75 miles last week, a respectable distance...

 I managed 75 miles or thereabouts last week. The weather picked up, which was nice, and because I'd taken the week off work I wasn't limited to rides after 1630hrs. Often times, riding late in the afternoon is wearisome and if I think too hard about the ride, like cycling up Church Hill or along Beddlestead Lane, then I start to feel tired and there's a very real chance that I simply won't go. It's great, of course, if I get out and reach that point of no return, because I know that I have to finish the ride, I can't shorten it and it means I can chalk up some miles on Strava. Now I know that sounds very Lycra monkey, I get that, but the great thing about Strava is that it records everything and earns me a bit of kudos in the process.

I stopped for tea along Beddlestead Lane.

Last week saw me riding along Beddlestead Lane then turning right at the end, riding towards Botley and than taking a left turn into The Ridge and following the road through Woldingham, up Slines Oak Road and home, a total of 17.39 miles, but it varied. The second ride was 17.41 miles and the third was 17.88 miles, although, on one of them, I did return home temporarily to check I'd locked the doors, which I had so it was pointless going back.

Towards the end of Beddlestead Lane

On one ride, the weather was so pleasant that I stopped around three quarters of the way along Beddlestead for a cup of tea. I'd brought a flask with me and sat on the side of the road. It was idyllic. There was almost total silence apart from the sound of the birds and then the occasional cyclist pedalling past and remarking on the weather. I had enough water and teabags for a second cup and I could have stayed longer, but decided to push on and finish the ride. I had intended to ride into Westerham, but didn't. I figured that around 17.5 miles was a good enough jaunt.

The serenity of Beddlestead Lane, total silence

At one stage during the week I realised I was on for a pretty good weekly mileage total, but as always things got in the way and I had to recalculate my distances. I figured that one more 17.5 miles or so would give me the magical 75 miles and that was it. I'd tasked myself with decorating a bedroom and it took three days from start to finish but put paid to a few rides. I never went out on Sunday (the start of my cycling week) and now I'm back at work and it's Wednesday. I must ride today, tomorrow and Friday if I'm to put in a respectable mileage at the end of the week. And you might well ask 'what is respectable?' and in my book it's 70 miles or over, anything less is a case of 'could do better'. Why 70? I don't know, but it seems about right, although my aim is to ride over 90 if possible, although I'll make do with around 80 miles if I have to; it all goes back to that 1630 ride and whether I feel up to it. It's great reaching home knowing I've done it, but it's hard to motivate myself to get out there and that's the key.

On The Ridge heading for Woldingham

One thing I did last week was fix the phone situation. I am now the proud owner of an iPhone XS and the battery is good enough to allow me to use Strava and take a few photographs, something the old blog has been lacking over the past few weeks. My old iphone 5S has been put out to grass and while the XS is slightly bigger, it's far, far better.

Looking across fields from The Ridge

Here's hoping I get out today, tomorrow and Friday and that my Saturday ride to Westerham gives me a respectable weekly distance.

Lockdown, Part Three: 'We're all doomed!'

There used to be a time when, occasionally, I had a strange feeling of being doomed. I could never quite put my finger on it, but it was there, nagging away at me, but never quite revealing itself. I would wrack my brains trying to find out what it was that was making me feel depressed and feeling like people tend to feel when they've had a great weekend and realise they've got to go back to work where there's loads to do, but I couldn't. It was hard, feeling downbeat and not really being able to say it was for this reason or that, sometimes it was just the notion that we're all mortal beings, the human condition basically, we're all going to die one way or another, and as a result everything seemed so pointless, we never really own anything, even our houses, everything is transient, here today, gone tomorrow and yes, it was (and always will be) depressing. But everybody feels this way at some time in their lives, possibly on a regular basis, I know I do. Not all the time. Most days I'm pretty upbeat about things, but not right now.

This time, of course, I know what's nagging at me. It's the same thing nagging at everybody. The coronavirus, lock down, uncertainty, curtailed freedoms, lovely weather but something wrong with the world: ignore that sunshine, ignore the blossoms on the trees (once a sign of hope as we pull out of winter and head for summer). Not any more. Everything is tinged with a sense of foreboding. It's all a little unreal, but at the same time real. It's as if the old days of fun and laughter have passed and now we have little to look forward to. I used to feel this way about Brexit and the Tories and Boris Johnson, but that was slightly different, all that leaving the EU, Donald Trump and what have you, almost a comedy, but the Coronavirus is a horror movie because it's Russian roulette. Yes, 80% only suffer mild symptoms, but who's to say I'm in the 80%? I might be one of the unlucky few who succumb to the disease and end up in the ExCeL Centre, better make that the Nightingale Hospital, but it'll always be an exhibition centre to me. In fact, with all the exhibitions I've been to, there would be a tragic irony to find myself there dying and wondering what exhibition stands had previously occupied my death space.

Today, Saturday 4th April 2020 and I escape the misery of coronavirus...

But I live in hope, of sorts. I've always believed in my own immortality, foolishly, perhaps. I like to think that by stocking up on zinc and selenium and cod liver oil, not to mention grapes and blueberries, porridge and everything else I stuff down my throat, I'll somehow survive whatever life throws at me.

Everything has been turned upside down and that includes the cycling. Andy and I are riding alone these days. No more tea at the bus stop, no more laughing about this and that, no more moaning about the European Union or the media or anything. We ride alone and that's a whole new dynamic. Nobody to share tea with, nobody to ride with, nobody to share the pain of the hills.

Today, much later than normal, I headed out for Botley Hill. It was a beautiful day and, probably because there have been no planes in the sky and virtually no cars on the road, the air was fresh, the hedgerows fragrant and the skies blue. In short, it was truly the most wonderful day and as I rode out of Warlingham and into the sticks I felt good. It was almost as if there was nothing to worry about, no virus, nothing, and it made me realise the freedom offered by the bicycle. I was cycling alone so I wasn't breaking any rules, despite what Chris Boardman was telling everybody on Twitter, something about staying local. Well, I suppose Botley Hill is local, it's a 14-mile round trip and it only takes around 27 minutes to get from The Ridge to my front door, which ain't bad. There were other riders on the road, mainly Lycra monkeys, but only groups of two and they were, of course, social distancing themselves from one another. But it could have been a normal day, a normal time without the virus and that's what I loved most about it. The bike offered me the freedom to be out and about and outside of the confines of the house. Not that being at home has been bad. As I've said before, the key is having a routine and now that I'm cycling daily, after work is done, I have a routine. That and watching the X Files, listening to music.

But I digress, let's get back to the ride. The daffodils were out, the sun was shining, the roads were relatively empty and as I headed back down the 269 a weight had been lifted off my shoulders: the weight of the coronavirus. The bike, I realised, was my ticket to ride, to break away and take in the fresh air. I was on cloud nine, so much so that I Facetimed Andy when I reached The Ridge. We chatted for a while and then said goodbye. Both of us are looking forward to normality, but when it's coming back is anybody's guess. 

Twats of the Antarctic...what were we thinking?

People sleepwalk through life; I know I do. Take Saturday morning, for instance. I woke up around 0600hrs, got out of bed, went downstairs, made myself a mug of tea, put an egg on the boil, made up some fingers, boiled some milk for a couple of Shredded Wheat and then sat down and watched BBC Breakfast while enjoying my very early breakfast. Outside it was dark. Not that I knew this for an absolute fact as the curtains were drawn and, as the clock edged its way towards my departure time (0700hrs) I'm sure it was getting brighter out there, but other than the darkness I saw through the kitchen window earlier, I wasn't sure what was happening outside. For all I knew it could be raining and that's a real downer for cycling. Nothing worse than getting wet through. But Andy hadn't sent any text messages warning me of the weather...or had he? Hold on a minute, what's all this? I'd picked up the iphone and spotted a couple of texts just as I was walking into the conservatory (now fully dressed and ready for the ride) and then I saw it: snow, lots of it, and it was hanging around too. The grass was getting progressively whiter as the iphone began to ring. Well, vibrate, as it was on 'silent'. It was Andy.

Twats of the Antarctic –my cycling outfit does me no favours whatsoever

"I can't believe this," I said. "It's snowing. I think we'll have to abort."
"Really? Are you sure? I say we go for it, head for The Ridge..."
"Well, we could, I guess. Let's aim for reaching the green and take things from there."

So off I went without any waterproof trousers or top, just me in my Tesco ASBO specials and the M&S hooded top, my rust-coloured old jacket, a baggy old jumper and, of course, the 'New York' beany hat – my Peter Storm flappy hat, incidentally, was absent-mindedly left on a train earlier in the week.

The bikes on their own. Note the snow... everywhere! Pic by Andy Smith

Outside, while I noted that the weather was oddly rather mild – certainly not balaclava weather, although I hadn't left that on a train – I also noted that the snow was relentless: laying on front lawns, covering parked cars and dissolving on my lips like chilled Disprin. But I ploughed on: along Ellenbridge, up Elmfield, up Church Way, along the Limpsfield Road to the green where I found Andy who, like me, was covered in snow. What were we thinking? The last time we experienced weather like this was April 2008 – something I always bring up whenever the subject of snow raises its head. "Well, we've had snow in April before, you know," I will remark smugly, and the response is often, "Really? That's late!"

The off-road bit I despise so much!

We stood there on the green wondering what to do when what we should have done (apart from turn around and go home) was head for somewhere offering a bit of cover, ie the Tatsfield bloody bus stop or the village, but for some reason we opted for a couple of exposed benches in a car park far, far away, on The Ridge, a stone's throw from Al Fayed's gaff. This meant riding down Slines Oak Road and along a lengthy stretch of off-road track that I absolutely abhor. It's part of our route to Godstone, a place we rarely visit because of the punishing hill on the return ride, but off we went nonetheless, the snow raining down upon us. It wasn't long before I was wet through and dreaming of having mudguards, but no, I didn't have any mudguards and I wasn't wearing any protective clothing. And while I wasn't cold as such, I was getting increasingly uncomfortable and there was to be no salvation, no nice, warm bus stop to shelter from the snow, and even if there had been a covered bus stop, sitting down would have been unpleasant. As unpleasant as, say, having a bath and then getting dressed or, worse still, getting back into bed, without drying myself. As unpleasant as being in a crowded train with a few sausages under the grill or eating an unexpectedly soft pickled onion.

View to the right of the bike along the off-road stretch

When we reached our destination there was no cover. There were no leaves on the trees and all we could do was stand under the bare branches of some shrub or other trying to pretend everything was alright, the sun was shining and we had a nice cup of tea and some BelVita biscuits to eat. We DID have a nice cup of tea and we DID have the biscuits, but it wasn't in the slightest bit pleasant and, after taking the shots that accompany this post, we mounted our trusty steeds and headed along a short stretch of off-road track (not the one pictured) before rejoining The Ridge and heading for Botley Hill and the return ride along the exposed 269 towards Warlingham Green. By this stage, of course, as any seasoned cyclist will tell you, we'd resigned ourselves to being wet and uncomfortable. I think I was more uncomfortable than Andy as his bike has a sensible pair of mudguards and, give or take, Andy was 'nice and comfy' – he certainly didn't have a cold, wet behind like I did.

View to the left of the bike along the off-road stretch I dislike

The roads were largely clear of snow and, as we headed home everything was getting wetter and wetter. There was still snow on the grass verges and in front gardens along the route, but it was thawing and within 30-40 minutes people would look puzzled if I suggested that there was thick snow everywhere only half an hour ago.

Andy and I parted at the green, vowing to meet up again on Sunday, weather permitting. I rode home and saw a sensibly dressed, clean, tidy and (more to the point) dry Phil about to drive off to Southampton with his daughter. I felt decidedly under-dressed in my wet-through Tesco ASBO specials, my face speckled with mud and, let's make no bones about it, I looked a complete mess.

A discarded Coke can heightened our sense of desolation

"Respect is due," I said, explaining how it really wasn't that cold, but who was I kidding? After bidding farewell to Phil I waddled off, locked the bike in the garage and then peeled off my wet clothes, chucked them all in the washing machine and made myself a cup of tea. Now don't get me wrong. I didn't just strip off and stand in the kitchen with no clothes on, making myself tea; I dried off first, put on some clean and dry clothes and then headed for the kitchen.

Bare trees meant little in the way of shelter

Later in the day I noticed that I was developing a sore throat and all because I hadn't really looked after myself. I was Twat of the Antarctic and if I caught a chill it was nobody's fault but mine.

Shortly after leaving the house the snow began to fall...

Sunday – to the Tatsfield Bus Stop
On Sunday we rode to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – where we should have headed yesterday. Mum had given me a couple of slices of Christmas cake so we enjoyed tea, cake and BelVita biscuits. Andy had a puncture close to where he lives and was sorely tempted to abort, but we agreed to meet at the Tatsfield  bus stop as I didn't fancy standing around in the cold. I pedalled off from the green alone, but while the snow had gone, it was much colder than yesterday. I had the beany hat and balaclava combo on my head today, a scarf, the aforementioned rusty old jacket, a pair of trousers covered in white paint and an uncomfortable pair of gloves that were still wet from yesterday's lunacy.

On the way back we saw what looked like a nasty car accident. An ambulance and police car were in attendance and there was a small car – something like a Renault Clio or a Corsa, or even a Toyota Aygo – upturned in a field and some way from the road. How? That was the question we kept asking ourselves as we cycled past. It must have happened after 0800hrs, although Andy reached the bus stop from along The Ridge, not the 269, so he wouldn't have seen anything. We were guessing but the car must have been travelling very fast, lost control, mounted the verge, smashed right through the Hawthorn bushes and turned itself over. There were other cars parked up on the verge so I'm guessing they were involved or purely witnesses.

How seriously hurt those involved in the accident might have been we didn't dare to guess, but when we reached the junction at Beech Road the ambulance passed us slowly and without its sirens blazing – it could have meant that all was fine and that there was no need to rush or that there was no point in hurrying back as those inside were dead.

Westerham revival...

Wednesday 8 June: When we first set out on our bikes back in the late summer of 2006 after that famous curry in Whyteleafe, Andy and I rode to Westerham in Kent. It was our default cycle for many months before one of us decided to suggest that other routes might be worth trying. Okay, we had our short ride to Botley Hill where we stood by the roundabout sipping tea, but that was really it.

Matt (left) and Andy at Churchill's statue, Westerham, Kent, June 4th 2011.

We did eventually get round to new routes – the Tatsfield bus stop, Tatsfield Village, occassional rides over Biggin Hill way, Godstone Green, Merstham, Redhill and Boxhill – and, in a sense, we totally ignored Westerham. Yes, we rode down there occasionally, but invariably we found that Tatsfield became a regular haunt, be it the newly discovered churchyard, the bus stop or the village.

Westerham, of course, has always been an ideal ride, not only because there was always some kind of buzz going on when we arrived – teashops opening, fetes being erected, people milling about, shops open – but because the distance itself (and the ride in general) was good. It's a good 22-mile round trip and the hill coming out of Westerham (in the early days) was always a little daunting. In fact, I remember the days when I used to warn Andy about the hill as we approached it. Today, of course, there's no need.

Last weekend we went to Westerham on the Saturday and as we rode down there, we discussed how the hill coming back was now nothing in terms of effort compared with the old days. In fact, Westerham is an easy ride these days and takes me only 55 minutes to get there from my house (although I distinctly remember doing it once in 52 minutes). That aside, our fitness levels have, of course, improved, although getting there in under an hour is still quite surprising for some reason.

We leave Warlingham Green around 0730hrs and 45 minutes later, we're in Westerham. Only last weekend, as the church clock – I'm assuming it's a church clock, but it might be just a clock, albeit a large and noisy one – chimed a quarter past eight, I was mildly surprised that we'd reached this quaint Kent town, home of the great Winston Churchill, at such a healthy time. Andy checked his watch and confirmed that it was only a quarter past eight, time to chill and relax, drink tea and munch cereal bars.

We now sit on the green behind Churchill's statue and, as a recent post on the subject has already mentioned, we've watched as stall holders set up shop for a rotary club fete and we've looked on as a mother and child scoot around Sir Winston on a couple of those stainless steel scooters. This weekend we watched a traffic warden as he took photographs of illegally parked cars. He must be the most hated man in the village, Andy remarked, as the uniformed man with cropped hair emptied one of the parking meters and then threatened to place a parking ticket on a Mini, until it's owner scuttled over and drove off, having been lectured by the warden.

Our bikes resting halfway along The Ridge, Sunday 5th June 2011.

The plan was to visit Westerham on Sunday too, but I was getting a bit of pressure to come home early and cook sausages for breakfast. So, when I arrived at the Green, I suggested to Andy that we go to Tatsfield or somewhere closer to home. We decided to cycle along The Ridge, from Botley Hill, to a small car park half way along the road where there are amazing views of (ahem) the M25. Actually, the view of the entire surrounding area is good: Oxted can be seen clearly as well as the surrounding countryside.

There are two wooden benches on some nettly, brambly grassland and that was where we were headed on Sunday morning. It was a straightfoward ride and all the way there I was thinking about changing my mind and heading to Westerham instead; but I knew that sausages were in the fridge at home and that a speedy return was advisable.

As it turned out, when I reached home at 0930 nobody was in, but the sausages were still in the fridge and so I grilled them and all was fine with the world.

I say 'all was fine with the world', but it's not really. I'm still technically out of work and in need of a job and the recent death of my father hangs heavily in the air. Cycling, however, helps tremendously. I always look forward to meeting Andy at the Green on the weekend and now it's doubly important as it takes my mind off stuff. In so many ways, I don't know what I'd do without our regular weekend rides.

We're both looking forward to the Black Horse Ride next weekend (Sunday 12 June). It's a shorter distance than previous years (35 miles instead of 50) but that's okay with us; and it's a later start too (11am instead of 10am) meaning a later start. Hopefully, there will still be the free pint of Young's at the end and the free burger from the barbecue in the pub garden (that's the best part of the whole day) although this year will be interesting as the route's been changed.

Whether David (our mate with the yellow Harley) will turn out as a marshall, something he's done for the past few years, I don't know, but only time will tell.

The weather's been very good for some time now. Today (Wednesday 8th June as I write this post) it's bright at just gone 8am; yesterday was a bright, sunny day and Monday was rainy, but, as dad would have said, "it's good for the garden." Last weekend was great weatherwise. We've not had a soaking for a while and and long may it continue. Here's praying that decent weather is in place for Sunday's Black Horse Ride as I don't think Andy and I could stomach a repeat performance of the 2009 ride.

Both photos on this post were taken by NVL's resident photographer, Andy Smith.