To Westerham...

I woke up early and was out of bed by 0530hrs. Great weather. Sunshine and blue skies even at such an ungodly hour. Tea and Shredded Wheat before 0600hrs and then I had to inflate my front tyre. By 0615hrs I was in the garage pumping the tyre, hoping it wouldn't go down. It stayed up, but I reckon by this time next week it'll be down again. To be honest, it's a mystery, as when I checked it a few weeks back, despite the fact that it was flat, I couldn't find a puncture and this is getting boring so I'll say no more about it.

Andy in shorts, Phil in Lycra and yours truly with the ASBO specials and
the number four crop  We're leaning against a statue of Winston Churchill.

Phil and I set off at 0630hrs, in the wrong gear, and had to circle around the street until we found the right ones. There was nobody about, which was nice, as we headed up Ellenbridge, into Southcote and then up Elmfield, hanging left into Morley and right on to Church Way. All was quiet at Sanderstead pond as we slipped quietly on to the Limpsfield Road, next stop Warlingham Green.

No sign of Andy when we reached the Green, but no messages received either, and soon he arrived and we decided to head for Westerham. It was a good ride with nothing extraordinary to report.

When we reached Westerham we discussed fanatics, people who won't accept that there's another perspective on something and who believe that their way alone is the right way, even if it's the wrong way. Fanatics are basically crazy people and there are plenty of different types of fanatic around. We hear a lot these days about religious and political fanatics, but they come in all shapes and sizes. Some are what I call 'right on' fanatics who let their own warped and misguided views of life restrict them in so many ways. To be honest, each to their own, as long as they don't expect everybody else to adhere to their way of life. This was one of the topics we discussed as we drank tea and munched biscuits.

The sunny weather brought out plenty of other cyclists. In fact, back at Botley, on the outward journey, a couple of Lycra monkeys referred to Andy and Phil as tortoises (they probably meant all three of us, but I never heard what they said). We had a little laugh about that as it wasn't meant malicously (and was probably true, although we had slowed down for a roundabout) but being as Phil was wearing his Lycra shorts and Andy had on his flourescent yellow top, they were both almost Lycra monkeys themselves. I was the only one who adhered to the rules of the club, our unofficial club – No Visible Lycra. I wasn't wearing any Lycra, just my Tesco ASBO trousers and a hooded top – straight outta the housing estate. And now that I've got a cropped head of hair under my crash helmet I was, in many ways, looking even worse than I did the other week when I rode out on my daughter's bike.

We had plenty to chat about when we reached Westerham and, if I'm honest, I didn't really want to get back on the bike. As I said to Phil and Andy, if I had a newspaper and possibly some alcohol and some food and a radio, I could have sat around on the green all day, like a mildy eccentric tramp, forever putting off that ride up the hill, that punishing incline that lasts all the way to Botley. But we had to be going and soon we were riding out of town.

Andy said goodbye half way along the 269 and Phil and I continued towards Sanderstead, passing an old man on a bench when we reached Sanderstead pond who was out early enjoying the morning sunshine with his wife. According to Phil the old boy let one go as we passed but again, like the tortoise comment earlier, I heard nothing. We had a chuckle about the old geezer as we sped down Church Way towards home. Next week we're planning two consecutive rides to Westerham based on the fact that we haven't been cycling a great deal of late.

I spent most of the rest of the day sitting in the garden reading and drinking tea. Life doesn't get much better.

At Dusseldorf Flughafen...

I think I prefer ‘flughafen’ to ‘airport’. Here I am at Dusseldorf Flughafen awaiting the 1320hrs British Airways flight to London City Airport. It’s a 70-minute flight and there won’t be much in the way of food once on board so I’m considering getting a bite to eat on the ground before boarding the plane.

Watching the planes at Dusseldorf flughafen, Friday 6th June 2014

The problem is there appears to be something missing and I can’t quite put my finger on it; I’ve been in and out of this place on many occasions and I swear there was more in the way of food and drink outlets. Perhaps I’m mistaken.

An organised start to the day
I arrived here early, having taken breakfast at the hotel around 0800hrs, checking in online from the hotel 'business centre' and then walking from the Mercure Hotel Hagen to the hauptbahnhof (far better than ‘station’ don’t you think?). It took about 25 minutes to walk through the centre of Hagen, pulling a suitcase on wheels, and I’m going to take back what I said on the blog yesterday about Hagen being a bit like Croydon. It’s not. In fact, it’s much better. Let’s just say that parts of the centre of town bear some resemblance to Croydon, but having now walked from the hotel to the station, I’ve discovered it’s far bigger than Croydon and a little better too.

Minutes after take-off, saying goodbye to Dusseldorf...

The journey from Hagen to the flughafen was just over 13 Euros and the ride was pretty smooth, taking roughly an hour, possibly a little less. At Wuppertal a girl sat next to me; she whiffed of cigarettes and then started doing what most women seem to do on trains: she put her make-up on. Once again I found myself fantasising about getting my own make-up kit out and slowly transforming myself into a circus clown, adding the red nose at the last minute prior to disembarking.

I’m so glad that I’m flying into London City airport and not Heathrow. London City is right in the centre of town and all I’ll need to do is get a tube and an overground train and I’ll be home.

As always, I’ve enjoyed being in Germany. Berlin was fantastic and so, I hasten to add, is Dusseldorf although, on this occasion, I’m just passing through.

On the approach to London City airport – in the Southend/Clacton area

Eating too much in Hagen
Last night I ate in an Italian restaurant in the centre of Hagen, recommended by the hotel receptionist. It was fine in the sense that the food was top quality, but it annoyed the hell out of me. First, they took their time with everything, even getting a menu to me. I had a beer while I waited for the menu, can you believe that?

And they gave me miles too much time to decide what I wanted to eat. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, when I ordered what I thought would be an average-sized meal, it turned out – much, much later, I hasten to add – to be a huge meal fit for two people, not just one. The problem here was that most people tend to eat out in twos, but when you’re travelling, you invariably eat alone, unless you're entertaining somebody. So I ordered parma ham with salad as a starter and then, for mains, a pasta dish and a side salad. Simple, you would have thought, nothing out of the ordinary, but no. First I get the ham: a whole plate piled high with the stuff, almost an entire pig. Then, when the main course arrived, the salad was equally huge: about three tomatoes, sliced and arranged around a tennis-ball-sized piece of Buffalo mozzarella. One tomato, sliced, with a couple of slices of Mozzarella would have been sufficient. The main course was fine, give or take, although the langoustine that accompanied the dish was virtually impossible to open up and didn’t look that appetising anyway – so I left it on the plate, on its back, in the sauce.

Battersea Power Station and the River Thames from the air

"Can I have the bill, please?"
Once the meal was over, the next task was getting the bill. The first bit – getting the waiter’s attention – took long enough and then I had to wait for him to get his machine and do what waiters do when they want you to pay up. It’s always at this point that I find myself getting shirty (inwardly) not because I begrudge paying, but because of the time it takes to get their attention. And yet, if I made a move for the door they’d be there straight away, asking where the hell did I think I was going without paying them?

I ate all the ham, most of the main course too (except that langoustine) but I left half of the ‘side salad’. It was too much. So I felt a bit miffed with the restaurant as I headed back to the Mercure, a good 15-minute walk away, possibly a bit longer. As you can imagine, no tip was given.

Back in the hotel I watched a bit of Question Time on BBC World. One of the guests was that bloke from The Call Centre, a reality TV programme about – yes, you’ve guessed it – a call centre. It was so boring that I fell asleep and when I woke up, I switched off the TV, turned off the light, drew the curtains and fell asleep again.

I’m obviously not the only one who’s finding Dusseldorf airport a bit boring today. I’ve decided that rather than spend money on a cup of tea and risk the temptation of a cake in the process – one thing the Germans do very well is bakery items – I’d make my way down to Gate B38 and start writing something – and here I am doing just that. Except that there’s no WiFi so I’m using Microsoft Word instead. God! Isn't this the most boring stuff you've ever read? Me going on about no WiFi and how I'm using a word processing package instead?

About to hit the tarmac at London City, Friday 6th June 2014.

I’m very tired for some reason. I nodded off on the train earlier and now I’m doing it again. All I have to do is close my eyes and that’s it, I'm asleep. A glass of wine on the plane should mean I’ll get 40 winks, who knows? Either way, I’m knackered and this might affect whether I ride out or not in the morning, although I hear some big storms are on the agenda tomorrow. I’m feeling heavy-lidded right now so I might get a cup of tea otherwise there’s a risk that my lap top might slide off my lap if I nod off again. Mind you, you're probably beginning to wish my lap top would fall off my lap – anything so you don't have to read any more of this crapola.

Fiddling with iphones – a global problem

A man is sitting opposite me. He has picked up his iphone and is scanning his emails, just like a girl to my left. More people have turned up, including a girl in white trousers with a small bottle of mineral that she is now knocking back. She looks in her purse and pulls out a white iphone. In fact, everybody around me has an iphone in their hands except for me – although I have an Apple Macbook on my lap. A Japanese woman and another woman in a purple top are sitting to my right. The girl in the white trousers and the man have now gone somewhere – through passport control, no doubt, where I must be heading soon. The woman next to me is eating a sandwich.

Back home in the UK
The flight home was very pleasant: clear skies all the way, but not much in the way of food, just a cereal bar and some red wine. I asked for two of those little bottles and two cereal bars because I was hungry and of course they obliged.

The weather was still clear as we crossed the Channel and descended over Clacton and Southend on our approach into London City. I was amazed at the size of the sandbanks just off the coast and it was great looking out at familiar landmarks, like Southend's one mile long pier and then, shortly before we landed, Battersea Power Station and (yawn!) the ExCeL exhibition centre.

Once on the ground I had 'lunch' in the shape of a pastrami and cheese roll, which cost me a staggering £6.50 (for a roll!). I washed it down with a cup of tea and then jumped on the DLR to Canning Town, changed on to the Jubilee Line and then took the Horsham train from London Bridge to East Croydon where I jumped into a cab. I reached home around 3.30pm and have spent the rest of the afternoon chilling.

In Hagen...

Reluctantly I bade farewell to Berlin. I checked out of my hotel and walked the short distance to the metro and took a train to the zoological gardens, from where I took an overground train to the Berlin Hauptbahnhof and then another train to Hagen. It was a long journey of over three hours, but the luxurious German train, even in second class, made the whole experience worthwhile. Our first stop was Berlin-Spandau and I was immediately reminded of the 80s band and, of course, Rudolf Hess who, if I remember correctly, was imprisoned here.

The view from room 530, Mercure Hotel Hagen...

Naturally the train left on the dot at 1427hrs and was soon speeding along at something like 174km/hr, but as smooth as you like. I decided to do some work and put some finishing touches to an article I was writing. Somewhere along the line I was disturbed by somebody who said I was sitting in their seat and then, after I moved, somebody else accused me of the same thing. Very annoying as I found myself playing musical seats without any music. It was quickly resolved. My ticket didn't carry a reserved seat - I could sit anywhere - but unfortunately, because German trains don't have paper 'reserved' tickets sticking out of the top of the seat (reserved notices appear digitally over the seat below the luggage rack) I failed to see that I was sitting in a reserved seat...until it was too late.

Another great thing about the German trains is that you don't have to make your way to the buffet car when you fancied a drink. Fortunately, somebody comes to you to take your order and returns with whatever you decided upon. In my case it was a wonderful orange and vanilla tea.

Room 530..an 'end of terrace' room, so to speak, and very pleasant

As the train powered through the German countryside, I continued with my article and then, at roughly 1822hrs - actually, it was probably bang on the dot of 1822 - the train arrived at Hagen where it was damp, rainy and overcast. I found a taxi and was driven to my hotel, the Mercure Hotel Hagen, a building of Colditz proportions sitting high on a hill and having these wonderful tiled ledges that, by rights, should have people hanging on to for dear life, be it Richard Burton in Where Eagles Dare or Jason Bourne from the Bourne movies.

Not a bad hotel. I wouldn't call it corporate, more 'middle management', the sort of place where, after a company booze-up you come down to the self-service buffet rather sheepishly because the night before you had a few too many and said things you wished you hadn't and now it was time to face the music. You pass the familiar surroundings of the bar you inhabited the night before and every embarassing moment of your debauched evening floods back to you as you scoop a pile of greasy button mushrooms on to your plate, using a slotted spoon, and take a seat in some faraway corner, hoping that all your colleagues have already had their breakfast...until, that is, they turn up, eager to remind you of your appalling behaviour the night before.

I wonder if the Kemp brothers ever visited Spandau?

Fortunately I wasn't in that position as I travelled - in Schindler's Lift - from the fifth to the mezzanine level to eat a healthy breakfast of cereal, fresh fruit, yoghurt and dried apricots, but this is definitely that sort of hotel. It's a bit lairy with its Apple Macbook white furniture and fittings – Apple Macbooks used to be white – and a horrible icy mauve lighting that gives the place a certain coldness it could easily do without. But I mustn't moan. Well, actually, perhaps I should moan as dinner last night was appalling. There was only a buffet available and I was late down so I made do with bony breaded fish 'fillet' - some of which I had to spit out for fear of choking - accompanied by over-cooked aubergine, green beans and potatoes, plus a Warsteiner, all of which I finished in about 10 minutes. I went out for a walk and found, about five minutes from the hotel, some wonderful restaurants that would have been a darn sight better than what I had just experienced.

Still, the room was fine, although I had left a window open and, at roughly 4am, the roar of traffic, even five floors up, was enough to wake me up and I didn't really get back to sleep. Having closed the window and drawn the curtain to keep out the light, I tried to sleep but all of a sudden something started up in the bowels of the hotel. It sounded like a ship's engine being fired up, but I wasn't on a ship, I was in a hotel, even if it did boast Bismarck proportions and now sounded a bit like a battleship making its way out of port.

I'm now sitting in the reception area using the hotel's business centre (the lap top is playing up a bit). I've been in my room working all morning and I need to print something out, so I thought I would use the occasion to update the blog.

We have Pound Shops, the Europeans have EuroShops. This one in Hagen.

Hagen doesn't compare favourably with Berlin. The hotel receptionist told me that the downtown was pretty rubbish, although I think I'll go and find out for myself just as soon as I've printed out what I need to print out.

Woolworth's is alive and well and can be found in Hagen, Germany!

Postscript on Hagen's downtown: I moseyed into town after lunch to check things out and, to be honest, Hagen was kind of okay. If anything, it's a bit like Croydon, there's even a TK Maxx and, believe it not, a Woolworth's, a C&A and, I daresay, if I look hard enough, a Claire's Accessories. Also, while they don't have pound shops in Germany, they do have Euro Shops (shops where everything sold costs 1 Euro). Hagen had that down-at-heel look that Croydon has - there's even an Aldi supermarket - and the same kind of low-rent shops. I was hoping for a decent restaurant. All I found was bakery-oriented caffs of the Greggs variety, but not called Greggs.

Later, as I made my way back to the hotel after dinner in town I noticed a man sitting at a bus stop drinking from a bottle of beer – always a bad sign. Earlier I had seen a man taking a leak in a doorway and there's plenty of graffiti around too, making it even more like Croydon. But I'm only talking about the downtown. Take a cab into the suburbs and, like Croydon, it's a different story and quite pleasant.

Taking a ride around Berlin...

Tuesday 3rd June 2014: After a fairly hectic morning involving the conference I was attending and general glitches with my lap top, I finally managed to relax with a beer in a place called Rosado, a kind of Argentinian steak house restaurant, except that I only ordered a cream of tomato soup and a Warsteiner. The annoying thing about the soup was the phrase 'cream of...' because, while I would have quite happily settled for a much healthier and simplistic tomato soup, it arrived with a huge dollop of cream in the middle of it. Not pleasant. Why, I wonder, didn't they chuck in a couple of flakes for good measure and possibly a cornet, and call it a 99?

Bike number 3113 in the Hotel President Berlin's car park prior to my ride.

Anyway, as with most things in life, I got used to it. I was sitting outside of the restaurant under a canopy, watching the traffic as there was little much else to watch. This, it has to be said, was a late lunch. By the time I'd gotten out of the conference venue and walked back towards my hotel it was almost 3pm and I was feeling very tired. Tired and emotional if the truth be known, but the beer relaxed me and although I was depressed about my lap top (I was certain it was game over for my old and faithful computer) I felt suitably chilled out as I made my way back to the hotel to dump my case and all the conference gubbins before heading off to the railway station to buy a ticket for tomorrow's journey to Hagen.

Yours truly with the bike out on the streets of Berlin, 3 June 2014.

I had exhausted all the boffins at Apple regarding the state of my computer. Earlier I'd been to the over-trendy Apple Store and discovered that I might have a major problem of the 'you're going to need a new lap top' variety. I entered my hotel room in a forlorn, depressed and cheesed-off state of mind. Everything, I said to myself, was so fucking futile.

The bike in the Tiergarten.

But then I had a brainwave. Well, not a brainwave exactly, just an idea. What if I take the battery out of the computer and put it back in again? It didn't make sense – and it probably wouldn't work – but what if it did? So I used a teaspoon to release the battery from the underside of the computer. I dusted it out and replaced and secured the battery and guess what? It only worked! "Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!" I exclaimed, looking, for some reason, at the hotel room wardrobe. I can honestly say that I hadn't felt more pleased with my life in ages and resolved there and then to hire a bike from downstairs and take a ride around the city.

My two destination objectives while on the ride

I had things to do, like buy my railway ticket for tomorrow's journey to Hagen and I thought I'd pay a visit to the Reichstag too. Who needs to spend a fortune on taxis when 12 Euros to hire a bike is perfectly reasonable? Hiring the bike proved trouble-free and soon I was out in the hotel car park with the keys to bike number 3113 (note that's 13 backwards AND 13 the right way around in one number). I bring up the number 13 for the simple reason that it seems to be following me around at the moment and I don't know why.

Yours truly at the Reichstag – next stop Berlin Hauptbahnhof to buy a ticket

I turned left out of the hotel and used one of Berlin's many designated cycle lanes to move along Schillstrasse and Klingelhoferstrasse, which turned into Hofjagerallee. I soon found myself in the Grober Tiergarten, the most amazing park space in a city centre I'd ever come across. Riding along quiet, car-free lanes with only other cyclists for company I passed through some amazing parkland consisting of woods and green space and lakes along with the occasional statue or sculpture and not forgetting a red squirrel. It was simply wonderful and ultra peaceful with nothing but birdsong and the whirr of bicycle wheels to keep me company. This ride takes Berlin to the top of my chart for cycling around foreign cities – way ahead of Montreal and Essen and a tad better than San Antonio and Indianapolis, although the latter compares favourably with Berlin.

Where east meets west at the Brandenberg Gate, Berlin

I rode through the park until I saw a sign for the Reichstag and decided to ride there and take a few pictures. When I arrived there were school parties, people chilling out on the lawn and a general atmosphere of well being, which was pleasant.  The railway station wasn't far (no more than a five-minute ride, so I hopped on to the bike again and, having padlocked my bike outside, went into the station in search of the ticket office.

Berlin's holocaust memorial

Berlin's main railway station was amazing. A modern building of glass and steel with tracks above and below where I was standing, plenty of food outlets and shops and plenty of hubbub. German railway stations are great places to be as there's always somewhere to get something good to eat and there's always somebody around. Everything is so organised, even the ticket office works on a ticket-based system: you push a button on a machine and you're issued with a number and then you wait for your number to be called. The wait was certainly under two minutes and within five minutes I'd bought my ticket on the 1427hrs train to Hagen tomorrow afternoon.

The Rosengarten inside the Tiergarten, Berlin

As happy as Larry, I waltzed back to the bike, unpadlocked it and rode off in the general direction of the Reichstag and, of course, the Tiergarten where I enjoyed cycling around the park as the light began to fade. Looking into the wooded areas on either side of me, I started to think about what it might be like camping out for the night (not that I had any intention of giving up my warm hotel bed) and just as these thoughts entered my mine I saw that Berlin's homeless had got there before me: fine in June, but I wouldn't fancy it at any other time of year.

Earlier on the ride, prior to entering the Tiergarten

Near the Zoological Gardens I found a kind of pub/restaurant in the park offering some very pleasant outdoor seating amongst the trees and – although I never had any – some excellent-looking food of the pizza and salad variety. I ordered a much-needed beer and chilled for 20 minutes or so before re-mounting the bike and making my way through some traffic to reach Tauentzienstrasse and eventually my hotel. I rode straight into the car park, locked the bike and handed in the key at reception.

Something has to be said about the bike. Alright, a woman's frame and one of those Dutch-style affairs, this one had that pedal-backwards mechanism to aid braking as well as a front brake. There was a dynamo, so the light came on automatically, a bell to warn pedestrians and other cyclists that I was there and, the best bit, a stand, which proved invaluable. Every time I wanted to take a photograph, I simply stopped, put the bike on the stand and wandered off to do the necessary. The bike was solid, as are most things German, and totally reliable. I wasn't anticipating a puncture, put it that way.

Berlin is a great city to ride around because it has dedicated cycle paths and the needs of the cyclist have been taken into consideration by the town planners.

Using the Berlin Metro...

Monday 2nd June 2014: I had a number of choices open to me this morning: take a taxi to the convention, ride a bike there, catch the bus or walk. In all honesty, I don't like taking cabs as I think they're too extravagant. I'll only take a cab if I need to, like in Indianapolis a week or two ago when it was plainly obvious that to do anything else might have been too risky. As avid readers will recall, I was staying in the bad side of town and I had been advised not to go out on foot but to take a cab. Furthermore, I was too far from the downtown to consider anything other than a cab.

Berlin metro (at Wittenberg Platz) otherwise known as the Untergrund Bahn.

In Berlin, however, everything appears to be so convenient: there's a metro station just a short walk from the hotel. I decided to leave the bikes until I have some free time (like tomorrow afternoon) and walking was out of the question and I'm glad I didn't bother as, when I reached the Brandenberg Gate, having taken the metro from Wittenberg to Potsdamer Platz and then walking the remaining 750 yards, past the holocaust memorial, which never fails to impress, I discovered that the Kempinski hotel I required was not the Adlon Kempinski, where Michael Jackson famously dangled his newborn out of the window, but the Kempinski Bristol, which was a short cab ride away. Time wise I was fine so I jumped into a cab and off I went, only to discover that taking the metro, walking past the memorial, getting into a taxi and all the rest of it could have been avoided as it is possible to walk from my hotel. Having said that, it took around 30 minutes to walk back as I tried it out tonight and have just returned from to the conference. Admittedly I took a stroll along a few side roads en route, but nevertheless it's a fair old hike. The great thing, of course, is that it cost me nothing and I'm now planning to walk to the conference in the morning.

I was up very early this morning (around 0630hrs) and once showered and shaved I headed downstairs to sample the hotel breakfast and it was really good. Not that I'm a great eater. I opted for yoghurt, muesli and a bowl of fresh fruit plus a cup of tea and that was my lot and then I hit the road for the short stroll to the metro station and a fairly short ride to Potsdamer Platz followed by everything I've already detailed above.

Most Berlin hotels offer bike hire for EUR10.

Where the bikes are concerned, the private hire offered by most hotels almost negates the need for a bike share scheme. Wherever I go I see padlocked bikes being advertised for hire (always for between 10 and 12 Euros) and, as I've said already, my hotel (like virtually every hotel in town) is no exception.

The other good thing on the bike front is that there are dedicated cycle lanes everywhere and this, of course, prompts people to ride as they know they are safe – you'll see a lot of cyclists in Berlin. It all bodes well for a ride sometime tomorrow. As I was travelling most of Sunday, I can take a few hours off to cycle around Berlin before heading off to Hagen on Wednesday. My original plan was just to go to Hagen and not attend the conference, but there was a strong relevance in the event in connection with my planned meeting on Thursday so sticking around in Berlin was cheaper (I'm told) that flying back to London and then back to Dusseldorf on Thursday. Wednesday will be taken up travelling so I'll have plenty of time on the train to catch up with stuff, although I've yet to suss out the train situation, something else I need to consider tomorrow afternoon. Perhaps I'll ride to the railway station to make enquiries.

There's also the Tiergarten area of the city that I'd like to ride through if it's possible. In a nutshell it's a huge urban park covering 520 acres. Only the Englischer Garten in Munich (1030 acres) is larger.

In Berlin...

Getting to Berlin from London is, as you can imagine, far less stressful than going to the USA. For a start, the journey time in the air is just 90 minutes, and when you arrive you're only an hour ahead of the UK. I know, this is obvious, but it's worth mentioning as we in the UK are very lucky to have Europe on our doorstep and it's fantastic to be so close to a great city like Berlin, especially now that the wall's down. Yes, I know, the wall's been down for some time now, since 1989, but it's worth remembering that it wasn't that long ago when there was East and West Berlin and that today, the city is united as, indeed, is Germany.

Berlin's Bike Share bikes – nice looking machines

I flew out of London Heathrow Terminal Five at 1535hrs and after a bag of Koh Samui Thai Spice (honey red pepper almonds and Thai spice cashews with pineapple and coconut) which was amazing, and one of those small plastic bottles of red wine, we were ready to land at Tegel airport.

Now I know that the Germans are known for their ultra-efficiency, but I found it slightly odd to be just off the plane and in the covered 'jetty' that links the aircraft with the terminal building and to already find myself in a queue. I was wondering what the hold-up was all about, but it turned out that passport control was literally at the end of the jetty and a few feet beyond that was the baggage reclaim – a small reclaim, if I'm honest, but fast and 'intelligent'. An intelligent reclaim? Well, yes. As I stood there waiting for my non-descript black suitcase to appear, I noticed that baggage coming up the ramp gave way to those already on the carousel, as if they possessed an intelligence of their own. Perhaps they do and we just haven't noticed. Imagine that: as you sleep, your suitcase is watching you.

Soon, my case appeared and I grabbed it – or rather I tried to grab it, missed, and was ably assisted by a fellow passenger who grabbed it for me, preventing it from doing a full circle on the conveyor. Once I had my suitcase I was only a matter of paces away from customs and then the public area of the airport. Everything was a matter of feet away, meaning that the plane itself was probably no more than 50 yards from where I could hail a taxi, which I did!

I love German taxis. First, they're Mercedes Benz and second they are the colour of Heinz Cream of Mushroom soup.

Tegel is also surprisingly near to the centre of Berlin – a mere EUR25 taxi ride away and then, once in my hotel (Best Western President) I found that everything was close at hand: the metro station was a short walk and resembled a northern England masonic hall, there were buses and, most importantly, there were bikes.

While in the taxi I'd been looking out for a bike share scheme and there is one – and in true German fashion, the bikes involved are pretty smart-looking and have a baby seat at the rear, presumably for mums (and dads) with babies. What I also liked about Berlin was that, clearly, they don't anticipate people stealing the bicycles. I noticed that many bikes, while padlocked, are not padlocked against anything but instead are supported only by the bike's integral stand, with the padlock around the rear wheel and frame.

But forget the bike share scheme! While the bikes are good, there's a far better option: the hotel bikes. For just EUR12 per day I can hire a good, old-fashioned European-looking bike from the Best Western President, which puts a whole new slant on things. I might even ride to the conference I'm due to attend over the next two days rather than take a much more expensive taxi. But I think I'll be taking the metro and then walking to the Brandenberg Gate, where I need to be, but I'll be hiring a bike on Tuesday afternoon, once the aforementioned conference is over. The hotel in which the conference is being held, incidentally, is the same one where the late Michael Jackson once hung his baby out of the window (at least I think it is). I remember being there back in 2003 (or thereabouts) while working as editor of Hotel & Restaurant magazine. At that time they had, in addition to a wine list, a mineral water list, and claimed to have different brands from different parts of the world. There was, if I recall correctly, a mineral water sommelier too (how poncy!).

Beer by candlelight at Antica Roma, Berlin

The Best Western President seems pleasant enough. The room (416) is what you might expect, but guess what? There's no restaurant! It seems that every hotel I stay in these days doesn't have a restaurant, but, as I've said before, it means that I have to get out and about and find somewhere to eat. Today, I found a nice Italian restaurant nearby and took a seat outside (it was warm as it is in the UK at the moment). I ordered pasta with salmon and shrimp in a cream sauce – Penne Papalina – with a tomato salad and Tiramisu to finish (my favourite dessert) plus a beer and a cappuccino– all for EUR25.60. I'm here for a couple of days so I might make Antica Roma (Wittenbergplatz 5-6, 10789 Berlin) my restaurant for the next day or two as it's good value-for-money and close by the hotel. Another thing I liked about Antica Roma was the candle on the table. Other tables had candles too and there was something very soothing about the creeping twilight and the flickering candles.

I've started re-reading Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger, mainly because when I initially read it, it somehow passed me by – in an intellectual sense – and also because I've heard so many people talk about how it was a book that changed their perspective on life and literature. Also, when I first picked it up many years ago I don't think I was in the right frame of mind intellectually to understand it (or want to understand it). I'm reading the same copy I bought back in the day, which I've kept in remarkably good condition.

After dinner, with the light fading fast, I took a brief stroll around some of the empty streets of Berlin to the rear of my hotel. I found a small German bar and was tempted to go in, but common sense prevailed and I headed back to the hotel instead, not only to write this post, but also to get a good night's sleep ahead of the busy days ahead.

We must get back on the bikes...

It's wrong, perhaps, to say that we've simply not been on the bikes, but there haven't been that many rides over the past few weeks. The reasons are fairly simple: travel commitments and poor weather.

Berlin – but will there be a bike share scheme?

My recent trip to Indianapolis took up two weekends (remember, it took me two days to get home, via Dublin) and there has been a bit of rain, which always succeeds in aborting a ride. Andy's out of circulation for a few Saturdays, which means that the motivation isn't always as strong as it could be and then yours truly decided to abort today's ride because of travel commitments – although now I've sorted out most things and I'm considering riding to Warlingham Green alone as it takes about 50 minutes all told and, as I've said, the weather's amazing.

In other words, things aren't looking good and we can't afford to lose the momentum. What's really bad is that this weekend has been amazing in terms of the weather. Yesterday morning was perfect cycling weather, but I was feeling a little weary and because Andy wasn't going, I aborted, much to my own dismay as, when I peered out of the window I was greeted with bright sunshine and blue skies – ideal for a ride anywhere, even a short hop to Warlingham Green.

It's all a far cry from my Easter bout of daily cycling for the best part of 10 days (scroll back a few pages for details).

I'm sure that Andy will go out today, it's too good an opportunity to miss. I can see the sun through the blinds in my conservatory and I'm guessing the temptation will be too much. As I write this at 0652hrs, I realise that, I would be 10 minutes or so away from the green and a ride with Andy, possibly to Westerham, had this been a normal weekend.

Still, mustn't grumble, as they say, as there might be a ride or two on the cards in foreign lands, if time permits, and you can rest assured that details will appear on these pages soon if the opportunity presents itself.

Doctor Who is rubbish! There! I've said it!

I've never been able to remember the exact detail of The Emperor's New Clothes, but the gist of it is that an emperor, long ago, is brainwashed into thinking that he is wearing clothes when, in fact, he's naked. The tale is often used to illustrate how something that is essentially a load of old tosh is viewed by few (or many) as the best thing since sliced bread. The BBC's Doctor Who is a case in point. In short, it's not very good, in my opinion, and never has been.

Doctor Who: it's not scary and it does not possess any cult significance.

In fact, the only episode that I would give any credit to is the one featuring the original Weeping Angels – that, it has to be said, is brilliant and I would watch it time and time again, it's that good. As for the rest of it? I'd even suffer listening to the Archers if I had to choose.

There are myriad problems with Doctor Who, the first being that whenever you see 'an alien' it never fails to look like somebody dressed as an alien. It's never possible to suspend disbelief, in other words. And regardless of the scenario in which the Doctor finds himself, it always looks as if the whole thing is being filmed in a television studio, even when it isn't. In the same way that 'made for television' movies in the seventies had a certain naffness about them – they never looked like a proper movie of the sort you'd see in the cinema – the same is true of Doctor Who. And even when you see a movie on the television, it looks 'better', more authentic and once again, with Doctor Who, the viewer's ability to suspend disbelief is impossible.

Whenever I sit and watch Doctor Who, in the back of my mind I'm always aware that beneath that monstrous-looking costume of an alien – for that is what it is – there is a man or woman who, at some later date will be featured on a television programme about the making of Doctor Who explaining how difficult it was to get the bloody thing on or how hot it was in there. Again, the ability to suspend disbelief is just not there and why would the BBC spend time and money making a programme about the making of Doctor Who? It's simply not that good.

Indeed, the BBC goes out of its way to make Doctor Who naff by trying to big it up by creating a myth that, even as adults, people cower behind the sofa in fright. Listen, they don't! Doctor Who simply isn't scary! And yet you'll always hear television presenters – especially the BBC prefects and 'head girls' like Zoey Ball, going on and on about how they'll have difficulty sleeping after watching an episode. Rubbish! If Hannibal Lecter isn't scary (it's good old Anthony Hopkins after all) then where does that leave Doctor Who?

That ability to suspend disbelief is stunted further by Doctor Who Confidential, a programme which, in itself, is naff, because it sets out to analyse an episode of 'Who' and thereby ruin it for anybody who is foolish enough to be capable of suspending disbelief. In Confidential we hear how the programme was made, we hear from the writer, the actors, we see shots of camera booms and directors – all of which reinforces the reality that Doctor Who is little more than a television production. There's nothing worse than being told how a magic trick works so that you're aware that it isn't magic after all – of course it isn't – just sleight of hand, and that's what Doctor Who Confidential attempts to do – it ruins any imagination the viewer might possess. And, once again, Doctor Who simply isn't good enough to have a separate programme devoted to how it was made.

I feel the same way about actors on chat shows. Those who are frequently seen chatting to Jonathan Ross or Parkinson or Graham Norton soon become 'themselves' in the eyes of the public and once again that ability to suspend disbelief is damaged forever as when you then see the actor in question trying to fool you that he or she is some major historical figure (or whatever) it's impossible not to see the actor staring back at you. In some cases, of course, that ability to suspend disbelief was never there in the first place – yes, in Doctor Who, but who could possibly suspend disbelief enough to watch Daniel Radcliffe – Harry Potter for God's sake! – as beat poet Allen Ginsberg?

But let's get back to Doctor Who. In short, it's rubbish: the sets are rubbish, the alien outfits are far from convincing, the whole thing is bigged up beyond belief and its hard to watch the BBC's various presenters patronising the British public, pretending that Doctor Who is scary and 'deep' when it isn't and generally making out that Doctor Who holds some kind of cult significance. It doesn't. He doesn't.  It's not the X Files (which never looked as if it was filmed in a studio, and if there were aliens, they always looked a darn sight more convincing than those in Doctor Who).

And yet, if you dare to question the greatness of Doctor Who it's almost blasphemy. The crowded room goes silent, a bell tolls, and the hangman arrives to take you to the gallows. Well, come and get me "aunty", Doctor Who is bollocks! There, I've said it! It's bollocks! Rubbish! A load of old tosh! Put that in your Tardis and smoke it!

Tesco ASBO specials, a girl's bike – what a disastrous morning!

Monday 26 May 2014: This weekend was definitely not to be as far as cycling was concerned. First, heavy rain on Saturday aborted the ride and then, on Sunday, while the weather was fine, there were other problems. A late start (leaving the house at 0730hrs) was perfect, but as soon as I reached the garage I found a flat front tyre. Not a problem, you might think, but you'd be wrong! There's something afoot with my front wheel, something to do with the thread. It means that when I loosen the bolts to remove the wheel, both nuts revolve and nothing unscrews. Very irritating. Normally it requires two spanners: one to hold one side while I unscrew the opposite nut. But it's not working and soon I realise that it's all getting a bit late and...I'm going to have to ride my daughter's bike or abort.

Look at the state of me: the Tesco ASBO specials, a girl's bike and my head

crammed into a crash helmet, exposing some wire wool hair that needs a cut.

Off I go in my disgusting, grey and chavvy Tesco ASBO trousers, one leg tucked into a grey sock, on a bright pink girl's bike and I look terrible. Not only that, I soon realise how fantastic my Spongy Wonder saddle has been over the years in terms of protecting the family jewels. The seat on my new ride is hard, unforgiving and, unfortunately, angled slighty upwards at the front end. In other words, the ride is very uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that I'll just about make Warlingham Green. 

We stop on the green, which I thought was a first for NoVisibleLycra – it wasn't as I did the same on 3rd February 2013 – and sip our tea. Phil brought the cereal bars and we sat there chatting for a good 30 minutes. Then there was almost a catastrophe. An embarrassing catastrophe. I wasn't really paying that much attention to what was going on around me as I poured very hot water from the flask into the cups to clean them and then throwing the water on to the grass. A woman crossing the green passes where we were standing as I turned around in preparation to sling the water from the cup...and it was just a matter of luck that she wasn't hit. It would have been the perfect end to a calamitous morning, I thought, as I embarked upon an uncomfortable ride home.

On Bank Holiday Monday I awoke to the sound of rain, once again, hammering down on the conservatory roof. As I sit here now at 0654hrs it's still pouring down so I've aborted a planned ride with Phil. I managed to fix the front wheel and what was even worst was the fact that I didn't seem to have a puncture. Yesterday, I inflated the inner tube before going for a drive into the countryside (a place we call 'the elephant shop' but which, in fact, is called Trading Boundaries, a kind of shop and gig venue for old rockers and tribute acts near a place called Danehill, not a million miles from Forest Row and 10 miles northish of Lewes.

Girl's bike on Warlingham Green.

By the time I returned, around 1800hrs, the inner tube was still inflated so I submerged it in water and found no bubbles. Having fixed the wheel as best I could I put everything back together but decided not to pump up the tyre. Right now, the bike is out there, upturned and with a deflated front tyre, but it's all academic as the rain continues to hammer down and shows no sign of abating. Here's hoping the rain will have stopped by next weekend.

Bank holiday weekend – a few early morning thoughts

Caribou crossing – an interesting sculpture in Indianapolis, IN. USA

I'm pleased with the interest shown in my blog by the folks of Indianapolis (see previous post for more details). I'm reading David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries at the moment – it's not my main book, but I occasionally pick it up when I want to chill out a little as it is a very chilled and laid back creation, ideal for a sunny day accompanied by a glass of Cabernet. I'm about half way through it (on the chapter about Buenos Aires) but this morning I flicked back to the beginning to find a quote that the guys in Indianapolis might not necessarily agree with (although the fact that the Pacers' Bike Share scheme there is only a few weeks old might mean that Byrne is right).

Byrne says that 'most US cities are not very bike friendly' and adds that they are not very pedestrian friendly either. 'They're car friendly – or at least they try very hard to be', he says and being as he's an American who lives in an American city, he's probably right, but that makes the two bike share schemes I've tried in North America (in Montreal and San Antonio) worthy enterprises – and here's hoping there will be more in the not-too-distant future. I think they work in some cities and not in others.

A dedicated cycle lane on the Indianapolis bike share scheme

Do they work in London? Well, I would avoid riding in London at all costs regardless of the type of bike available. It's simply not safe and there have been many media reports of fatal clashes with lorries. City cycling only works if specific travelways can be established, like in Indianapolis, or, failing that, if the traffic, by and large, isn't that heavy (like in San Antonio and Montreal). In Montreal, for  instance, I remember standing in the middle of the road to take a photograph of the distinct lack of traffic on a Saturday morning around 0900hrs – it wouldn't be possible in London. Likewise in San Antonio. But in Essen, Germany, there's an element of taking my life into my own hands as the situation there is 'here's a bike, provided by the council' but that's it, you're on your own, sharing space with the traffic and it's a similar story in London. Travel to Milton Keynes and you'll find dedicated cycle lanes, similar to those in Amsterdam and other parts of Holland where city planners took the bicycle into consideration.

Bridge over the canal in Indianapolis – all very pleasant

Here in the UK, bad weather was promised this bank holiday weekend and bad weather was received in the form of rain. I awoke early on Saturday morning expecting a ride to Westerham in Kent, with Andy and Phil, but the rain was hammering down outside and was still doing so around 0600hrs so I sent out the abort text. On and off it rained all day, with little patches of sunshine here and there, and by early evening it was quite pleasant. It was one of those deceptive days. Had I woken up to a spot of sunny weather I might have gone out and then taken a soaking en route, but the morning was constant rain and the patchiness didn't start occuring until later in the day.

Now, sitting here in the conservatory at 0641hrs on Sunday, the plan is to ride out with Phil, possibly the slow way to the Tatsfield bus stop. Andy's out of circulation now until next week. His only opportunity for a ride would have been yesterday (Saturday).

A map showing the various bike stations dotted around Indianapolis

Things have conspired against us and we haven't been cycling a lot recently. Mainly it's been me travelling (I was in Indianapolis for the best part of 10 days if you include the getting back) and then it was the poor weather. Oddly, it's a been a time of extremes as over the Easter holidays I managed roughly 10 consecutive days of riding, all of which are detailed on this blog (just scroll back and you'll find the relevant posts).

Indianapolis' fantastic yellow bicycles

The blinds are down so I can't see the garden from where I'm sitting, although I can detect that there's a breeze as I can see the tops of some shrubs swinging from side-to-side. Still, as long as it doesn't rain it'll be alright.