There's nothing worse than a weekend without cycling...

Last week Andy mentioned he wouldn't be riding on Saturday, which was fine, but it left me with a dilemma: do I rest up or go out? I could have taken a ride over to mum's to enjoy a slice or two of fruit cake, or a trip to Woodmansterne Green to meet Bon. Instead I switched off the alarm before going to bed on Friday night and ended up remaining in bed until just before 0900hrs.

Having around eight hours of sleep is fine and believe me I needed it. For God knows how long I've been getting to bed around 2300hrs – after sitting in front of the television watching Newsnight or Question Time (isn't  Fiona Bruce awful) or something – and then waking around 0600hrs, sometimes earlier. Once I'm awake I find it very difficult to simply lie there trying to get back to sleep, so invariably I get up, come down stairs, make porridge and tea and toast and sit on the computer writing something, like this, or scanning the BBC website for the latest news. With Brexit, however, it's all very boring and depressing.

It was destined to be a lazy weekend of doing very little. It was so lazy that I've forgotten what I didn't do, if that makes sense. I remember watching TGD – The Greatest Dancer in the evening. How depressing can you get? Cheryl Cole with her festering arse tattoo and that bloke from Glee who looks like 'Jock', an old associate who I used to think looked like a rifle. What the hell was I on? It all gets a little blurry after that as sometimes the TV is just on for no reason.

During the day, I've just remembered, I went to my old home town of Sutton. Now there's a place that's seen better times, but it's no worse than where I live now. If you live in the burbs you get used to mediocrity and it's even worse if it's been raining and everywhere is wet and dripping. Multi-storey car parks – wrong on so many levels, but soon I'm behind the wheel, heading home in the dark.

I had planned a ride today (Sunday) but the weather stood before me and the bike. After a strange dream (see previous post) I found that I couldn't get back to sleep after hearing something go bump in the night. I lie there listening to the rain and hoping it would stop before morning, but soon dawn arrived. I'd managed about 45 minutes of sleep before the alarm went off – the sound of birdsong on the iphone – and then I got out of bed, wrote up the weird dream (I like to keep a record) and noticed that it was still raining. An 'abort' text followed and that was it: no cycling for the entire weekend. The most annoying thing was that the sun came out and it was quite a pleasant day. I toyed (briefly) with the idea of a late ride to mum's, but the motivation had seeped through the hourglass and I resigned myself to no cycling – and I know I won't be going next week or possibly even the week after, we'll see how things go.

So it became a weekend of slobbing around, not even reading. Today, Sunday, was lazy, but not in a good way. Not going cycling always puts me out of kilter for some reason. I found myself in a DIY superstore, very depressing, especially as the light was fading and Monday beckoned. But now I'm listening to Joy Division. Transmission. That's the great wonder of streaming. Metal Guru by T. Rex followed. When I was younger I used get mixed up with Trex, the cooking fat, but the two were chalk and cheese, of course they were. Bolan's last hit was a tree in Richmond, Surrey, tragically, but his music lives on.

There's not much more to say, especially now that David Bowie's sad and depressing Blackstar has come on; I think it was written when he knew was going to die, but I'm going to let it run its course. I was never a great Bowie fan.

I wonder if my bike is nursing a puncture in the garage. The last time I used it I remember taking the off-road path along the 269, always a risk. Who knows what's going on in the garage? The bike's out there all alone, or rather it's out there with the Kona. They're probably chatting. The Kona is likely to be talking about its rich ride history – just check back over this blog pre-November 2016 and you'll see what I mean.

Blackstar is a long track, almost 10 minutes. It's still on now. "I'm a black star," sings Bowie.

There's nothing more to write about if I'm honest, although one of my favourite tracks has just sprung to life: A.M.180 by Grandaddy. What a band! The song featured in the movie 28 Days Later, a film I've never, ever watched all the way through. There was a great live version of this track recorded at Glastonbury way back when. Not that long ago, but I can't remember the exact date, was it the late nineties or early noughties? It matters not. What a great band and they're still around. I'd love to go see them next time they come over from Modesto, California.

Now it's Every Day I Write the Book by Elvis Costello, equally great and evocative of times long past. Happy times in the late eighties. 1989 to be precise – the magical year of trips to Suffolk and curries in Woodbridge. A small cottage in Kettleburgh, drives along country lanes, Framlingham Castle, Orford Quay, the Jolly Sailor, real fires and cornfields, long walks. Days of innocence in many ways. Swimming in the sea at Felpham on the Sussex coast, seaweed, the deep end challenge, Lyme Regis, pals. It was another world.

Babies by Pulp has just come on, the bass line is tremendous. Sometimes I wish I could play bass. I keep thinking about buying one and taking lessons. One day, perhaps. The trouble is there's always something else to spend the money on.

Now The Wizard by Black Sabbath is playing, another great track and nobody's complaining, which is good. The trouble with a lot of rock stars is they blot their copybooks. Ozzy Osbourne is a case in point. He could have kept his reputation intact, but he did that television programme – The Osbournes – and then his wife, Sharon, got far too involved with the likes of Simon Cowell. It's the same with Pete Townshend. I tried reading his autobiography, Who I Am, and found it pretentious and annoying beyond belief, especially all the stuff about how he fancied Mick Jagger. Seriously. And when I discovered that all that smashing of guitars wasn't spontaneous, but some kind of artistic statement and not just smashing up guitars for the hell of it, I thought, no. No, no, no! When myths are exploded, dreams are invariably shattered.

I've never liked Genesis, though. There's something 'real ale and Jeremy Clarkson' about them that I can't abide; and they always remind me, for some reason, of The Chequers, a pub in Tadworth, or was it in nearby Walton? Who knows? The only track I did like was the one that uses the phrase "Me, I'm just a lawnmower, you can tell me by the way I walk." And it's just played.

I often wonder what happened to Phil Smith and Pete Jones, two old associates. I wonder if they're still alive, lots aren't. There's no point Googling them, nothing comes up and probably never will.

It's nearly 1900hrs. Outside it's dark, the curtains are drawn and some coloured lights in the fireplace are glowing. Icicle Works' Love is Wonderful Colour is playing, dinner is being prepared and my mood is changing, becoming more upbeat, which is good.

Dreamer by Supertramp has just come on. Now that brings back some good and bad memories. Good because it's a great track – but not as good as School – bad because of an embarrassing play put on by the college 'thespians'. Again, it's amazing the way certain associations can ruin things. Something that can never be ruined is Tiny Dancer by Elton John. I don't know why, it's just amazing, no matter what.

Mum's going into hospital on Thursday for a hip replacement. She's 89 going on 90 and I won't say I'm not a little worried about it. The operation is routine, she'll be in for about a week and after a spot of recovery she'll be fine. I went round there today for tea and fruit cake and she seemed fine about it. Of course I wish her well, we all do.

Let it Roll by UFO always reminds me of Keith Collins and it's on now. Keith died of a heroin overdose back in the early nineties. It was a track they always played at the Croydon Greyhound in between bands on a Sunday evening along with Nobody's Fault but Mine by Led Zeppelin, another track (and band) that will always remind me of Keith. We used to get the bus to Croydon (the 154) to watch all manner of different bands: Stray, Edgar Broughton Band, Thin Lizzy, Kokomo, Climax Blues Band, the list is endless.

All good things come to an end. The music is off (well, I've had a good run) and, sadly, Dancing on Ice is on the television. 'Pip' Schofield. Ugh! But now it's off and a documentary about Indian railways is on. Perfect. I remember taking a train from Mysore to Bangalore back in the late eighties (a year or two before the magical year of 89). I'm going to stop writing now and watch the television.

Early morning ramblings...and then Westerham

Summer has left the building. Now I know that it's still fairly good weather out there – quite warm, not much wind or rain (in fact, hardly any) but sitting here now, in the conservatory at just gone 0630hrs, and it's fairly dark out there; and let's not forget that it's September – three months and a bit away from Christmas Day.

The statue of Sir Winston on Westerham's green. Archive pic.

If I had to choose between winter and summer, I'd take the latter any day. Cycling out on a cold, wintry day is no fun, especially if there's a cold breeze or, dare I say it, rain. I much prefer tee-shirt weather, being able to sit on the grass under a warm sun, although winter does have its appeal. There's something rather cosy about sitting in the conservatory in the dim light of morning, mug of tea and a bowl of Shredded Wheat.

It's very still out there at the moment. No wind. Just the hum of the computer and the birds tweeting. And now that we've moved the departure time to 0730hrs from the green it's great to just sit around, like now, writing a few words for the blog and acclimatising myself to the fact that I'm awake and ready for the ride.

I've received no texts from anybody saying they can't make it and if, like last week, we get a move-on, we should be able to reach the green by 0800hrs.

Hey, what is it about Cameron Diaz that I don't find attractive? Even when she's got next to nothing on – as in the poster for her latest movie Sex Tape – there's something about her that does nothing for me, but then I've never been a fan of dizzy blondes, perhaps that's it. I only bring her up because the aforementioned promotional image of her and her co-star in her latest movie has just appeared on my Yahoo! mail log-in page and I'm thinking: no, definitely not; I'd rather read a good book and sip tea.

Right, that's that out of the way. What else? You can tell I'm rambling, simply because I have the time. There's 10 minutes before I have to rush off and ride towards Warlingham Green and it's nice just to sit here writing about nothing. Mind you, I've got to find my trainers, chuck everything into the the rucksack and hope that Phil is outside waiting, so there's a lot to do and, as you can tell, the tranquility of a few moments ago is slowly ebbing away as the reality of hitting the road draws nearer.

I'm making it sound as if I don't like riding the old Kona. I do, honestly, but one of the problems with the later start is making myself a little too cosy in front of the computer and 'chatting' like this to nobody in particular, ie the miniscule audience that makes up my readers. I get roughly 50 hits a day, mainly from the USA and the UK but also from Australia and pockets of Europe and occasionally a comment from somebody I don't know.

Blogging is weird, but I'm addicted to it; if I didn't have to go out in a few minutes, I'd happily ramble on all day like this; God knows what I'd talk about, probably politics and world affairs, the usual stuff, I'd crack a few silly jokes, but, by and large, it would be a load of old rubbish. like the thoughts I have when I'm walking along the street: so much enters my mind as I wander around the suburban streets of South London and I flit from one thing to another, it's a bit like Jim Carrey in Bruce Almighty when he has to deal with the world's prayers. One minute I'm fantasising about what I'd do if I won a load of money (I'd buy a house on the beach and spend most of my time staring out to sea) or I'm thinking about what I've got to do at work or I'd fantasise about my silly novel, the one I wrote for my daughter just for laughs, becoming an international bestseller...and that one leads to me buying a house on the beach and staring out to sea.

To Westerham again (22 miles)
Since that last sentence, the one about writing a bestselling novel and buying a house by the sea with the money, three hours have passed and I've been out on a ride to Westerham (22 miles). Phil and I met Andy at Warlingham Green and then we got our heads down and powered along the Limpsfield Road towards Westerham, taking the usual route. We were pretty fast, there was no talking (well, hardly any) and when we reached Westerham (at 0805) we brought out the biscuits and the tea and started to chat, first about the Rolls Royce parked up near to us (I don't like them, they're too 'local businessman made good' for my liking, and they're so dated). Phil likes their elegance and Andy didn't really pass comment, although I don't think a Roller is Andy's cup of tea either.

Phil and Andy haven't seen each other since Andy rode the 100-mile Ride London event so we chatted a bit about that and both Phil and I decided that it wasn't for us, although we'd happily consider, say, London-Brighton or London-Cambridge next year (50 and 60 miles respectively). Andy, incidentally, has signed up for next year's Ride London event.

Today's weather was perfect for riding. It was warm, a little overcast, but there was little in the way of wind. On the ride back we rode steadily towards the foot of the hill and didn't seem to have any problem reaching the top, which is long haul, all the way to the Botley Hill Farmhouse. I've noticed that my level of fitness has improved since losing the weight: I'm riding faster than before and I'm not so worn out on my return. I discovered today that I can wear trousers with a 32in waist again and my collar size has decreased from 16in back to 15.5in. This is all good news.