Lockdown, Pt.42: Autumnal weather, The Grateful Dead, Phil's back, weird dreams...

Last night a strange dream. I was in a hotel and I think it was in Dusseldorf. Next thing I know I'm leaving the hotel dressed only in a duvet. I remember reaching a wall with a sliding door and when I opened it there was another sliding door and another and once through I found myself in a huge, empty, white space, like some kind of hangar. At that point I seemed to come to my senses. Perhaps it would be a good idea to wear some proper clothes and not a duvet, perhaps it would be best to return to the hotel room and collect my stuff before departing. And then, of course, I woke up. Actually, I'd woken up earlier, just before 0400hrs and debated going downstairs when the clock moved round an hour, but instead I just stayed in bed and eventually I drifted off until, all of sudden, I heard the sound of birdsong, my alarm. It was time to get up and make breakfast, listen to LBC's Steve Allen, eat some Alpen, drink some tea and start writing this blogpost. I can't remember whether I had the dream before I woke up at 0400hrs or after I'd drifted off. Why, I wonder, are all of my dreams fretful? The weird thing is that, in the real world, wearing only a duvet on the streets would seem less strange than it did in the dream. If I was stuck in a foreign city dressed only in a duvet, I'd see the funny side and do something about it and, of course, I'd go back to the hotel, I'd need my passport and my wallet, credit card and so forth.

Friday evening at the Churchyard

Anyway, enough of walking around wearing only a duvet. It was a reasonable week. I was working at home again so the cycling was in the late afternoon. I managed something like 82 miles, down on last week's 90 miles, but good enough. I only had one day off (Tuesday). The weather was good, but I've heard that summer is preparing to leave the building next week some time. The weather guys on the television are using the word 'autumnal' but they're not fooling me. There's going to be colder temperatures and rain as the country plummets towards winter and I'm sure it's going to restrict my cycling. Not that I can complain. If nothing else, 2020 has been great for cycling and, as you know if you've been reading previous posts, I've been riding up to 100 miles a week, sometimes more. And the weather's been great. The heat hasn't really let up either, apart from a few days of gusty wind and showers, but not much. So the fact that we're going to get some 'autumnal' weather, well, bring it on. 

Not sure if I've mentioned this yet, but I bumped into Phil as I was about to head into Westerham last week. He was riding a restored Honda CB750 that's around 40 years old. It looks good. According to Phil he was taking the bike on its inaugural ride. We chatted about this and that and how he's been getting on with his life and (surprise surprise) has had little time for cycling. We agreed to meet up the following week but nothing materialised, until yesterday (Saturday 19 September) when he arrived at Tatsfield Village on the Honda. We'd planned to check out Sheree's tearoom, but it turns out it's not open until 0900hrs and we were there at 0800hrs. I considered cycling into Westerham, but Andy and Phil were reluctant and besides, the woman in the store said there was a coffee machine. The weather was fine so we ordered a black coffee, a cappuccino and a hot chocolate, plus three Twix bars and sat outside on the tables close to the lake and it was fine. In fact, it was more than fine, it was great. It was as if Phil hadn't been absent at all and in a sense we kind of picked up where we left off. He told us about Fred, his new baby, and the new house that he was fixing up and we chatted about the vast amounts of cycling we'd been doing throughout lockdown. It looks like Phil might start riding again – he needs to, he claims he's put on two stone in weight. So the plan is to meet next week, on Saturday, but let's see what the weather will be like. Either way, it's great that Phil's back. The NoVisibleLycra committee met to discuss whether he needed to re-apply for membership, but it was okay, his existing arrangement had yet to lapse so all was well with the world.

Temporary lights in Woldingham

Around 0900hrs we headed home, Phil on his Honda and Andy and I on our bikes. I rode along The Ridge towards Woldingham with Andy, although he was heading for Ditchling Beacon (now that's a climb!). We parted company at the top of Gangers Hill and I suddenly remembered I had to ride up Slines Oak Road on to the 269. As it turned out it was easy, probably because of the all the riding I've been doing. Riding to the Churchyard and then heading home via Woldingham bumps up the mileage to over 18 miles so I did it again this morning after meeting Andy at the Tatsfield Churchyard where we drank tea and chatted about The Grateful Dead. During the week I watched a six-part documentary, produced by Martin Scorsese, on the band and it's members, including, of course, the iconic Jerry Garcia. The Grateful Dead is/was a peculiarly American band with international reach that embodied everything good about hippy notions of freedom and sunshine. Alright, the whole thing revolved around psychedelic drugs, but the guys in the band looked surprisingly good on it. Garcia, however, developed weight problems and diabetes and had started 'using' other more dangerous drugs. He died aged just 53 of a heart attack, which, while probably inevitable, is a big shame because, well, he seemed like such a nice guy. I've been watching interviews on YouTube and he's remarkably lucid and together when you consider the amount of acid he's taken. In fact, he's a great interviewee, somebody who answers the questions in-depth and has an enthusiasm that is infectious and life-affirming. When I was younger I used to think that The Grateful Dead was some kind of heavy rock band moving along similar tracks to the British psych-rock band Hawkwind, but nothing could be further from the truth. The music, by and large, is light and breezy and easy to get on with. I don't think the Grateful Dead would have been the same had they originated in the UK. The band had such a massive following. The Dead Heads – that's the name of Grateful Dead fans – used to turn up for concerts even if they didn't have tickets. Instead of watching the gig on the inside they'd simply congregate around the venue and have their own party outside. It's funny how the band and its lead guitarist Jerry Garcia took on almost religious significance for the Dead Heads, with Garcia a kind of Messiah figure. Interestingly, the band claims it didn't have a leader and nobody was allowed to tell other band members what to do. The egalitarian set-up seemed to work. I'm now thinking about finding the definitive book on the band and Jerry Garcia, who, incidentally, had a Ben & Jerry's ice cream named after him (Cherry Garcia). There are many many Grateful Dead albums out there. I remember buying Blues for Allah back in the late seventies, but 'the Dead' were a very prolific band and I'd like to know what albums are regarded as their best. There's an album entitled American Beauty and I'm wondering whether it had any influence on the film of the same name starring Kevin Spacey (something to Google later).

Phil's Honda CB750, Tatsfield, 19 September

Moving away from The Grateful Dead, there's always the fucking virus to talk about. As I suspected a long time ago, a second wave is upon us. I made three predictions: that Trump would get a second term, that there would be a second wave of COVID-19 and that we'd have a no-deal Brexit. Looks like they're all going to come true, although I'm possibly on shaky ground where Trump is concerned as the polls are predicting a win for Joe Biden. The problem with Biden, in my opinion, is that he's kind of the walking dead. He always seems on the verge of falling flat on his face, and when he talks he's often unintelligible. In a way I can't believe that Biden could ever be president of the USA or, if he does make it, he won't be there long as the guy's simply too old. I still think Trump will win and then we'll follow up with a no-deal Brexit (while a new lockdown has been imposed on the nation). You could say I'm a purveyor of doom and gloom, but in my world it's looking like a reality we all have to deal with. 

Andy's bike at the top of Ditchling Beacon in East Sussex

Right now there are regional lockdowns here, there and everywhere and we're no longer allowed to congregate in groups of more than six. Pubs are being told to close at 2200hrs and there's rumours floating around that people won't be able to meet members of other households. Bang goes my tea and cake round at mum's, although nothing's set in stone yet. The problem, of course, is the 'covidiots' who simply don't believe there is a virus and will probably refuse to be vaccinated when a vaccine becomes available. There are also rumours that the Government could force us all to take an unproven vaccine if it so wished, although that might have been an inflammatory story generated by a newspaper designed to pedal doom and gloom and incite revolution.

Jerry Garcia, The Grateful Dead...

Winter is coming and that means it's all going to get worse. The Government has basically lost control of the virus. It wants the kids back to school, the students back to university and the people back to work, but that will all lead to more infections. They can't have it both ways. They've made a fiasco of testing and all the while you must remember that Boris Johnson is, quite simply, a fucking arse. He's not to be trusted. He's not even 100% committed to Brexit. Remember when he wrote two articles for a newspaper, probably the Daily Telegraph, one being pro-leave, the other remain. In fact, there are rumours that he might resign, which would be great. I can't stand it when I hear people say, "Boris Johnson should take charge of the situation". Actually, that's the problem, he IS in charge and look at the mess he's making. He's a blathering, bumbling, obese man with a stupid haircut, but then don't they all have stupid haircuts? Look at Donald Trump! The problem we have here in the UK is that there's four more years of Bojo. At least the Americans can ditch Trump in just over eight weeks if they so wish. I better sign off before I go crazy thinking about what a mess the country is in. 

Pre-ride ramblings...

Strange dreams last night. Vivid but strange. One involved being in a house with a man, a sort of slightly overweight man, an American with short hair, not quite a crop, more woolly, a strange honey colour, but a nice guy all the same. I was going somewhere, I don't know or recall exactly where, but somewhere important to him, something linked to the military, possibly the air force. He gave me what I initially thought was an old flag, but it could have been a raggedy old tee-shirt as I swear it had flimsy short sleeves. It might have been made of cheesecloth or something similar, although I remember him denying it was a tee-shirt. It mattered not, but apparently whenever I reached my destination I should seek something out, what I don't know, but it would all make sense. Except that wherever it was I never made it or had no intention of going there. The next thing I knew I was on some kind of outward bound adventure with some work colleagues. We stood in a damp car park waiting for the doors to a car to be unlocked. It was one of those small cars with some kind of 4x4 ability and it was muddy and unkempt. Inside there were three seats from one side to the other and naturally I didn't want the middle seat. Two people were already inside and, unfortunately for me, they moved down so that I did get the middle seat. But I wasn't there for long, in fact I only remember taking my seat and looking mildly disgusted at the scuffed mud on the seats in front of me, the empty crisp packets. I was alone, walking along the street, somewhere unforgiven perhaps, the damp pavements, tall trees, big, old houses. A car being driven by a woman slowed in order to turn right into a driveway, which just so happened to be where I was headed. It was one of those huge places that used to be one massive house, but had since been turned into flats or offices, creaky wooden floors, winding staircases. As I turned right into the place she slowed and let me go first. There was an unkempt lawn, overgrown grass and lots of mud and tyre tracks and puddles. Gingerly I made my way towards the entrance, nearly slipping once, but managing to keep myself on two feet. There was some kind of security system, but I got through and there, behind a glass, was a colleague from the past. He said nothing, but I approached him and there was some kind of interaction. The ethereal quality of things was disturbed by the arrival of a large dog who eventually decided to lie on his back. I was mildly worried about the dog, but then I was awake and wondering what time it was – it was time to have my Saturday ride with Andy and it was only 0500hrs, an hour to go before I had to get up. The hour sped past and soon BBC Radio London news was blurting out of the clock radio – Tom Petty had died of an accidental drugs overdose. And now I'm downstairs, listening to Morning Phase by Beck, an album released in 2014 and connected in some way to his 2002 album, Sea Change, which I first heard in a coffee bar, Barista Parlour, in Nashville. Both are brilliant albums and I'm not sure which one I like the most. They're both laid back enough to play early in the morning, like now, but I've got to put some socks on, trainers, balaclava, make tea and head off in the dark to meet Andy at the Green. Sadly, it was not to be. An abort text followed by a phone call stopped the ride dead in its tracks – it was raining and it looks as if the weekend will be a wash-out.

Hanging around Indianapolis...

The jet lag – or the flight – had given me a streaming nose that seems to have cleared up and a general fatigue, which I didn't realise I had. I'd woken up yesterday in the early hours and then sailed through the day, which involved going to the convention center to check if magazines had turned up (they hadn't, making a mockery of the whole thing). The event starts today so we're hoping something will be there when we head on down again later this morning. In fact, I have an early start, although that's no reason for being up so early. It's 0440hrs and I've woken up and decided to start writing. To be fair, I went to bed real early, around 7pm or something like that, and generally I slept like a log. I had some odd dreams. In one I told an old friend some home truths and in another I was some kind of disgruntled shareholder of a business (I know not why) and the person in charge of the business was TV's hotel inspector. I turned up for a meeting and was not welcomed. Security was called and I was 'escorted' off the premises while calling into question the footballing abilities of a man charged with the task of seeing me off – he had a dangerous dog on a lead. Now this last bit I can relate to as earlier in the day I was with Sam, a taxi driver, and we were heading into downtown Indianapolis talking about how, in America, or certainly in the state of Indiana, there are lots of benefit cheats – or rather people on benefits, not necessarily benefit cheats. Sam said it's widespread and a lot of those who are homeless or on benefits are better off than he is; it sounded like a familiar gripe, I told him, and explained that we have similar issues in the UK.

My Name is Earl. My hotel's outdoor swimming pool

Having discovered yesterday that my hotel wasn't far from a poor neighbourhood, blighted by crime and muggings, I'd seriously considered changing hotels, but after passing the time of day with Mike, the hotel's general manager, I decided to stay put and called the travel company to tell them. The manager was from Hyderabad originally and he was, for want of a better description, a kind of 'mobile' manager, a troubleshooter, brought in when needed. He'd lived in the UK for a while, in Hounslow, and has lived all over the place managing different hotels. He was last in the San Francisco area (Oakland) where his family still live and now he lives here in the hotel (a temporary measure) and I'd imagine he'll eventually bring his family with him, although his daughter's going to start university in Indianapolis as it has a good reputation, apparently. So he and I got chatting, we've even talked of going into town to try an Indian restaurant that he recommends. And it was based on chatting to him that I decided to stay put rather than uproot myself and cause untold problems for the travel company by moving to another hotel.

Being here on the outskirts of town, however, has taught me a lesson: book early to avoid disappointment.

The corridor of my hotel...

And talking of disappointment, prior to my chat with the manager and while I was deeply considering get out of here, I had a spark of hope when it came to breakfast. Why? Because people on Trip Advisor had said the breakfast here, which is complimentary, is to die for. Well, I beg to differ: wrapped bakery items, miniature boxes of well known cereal, no sign of any tea, a wafflemaker and, worse of all, plastic cutlery and plastic plates and dishes. This takes not trusting the customers to new levels: first an empty fridge in the room (a noisy, empty fridge that hums all night) and then disposable cutlery and plates. I opted for something familiar, a couple of small boxes of Rice Krispies (well, they're tiny), a glass of orange juice and that was breakfast. Then Sam drove me downtown, through the rough neighbourhood, which, I said, looked fine, until we saw a guy with a dangerous dog. Sam tut-tutted about him saying stuff like that was unnecessary and so on and 15 minutes or so later we were in the downtown area where, I've been told, it's safe to wander around, unlike the area surrounding my hotel. I had lunch in Champps (salmon with mashed potato, a glass of Cabernet and a Triton Dead Eye Stout and then headed over to the convention centre to discover there were no magazines delivered – this is more of a problem for my colleague who will be manning the stand. I've got to attend the plenary events. After that I headed back to the hotel and slept like a log and now, here I am, up early (it's now almost 0500hrs) and I think I'll call home in a minute. Oh, yeah, you can't make international calls so I'll have to use the cellphone.

Locally brewed Triton Dead Eye Stout.

Indianapolis on a Sunday has to be discussed as it's a similar picture in many American cities I've visited – there's nobody about, no traffic on the roads, nothing and, as always, I get this strange sensation that nothing is real, that behind the facades, the buildings are little more than film sets, propped up by splintered pieces of wood. Quite incredible really. It was as if I had built a city and invited a few friends to drop by and enjoy the facilities before I populated it – "come and drive around an empty city!" – and a handful of them had taken me up on my offer. Very strange. Having said all that, Indianapolis will come alive today as there's a convention for the rest of the week, meaning many delegates will crowd yesterday's empty malls and pack into the virtually deserted sports bars and restaurants. The streets will enjoy more cars and perhaps the place will look a little more like a city. But once the convention packs up, the city will go back to its sleepy state again and others will wonder whether it's all a facade and that really there's nothing there at all, just scrubland and tumbleweed. Perhaps that's it, perhaps I'm in some kind of weird sci fi movie in a city that doesn't really exist?

As I've mentioned before, Indianapolis has a bike share scheme and I stumbled across the bright yellow bikes and considered a ride, but didn't bother. I will do later in the week, though, after the convention as a 24-hour pass only costs $8.

I took a cab back to the hotel and hit the sack, missing dinner in the process. Dinner, of course, would have meant another trip downtown, another $20 cab fare and then another coming back again, so that prospect didn't appeal and besides, I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed. It's called jet lag.

Today will be busy as there's stuff to do, I'll probably have dinner in town and then head back here and the process will repeat itself for the rest of this week until I fly back to Chicago and then to London, returning home early on Saturday morning.