Pre-ride ramblings...

There are two early morning worries in my life: one is opening the living room door and finding a wild animal standing there; another is discovering a Brazilian wandering spider when I open a packet of bananas. So far, the wild animal worry is the only one to become reality – I once found a pigeon in the living room. He must have fallen down the chimney. Nothing worse than a pigeon with Father Christmas pretensions. Fortunately, then, no exotic arachnids.

It's 5 degrees outside and a cold spell is promised, but not today. Next week the weather gets nasty apparently, so I'd better dig out the balaclava and the warm jumper. Right now it's warm in the house and I'm listening to Morning Phase by Beck, arguably one of two of the most laid back albums around, the other being Sea Change, also by Beck. Perfect for 0600hrs.

In my dream, I was out there.

Dreams. I've had a few strange ones of late, but sadly they leave only a dim memory of what happened, so dim that there is but a residue, nothing more, when I regain consciousness, today at 0535hrs. I remember bits: waiting, with a work colleague, Martin, for a woman who had come to meet us, somebody we both dealt with in the course of our jobs, but I had not met her before. We were in some kind of venue, possibly a pub, but who could tell? We looked out on the road, we came out of wherever we were and spotted her walking a few yards behind another work colleague, who, for some reason was vaping, spewing clouds of badly scented smoke everywhere. The next thing we knew, the woman was a man and we were interviewing him for a job, which was probably his for the taking, but we had to deal with a few formalities. There was more, but I can't remember any of it, not yet at any rate, perhaps when I'm on the bike and heading for the green, something will jog my memory.

During the week I had a strange dream whilst on the precipice of nodding off, and then waking as a result. I was alone in the sea, roaring foamy waves coming at me, fast, furious waves rolling towards me, one after the other, never a break from the fury, and land nowhere in sight. I turned round and behind me was exactly the same. Frightening. Probably something to do with watching a video of Kate Silverton swimming back to shore from an inflatable boat off the choppy coast of Cornwall.

It turns out that I had two punctures last week, not just one, so I didn't go for a ride on Saturday, more's the pity. I could have forced myself out into the garage around 0600hrs to fix it, but no, too much of a rush first thing in the morning, so I aborted and later discovered I had two punctures. I originally fixed the bike last weekend, around 4pm on Saturday, but by the morning it had deflated and all week it's been that way in the garage, waiting to be fixed, but after a day at work, who wants to go into the garage and fix a puncture, not at this time of year, stuck out there in the dark wishing I was inside. So I fixed it yesterday and discovered that the puncture I'd fixed last week wasn't the problem, I had two to fix, which I did, and hopefully all is well out there. I'm hoping to God that the tyre hasn't deflated as that will mean another 'abort' text to Andy.

Morning Phase continues, the track Blue Moon – they're all good. I first heard Beck's Sea Change in Barista Parlour in Nashville and that led me to discover Morning Phase; they're both similar albums: laid back, smooth, calming, evocative of something, but I know not what, possibly simply great music to listen to around nightfall when the shops are still open, it's getting dark outside and I'm in a coffee shop, possibly one of the last customers of the day, drinking tea and munching on a pastry while reading a book, possibly waiting for a train, who knows? But Beck is playing Something Unforgiven and all is good in a strange but expectant way.

It's almost time to make the tea and prepare to head outside to the garage, but Beck is making things very comfortable here in the living room, although my tea has gone cold as Wave comes out of the speakers, it's worth hanging around for, just for a minute or two, get into the mood of the song, its dramatic strings and haunting, echoey vocal. As I listen I'm reminded of that terrifying dream of the waves and how isolated I felt out there in the rolling surf. I'd better make the tea.

The puncture was still fixed when I checked the bike, having made the tea, packed the rucksack and opened the garage door. It was solid. I rode to the green where, last night, Warlingham's Christmas lights had been officially switched on. The ground was muddier than usual because of the fairground attractions and the many people enjoying the delights of the small fair.

We headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the long way, and chatted about the First World War and how, these days, low respect for the political classes and the establishment generally would probably mean no take-up for a 'call to arms'. Well, I wouldn't fight if Bojo or Gove or Raab or Cameron or Mark Francois suggested I should, especially when I consider the after-care given to wounded soldiers. We hear so much about ex-soldiers on the streets, homeless, and mental health issues. No, thanks.

The weather was good, a little cold on the way out, but bright sunshine and blue skies as we packed up and headed home. I stopped at a garage close to the green and jet-cleaned the bike. Andy and I had parted company at The Ridge and instead of using the off-road path – I didn't want another puncture – I used the road, but in all honesty, I'd rather have a punctured rear tyre than a punctured lung.

Tatsfield Bus Stop – always a safe bet

I discovered, last week (Sunday 13 February) that it wasn't my front brake that was playing up but my rear brake and no, I've done nothing about it since. I had planned to cycle over Andy's way, where there's a bike shop, and get it repaired, but I didn't because I had too much else on, such as passing the magazine for press (which took a week in the end).

Andy at the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Sunday 13 February. His arse was not wet.

In fact, I didn't even get out during the week on my half-hour sprint cycles – until yesterday and by then it was obvious that by not going, I'd slowly become less fit as the week progressed. How do I know? Because towards the end of last week - when I went out every day – I was getting home with three minutes and 27 seconds to spare before the 30-minute alarm was set off. Yesterday, when I ventured out after four days off, the margin had reduced to just one minute and 21 seconds: considerably slower.

After leaving Andy and reaching Botley, I took this rather bleak photograph.

Last Sunday, Andy and I had gone to the Tatsfield bus top, a place that is rapidly becoming our default destination. It's a good 16-mile round trip and we can enjoy our tea and cereal bars in all weathers. Which brings me to the subject of my arse. Yes, my arse. My cold, wet and uncomfortable arse that makes it impossible for me to sit down. I can't bear the thought or the feeling of sitting down with a wet bottom and, for this reason alone, I'm considering mudguards. Yes, cosmetic surgery for the bike, the dirt jumper, and another sign, perhaps, that maturity is beginning to take over as it does when you have a 'sensible haircut' or buy 'sensible shoes'. I know that my bike was not the 'sensible' choice, but by shoving on some mudguards, it gains a bit of the mundane – and I get to have a dry arse!

Anyway, I haven't done it yet, because there hasn't been time so at the moment it's still an immature, unsensible bike and if I venture out today – as was planned with Jon – by now I'd have a wet arse. Why? Because it's raining out there and my proposed trip to Woodmansterne Green has just been cancelled.

So, here I am writing my blog and wondering what to do for two days I've decided to take off during the half-term holidays next week.

My road home. Just leaving the Botley and heading towards Sanderstead on the B269.

I'll hopefully go cycling tomorrow, but that depends on many different things. It's game on at the moment with Andy and we'll probably go to Tatsfield Village, but who knows? Better go...