To Westerham – 22 miles

There was a red sky this morning as I emerged from the house. After unpadlocking the Kona and heading off in the general direction of Warlingham Green the gears began to crunch and slip, waking up the dead, I'd imagine. The bike needs a service: new front brakes, handle grips and re-adjusted gears, but it'll have to wait as I'm still very much on Skid Row.

Our bikes on Westerham Green, Sunday 12 October 2014. Pic: Andy Smith

As I headed along the Limpsfield Road, the gears smoothed out and when I reached the green there were clear signs that autumn had arrived. Alright, there were a few leaves on the ground...but no sign of Andy so out came the iphone and yes, sad bastard that I am, I started taking shots of the leaves. And then Andy turned up and was wondering what the hell I was doing.

"Westerham?"

"Yes, but heads down."

And off we went following the usual route.

This morning I donned the gloves, although I could have got away without them, it wasn't that cold. Not, that is, until we'd finished our descent in the lowlands surrounding Westerham. From up high we could see the thick mist that covered the the low-lying fields and as we came level with them, the cold took a large bite out of souls. It was seriously brass monkeys, but we hammered along and eventually reached the centre of town. Not that it's difficult to reach the centre of town as it's only a small green, a couple of pubs, a few shops and, of course, a statue of Sir Winston Churchill.

The cold and mist left a shivery sheen of dampness on everything, including our usual seats on the green. We both contemplated taking out a mortgage to buy a couple of teas from the Costa Coffee, but I'd hauled a huge flask of water, milk and teabags all the way from Sanderstead so we made do with standing up and drinking tea. Oh, and let's not forget the biscuits.

An autumnal scene at Warlingham Green...

It wasn't long before we realised it was time to head back up the hill, the long, long hill, all the way to Botley. Only a few yards into the climb and a Lycra Monkey tried to raise our morale by shouting 'nearly there!' as he hurtled past in the other direction. We continued to climb and it wasn't that bad and soon we found ourselves at Botley Hill and powering along the 269 towards Warlingham where we parted company.

I reached home just before 10am and carried on with my day.

Yesterday rain had stopped play, although the sun came out around 9am and Andy went out on a local ride. I had serious ambitions to ride to Botley but never got my act together so today's ride was sorely needed and it was very pleasant.

It's game on for next weekend – both days hopefully – so here's to the ride.

Mooching around Moscow...

Inside the grounds of the Kremlin, Tuesday 7 October 2014.

Nobody can accuse me of not making the most of my one day off in Moscow. Yesterday – billed as a free day on my business schedule and much welcomed – I managed to get inside the Kremlin, thanks to a Russian colleague, and, later in the afternoon, enjoyed a traditional Russian feast – they certainly like their meat over here, although the night before last I attended an official dinner where a lot of the food on offer was of the cold variety and any bread rolls that found their way on to my table were, disturbingly, filled with something or other. With all the cold food on offer, I was rather looking forward to a decent bread roll, but unfortunately for me, while the rolls in question looked pretty harmless, they were, in fact, filled with 'stuff' – nothing sinister, it's just that when you're handed something that looks like a bread roll, you're kind of expecting it to be a bread roll and not a bread roll filled with onion (in my book, an unpleasant surprise, especially if the onion is cold).

Going underground – underneath the city on the Moscow Metro system

The Russians like to fill things. At a rushed buffet breakfast this morning (back on business again) on the outskirts of the city there were some interesting-looking pastries and every one of them was in some way filled with something. This time, however, it was different; they weren't savoury but sweet – and anything filled with sweet stuff is fine.

Touching the statue is supposed to bring good luck!

The Arbat House Hotel
That said, I've been rather impressed by the food in my hotel, the Arbat House, a well-positioned establishment down a quiet street, but very pleasant in so many respects, especially the room. I don't know if you believe in the concept of feng shei (is that how it's spelt?) but it seems to work in my case. Let me explain what I mean: normally when I stay in a hotel I dread the moment when I have to switch off the lights and get some kip. This is because I'm in an unfamiliar place and, therefore, prior to bedding down for the night, I mess around. I might have the curtains pulled back a little bit to let in some light, I might leave a light on in the bathroom for the same reason, but invariably there's a noisy fan that automatically goes on every time I switch on the light, so this is often a problem and I end up relying solely upon the curtain being pulled apart an inch or two. I can't stand a room plunged into total darkness. Call me a baby, I don't care, but when I open my eyes I want to be able to see stuff, not just blackness.

And when I'm lying there – normally testing things out, by having the TV on and then switching it off to check the light levels when the room is finally in sleep mode – I feel strange knowing that, for instance, there's a lot of room between where I'm sleeping and the front door. I sometimes feel uncomfortable if there's too much space that I can't see (I hate sleeping in overly large spaces). Small spaces are best as there's less to be in command of, which I prefer. And that's what was great about my room at the Arbat House. The feng shei was right. It wasn't a huge room and my bed (a double, but not a huge double) faced the window, which was about six or seven feet from the foot of the bed. Behind the bed, separated by a wall, was the bathroom. I slept with a small gap in the curtains and, surprise, surprise, there was no fan in the bathroom so I could leave the light on and then virtually shut the bathroom door, allowing just a tiny sliver of light to filter through without a noisy fan disturbing the peace.

On Red Square...

Two minor complaints...
In fact, where the room was concerned I only had two complaints. The main one was the lighting. Apart from the light in the ceiling, there wasn't any. No bedside lamp. Very annoying if you fancy reading after dark as the overhead light was gloomy and it made me feel the same way. It was certainly impossible to read so that meant I had to go downstairs to the bar/restaurant, which in turn meant that I had to buy something to warrant sitting there. Last night, for example, I was dog tired. So tired that I came back to the room around 4pm, switched on Radio Four and fell asleep listening to PM online. When I awoke around 8.30pm I found myself wondering what to do. I wanted to read, but the light was so gloomy there was only one option: head downstairs for what turned into a late dinner – no complaints whatsoever about the hotel restaurant except, perhaps, that it's not part of the hotel, but under separate ownership. Unaware of this, when I wanted to charge my meal to the room I couldn't! So I had to remember to take my credit card with me, but this was a minor inconvenience when you consider the excellent food, the efficient service and the fantastic ambience – and what's more, the BBCafé was open until midnight so that awful problem surrounding the retort, "I'm sorry, sir, the restaurant is closed," never raised its ugly head.

Where great Russian leaders have waved...on Red Square

My final, albeit minor, complaint was the fact that the key to the room was small (and so was the lock) and the hotel corridors were very dark. Every time I left or tried to re-enter the room it took an age to get the key in the lock. Oddly, one of those modern key card entry systems would have been preferable, but then they have their problems too.

But enough of the hotel other than to say I'd definitely return and I've loved every minute of my stay.

The Kremlin...
Moving on to the Kremlin, which just so happened to be no more than 10 minutes' walk from the hotel. On my day off yesterday I went there with a colleague who lives in Moscow and, well, what can I say? What a fantastic place! We paid a visit to the Annunciation Cathedral of the Moscow Kremlin and the Archangel Cathedral. The Annunciation Cathedral has nine small domes and is described as the home church of Old Russia's great princes and tsars. Weddings and baptisms took place here and way back in the 14th Century a small one-domed Annunciation Church stood on the same spot.

I've seen it all before at Covent Garden in London...

The Archangel's Cathedral, also on Cathedral Square, has five domes. According to legend, a wooden church built in the name of the Archangel Michael was built in the same spot back in the 12th Century. The Archangel Michael was the leader of the heavenly host and the guardian of the Russian princes. It was demolished in 1333 on the orders of Prince Ivan Kalita and a new white-stone cathedral was built in its place to commemorate Russian's liberation from famine. In 1340 Kalita was buried in the church, which became Russia's first state necropolis. The current Archangel's Cathedral was built between 1505 and 1508 by Ivan lll. It was designed by an Italian architect known in Russia as Aleviz Noviy.

A Yamaha with a V-twin – very impressive!

We moved on to Red Square and then, after a few photographs, it was time to eat. My favourite pastime. The Russians love their meat and their bread and we soon tucked into some beef and lamb, not forgetting traditional dumplings filled with meat and followed by some cheesy bread.

Boris Yeltsin bikes – but instructions only in Russian

Just prior to eating we had wandered around GUM, an upmarket shopping mall full of the usual high street brands you might find in London, plus a few more exclusive ones.  What I found amazing, however, was a Yamaha motorcycle with a V-twin engine. It looked just like the old Harley Sportster, but it was definitely a Yamaha so it's probably cheaper and more reliable.

Bike Share Moscow – too cold and too dangerous in my opinion...

I decided to check out where to pick up the train to the airport on Thursday (tomorrow). Why waste money on a cab when the chances are I'd get there quicker by train? It's going to mean a little walk from the hotel, but once underway it'll be smoother. So, I hoofed it down to Paveletsky railway station and bought my ticket, stopped off for a cup of tea and a cake in a local coffee shop (click here for more details) and then headed back towards my hotel, using the metro both ways to and from Arbatskaya metro station.

Going underground in Moscow...
When people talk about 'feats of engineering' they tend to cite famous bridges, but the Moscow Metro system has to be seen to be believed. Not only is it cut very deep into the ground underneath the city, the stations are the most wonderfully ornate places I've ever seen – millions and millions of times better than what you will find on the London Underground and offering passengers not only much more fresh air than London – the ventilation system is brilliant – but bigger and roomier trains. It's hard to comprehend the scale of the job facing those who built the Moscow Metro back in the late 1930s, but wow, did they do a great job. It is literally a work of art. Anybody charged with the task of building a new Metro system should fly to Moscow first to see how it's done.

Rush hour begins in Moscow...

Arbat Street was next. I'd heard a lot about it, but to be honest, I wasn't really that impressed. Think Covent Garden, think human statues, street artists, buskers and men handing out leaflets and you're almost there. The street was lined with restaurants and pubs and fast food joints and yes, it was fine and I was possibly a little tired having trampsed over to Paveletsky station to buy my Aero Express ticket, but I decided to head back to my hotel for dinner where I could at least read my book in peace. The alternative was sitting in one of those 'trendy' restaurants where everything was a joke. "Our beer is as cold as your ex-girlfriend's heart" being a good example of the genre. Oh, ho, ho, ho!

In fact, you'll be pleased to know that my last meal at the Arbat House Hotel was absolutely amazing, even if they didn't have everything I wanted: no vegetable soup, no tuna steak, the refusals kept on coming until I settled on the mushroom soup followed by the chicken curry and rounded off with an apple strudel (I'd skipped lunch today so I deserved to have a pig-out).

I had my book, I'd ordered a beer and I was feeling relaxed. What else could one ask for?

Now I'm back in my room with little to do other than go to bed, which I plan to do just as soon as I finish this post. At least I don't have to get up at the crack of dawn like this morning.

Moscow's bike share scheme...
Perhaps a brief word about Moscow's bike share scheme, which I toyed with describing as 'Boris Yeltin Bikes' – geddit? Boris Johnson/Boris Yeltsin? You can't get wittier than that, can you? Anyway, while I state above that it was too cold and too dangerous to ride a bike around Moscow, that was a little misleading. Yes, it was fast and busy and yes, it was cold, but the main reason behind not using the bikes was the Russian language. I did not understand a word of it and there was no English language availability on the machines that ultimately 'dispensed' the bikes.

Looking at a map of Moscow, the scheme was certainly well-established with bike stations dotted liberally around the city.

Postscript...
I awoke later than usual, it was nearly 9am. I rushed downstairs for breakfast (fried egg on toast plus cereal and tea and orange juice) and then I noticed something that I hadn't noticed over the last three breakfasts I'd enjoyed here: there was a small bird in a cage plonked right in the middle of the breakfast food display in amongst the bread rolls and the hot food. I felt sorry for the bird as he had to spend his time looking at an array of breads, none of which he could gain access to (thank the Lord). It was odd noticing it for the first time as, I thought the quiet tweeting I could hear occasionally was somebody's message alert on their mobile phone. Still, there you have it, a bird, in a cage, in amongst the breakfast offerings – I wonder what Health & Safety would have to say about that?

Postscript 2...
A brief word about the Russians. Excellent people and don't let anybody (or any government) tell you otherwise. I found every Russian I met to be very friendly. Even those in cars were courteous to pedestrians. Great country, great people.

Room 504, Arbat House Hotel, Moscow

And to conclude, here, in good old NoVisibleLycra tradition, is a shot of my hotel room, Room 504 of the Arbat House Hotel, Moscow.

In Moscow...

It was an early start. Nothing worse. A morning flight. Not good as it meant I had to be at the airport two hours before take-off, so let's say I had to be there by 0900hrs. That meant a taxi arriving to pick me up at 0730hrs. Worse still, I had shirts, unpressed and drying on a radiator and various gadgets charging in different parts of the house: digital camera in the living room; computer in the conservatory; iphone in the hall. Fortunately, my passport was in a folder along with all my necessary travel documents. Either way it meant little time, not only to say goodbye to my wife but to have breakfast. A cup of tea would have to do until I reached Heathrow Terminal Five where I later discovered that Wagamama offered an English Breakfast menu.

Healthy brekkie at Wagamama, Heathrow T5.

I ordered tea, which arrived in a glass cup, and granola – very nicely presented with raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, star fruit, kiwi and natural yoghurt. I could have opted for something unhealthy, but decided to stick to my guns and keep the old weight down. I'll admit, however, that I was kind of banking on some 'airline food', you know the rap: foil container full of chicken, mashed potatoes and diced carrot, a dash of gravy; a dessert and a rock hard bread roll that, for some reason, I always just accept. But no, lunch consisted of nothing more than a chicken Caesar sandwich and a mini KitKat (and when I asked for another mini KitKat I was told that portion control dictated that one meal comes with one mini KitKat, but she'd see what she could do). She did bugger all so I was champing at the bit by the time I reached the hotel and was, therefore, elated when I discovered that the restaurant, the BBCafé – which was not owned by the hotel but an integral part of it – was open until midnight and was quite busy when I arrived around 9pm.

My rather dingy hotel room – not so much the room's fault, but the lighting – gave me cause not to expect much from the restaurant, but I was to be pleasantly surprised. Fortunately, I'd purchased a copy of the Observer at Heathrow airport and now I waltzed into the restaurant, Observer under arm and looking forward to an evening of simply reading various articles by the paper's learned correspondents (of which there are many).

Russian beer – very pleasant.

Siberian Bird-Cherry pie – surprisingly nice.

The restaurant looked incredibly promising: night lights (or tea lights) or perhaps even 'candles' adorned every table and there was a cosy feel to the place. I could have sat in the main restaurant area, but opted instead for what might be a conservatory of sorts (I'll get a better idea in the morning as the BBCafé also serves the hotel guests their breakfast). I was offered an English menu, the waiters and waitresses were not only pleasant but efficient (no fretful waiting around wondering if I'd be served) and the food was good too. I opted for minestrone soup followed by a selection of grilled fish, a glass of red wine (a surprisingly small glass, but I'd ordered a Russian beer too so I wasn't complaining). For dessert I chose a Siberian Bird-Cherry cake, a thin layer of chocolate covering a kind of moussey, cheesecakey layer on a cakey base – that's the best way to describe it. There were three ornate dollops of raspberry sauce and a delicate tubular lattice work of chocolate resting on the edge of the rectangular glass dish.

All-in-all absolutely perfect and just what I needed. When I arrived at the airport after a fairly pleasant flight (I had an aisle seat - 27D) I searched around for a taxi and soon found myself racing down the motorway towards the city centre – I think I'll be getting the train back. But it was dark and even as we reached the centre of town where one could clearly see the colourful minarets of what I assumed were some of Moscow's must-see buildings, it was gone 7pm and I'd have to postpone any sightseeing I had planned for the daylight hours.

Blurred Moscow from a speeding taxi...

When I left the airport, the motorway into town was flanked on both sides by dense forests, but this eventually thinned out and gave way to blocks of flats and petrol stations and all the things you'd expect to see from a car window as you edged ever closer to the city centre: coaches, lorries, cars, bus stops, supermarkets, flats, you name it – Moscow was like anywhere else in the world, the only thing undecipherable for me was the Russian language. While I could make out distances, ie '500m' there was no way I could understand the road signs or the billboard advertising, although, earlier, back at the airport, all the signs had English translations and that's how I found the desk to order a taxi into town.

The hotel room was better than I was making out earlier. In fact, as I mentioned, it was not so much the room but the lighting that gave the place a gloomy appearance. Reading in bed would be painful as there were no bedside lamps, but unlike my hotel in Germany the other week, there was a wardrobe and it had 'normal' hangers, not the irritating thief-proof variety that simply prove that a hotel doesn't trust its guests. This hotel did trust its guests and there was further evidence of this – the minibar. It was full! Most hotels in the UK have the little fridge, but its either locked or empty. I rarely use minibars so its all academic and besides, there's one of those office mineral water dispensers down the corridor, but can I bothered in the middle of the night to leave the room, walk along the corridor and pour myself a glass of water? No. I've got a minibar!

There's also a Samsung television and BBC World is on channel 24. Talking of the BBC, British Airways' High Life magazine was carrying another John Simpson column, this time on New Guinea or, more importantly, travel books. Not as interesting as past columns so once again I felt thankful for my copy of the Observer, not forgetting The Moth, a compilation of '50 extraordinary true stories' except that, while mildly interesting, I wouldn't go as far as to say they were 'extraordinary'.

The hotel room's wallpaper was a little ornate, shall we say, and there was an almost gypsy-like chintz to the soft fittings. The curtains and the bedspreads and cushions had glittery gold 'tassles'. There was woodblock flooring – nothing gypsy-like about that – and a shower but no bathtub. 

It's now gone 11pm here in Moscow but only gone 8pm back at home in the UK, but either way that means I need to hit the sack as I've got an early start in the morning.

Suburban ride to mum's, but no sign of Jon... (roughly 12 miles)

I left home around 0730hrs this morning having decided to get a ride in, despite plans simply not to bother. Mum's seemed like a good place to go as, normally, Jon is there and we have a chat about old times, check out our old bedroom and generally reminisce about dad and life at home in the good old days of childhood.

Mum and yours truly, Carshalton, Saturday October 4th 2014.

Normally I take a semi rural route through Purley, along Foxley Lane, down towards Woodmansterne Green and then right, passing the Oaks Park on the left and riding into Carshalton Beeches. Today, however, I took a busier route – heading down West Hill, into Essenden Road, on to Carlton, left into the Selsdon Road, left into Jarvis Road, on to the Brighton Road heading north for all of 10 yards and then hanging a left, going up the hill towards the mini roundabout at Pampisford Road and across towards Rockingham's Garden Centre, which used to be Purley Way Swimming Baths. I think they still have the old diving board, although it might have been taken down, not sure. Purley Way Baths, if I recall correctly, used to be an outdoor pool with a 15ft deep end and a high board that the school toughies would brag about. I don't think I ever swam there. My pools were Highfield Road in Carshalton, where I learnt to swim and which definitely no longer exists, and Westcroft, also in Carshalton, which has recently been transformed – it's still a leisure centre, but it has a library too as the old one off of the High Street has closed down.

The ride towards the A23 from Pampisford Road was great as there's a seemingly endless, vast expanse of lush, green playing fields, which used to form part of the old Croydon Airport and is now used for Sunday League footy and by those who fly huge kites that look like parachutes. There are houses facing the fields and I can only imagine that it must be lovely to wake up on a cold, misty (or snowy) morning and see the mist hanging heavy over the grass. I remember jogging around the fields in the late 90s with Sean Ferris, a work colleague. Or rather I remember doing it once or twice. We used to run around the edges and I think it amounted to just over three miles. However, as I've said many times before, running ain't my bag.

The fields near the A23 where kites fly and Sunday league footy is played.

I rode north along the A23 and then took a left, which took me along a lonely stretch of road flanked on either side by the rear ends of industrial units – it was a bit like riding through the mean streets of Grand Theft Auto, the video game. I rejoined reality when I emerged on the Stafford Road heading west towards Wallington.  I crossed the main lights at the top of the High Street and rode towards Boundary Road where I turned right at another mini roundabout before turning left just past the railway bridge. I followed Grosvenor Road for 100 yards or so and then turned right into Park Road. I skirted Carshalton Park and rode along Benyon Road, across the lights by the Windsor Castle pub, past the BP garage, right into Alma Road, left into Shorts Road, under the railway bridge and left into Rossdale and there I was – at mum's.

Tea and cake followed, we chatted about this and that, took the photograph accompanying this post (see top pic above) and then, after my customary mooch around the house, checking out my old bedroom, the one I shared with Jon for most of my first 24 years on this planet, I gave mum a hug and headed back home, taking roughly the same route as the outward journey except that I rode through Carshalton High Street and onwards past the Duke's Head and then the Plough, down towards Five Ways where I used the pavements to avoid increasingly heavy traffic before escaping up Denning Avenue, through the council estate in my ASBO specials, blending in, right into Nottingham Road, past Whitgift School and then right along the Brighton Road (A23) heading south this time and hanging a left after a few yards. I rejoined the Selsdon Road, passed the Rail View, under two railway bridges and turned right into Carlton Road, left into Essenden and right on to West Hill. The climb didn't feel too bad.

It was quite a good ride, but the traffic was a problem here and there: heavy in places, especially around Five Ways and this meant a lot of pedestrian crossings and using a mixture of the road and the path, which doesn't make for a relaxing ride, especially with faulty gears and one handlegrip. I've always maintained that it's more dangerous riding on the path than it is on the roads as not only are there pedestrians to deal with, there is also the risk of cars reversing out of driveways. Sometimes, however, it's easier – or it seems easier – than risking my neck negotiating busy road junctions.

Sometimes the path seems safer than the road, like here at Purley Way.

It was a good to see mum and nice to enjoy a cup of tea and a slice of mum's 'test cake' – she's been baking Christmas cakes and Christmas puddings to order and had made a kind of 'pilot' cake, which was lovely. In the old days I might have enjoyed three of four portions, but today, just the one as I didn't want to turn back into a fat bastard – not that any transformation would have been instantaneous.

My gears are seriously playing up. I dare not stand and pedal as the gears slip and crunch constantly and that means smashing my nuts on the saddle. A visit to the bike shop is going to be necessary...and there's a lot to be done, but I don't fancy my local shop in Redhill, or Halfords, so I might take it to Andy's shop in Caterham, the one up the road from where he lives, as the guy there seems genuine and the shop is not part of a big chain. But it'll have to wait for a while as I'm still languishing on Skid Row. Until then, I'll have to remember not to stand up when I'm riding.

Time to look back...

Nice to look back on old posts occasionally. Click on the links below to find out what we were up to three and four years ago:-

Three years ago

Four years ago

To Westerham – 22 miles

A few years ago a dust cloud emanating from an Icelandic volcano brought commercial aviation to a standstill in Northern Europe and I distinctly remember our skies being clear of the scars left behind by numerous jet vapour trails. I'm often amazed at the criss-cross pattern of white lines that blight our skies when there's no dust cloud around and this morning was a case in point. As I emerged from the house I looked upwards and it was as if a small child had been let loose with a white marker pen on light blue paper.

Matt and Andy, Westerham, Sunday 28 September 2014

Andy and I met on the green at 0730hrs and headed off with the sun in our eyes. It was a bright sun and there were blue skies as we rode east along the 269 towards Botley. The weather was warmer today than yesterday, but it cooled down considerably as we descended into Westerham – although it's still not time to wear gloves.

When we arrived at our bench on Westerham Green, Andy brought out the Bel Vita biscuits, I made the tea and all was fine with the world. We sat there chatting about nothing in particular. I think the iphone 6 was mentioned in passing and we talked about a ride to Chipstead Lake. In fact, Andy was contemplating – or dare I say yearning – to ride there this morning from Westerham. He was certainly in two minds about pushing ahead and I told him he needn't go back to Pilgrims Way; he simply had to carry on along the road towards Sundridge, via Brasted, and he'd eventually see a sign for Chipstead village on his left, but he decided to ride back with me instead.

Andy rode alone to Chipstead Lake. Pic: Andy Smith.

I know what Andy means about Chipstead Lake. It's a great place and sometimes we all need to go somewhere like it just to chill out a bit. Andy was saying how he never seems to find the time to simply ride somewhere like the lake and not have to worry about what time he gets back. I agreed. We'd both riden to the lake recently but alone; Andy rode there last weekend on his road bike and I was there a few weeks back at the beginning of August, but we've not been there en masse so to speak for a long while. Click here for details of my last ride to the lake.

Both of us were dreading the climb out of Westerham, but in all honesty it was fine and soon we were on the 269 heading back towards Warlingham. We parted at Warlingham Green with Andy saying he wouldn't be riding next Saturday and me saying I wouldn't be out on Sunday, so the likelihood is that our next outing will be the week after next.

Our bikes in Westerham this morning

It's noon now and the sun is bright. There are clear blue skies and you could definitely say that we're experiencing an Indian summer; it is, after all, almost October.

Suburban ride to mum's – 13.5 miles there and back...

The dark starts are getting darker as we approach October when, in roughly a month from now, the clocks will go back one hour and winter will be upon us.

This week I received two aborts: one from Phil yesterday and a late one from Andy this morning, which, of course, immediately made me wonder whether or not I should go. In fact, sitting here now at 0700hrs there is a strong temptation just to remain seated and not go anywhere, but I've got to, for the sake of my own sanity. Not riding is always a bad idea.

Library picture of tea round at mum's.

So I rode to mum's (13.5 miles there and back) through suburban streets and when I got there I met Jon, we had tea and a couple of Kit Kats, not my favourite snack item, but there you go. I had a second cup of tea and then, around 0900hrs I rode home, through the smallholdings and eventually up the steep side of West Hill like last week, arriving home around 0947.

The bike's in need of a service. The gears keep slipping and I can't crank it down to use the lower eight, which made the steep side of West Hill fairly hard work. I say 'fairly hard' but I surprised myself: it really wasn't that bad. The bike needs new handle grips too, a new front tyre wouldn't go amiss either and some new brake shoes on the front would improve things no end. But being constantly on Skid Row means it'll have to wait. I remember once riding the bike without any brakes, back in 2011. Somehow I worked out a way of stopping it. But it's not that bad yet. The rear brake is so powerful it doesn't matter that I don't have a decent front brake. The last time it was the other way around, the rear brake was non-existent and I relied on a poor front brake. Not good, but I survived.

Tomorrow we're heading for Westerham. Not sure if Phil will be there or not, but Andy's up for it. He wanted to head for the lake, but I'm not sure I'll have the time, unless we head off ultra early.

Solo ride to the Tatsfield bus stop – 14.5 miles.

It must have rained during the night as there were puddles dotted along the 269 this morning as I made my way towards Botley Hill. Puddles aside, the weather was fantastic: blue skies and cottonwool clouds, although there was a cool breeze.

Yours truly, Tatsfield bus stop, Sunday 21 Sept 2014

The original plan was to ride to Botley Hill and back, but as I approached the pub, I realised that I might as well push on a little further so I headed for the Tatsfield bus stop.

I was passed by a few Lycra monkeys on the way, but generally speaking it was an uneventful kind of ride – not that Lycra monkeys make a ride 'eventful'. I suppose it was because a solo ride, by definition, means no company, no conversation. I was left alone with my thoughts.

When I reached the bus stop I loitered for a short while, took the selfie accompanying this post then, with no tea or biscuits to eat (oh, the pain and loneliness of solitary riding!) I headed back and by the time I reached home I had burned off 363 calories over a distance of 14.5 miles (that's from my house to the Tatsfield bus stop and back, the fast way).

Like yesterday I was on the bike for 90 minutes in total. Yesterday I rode roughly one mile less than today and burned 356 calories. My average speed was 10mph, but again, I was in no hurry. Yesterday's average speed was even slower – just 9mph. In fact, comparing the two rides, I preferred yesterday's for the simple reason that the route was circular and I had some company, although I didn't have company on the ride, just when I reached my destination – mum's house. By 'circular' I mean that none of the return journey involved repeating any of the outward journey (apart from riding down Rossdale and into Shorts Road). From Alma Road onwards it was a completely different route, which appeared on my cycling app (Map My Ride) as a circle.

Today's ride was a simple straight line as the route back was the reverse of the route out. Having said that, the 'better' ride is to Tatsfield bus stop. Why? Because it's more rural, more desolate and there's a great covered bus stop at the half way point. The urban ride to mum's is just that: urban. Infact, it's suburban! Having said that, I would rather have breakfast at mum's than sit alone at the bus stop. But then again, when the guys are at the bus stop with me and we have tea and biscuits or tea and cake (or both) the bus stop is very appealing, especially in the sunshine. Hell, I can't make up my mind. Does one have to be better than the other? Of course not, they're both good in their own way.

How sad am I?
So what else? Well, I know this sounds really sad – and I am, of course, a very, very sad person – but I love buying something new and yesterday that something was a new kettle. Our old one was leaking so we nipped down to the Currys on the Purley Way and bought a new one – the same brand (Philips). Ridiculous, I know, but I even enjoyed the shopping trip as we later strolled around John Lewis and Next Home – not that we can afford to buy anything at the moment.

Our new Philips kettle from Currys.

This morning we drove to Slindon, a fantastic village close to Pulborough on the southern side of the South Downs. Wonderful place – especially the beef pasty at The Old Forge café. If you haven't been, I suggest you go, it's a great place – but I'd imagine very drab on a cold and rainy day as the only village pub was closed and turned into flats about 10 years ago.

It's been a great day weatherwise: blue skies and light cloud and now, at 1727hrs the sun is shimmering behind some clouds. The trees are virtually still as there's so little wind and, as I write this, I can hear the engine of a light aircraft purring away somewhere in the distance. Perfect.

Suburban ride to mum's – 13.5 miles

At 0641hrs it's grey and misty outside, but it's dry too, which is good news. It's also very still as I sit here in the conservatory, the halogen glow from the computer screen illuminating a small space around the desk. Outside, the birds are tweeting. How they manage to get to grips with computers I'll never know.

Today the plan is an urban ride to mum's as nobody else is going cycling this weekend and it's a good opportunity to see Bon and mum and enjoy one of mum's cosy breakfasts. Both Phil and Andy are otherwise engaged, leaving me to my own devices. An urban ride to mum's means no need to pack a huge thermos flask of water plus milk and teabags. My load will be lightened in other words. I'll leave on the hour, so about 15 minutes more of sitting here writing.

Yesterday it was announced that Scotland has voted no to independence, paving the way for the resignation of Scottish National Party leader Alex Salmond and enabling the British establishment to breathe a sigh of relief. Oddly, 45 per cent of Scots voted to break away from the UK with Glasgow and Dundee standing out as the most pro-independence regions of Scotland. I was expecting trouble on the streets – and there has been unrest in Glasgow – but I'm glad that the UK hasn't been broken up. I'm not a fan of nationalism of any sort. In my opinion nationalism is up there with religion as one of the major causes of unrest in the world. There's nothing worse than tribalism and that's what nationalism breeds – cue Scotsman with painted faces pretending to be Mel Gibson.

Halfway through breakfast at mum's this morning.

The French have been dropping bombs on ISIS positions in the Middle East and it seems to have gone quiet on the Ukraine front other than the country's president meeting Obama to ask for military assistance should his country be invaded by the Russians. Here in the UK a girl named Alice has gone missing and while nobody has dared mention that she might have been murdered, they've discovered that a Latvian convicted murderer might be involved as he passed the very spot where Alice was spotted on CCTV just 15 minutes after her, riding a mountain bike. The bike has been recovered by the police, but neither Alice nor the Latvian have been seen in three weeks. All very suspicious if you ask me, but one thing bugging most people, including yours truly, is why we have allowed a convicted Latvian murderer into the country.

Riding west towards Sutton
I left the house around 0710hrs, headed west along Barnfield Road, north along West Hill, and then west through Essenden Road. I turned right on to Carlton Road and rode towards Croydon following the Selsdon Road to the A23 Brighton Road, past Cycle King and up Warham Road. I rode through the council estate via Denning Avenue and on towards Five Ways (aka the Purley Way). Traffic was picking up as I rode along Stafford Road into Wallington heading for Boundary Road where I hung a right at the mini roundabout and then later turned left into Grosvenor Road. After making a right turn into Park Road, I skirted around the park and headed for Benyon Road where Jon called and I had to call him back to say I was approaching the lights at the Windsor Castle – no more than five minutes from mum's place.

When I got there, breakfast was almost ready: boiled egg and fingers; cereal; and soft bread rolls washed down with a cup of tea and followed by some fresh orange segments. We chatted about this and that – family stuff mainly – and then watched (on my iphone) a brief excerpt from an old children's programme from our childhood. The Singing Ringing Tree was released in 1957 (although we didn't start watching it until the mid-to-late 60s. It still holds a certain magic for us (it's also a little weird, but that was always its appeal). If you want to watch a bit of it, key 'Singing Ringing Tree' into Google or, better still, YouTube.

Yours truly and Jon ready to ride home from mum's

After bidding farewell to mum, Jon and I headed down Rossdale together, but went our separate ways at the bottom: Jon turned left on to the Westmead Road and rode towards Sutton. I headed right into Westmead Corner, turned right again into Shorts Road and then right again into Alma Road. At the T-junction with the Carshalton Road I turned left, rode past the BP Garage and turned right into Oxford Road. I was riding towards Carshalton Beeches High Street which morphs into Banstead Road and then Banstead Road South further up, turning left into Staplehurst and right on to Park Hill. From here onwards it gets a bit more rural with the Oaks Park on the right and a couple of smallholdings and fields on the left. After about a mile I turned right on to the Croydon Road and basically kept on going straight into Purley before winding my way along suburban back streets towards the Purley Downs Road, where, after a short climb, I turned left into Norman Road, past Purley Oaks railway station and then on to the lower end of the B269 – yes, the road to Botley Hill. After a couple of hundred yards I turned left into West Hill, the southerly end, which is very steep, but I managed it despite only having eight gears at my disposal (I couldn't change down for some reason). Lastly, I hung a right into Barnfield Road and was home by just gone 0930hrs.

I managed to burn 356 calories over 21.75km. In total I was on the saddle for roughly 90 minutes and my average speed was 14.7km per hour (roughly 9 miles per hour) but I wasn't pushing it. It was good to just mosey along at my own pace.

Wind chime weather

A few posts back I suggested that summer had left the building. It hadn't. We've been blessed with what can only be described at this time of year as an Indian summer. There is no need yet to wear gloves while riding the bike. No need for more than one layer of clothing. Riding downhill is met with nothing but a warm breeze and the threat of rain and wind is non-existent. No doubt things will change, but right now there's nothing to complain about.

Waiting for Andy near Botley Hill, Sunday 0805hrs.

In the back garden I have a wind chime and it is now that it plays it's cheerful tune, accompanied by the rustling leaves of nearby trees. Sitting outside on Sunday afternoon having mowed the lawns, chopped back the golden rod and planted a few bulbs, I enjoyed a cup of tea in the relative solitude of the time and place. Not for me the crisis in the Middle East or the knife edge boredom of the Scottish referendum. I was, I suppose, busily doing nothing for a brief moment in time.

I had risen early with a view to a solitary ride. Andy was out of circulation and while Phil had said he would be there for a ride on Sunday, he wasn't outside when I emerged from the house around 0700hrs. Later I received a text. Phil had overslept, but he's been cleared by the NoVisible Lyca committee. Our rules are simple: you either ride or you don't; nobody's going to reprimand you if you decide to 'abort', although you should abort. Having said that, I kind of knew that Phil wouldn't be riding as he'd have been there waiting for me by the time I hit the air. At 0710hrs I pedalled off, unsure where to go on my own.

Mum's place was high on the agenda. An urban ride through Wallington and Carshalton seemed like a good idea, but somehow it seemed more of an effort than a rural ride to Botley or the Tatsfield Bus Stop, so I headed off on my usual route: Ellenbridge, Southcote, Elmfield, Morley, Church Way, Limpsfield Road, Botley Hill and then either the bus stop or the churchyard.

At Tatsfield Churchyard – clearly running out of ideas.

As I approached Warlingham Sainsbury's I received a text from Andy asking if I was out on the bike. I was, I said, and told him my location. He suggested meeting at the roundabout beyond Botley and from there we rode to the Tatsfield Churchyard for tea and biscuits and a chat about people who use only the subject box of an email to convey their message. It's a bit like writing a short note on an envelope, underneath the address and then putting a sheet of blank paper inside the envelope. Not cricket, in other words. Enough said. Later Andy sent me an email with the entire message in the subject box.

I didn't ride on Saturday as I had things to do around the house and while I was fully expecting a solitary ride on Sunday, it was good to have Andy on board. Riding alone is fine, but having a 'riding buddy' is far preferable. Next week I'll need all the motivation I can get as both Andy and Phil won't be going. An urban ride to mum's is likely on one of the days, but I might just muster up the enthusiasm to ride alone to Westerham, who knows?

My bike (and crash helmet) near Botley Hill on Sunday.

In Luxembourg...and letting the trains take the strain

I set off on Wednesday morning by car (I was the passenger). We were headed for Folkestone where we picked up a train – the Euro Shuttle – that took us across the English Channel. The journey took approximately 35 minutes. We simply sat in the car and when the train emerged in Calais we drove off and followed the road signs to Rheinberg, a small town not a million miles from Duisburg from where I would later catch the first of three trains to Luxembourg.

Exactly how Luxembourg is spelt is anybody's guess: is it 'Luxemburg' or is it 'Luxembourg'? Or, indeed, is it Luxemborg? It's a mystery, and while I initially made a decision to go for the former, I saw the word 'Luxembourg' on Luxembourg station so that is how Luxembourg is spelt. It has to be. If the station gets it wrong there's no hope for any of us. So, for those not completely clear, it's 'Luxembourg'.

This is the first time I've been to Luxembourg and sadly I'm not going to get much time to look around. Up until today, my only connection with Luxembourg has been Radio Luxembourg when I used to lie in bed as an early teen listening to the Emperor Rosco on my crackly old transistor radio.

The Orsoyer Hof hotel near Rheinberg

Last night was spent in the Orsoyer Hof hotel in what I can only describe as a small hamlet on the outskirts of Rheinberg. It was what I would call a 'blast from the past'. Very mid-to-late seventies, the Orsoyer Hof's restaurant bore a strong resemblance to the old UK steak houses and the past was reinforced by the music on the sound system – Procol Harum and Hot Chocolate. I chose beef stroganoff as it was the only thing I could recognise on the menu, but the portion size was such that I couldn't finish it all. Rare for me, I know, but it was just too much.

The hotel room was sort of okay, although I'm not a great fan of rooms that open directly on to the outside world as those in the Orsoyer Hof did. The rooms were below street level and accessed by a single flight of stairs.  In all honesty it was a bit dingy all round. The breakfast was piss poor – rolls and processed cheese, no tea, no cereal – and overall it wasn't really my scene. Having said that, bed and breakfast was only 47 Euros so there was little room for complaint, although I wouldn't return.

We enjoyed an amazing lunch in Restaurant Caruso in Rheinberg, the only restaurant I've ever visited that doesn't have a menu (the chef/proprietor simply comes over and asks you what you want). We chose sole and pannacota, not forgetting a decent bottle of wine. Unbelievably good. The sole was filleted in front of us and was as tender as you like and accompanied with some al dente pasta and a rather delicious tomato and garlic dressing.

View from the train to Trier Hbf

After lunch I was driven to Duisburg where I hopped aboard the 1612hrs train to Koblenz. There was a 20-minute wait for the 1822hrs from Koblenz to Trier Hbf and then a short walk across the platform at Trier Hbf to catch the 1952hrs to Luxembourg.  The second part of the train journey from Koblenz to Trier HBF was wonderful as the train hugged the northern banks of the Mosul – some great scenery as the train passed through Tries Karden, Cochem and Bullay where quaint houses nestled on green hillsides leading down to the water's edge. The train arrived in Luxembourg after dark at 2045hrs and I crossed the road to my hotel, the Best Western International, which was across the road from the railway station – the most conveniently located hotel I've ever had the good fortune to check in to.

The hotel was fantastic from the word go and there was good news from the moment I checked in: a complimentary glass of wine, 10% off my meal and free WiFi. Perfect! Room 304 was good too: an LG ('Life's Good') flatscreen television (Pistorius not guilty of murder, said CNN, but he could be guilty of culpable homicide*), a decent double bed and a gleaming bathroom, unlike last night's gloomy looking shower room in Rheinberg.

When I reached the restaurant it was full of Japanese people and I feared that I was invisible to the waitresses, but I was wrong and soon I had my free glass of red wine. I ordered roasted salmon with potatoes and carrots – good old 'hospital food' – and ordered a second glass of wine and some sparkling mineral water before signing the check and heading back to the room. It was 2200hrs and I was considering a walk, but in all honesty I needed to relax, and, besides, it was dark so what could I possibly see other than closed shops and shadowy people making their way here and there, to and fro.

Room 304, International Hotel, Luxembourg

If I'm up early enough I'll have time to take a stroll around Luxembourg, but after the meeting there will be just one hour before I catch my train back to Brussels Midi and then my second train to London St Pancras International.

It's been a rushed trip in many ways. I've got a meeting tomorrow at 1100hrs and I've got to be on the 1324hrs train to Brussels Midi in order to catch the Eurostar to London.

I'll take a stroll tomorrow morning, albeit briefly, and I'll see if I can find some 'Boris Bikes' but I doubt I'll have time to ride anywhere as another day of train travel beckons. You're probably wondering why I didn't fly back home. Well, the price was roughly the same, but flying means a taxi to the airport, it means hanging around beyond passport control for an hour or so spending money on food and drink in the process, so I figured it would be cheaper and more relaxed to simply jump on a train and the fact that my hotel is right across the road from the railway station makes the train the best option.

The view from room 304...

I've got about an hour to explore Luxembourg so I better make the most of it.  This is one of the most rushed trips, as I've probably said before.

I had a pleasant breakfast this morning consisting of cereal, yoghurt, fresh fruit and a cup of English breakfast tea and now, here I am, putting the finishing touches to this post. Outside the sun in shining and I'm about to go out for a walk prior to a meeting and then, after the meeting I'll head over to the railway station, which is visible from where I am sitting now, and catch the 1324hrs train to Brussels Midi and then I'll find the Eurostar to London. I've probably said all of this before, but I don't want my blog to look too untidy, hence the extra words.

Back in the UK...
I'm now back in the UK, meeting over. Before I embarked upon my journey home, however, I had lunch in the Alfa brasserie across from Luxembourg station – not brilliant, it has to be said, apart from the Leffe Brune and the bread rolls. I took the train from Luxembourg to Brussels Midi and it took an age. The most frustrating part of the journey – actually, the only frustrating part of the journey – was when we approached Brussels and I discovered that there were loads of Brussels stations: Brussels-Luxembourg; Brussels Schuman; Brussels Zuid; Brussels Nord; Brussels Central; and, of course, Brussels Midi.

Yes, Luxembourg has Boris Bikes...

I had an hour to kill on Midi station and wandered aimlessly around looking in shop windows and getting generally bored. I didn't want to spend money in a café or drink a beer in a bar so I window-shopped and never bought anything (that is, after all, what window shopping is all about). But then, fed up to the back teeth with Brussels Midi railway station, I decided to go through the motions of international travel: putting suitcase on conveyor, ensuring lap top is in a basket of its own before sending it through, then putting laptop back in suitcase and, of course, I almost forgot, showing my passport twice to French and then British passport control. The only bit of good news was that I managed to transfer from the later train (the 1856hrs) to the earlier train (the 1756hrs) and got home earlier than expected.

Oh, and talking about the spelling of Luxembourg (as we were earlier on in this post) I have photographic evidence that Luxembourg is spelt 'Luxembourg' and here it is. If you're going to get the spelling of a place name correct, the solution is very simple: go to the railway station.

* Pistorius is guilty of culpable homicide (manslaughter) and is awaiting sentencing.

Proof that Luxembourg is spelt 'Luxembourg'