham until around 0820 hours, a good 20 minutes later than usual, something we simply resigned ourselves to as we reached for the tea and biscuits.

Westerham's miserable-looking tree

Westerham is very festive. There's a Christmas tree on the green but it's not in anyway decorated, which makes it a bit miserable, although local shopkeepers are getting into the spirit of things, even if it is only 29 November. Why, I wonder, is everybody buying Christmas trees and thinking ahead to the festive season so early? Alright, the shops are doing their usual thing at this time of year – starting up the unnecessary hype – but the general populus appears to be joining in too. Later in the day I saw people buying Christmas trees from B&Q where Christmas carols were booming out on the sound system and I couldn't help but wonder what state those trees will be in on Christmas morning.

We normally buy our tree on or around 15th December, the weekend after my birthday. Buying the tree is a jolly affair: driving to the garden centre; choosing the tree and then ferrying it home ahead of a mildly stressful half hour of fixing it in place, realising it's bigger than we'd hoped and then trying to find somewhere in the house where it doesn't obstruct the television. There's always a moment where the dreaded 'next year we're having an artificial tree' is brought up, but I always counter this with the house rule: real fire – artificial tree; artificial fire (we call it the hairdryer) – real tree. Somehow I think we'll always be having a real tree.

Andy and I found ourselves having the 'why go abroad?' conversation, which led to reminiscing about childhood holidays by the sea and then, later than usual, we headed out of town towards the dreaded Westerham Hill. Andy joined me for the length of the 269 and we parted at Warlingham Green. I reached home at just gone 10am, a good 20 minutes to half an hour later than usual, and there was no real explanation for it: we were just slower than normal for no particular reason.

Sunday – out in the fog on a ride to mum's
There was, as always, a strong temptation simply not to go cycling when Andy says he can't make it. I could have remained in bed and not bothered, but that would have been wrong and besides, I'd enjoyed a good seven hours' sleep – uninterrupted – and woke up at just past 0600hrs. Yes, I could have stayed there, but I didn't. I got up, made a cup of tea, a boiled egg and porridge and then, after a few minutes' consideration, decided to deliver Christmas cards to mum using the bike.

Yesterday's weather was characterised by dramatic skies and fairly high temperatures for the time of year – it was warm, not cold. Behind the high cloud we could clearly see wonderful blue skies – great flying weather, I thought. Today there was fog. Thick fog – bad flying weather. It was like a scene from a Dickens novel or something involving Jack the Ripper. I headed out around 0830hrs and enjoyed a pleasant urban ride heading in the usual direction, reaching mum's around 0900hrs (possibly just after) and enjoying a cup of tea and a rest before walking into Sutton (a 20-minute hike) to retrieve a USB stick from Boot's the chemist.

A misty start to Sunday morning

I haven't walked to Sutton for ages, not from mum's at any rate, and it reminded me of times past. Walking along Westmead Road I passed the street in which we last resided and then the row of shops we would have used on a regular basis. It all looked a little run-down if I'm honest. A shop we once knew as 'the paraffin shop', because you could buy paraffin (what is parrafin?) there, was now a Thai restaurant, but there's nothing worse than a restaurant with letters missing from its name – if they're that slovenly with their fascia, what hope for the food?

The wine shop (as dad used to call it) has gone. It used to be called the Four Vintners and whenever we purchased a bottle of red wine for Sunday lunch (when I used to live at home with mum and dad and my brother and sister, Jon and Crissy) the man who ran the shop would wrap the bottle in a fine while paper – something that wine shops (alright, 'off licences') don't seem to do anymore: nowadays it's a flimsy plastic bag). Then, a few doors up, there was Beale's the butcher – a friendly man with a glass eye who would always ask "freezer bag?" before handing over my pound of minced beef (or whatever else I might have bought).

Further along the road is the Lord Nelson pub, a Young's house that used to be run by landlord Alex who used to front a jazz band called Nelson's Column – you see the link? Lord Nelson? Nelson's Column? He used to play the trombone and when it was time to close the pub, he'd bring it out and play it badly until everyone had knocked back their last drink and made tracks to go home. There are loads of great stories to tell about the Lord Nelson, although we called The Nelson. One thing I'll always remember was the handful of the regulars who looked like famous people: we had Malcolm Allison, the old manager of Crystal Palace; Fred Astaire as he appeared in the disaster movies; and somebody who looked like John Wayne. There was also an old man without a chin. Apparently it was shot off in the First World War and, as a result, he had to drink his beer through a thick rubber straw.

Alex used to stand behind the bar with a six-inch nail, scraping the wax from his ear and saying, "Well I think we need a government of national unity."

It was a pub full of Irish builders and was one of the last to have a public bar where the beer was a few pence cheaper than in the saloon – it was full of ragged trousered philantropists who enjoyed a pint or two, normally with a whisky chaser and there were often people staggering about outside wearing gravy-stained suits. What more can I say? It was and still is a great pub, although the public bar has since gone and I'm sure John Wayne, Fred Astaire and Malcolm Allison aren't around any more – and as for the man with no chin, well, I'm sure he graces a local churchyard somewhere, God rest his soul.

After walking back to mum's I enjoyed another mug of tea and then jumped on the bike and headed for home along the Croydon Road passing the Greyhound, the Duke's Head and the Plough en route and then, after negotiating the traffic at Five Ways I rode up Denning Avenue, past Whitgift School and along the Brighton Road towards home where I enjoyed another cup of tea.

A good weekend's cycling. I covered around 34 miles in total: 22 miles to and from Westerham on Saturday; and approximately 12 miles today. Andy's back next Sunday so I might pay another visit to Sutton next Saturday, but let's see how it goes.

Day seven: Easter Sunday ride to Tatsfield village (roughly 16 miles)

As I write this at 1100hrs there is rain, thunder and lightning disturbing the peace. Rain is hammering down on the roof of the conservatory, thunder claps can be heard overhead and yes, there was even some lightning to illuminate the greyness. Earlier, as Andy and I chewed the fat at the covered bus stop in Tatsfield village, there had been nothing but a mild misty blue air and a dull breeze and when a man passed the time of day with a 'looks like rain, lads' we shrugged it off, confident that we would reach home without getting soaked. And we did, but within 20 minutes of being home, I heard the rain, then the lightning and then thunder. And now, one paragraph in, the rain has stopped as suddenly as it began and there's just the drip, drip, drip of rain, like a dodgy tap – like my dodgy kitchen tap.

The Ship, Tatsfield, Kent early this morning.

Today's ride, my eighth consecutive ride (if you include last Sunday's jaunt to Westerham*) was characterised by empty streets. Everybody, it seemed, was lying in except for Andy and I and a guy in an Aston Martin, not forgetting whoever it was erecting posters for the London Air Show, an event that sounds grander than it actually is. The rain's started up again outside, but it's very bright out there too and I'm told it'll pass over – just as well as I'm planning a drive into darkest Sussex in about an hour from now.

Deserted – Easter Sunday morning on Sanderstead High St.

Let's get back to the London Air Show. I was wondering, as we passed a huge sign for it, whether or not it might be another name for the Biggin Hill Air Show, but I was wrong, this WAS the London Air Show and it was being held in Woldingham, an area not renowned for its airstrips or airports and, in terms of aviation heritage, I can't think of any (Woldingham is garden centre and golf club territory). However, on closer inspection, it became clear that the London Air Show is to the Biggin Hill event what lawnmower racing is to Formula One. To put it bluntly, we're talking about hang gliding and stuff more akin to the Selsey Bird Man competition than anything you might refer to as 'real flying'.

When we reached the village we talked more about Andy's ride to Brighton and back, roughly 80 miles. It was odd that he was complaining about cramps as he's normally not the complaining type. Perhaps, I suggested, it was the different riding position of the racer when compared to the mountain bike. Good point, he said, but the racer was needed to cover the distance in the alloted time. In other words, he'll have to get used to it – and I'm sure he will.

I mentioned that I'd be travelling again shortly to Indianapolis in the USA where, I've discovered, they have just introduced a 'Boris bike' scheme. I emailed those behind it and they said I can buy a 24-hour ticket when I arrive, so expect a few blogposts about riding in Indianapolis in a few weeks' time.

Tatsfield village, incidentally, had been cleaned up since my last visit on Good Friday. The rugby ball and beer cans had disappeared and so had the pint glasses left by the bench near the pond (it's too small, surely, to be called a lake?).

We drank tea, munched our Kellogg's NutraGrain bars – Andy's switched from Jordan's for some reason, but this isn't a complaint – and then we headed off and I began to complain about my Tesco Tearaway tracksuit bottoms; I've been wearing them all week (see photos in all but one of last week's posts). I hate them with a vengeance, they look so untidy, cheap and loutish and are a tad immature too.

The roads on the return journey were as deserted as they were on the way out, hence the image of Sanderstead High Street above. Note the lack of traffic and people. But then this is Easter Sunday in England and people are probably nursing Saturday night hangovers or preparing for a later start than normal. I've also included a shot of the Ship, a pub at the heart of Tatsfield Village, and one I haven't visited for a beer for a long while. The last time I was there they had surfboards with sails hanging on the walls.

Home-made sausages and mash at the White Horse, Sutton, Sussex – lovely!

The rain carried on all day in the end. I drove to one of my favourite pubs, the White Horse, in the middle of the south downs in the heart of Sussex, in the village of Sutton. I've included a photo of my lunch – home-made sausages, mash, kale and carrots, washed down with a pint of one of my favourite brews – Harvey's (an established Sussex brewer in Lewes).

All the way home in the car there was rain so I abandoned a much needed visit to the beach and instead headed home on the A24, which seemed quicker than my usual route along the A29. There was also little point in stopping in Arundel as to do so would have meant getting very wet indeed.

Now, at 1909hrs, there are blue skies and sunshine and I'm told it will continue into Easter Monday, my last day off work. What a truly great week off in all senses of the word: the weather, the cycling, the trips out, you name it, and especially having the entire family at home. A highlight was Max's chicken and leek pie – a worthy meal – and one I hope to enjoy again soon.

* I've been counting my consecutive days of cycling from Monday, separating them from my usual weekend rides and that's why it's Day Seven, although, in reality, by counting last Sunday's ride to Westerham, it's really Day Eight.