This and that...

At the Lookout Cafe, Biggin Hill, Kent

Last week I rode 60 miles, two 21-milers and 18 miles during the week, not bad going, I thought. The two longer rides were both to Biggin Hill, which is a funny old place. I can't quite put my finger on it, but it's certainly the home of 'white van man' and there are plenty of England flags on lamposts, but that's not really it, there's something else and whatever it is, it depresses me, it always has. Riding up Sunningvale Road was tough, easily the steepest hill I've climbed. On the first take, I lost momentum because the gears weren't lined up properly. In other words I was in the wrong gear and had to dismount and start again. At one point the chain came off on the first ride, but I was a little more prepared on the second ride and managed to get all the way to the top even if I was half dead when I got there. I cycled across the road to the Lookout Cafe, which was right on the airport, almost on the tarmac. Next door there was a flying school and no, I didn't even think about it. 

The Lookout cafe is ok but again, it lacks something, there's no atmosphere, but the place itself is good, there's a decent menu, you can order toasted crumpets, for example, there are plenty of cakes too, but I'd advise you not to have the 'farmhouse fruit cake', its far too greasy and left a greasy residue on my plate. I ordered it on the first trip out and left half of it, but on the second trip I bought a London cheesecake and I love London cheesecakes. When I was a kid I referred to London cheesecakes as 'whisker cakes' because of the shredded icing on top. They remind me of being a kid and they are really good cakes, but I was glad, after eating it, that I had a good 10 miles of riding to do. You need something to burn the calories after eating a 'whisker cake'.

On my first trip to the Lookout, it was packed and I couldn't figure out why the people were there: were they going to have flying lessons, were they flying off somewhere, were they airplane spotting or, like me, were they just there for the cake and the tea? Without asking them, there was no way of knowing. 

Light aircraft behind barbed wire at Biggin Hill, Kent...

On the second trip, I met Andy. It was his idea that we visit the Lookout and I'm glad we did as the ride to Biggin Hill, especially coming up Sunningvale Road, made the trip a proper work-out even if Sunningdale was the most punishing hill I'd ever climbed, even more of an ordeal than White Hill Lane on the way home from Redhill to my house. I think if I go back at the weekend, which I might, there's a strong chance I'll go up Stock Hill (or is it Stocks Hill?) as, for some reason it's psychologically better for me; I get this way sometimes, it's a bit the ride to Godstone when we go through the golf course, there's a bit I simply don't like and I can't put my finger on why, it just depresses me in some way. While Stocks Hill is fine, Sunningvale isn't and there's no rhyme nor reason for it.

I like a decent cafe, mainly because I like to sit there reading a book and sipping a mug of tea. The pastry or the cake is a bridge too far and I always feel disappointed in myself if I weaken, which I often do, especially if I find myself in Coughlans in Oxted, all those delicious-looking cakes staring at me, it's hard not to order one. But that's because I'm weak, I can't leave them alone however much I try and believe me I try, but not hard enough. I tend not to eat cake in Sheree's in Tatsfield, where a cup of tea will suffice, but everywhere else I'm tempted.

I try not to eat cake but last week I enjoyed a carrot cake in Busy Beans in Redhill. At least it's a carrot cake that has real carrots in it, I don't think carrot cakes elsewhere are like that; and yet, oddly, it's the thought of a cake with carrots in it that puts me off carrot cake. There's a big difference between cakes and pastries and normally, if I'm sitting in Caffe Nero in Oxted, I order the apricot croissant, sometimes an almond croissant, but in all honesty, the best place for the latter is Coco & Nut in Sanderstead, it's the filling, it's to die for. In Coughlans I often opt for the Bakewell tart and elsewhere anything goes unless I'm in Costa where I'm tempted to eat their rather processed version of the Bakewell tart. For me, the biggest sin is the millionaire's shortbread. Whenever I have one I regret it in the same way that I regret ordering tiramisu for dessert in a restaurant. Where eating is concerned I tend to regret a lot. The other day I found myself in the village of Graffham in West Sussex, I'd driven out of nearby Petworth and found a general store. In I went and found that they offered food. I ordered a sausage sandwich, another mistake and even more so when they fill the thing with half a dozen sausages sliced in half long ways. I munched my way through layers of sliced sausage, enjoying every bit of it but also regretting it. I've kind of given up on being frugal with food and this has been going on since the pandemic, although I'm getting better. We tend to eat well and by that I don't mean we stuff our faces. The food in our house is light and healthy and my breakfasts are always on the money: porridge with cacao powder and milled flaxseeds, a few grapes and a segmented orange. If I'm going to let myself down it's at lunch time. Normally, if I take sandwiches (egg, or egg and avocado or turkey slices off the bone with mustard pickle) I might wander over to Busy Beans and order a tea and a slice of their aforementioned carrot cake. In fact, of late, they've added a coffee and walnut cake, which is pleasant. 

This week I haven't been on the bike as much as last week. Sometimes I just don't feel motivated enough, it's weird. Last week I was up for it every night after work, Wednesday through Friday, and then the aforementioned Biggin Hill rides. I think it was the weather. There was spring sunshine and it put a spring in my step too. This week I did nothing. Tomorrow will be my first ride, probably Oxted or Westerham depending on how I'm feeling, or the non-stop ride, who knows? Not me. Not yet at any rate, it all depends on tomorrow.

Work has been a bit stressful of late, so I took a half day today and went into town, Battersea Power Station to be precise. I bought a pair of trainers and what a palaver it was too. Not today so much as I'd learned my lesson from the previous weekend, the weekend when my week totted up to 60 miles of riding. 

I hate buying clothes and shoes

I don't know about you, but I really don't like buying clothes, that's probably why I always end up walking out of the store with the wrong-sized trousers or shoes that should be bigger or smaller than what I bought. I always look a bit of a mess. Last week I drove to Bluewater to look for a decent pair of trainers. It all started three years ago when I purchased (from Clarks) a pair of ATL boots made with Gore Tex. They were great and, give or take, I wore them every day for around three years. Recently, I noticed that they were starting to wear through so I figured it was time to go looking for a new pair of shoes. What I really wanted was the same pair of ATLs that I was replacing, but Clarks no longer sold them and it was impossible to get them anywhere else. The key to the ATL's success was the soles, especially the upturned bit at the heel, but it was all academic, Clarks didn't sell them and nor did anybody else. So, I figured a decent pair of trainers would be the next best thing, something understated enough for use at work. But would a pair of trainers do the job? Would I be wearing them for the next three years, daily? I thought not, but I decided to take the gamble and give it a go; it was just a case of getting out there and buying the right pair. Fine, you might think. I know my size (size 44) so it should be a doddle. But no, it wasn't. For a start, when I tried on a size 44 it didn't fit. Why? That's my size! But no, I'd have to try on a half-size bigger. Fine, so I'm 10.5, not 10, when it comes to trainers. I found myself in a shop called Snow and Ice and, for the first time ever, I found the best salesperson... IN THE WORLD! She said she had my interests at heart. Yeah, right, but ultimately, I think she did. She scanned my feet and to my surprise I wasn't a size 10 (44), I was, according to the machine, a size 9! That simply can't be true. If I try on a size 44 and they're too small, I'm definitely not a size 9. In fact I know I'm not a 9 (43) because none of the shoes I have ever worn were size 9, my feet are too big for a size 9, end of. And now it looks as if I'm not a size 10 either, I'm a size 10.5, when it comes to trainers at any rate. My brain was frazzled by the end of the day, probably because of all that cycling, and I left Bluewater with nothing. All I knew was that if I wanted a pair of trainers I was a half-size up on my normal shoe size. I am now, a week later, the proud owner of a pair of Adidas trainers, they're black and they're Gore Tex but whether they last as long as those ATLs, well, I'm sceptical. But think about it for a minute. I have my feet scanned and they tell me I'm a size 9, not 10, which ain't true. I'll say no more. 

After one ride to Biggin Hill and a drive to and from Bluewater, not forgetting the wandering around trying to find a decent pair of trainers, I think I tired myself out if I'm honest with you; I felt so weary. The thing is, I can't do everything, I'm not Superman. I rode 60 miles on the bike, drove all the way to Bluewater shopping centre and then, when I got back I lifted sections of a rotten tree trunk into the back of the car and took them to the dump. I was knackered basically. This week my workload has been less and that makes me more likely to get out on the bike. The trick is to be motivated enough to go early and not to forget things and have to come back, that's always very annoying, but it happens to me a lot, mainly because I've always got loads of things on my mind. I often leave without my rucksack, which I need if I ride the Kona as it doesn't have a crossbar bag in which to carry a pump and puncture equipment. The problem, of course, is if I take the rucksack with pumps and puncture kit one week because I'm on the Kona, I then take the other bike out the following week and forget that I don't have a pump or puncture gear in the crossbar bag. Sometimes I go back for it; most days I do, but sometimes I don't realise until it's too late and I end up gambling. Yes, there's a good chance I won't get a puncture, but if I do and I'm miles away from home and nowhere near a railway station then I'll have to walk and believe me, it takes forever, pushing a bike 10 miles takes hours which in turn ruins/wastes the day. So I have to get my shit together or at least remember what's where and when: if the Kona's coming out to play I need to take the rucksack with all the gear in it; if it's not and I use the Rockhopper then I must ensure that the pump and other stuff is in the crossbar bag. I often put a beanie hat on and then forget to put on my crash helmut. Whenever this happens I return to get it unless I've gone too far before I realise and then I just carry on (it's rare that that happens).

It's nice going shopping during the week when there's nobody around, less people, no queuing for the toilet, the restaurants have vacant seats and so do the trains unless you leave it until rush hour. Because we were all too tired to cook I went out and bought a few things (pasta, a vegetable samosa and other stuff that would be needed during the week). I bought a tin of Nutella. I'm sure it's not that good for you but if I'm determined to take a sandwich to work (and save money) sometimes it's good to have something like Nutella hanging around as it's easy to spread and I'm good to go. The downside is that it's great and that means it's addictive and even now I'm thinking about a Nutella sandwich, but I think I can resist.

I'm obsessed with Pellegrino sparkling mineral water, I could drink it all day and all night. I normally have a glass first thing in the morning with my breakfast and then another when I get home from work. I've always liked sparkling water. I remember drinking a lot of Badoit back in the day and now that I don't drink alcohol, it's been over eight years, it's a drink I can enjoy both inside and outside the house. Incidentally, on the not drinking thing, I don't miss it, never have, not once, and I'll never ever go back to beer or wine or anything. It is a poison, remember, and poisons don't do anybody any good. I just don't need it anymore, that's the key thing. I gave up overnight back in October 2017 and I haven't touched a drop since. In that way I have great willpower, but when I think about it, I didn't need willpower, I just stopped and never went back. It's one of the best things I've ever done outside of marrying my wife and having a son and a daughter. I often wish I'd stopped earlier, I'd have probably been a better person, who knows? Was I such a bad person? No, I wasn't. A bit boisterous on occasion, made a fool of myself here and there, got a bit of reputation, but now it's all gone, the whole damn lot of it. No hangovers, not many late nights, and I suppose that makes me a more sensible person. 

It's almost 2100hrs, 9 o'clock in old money, and I'm going to be moving to the conservatory to read. I've got two books on the go at present: Charles Bukowski's Ham on Rye (what a brilliant book!) and Geddy Lee's My Effin Life, also an absolutely brilliant book. I'm really obsessed with Rush at the moment. I've been watching interviews on YouTube, I know all about them touring the UK next year (I'm guessing they'll be at Glastonbury and if they are, I'd be tempted to go). Geddy Lee and Alex Lifeson are great people, I envy their friendship and I like the fact that they're not rock and roll casuaautiful Booklties. One of these days I'm planning a post dedicated to them. I really want to buy Geddy's  Big Beautiful Book of Bass, it's a coffee table book and I must get it soon. Geddy Lee is a collector, he collects bass guitars and baseballs and he is the lead vocalist and bassist for Rush and they're a great band, enriched by Geddy and Alex's friendship. I won't go on now, I want to write something a little more meaningful and that takes time. Right now I'm too tired and I need to be in the conservatory reading, it's a new routine. Normally I don't read that much at home, I leave it for train journeys, plane journeys and sitting in cafes (my favourite place to read and write). I'm going now, see you again soon I hope.

How many breakfasts?

On Sunday I rode to Westerham and when I got there I bought a large paper mug of tea and an almond croissant from Costa Coffee. I sat on the Green people watching and scoffing and then I got up and rode home. Earlier, if Andy is to be believed, I enjoyed three breakfasts. Not one, three. Now I would rather suggest that I had one big breakfast consisting of a bowl of Alpen with grapes, blueberries and sliced banana, a boiled egg and fingers, bread and marmalade and an orange cut into chunks. Andy thinks that the bowl of Alpen and a cup of tea would be one breakfast (and, indeed, it used to be for me); and that another breakfast would be the boiled egg and fingers. He would also suggest that I could (and should) pass on the bread and marmalade and he would be right. My take on all this is that my food intake has increased. There was a time, not long ago, when I did make do with a cup of tea and a bowl of Alpen and only occasionally having the boiled egg and fingers. There was a time when I gave up marmalade because of the sugar, I stopped, for a very very long time and, as a result, haven't had any fillings for some time. There was a time when I cut back on cakes and stopped eating them, but right now, for whatever reason, they've all decided to come back en masse. Alright, let's talk cake for a little while. I've always been partial to a slice of fruit cake, mainly round at mum's on a Sunday afternoon, but since lockdown that's been impossible. But hold on, I've also been partial to large chunks of coffee and walnut cake, mainly at National Trust cafes on a Sunday afternoon, and if I'm down on the South Coast, well, there's always the Lobster Pot where I might indulge my passion for buttered toasted teacakes. But Andy's right in a sense: I am eating a lot in the mornings before a ride and I suppose it could be argued that I'll burn it all off on the ride, but the fact remains that I'm eating more than I used to; even today I was handed another great passion of mine, a Waitrose cappuccino mousse, something I never knew existed this time last year. Fortunately, I cycle regularly (see last post for table of weekly mileages).

Longford Lake the last time I was there...

Why, you might ask, am I discussing all this? Well, it's simple really. Today, Bank Holiday Monday, 3rd May 2021, I cycled to the lakes, the best part of a 29-mile ride. We rarely visit the lakes together, Andy and I, in fact we normally go there alone. The last time I was there was during the first lockdown and I'm sure Andy's been there alone too; but today we agreed to meet there. I left the house around 0700hrs and I got there around 0810hrs and sat on a bench looking out across the lake. Is it Longford Lake or is it Chipstead Lake or Chevening Lake? I don't know. I think it's Longford Lake. But that's not the point. I reached the lake about 20 minutes before Andy did and sat there watching a man exercising with a personal trainer. There was a mat on the ground where he did various things, including 'the plank' and squat thrusts and there was a large black rope, which he later picked up and did various exhausting exercises. And what about the two bright yellow dumbells? He clasped one in each hand and pretended to box with them, apparently for one whole minute. The female personal trainer was clearly fit, unlike the man who had a protruding gut and was sweating profusely. I even wondered whether he might keel over, but he didn't, which was good. 

When Andy turned up around 0830hrs we both sat watching the spectacle of the man being basically bossed around by a woman in brightly-coloured and tight-fitting leggings. He was certainly getting his money's worth, we both thought, and eventually they both packed up and left, leaving Andy and I chatting about health and fitness; and this was when we got round to discussing my many breakfasts. I might have a try and not eating such a big breakfast, perhaps forgoing the marmalade or alternating between a boiled egg and fingers and the marmalade sandwich. You see, it's all about bread intake and mine has gone through the roof. I used to limit myself to three slices per day, which is roughly what my mammoth breakfasts allow: one slice for the fingers, two slices for the marmalade. But the problem is later in the day when I fancy another marmalade sandwich. I've even been known to have another bowl of Alpen, so things are getting out of hand and need to be reined in. Andy doesn't have a problem with the almond croissant on the green or the slice of coffee and walnut cake on the ride. Why? Because you burn off the calories, that's why.

It was time to head back home and as we made our way to the road a cavalcade rushed past, led by a police motorcyle outrider, followed by a huge, black Range Rover and another car and then more police motorcycles. Up the road is Chevening, which I think is the country retreat of the Foreign Secretary, so I'm guessing that Dominic Raab was on his way to Chevening House (if that's what it's called) for some peace and relaxation. Although it might not have been Raab, it might have been US Secretary of State Anthony Blinken who Raab was meeting yesterday. Perhaps he was being whisked from the airport to Chevening House to meet with Mr Raab. The motorcycle outrider leading the cavalcade was riding very fast for a small and sleepy village and I couldn't help but think: not another American involved in a fatal car crash on UK soil claiming diplomatic immunity. Well, all was fine and by the time we reached the end of the road there was just a solitary police car waiting there. 

Just a brief word about Pilgrim's Lane: it's wonderful on a pleasant day and a joy to ride along. Andy and I stuck together until we made the turn on to Sundridge Lane from Ovenden Road and then Andy decided to put his foot down, so to speak. He is now much fitter than I am, he's lost a load of weight and he rides a racing bike so I bade him farewell and continued on my merry way. Pilgrim's Lane is long and almost completely straight and this meant that I could see Andy's flourescent jacket far away in the distance until he eventually turned a corner and was gone. 

I reached home around 1045hrs and I was pretty tired. A cup of tea did the trick and then I found myself mowing the front and back lawns after which I made some pasta for myself as I was the only one in the house; but then, ironically considering what I was discussing earlier, I ended up having two lunches. A large tray of macaroni pie that I had made yesterday was being heated up and I wasn't going to miss out. I ate quite a lot if the truth be told and now, at 1914hrs I'm not in the slightest bit hungry, so that's a result. Today, then, if Andy's theory is right, I had something like three breakfasts and two lunches, but then I did ride the best part of 29 miles this morning and yesterday I rode 25 miles so I'm not doing too badly.

Sunday morning and, so far, all is well...

It's now Sunday morning and yesterday's frustrations are behind me as another day dawns. Last night I had some weird dreams, one of which involved walking naked with a woman up a steep concrete alleyway in nearby Purley. Half way up, for some inexplicable reason, I found a discarded bright red towel, which I used to cover myself, and then proceeded to walk up the hill. The dream also involved the Duke of Edinburgh who, for some reason, I knew. I recall the round tables of a formal occasion and many people – men in dinner suits, women in posh frocks – as I made my way to some kind of shrine, only to find two cakes, one chocolate, the other coffee and walnut. The former was fine, but not my favourite. The latter, my favourite, was spoilt in some way, it was too gooey, as if it had melted.

When I woke up, the news was on, but I can't for the life of me remember any of the stories, although, as I gradually regained full consciousness, I found I was listening to Radio Four's Something Understood, which this week was all about poverty and the 'scandalous inequality' that exists in Great Britain today. There wasn't time to lie-in so I got up and peered out of the window: dry and still and no sign of any frost. Last night, prior to falling asleep, I listened to the wind and the noise of the foxes on the back lawn – they make a strange, squeaky sound – and then, after catching the noise of a few slamming car doors, I made up some kind of scenario in my head about how I'd engage burglars in conversation; it went something along the lines of "there's nothing worth nicking here, mate."

Now I'm downstairs in the living room, on the laptop. I've got the harsh light on over the dining table and I'm sitting here writing having eaten two Weetabix. I'm hoping that when I go to the garage in about 15 minutes, that my two bicycle tyres will be fully inflated. Let's see.

Taking tea (and coffee) with Lycra monkeys

Sunday 24 May: For the first time this year we rode to Westerham, just Andy and I. It was a case of heads down and get there and we got there with the intention of taking breakfast at the Tudor Rose tearoom (Andy's treat – thanks, Andy).

When we reached the green after a pleasant ride, I noticed that Andy was looking for something and soon realised that he wanted to see the cycle shop and café combined that I had brought to his attention recently. Avid readers might recall that, a year or two ago as Andy and I sipped tea and munched cereal bars on Westerham's green we often fantasised about taking on the lease of an old Barclays Bank and transforming it into a cyclists' coffee shop, jam-packed with biscuits and cakes and offering a repair service too. But, of course, we were never serious about it and, as Andy said yesterday as we trudged morosely across the grass towards the roadside, our version of the Westerham Cyclery's caff and repair shop would have been half-hearted and certainly not as swish. I take the latter point about it not being as swish, perhaps, but would it have been half-hearted?

Amazing cake and cappuccino that's better than Costa.

I've already critiqued the place in a previous post, claiming it was too 'boutiquey' in its appearance, but that was based on standing outside and then having just a brief wander into the building before heading straight to the Tudor Rose – much more my cup of tea and, dare I say it, more in tune with what my version of a bike repair shop and caff would have looked like. But now, having experienced the Westerham Cyclery caff first hand, my opinion has changed. Let's face it, the guy in charge knows what he's doing and he's done a fantastic job. Yes, it is a bit 'boutiquey'. There are wooden floors and leather sofas and flatscreen televisions showing cycling on Eurosport, there are copies of Bradley Wiggins' autobiography, a few perfect-bound cycling magazines here and there, a range of energy snacks for Lycra monkeys concerned about 'precious grams' and putting in a good time and some signed Tour de France cycling shirts in frames on the wall. In other words, the place screams Lycra monkeys and so does the clientele – no ragged trousered mountain bike riders here... until now.

In fact, we did feel a little out of place what with me, unshaven and unkempt-looking in my tatty old Tesco ASBO specials and trainers, my right leg tucked into a grey sock. Andy, as it happened, looked relatively respectable as, unlike me, he'd taken the trouble to shave. It was as if two cast members from a Spaghetti western had bowled up to a posh restaurant with no intention of dressing for dinner. And we were early by about five minutes and were ready, had he not allowed us in, to make our way diagonally across the green to the Tudor Rose for a full English. But he opened early just for us, unlocking some wooden doors to the left of the caff proper to reveal parking racks for bikes and some comfortable outdoor seating at the back – this place covered all bases. There was a bike showroom upstairs, a bike accessories area to the right of the serving counter and, in addition to the energy bars, a selection of three tasty-looking cakes.

Andy ordered a cappuccino, I ordered tea and we both opted for coffee and walnut cake. It was all good. In fact, we both thought the cake was out of this world – very tasty. The cappuccino – which Andy said was better than Costa – had a chocolate bike stencilled into the froth (a nice touch) and, well, all-in-all, this was the perfect place for cyclists – especially Lycra monkeys. There was even a cycling club that operated out of the café and some of its members arrived as we enjoyed our cake, tea and coffee. Unlike us they were clean-shaven and clean generally: no Tesco ASBO specials just Lycra monkey gear, fresh complexions and perfectly combed hair. In comparison, we looked like a couple of vagabonds with bikes to match. We were, after all, from the other side of the tracks and let ourselves down by mentioning the C-word (Croydon). We should have said Caterham and Sanderstead, perhaps.

After paying £8 for two pieces of cake, a cup of tea and a cappuccino (extortionate, yes, but it's the going rate these days) we strode across the green towards the roadside.

"We wouldn't have done a better job," said Andy.
"No, you're right; that was perfectly in tune..."
"...with the Lycra monkeys' needs."
"Yes, it was," I said. "My coffee shop would have been a little more leftfield: underground music from the juke box, framed black and white prints of whacky existentialist novelists like Albert Camus, and Philip K Dick paperbacks on the tables," I said.

We mounted the bikes and headed out of town on the long haul towards the hill. As we neared the top we heard voices behind us. It was the Lycra Monkeys from the café – the junior greedheads and the senior management, as Julian Cope would probably have described them. They were headed in the direction of Botley Hill. When we reached the top we saw them parked up on The Ridge and wondered where they were going.

"Down Gangers, probably, and then along the A25 back into Westerham for tea and cake," I said.

Andy said nothing. We got our heads down for the ride along the 269 into Warlingham. It had been an enjoyable ride and we'd reached Westerham, which was good. Twenty two miles.

"Until tomorrow, then," I said.
"Yeah, I should be alright," Andy replied.
"Text me if there's a problem."
"Okay."

I rode the last four miles alone, riding up Sanderstead High Street, passing the pond, crossing the Addington Road and freewheeling down Church Way towards home and a hot cup of tea in the garden. Perfect.