To Oxted and Westerham - two rides and I'm back in the game...

Cycling hasn't exactly been on the agenda these past weeks. Admittedly, a week or two ago, I did get to Westerham to meet Andy, you might remember how I rushed to get back in time to got out again for lunch for an Easter get-together and how I allowed myself to become dehydrated. Now that's not a nice feeling. I've done it before and it makes me feel a little light-headed, a little panicky even, so I must remember to hydrate properly, perhaps take a bottle of water with me rather than ride 11 miles, have a cup of tea and then simply ride back and have nothing for some hours afterwards. But that was a few weeks back, Easter bank holiday to be precise and in future I'll be prepared.

I took last Friday off but cycling was out of the question as the weather was a little on the poor side, although generally things are on the up, the blossoms are on the trees and life is becoming a little more hopeful than it has been. In truth, it's been cold and wet and unpleasant and, as a result, there has been little cycling action. So, now things are changing. Saturday was a lovely day so I kicked myself into gear and headed to Oxted for my usual lolling around the town, sitting in a Caffe Nero, sipping tea and on this occasion reading The Big Midweek: Life Inside the Fall by Steve Hanley. It felt good to be on the bike and I enjoyed riding into Oxted, parking up and sitting on the sofa by the window in the Nero. Of course the ride home eventually beckoned, but it didn't phase me, I just rode off down the high street, along Granville and then along the road that led to Titsey Hill. I can't remember the last time I rode up Titsey but it was just the same effort, I didn't feel in anyway physically challenged or out of condition (even if I know that I am to a certain degree).

I reached home and then, true to form, didn't bother rehydrating myself. Later, on a drive to Westerham and en route to a National Trust property somewhere near Ide Hill in Kent I had to stop at a NISA store and buy a huge 1.5 litre bottle of Evian (Naive spelt backwards). I swigged from it as I drove along, I was that desperate, but eventually I started to feel normal again.

Yes, it's raining in Westerham

Sunday morning, as I sat at my laptop, I checked out the weather on the BBC website and saw the familiar cloud and raindrops emoji; it looked as if I'd get there unscathed but would take a soaking on the return ride. And so it came to pass. Andy (as always) had arrived before me and had almost finished a large cappuccino with soya milk when I arrived. There was a strange old man making himself comfortable when I approached our table and tried to sit down. He was, shall we say, a little odd. He wore an old British Rail hat and great coat, both of which had seen better days and made what could only be described as extremely vague and hard to understand conversation about football, something about Bromley, which neither Andy nor I could get to grips with; Andy managed to say he didn't follow football, which was fair enough, nor do I, and while neither of us believed he was ever going to go, he eventually got up and left us alone.

Andy, quite rightly, berated me for continuing to eat cake - he'd been reading my blog posts about Finland - and while I tried to defend myself, there was no point, he was right and I was wrong. My only defence was that I'd started to ride again: Oxted yesterday, Westerham today. I started to discuss the moment on the plane from Helsinki to London last Sunday when I asked a member of the Finnair cabin crew for a bottle of mineral water. Earlier (as you can read in the previous post) I'd seen her pushing a trolley full of bottles of mineral water towards the front of the plane, but as she passed she ignored me. I had to press the overhead button and suddenly there she was with a look of 'can I help you?' on her face. I asked for a bottle of mineral water and she said she didn't have any. "But I just saw you walk past with a trolley full of the stuff," said I and she told me that was for business class passengers only. She offered me two miniscule paper cups of plane water and I won't say I wasn't affronted. But, as I said to Andy, imagine paying £1,100 for a one-way journey from Helsinki to London (as I was expected to do last Saturday, that was all that was available). Instead, I stayed in Helsinki for another night. Imagine that: I spent another night and I had dinner in the hotel and it was cheaper than flying back business class. As it started to rain outside, Andy and I sat there talking about the lunacy of flying business class, the unnecessary expense of it, and then we moved on to me giving up alcohol and Andy's veganism. It's amazing, said I, how many friends I've lost as a result of giving up drinking. I related the tale of how I suggested to an old mate of mine that we meet for a coffee somewhere, but he was having none of it. "No, let's meet in All Bar One... you can have a lemonade." We didn't meet. People don't like it if you don't drink, I told Andy, and that's because 'drinking' is ingrained. The focal point of all soap operas is a pub, be it the Rovers Return, the Queen Victoria or the Woolpack. Drinking never did me any good and I often wonder if it does anybody any good. Who needs a hangover? Who needs to wake up in the morning wondering whether they'd said something they shouldn't? Who needs to be unable to drive a car? There's no point in it and there's even less of a point to no-alcohol beer, it tastes very bad, compared to the alcoholic variety, and you're better off with a mineral water or an apple juice (as opposed to a no-alcohol cider, although it's debatable whether one is the same as the other). I doubt I'll be drinking again, although that sounds a little indecisive so let's rephrase that: I'll never drink again.

Andy said he gets a little frustrated when people assume that he can't eat certain things. I'd said something like, "Oh, you can't have milk can you?" and he said, "I can have milk, I simply choose not to". Fair point. It reminded me of Detectorists when passers-by asked Andy and Lance, "Are you metal detectors?" and they would reply pointing to their equipment, "No, these are metal detectors, we are metal detectorists."

Outside it was pissing down and the church bells were ringing out, but both of us knew we had to get up and go. We both knew it was going to be unpleasant, but it had to be done. We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet up next weekend and then we parted. Andy followed the conventional route out of Westerham and I chose the route that would take me past the Velobarn and then left on to Pilgrims Lane.

"Look, you've just got to grin and bear it," I said to myself under my breath as I cycled along. "It's only around one hour in the saddle and you'll be home." 

To be honest, there was no alternative so I pushed on. It wasn't that bad and that was because it wasn't cold or windy and the rain lightened up, it was more of a persistent drizzle. I knew my clothes were going to be wet through by the time I reached home, but I also knew that there was one part of my attire that would be fine, my shoes. You remember, the waterproof shoes I'd bought on Amazon? I wouldn't have to put them in porch for the next three weeks and wait for them to dry out, just wipe them down and they'd be ready for the ride next week.

I reached home around 1120hrs and once again left the house without hydrating myself. Later, while having lunch in Flower's Farm - it's been extended since Andy and I were last there - the need to have two bottles of mineral water arose, but after that I was fine. We drove home and now here we are watching television and this 'Scooby Doo-alike programme called Outer Banks. Look, it's not high art, we know that, but we find it easy watching and that's the end of it. Until next week...

Alcohol and me...

Today I can announce that I have not touched any alcohol for six months. To be honest, it's no hardship and, as I've said before, it's not as if I had to give up drinking: I'm not an alcoholic, I don't drink too much, there's no reason whatsoever other than what's the point in drinking? I can truthfully say, however, that alcohol has never been a friend to me, it's not something that in anyway makes me feel better. Now that I'm not drinking, for example, I've noticed I sleep better. I don't wake up in the middle of the night, heart racing – unless I have a bad dream, which is rare – and generally I feel good. Furthermore, I don't suffer from headaches or weariness in the morning (as I used to if I'd been drinking the night before). There are so many benefits to not drinking: I can drive a car without thinking how many units of alcohol I've consumed; if I go out anywhere I can drive and not have to worry about public transport late at night or having to get a cab home, and guess what? The chances of me making a fool of myself, saying or doing something I'll later regret or just simply looking awful (bloodshot eyes) is nil, it won't happen. I'll never wake up in the morning wondering what the hell I said to so and so or whether I really did shout obscenities at the boss, or surely I didn't make lewd comments in front of relatives, not me, surely? But in the past I can testify to doing much worse and all because I overdid the alcohol. Well, not any more. I'm through.

"Broken night, sir? Said something you shouldn't, sir?"

I'm saving money too. I'm amazed when I go out for a meal how low the bill is when it arrives. "How much?" Booze bumps up the price considerably. Take it away and virtually every meal is good value, but there is a problem. Not an unsolvable problem, but a problem nonetheless. In the days of alcohol, I used to look forward to reaching a restaurant (when on business abroad), ordering a meal and a large glass of Cabernet and just chilling. That moment when my lips touch the glass in the pleasant surroundings, say, of my favourite restaurant in Dusseldorf (Da Bruno on Karlstrasse) is priceless. I used to immediately relax and look forward to my meal. Well, not last week. I went back to Da Bruno roughly a year after my last visit and, oddly, I wasn't looking forward to it because I knew I wouldn't be drinking my large glass of red wine. Instead I ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water and found myself sitting there purely to go through the motions of eating, as if it didn't really matter where I ate out as long as I was, in a sense, refuelling my body because that's all I was doing. I wasn't enjoying the experience, I might as well have been in a coffee shop or a caff with a big mug of tea. In other words, not drinking changes the eating out dynamic considerably, almost to the point of there being no point. In many ways it's quite depressing because it takes away the enjoyment.

I am being extremely puritanical at the moment. Not only am I not drinking, I've also stopped caffeine, preferring decaffeinated everything and drinking a lot of peppermint tea when I visit a coffee shop like Starbucks or Costa. The problem here is that I compensate by eating cake (I have to have some vice) and now I'm thinking: perhaps I ought to give up cake too, and biscuits and bread, all of which I've stepped up a little over the past six months. In fact, even visiting a coffee shop is becoming a little boring and would become more so if I stopped eating cake, so I appear to be cutting off all avenues of fun and enjoyment in life. I'm now viewing things through a different lense, looking down (slightly) on those with a drink in their hands and longing for the solitude of my hotel room where I can write or watch television or just go to sleep, hit the sack early and feel refreshed in the morning.

The thing is, though, I don't want to go back to drinking. I've started to imagine how I'd feel if, for example, I'd ordered a glass of red wine in Da Bruno the other night: I would feel so disappointed in myself and I'd hate the notion that I had gone back six months and would have to revisit Day One again and wouldn't be in the position I am now until late October.

I'm also avoiding certain people and specific scenarios where I might be pressurised into having a drink – "Go on, a half won't hurt you!" – or simply avoiding people because I know they'll give me a hard time. Not that I'd crumble. I've already been in such scenarios and have been adamant that I'm not touching a drop, but there's always a lot of explaining to do and a real need to explain too, as if the act of announcing that I'm not drinking is not enough and has to be backed up with solid reasons in order to regain the acceptance of those who fully expect me to 'have a few beers'.

"What you drinking?"
"Nothing, I thought I'd lay off for a while."
"Not drinking? You? Bloody hell, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, just thought I'd give it a rest."
"How about a half?"
"No, thanks, just a no-alcohol beer will do."
"Go on, have a half, won't do you any harm."
"It's not that, I just don't want to drink."
"Well how about something different, a whisky, gin?"
"No, really, I'll just have a no-alcohol beer."
"I can't believe this; I never thought I'd see the day, my old mate not drinking."
"It's not forever."
"You're getting old, that's what it is, the slippery slope."
"Age has nothing to do with it, I just want to lay off for a while."
"You're getting boring in your old age."
"Fuck off!"
"No, seriously, you're getting old."
"Aren't we all."
"Yes, but why give up drinking? Come on just a half."
"No seriously, I'll have a no-alcohol beer."
"Gaylord."

The thing is, people don't accept it and I guess I've got to accept that fact, I'll be crossed off their Christmas card list and not invited to future events because I'm no longer 'one of them'. Some people say that's fine and at least you know who your true friends are, and yes, that's true, but 'not drinking' is viewed with suspicion. People don't want non-drinkers around them, remembering everything they do and say while under the influence and adopting a stance of superiority over them as if to say "silly idiot, one day you'll learn".

For now, though, I'm sticking with not drinking because I feel good and I feel free. I can drive a car when I want to, I sleep better at night, I don't wake up feeling weary and I certainly don't make a fool of myself in public and then worry about what I might have said or done. All round, the benefits outweigh the downsides.

Two trips to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – the fast way

Fast way, slow way, what difference does it make? Normally, we take the slow way so we can chat, make small talk, without the hassle of too many cars. On the fast route the cars are fast too and sometimes they do get a little close. But it's often a case of 'needs must' and this weekend just past was the first time I'd cycled twice since I went down with that awful inner ear infection I've been going on about. For the last two weeks I've only managed Sundays and I don't know why that is; probably something to do with needing a lie-in after a week at work, who knows?

The famous Tatsfield Bus Stop

Riding up Church Way, reaching the top of the hill and then sailing along the Limpsfield Road towards the green, I felt relatively fine on both Saturday and Sunday. Andy and I were both on tight schedules, with 'stuff' on our agendas, so a shortish ride – the Tatsfield Bus Stop fit the bit nicely – seemed like the best bet, and rather than ride the slow way, we opted for the 269.

Saturday was considerably colder than Sunday, but there was no frost on car windscreens. I was right to wear the balaclava, but on Sunday the weather was much warmer so I put it in my pocket and never felt the need to put it on. While Saturday was coldest, Sunday was awash with fog, thick fog, especially up on Botley Hill. Cars disappeared into the murk so I decided it might be best – being as I had no rear light – to use the off-road path and risk the very real possibility of a puncture. I've had my Specialized Rockhopper for just over a year now and since I picked it up from Evans in Gatwick, I've somehow managed to avoid a puncture. It's bad enough tempting fate and discussing the subject, but to use the 269's off-road path was inviting trouble. Fortunately, I got away with it on the outward and inward journeys. Andy stuck to the road on the outward journey, but joined me on the way back. The nice thing about 'off-road' is not having to worry about traffic, it's liberating.

I do need a rear light. I want one that's easy to fix on the bike or one that's on the back of the helmut, and preferably one that is rechargeable as the chief cause behind me not riding with a rear light is just that: the batteries fail and I end up forgetting to buy some in the local store. Besides, batteries are pricey, which also puts me off. That said, it's now Wednesday and my intention to buy batteries or, indeed, a new light, have so far been put on the back burner.

On both rides we did what we always do, and I hardly need to remind you, but just in case you've forgotten, we munch biscuits, drink tea and chat 'about this and that' while watching the Lycra monkeys as they whizz past us talking about pensions and other boring subjects while wearing tight-fitting Lycra (which doesn't look good) and ridiculously bright 'booties'. We often discuss how there must be a moment when they're about to leave the house, togged out in their Lycra, when they pass a mirror, stop, and think 'ooh, I look good' before clumping out into the cold, wearing those weird clip-on shoes Lycra monkeys wear. As for our own sartorial elegance, we don't have any. I wear an old M&S jumper under an old M&S hoody and a pair of 'utility' trousers, you know the sort of thing: loads of pockets, and my ones can be unzipped at the knee to make shorts! Add to the picture matted, uncombed hair, an unshaven face and a look that says 'just go back to bed' and you pretty much have it covered.

We're getting close to Christmas and yet I haven't really remarked on the subject in recent posts. The Christmas trees are up on Warlingham's and Westerham's greens, some people have festive decorations in their front gardens and local shopkeepers are doing their bit too, but as yet I don't feel in the mood.

It's probably worth mentioning that I haven't allowed a drop of alcohol to pass my lips since 28 October, that's 39 days (not that I'm counting). Actually, I'm not counting. In fact, I rather like not drinking as it frees me up a little to do things that alcohol prohibits, meaning I can always drive if need be. I didn't stop drinking 'because I had to' like some people, I stopped purely because I figured it best not to drink while experiencing dizzy spells. One thing led to another and now it's been almost 40 days without alcohol and, as you might expect, I'm warming to the idea of spinning this out, seeing if I can go for 12 months, seeing if it's possible simply not to drink again. I'd certainly like to have a crack at not drinking for a whole year and can't see any obstacles in my way in terms of willpower or a 'need' to drink. I certainly don't need it, I've discovered. In fact, I'm quite happy to drink peppermint tea and no-alcohol beers.

"Go on, have a half, won't do you any harm?"

This week my pal Dave was up from the New Forest so we met for a drink and a curry and I really thought I'd weaken, but I didn't. A lot of this has to do with the dizzyness. It's left me with a strong desire to spend as little time lying down as possible. Mornings are still the worse; if I'm going to feel dizzy, it's at night and in the mornings and the thought of adding a hangover, or even a mild headache, to the proceedings, fills me with dread. I've also lost that 'peer group pressure' thing. And fortunately my real friends, like Dave, don't provide the hassles I associate with other 'friends'. With the latter, a typical discourse would be as follows:

"What you drinking?"
"Nothing, I thought I'd lay off for a while."
"Not drinking? You? Bloody hell, what's the matter?"
"Nothing, just thought I'd give it a rest."
"How about a half?"
"No, thanks, just a no-alcohol beer will do."
"Go on, have a half, won't do you any harm."
"It's not that, I just don't want to drink."
"Well how about something different, a whisky, gin?"
"No, really, I'll just have a no-alcohol beer."
"I can't believe this; I never thought I'd see the day, my old mate not drinking."
"It's not forever."
"You're getting old, that's what it is, the slippery slope."
"Age has nothing to do with it, I just want to lay off for a while."
"You're getting boring in your old age."
"Fuck off!"
"No, seriously, you're getting old."
"Aren't we all."
"Yes, but why give up drinking? Come on just a half."
"No seriously, I'll have a no-alcohol beer."
"Gaylord."

And it goes on. There's so much pressure on people to drink and if you don't you're considered abnormal or some kind of sexual deviant. People throw all the insults at you in an attempt to get you drinking. I've had situations in the past where people have ignored my pleas for a soft drink and simply ordered me a pint. There is definitely a social stigma attached to not drinking and half the battle people face with 'the demon drink' is not so much the giving up, but that pressure exerted by friends and family.

Christmas is always a bad time to give up drinking, but right now I just don't fancy it, mainly, it has to be said, because of the dizzy thing, but now, 39 days on, I'm warming to the challenge and intrigued by how those around me react. Not that I'm the party animal I used to be: I hardly venture out these days, preferring to be at home, watching Stranger Things on Netflix or Strictly It Takes Two with Zoe Ball and then settling in for a night of slobbery. Who wants to be trudging the mean streets late at night, getting home at some ungodly hour, feeling a little fuzzy-headed and waking up with a furry tongue? Not me. It's simply not much fun and I'm now asking myself: Was it ever any fun? Did I ever wake up in the morning feeling good about a hangover? No. Do I really want to spend my mornings, after a particularly heavy session, wondering who I might have offended the night before? No. You could say I've had it with alcohol and when I look back on my 'drinking career' I can't think of there being anything positive that has come out of it. I've either put myself in physical danger or I've upset somebody or I simply feel terrible (throbbing head, nausea, the usual symptoms) so what's the point? Put it this way, alcohol has never done me any favours, that's for sure.

In the kitchen, resting in a wicker basket, is a half bottle of red wine I purchased from the off-licence around the corner; it's been there for 39 days untouched. Right now I can't see any reason why I would open it so it will probably end up round at mum's on Boxing Day for others to enjoy. Me? I'll enjoy myself and when I leave I won't feel fretful, I won't have to worry about whether I'm 'over the limit' to drive home. What I would love, of course, is to be stopped by the police and asked, "Have you been drinking, sir?" To which I would definitely reply, "Yes, occifer, I have had a few." To which they might enquire what I have been drinking and hopefully I'll be able to string them along until eventually, if they ask me how many drinks I have consumed, I might say "easily three or four" before mentioning that I've had a couple of cups of tea, an orange juice and a glass or two of mineral water. "You can't touch me, suckers!"