There's leisurely cycling...and there's cycling to work

I'm amazed at how life is made up of many different dimensions. Is there anything, I wonder, that isn't in some way multi-faceted? Take cycling. For me and those who read this blog, cycling is, in the main, all about riding out early in the morning on a weekend to a destination some way off where tea can be sipped and cakes eaten. Where cereal bars and bacon sandwiches are enjoyed in the open air and where light-hearted conversation completes the experience before the ride home begins.

There's such a difference between riding for pleasure and riding for a purpose – like getting to work in the morning. Some time ago now I remember cycling to Camden Town from my home in Sutton, Surrey. That was a terrible experience. I remember being one of those idiots wearing a mask as I headed in to town, breathing in all the fumes and generally watching my back for mad drivers. I never did it every day and I recall leaving the office later just to avoid the rush hour traffic.

This shot taken in Warwick Wold Road. I'd just come through that tunnel
underneath the M25. It's on the outskirts of Merstham.

I'm not working in London at the moment, but in Surrey, so you might think that the journey to work would be better, but in reality, it's the same old thing. It's not so much about the location or the ride, it's about the inherent stress of relying upon the bike to get you to work, rather than a train or a bus or a car.

My ride to work is, in fact, very similar to my route to Merstham at weekends when we head for Hunger's End, the caff. But the difference is that I'm not riding that way for pleasure. I'm not riding at my leisure. The moment I leave the house, the tension is on; the hourglass has been turned over, the stopwatch is on and it's all about getting from A to B.

The tension builds up when you think about what could go wrong. The worst thing, bar an accident, being a puncture. That would slow you down, demoralise you, get you worried about whether you'll arrive on time – or not!

So I off I go, having tried my best to remember everything I'll need: a clean shirt, a towel, some soap, the padlock for padlocking the bike outside the leisure centre, a pair of trousers to wear...the list is endless. But I remembered everything and was happy as I weaved my way through the suburban side streets towards the A23. I'd like to have avoided the A23, but that meant some punishing hills that would slow me down so I had to risk lorries, buses and idiotic office workers on their way to the office.

Yes, it's the Warwick Wold Road!

I got into my stride and as soon as I was on the A23, all was fine. I felt as if I was in control as I raced towards Coulsdon Town, under the bridge and on towards the M23 turn-off and then the first big landmark (the only big landmark) of the journey – Merstham. But this wasn't a lazy Sunday morning. Andy wasn't with me, nor was Phil, and I didn't have any tea in my rucksack.

Suddenly, something was wrong. The bike wobbled and I had a rear wheel puncture. I suffer frequently from punctures. This time it was a nail, but I didn't know that until I reached the bike shop. Stressed, pissed off and angry, I turned the bike upside down by the side of the road with a view to fixing the problem. But I was harassed. I could hear the clock ticking. It was 0745hrs and I had planned to be in Redhill by 0800hrs. Not any more. I had to unpack my rucksack to locate the pump and then, having taken off the wheel and levered the tyre off the rim, I pulled out the inner tube and tried, in vain, to pump it up. It refused. Standing there for a split second, swearing to myself, I figured I had two choices: wheel the bike to the railway station, take it home and then get a train to the office. Or, walk the bike into Redhill, buy a new inner tube, possibly get the puncture fixed in the shop and then walk to the leisure centre, take a shower and get into the office.

Looking down on the M25 from the Warwick Wold Road. This is a good
cycling route for our weekend rides, lads...but not for commuting.

First I went to the railway station. It was only a couple of quid to get a train into Redhill, but I'd have to wait 30 minutes so I decided to walk, listening all the way to the sound of the deflated rear tyre squealing and squeaking as I headed to work. I went straight to the bike shop where a new inner tube would cost me £5.99 and to have it fixed in the shop a further £10. "I'll take the inner tube," I said, remembering how, a week or two ago I forked out the best part of £200 for a new rear brake and various other things (all detailed in a recent post).

I then walked the bike to the leisure centre where I paid £2.15 for a shower. I had to unpack the rucksack to find the soap and the towel and then, after the shower, I changed into my suit trousers and a shirt and headed towards the office where I padlocked the bike and started work.

It had taken me two and a half hours to get from my house to the office. By train it takes just 45 minutes. I'd forked out the same money, roughly, as a return ticket so I hadn't gained at all, certainly not financially.

At lunchtime I fixed the puncture myself and then after an afternoon of working I changed out of my suit trousers and donned the moleskins again, leaving the red tee-shirt featuring Sheldon Cooper in the rucksack. I headed home along Frenches Road after a short burst of A23 and rode into sleepy Merstham. I turned right where School Hill joins the Bletchingley Road and cycled through the housing estate towards Warwick Wold Road.

The journey home isn't pleasant after a day in the office and a morning from hell just trying to get to work. Fortunately the bike didn't let me down on the return trip. The terrain was very hilly, especially White Hill Lane, which I think I've mentioned in previous posts. Before that, however, I had to cross the M25 both under and over.

White Hill Lane is truly punishing, but when you reach the top you're in Chaldon and that means you're in Caterham and that means you're almost home. I was tired out. All I wanted was for the ride to end, but it persisted and the hills kept coming. Nothing is worst that White Hill Lane, but Tithepit Shaw Lane, going up from Whyteleafe is pretty close. You really have to knuckle down for hills and that's what I did. Once it was over I was sailing down Wentworth Road, taking speed bumps at my leisure, heading towards the Limpsfield Road, Sanderstead High Street, the Gruffy, Church Way and home. My temperament improved considerably as I was so utterly relieved to be on the home stretch. When I opened the garage door, padlocked the bike and entered the house, I felt great, but I vowed never to cycle to work again – not for a while at least. Secretly, however, I wished it hadn't been such an ordeal.

I was so tired I hit the sack around 2100hrs. I had a broken night, probably because I'd overdone it with the tea during the day. I had trouble sleeping and woke up feeling worn out and heavy-lidded. All day I felt down and tired and grateful for the fact that my bike wasn't waiting for me to ride it home.

Give me leisurely cycling any day. Even the route from Redhill via White Hill Lane would be enjoyable if the end game was a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge and then no work until Monday.

Late night aborts ride...

Where cycling was concerned, it was a terrible weekend. Saturday was understandable, but Sunday was a great day (in the morning at least) and I should have gone out. Instead, due to a late night, I had to abort and sent out texts to Andy and Phil around 0130hrs in the morning.

I awoke at 8am instead of 6am and did very little all day, apart from make a roast lamb dinner, which was alright. I'm not a great lover of red meat, it has to be said.

Looking out now, it's overcast and, judging by the trees, a little breezy. I'm considering riding to work, but in all honesty, I'm not sure I can handle the hassle: get to the office, padlock the bike, walk to the leisure centre, have a shower, walk back to the office...

There's still half an hour to decide meaning that, in 30 minutes, I'll need to have a shirt pressed, a pair of trousers put into a plastic bag, I'll need soap for the shower....oh, just get the train!

Wind and rain aborts ride

I had a feeling the weather would be poor this weekend, mainly because people had been talking it up, saying how it was going to be pretty murky. Sure enough, as my alarm went off, I could hear the wind and rain outside and reached for the phone to type out one word: abort.

There are grey clouds and the trees are wavering around in the wind; not the sort of day for a ride to Botley Hill and back. Here's hoping things will brighten up for tomorrow.

By the way, the date says 21st June, the longest day, but that was yesterday. Today is Saturday 22nd June. If I was writing this afternoon it would say 22nd June but I'm not, it's now 0725hrs...just because the ride was aborted doesn't mean I don't get up.

Botley Hill and the Tatsfield Churchyard...with bacon sarnies AND some of mum's fruit cake...

It's been a good weekend cycling-wise. The usual short one on Saturday – to Botley Hill – and then, on Sunday, a ride to the Tatsfield Churchyard. On Saturday three of us took to the streets – Andy, Phil and yours truly – and then, on Sunday, just Andy and I (Phil was in the London to Brighton Bike Ride, a 50-miler). So, in total, Phil did quite a bit of riding this weekend: 14 miles to and from Botley, an easy 10 miles to Clapham Common and then 50 to Brighton, that's rounded off at 75 miles.

Andy's mug and his bacon sandwich at Botley Hill.

On Saturday it was grey, but not cold. Rain had fallen over night and there were plenty of puddles to be avoided (especially if you're riding a Kona without mudguards). I'd been out to check my bike during the week, just in case the rear tyre was flat, but all was well. We met Andy at Warlingham Green and headed off along the Limpsfield Road. Phil had made us all bacon sandwiches, which went down well, washed down with some tea and, after a short chat we headed for home.

Mum's fruit cake at the Tatsfield Churchyard – two slices each and tea!

Sunday, it was Andy and I who met on the Green and headed out for the Tatsfield Churchyard. It was a pleasant day and this time we had mum's fruit cake, a nice big chunk that afforded us both two slices. I'd packed a kitchen knife and two plates plus the tea and we sat on our usual bench chatting about various things, including me losing my rag with Lloyds TSB (you'll soon be able to read the full account on http://the-bungler.blogspot.com) but let's just say that, what with my recent dealings with the idiot next door, the poetry incident with my mother-in-law (you really don't want to know) and now Lloyds Bank, you could say I'm losing it a bit. I think in court of law I'd probably have my sentence cut due to 'diminished responsibility', but anyway, it's all water under the bridge now except to say that people have been getting to me for no reason and, I must add, that I've not been at fault in any of the arguments. And look, I'd be the first to admit I was wrong (if I was) but you'll have to trust me on this, in all instances, I did nothing wrong. So, I said I'd forget about it: that's it, forgotten.

The cake was good and so were Phil's bacon sandwiches and the weather picked up as the day progressed. Oddly, it was one of those days when it rained while the sun was out...and then the rain stopped but the sun continued to shine.

After the ride I pottered around in the garden trying to pull out a bush (and later succeeding) before going for a swim at the new pool in Waddon. I've probably mentioned this before, but there's a new pool and at 4pm on a Sunday it's completely empty. After the swim, I sat in the armchair watching Diary of a Wimpy Kid, drifting in and out of sleep.

I noticed that Phil reached home around 3.30pm, which means he must have finished around 1pm, probably no later than 1.30pm (good going). He'd driven his Merc down to Brighton on Saturday so that he'd be able to put the bike in the back and drive home... rather than do what I did the last time I took part: I went back with the crowd having put my bike on the lorry bound for Clapham Common. It was back in 2007 and I'll never forget it. The ride was good, my first on the Kona, but when I reached Brighton Pavilion, right at the end, I fell off, grazing my hands and shoulder in the process. I was sore for a few weeks after that and could have wished that coach journey from Brighton further. The worst bit was passing through Croydon en route for London knowing that, had my bike been with me, I could have riden up the road towards home and would have been sitting in front the TV within 30 minutes. But no, I was on the coach back to London and would have to make my way to Clapham Junction railway station to get a train home to East Croydon (they allowed me on) and would then ride from East Croydon home – knackering after a 50-mile ride. Yes, happy days and I must do it again.

A good weekend of cycling. Andy and I covered 30 miles in total and, as always, it was very pleasant. I love that tired feeling that comes with hot weather and exercise. It makes going to bed feel great and I know it's going to feel good tonight.

It's just before 10pm as I write this and it's still fairly light outside. The longest day (June 21st) is not a long way off, a matter of days, but so far the weather could do with being a little more like the summer. The garden's looking good as I sit here, the halogen glow from the computer lighting up the conservatory. The television is on but both our kids are asleep and soon I'll be doing the same. Until next week...

Pix courtesy of Andy Smith – click here for more Andy Smith pix.

Cycling home from work, a huge hill, an even larger bill...and some bacon sandwiches

My bike, I noticed last week, had a buckled rear wheel to go with it's non-existent rear brake and, I discovered last Thursday morning, a slow puncture. In fact, where punctures are concerned, it's been a bad few days for the old Kona. If you recall, last week I had a puncture on Sanderstead Green. Well, it was the same puncture that I'd fixed God knows how many times, first on Green, then back home (twice if I recall) and then, when I went outside last Thursday, the tyre was flat. What a disaster.

The bike needed repairing as the buckled wheel was proving difficult to ride so I pumped up the tyre, hoping it would be a slow puncture (it was) and rode to the railway station en route to Redhill.

In the bike shop (C&N Cycles in Redhill) I went through what needed to be done: rear brake, buckled rear wheel, new rear tyre and inner tube, pump up the front forks and that was that. "That'll be £85!" Well, that's not too bad, I thought, leaving the bike in the care of the shop and heading for work.

Costly repair bill
I was hoping I'd get it back the same day, but it wasn't to be (it never is). Why wasn't it ready? Well, that rear brake, that's why not. "It's completely gone. You're going to need a whole new brake," said the man in the shop. How much? Well there were three choices: £60, £80 and £90.

"What would you choose?" I asked the man.
"The £60 system, but we've got none in stock for a couple of weeks."
"Oh, what about the £80 brakes?"
"No, we don't have them in stock either."
"The £90?"
"Yes, we have them."

Well of course he had the MOST expensive ones in stock and not the others, but I had no choice. I wasn't going to miss cycling for the best part of a month so I told him to go ahead and do it, which he did, and on Friday evening I picked up the bike and rode home...after paying £180!

I figured I could have bought a newish bike for that amount of money, with traditional block brakes – you know, the ones that screech and don't stop when it's raining. But still, at least I wouldn't have a huge bill. I saw a Ridgeback hybrid for £269, it had more gears than mine and, well, I thought it was probably a better bet than the old Kona. But then I figured that getting rid of the Scrap would be the end of era and, besides, it's still a cool bike and I'm rather attached to it. It took me a couple of days to work all this out, and it still niggles a bit.

Rip-off merchants in greedy Britain
What niggles more, however, is the thought that I might have been ripped off. How was I to know that the bike needed a whole new braking system? I was under the impression that it simply needed bleeding. I knew that the rear brake worked, for example, if I pumped it, and the guy in the shop told me that it probably only needed bleeding when I mentioned it to him some months ago. But no, it needs an entire new braking system – or does it?

It seems that these days everybody's a wide boy, trying to rip somebody off just to make a few bob. But when a bike repair shop, supposedly of some repute, says you need a new rear braking system, what do you do? Say "no I don't"? Well you can only do that if you're an expert bike fixer, which I'm not, so you're left with the choice of getting it done or not and if you take the latter route, well, you end up paying for a half-finished bike as they're bound to charge for labour and, of course, everything else they've done.

What really annoys me about this is that, whenever I take my bike (or myself) into be repaired (and by me, I mean when I visit the dentist – another rip-off merchant) there's always something to be done. Sticking with the bike, if I took it in and said, "can you fix the nut on my front wheel?" you can bet that when I returned to pick it up or ask how things are going, they will say something like, "it's fine, but you're going to need a new X or a new Y because the X has gone..." or words to that effect. Nothing is ever clear cut.

Cycling home from Redhill
So I headed off home from Redhill during rush hour and didn't really fancy the A23. Instead I branched off into Frenches Road and took a quieter route to Merstham before hitting the countryside and some nasty hills.

The people in the bike shop had extended the saddle, giving the bike a whole new riding sensation. I found that I could tackle major hills with ease – or more ease than normal – and it was great. I rode through the housing estate in Merstham, which wasn't that bad; there was plenty of green space for a start and let's face it, everywhere looks good when the sun is shining. All day it had been grey and rainy, but as the afternoon wore on the sun began to shine.

I turned left into Warwick Wold Road and powered my way towards Springbottom Lane, familiar territory from earlier rides to Merstham via The Enterdent. I rode the length of Springbottom and then turned left on to White Hill Lane, a major hill, worse than most of the others we'd tackled, including Titsey, and then found myself in Chaldon, near Caterham. Fairgrounds were in full swing (it was a Friday evening) as I hit Caterham and called Andy for the quickest route to my house.

Down Banstead Road, past Auckland Road, home of our mate Dave and then across the road, into (I think?) Burntwood Lane and then left on to Whyteleafe hill. I headed towards the Whyteleafe Tavern, crossed the mini roundabout and prepared myself for Tithepit Shaw Lane, a major hill. I managed it with ease and then cycled on past Warlingham School and into Wentworth Way before turning left again on to the Limpsfield Road, very familiar territory. Sanderstead beckoned. First Waitrose appeared and then the High Street and soon I was on the Green, crossing through the churchyard and the Addington Road and into Church Way.

I reached home before 7pm before everybody else and I felt energised enough to make dinner. It was a good ride and one I must do again some day soon.

Bacon sandwiches
Saturday was not so good. I reached Warlingham Green and then got a double puncture, a carbon copy of what happened last week. But there were bacon sandwiches, courtesy of Phil, and because Andy wasn't there, we were forced to eat his too. Phil agreed to ride back, pick up his estate car and give me a lift home. Sunday, with the big fixed – I left the wheel off the bike over night just in case it went down again (it went down twice on Saturday afternoon). Prepared at 6am to make an 'abort' text, I trudged out to the garage and found the tyre as solid as a rock. Phil was there at 6.30am and we set off first to Warlingham Green to meet Andy and then headed for the Tatsfield Churchyard. In total about 30 miles of riding.

Photos to come.

Botley Hill and the Tatsfield Churchyard...and great weather

As June arrives and so, it seems, does the good weather. It was a week of rain and overcast skies, but good weather had been promised for the weekend and while Saturday was a little suspect – grey skies and mildly chilly – Sunday was what old people would call 'glorious'.

An interesting cloud formation taken from Botley Hill. (Andy's pic).

We're still getting up early and meeting on the green at 0700hrs instead of 0730hrs, which makes things less stressful in terms of time, and early starts are helped by the fact that it's light at around 4am and the birds act like an alarm clock.

My rear tyre has been playing up. Last week I had three punctures (see previous post) and this week I noticed a slight wobble – I think the wheel is buckled. Add to that a non-existent back brake and tyres that are so thin and frayed round the edges that it feels as if, any minute, they might explode, and I think you'd be right in thinking that a trip to the bike shop was needed.

Despite aborting, Phil (our new accomplice) changed his mind about not going and was outside when I left the house at 0630hrs. He'd been out until the early hours and didn't start feeling weary until we reached Botley – but at least he got out in the air and had a ride.

We stopped at the Botley pub and chatted about motorcycles and pushbikes and then rode home. Saturdays are short because of commitments back home, but Sunday normally means a longer ride and while Westerham was on the cards, as I cycled up towards the green alone – Phil aborted – I thought the Tatsfield churchyard would be just perfect in the early morning sunshine. There wasn't a cloud in the sky – virtually – and when I reached the green, Andy called. Did I get his text? Being as my phone these days is either off or on silent, I didn't know, but yes, I did get it. Andy had overslept and said he'd meet me at Westerham. "Let's make it the Tatsfield Churchyard," I said and then set off alone.

I was right. The churchyard was tranquillity itself. There was somebody there tending to one of the graves, but other than that it was just me. I trudged up the small incline, across grass still damp with dew. There were birds tweeting in the trees and I could see for miles, right across to the rusting old gasometer in Oxted and beyond.

An almost cloudless sky taken from Tatsfield Churchyard (by Andy).

Andy joined me around 10-15 minutes later and I broke out the tea. We sat and chatted about how, if we had a lot of money we'd add stuff to our mansions, like ghost trains and the sort of gadgets you only find on Thunderbirds, like a secret tunnel leading from our bedrooms to the garage where our bikes would await us.

The churchyard proved a sublime place to be and we both agreed that we could have spent the entire day there if we had a radio, the newspapers and, perhaps, some more tea. The weather made it one of those days when we could simply ride all day and end up God knows where. Memories of Mike Carter's One Man & His Bike drifted back and, indeed, Alan Sillitoe's Down from the Hill and I brought up David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries, which I've been reading. It's fine, but I wish it was more about cycling than art and galleries and stuff. It's a touch 'artsy fartsy' but I'm planning to persevere with it. I remember when I bought it, back in 2011. I think it was for sale on Sanderstead railway station and cost me about 50p. Mine is the Faber hardback edition and it always brings back memories of that terrible year, dad passing away, the web design course, no work and, of course, that awful job that lasted just one month over in Dickensian Rochester in Kent. Still, best not to harp on the bad times.

After taking a few snaps, we wheeled the bikes out of the churchyard, down the rickety wooden steps and on to Clarks Lane. We headed towards Botley Hill and then parted halfway along the 269. I was home early, well before 10am, and helped myself to a large breakfast of two boiled eggs, fingers, bread and strawberry jam, tea and Weetabix (with cold milk and sugar). It set me up for the day.

Later we went to Shere for a drive and paid a visit to the newly renamed Dabbling Duck (previously the Lucky Duck) where, we discovered they took cards. I had a homemade Millionaire's shortbread and a pot of tea. After a wander around this quaint village, we headed home and had roasted chicken, salad and potatoes for dinner.

Now, as I write this, it's just before 7am on Monday 3rd June, a work day. Outside it's another wonderful day and I wish I had the day off to enjoy it.

Puncture halts ride within 10 minutes of heading out...

I awoke suddenly. My alarm had gone off, but I was mid-dream, although I can't remember much about it. Still, I've got to get up and get on the bike as I'm meeting Andy on the Green at 0700hrs. I put the kettle on, chuck a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, search for a new box of teabags and then reach for the Crunchy Nut Cornflakes – not my usual choice of cereal, but what the hell. Then with toast, cereal and tea ready, I move into the living room and switch on the radio. Oddly, it's the World Service and odder still, the shipping forecast is about to begin. What's happening, I wonder, as it suddenly all falls into place. Last night, I recall, that when we all turned in there was just over six hours to go before my aforementioned rude awakening. Of course! My phone's alarm clock is still set to European time. It wasn't 0600hrs, it was 0500hrs. By now, of course, it was coming round for 0530hrs – no point in returning to bed, so, having finished my cornflakes and tea, here I am typing these words and wishing I'd reset the alarm. The only good thing is that I'll be on time for Andy at 0700hrs.

Outside it is promising to be a good day. Already the skies are blue and there are strips of sunshine on my freshly cut lawn. Upstairs I hear sounds of movement. Somebody else is up. In the background, Radio 4 is on. The news.

I left the house bang on 0630hrs, headed up Church Way and then through the Churchyard. Following the pondside path I turned left on to the Limpsfield Road and then it all came to an abrupt halt. I thought I had a twig caught in the spokes of the rear wheel, but couldn't see anything. Then, within a split second, my tyre was totally flat and the tyre itself almost detached from the wheel. I couldn't believe it: a puncture so fast and so devastating that the whole thing had totally deflated within seconds.

The church at Sanderstead. Pic by Andy.

I pushed the bike on to the path and turned it upside down and then phoned Andy to tell him what had happened. He agreed to cycle to Sanderstead Green – known locally as The Gruffy for some reason – and I set about fixing the puncture. But there were problems. I found one puncture and fixed it and then found that I was having tremendous difficulty re-inflating the tyre. For some reason there was nothing and I started to blame the pump. But then Andy's pump proved equally useless, although it did pump it up a little bit. "That'll do you for Botley," said Andy, optimistically, and then, when we felt the tyre again it was softer.

I knew then that I had another puncture – two in total – and resigned myself to no ride. We found a bench on the Gruffy and sat there eating the cereal bars and drinking the tea. It was pleasant and at least Andy got a ride out of it, although he admitted that he'd considered an 'abort' text earlier on.

Andy rode home and I walked the bike down Church Way and home where I fixed the puncture. I was right, there was another puncture, but now, as I write this, it's fixed and I have a strong temptation to give the bike a bit of clean – Andy will be pleased about that, having mentioned this morning that his own bike was looking a little too clean for his liking.

But then, oh no! Another puncture! It was as if a thorn or something went through the inner tube and out the other side. I've fixed it, resorting this time to a bowl of water to detect it's location. That's three punctures! All on the back wheel. What a day!

Once again a wonderful day. Shame we didn't get a ride.

PS: Excellent to see Morrissey having a go at Kate Middleton this week. Despite the fact that foie gras is not allowed to be produced in the UK – the process is inhumane –it turns out that Middleton is a fan of the disgusting product and that Fortnum & Mason still sells it, having found a supplier outside of the UK. Good, work, Mozza. Click here for more.

Non-stop to Botley Hill and home again...

Near Botley Hill, Sunday May 26th 2013. Note the blue skies

I didn't go cycling on Saturday because I was tired. I awoke in the early hours – something like 0415hrs – and found it difficult to get back to sleep. While I love the summer months, waking early can be cause for concern because the birds wake up early and so does the sun. Put them together and its as if the bedroom is full of wind chimes. I cobbled together an 'abort' text and sent it to Andy. Phil's away for the weekend so there's no need to send another one. Andy texts back saying 'see you on Monday'.

It's a long weekend, which means that not going on Saturday isn't a problem and besides, I was tired after Lille. Not that Lille is anything like 'long haul' travel. In fact, it's only around 90 minutes from St Pancras, which is amazing when you think that, in the other direction, you'd be in Birmingham. And while I admit to liking Birmingham, I prefer Lille.

So I lazed about on Saturday, dealing with a few issues that have arisen over the past few days. But Sunday was another day and while I wasn't up with the lark – I hadn't set my alarm so I awoke at 7am – I took the view that I should go for a ride and eventually got out of the house as the time edged around to 0830hrs. It was getting late and I figured the best place to go was Botley Hill. I packed a flask of tea and headed off, not stopping at the green to meet Andy.

As I headed up the 269 I decided that I'd do a non-stop ride, which was just as well. When I reached home just before 1000hrs, I discovered that I hadn't taken any teabags with me. How disappointing would that have been?

The weather was good. I didn't need my jacket. A tee-shirt alone would have sufficed. Well, not 'alone'. I'd still need trousers and trainers. It was clear blue skies and sunshine and it stayed that way for the whole day. There's nothing better than hot weather, it makes you feel great. In my case so great that I mowed the front and back lawns on my return from the non-stop ride and then, after a cheese salad sandwich and a rest in the garden reading David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries, I went swimming at a brand new swimming pool in Waddon – what a great pool! It's open at 0630hrs, it's brand new and it's empty, ie there were only a few people in there at 4pm when we purchased our tickets.

Andy and I are meeting on the green at 7am tomorrow (Bank Holiday Monday) and that could mean a ride to Westerham or Botley or the Churchyard at Tatsfield, who knows? We'll make up our minds at the Green.

In Lille...

I took the 1804 train from St Pancras International to Lille. Not a bad journey, although the ride was totally different from when the train departed from Waterloo on the south bank of the Thames. What's so different? Quite a lot. It's almost as if you're constantly in tunnels, rather than out in the open countryside watching fields go by. As soon as the train departed the station it hit a tunnel and then we were in and out of them all the way to the Channel Tunnel – or Euro Tunnel as it's officially known. I was amazed at how quickly the train travelled from St Pancras to Stratford, in East London. It didn't stop, but it only seemed like five minutes and we'd gone from North London to East London.

If I'm honest, the journey was dull as I sat in seat 24, coach 16. It was a window seat that belonged to a woman who arrived shortly after the train had departed – or was she there before it left? I can't recall. Either way, I was sitting in her seat, seat 24 (mine was seat 23) but she officially had the window seat, although it wasn't a window seat, there was a wall. She let me stay put, which was good of her. Had it been me and had we been on an aeroplane, I'd have asked her to move, but she was pretty cool about it so I just sat there, trying to read, but giving up and thinking about a few private issues I've got at the moment. I won't bore you with them (unless, of course, you're one of the people I've already bored with them, like my brother, or my mum).

Room 309, the Carlton Hotel, Lille – very nice

The ride to Lille ain't far at all and soon the train arrived. I hadn't been here for a while, since around 2008, but I still kind of knew my way around. I left the station and crossed the vast expanse of concrete that runs underneath a road leading into town. I figured it would be easy to find the Carlton Hotel on the Rue de Paris, but it wasn't. Or rather it was. I jumped into a taxi and the driver told me it was just around the corner so I jumped out and went in search of it, eventually stopping and asking for directions from a shopkeeper. "Turn right, then right and then it's perpendicular," he said. I knew what he meant and soon I found it, turned right and followed a sign to the Carlton Hotel.

And very nice it was too. There's no restaurant, but who cares about that? The room was rather grandiose. Room 309 on the third floor. I took the lift and walked along the corridor, past a huge oil painting resting against a wall. The room was lovely in a Regency sort of way. Wooden floors – or are they laminate? A sofa, a flatscreen television, double bed, drapes, bathroom and toilet, very nice...but no restaurant. Not that I was complaining, I hate hotel restaurants (apart from Nobu in the Metropolitan, London or, oddly the one in the Holiday Inn, Essen, which I liked – great soup!).

Anyway, there was no restaurant so I was forced to go out. The receptionist recommended the Hippopotamus restaurant next door, but having worked as a foodservice journalist for some time, I knew it was a chain and went in search of something better. I found myself on the Place du General De Gaulle and a nice little place called Le Coq Hardi where I was guided upstairs by the waitress and sat at a table for one, twiddling my thumbs and wondering where to look – that's what you do when you don't have anybody to converse with or a book to read.

I ordered carbonnade of beef, a half bottle of Haut Gazeau St Emilion and a Tarte Tatin, which set me back EUR35.60 – not bad. The meal was good and I didn't want my carbonnade to end. The tarte tatin was good too, but the star of the show was the wine. I looked out on the square, it was getting dark, and just sat there enjoying the food and the wine – although I wasn't really enjoying myself: it was lonely and depressing sitting there without a companion.

My hotel room was wonderful and the view of the town below was fantastic. In the morning I've got to take a taxi to Ronchin, for my business appointment, but if I'm finished early and have some time to kill, I'll take a wander around town before hoofing it back to the railway station for the journey home.

In addition to the view, there was a towelling dressing gown and slippers on my bed, which was a nice touch, but I can't see myself having the time to make myself comfortable. There's free WiFi, of course, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to sit in the hotel room typing this post and guess what, there's bikes, ie Boris Bike equivalents, but I didn't get the time to use them, The hotel room was also the proud owner of a Corby trouser press! A nice touch for a French hotel, I thought.

In fact, I discovered from one of my French colleagues that the Carlton Hotel in Lille is well-known as the venue where the former head of the International Monetary Fund, Mr Strauss-Khan (I hope that's how you spell his name) used to (ahem) meet his lady friends. I wonder if he ever stayed in room 309?

It's an hour ahead in France, meaning that when I go home tomorrow, I'll benefit from the time difference. I should be home around 8pm, which is good, but I wonder if I'll return to an empty house as I have been all week. It's a long story, and I'm not at all happy about it.

18th and 19th May – Botley Hill and Longford Lake

Botley Hill.

A good weekend of cycling. We covered 46 miles in total having riden first to Botley Hill (on Saturday) and then to Longford Lake in Chipstead, Kent (on Sunday).

There were three of us on Saturday – Andy, Phil and yours truly – and on Sunday's run to the lake, it was just Phil and yours truly.

The weather was good on both days and, as last week, the pace was slightly quicker with a third person in the mix.

On Saturday, among other things, we discussed movie stars and how the greater publicity they attract (mainly through chatshows) the more diluted as actors they become. Ewan McGregor was a good case in point. His Long Way Round and Long Way Down programmes, his general popularity outside of his various film roles has, in my opinion, lessened his believability as an actor. I'd better explain myself: the more you see an actor in person on chat shows and documentaries, the more you associate them with themselves and not the character they're supposed to playing. I can't watch a movie starring Ewan McGregor without seeing Ewan McGregor and not the character he's billed as playing. This is, of course, very annoying.

It's not just Ewan McGregor and, let me make this clear, Long Way Round and Long Way Down were both excellent productions – especially the latter in which Charley Boorman seems to be visibly pissed off that McGregor brings his wife on the trip. There are many other actors who court the spotlight and, therefore, make an audience's ability to suspend belief, falter slightly. I was watching Jonathan Ross a few weeks ago when they had the actor playing the role of Spock in the latest Star Trek movie. So, we heard that he was gay (nothing wrong with that) and we heard that he plays the banjo (nothing wrong with that either) but if I went to see the new movie, as soon as I saw 'Spock' I'd be thinking about that gay, banjo-playing bloke that was on Jonathan Ross.

Alright, there's that thing about promoting movies and we all know that that's what actors have to do these days. In fact, Vin Diesel was on Ross's show recently and he was texting his daughter or sending her videos on his iPhone, showing us his tender side, perhaps, showing us that he, like us, was just a human being with a family. But we don't want to know that, do we? Now, though, if I watch any Fast & Furious movies, I'm going to remember Diesel being all soppy about his daughter and sending her videos from his iphone. This is not good and it's much more prevalent than it used to be: did Gregory Peck or Kirk Douglas constantly appear on shows like Saturday Night with Jonathan Ross or get involved in riding motorcycles around the world for a television documentary OR appear as the 'star in a reasonably-priced car' on Top Gear? No, of course not, They were proper actors.

It all reinforces my theory that, with the exception of advances in medical science, in most cases, everything is getting worse, not better. Movie stars ain't movie stars anymore; they're multi-tasking careerists (is there such a word) who are quite happy to discuss their career progression with a chatshow host. And then there's rock music; rock stars just ain't rock stars anymore for similar reasons, although talent (or lack of it) plays a greater role than with actors. In fact, take out that word 'talent' as it's diminishing rapidly in rock music where there will never be the great Rock Gods of yesteryear as we have to contend with bands like Coldplay headed up by the very sensible Chris Martin. I mean, he's not a rock star and the band's music is the sort of stuff you're likely to hear more often in a shopping mall than anywhere else. These days, rock stars don't rock, they don't drive Rolls Royces into swimming pools or throw televisions out of hotel windows, they don't even take hard drugs! I'm with Bill Hicks; I want my rock stars to rock! But they don't, not anymore, and film stars are not film stars anymore, as we've already discussed.

I'm sure it's the same in other spheres of life and culture – there are no more 'golden ages'.

Longford Lake

Longford Lake, Chipstead, Kent

On Sunday, Phil and I headed out to Longford Lake. The weather was good all the way there and back and we had a couple of chunks of fruit cake, courtesy of my mum. It's great riding to the lake for all sorts of reasons. Obviously, the ride itself is key. While being not that far from Croydon and, indeed, London, once we hit the Pilgrims Lane, we could be in the middle of rural Wiltshire or anywhere, despite the fact that, in reality, we're only a few hundred yards from the M25.

Chipstead village is lovely too. There's a Harvey's of Lewes pub and some nice houses, but also, of course, Longford Lake.

Phil and I sat on the bench enjoying the view and chatting about this and that before jumping back on the bikes and heading home. I was home just before 1045.