Great weather and two rides – to Westerham and the Tatsfield Churchyard

Outside of Westerham on the ride home, Saturday 20 May 2017

When I opened my eyes I got a shock. It was light outside. I simply can't get used to the fact that summer has simply arrived unannounced. It seems like only yesterday that it was dark in the mornings and that slippers were needed as soon as I reached the bottom of the stairs. The sunlight was filtering through the curtains and I started to consider black-out drapes, like those found in Alaskan hotels during the summer months, making it possible to sleep in a place where there's only four hours of night time. I remember once sitting in the bar of the Anchorage Hilton at 2330hrs and it could have been 1100hrs instead.

It was Saturday morning, I remembered, and immediately recalled how last week at this exact time I was still three hours away from Heathrow Terminal Five in a jumbo jet, seat 32C, on a BA flight from Dallas Forth Worth.

Outside of Westerham on the way home, Saturday...

I hadn't been cycling for two weeks and was in desperate need of the exercise, so I jumped out of bed, changed into my riding gear (jodhpurs, red hunting jacket and knee-high, polished boots) and headed downstairs to make breakfast (two Weetabix, grapes, blueberries, banana and raspberries topped with some natural yoghurt. I also made myself a cup of tea – no sugar).

All week has been strained due to slowly fading jet lag, but I'm fine now and a decent ride on the bike is just what the doctor ordered.

I unpadlocked the bike and headed out along the usual route, meeting Andy at the green where we decided to ride to Westerham (a 22-mile round trip) where, we discovered, preparations were underway for a summer fair. A smallish group of people, including the local Rotary Club, were setting up display stands as Andy and I sipped tea and munched biscuits, our bikes resting against the park bench on which we were sitting.

Fortunately a horse arrived meaning no shots of gravestones. Pic: Andy Smith

We sat there until just before 0900hrs watching other people work and then mounted our bikes for the arduous journey up the hill. When we were back at the green we vowed to meet on Sunday, although we hadn't discussed the destination other than to say we might go to Westerham again (just like in the good old days) or even the trusty old Tatsfield churchyard, always a good sunny day destination.

On Saturday afternoon there was a bit of rain here and there, but nothing too depressing, and now, on Sunday morning at 0654hrs it is another bright day, just like yesterday. In fact it would be fair to say that this weekend has been the best in terms of the weather so far this year. I'm sure things will get even better as the summer progresses, but right now it's the best to date. In fact, today is the best day of all.

We met on the green at the usual time and decided to head for the Tatsfield Churchyard – the fast way. For some reason we couldn't face Beddlestead Lane. Andy was complaining of tiredness and there's little worse than the slow way to anywhere when you're feeling a little under the weather. We haven't been to the churchyard since 10 September last year (click here for more).

Last week Andy rode to the lakes...

When we arrived we talked about politics and the forthcoming election, we chatted about photography and social media and then set about taking photographs of a white horse grazing in an adjacent field before heading home again.

Ultimately the theme of our conversation was futility, which left us both feeling a little futile on the return journey. I was thinking about the sad inevitability of Theresa May being in Number 10 for the next five years and on top of that I was considering the world of social media and its futility, not to mention the futility of gardening, which I would be engaging in later in the day. The futility of gardening, however, is a little nonsensical, a bit like saying that shaving is futile. Yes, the grass grows back and so does the beard, but at least while you're keeping grass and stubble at bay there's a general tidiness about the situation. Unkempt grass and an unkempt beard don't exactly add up to anything positive and rather reflect neglect and apathy. A bit like my hair over the last week or two. After about eight weeks it gets a little straggly and I start to look like the Toecutter from the early Mad Max movies, but for some reason it takes me an age to get around to visiting the barber. I made it yesterday, however, and now I feel clean cut again and ready for what the world might throw at me.

Sunday's weather was bags better than Saturday's. For a start there was no rain, but there was also plenty of warm sunshine and it's still shining now at almost 7pm.

Our ride home retraced the outward route. We followed Clarks Lane towards Botley Hill and then turned right and rode straight down the 269 heading north towards Warlingham where we parted company. When I reached home I chilled for a bit, then had a shower and then went into the garden to mow the lawn. The original plan was to do both front and back, but a rogue sycamore tree had to be dealt with and after I'd cut it into pieces and placed it in the brown cart so kindly provided by the local council, my enthusiasm had waned.

A few words about the Specialized Rockhopper. It's now roughly six months old and while I'm tempting fate by saying I've yet to have a puncture, it's the truth. The bike's been performing well, but recently there's been a strange noise in top gear, not dissimilar to the noise made by a handful of small plastic bearings being shaken gently in a tin can. It's not affecting the performance of the bike so I'm not too bothered about it.

To Botley Hill – twice!

The weather throughout the weekend was fantastic, requiring little more than a tee-shirt and trousers on both rides. We rode to Botley Hill, mainly because of time constraints for both of us. I had to drive to west London for a family event and Andy had to go shopping – Phil gets married on Friday and both Andy and I, plus our respective other halves, are invited.

Andy's Kona Blast at Botley Hill. Pic: Andy Smith.

On a good day, even Botley Hill looks like an inviting destination. We met at the green as usual and enjoyed a short but pleasant ride, the fast way along the 269, stopping outside the pub where there is a strip of grass on the roadside. It was then a simple matter of eating a few biscuits and drinking tea.

After a short while we headed home, parting at the green and vowing to ride again on Sunday, which we did, although this time it was only me with the time constraints. I texted Andy saying let's meet at Botley. I planned to leave around half an hour earlier than usual, get to the green and hang around for Andy, then drink the tea and munch the biscuits and then head home. I needed to be back by 0930hrs, hence the earlier start. It all worked fine. Having made the tea I left the house just before 0645hrs and reached Botley Hill at 0737.

It was such a wonderful day. The sun was out, the skies were blue and everything was still. All I could hear was the birds in the hedgerows and possibly the occasional sheep in a distant field. If it wasn't heaven on earth it was pretty close. You couldn't really get much better and once again I felt as if I should camp somewhere, in an adjoining field. It would have been great, I thought, to wake up here at sunrise with nothing but the cool air, the blue sky and the sound of the wild life waking up to a new day.

Andy arrived just before 0800hrs and, like yesterday, we chatted about stuff while drinking tea and eating those BelVita biscuits. The subject was the pointlessness of social media, a subject we have visited before. Once again I found myself saying how I'd been on Linkedin since early 2009 and have only ever been singled out for a job interview once – back in 2010. Facebook with paperclips is how I would describe Linkedin. Like most social media I could live without it. Likewise Twitter, although the blog, the one you're reading right now, is fine. Fine because I'm not doing it for any reason other than my own entertainment.

We could have spent the rest of the morning there chatting about this and that, although the tea had run out and so had the biscuits. There was, however, the Botley Hill Farmhouse pub and it's so-called Sheep Shed, which sold tea and cakes, so we wouldn't have starved. But it was time to head home.

The day remained warm and sunny and I spent most of it in the back garden mowing lawns and pulling out sycamore trees growing in the flowerbeds.

My next ride will be Sunday and it will probably be similar to this Sunday's ride as I have to take somebody somewhere early in the morning. Botley Hill will beckon again and if the weather holds, all will be fine with the world.

A few thoughts on Facebook...

Oi! Facebook! No!

I've always said that I would never sign up to Facebook. I simply couldn't see the point. But now I've done just that: I've signed up to Facebook. Why? You might well ask! Well, it's simple. I'd just finished reading Bill Bryson's excellent book, The Road to Little Dribbling – more notes from a small island, and I noticed, having accessed Bill's website, that he runs a Facebook page. I thought I'd sign up and let him know a couple of things: one that I'd penned a small post on wooden bus stops; and two that I really enjoy his writing and even quoted him in a recent leader article I wrote for a global magazine. I think I thought – wrongly – that he might read the blog, check out some of the funny features and get in touch for a chat (in the same way that Bryson often wishes somebody would recognise him in the street). Anyway, he never got in touch and, in all honesty, I didn't expect him to, but now I'm on Facebook, I'm on it. There's been some plus points.

After many years of wondering about a dear old pal of mine, somebody I used to work with in what was then called Shinner's in Sutton – now Allder's, although I think Allder's has gone too – I found him on Facebook. One of these days we'll meet up. He lives in Wallsend, but the opportunity will arise and I look forward to it. The last time I saw my old pal Joe I was still in my teens.

But outside of re-establishing contact with Joe (and a few others) and linking up with existing pals, like my fellow cyclist Andy Smith and Dave (our pal with a Harley, who Phil bought his bike from), it's been a strange experience.

I've only been on there for about a fortnight and I've limited myself to making wise guy comments against things others have posted and occasionally posting something myself, normally promoting this blog. I've even set up a special page for No Visible Lycra, not that it's doing the blog any good. But then I often feel that way about social media, that it doesn't really 'do' anything. And that always leads me to wonder what the hell does it achieve? A lot of people embrace social media and conduct their entire lives on it – or so it seems. Others (I'm guessing) create a reality that doesn't really exist; they put across a version of themselves that, perhaps, is unreal – and there's something sad about that. They want to create some kind of artificial life for themselves, something that portrays them in a certain, more positive light, a better light, perhaps, than the awful reality.

There are people that appear to be on Facebook 24/7. Why? Haven't they got something better to do? Probably not.

I quite like following some of the radicals, like Anonymous, who regularly have something to say about something or other. I occasionally have something to say too. But I'm still wondering about the whole thing and I'm seriously considering closing down my account because there is something addictive about it and I feel drawn towards logging on every morning and at night. I like making inane comments against other people's posts. Today, I was going to make a joke about Agent Orange – something along the lines of 'wasn't he in Take That?' – but I decided that it was the wrong subject to make jokes about and so I refrained. Instead I wrote something a little more intelligent.

I'm still considering calling it a day, but for now I'm rather enjoying linking up with people, albeit fleetingly, and a long way from that much better form of communication – face-to-face contact.

The worrying thing about Facebook (and other forms of social media) is that it lulls you into a false sense of security, a bit like so-called 'fly-on-the-wall documentaries'. You forget that the 'cameras' are there watching you (and the authorities) and eventually throw caution to the wind and start saying outspoken things – and that, of course, is when you're judged by your peers and 'those in charge'. Expect a knock on the door in the early hours.

Recently I wrote a blogpost here on No Visible Lycra about how insular everybody was becoming. I moaned about how people kept in touch on Facebook and I still feel kind of odd, almost hypocritical, about having my own Facebook account. On another level I feel kind of stupid too. Kind of annoyed with myself for weakening. I blame Bill Bryson. Well, you've got to blame somebody, haven't you?

Postscript: 24 February 2016: This evening at around 1930hrs I deleted my Facebook account – it's too boring.

Insularity – the way of the world

“The world’s going to end up with everybody sitting in their room punching keyboards.” – Lemmy Kilmister (1945-2015).

You know what? Everybody keeps banging on about 'digitalisation' as if it's a great thing. But when you really sit down and think about it, it's not that great at all. In many ways it's disastrous because it leads to a state of insularity, if that's a real word. The internet might be convenient in terms of booking flights on line, buying stuff on line, sending an email and so forth, but it's also there to enable those using it to simply 'stay in' – a phrase I used to dread when I was a kid. "Well, if you haven't got any money, you'll just have to stay in," my mum and dad might have said, and I'd end up walking the dark suburban south London streets in the cold, possibly ending up at a mate's house, but at least I'd be out and not just sitting in my bedroom staring at the walls or thinking about what could have been.

Today, however, the internet is all about 'staying in'. It's all about avoiding the need to go out and meet people. People 'stay in' a lot these days, watching crap like Homeland and other ridiculously long American television series, such as Breaking Bad, which are produced with 'staying in' in mind.  They prompt people to engage in marathon 'watchathons' – that require staying in – during which time they sit there in front of a television set with a large bag of Doritos (or worse) and a can of lager doing nothing but watching the box. No conversation, nothing real, and at the end of it they just have the satisfaction, when they're next in the office, of saying they've watched the whole of series one or two or whatever. How fucking boring have their lives become? These are the people who have gym membership or keep a stationary bike at home in the spare room – anything but getting out in the real world on a real bike and riding some real miles.

That whole sense of community is just being taken away from us and we're all left languishing in our rooms, some of us thinking dark thoughts that might one day translate into some atrocious internet-inspired crime. "Well, we never saw him. He kept himself to himself," they might tell a television news reporter at the scene of the crime. In fact, wasn't there a case recently when somebody committed a crime inspired by watching Breaking Bad?

Online shopping. Why? People moan about their high streets becoming ghost-like with boarded up shop fronts and a general sense of decay. It's because people don't go out anymore, they're fooled into thinking that it's dangerous out there, when it's not, and they prefer to remain in their hovels awaiting the delivery truck and only venturing out to the convenience store at the end of the street if they run out of junk food.

Our insularity started long before the Internet. It started with personal stereos – a piece of technology that enabled us to listen to music without anybody else butting in. So we sat on trains and buses, headphones on, ignoring our fellow human beings – the very act of wearing headphones is a way of saying 'fuck off, I don't want to talk to you" – and locked ourselves away in our own worlds, oblivious to everything else going on around us.

Now you could say that we're being insular when we read a book and block out everybody else around us, but that's not it, we're still in the real world, sitting next to somebody, perhaps, on the bus or train, we're still part of what's going on in the world. The worst thing about social media – Facebook, Twitter etc – is that it gives us an opportunity to withdraw from the world and communicate remotely.

"We keep in contact on Facebook," I heard somebody say earlier today. What does that mean? It means we rarely meet up in person these days, neither of us could bear that, so we simply send each other the occasional message via social media to let each other know we're still alive – even if they live just a few yards apart.

We all stay in. Our food is delivered to us in our 'cells', we avoid face-to-face contact and much prefer to keep in touch electronically, we buy books on Amazon rather than visit the library or bookstore, we book flights online in preference to visiting a travel agent, we download music instead of visiting a music shop, and because supermarkets sell alcohol, we buy lager on the cheap and then moan about pubs going out of business.

The Windmill, Wallington – gentrified into Hotrocks

Pubs used to be a focal point, a place where people met to engage in conversation and laugh and joke and play games. Now, they're closing down or, worst still, undergoing a process of 'gentrification' – meaning they're no longer for the working classes. "Pubs are more like restaurants these days," I've heard people say morosely.

Why is it that we prefer to stay in to watch satellite television and drink canned beer? Or go round somebody's house for dinner? Money is the answer. Or rather a lack of it. People simply can't afford to go to the pub every night like they used to.

Another way of looking at it, of course, is that we all simply hate one another. We've had enough of the back-biting, the unnecessary one-upmanship, the rich and the poor, the haves and have nots, the resentment, the jealousy, the pointless envy and all those negative thoughts that eventually creep in. "Did you hear what he said?" "I don't believe a word of it, frankly." "Well, he would say that, wouldn't he." Who needs it?

Perhaps that's one of the plus points of digitalisation: we don't have to put up with one another any more. Instead of visiting the pub where we might meet somebody we don't like, we can simply stay in, texting people instead from the safety of our virtual world. We can don our headphones so that we can listen to our music in peace without getting a running commentary from that bloke who's really into his music. "There's nothing he doesn't know." Oh really! Well I bet he can't guess what I'm listening to! Ha ha!

And perhaps going round to somebody's house for dinner is better than an extortionate restaurant meal where the pretentious food and service are never, ever up to scratch and definitely not worth the tip you feel obliged to give. I rarely tip in the UK these days because the experience is invariably shit and I hate those bastards who like to tip generously.

"That's a tenner each, then."  
"No it fucking isn't, you cunting cunter! Piss off!"

I think a move to the Outer Hebrides might be a good idea. Bracing walks on lonely beaches, a crofter's cottage and being cut off from civilisation for months on end. No television, just a radio and a few books – and a bicycle. Possibly a dog for company and a boat.

"You're breaking up..."