Computers, cookies and crime

For most people – and for me most of the time – Sunday is a day of rest. But not yesterday. I had work to do and I won't bore you with it other than to say that from 1300hrs yesterday, I was sitting in a conference hall listening to people talk about the digital age and how it's going to affect everybody, even the manufacturing industries. In fact, it's not so much 'going to' affect everybody, it already IS affecting everybody. We have more computing power in our mobile phones than the computer used to take Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin (I nearly said Lightyear) to the moon. I could go on, but I'll spare you the lecture as you probably already know that mobile technology is moving fast and there will come a time when you'll trust the technology in your iphone more than the medical profession.

Central Chicago is said to be relatively safe

With all the above in mind – not so much the subject matter as I'd yet to learn some of the amazing facts I was assimilating yesterday afternoon – I thought I'd spend the morning wandering around, doing a bit of shopping and generally checking things out.

It was a wonderful day in Chicago. In fact the temperature this week will hit the 70s (fahrenheit) and residents of the so-called Windy City won't be experiencing too much in the way of breezy weather.

Whether those running in yesterday's Bank of America Chicago Marathon felt the same way, I'll never know. The race kicked off early yesterday morning and was being covered by the television networks in the early hours. Later, when I took to the streets, I saw plenty of people covered in silver foil capes having completed the 26-mile course. Some were elated, some were looking a little weary and a couple of people I spoke to were complaining about foot problems. Well, what do you expect if you run 26 miles.

My 'uncle' John – who I used to live virtually next door to when I was a kid and who, incidentally, wasn't really my uncle, he had something to say about running that annoyed the crap out of my dad.

God knows why we called him 'uncle' but we did, just like we used to call 'uncle' Brian our uncle too. They – John and Brian – were neighbours who were friendly with my parents. We used to enjoy happy holidays on the south coast with Brian and his family, back in the day when the summers were always sunny and warm. Sadly, they're both no longer with us. But it's 'uncle' John I'm referencing here because he used to say that 'animals only run if they have to', and if you knew my dad, which most of you don't, Jon excluded,  you'd understand why he wasn't happy with this remark. Dad competed in the 1984 London Marathon when, if I recall, he still indulged a smoking habit. I can't remember his time but it was pretty good for a man of 55 who, one way or another, wasn't THAT sporty in his day-to-day life. He started with half marathons and progressed to the big one.

Whenever I see marathon runners I think of dad. He loved it. In fact, every April from 1985 onwards, he always got his medal out on the day of the London Marathon and never ceased to encourage us – my brother and I (not so much my sister) – to enrol for the next event. I never did, but my brother Jon ran a handful of London Marathons and also put in some good times.

Running doesn't agree with me. Whenever I have run in the past I've injured myself. In 2005, after running around a disused Second World War airfield in deflated running shoes – the air in one of the soles had 'left the building', leaving me running unevenly – I did my back in. The net result? Severe lower back pain that persisted for around six months and led me to cancel a trip to the USA. Now that's not something I'd do lightly. I'm fine now (touch wood) and the problem has not returned, but I steer clear of running in any shape or form; I won't even run for the bus or the train.

My hotel (centre) on North Michigan Avenue

There were marathon runners everywhere yesterday: on the streets with family and friends – marathon running is a family affair for a lot of people – in the hotel lobby, anywhere you'd care to mention; and I saw them throughout the day, even last thing at night, in the hotel bar, when I sneaked in for a light snack and a glass of wine having walked the length of North Michigan Avenue from East Washington. Since lunch time I'd only eaten an oatmeal and raisin cookie in Peet's Coffee opposite Millennium Park and close to the Chicago Cultural Centre.

Earlier in the day I'd visited a few of the shops on North Michigan Avenue. I even tried on a pair of jeans and was amazed to discover that I've reverted back to my old size, that of a 32in waist. This surprised and elated me and that's why I feel mildly guilty about that oatmeal and raisin cookie and, indeed, that late night snack in the hotel bar. I could have just gone to bed and waited for breakfast.

Last night at the Cultural Centre I chatted with a fellow journalist who lives in Chicago near the Midway airport where crime is a bit of an issue. He lives in a townhouse in what he regards as a reasonably safe part of town, but he said that within a few blocks, the crime levels go up but the house prices go down. Always be concerned if you're looking to buy a house in the USA if the house you're looking at is much bigger, say, than what you're looking for, but is incredibly cheap. It probably means you might be moving to a dodgy neighbourhood. I keyed the Midway district into Google and found a forum site on which people discussed the inherent dangers of living in the area. Some people said it's fine if you're simply going to the airport, but others said keep an eye on your surroundings if you're walking about outside the airport.

The journalist I was talking to said he'd experienced very little in the way of trouble, but he did relate an incident during which he and his girlfriend were mugged by guys with guns and another incident some time ago when he was on a train late at night when two men boarded the train and one produced a razor from his mouth and told my journalist colleague to say nothing – or else. There was somebody else on the train asleep and he was the guy the thieves targetted, stealing, I think, his wallet without him waking up. Something like that.

It all made me think how relatively safe it is in the UK. According to my journalist colleague, the problems start when an area is going through a transition from run-down 'dodgy' neighbourhood to something a little more gentrified. When it's run-down, the residents are all in the same boat, ie they're all poor. But as the area starts to attract professional people with money, the crime starts and continues until the process of 'gentrification' is completed, everyone is respectable and the 'low-lifes' – if that's what they are – have moved on.

Human statue on North Michigan Avenue – she's safe

In the UK burglaries tend to occur when the occupants of the house are out; it's mostly opportunist thieves and small-time crooks from the locality. Crucially, however, they're not armed. Alright, perhaps they might have a knife, but they won't be packing a piece. In the USA, Americans have the right to bear arms – something like that, I'm not au fait with the legal technicalities – so intruders are likely to be armed and the chances are that if you produce a gun you're engaging them in a fire fight that you'll probably lose (assuming the bad guys have greater experience of using their hardware than you do).

Central Chicago, I'm told, is pretty safe, but one thing I have noticed is that so far I've yet to see a single police patrol car purring around the city. Normally, whether it's LA, Portland, Knoxville, Detroit, you name it, I've seen a police presence. Here in the Windy City I've seen (and heard) plenty of ambulances and vehicles owned by the Chicago Fire Department, but no police. Here's hoping they're out there somewhere.

Postscript: just looking at that shot of the human statue (above) can you imagine how awful it must be if your job is being a human statue? She must have woken up this morning in her house or apartment and thought 'where's the silver paint?' Then I'm guessing that she stood outside in her back yard – Americans don't have gardens, they have 'yards' – and sprayed herself. She might have a husband or boyfriend (or girlfriend) to do it for her, I don't know, but what a palaver! And then those clothes she's wearing must stand up on their own. Theoretically, she could probably jump into them, but I'm sure she doesn't. And then of course she's got to get to where she's working – North Michigan Avenue – from wherever she lives. I'm assuming she'll travel by car – imagine meeting her on the train or bus – and in that case I'm wondering what kind of looks she gets from other drivers. What if she gets out to fill up with petrol? "No, I'm perfectly alright, I'm a human statue," she might say to passers-by. "This is how I earn my money, by standing absolutely still and scaring the shit out of old-age pensioners and little children."

Cycling around the Windy City...

I wandered down to the river and slightly beyond to locate the Fairmont Chicago Millennium Park hotel, which, understandably, is close to Chicago's Millennium Park. As I expected, it was one of those loomy, dark and luxurious 'corporate' hotels loved so much by conference organisers. I asked a few questions and then discovered that North Michigan Avenue, the road on which my hotel is situated, is bang in the middle of the city's shopping district. I was located on Chicago's answer to Oxford Street and decided that I'd take a look later on in the day. For now, though, I continued my walk until I found a cycle hire place on the outskirts of the aforementioned Millennium Park.

Riding the streets of Chicago on an Electra Townie – very comfortable

I hired an Electra Townie bicycle, put my copy of Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World in the small pouch on the handlebars and set about riding around the city. While it was busy, it wasn't what I'd call dangerous, but being as I stuck to the city centre, it was all rather samey. In total I cycled for about two hours, probably a little more, weaving in and out of the traffic and watching the city from the perspective of a cyclist. I found myself on North Michigan Avenue and decided to dismount and check out some of the stores. The obligatory Apple Store was right next door to my hotel so, having padlocked the bike in the street I wandered in to take a look at the Apple watches and the lap tops.  The Apple Store is like some kind of temple for tech heads.

Crossing the river...

Across the street is Banana Republic, a shop they don't have in the UK and one I'm sure the two women in my family would enjoy. This one is huge, on three levels, and they have a 50% sale going on. Some interesting stuff – for women and men – but being very utilitarian where clothes are concerned (why have a 'trendy' tee shirt emblazoned with some kind of message or logo when a plain tee shirt will suffice?) I eventually left the store empty-handed. They have a Macy's department store so I wandered in, checked out the perfumery department and the menswear and again left empty-handed.

I thought it best to hand the bike back before having lunch so I pedalled off towards Millennium Park – which involved riding back along North Michigan Avenue and negotiating a busy left turn near the park. Over the road from the park is the hugely overrated Tavern at the Park, a kind of pub with tables and space at the bar to sit and 'enjoy' the cuisine, which is very predictable and not, in my opinion, that great. It was one of those places where you can bet you'll get unnecessarily large portions. I ordered the chicken hash lunch with a Revolution Porter – and to be fair the portion was average-sized – and finished off with apple crumble and ice cream. The main course was fine (ish) but it came with truffles and I've now discovered that I'm not endowed with expensive tastes. If I had to list the things I really hate eating, I'd definitely have foie gras at the top of the list followed by Queen scallops – let's make that all scallops – and now I'd like to add truffles. They overpowered my chicken hash, which was basically chicken stew (but not as good as my wife makes it). It came with two poached eggs, which I knew would be runny and messy-looking on the plate once I had sliced through the egg and allowed the yoke to mingle with the stew and...ugh!

Scenes from the city as seen from the bike...

Foolishly I asked for dessert and, to be fair, was told that the portions were pretty large. I opted for something I thought would be safe: apple crumble and ice cream. But it was far from safe. I don't know what they did to it, but it was overly sweet and sugary, the ice cream smothered in something that was bound to be really bad for the health – some kind of syrupy, caramel concoction. Other guests passed comment on the size and I smiled back with a look of apprehension, wishing I'd never bothered.

Multi-storey car park and apts.

Next to me was an investment banker from California and after a couple of Revolution Porters the last thing I wanted was a big political conversation, not least because I know fuck-all about American politics. Equally, I didn't want to talk business either, but we did both and I was quietly glad that I was finished eating and simply awaiting the return of my credit card.

I ambled back along North Michigan Avenue amidst the crowds of shoppers and tourists, clutching my copy of The Man Who Cycled the World, which, for some reason, attracted the attention of the Americans, some of whom passed comment. "Did he do it?" And I'd reply, "Yes, he did it and then he cycled the Americas." The book became a kind of icebreaker as, earlier, the investment banker had asked me about it too. So if you own a copy of this book and don't want to be bothered by strangers, leave it at home.

Revolution Porter

When I reached my hotel room I hit the sack. I have, in fact, just woken up at 0400hrs UK time and whatever it might be here in Chicago (2200hrs). I was woken up by the female voice on my lap top exclaiming, "It's four hours." I thought I was dreaming or that the clock radio on the bedside cabinet had come on or there was an intruder in the room who liked to remind people of the time. It was a good excuse to get up and clean my teeth and check out my schedule for the day ahead (until I realised that it was only 0400hrs in the UK and that here in the Windy City it was still the night before. So I turned to the computer and here I am. That same female voice has just told me that it's 'five hours' back in the UK, meaning it's 2300hrs here. I think I might hit the sack again, or watch some TV or just lie on the bed and contemplate great things (like what I don't know).

But I haven't mentioned the bike or the Chicago Marathon, both of which need to be discussed. First, the bike. An Electra Townie, which they sell in the UK. It has a front brake and a mechanism whereby you pedal backwards and the bike stops. It works well, This is a comfortable bike, ideal for the city, but I'm not sure how good it would be on the sort of rides (and distances) covered by NoVisibleLycra. Don't get me wrong, if I owned one, I certainly wouldn't be trading it in for something more suitable as it would do the job. Remember that in most cases a bike is a bike is a bike, although I'm sure Mark Beaumont would disagree and I certainly wouldn't fancy cycling the world on an Electra Townie.

Not as good as my wife's chicken stew...

Sunday sees the Bank of America Chicago Marathon and all over the city I've seen people in trainers, especially in the hotel. Going back to my room in the elevator (lift) I got chatting to a guy from Ecuador who was running his first marathon. We were soon joined by another Ecuadorian doing the same thing, but not necessarily for the first time (I didn't ask him).

Wherever I go there are people wearing brightly-coloured trainers who, I'm guessing, are fast asleep at this very moment in preparation for the big day tomorrow. I say 'tomorrow' because it's still yesterday as I write this. It's only tomorrow in the UK.

And now it really is time for me to revisit my bed and get some more sleep, although I doubt I'll get much now that I'm fully awake and in writing mode.

Breakfast in America...

View from my hotel room window...

American breakfasts have always been known for their size, but the great thing about my hotel is that they leave the gluttony up to the individual. In other words, I could have made a pig of myself, but I didn't. Instead, I opted for some fresh slices of melon, a Greek yoghurt with blueberries, tea and fruit juice and some scrambled egg with a few diced and baked potatoes – they're probably called something, but in essence they were diced and baked (or possibly fried) potatoes. It might be hash browns, not sure.

What I hate about some hotels is that everything costs something, although I know that's true of everything. So the waiter puts juice and hot water on the table and says that the juice is so many dollars, the tea costs so much, the serve-yourself buffet is $22.00 and so on. I was waiting for him to say "and the chair, if you want to sit down, is $50, the cutlery, $25 and you have to pay me to serve you," but of course it was never going to be that bad. Perhaps it is in some places.

I've started reading Mark Beaumont's The Man Who Cycled the World and it's an excellent read. So far he's riding through Poland but already he's experienced bike hassles – two punctures and the spokes on his rear wheel snapping, forcing him to find a friendly bike shop to fix it, which he did, and now that the rain has stopped for him – it pissed down as he rode through Germany – the sun is now out, his nose is burnt and he's staying in a strange hotel that seems to be run by the Russian mafia. I'll keep you informed and a book review of sorts will follow just as soon as I finish reading the book. I'll be writing more on David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries too, so watch this space.

Back to my breakfast. Once again I found myself mildly miffed that nobody other than the English seem capable of serving a decent cup of tea. They might turn up with their lacquered box full of packaged teabags – resembling a humidor and offering an unnecessarily large choice of different teas – but they can't serve it properly. Milk has to be requested, I'm given a teabag and some hot water and that's it. This is, of course, coffee land and it's always expected that people drink the stuff. I don't.

Room 811, Warwick Allerton Hotel, Chicago

The breakfast was fine. As an afterthought I had a banana and one of those small boxes of cornflakes in a bowl so large it made the portion size seem small and somehow beached on the plate, like an unwanted, toxic cargo from a sunken ship, washed up on a lonely beach. I sprinkled a sachet of sugar over it and finished it off in between paragraphs of Mark Beaumont's excellent book.

The breakfast cost me $26.74 – including the tip – quite pricey when you think about it, but I'm going to take a stroll around town shortly and hopefully I'll find a little café somewhere downtown that might offer a little more value-for-money, although, knowing me (and knowing most people) the convenience of the hotel breakfast will win through.

In Chicago...

This is the first time I've been to Chicago without being 'in transit' somewhere else. Normally I arrive here at some ungodly hour and then, after eating a meal at Romano's Macaroni Grill, I catch a connecting flight to Cleveland, Pittsburgh or Indianapolis. Today, I went no further than Chicago. In fact there was one time recently – or possibly not that recently – when my flight to London was cancelled due to a faulty aircraft, and I was forced to make an overnight stop in the Windy City. It's documented on the blog. I stayed in a Marriott close to the Cumberland CTA station, so the following morning, prior to flying home later in the day, I took a trip to Clark and Lake, wandered around for a bit, had lunch in the Corner Bakery and then took a taxi back to the hotel where I enjoyed a glass of Cabernet before taking a shuttle bus back to the airport and then onwards to London. I remember feeling that Chicago was a boring place, but this was because it was a Sunday morning, I found myself in some kind of business district where everything was closed and that was the end of it.

Soup IN a roll! I ate the lot.

On Friday I took flight BA297 out of Heathrow's Terminal Five at 1605hrs and got there with enough time to have lunch at the airport – at a place called Huxley's. I had breakfast there once and it was pretty good. I remember because I uploaded a software update to my iphone and it took ages to sort out. Anyway, Huxley's wasn't as good as I expected it to be; I ordered butternut squash soup followed by a chicken burger with chips and a couple of glasses of Merlot – much needed. The soup didn't come in a dish but in a hollowed out bread roll with a lid, like some kind of pastry pot. I wasn't sure of the protocol but I ate the pot. And then, feeling a little down (alcohol can do that, it accentuates how you're feeling and I wasn't feeling good), I wandered aimlessly for a while wondering why women like shopping so much as I passed by Louis Vuitton and saw a few of them admiring the handbags. I considered a cup of tea and a cake at EAT, but couldn't be bothered and eventually took the escalator down to where the driver-less trains take people to various gates. In my case Gate B47.

The flight was uneventful. I swapped seats with somebody's 'mom' so they could sit together. I still had an aisle seat, which was what I wanted, but I would have much preferred seat 37A, an exit seat with plenty of legroom. The annoying thing was that I could have taken it when the seats became available on line 24 hours prior to flying – but at a cost of £58! Even the woman on the BA desk at Heathrow said they should have been free. Had I been sitting in that seat I would have enjoyed the flight much more. As it was, I stood most of the way. Once I'd eaten my dinner – chicken curry with rice followed by a chocolate mousse and a small piece of cheese with two crackers – I walked to the back of the plane and basically stood around for most of the flight. I chatted to a computer consultant from Cleveland who plays the stockmarket and buys property. A nice guy, Lebanese, on his way back from a trip to Beirut via London, without his wife who, for some reason, didn't fancy the trip. Apparently there used to be a direct flight from Cleveland to London operated by Continental, but not anymore. I wish I'd known that, although, if I had I would never have known how wonderful it was to sit and enjoy Pollo Caprese and a glass of Cabernet in Romano's Macaroni Grill (opposite Gate H3).

View from the rear of the plane – an arduous, boring flight

Sometimes, to ease the boredom, I used the toilet, but only to stand there for a few seconds of solitude, not even to take a piss. Then I flushed the toilet, purely for effect, and re-emerged feeling just as weary and cheesed off as before I went in. With about one hour to go, the trolley dollies brought out a chicken sandwich and a mini Kit Kat, so I returned to my seat where I'd spent no more than two hours during the entire flight. I'd listened to Saint Caen's Symphony Number Three (fourth movement) plus Stylo by Gorillaz, Park Life by Blur, Boy in the Bubble by Paul Simon, Jive Talking by the Bee Gees (I like the bass line) and The Wizard by Black Sabbath, not forgetting Joy Division's She's Lost Control and Love Will Tear Us Apart. I couldn't be bothered to watch any movies.

The flight was smooth – no turbulence – and daylight all the way. We glided into O'Hare and even the usually arduous task of immigration was smooth and fast, thanks to machines rather than humans. My suitcase was there on the reclaim – now that's an anxious part of flying – and soon I found myself in a taxi heading downtown to my hotel on North Michigan Avenue. My cab driver was from Namibia – where he says there are lots of Germans – and used to work for the cosmetics company Avon here in the Windy City, but was made redundant and took up cabbing. He moved to Chicago because he knew people in the city and hadn't been impressed with LA or New York. He found the latter dirty and wasn't keen on LA's downtown. It wasn't a long journey and soon I found myself in my room preparing to get some sleep. I haven't slept well (who does after a transaltantic flight?) and I know that over the next day or two I'll feel tired and weary at odd hours of the day until my body clock kicks in to US time. And then, of course, it'll be time to go home.

Even the view out of the window was boring

I've slept for about four hours. It's now 0608hrs and I've been up for around an hour.

The hotel room is fine: the TV works, the room temperature is just right, there's a minibar full of 'stuff' and a 'snacks draw', not that I'll be indulging in any of it. The room is sort of L-shaped. You come through the door and turn first right for the bathroom and second right for the bed. The desk, however, is too close to the cabinet that houses the minibar and 'snacks draw' and it took me an age to get the laptop's cumbersome charger plugged in – the desk is too heavy to move and so is the cabinet. Other than that, no hassles. I've entered the breakfast time zone so I think I'll head on downstairs to check things out. I could do with a decent cup of tea and some cereal.

The perfect day

Chalk and cheese is the only way to compare Saturday and Sunday. Take a look at the previous post and you'll be able to read about the fog. It was thick. Very thick. Not just patches, it was everywhere. From the moment I set foot outside the door. There was also a calmness about yesterday. As I rode along Ellenbridge Road, en route to the top of Church Way, there was no wind. Everything was still and all that could be heard was the birds. The crows. Or rather one crow sitting on a branch in one of the trees. And let's not forget the mist that hung in the trees. There was no let up.

This morning – Sunday morning – there was a vast improvement in the weather. The skies were blue, the sun was out and it remained that way all day. I nearly didn't make it. I'd woken up at 3am and can't remember when I eventually got back to sleep. Unknown to me, however, I'd turned down the volume on the radio alarm clock so when it went off at 6am I slept on, waking suddenly at 0657 – three minutes to seven. In a blind panic I pulled on the nearest pair of trousers I could find, grabbed a teeshirt, socks and trainers and went downstairs to check if Phil was waiting on the doorstep – he wasn't.

I put the kettle on, resigning myself to missing my usual leisurely mug of tea and a slice of toast. Soon enough Phil arrived. I made the 'give me five minutes' sign and got on with making the tea and then I was outside, opening the garage door and unpadlocking the bike. We rode to the green to meet Andy and then headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop. Yes, I know, it's getting boring. If it's not the bus stop it's the churchyard or the village. We've become very unadventurous, but for some reason it suits us fine.

Today was, however, the perfect day. For a start, Phil had made his legendary sausage sandwiches. He'd bought some extra water and some more teabags so we could all enjoy a second mug of tea, and Andy had bought the Belvitas. But it wasn't just the food that made things perfect. Yes, the weather was good, but it was more than that; the conversation, the chat, the camaraderie, it was all spot on this morning. We mentioned the England rugby team's disappointing performance – the first time in the history of the Rugby World Cup that the host has gone out during the qualifying rounds. Stuart Lancaster is considering his position, although the governing body has said 'no knee-jerk reactions'.

Then we discussed rugby and footy. If I had to make a choice it would be football. Surprisingly Andy opted for rugby. We all agreed that cricket was good as it was a sport that simply went on and on and on and in between the runs you could enjoy a picnic, a few beers, anything you wanted. I mentioned an old mate of mine whose father was a novelist who lived in Spain. Once or twice a year the dad came over to the UK to watch the cricket and would take his son along. They used to spend the entire day drinking beer.

We moved on to discuss the lack of 'rogues' and cheeky chappies in sport. No more John McEnroe or Nastase, no more Jimmy Connors, no more Boris Becker (he's looking a bit rough these days, Phil remarked) no more Botham or Tufnell and no more fat blokes like Mike Gatting. For some reason Paddy Ashdown was brought up and then the conversation turned to people who had made capital out of being 'bad boys' – meaning their bad behaviour hadn't done them any harm. 'Paddy Pantsdown', Bill Clinton and his Monika Lewinsky episode sprang to mind.

I brought up my encounter with Mr Ashdown on a train coming back from Salisbury, mildly intoxicated, with my pal Louie. It's been mentioned before on this blog so I summarised. We – Louie and I – had been drinking Wadworth's 6X having presented a pub with an espresso machine. As our train pulled into the station I spotted Paddy. We joined him and started discussing time travel and how it must be possible to travel back in time if you started in the eastern hemisphere and flew in a supersonic jet of some kind. How many times would we be able to celebrate the new year before running out of time? We contemplated various scenarios, unaware that Mr Ashdown had been listening to every word we were saying. We figured we'd end up in the middle of the Pacific somewhere and then Paddy interrupted us, giving us his interpretation of the scenario we had been describing. It was one of those classic moments, which I'm sure Mr Ashdown has forgotten. Click here for Mr Ashdown's first mention on this blog.

The reason we'd been talking about time travel was because Phil wanted answers. Something about clocks and planes and a discrepancy in time. We couldn't help, but the sausage sarnies, the tea, the biscuits, the chat and the weather made it a great morning at the old bus stop. We revisited the idea of (somehow) getting a decent-sized table to the bus stop so we could enjoy a plated meal one morning, accompanied by a glass of wine or two or Buck's Fizz – something resembling a Jack Vettriano painting. It would only be possible if one of our other halves drove to the bus stop in a hired van and deposited the table and the food, but somehow we didn't see it happening any day soon.

Andy parted company halfway along the 269 and Phil and I continued on the road towards Warlingham and beyond. It had not only been a great ride, but also a great conversation and brilliant weather – nobody had any complaints, put it that way.

Thick fog at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

Thick fog at Warlingham Green

One of my greatest fears when I wake up in the morning and make my way wearily downstairs to open up the house is finding a wild animal in the living room. I'm not talking about bison or buffalo, python or pig, but I am referring to a squirrel or a fox that might have unwittingly fallen through the chimney stack. I think the worst find would be a squirrel because of the havoc it might wreak once I've opened the door and it's scampered off to wake up the rest of the family.

Oddly, the fear only arises when I reach the downstairs hallway and discover that the door to the living room has been locked. I worry that on opening it I'll be confronted by an affronted, bushy-tailed rodent who then charges off and ruins my weekend – I'd certainly have to send Andy an 'abort' text and then set about the task of apprehending Squirrel Nutkin and ejecting him from the premises.

Fortunately, when I opened the living room door this morning there was nothng to be concerned about, although I do once recall finding a pigeon staring at me in a rather peeved manner and that wasn't too pleasant, I can tell you. I mean, it ruined everything. What was going to be a leisurely start to the day – some Shredded Wheat, a slice of toast, a cup of tea – had been replaced by manic panic while I desperately wondered how the hell the situation could be rectified.

It's October now and when I wake up at 0600hrs it is dark outside. Winter approaches, but so far the weather has been wonderful. All of last week was brilliant sunshine and, apart from a few 'chilly starts' – they really weren't that bad – you could say we've been experiencing an Indian summer. Throughout the working week I've been walking long distances at lunch time through wetlands surrounding Redhill in Surrey and I've trekked from there to Merstham a couple of times too. All-in-all, as Jon Pertwee used to say, "A perfectly excellent chicken korma."

My highlight of the week
A highlight of my week was on Thursday morning when I innocently boarded the 0827hrs train from Purley to Redhill and found myself face-to-face with none other than Michael Portillo, the former Tory Minister of Defence and now a media star in his own right. Portillo – a surname perilously close to Portaloo – is more well known these days for his programme Great British Railway Journeys. And that was why I found him on my train, complete with camera crew. He was on his way to Merstham where, he told me, Alfred Nobel tested his first ever stick of dynamite.

Michael Portillo

With brilliant weather all week, there was always the chance that the weekend would be appalling, but the television forecasters predicted that the good weather would continue over Saturday and Sunday (possibly getting a little cloudy on Sunday) but then the bad weather would kick in next week. All week there had been talk of early morning fog and today there was plenty of it. In fact I've never known it to be so thick and so widespread. On the ride along the Limpsfield Road towards Warlingham Green it was so dense that I couldn't see the Green until I was virtually on it.

As we rode towards Botley Hill there was no let-up. The fog stayed with us all the way to the bus stop where we had agreed to stop, drink our tea and relax with a BelVita biscuit. Well, alright, we had four each as there was no Phil this morning – he'd aborted, but promised sausage sandwiches for Sunday. The fog remained thick throughout our chill-out time at the bus stop. Passing cars simply disappeared within nanoseconds of passing us and we both knew that the ride home would be more precarious than the outward journey, mainly because of thick fog and increased traffic flow.

Steel, Syria, Religion and nationalism
Our conversation was multi-faceted covering the closure of SSI UK's steel plant in Redcar and the reasons behind the company's decision to shut up shop (cheap Chinese steel imports, punitive UK business rates – higher than in France and Germany – and, of course, equally punitive green taxes). We moved on to discuss the crisis is Syria and how the West should be supporting the Russian initiative (to eradicate ISIS but leave Assad in power) rather than adhere to ideologically-based thinking designed solely to create divisions and fuel unrest both regionally in the Middle East and on the international stage. That said, how can Assad remain in power when he is effectively the cause of the problem and the mass migration experienced in Europe these past few months. One could argue, however, that the West has caused all the problems and then effectively done nothing about it. We invaded Iraq (illegally and after Blair had weaved a pack of lies about 'weapons of mass destruction'. We had a big hand in the downfall of Gaddafi and we've been supplying arms to various rebel groups in Syria to fight Assad.

Thick fog at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

The conversation weaved its way around to religion and nationalism and how both are the root of all evil in the world.

Soon it was time to head home and we thought it best, once on the 269, to use the off-road track. This is a risky tactic because of the hawthorn bushes that line the path. We were both chancing it. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if we get a puncture," I said to Andy as we reached the roundabout near Warlingham Sainsbury's.

We rode to the Green where we resolved to meet again tomorrow morning at 0730, hopefully with Phil and his amazing sausage sandwiches.

Sausage sandwiches at the Tatsfield Churchyard...

Last Sunday Phil and I rode to Warlingham Green to meet Andy and then onwards to the Tatsfield Bus Stop for the usual round of tea and biscuits. I think both Andy and I half expected Phil to reveal his revered sausage sandwiches, but he didn't. Instead, he waited until yesterday (Saturday 26th September) when we reached the churchyard. We stood there enjoying what amounted to a kind of alfresco 'full English' – tea, sausage and bacon sandwiches and a few BelVitas for good measure.

Phil, Matt and Andy last week at the Tatsfield Bus Stop

Avid readers of this blog will know that at any particular time my bike has something wrong with it: either the gears or the brakes are playing up OR there's a puncture. Well, in many ways, all three boxes can be ticked. I've only recently fixed a long-term slow puncture, the front brakes are highly ineffective (new pads are needed) and for the last week or two I've been permanently stuck in the lower eight of my 16 gears, having previously been stuck in the higher eight. Right now I'm back in the higher eight after we examined – and attempted to fix my gears – at the churchyard. The problem, it seemed, was the cable, which was a little on the slack side, nothing an alun key can't fix!

The weather was perfect yesterday – clear skies and sunshine – and, as I look out of the conservatory window now at 0636hrs on Sunday morning the skies are a light grey colour, but there's plenty of brightness too and wispy grey clouds.

While both Andy and Phil have resorted to gloves, I'm still riding without them despite the 'chilly starts' mentioned fairly regularly by the weather forecasters. As I mentioned to Phil and Andy yesterday, I'll probably keep the gloves off for some weeks until, suddenly, it's colder out there than I think it is and spend an entire ride quietly freezing. After that day, whenever it comes, the gloves will be back on until the start of next summer.

Yesterday's ride was pleasant. After the sausage sandwiches there were BelVita biscuits and it goes without saying that I bought the tea (I always do).

The conversation was one of our staples – the relative merits or otherwise of high-specification bikes over more conventional models. I mentioned my view that the less complicated a bike is, the better. When I was a kid my bike had block brakes and a single gear. Nothing ever went wrong with it apart from the occasional need to replace the brake blocks or fix a puncture. If there was a major hill I remember riding up as far as I could and then getting off the bike and walking the rest.

Andy countered my argument with the story of his pal Richard who bought a low-spec bike and spent the next few months in and out of the bike shop having been recommended higher-spec brakes and gears. He eventually bought a better bike. 

Phil is considering getting rid of the Kona Smoke (it's too small for him – remember, Phil is tall, very tall). He asked me if I wanted it and while my desire to have a 'normal' bike would be achieved by taking him up on the offer, I'm kind of attached to the old Scrap (for better or worse). Incidentally, in May next year, the 'old' Scrap will be just that – 10 years old.

With a bike loan scheme operated by his company, Phil is likely to buy a new bike towards the end of the year and hand the Smoke to his girlfriend who might then join us on a ride, replicating, perhaps, that moment on Long Way Down when Charley Boorman appears visibly irritated by Ewan McGregor's decision to bring his wife along on what was essentially a lads' adventure. Not that we would be even slightly annoyed. I've always welcomed people to ride with us, but so far nobody has taken me up on the offer. My mate in the office, Martin, has a bike stored at the top of his garden. I said to him last week, "get it out and meet me outside my house at 7am." But I doubt he'll ever do it. Likewise my pal Geoff. Still, it doesn't really matter.

On the ride back it was good to be back in the higher eight gears. We stopped halfway along the 269 to bid farewell to Andy. Phil said he wouldn't be going on Sunday so it's just Andy and I. In fact, I'd better get going as it is Sunday morning and I need to make the tea.

Sunday's ride
I'd endured a restless and somewhat sleepless night, but felt fit enough to rise at 0600hrs and start writing this post. By around 0700hrs I was out of the house and riding towards Warlingham Green. Outside it was bright and wonderful, but a little chilly so I wore the gloves for the first time since the beginning of summer. Not that I really needed to, the weather was great and improved by the minute.

Yours truly at Tatsfield Village, Sunday 27th September 2015

At the time of writing this post (Sunday, 1302hrs) the sun is shining brightly and I should be out in the garden doing something rather than sitting here, alone in the house, writing this blog. But, there you have it, while there's no time like the present, as they say, I simply lack the motivation to do anything that might improve the well-being of the household.

It was just Andy and I this morning and we decided to ride to Tatsfield Village and sit in the sunshine at the covered bus stop opposite the pub, which was in the shade and, therefore, colder than where were sitting. We drank tea, we ate BelVita biscuits and then we rode home, parting halfway along the 269 and both vowing to be on the green at 0730hrs next week.

I rode leisurely along the the Limpsfield Road towards Sanderstead and home and then padlocked the bike until next weekend, although I've seriously considered riding to work next week – apparently the good weather is set to continue. Let's see if I get out of bed feeling motivated.

In Hartlepool...

I tell you what I love about being 'up north': people talk to each other. I remember once being on a branch line out of Leeds, on a train, when – and I kid you not – I noticed that the entire carriage in which I was seated was filled with the noise of conversation. In London nobody talks. I wonder how far north one has to travel before encountering friendliness? Where does the misery stop and the laughter start?

Today I boarded a train from Middlesbrough to Hartlepool, having already travelled from London to Darlington and from Darlington to Middlesbrough, and within a few minutes I found myself engrossed in conversation with complete strangers. An elderly woman, a younger woman and two even younger women – it could have been grandmother, daughter and grand daughters – were talking and laughing.

"Did I tell you? E's out on 'is bike and 'e's supposed to call 'is wife 20 minutes bifor 'e geds 'ome."
"Bifor 'e geds 'ome?"
"Bifor 'e geds 'ome, but 'e forgot."
"Oh aye!"
"So 'e geds 'ome and she says 'go out again foot nother hour and then call me 20 minutes before ye ged back."
"And 'e did it?"
"E went out foot hour an' called 'er."
"What's the world coming to?"
"Did yer 'ear that?" said the younger woman, addressing her question to me.
"Sounds a bit mad if you ask me," said I in my London accent.
"Well it's true. I bought 'im a teeshirt for 'is birthday and 'e said 'I can't take that home'."
"Why not?" said I.
"Well 'is wife wouldn't approve."
"Who bought him the tee-shirt?"
"I bought it fer 'im."
"Well, she probably suspects he's having an affair," I suggested.
"Wi' me? E's 60!"
"I takes all sorts," I said and, as the train arrived at Hartlepool, we all disembarked with smiles on our faces and wished each other well.

Harlem? Nope, it's Hartlepool

I was booked in for the night at the Grand Hotel and there's an Indian restaurant in the basement. You can't get much better than that in my books – curry, lager and bed. Hartlepool's alright. It's a bit derelict here and there, and there are plenty of shops with their shutters down, but it's fine and, like most places I visit around the world, I could probably live here. I quite like the North East for reasons I can't fathom, but Newcastle, Middlesbrough, Hartlepool, you name it, I like it. And if you go further north, beyond Morpeth to Alnmouth and Berwick-upon-Tweed, I like it even more. It must be the North Sea and the general bleakness. I'd love to visit the Farne Islands and Holy Island, Bamburgh Castle and Whitby, all places I've never seen.

The Grand Hotel's curry was perfectly acceptable and the breakfast was fairly good too: I had fresh fruit salad, Coco Pops (I only ever eat Coco Pops when I'm in a hotel), a fudge-flavoured yoghurt (not that brilliant) and scrambled egg on toast, although the latter was a bit late as I wasn't asked if I wanted a cooked breakfast until I'd finished my fruit salad and Coco Pops and I had already put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster. When it arrived – with two more slices of toast – I decided just to eat the scrambled egg, but I felt guilty about leaving two slices of bread untouched. How wasteful. So I waited until the waitresses had left the breakfast room before I made my escape.

Normally, hotel restaurants double as the breakfast room, but the very idea of eating breakfast in an Indian restaurant would have been enough to put me off. Fortunately, the hotel thought the same way as the Grand Hotel Hartlepool has a separate breakfast room on the ground floor.

It's a nice hotel and not, as I originally suspected, rough around the edges. It's a grand old place with a wide staircase, creaky floors and plenty of polished wood. On the first floor landing there's a huge stained glass window.

View from room 210, Grand Hotel Hartlepool

My room – room 210 – was large and roomy with high ceilings and two sash windows. There was plenty of space between the bed and the walls. the WiFi worked fine – although it took me a while to work out the password as it was grandh0t3l – the zero could have been a capital O and the last digit (which is a lower case L) could easily have been a figure 1, but I got there in the end.

Everything in the bathroom seemed to work and they get top marks for having a normal sink – two taps and a plug on the end of a chain. Perfect. No faffing around trying to work out where the plug was or how the taps worked. Simplicity at all times.

I'm on a tight schedule. I've got some reading to do and then I'm being picked up by a PR colleague, I've got an interview to conduct and then I catch the train home. I'll probably have to go from Middlesbrough to Darlington and then take a train south to King's Cross. Not a problem as I have a copy of the Guardian to read and it looks as if David Cameron's 'clean' image has been tarnished, thanks to a Lord Ashcroft – or is it Ashford, not sure – who has written a book, called Dave, in which he recounts stories of Cameron's drug taking and general debauchery. Ho! Ho! Ho!

Discovered note from a Calgary potato convention, October 2007

Flicking through an old notebook from 2007, I found this snapshot of my time in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, way back in October 2007.

"There are two kinds of pedestrian: quick ones and dead ones," said the stranger after witnessing my close encounter with a motor vehicle. I laughed, but didn't stop; I crossed the crowded parking lot towards the footbridge over the railway track. The sun was shining and the sky was blue and cloudless but there was a cold bite to the air and a breeze that sent crispy brown autumnal leaves skipping across the highway. As I crossed the bridge I watched my shadow on the road below following close behind as I entered the shade caused by an awning, which hung over the entrance to Marlborough Railway Station. This Calgary, Alberta, suburb consists mainly of parking lots – big ones – which are bordered on three sides by low-lying industrial buildings with little in the way of style or panache. Huge signboards advertised the businesses nearby: dental, radiology, food courts to name but three, and people could be seen crossing the lot either empty-handed on their way, perhaps, to the Chinese supermarket or fully laden with shopping en route to their 4x4, which is a necessity here, not like in the UK where people buy them to show off.

Marlborough Railway Station, Calgary, Canada.

Calgary or, to put it more concisely, the surrounding areas up in the Rockies, is bear country, moose country, mountain lion territory; and let's not forget the snow.

At the bottom of the footbridge I walked towards a crossroads, but decided against crossing without the permission of the lights. Instead, I moved further along the road and crossed at a safer point into yet another parking lot peppered with fairly large 4x4s. The sound of the wind hurrying the leaves along the tarmac was complemented here and there by the deep rumble of a V8 and the sound of an airliner soaring high into the blue sky from Calgary's international airport.

Another road, another parking lot and the next one crammed with new 4x4s that were for sale. I fantasised about riding off in one, travelling north to Edmonton and beyond and then swinging east and across the country towards Newfoundland before turning south and heading, perhaps, for Florida or Texas and then across the border into Mexico, down further through central and South America and then selling the car in Santiago and taking a flight across Antarctica towards Auckland, New Zealand.

But the reality of my situation was much harsher – and far less glamorous. In under one hour I would be assisting my colleagues in registering delegates for the International Potato Processing and Storage Convention at Calgary's Coast Plaza and Convention Centre (October 10-12 2007).

Crossing an empty parking lot I had only moments of freedom left. Ahead of me I could see the swing doors of the hotel and the shuttle bus that had already unloaded a number of paying delegates, some of whom had travelled vast distances to be here today to discuss closed loop blanching and vacuum frying technology.

Whacky dreams, migrants and Belvita biscuits at the Tatsfield Churchyard...

When I awoke this morning it was dark outside and the radio's weather forecaster spoke of a chilly start to the day. But when I checked my iphone around 0609hrs, there were no abort texts and it hadn't rained overnight so I was thankful for small mercies. Soon it will be time to put the gloves back on and Phil will hibernate for the winter – the cardboard box and the straw await him. And for those who are wondering what I'm talking about, it's the old Blue Peter tortoise Freda who used to hibernate and was placed in a cardboard box among a load of straw. On the side of the box somebody, probably John Noakes, had scrawled the tortoise's name in black marker pen: Freda.

It was Saturday morning and, as usual, I was sitting in the conservatory with tea and cereal (Weetabix) but this time the light was on and, it seemed, winter was fast approaching.

Class A Cheddar!
Having snorted a couple of lines of Cheddar last night before hitting the sack I had some amazingly strange and vivid dreams, one involving my brother and I riding on some kind of invisible train that I recall took us past a railway station and then sped up to reach a tremendous speed, although how I knew we were on a train I don't know because I was in mid-air, about thirty feet off the ground and charging through some kind of rural valley at breakneck speed, warning my brother to hold on, like I was. Then I found myself alone walking past deserted blocks of luxury apartments and eventually I was in one of them. It was furnished and I was with two very attractive women, but I felt uneasy about being there, it must have been a show flat, I don't know, but I felt as if I was being watched. At that moment I woke up – and found it was 0200hrs – but when I drifted off again I found myself in my mate Alan's garage, sheltering from the rain with my family. We'd rung the bell and soon he answered and invited us in, but on entering the house there were no lights on and again I felt uneasy and unwanted. I awoke to the dulcet tones of Radio Four's six o'clock news and the migrant crisis and now here I am, about to head off on a ride.

The weather was good. Cloudy and grey but it was going to be a good day, the sun would shine and all would be well with the world. I set off alone to Warlingham Green where Andy and I decided to head for the Tatsfield Churchyard, even though we knew it would mean standing up (it's getting to that time of year when the benches are wet either because of overnight rain or a heavy dew). Sadly, wet benches mean more trips to the Tatsfield Bus Stop – where we can sit down on a dry bench.


It was a pleasant ride along the 269 in what I called typical 'NoVisibleLycra' weather – dull, overcast and autumnal – and I noticed that many cars still had their headlights on, a bad, wintry sign if ever there was one. There was little in the way of traffic on the road, just the odd car travelling slowly in either direction.

When we reached the churchyard things brightened up and, as suspected, the bench was damp. Andy sat on the slabs, which were dry but cold, and even if the old wives' tale of cold slabs causing piles was just that (an old wives' tale), I remained standing.

The migrant crisis
We discussed the migrant crisis. Where to begin? Andy and I are both on the same page with this one. We both believe that whoever these migrants are – note that the BBC refers to them as 'migrants', not 'refugees' – if they really are escaping the war in Syria why haven't they stopped in Turkey? The answer, perhaps a little cynically, is that some of them might be 'chancers' – some newspapers report that only one in four are truly fleeing a war zone. Some are Albanians and there's no war in that country, claims my mum's Daily Mail. In other words, a large majority of those on the move are simply looking for a better life. And who can blame them for trying after the rather idiotic Angular Mescal told the world that Germany's doors were open for migrant business, "Come on down!" And now that they're here – the first batch at any rate – the borders are being hastily closed and the 'migrants' or 'refugees' are being told to go hither and thither in order to break through to Europe proper where there are no borders and they can waltz into the Fatherland or Scandinavia OR join the throngs of people trying to jump on to lorries at Calais in an effort to reach the UK. How long, I wonder, before migrants in long boats attempt to cross the English Channel and land on the beaches?

There are, of course, many, many questions. Why aren't the Gulf states accommodating these people? Oooh! We're not allowed to ask pertinent questions! What's Saudi Arabia doing about the situation? What's the United Arab Emirates doing? Qatar? Bahrain? Oman?

Nobody wants to be seen to say the wrong thing – except for the Hungarians – because it's not  politically correct to tell the migrants to sling their hooks. As result everything is at sixes and sevens: one minute we hear that Hungary has closed its borders but Croatia has decided to open its doors – hurrah! Then they're closed again. I could go on, but by now you've probably got the gist of the arguments and the paradoxes – one minute Europe is anti-immigration – certainly in the UK where it was, only recently, a major campaigning issue of the last General Election – and the next there are pictures of Germans clapping the migrants as they arrive in Deutschland.

The problem of immigration
In the UK the problem of immigration has been brought into sharp focus of late and the whole issue is largely split on ideological lines. If you're left wing you're more likely to support more multi-culturalism, more immigration and the diversity it brings. If you're right wing, you're more concerned about reforming the EU to make it more difficult for members of the EU – especially those from poorer countries like Bulgaria and Romania – to just waltz into the country and 'take all our jobs'.

Nigel Farage, leader of the UK Independence Party (UKIP), was the poster boy for anti-immigration feeling in the UK and he often found himself being accused of racism by the left. While support for Farage seemed strong – and forced Cameron to announce that if he won the General Election there would be a referendum on EU membership in 2017, UKIP didn't shine at the election. However, now that Cameron has a majority in the House of Commons and another five years to run, he certainly has time to attempt reform of the EU's open borders policy.

However, now that the migrant crisis is upon us – cue images of 'Johnny Foreigner' stowing away on lorries entering the UK and storming the barricades at Calais – there is a danger that extreme right wing groups will gain popularity and that they will stoke up anti-EU feeling ahead of the 2017 referendum. Many commentators argue that the current crisis could tip the balance and the UK could easily withdraw from Europe. Others argue that Europe is already 'washed up'.

Sorting out the problem at source
In my opinion, there is only one thing to do: sort out Syria from where the problem originates. But the Russians are supporting Assad, so if the West is entertaining the notion of 'regime change' – surely they've learnt their lesson? – they'd better think again as there's no room to blame 'faulty intelligence'.

My view is that they (the West) should engage with the Russians and the Iranians and work out some kind of plan that's going to keep everybody happy, including the migrants, who can then go back to Syria and get on with their lives. But where is Assad in all of this? He's been barrel-bombing his own people so the migrants won't be too keen to return home if he's still in power.

In short, it's a nightmare – but it's got to be sorted out sooner or later and hopefully it won't be just the Americans and the British carrying the military can.