A few thoughts on mental health and politics

Lots to discuss, but perhaps a bit about my mental health first. Today, now, as I sit here at 2058hrs on a Monday evening, I feel good - good enough to write something - I feel okay and by that I mean I don't have bouts of butterflies in my stomach or that awful feeling that something terrible might be happening, commonly known, I'm told, as a panic attack, something I've been subjected to ever since my sister passed away, or rather while she was in the process of passing away. I remember clearly, on the day she died, on 2nd December 2023, leaving the hospital with my niece and my brother and almost finding it impossible to drive them round to mum's. Seriously, it wasn't good, but it subsided and then it would return or it might not return until the following day but it was always around. I had it yesterday for a short while and it was such that I said no, I wasn't up to driving somewhere (Forest Row near East Grinstead) only to discover a few moments later that, actually, I was alright, and then off we went and I never had any problems. So, anyway, here I am, in fine fettle, just had a chat with the illustrious illustrator (my pal Geoff) about politics and guitars and, well, the conversation ended up with a chat about IZAL medicated toilet paper (I brought it up) and that came about because Geoff was talking about how Jimmy Hendrix, on Crosstown Traffic, used a comb and some tracing paper, which makes a sound similar to a gazoo, to achieve a certain sound. We'd been talking about Duane Eddy's Peter Gunne and, well, either way we ended up talking about bog roll, mainly because I remember, as a kid, using a comb and some IZAL medicated toilet paper to make the sound of a gazoo. In my school days, if you needed a poo you'd have the indignity of using IZAL medicated toilet paper and let's just say that it wasn't a very pleasant experience. It seems to have disappeared off the face of the planet and replaced by something a little more comfortable.

So, yes, the conversation nose-dived from politics and talking about James O'Brien's book How They Broke Britain to discussing the awfulness of IZAL medicated toilet paper.

But getting back to my mental state (which is fine). I just seem be having these weird panic attacks which date back to my sister's untimely and tragic death just before Christmas last year and now, of course, my mum having all these falls in her house, which have led to the attacks continuing. I'm fine when I'm on the bike, I'm fine at work or on the train to and from work and I'm fine now, at home, at 2109hrs. My question is this: how come I'm okay now, but I wasn't okay for a lot of yesterday? What have I done today that I hadn't done yesterday, what had I been eating yesterday that I've avoided today? Well, cake springs to mind. Perhaps it's got something to do with sugar, I don't know. I even had a cappuccino on Saturday, that's always a no-no for me. Coffee often makes me feel a little weird. But earlier I said I didn't experience any panic attacks whilst on the bike on Sunday (yesterday) but I was getting it slightly in Sheree's for some reason. It's a very odd thing. Perhaps today I've tried to steer clear of subjects that are stressful, like my mum, but let's leave it there as I don't want to start feeling strange again. Right now, I'm fine, and that's the main thing.

So what else? Politics, of course. For a start, I'm glad the Tories were absolutely trounced on Thursday last week. Labour is now in power under the leadership of Sir Keir Starmer, and all I can say about the Tories is good riddance. We had 14 years of crap from the Tories from David Cameron onwards. In fact, Cameron set the ball in motion for Brexit and then, once achieved, he resigned and the country was subjected to a load of disgusting and incompetent Tory Leaders: Theresa May (she wasn't too bad) Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and, of course, Rishi Sunak. But how awful have the Tories been? Extremely awful. Austerity under Cameron and Osborne, Theresa May's awful premiership, which involved the whole 'hostile environment' strategy, and then, of course, Bojo, Boris Johnson and the Partygate scandal and other disgusting activities, all the corruption, the row about his wallpaper, the sleaze, I can't remember half of what he got up to, but we all know that he was an out and out liar and eventually he had to go. But then came Liz Truss, who messed up the economy with her mini-budget, which led to her being the prime minister who reigned for the shortest ever time, I think it was 47 days or something absolutely ridiculous. Lastly, Sunak, a multi-millionaire, actually, make that billionaire, a man so out of touch with the people he's supposed to be governing it beggars belief. Well, he's gone, they've all gone, and thank the Lord for that. We've all been waiting ages for the general election and we all voted with our feet when it came. The Labour Party has a stonking majority, the country went from blue to red overnight and many people have been sighing a huge sigh of relief at the thought that they've gone. 

I was glad to see the back of Jacob Rees-Mogg, Grant Schapps, Liz Truss, the list goes on and on and on, but they've gone! The public has spoken and that's what's great about living in a democracy and not a dictatorship. They've gone! But there's more to the politics of stupidity than the Tory party. Take a wider view, there's so much wrong with our political classes, they're just not that good. I've said before that we need "proper politicians" and they're out there, believe me. 

Unfortunately for me, I live in a staunch Tory constituency so my vote for Labour was well and truly wasted, although I shouldn't really think that way, but it's true. To be fair, I suppose that if everybody switched and voted Labour then Chris Philp would be out of the picture, but he's still here as my local MP and he has a position in the shadow cabinet too, and I suppose you have to ask why. Well, in my case it's, as I say, because I live in a staunch Tory constituency and there are people who would vote Tory whatever happened, but there are other situations where it's the individual who carries the weight and not, if you like, the politics. Take, for example, Jeremy Corbyn. Now I know he's not everybody's cup of tea and that he's pretty extreme left wing (which a lot of people don't like) but ultimately the people of Islington North voted for him as an independent candidate because it was him they trusted to do their bidding in Parliament. In short, whatever you think of Corbyn (I like him) he is a proper politican, not a career politican (of which there were many in the Tory Party since 2010) but a genuine individual who the voters want be they Labour or Independent. I'm sure there are Tories who garner the same kind of admiration, because not all Tories are bad people in the same way that not all Labour or Green or Lib-Dem politicians are not worth voting for. I'm sure there are Tory MPs out there who are respected because of who they are and what they have done for their constituents, which makes it all the worse for them when the greater party (the likes of Johnson and Truss and Sunak and others) let the side down and ruin it for genuinely decent people. It's a shame we can bring together the best politicians, the proper politicians and make up a party that serves all, has left and right leanings and compromises where compromise is needed.

Listen, let's talk about stupidity. I'll admit that I'm fairly left leaning in my politics (that's not the stupid bit). But the last thing I want is to have Donald Trump in the White House at the end of the year, with people like Nigel Farage fawning over him like he did the last time. The last thing I want is for that idiot with a daft haircut to throw Ukraine under the bus and side with the Russians and the awful Victor Orban of Hungary. I wish, as I'm sure you'll imagine, that Putin would get the hell out of Ukraine. But it's looking as if the Democrats are going to shoot themselves in the foot by keeping Joe Biden in the job when it's clear that he's going to be regarded by the American public as somebody not up to the job and that means another term for the fucking Donald, the last thing the world needs. So I'd say sort it out now, not later, get somebody else in place and don't let that idiot Trump come back into power again, the man is an imbecile of the highest order. But no, rather than see the threat for what it is, Biden is "not going anywhere" and, therefore, is putting himself over the interests of the American people. What is wrong with him?

The weather in the UK has been atrocious. Really piss poor. Rain, cloud, not nice and it's affected the riding. I didn't go out Saturday morning because it was raining. Fortunately the weather was fine for Sunday so I met Andy as planned at Sheree's. I've been alternating my rides (not deliberately) but in line with the weather. One minute two rides over a weekend, the next just one ride. It's not been good and now I'm definitely going to get swimming sorted out. I know I keep saying I will, but, yeah, in fact, let's not say anything, it's safer.

Aloft, Columbus, Ohio – wonderful hotel!

I reached the Aloft Columbus late but was so relieved to be there after the three flights it had taken me to find myself at the front desk. I'd queued for a taxi outside Columbus airport and was whisked along the highway in a six-cylinder Lincoln. The driver said very little, but he was pleased when I complimented him on a great car. There was, it has to be said, plenty of power under the bonnet.

The Aloft is only a short drive from the airport, which is good, and the hotel is a short drive from the city's convention centre so it's pretty well connected.

Room 626, Aloft, Columbus University District, USA

I was directed to room 626 on the sixth floor and found my way there, once on the sixth floor, along a dimly-lit corridor. I love a dimly-lit hotel corridor as it makes me feel as if I'm in the X Files.

Room 626 was large and square and thank God it wasn't one of those hotel rooms that require the occupant to insert their room card into an aperture to power-up the room, although I suppose they prevent hotel guests from losing their key cards. To my right a large bathroom, more of a wet room with only a shower, no bath. This is good news because I never use a bath these days, it's always a shower, even at home (where we have both). Beyond the bath to my right is the huge space of the rest of the room. A large, black flat-screen television on the far wall facing a large double bed, a seating area to the right of the television offering bench seating and a Formica or Melamine oval table with a boomerang pattern, and under the television a fridge (with nothing in it) and the usual tea and coffee making facilities on top.

The Aloft is obsessed with technology and it's quite annoying until you get used to it. There's nothing worse than tech for the sake of it. The lift (or elevator) is more complicated than a standard lift and then, in the room, I found a small Marshall amp. Or at least that's what it looked like. It was, in fact, one of those smart speakers that allow you to stream music on Spotify or Apple Music or whatever you use. At home I have a rather smart (and expensive) Bose system. I liked the Marshall amp and for some time thought it was a radio that simply didn't work. When I got round to asking somebody on the front desk they told me what it was but added that I'd need to download an app to get it working. No. I'm sorry, I'm not going to do that. Far too much faff and when it was suggested that the hotel 'engineer' could run through things with me I thought no, I can't be bothered, I'll do without. The last time I remember listening to music in a hotel room (on a CD system) was some time back in the early noughties, in the Malmaison in Manchester in the UK and it was all a little too emotional and 100% driven by alcohol and the guilt associated with a decadent lifestyle. So I left it alone, other than to turn it on and off occasionally just to hear the hard rock bass and lead guitar riff that accompanies turning it on and off; that amused me no end for a while until I told myself to shape up and stop being so stupid. On the other side of the bed is a little round emitter of white noise (or that's what I've been told it is); it's the sort of thing you might need to get to sleep if you suffer from ADHD, which fortunately I don't. Oh, I almost forgot! There's the customary large and very noisy air con system which, at night, makes you think you've been transported to a beach somewhere and the tide's coming in fast. It took me until my last night to work out how to switch it off. There's wood-effect laminate flooring, no wardrobe to hang any clothes but they're quirky enough to provide some black metal girders and a few coat hangers and there's a safe, which I'm leaving well alone after the last time I used one. There's a hair dryer and, I think, an iron (I'm not exactly sure) but there's no ironing board so using it could prove disastrous. Again, I'll leave well alone.

I like the Aloft. The room feels like home and I yearn for it when I'm not in it. 

The spectacular view from room 626, Aloft, Columbus, USA

There are a few problems, but not many. The first one is the shower and sink. In a nutshell, the jet of water coming out of the former is not strong enough to give an invigorating shower, like the one I had in Tokyo, and the dribble coming out of the tap over the sink is similarly lacking in power. It's annoying that the bath towels are not in the bathroom as I tend to bowl in there, have a shower and then realise I've got to tip toe across the laminate floor with wet feet dripping water everywhere as I cross the room to get a towel. Perhaps one of these days I'll remember to take a towel in with me (there's one in there now awaiting my last shower before I check out).

Another problem is there's no breakfast room or restaurant downstairs. One of the great things about staying in a hotel is the breakfast and having to go out for it is a little annoying, but not really that much of a hassle as nearby there's a good Starbucks where it's possible to eat a healthy breakfast and not have to gorge on pastries and scrambled egg and sausages and mushrooms and all the usual stuff you get in a self-service hotel breakfast operation.

The hotel is 'quirky' but I often feel they try too hard on that front, as, indeed, do 'boutique' hotels in general with their madly designed furniture and fittings that simply refuse to follow the hotel designers' motto of 'function before form'. Not that Aloft has any madly designed furniture, it just has a quirky vibe. There's an oversized game of Connect Four in the lobby area along with a pool table and a chess set and '2024' in silver inflatable letters giving across the message that this hotel is fun and should be enjoyed... which, to be fair to the hotel, is exactly right. I love it because of the friendliness of the staff, the cleanliness, the upbeat design and the comfortable rooms all of which make it a cut above the average American hotel. It has something special about it and I know for a fact that I'm going to miss it and that I'll wonder for days, when I'm back in the UK, who is in 'my room' looking out over Columbus as I did.

Flight BA 0067 to Philadelphia... Saturday 14 May 2022

We took off before 2pm on a relatively clear day. Having not flown for over two and a half years, I was uneasy, but there was no cloud so my unease was lightened somewhat, but only mildly.

I was in seat 37a, an exit seat, so plenty of legroom, but no window I could call my own. To see out I had to turn my head to the left, which is what I did for most of the first 30 minutes, watching land get further and further away. Very soon we were high above ground looking down at what looked like a patchwork quilt of fields. 

I am writing in the past tense, as if the flight took place yesterday, but we’re only two and a quarter hours into a seven-hour flight and already I’m a mess, a mixture of pensive, sad and a little unhappy too. I don’t want to be so far away from home, but with every second that passes I’m getting further and further away when all I want is to be back there, in the garden or in a coffee shop or just doing nothing too taxing. I just want to chill if the truth is known, but what’s new about that?

Lunch (which was served mid-afternoon UK time) was the usual airline food. I always order the chicken and it was fine. There was a pleasant dessert, something like a chocolate cherry crunch, very tasty. There was a cracker too, but I never eat the cheese. 

Once lunch was over, of course, there was nothing to do; the cabin crew normally vanish but on this occasion they were present throughout the flight, busying themselves with serving our every need. 

I was not relaxed enough to read Jonathan Coe’s Middle England. Instead I just sat there thinking about time and trying to sectionalize it in my own head. I tried to think about Philadelphia where it was 11.30 in the morning and then I imagined it being lunchtime and then I thought about how quickly lunch passed and how residents of that great city would soon be thinking “4.30pm, is that the time?” And how, when they thought that, I would be on the ground making my way towards the terminal building and wishing I didn’t have to endure one more flight, that short hop west to Pittsburgh.

The man next to me sported a baseball cap and a black mask; he was reading Cold Granite by Stuart Macbride, a Sunday Times bestseller, which has never been my scene. I’ve never been in to bestsellers. His wife (I’m assuming it’s his wife) was reading a book called Exit by Belinda Bauer, but she (like him) was asleep. I can’t sleep on planes and even less so when I’m anxious and sad. It’s got a lot to do with not having travelled for the past two and a half years.

Where masks were concerned, not many people wore them and nor was I, although I had one in my pocket. I guess if everyone on board had taken a test the day before the flight then I assumed the likelihood of catching Covid was pretty slim. Still, never say never. 

Loads of cloud en route to Pittsburgh

In roughly four hours from now there will be around half an hour to go,I thought.That was how I was thinking. Not that such a thought is in any way heartening. Outside, the white-out world of the clouds was below us. 

My inability to relax was annoying so I took a stroll to the back of the plane and found little to amuse or comfort me. I remember a flight to Tokyo, although it might have been New Delhi, when the cabin crew was a pretty friendly bunch, handing out Celebrations chocolates and happy to pass the time of day with a bored passenger like yours truly. While the crew of flight BA0067 was friendly they all seemed rushed off their feet and had yet to disappear as they normally do. It seemed there was always something to keep them occupied.

I paid a visit to the cramped ‘bathroom’ but was too on edge to give my fellow passengers the finger from behind the bulkhead. Perhaps I wasn't tired or irritable enough at that moment, or perhaps I was already far worse; in four hours time there would be roughly 20 minutes to go. Except the journey – or the hassles – wouldn't be over: there was US immigration to deal with, baggage reclaim and then another flight, albeit a short one. If I’m honest I’d rather have taken the train from Philadelphia, but I never thought of it at the time so now I had to endure another plane journey. As always, I just wanted to get there. Of course I did. As my dad would have said, “you’re not unique”. In a way, however, he was wrong, we’re all unique. Dad would be right in one respect: there can’t be anybody on board who wants to be here, it’s all a means to an end. A to B or A to Z  it all amounts to the same thing. 

“They will write and they will call in,” I heard in my head. I nodded off and had micro dreams that featured random phrases of this nature, but all in a split second. Time was not passing fast. 

“And I saw her standing there,” I heard in my head and immediately thought of a bearded Sir Paul in his younger days.

Outside the sun was shining brightly and was reflected off the white sheet of cloud below us. I could hear a baby laughing or crying, it’s hard to know exactly, but the sound of a baby crying really depresses me.

Back home it was coming round to 6pm and I just knew that my rear lawn looked smooth and velvety in the evening sun. I might have been sitting in the garden room reading or drinking tea and probably wondering what we were having for dinner. We might have been out on a drive somewhere, it was hard to know exactly. The only constant was the ride and I would no doubt be wondering whether to ride to Oxted again in the morning, Sunday morning. Nothing better than a lazy weekend, but not today.

I was amazed at how hard the cabin crew was working; the crew hadn’t stopped since we took off nearly four hours ago, but they were not working as hard as the mum with a daughter and two young sons, the eldest being around five years old. They were sitting across from me in the middle row, in front of the bulkhead. The mum never stopped. The older boy was quite happy entertaining himself whereas the daughter, who was not yet a toddler, needed constant attention. The middle child was so quiet he seemed invisible.

The man next to me was awake and reading, black mask on. People wandered around while others, like me, drank water from a small, clear plastic beaker supplied by one of the cabin crew. There really wasn’t a great deal to say.

I walked to the rear of the plane again just to get some exercise. The woman with the baby walked back and forth too, holding the baby, and I was standing at the back, close to the galley, and looking at all the small screens on the backs of seats. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, I watch enough of them at home, but for some reason I found it hard to focus or concentrate enough to read or watch anything, I was in a strange frame of mind.

Outside, the Atlantic below looked calm, but it would do at 38,000 feet. There was less cloud, which was encouraging, but it was still very hazy, almost steamy. There were around three hours and twenty minutes to go. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, or the music, although I knew the music would make me emotional. I thanked the Lord that I wasn't drinking. I remember once, on a flight to Chicago, when the euphoric nature of what I was listening to (I think it was Nessum Dorma) brought out the tears. A couple of Merlots at 38,000 feet can do that to me. I tried to conceal it and as nobody said anything I figured I got away with it, but I guess I’ll never know. Music can take me that way sometimes, and poetry (Milton Kessler’s Thanks forever) but it wouldn’t be so pronounced after a couple of glasses of water, although I’d say don’t push it, my frame of mind was such that I could crack at any moment. 

The pandemic was certainly a kind of watershed for me: pre-COVID travel (of which there was plenty) I took in my stride and I loved being away, even though it was always a wrench on day one. Eventually, once clear of the lag, I was fired up and full of the joys of spring, enjoying my hotel room in they way only I can (that’s an allusion to all the silly things I say I get up to, and to be honest most of it is true, although I don’t think I’ve climbed into the wardrobe yet, perhaps later). I don’t think my passion for mooching around the world has left me, it’s just that I’ve had over two years without it and need to get back into that space again. 

With three hours exactly before I reached Philadelphia, I was still regretting not organising the Amtrak to Pittsburgh. I could have checked into a hotel in the city and then taken an early train west, arriving late afternoon – perfect! But I didn’t think, which was typical. I think my problem is that I’ve always got stuff on my mind, things to think about, so that when it comes to something classy, like taking the train, I forget and then live to regret it. But why cry over spilt milk, there’s no point. 

The train thing was a result of the last time I found myself in Pittsburgh. The hotel I was staying in ‘stole' my laptop and passport forcing me to take the train to New York to get an emergency passport in order to fly home. It took 11 hours, but the whole experience was amazing and now I’m in love with long train journeys. I think I could spend days on a train without getting bored. I’d love to ride the Trans-Siberia across Siberia, all the way to China – and back again. You can’t beat sleeping on a train, eating on a train, reading on a train, writing on a train. Is there anything that isn’t more enjoyable than if you’re doing it on a train? I can’t think of anything. And even ‘that’ would be more fun as long as the guard didn’t knock on the door and demand to see my ticket. I wouldn’t mind riding the Polar Express, if it existed. Imagine that! A train with Tom Hanks on board. “Well in that case, tickets please!” That’s what he says in the movie, among other things. 

When I started thinking about elapsed time and how much more there was to go before we landed, I looked at the clock and found it was 7pm at home, and I thought, okay, the One Show had just started, had it been a weekday, and then I tried to think how long it took to reach the time I wanted it to be (in this case 9.30pm, UK time, which was when were destined to land) but it was pointless. Time is time and the only way to make it pass is to do something: watch a movie, listen to music, I don’t know, but I was just not relaxed enough and it looked as though I was going to remain in an unsettled state until we arrived. 

Spotted around Pittsburgh

Outside there was a watery blue haze and I couldn't see where the sky ended and the sea began. Sometimes I mistook clouds for land and my hopes rose until I realised it was little more than an illusion.

With around two hours to go, land appeared and I presumed it was Canada and that, at some stage, we would head south and follow the east coast towards our destination, but I don't think that happened.

View from room 513, Hilton Garden Downtown

The closer we got to Philadelphia, the thicker the cloud. The plane was full of pent-up energy and was chugging angrily towards its destination, but there was never any turbulence, just the threat of it, which kept me on edge and wishing I wasn't there, but I was there, and soon the plane started its descent and the cloud went on forever and didn't let up until we landed. I was glad to be on the ground, but had the hassle of US immigration to go through and then a grilling from a police officer whose surname was Santiago. I thought he was a cop on secondment from the police force of another country, but I was wrong. Santiago was his name. He was interested in my display unit, which I told him was very boring, but opened it nonetheless, telling him how it could be a rocket launcher; perhaps that was a silly thing to say, but he took the joke and eventually went on his merry way, or rather we did, but police officer Santiago was the least of our troubles. We had the possibility of a bumpy flight through stormy weather ahead of us and once again I found myself longing for Penn Station in New York and the prospect of an 11-hour train journey to Pittsburgh. But no, I didn't bottle the flight and while the rain outside of the terminal building intensified and the skies darkened, the flight was fine. A little dramatic in terms of the size and shape of the clouds that surrounded us like fluffy mines waiting to detonate, but all was well and we landed safely. I was tired but I was glad we had arrived and that all that stood between me and my hotel room was a short taxi ride into town. Our taxi driver was amused by my English accent and kept referring to me as James Bond. Funny the first time, perhaps, but he persisted and I was tired and just smiled politely, humouring him as the journey progressed. Soon he had dropped us at the hotel and my colleague tried to check in but was told by the man on the front desk, one Koda Rugg, that she didn't have a reservation. Puzzled, we asked him to double check, which he did, but then told us we were probably in the wrong hotel. There were two Hilton Garden hotels on the same road and despite the fact that I'd given our driver the address, he took us to the wrong hotel. Still, not a problem, we'll just ask for a taxi to take us to our hotel or perhaps we could walk it. "No, no, you can't walk, it's too dangerous," Rugg said as he pressed a button that ordered a z-Trip cab. But the z-Trip cab didn't arrive and the hotel where we were supposed to be staying couldn't help, other than give me the number of the same cab company the man at the wrong hotel had given us. All around us were people who were leading normal lives. They were fresh-faced and alive and dressed up for a night out and didn't feel dog-tired or jet-lagged like we did; and we both felt envious of their sprightliness as our pain continued. I felt as if this was the end, that we were destined forever to be sitting in the wrong hotel reception area surrounded by suitcases and two rocket launchers unable to leave or get any sleep, this was our lot, our destiny, our end. We wandered around like zombies and eventually, out of sheer luck, a z-Cab arrived and took us to our hotel. Tired and exhausted and feeling extremely low we checked in and went to our respective rooms. I decided to go straight to bed. I cleaned my teeth (or did I? I can't remember) and when I awoke the next morning I still felt awful, terrible, my right eye aching, my head throbbing. I phoned home and was advised to rest on the bed, which I did (thankfully) and I started to feel a little better. I walked to a Starbucks on nearby Market Square and ordered a large English Breakfast tea and a bottle of mineral water, not forgetting some weird egg dish the name of which escapes me. Earlier, in the hotel reception area, I bought a Hershey bar and some kind of almond and coconut chocolate bar, both of which I consumed with gusto before heading out for the aforementioned Starbucks. I started to feel better, but not 100%. In fact, it wasn't until I hit the sack, early, around 7pm – after another trip out to buy mineral water just in case I felt dehydrated during the night – that things started to look up. I slept for over 10 hours, more sleep than I'd had for a very long time, and I felt great. My eye was no longer aching, my headache (the first one in years) had gone and I was ready for what the world had to throw at me. It's Monday night now, but my day has been good and was rounded off with a wonderful meal in Pizzaiolo Primo on Market Square. Personally, I think it is the best restaurant in the whole of Pittsburgh and might say as much on Trip Advisor. I would like to return here soon. I know it's better than any of the restaurants I have visited in Pittsburgh and that's all that matters. And on that positive note, I'll sign off.

Lockdown, Part 36: No cycling all week - the shame, the shame!

It's Sunday morning, 0952, I've just got back from a ride to the Tatsfield Churchyard, the Churchyard Chuffer no less, not a Chuffer Bastard Womble, just a plain old Chuffer, a direct ride from here, my home in Sanderstead, to the Tatsfield Churchyard. It's a straight 16 miles, well, if we're going to be pedantic about it, 16.03 miles, and my moving time was 1 hour and 24 minutes, plus 48 seconds, not far off one hour and 25 minutes, with an elevation gain of 957 feet and an average speed of 11.3 mph. Not bad. I managed a maximum speed of 29.8 miles an hour, probably on that stretch of Clarks Lane from Botley Hill to the Churchyard, so I'm generally happy.

The Rockhopper resting at Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 16 August 2020

What I'm not happy about is not cycling at all last week; it was just too damn hot! Until Thursday when we had monsoon rains and thunder and ever since then it's been cooler. On one ride, either last week or the week before, but possibly last Monday or Tuesday (although I think I've written about it so it might be a little further back) I got to the top of Church Way and thought, 'sod this, it's too hot' and then turned back, I just couldn't face it. So, a week of slobbing, doing nothing, not even walking and when you're working from home that means virtually no movement whatsoever. It can't be good for you, doing absolutely no exercise. But let's move on: today a healthy 16-miler got me started on this week's cycling and I'm just hoping I can keep myself motivated enough to put in, say three 20-milers during the week and then, perhaps, the churchyard on Saturday to round it all off or, of course, another ride to Redhill with a trip to the Pop Inn at the other end. It takes me an hour to reach Redhill from here, but around 90 minutes to get back, thanks to punishing hills all the way. The best thing about the ride to Redhill is the lack of cars. It's probably the most 'car-less' route I take and I'm amazed I haven't riden it more often.

There was a lot of mist at Botley Hill this morning. I had to stop halfway along the 269 to switch on my front and rear lights, and later Andy informed me that my rear light wasn't that strong. He had been riding behind me coming down Clarks Lane and we met by the stairs leading up to the churchyard. I think I'm going to invest in a decent rear light.

At the churchyard we sat and chatted about the bikes and the riding and generally chilled, drinking tea and munching a snack. One topic was my old Kona, which is currently resting in my garage, but for the sake of £300 could be up and running again. In many ways I should have fixed the Kona and not bought the Specialized, but I do like the Rockhopper with it's 29in wheels, even if I've spotted what I consider to be a design fault: the brake levers are quite sharp on the inside and recently I noticed one of my fingers was cut because I'd been placing it on the inside of the lever and not gripping it in the conventional manner on the outside. But this is a very minor problem and in many ways shouldn't even be mentioned, the bike's fine. It would, however, be nice to have a spare bike in the garage and don't forget, that Kona is a top-of-the-range mountain bike with expensive forks, even if it only has 16 gears to the Rockhopper's 27.

Our bikes, Tatsfield Churchyard, Sunday 16 August 2020. Pic: Andy Smith

Andy was on his road bike this morning, a Giant, and he still has his old road bike AND his Kona Blast. We reminisced about old times riding to Hunger's End in Merstham and Jon's old Kona Fire Mountain with its broken pedal. Both are now gone, Bon's bike and the caff. I reminded Andy that it was 10 years ago when we visited Hunger's End on a regular basis (remember Shaving Man?) and added how frightening it was to look back at old blog posts and see how young we both looked. "It was 10 years ago," said Andy. Yes, I thought, a whole decade, and we're still riding, which is good.

I can't work out whether the lockdown is over or not. We're all still queuing and now wearing masks to visit shops, I'm still working from home and they're now saying that if you're coming back from France, the Netherlands or Malta you've got to remain in quarantine at home for 14 days. So there was a big rush to get home before the 0400hrs deadline yesterday morning. I don't think I'd have bothered rushing home, what's wrong with 14 days remaining at home, the time soon passes. I wonder how many of those in quarantine actually go down with the virus? Probably none, but it's going to piss off the French who, no doubt, will retaliate in some way or other. The French, of course, are coming up for criticism for allowing so many migrants to make the short hop across the English Channel to the UK. Thousands have been coming in and it's annoying people like Nigel Farage and other right-leaning numpties, although I kind of get their argument. These people have already reached a safe country (France) so why risk their necks crossing the busy English Channel in a flimsy dinghy, I don't think I'd bother, although, apparently, the benefits system in the UK is too generous, according to some, and that makes the journey worthwhile. I don't think I'd do it, I'd rather stay in France and be part of the European Union. In fact, I might buy an inflatable and go the other way.

I must say a bit more about the storm on Thursday afternoon because it was fantastic. I'll be totally honest and say that I have never experienced weather like it, ever! There! I said it: EVER! Everything went dark and then the rains came, full on, full pelt, driving stair rods into the lawn like six-inch nails from a nail gun, and it went on for a long, long time and was accompanied by continuous rumbles of thunder from the grey skies above. There was something deliciously cosy and wintry about it. I was working, sitting at my computer, and all week I'd been sweltering hot, sweat soaking my tee-shirt, my forearms coated with a glistening sheen of wetness as if somebody had been sitting close-by spraying me with one of those bottles used to water delicate plants. But then there was the storm, everything cooled down and I remember feeling good about life as I stared out at the falling rain and yes, I was even thinking it'll do my lawn the world of good too. Avid readers will recall that I covered my lawn with 'weed and feed' and it's gone black, but I know that black lawns matter and that sooner or later I'll have to go out there and rake it and then put down some more grass seed, possibly in September. The garden is looking good, there are new plants in the beds, the lawn's been sorted out and the canopy over the kitchen window has been painted. We've even bought a new parasol.

But it's now mid-August and while the summer has yet to leave the building and we still have the August bank holiday to go, I'm kind of sad that we (and everybody else) haven't been able to take full advantage of the summer weather, which this year has been tremendous. In so many ways, it's wasteful. All those hotels and pubs that could have been coining it, all those live events that were cancelled because of the fucking corona virus. I hate hearing the words, either 'corona virus' or, worse still, 'covid-19', but also 'lockdown' and 'self-isolate' and 'quarantine' and I'm still wondering what the world is going to do to stop the Chinese from inflicting such misery on the rest of the world. What's wrong with them? Why did they initially cover it up? Why were they lying? People are now saying the virus escaped from a lab in Wuhan and had nothing to do with the wet market. But what was the virus doing in the lab, why were the Chinese messing around with it? I personally wouldn't trust them as far as I could throw them, I wouldn't put it past them to be working on a virus, like COVID-19, that basically disables the world and allows them to benefit in some way. But what are we going to do about it? I bet that's the question on most people's lips because we've already heard experts warn of 'worse to come' and I can well believe it. Being in lockdown once is bad enough, but I wonder what people will be thinking if it happens again? I just get that sneaking feeling that it will happen again and that wearing masks and social distancing and all that comes with it will be internalised by all of us in future. It's not a nice thought and I just hope there's somebody out there with the balls to confront the Chinese and sort the whole mess out. Somehow I don't think there is anybody out there, we have shit leaders the world over: Trump, Johnson, Bolsanaro, you name it, they're all tossers. In fact the three people mentioned have royally messed up in their respective countries. The UK is the sick man of Europe, the US has many many cases and no real sign of leadership and it's the same in Brazil and Mexico and I'm sure elsewhere too. I also get the feeling that Trump's going to win a second term. I hope not, but I just get that nagging feeling about it. Is Biden any good? Every time I see him walk on to a stage he looks as if he's about to pass out or is walking tall, but very carefully as if the slightest move will see him keel over and not get up. His running mate is a controversial choice too by all accounts and I feel that people are going to vote for Trump again. I'd rather they didn't, but I see him getting a second term, unless the Republicans unseat him and put up somebody else, that could happen. Sadly, here in the UK we're stuck with BoJo, a right buffoon and as dishonest a politician as you could get. We've got over four years of his government to run and Keir Starmer waiting in the wings.

I do my best to try and avoid watching and listening to too much news. Oddly, since lockdown, I've switched from BBC Radio Four to LBC, although I can't bear that awful Nick Ferrari and tend to switch off at 0700hrs. Steve Allen in the morning is fine (brilliant, actually) and Nick Abbot on a Friday and Saturday night can be very funny.

I'm still in to box sets. Last night I watched The X Files, the night before a great movie, Back Country, both on Prime and it's good to avoid shit like The One Show with its severely overpaid presenters, specifically that terrible Alex Jones. Since when has she been worth £450,000 a year (or was that the equally awful Claudia Winkleman?). They're all bad and not worth the money. I prefer people like Dr. Alice Roberts (she presented a tremendous programme on wild swimming, which I know is fairly old, but still worth watching, they put it on the other day so I watched it again. Perfect.) On ITV I've been watching Julia Bradbury's series of programmes on the Greek islands. Not a great fan of Bradbury, but she's alright. In fact I'd say she's growing on me, but that's about it where television is concerned.

I'm warbling on so I'd better stop. I'm hoping to be able to motivate myself this week and try to exceed my 88 miles of the week before last. I've riden 16 miles today and now I need around three 20-milers under my belt and a trip to the lakes to put me on track for a good week of cycling. Here's hoping!

In Miami...I'm not here for long

I left the house early this morning. Gupta drove me to the airport. Gupta is not an Asian gentleman, he's British, ex-army, a minicab driver who is called Gupta by his colleagues because of, shall we say, his 'views'. He doesn't have a good word for Siddique Khan, he's a Brexiteer, you get the drift, but today he was surprisingly restrained. It was raining and grey, but now, many hours later and after an eight-hour BA flight (BA207) I find myself in the sunshine state of Florida and Miami Airport. I'm not going to leave the airport as I'm connecting to Monterrey in Mexico. In fact, right now, I'm sitting at Gate E33 having gone through immigration and back through security. I'm not even that hungry so I'm sitting at the gate writing. The flight over from Heathrow was smooth and relatively painless. I met an American chappy and we chatted most of the way over about Trump and the Joe Biden Ukraine case and how the USA is rife with corruption and that's why nobody really likes Hillary Clinton because (this guy says) the Clintons were corrupt and that's why Trump got elected because he's setting out to do things, unlike past presidents: he'll build his wall, keep his country safe from illegal immigrants and say it like it is. The USA is a corrupt place and it's all because of money and greed and vested interests, according to my new friend. The healthcare system is there to make money, not heal people, and the food is shit because it's supposed to be because if people get ill they enter the healthcare system, which is all profit-based and, well, it's a vicious circle. No surprise that he wants to leave and live in Europe, but he likes the sunshine in Miami and that'll probably sway things for a while.

Breakfast at Terminal 3

I ate chicken curry and a rock hard bread roll and a small pot of some kind of chocolatey mousse and then there was nothing until an hour or two before we landed. Then we got a mini Magnum and then about an hour later a smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich and some tea. It was a good flight and now I'm waiting for another one. I think it's going to take around three hours, across the Gulf of Mexico and there's not much in the way of eating establishments. I mean, there's Wynwood Warehouse Bar, which isn't at all appealing, and there's a Versailles Cafe selling cakes and stuff and that's not appealing either. So I'm sitting here writing this, listening to a toddler crying about something and looking out on the 29-degree heat outside. There's cloud and there's blue skies and the heat hit me hard as I jumped off the transatlantic flight on to the jetty, heading for passport control. There were queues, but it was bearable and soon I was through and now I'm here at Gate E33. The toddler is still whining about something, yelping like a dog at times and there's a baseball game on the television screen in front of me. Max Scherzer, I'm assuming he's the guy with the bat. He's out, he's been struck out, says the commentator. And now there's a Corona Premier ad. I could do with a cold beer, but I don't drink, it's nearly been two years and as I've said many times I don't really need to drink anymore.

Heading for Gate 40 at T3

People are gathering for the flight and there's about an hour to go; I might get a cup of tea, but that's all I need. Yesterday night back in the UK I went out for dinner and foolishly ordered a Tiramisu for dessert. Now there's a dessert that'll make you stop all desserts, it's so unhealthy. I resolved there and then not to eat any more shit. I'm always eating shit: biscuits mainly, but cake too and large 'caff' meals down at the Pop Inn. This week just past I think I had my fair share of custard. Two (or was it three?) apple pies and custard for lunch, alongside my favourite fillet of chicken baguette and then stewed apples and custard at home. Talk about custard overload! So, after the Tiramisu you can imagine how I was feeling. In a nutshell I was feeling ashamed of myself.

The baseball's back on and they're making an announcement. Russell something is being asked to go to gate something or other to catch a British Airways flight, presumably back to Blighty. I saw a massive Jumbo jet at one of the gates and I'm assuming that's the plane he ought to be on. More people have gathered for the American Airlines flight 4494 to Monterrey. It departs at 5.51pm and it's on time. There's not much else to say right now so I'll sign off. More to come.

In Memphis...

It's 0539hrs here in Memphis, Tennessee, meaning it's 1139hrs in the UK as I pen this blogpost.

The journey over from London yesterday was absolutely fine, even the taxi driver to the airport was okay, which is saying something as the last time I found myself with this particular person he wouldn't stop raving about Bobby Darin and playing me selected tracks from a CD, miles too loudly. I remember I'd just jumped off a flight from Chicago (it might have been Los Angeles) and all I wanted to do was get home and rest, but no, he wouldn't stop going on and on about Bobby Darin and Kevin Spacey who, at the time, had just done something connected with the singer who, I discovered yesterday, died aged 37.

Room 344, Sheraton Memphis Downtown...

The driver seemed a little more wizened and hunched over than I remembered him. His hair was cut shorter too, but we got on and guess what, I mentioned to him that the last time we met he played me some Bobby Darin so he did so again, although this time I was full of the joys of spring, meaning I'd had a good night's sleep. I wasn't particularly looking forward to the ordeal of a flight to Chicago. Fortunately I'd booked my seat in advance, seat 19B, which was an exit seat. It's always slightly daunting booking an exit seat as they always ask if you're capable of opening the emergency door in the event of an evacuation. As I pressed the 'yes' button (anything for extra leg room) I imagined myself being disaster movie heroic and putting other passengers' lives ahead of my own, and then I started praying that nothing would go wrong.

Flying is the only time when I pick up the phone to God. Well, not the only time (I occasionally ask for a long and happy and healthy life for me and my family) but you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll be on the blower as we race along the tarmac towards invariably cloudy skies. It's not until the wine kicks in that I settle down a little bit, but he's always on speed dial.

While I booked British Airways, I got American Airlines (they're partners) and I was going to have a go about the flight, except that it was perfect, the pilot looked like John Wayne and they dished out generous portions of red wine. I ordered the meatballs and thanks to the company of Aref, a Jordanian on his way to Kentucky, the time flashed by and I eventually arrived at O'Hare airport feeling fairly good.

The connecting time into Memphis was a little tight, but the system had it sorted; they'd even printed my name on a bright orange piece of paper, which gave me priority through the security system once we'd cleared immigration – a simple and largely automated process – and soon I found myself going through security one last time (this time having to take off my shoes) and then heading for gate 19 and my short flight to the birthplace of Elvis Presley. It took one hour and 10 minutes and was fairly smooth. I ate a small bag of pretzels and drank a glass of iced water.

For dinner last night I enjoyed, if that's the word, grilled salmon with cauliflower mash and a Friscée salad, which means a bunch of tired leaves and some sliced cherry tomatoes. I sat and read the paper.

The Sheraton is a bit corporate, but I like it well enough. I'm in room 344, which is fairly roomy, there's a huge bed as always, a decent bathroom, a good flatscreen television,  a large desk and everything I might need (including an iron and ironing board – yeah, right).

I stayed up last night until around 10pm watching television and then hit the sack only to wake up around 2am, but I stuck with it and eventually woke up again around 5am. I could have lolled around in bed, but I was awake and figured it better to sit here writing the blog instead.

There are a couple of negative points about the hotel: one the keycard, which is also supposed to work in the elevator, but doesn't. I had to head back to the front desk twice to sort out this problem, which was quickly rectified. The other hassle was the aircon – it's really noisy and I couldn't figure out how to turn it off. American hotels always have loud aircon systems.

Today I drive to Blytheville in Arkansas and I'll admit I'm a little apprehensive as I've never driven in the USA before. People tell me it's far easier than in Europe and they're probably right (I don't like driving in Europe either or, indeed, any country that demands its citizens drive on the right hand side of the road, not the left like in England. Still, it has to be done; that's one reason why I stayed in bed when I woke up at 2am, I want to be fairly conscious when I head over the bridge into Arkansas, across the Mississippi and on to Interstate 40 followed by Interstate 55.

This is a real whistle stop trip. Normally when I travel to the USA I fly on the Saturday and then fly back a week later – and that's bad enough in terms of jet lag – but this time I flew on the Tuesday and fly back Friday, from Dallas Fort Worth, which is a 10-hour ordeal. I better book my seat and hope I can get the same leg room I had on the way out.

It's 0600hrs and that means I'm in the ballpark for breakfast, which I'm assuming will be in the restaurant. I'm hoping for my usual hotel breakfast special (Coco Pops) and who knows what else will await me. All I know is that food is never far away – "a new dream every day, Huxley Pig!" Oink oink!

There's a first time for everything...

Postscript: I've never done this before, because I'm a tea drinker, but I'm using the coffee maker provided in my room to make myself a cup of Starbucks roast and ground coffee – decaffeinated. In a short while I'll be able to tell you what it's like. Right, here goes...hmmm, it's good, very good. I say it's good, but in all honesty I'm not a coffee drinker so I don't really know, and the fact that I'm drinking decaff is probably something ultra taboo in the world of real coffee drinkers.

Oddly, though, I have been drinking more coffee of late, normally an Americano after a meal, so nothing major, but once in a while it's fine. What really annoys me is when I ask for an Americano (which is a long black coffee) somebody always asks, "Do you want milk with your Americano?" No I don't, that's like saying "would you like meat with your vegetarian lasagne?" Americano = long BLACK coffee, no need to ask if I want milk with it. Alright?

A stroll before dinner in Pittsburgh...

After writing up a Trip Advisor review of the hotel I'm staying in - a risky practice when you consider that I still haven't checked out - and then penning another review of the restaurant Eleven, where my colleague Paul and I have been dining most of the week (it's across the road so why waste money on cabs?) I decided to take a stroll before dinner.

It was an interesting stroll around town that took me along Liberty Avenue and into the bustling centre of town, which wasn't really that bustling as it was after 5pm and I'm assuming most of the people I saw were making their way home from work. I ended up on Penn Avenue where yesterday I'd enjoyed a quick drink in Lefty's Bar with Paul and ended up in a Mexican restaurant where I ordered a paella and a beer. I can't say I really enjoyed the beer, but the food was alright.

I wandered about with the river on my right hand side and eventually I headed straight for it only to find that, for some reason, the bridge was closed. Not that I was going over it, but it's intriguing, isn't it, when a bridge is closed and you start to wonder why. "There's a match on," said a woman, pointing to the stadium on the far bank. "Oh," I replied, but I wasn't really interested. I couldn't tell you what kind of match it was, football, baseball, I just don't know, so I headed back towards the David L Lawrence Convention Centre, followed the road round and eventually decided that I ought to eat before it gets too late.

Eleven on Smallman Street – the best restaurant in Pittsburgh?

I knew I'd go back to Eleven because it's so good and on so many different levels. The service, the ambience, the food, everything, not least the convenience. I know that I can just cross the road and walk to the hotel where, incidentally, I am now, having just made that walk. It's just gone 9pm.

Having enjoyed dining with Paul all week, I found it hard going back to dining alone, but dine alone I did. A table for one. I knew the menu inside out. But sometimes it's good to 'people watch' and that's just what I did, but without them knowing I was watching. The last thing I wanted was somebody asking me, "What are you staring at?"

Earlier, as I walked up Penn Avenue I stumbled across the geekiest of geeky shops, a comic book emporium called Eide's Entertainment, billed as 'the world's greatest comic shop'. It was certainly that. Not only was the place crammed from head to foot with comic books, over three floors, it also stocked old vinyl records. A truly amazing place. I picked up a copy of the Clash's first album and their second (Give Em Enough Rope) not forgetting the triple album Sandinista, and found myself inwardly humming along to Hitsville UK, one of many great tracks on the album, although Sandinista was not the best Clash album.

When I picked up the Give Em Enough Rope album - and, indeed, the band's first album simply called The Clash - I was transported back to the late seventies when I was just a little bit older than my daughter is now. I have mixed feelings about those times and some strange memories, some of which sadden me. One of the latter memories involved my 21st birthday and a watch my parents gave me as a present. It was a gold Timex digital watch that I truly wished I still owned now, but I don't, and I feel particularly bad about that and the fact that I never really appreciated, at the time, the thought that went into the purchase of that watch. I was too tied up in being an angst-ridden young man to care about most things. Those days haunted me as I thumbed through the vinyl albums, particularly those first two Clash albums. While unemployed and down on my luck, working as an evening shelf stacker in Sainsbury's, I taught myself to type and I distinctly remember typing out the back cover of that first Clash album. As I looked at it, the memories flooded back. And now, of course, dad is no more. He passed away in 2011, in fact his fifth anniversary was last Sunday.

As I walked back towards the convention centre I thought of the moment when mum saw dad in the chapel of rest back in 2011. It was a sad moment for her, of course, but seeing her upset like that has stayed with me and came back to me as I walked along the street. 

When I reached Eleven I considered not going in just at that moment, but doing a little more walking before 'pulling up a chair' and tucking in, but I'd had a good walk already and I figured it best to get in there and eat something before it was too late. They sandwiched me in between a party of bankers, or businessmen, I can't figure out what they were, but one man was particularly annoying. He shouted rather than talked. "I'm 65 and my wife is just 39!" he boasted to a man who was so old I figured he'd never make it through the meal. "Give me another shot at president and I'll sort those Chinese out!". He was a real cock of the highest order and I wasn't that keen on his dinner companions. They all looked like greedy, money-grabbing sorts, the kind of people Michael Douglas might have targetted had they been characters in the movie Falling Down.

Whenever I drew back my hotel room curtains...

On my right was a young couple. I'm not sure if they were together or not, but they were fairly pleasant. She was from Tokyo, he was born and bred Pittsburgh. We eventually chatted (how else would I know that she was from Tokyo and he lived on the outskirts of town?) and they were great, wishing me well and hoping I'm treated right while in town. I told them that I had been treated perfectly well and that all was good on that score, but that was at the end of my meal. The chicken dish was fine: breast of chicken, greens and a risotto accompaniment. The banana cake was light and delicate, that's why I ordered it, and besides, I knew it would be good because I'd ordered it only a couple of days ago. The beers were pleasant enough too, although I'm going off of beer and I don't particularly like the new-fangled American 'real' ales, they're too syrupy and gassy. Give me a pint of Young's Ordinary Bitter any day.

When I wasn't talking to the couple or eavesdropping on the ruddy-faced business nob head, I played with my mobile phone, in particular the Roger's Profanisauras App where I learnt some excellent phrases, like 'clear the custard' - meaning to have a long overdue moment of gentlemanly relaxation. "I've got 10 minutes before I have to take mass. I'll just nip upstairs and clear the custard."

I had to be very careful not to suddenly burst out laughing as when you're dining alone there are certain things you simply don't do, one of them being laughing out load, seemingly for no reason. Here's another good entry: 'atomic mutton' - a mature woman trying to look younger than she obviously is and ending up looking like a tart in the process. An example being Liz McDonald out of Coronation Street.

I like Dangermouse too - a slim fanatella. But on that note I must hit the sack.

Taking a ride around Pittsburgh...

The last time I returned from Pittsburgh, one of my colleagues asked me if I'd taken a bike ride. My answer was a rather shameful 'no' having cycled around San Antonio and Indianapolis as well as other places, such as Berlin, Amsterdam and Essen in Europe.

That's the bike I rode on the left of the shot...

Now that I'm back in Pittsburgh I felt I ought to take a ride and, just by a stroke of luck, while out walking this morning I stumbled across Golden Triangle Bike Rentals and, having recently discussed with Andy how we rarely see any Kona bicycles on the road, this little outfit down by the river had a selection of rides all made by Kona. I was made up as you can imagine. It cost US$8.00 for an hour ride or US$30 for the day so my colleague Paul and I decided to take a ride – and it was well worth it, I can tell you.

This contraption probably transported hot metal from the furnace

Apart from the fact that the bikes were incredibly well-maintained (ours seemed brand new) the route was all mapped out and it was all off-road on paths that were once railroad tracks. In other words, no danger from cars and with that came a tremendous amount of freedom. We were told to pay when we brought the bikes back and that we did.

On the Hot Metal Bridge heading south...

The path followed the north bank of the Monongahela River along what was known as the Eliza Furnace Trail towards Hot Metal Bridge, which we crossed and headed west through the South Shore Riverfront Park on what was now the South Side Trail. Along the way we passed Birmingham Bridge, then 10th Street Bridge, Liberty Bridge and the Smithfield Street Bridge. We had a brief look at Station Square and then, somewhere along the route, encountered a dead end. We had been told about this, but it still confused us momentarily until we found a route across the Fort Pitt Bridge back to the North Bank of the Monongahela where it meets the Ohio River. We could have followed the Ohio River along it's northern bank on what was called the Chateau Trail or the Allegheny River's Strip District Trail on its south bank, or crossed the Fort Duquesne Bridge and followed the North Shore Trail, but instead we headed back along the Monongahela River towards the Golden Triangle rental shop where we started, although things didn't go 100% as planned. Once over the Fort Pitt Bridge we lost our way and ended up on the riverside looking for a way up to the trail level. Eventually we had to carry our bikes up a flight of concrete steps and eventually found ourselves back on the trail and yards from the rental shop*. We'd been out for just over an hour and had enjoyed an invigorating ride in threatening weather. It was bitterly cold.

The guy in the rental shop told us that the Great Allegheny Passage leads all the way to Washington DC, 345 miles away, and that just before we had arrived to hire our bikes, a party of cyclists had headed out on that very journey, described as 'a multi-day adventure'. To go to DC you cross the Hot Metal Bridge, but instead of turning right, as we did, you turn left and keep going. If you don't cross the Hot Metal Bridge but keep going you come to the Panther Hollow Trail that borders Schenley Park and stops close to the Phipps Conservatory.

An old slag pot...

The trail we took was full of Pittsburgh's steel heritage as the photographs illustrating this post testify.

What the cycle trail looks like...

There are 25 miles of traffic-free riverside trail in Pittsburgh and, in addition to the city's steel heritage, you might stumble across the odd homeless person asleep in a sleeping back or in a tent en route. I'm not mentioning this for any underhand reason, just saying that there are homeless issues wherever you go in the world and one thing I know is that in the cold weather, being homeless can't be any fun.

Pittsburgh's iron and steel heritage is recognised on the cycle trail.

The guys at Golden Triangle will also provide a map that not only details the routes of the trails, which are fairly easy to follow, but also list various restaurants, museums, ice cream parlours, bars and restaurants that can be found en route, and you don't have to ride alone as guided tours are also on offer.

The Canadian-Pacific Railroad – a never-ending goods train...

I'm not sure how many of my readers will find themselves in Pittsburgh, but here's the details, should you need them:-

More of the Hot Metal Bridge...

* On Thursday I hired another bike and revisited Sunday's route, but this time I managed to stay with the trail once over Fort Pitt Bridge – it meant a little time on Pittsburgh's roads, but it was fine.

Golden Triangle Bike Rentals and Tours
Downtown Pittsburgh
600 First Avenue
Pittsburgh PA 15219
Tel: (412) 600-0675
www.bikepittsburgh.com
www.gap-outfitters.com

Boutique hotels – getting 'quirky' right is an exact science

"Good morning, Twiggy," I said, undoing my trousers and preparing to answer the call of nature in front of her. As usual, she says nothing but simply stares back at me in a disinterested way. What else could I expect from a framed black and white print of the sixties fashion icon that will stare at me every morning this week whenever I enter the bathroom of my hotel room? Because the framed photograph of the model's head is life-sized – and nailed to the wall directly above the toilet – it is mildly disconcerting as the eyes follow me around the bathroom and they're even staring at me when I'm in the shower. It's one of the perils of staying in a 'boutique' hotel where the concept of 'quirkiness' is always taken to another rather irritating level and the guest – or me at any rate – has to suffer, endure, put up with, deal with, accept, the 'joke' and laugh along with it, silently and in good humour. Why else would I choose to stay in such a hotel if I wasn't prepared to be amused by the proprietor's sense of humour or the absurd? Why else indeed.

Friends Hotel, Dusseldorf, Germany

I have a problem with boutique hotels because, very often, they are the living embodiment of the phrase 'you don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps'. They are the one place where interior designers forget themselves and ignore the golden rule of 'function before form'. How many times have I fallen victim to this? Too many times – and the problem takes many forms.

Oddly, the most common area where designers fail to follow their own rule – that of 'function before form' – is in the bathroom. That framed photograph of Twiggy is a case in point, but there are other things I can moan about. The over-sized soup bowl sink doesn't have a plug for a start. There's no way of stopping the water running away, which is both annoying and not very good for the environment. It's no good asking your guests to hold on to their towels rather than expect them to be changed daily if you're just wasting water.

I've stayed in 'quirky' hotels where they've had a mannequin in the room on which the guest can hang his or her coat. The only problem being that when they wake up in the middle of the night – as I did once in Didsbury, Greater Manchester – they get the shock of their life and would be forgiven either for having a seizure or lunging at said mannequin and wrestling it to the ground before realising that it's (ahem) just a mannequin.

In another 'quirky' boutique hotel in Leeds the porter carrying my bags to the room asked me if I required any help with 'operating the room'. I hadn't the foggiest idea what he was talking about and said no. Later that night, after eating out nearby, I returned to my room and spent most of the night trying to turn out the bedside lamp. There was a control panel on the wall that dimmed the lights, switched on the television, moved curtains up and down, everything BUT switching off the bedside lamp. I remember growing increasingly impatient and was on the verge of calling reception when I discovered that the switch was on the lamp and not in any way connected to 'the system' operating the room. I felt an exasperated fool but I was alone so it didn't matter.

There's nothing worse than quirkiness. It's slightly more bearable when you've only travelled a few miles by train in the UK from London to Manchester or Leeds, but when you've endured a transatlantic flight, say, or a long haul in premium economy to the Far East, it's the last thing you want to deal with – a prankster proprietor insistent on making your stay 'entertaining' and unforgettable. To be fair, it will be just that – 'entertaining' (in inverted commas for good reason) and certainly unforgettable and perhaps that's a good thing.

As always, there are places that get it right and one place that springs immediately to mind is the Ace Hotel in Portland, Oregon, USA, where they've taken the idea of the beatnik hotel – the sort of place that Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy might have frequented back in the late forties and fifties – and transformed it into a wonderful space that is far from annoying – in fact its a sheer joy to stay there and I only wish I had an excuse to pay another visit.

The Ace gets it right on so many levels and mainly because its quirkiness is understated and it's coolness is subtle enough almost to go unnoticed.

There was a time when the Ace was not as it is today. There was a time when it was like its neighbour across the street. The Joyce is very much a modern day 'beatnik' hotel that some travellers have described as a dangerous place to be avoided at all costs as it houses some of the city's undesirables. Some have described it as a hostel for winos and streetwalkers and a local paper even published an article based on spending a night in the place where fights often break out in the hallways and the best policy for self-preservation is to keep your head down and keep yourself to yourself.

During my stay at the Ace I had a room that faced the Joyce and I could see into one of its rooms where a guest watched television 24/7. I could pick out graffiti on the walls inside the room and there was never a time when the TV wasn't on; I was so intrigued by the place I even thought about spending $15 to stay the night, just to say that I did it, but in all honesty I couldn't drum up the courage and remained instead in the comfort of the Ace hotel where I could live out my Kerouac/Neal Cassidy/William Burroughs fantasy safe in the knowledge that I wouldn't be making headlines the following morning.

It's been eight years since I checked into the Ace, Portland, and I've been missing it ever since. Here's hoping that one day soon I'll have a legitimate reason to make a return visit and, who knows, I might just wander over to the Joyce for a nerve wracking night to remember – or, perhaps, forget.