A visit to the 'minor injuries unit'...

The original plan was to take today off, laze around, paint a door, go for a drive, the usual stuff I might get up to if I was 100% fit. But I'm not anywhere near it. For those of you who don't know, I came off the bike over the weekend, hit my left knee badly and cut up a few fingers in the process.

Saturday night wasn't too pleasant. I was finding it difficult to put one foot in front of the other, getting up stairs was a case of one at a time and I had to devise a way of getting in and out of bed without hurting myself. Getting into the shower, also a problem, although I'm only ever in pain when I lift my leg too high. By and large, like now, when I'm sitting or lying down, there's nothing in the way of pain. Perhaps a dull ache, but that's all, and each day I seem to be making progress. Each day I can do something I couldn't do the day before. In other words, thank the Lord, it's a minor injury and that, of course, is why I took myself down to the Minor Injuries Clinic. The last time I was at the MIC was back in 2005 when, God knows how (faulty running shoes I'm guessing) I developed a back problem. This was before any regular cycling took place, a good two years prior to that occasion when Andy and I, plus Dave and Geoff, met for a curry in Whyteleafe and Andy and I resolved to ride to Westerham over the weekend. The rest, as they say, is history. In fact, in those days, cycling was a once-in-a-while thing and it involved yours truly riding alone to Botley Hill, no further, on my Marin Bear Valley SE, a great bike, never EVER had a puncture and I'd riden it all over the place (London-Brighton, London-Oxford, London-Cambridge).

The Minor Injuries Unit, Purley, Surrey...

I detected the aforementioned back problem back in 2005 in the middle of the year. It got worse and worse until, eventually, I was X-rayed at the MIC (it was called Purley Hospital in those days) and my spine was keeling over to one side. I went to see an osteopath, she prodded around and then I went as far as cancelling a planned trip to Portland, Oregon (had I known how good it was out there I would never have cancelled it). As for the back problem, I awoke one morning and it had completely disappeared gone and has never come back. Very odd.

Anyway, I'm digressing. I drove down to the MIC, sat around for 20 minutes or so reading an old edition of Hello! magazine – about Peter Andre and his new wife, about Ron Wood and his new wife or girlfriend and then I whizzed through an edition of Country Life and checked out the big-money gaffs with their private beaches and swimming pools.

There was only a handful of people waiting to see the doc and soon my name was called. An Indian doctor sat at his computer screen and I launched into my diatribe about falling off the bike on Saturday and my knee swelling up to the size of a Navelina orange and so on and so forth. I rolled up my left trouser leg, revealing my swollen knee, he prodded about a bit and then told me to take a few Ibuprofen (to reduce the swelling). I knew that he was going to prescribe pills. That's what doctors do, so I'll probably leave it for a day or two and then pop a Nurofen before bed. He reckons a few days will see me alright.

I'm still limping a bit, but, as I said, it's getting better by the day because I've been resting it, taking life easy and so on; it's the best policy and I don't really do enough looking after myself. I'm going to start now, though. Not that this minor scrape has in any way changed my perspective on life, it's just that I do rush around, I do stay up too late, I am tired all the time as a result and it's got to stop.

With nothing better to do, I completed the Waitrose Weekend magazine crossword, found the correct food-related word and sent off my application for the £100 prize. I never win and don't expect to this week.

Here's a joke for you, courtesy of Weekend magazine: What's a monkey's favourite pudding? Answer: Meringueatan. Geddit? Meringueatan? Sounds like Orangutan? No?

Thoughts on yesterday's unfortunate series of events...

My left knee has swollen and it's one of those situations where I have to take stairs one at a time. Sleeping, oddly enough, is fine, once I manage to get into bed (what an ordeal that was last night). I went to bed early, around 21.30 hours, having spent the evening lying on the sofa. I felt odd, feverish almost, but certainly 'hot', although I don't think I was running a temperature. The news came on as usual this morning, but I wasn't getting up to go riding, I simply remained where I was, on my back, my left knee stiff and my fingers stiff too, and bandaged.

It took a while to figure out how to get out of bed without hurting myself, but once I was standing up I realised that I could put my full weight on the damaged knee and I was a little more mobile than I was yesterday. But not by much. The knee is still swollen and I somehow doubt if I could ride a bike today.

The old Kona Scrap (above).

The whole thing annoys me somewhat and I mustn't forget my role in the whole thing, taking the corner unnecessarily fast in wet conditions.

There's nothing worse than being incapacitated. I'm sitting here now with bandaged fingers and a swollen knee and even typing is harder than usual. And it goes without saying that, while I'm okay (at least I think I am, I'm seeing the doc Monday) I've started to re-appraise things. Perhaps it all happened because I was tired, perhaps I should go to bed earlier than I do and then I wouldn't be so whacked out all the time and if I'm not tired I might have been thinking clearer when I approached the Tatsfield village bus stop. Who knows? But I believe I'm invincable, I believe in my own immortality, it's pathetic really.

I'd come back home late on Friday night from Sheffield and then I stayed up watching Graham Norton and it's never as good as I think it's going to be, so why not just go to bed earlier? I used to go to bed at 9.30pm, but these days it's nearer to 11.30pm and sometimes even midnight and all I'm doing is sitting around doing nothing of any great importance, just putting off the moment when I hit the sack, as if I'll miss something.

I feel quite ashamed of myself for one reason or another; covered in bandages, limping, unshaven, unable to do things because of my general state of health. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm not ill, just nursing some minor injuries, but I'm totally incapable as a result and I hate it.

I'm hoping that when I see the doctor tomorrow that he (or she) says I'm fine and should simply rest up, leave the knee well alone, lay off the riding for a week or two and things will improve. I don't want X-rays and all that probing about bollocks. I feel fine.

And here's a ridculous thought for you, while I was on the ground, in pain, dealing with the shock of the whole thing and unable to move, I found myself thinking, "Andy, take the shot, get the shot," but never managed to vocalise the thought.

It's almost 1pm and lunch beckons. I'm sitting in the conservatory chilling out. I should do this even when I'm not incapacitated and that, of course, is the problem. I don't know how to relax.

The Old Ship at Tatsfield

To Tatsfield Village – where I take a bad tumble...

Despite the fact that it's now October, the weather still held out. There were clear skies and, as Andy pointed out as we rode along the 269, it wasn't cold.

We were heading for the Tatsfield Village – to seek cover if needed against the rain – but there was no sign of it. Overnight it had been raining and the roads were wet, but it was a pleasant morning and all was fine until we reached the village.

Our bikes just outside Tatsfield village last week...

It all went wrong when I decided to pull my usual stunt and take a wide angled turn towards the bus stop. No cars were coming, all was clear, I made the turn left and then wump! I was down (and almost out). There's nothing worse that coming off a bike. It hits you suddenly and then there you are, on the tarmac and in my case not in a good way. I heard Andy ask if I was alright and eventually I said yes I was, but the truth of the matter was that I'd cut my hands and left wrist, did some major damage to my left knee, which is very stiff as I write this and I found that the shock of the whole thing meant I simply sat in the road trying to get my act together.

People came to my aid, which was good. Andy picked up the bike and my phone and I just sat there on the road trying to pluck up the courage to move. Once the initial shock waned, I did get up and thanks to the chef of a restaurant in Tatsfield called The Bakery who came out and helped me to my feet, I began to feel a little better – but just a little bit. I hobbled, with the chef's assistance, towards the open door of the restaurant, my right hand cut in two places, my left wrist grazed and my left knee in a bit of a state. I rinsed my hands under a tap in the the restaurant's bathroom and then took a seat in the main restaurant. The chef brought me a black coffee and I remained sitting there for some time, trying to get back into some kind of zone.

The chef brought out a first aid kit and bandaged up the hand wounds and I decided not to look at my left knee until I reached home. There were two customers in the restaurant drinking coffee and looking forward to some breakfast and we briefly chatted.

"You come far?"
"South Croydon, about a 15-mile round trip," I said.

Everyone was really kind. After my coffee I bid them all farewell and thanked them for their help and went to join Andy who was outside with the bikes. I limped over to the bus stop and we had our tea and BelVita biscuits, but I was still in a state of shock when a white cab (a white 'black cab') turned up complete with white ribbons on the front; it was to be part of a wedding that was due to take place today in, of all places, Walthamstow.

I wasn't looking forward to the ride home, but I knew there were no train stations in the area and even if there had been I didn't have money or cards with me. There was only one option: ride home. Once I got started it wasn't too bad. I could still pedal like normal so I'm hoping there's not lasting damage to the left knee. I made slow progress along Approach Road where Andy told me earlier that Beaver Water World was being evicted from it's Tatsfield location. Sad news, but I was pre-occupied with my general state of health to worry too much about Beaver Water World.

We turned right on to Clarks Lane and continued towards Botley Hill and later, when we reached the off-road bit, I decided it would be safer than remaining on the roads like I normally do. Progress was slow, but not as slow as I thought it would be, but I wasn't in a good way and I couldn't wait to reach home.

No caption needed...

We went back on the road at Warlingham Sainsbury's and rode to the green where we parted company with a view to riding again tomorrow, although I'm not so sure.

After getting over the shock with a mug of tea I eventually took a shower and felt a little better. I've been bending my knee a little bit in the hope that it'll be less stiff, but it doesn't feel at all good. I don't think I've broken it; the fact that I can still ride the bike is something and I'm not in pain unless I move the leg in certain ways.

I made myself something to eat – I'm the only one here – and then watched an uplifting programme on iPlayer about the band Oasis, followed by a bit of Mock the Week, which is losing it a bit if the truth be known. And now, of course, I'm writing this blogpost, sitting in an armchair, the television off and the house silent bar the sound of my fingers tapping the keyboard of my lap top.

I've started to worry about the bike and whether it's right for me, or whether I should have bought another mountain bike.

More importantly, I need to be much more careful.

In Scunthorpe... it's a bit like In Bruges, but not as good...

I wouldn't say Virgin Trains were tasty...

You know what? Jeremy Corbyn is right and I reckon he's there for the man in the street. Alright, if you're Richard fucking Branson, pretending to be the friendly face of capitalism, Corbyn's not for you; for heaven's sake, if Corbyn has his way, the trains will be nationalised and why not? The other day when everybody was having a go at Jezza for his ride on one of Branson's Virgin Trains, I for one, stood up for the Jezzmeister. Why? Because I've experienced exactly what he experienced on Virgin Trains. In fact, it's happened many times. Once I remember taking a Virgin train to Liverpool. It cost me over £200 (and this was a long time ago) and I had to stand all the way.

Today, similar, but let's talk first about the fare. Can you believe that it costs something like £150 to go to Doncaster? It does. I was issued a ticket by a dopey cow on my local station – a Super Off Peak Return – and, later, when I was standing in the aisle of a stationary Virgin train carriage on King's Cross station looking, like Jezza must have, at all the little white tickets sticking out of the seats before me, I knew that I'd be 'doing a Jezza' and sitting on the floor somewhere. Already people were settling in for a long journey on the floor, put it that way.

My ticket cost £90, but it was while aboard the 1535 Glasgow train that I heard the conductor say that Super Off Peak Return tickets were not being accepted – until AFTER 7pm. I couldn't wait that long so I jumped off, at the very last minute, having discovered that it was going to cost me an additional £60. I had to check out whether this was true or not and I was not surprised to discover that it was true. The other day I flew easyJet to Vienna (and back) for £179 and I'm being expected to pay £150 to go to Doncaster. It's beardy's fault. He's so greedy he has to fleece the public. My view: nationalise the railways.

It all got a bit depressing on the Doncaster to Scunthorpe train...

I jumped off through the guard's door, which had yet to be closed. All the other doors had shut automatically and while the guard said I couldn't get off, I did. I then stood around on the concourse for a while and considered my options. Yes, I could sit around in assorted coffee shops for the rest of the day, awaiting the 1903 train that would eventually take me to sunny Doncaster (and then a local train to Scunthorpe) or I could just jump on the 1608 Leeds train, pay the extra money (which was looking inevitable) and get to my destination at a civilised hour. This I did and then I was pleasantly surprised to note that nobody checked my ticket. Yes, they said it would cost me more money over the intercom, but nobody bothered checking so I hopped off at Doncaster having paid an off-peak fare for what I'm guessing was an on-peak journey. Since when has the peak fare period started at 3pm? It's beardy again being greedy.

Not that I was bothered, I'd managed not to give him any extra cash, but then I found myself on Doncaster station faced with a criminal's dilemma. If I boarded (as I was intending to do) the 1830hrs train to Scunthorpe, perhaps the guard would notice that it was not yet 1900hrs and I was travelling with a Super Saver Off Peak Return – don't forget, folks, all I'd asked for when I bought the ticket was a return to Scunthorpe. So I thought I'd play 'the man' at his own game. I'd buy a single to Scunthorpe and not show my ticket from London. No problem. Now all I've got to do is make sure I get on a train to London before 3pm tomorrow afternoon, although I could always hide in the toilet if I see the guard coming my way.

The local train to Scunthorpe weaved its way towards its final destination and I was feeling distinctly depressed. Even up north, I noticed, pubs are being turned into restaurants. My train passed The Shapla, an Indian restaurant in a building that was clearly once a pub close to Thorne South station.

My fellow passengers looked as pissed off as I was, their faces either pensive, apprehensive or fretful. We stopped at Crowle, pronounced 'Croll' and then on toward Althorpe and over the River Trent.

Room 301, Premier Inn, Scunthorpe, UK...

By the time we reached Scunthorpe it was dark. I took a taxi to my hotel and after checking in went straight down for dinner. I found myself in a Beefeater restaurant and, well, it wasn't brilliant. For a start I was alone and bored – not their fault, to be fair – then there was the food, which was the usual pubby grubby affair. I ordered a prawn cocktail, which consisted of about six small prawns on a bed of salad smothered in a Mary Celeste sauce. There was more salad than prawns, but the sauce, oddly enough, made the bland lettuce just about edible. I forced myself to eat the salad out of sheer boredom. Oh, for a newspaper!

For main course, I ordered sea bass, 'gently steamed in a paper pouch' – they couldn't bring themselves to state 'en papillote' –  easily the best dish on the menu, as I felt there was no way it could be mass-produced. I supposed they might have employed cloning, who knows? But it was a fish and I figured it had to be just that, an individual fish. Everything else, almost everything else, might well have been manufactured in Basingstoke and shipped around Beefeater's national estate in frozen food lorries.

A glass of red wine and a bottle of still mineral water...

I ordered a large glass of red wine (Campo Viejo Tempranillo Rioja) and a small bottle of still mineral water and spent the entire meal time messing around with my phone. There was little else to do, other than people watch, but with some of the clientele, including the waitress, sporting tattoos, I thought it best not to stare too much. Perhaps they should ban people with visible tattoos from restaurants, that's what they were discussing on LBC the other day. Stick them outside with the smokers and 'vapers' and those with body piercings. Vaping is even worse than smoking in my opinion, that awful sweet stench exhaled from people's mouths is enough to make any sane person vomit. Mind you, I'm amazed that Branson hasn't cashed in on it.

In the end boredom beat me so I skipped dessert and asked for the bill. That said, why would I even dream of having dessert? Everything seemed incredibly unhealthy: not just a nice apple crumble and custard, which I would have ordered, but a "Salted Toffee Apple Crumble". How awful! Or a warm chocolate brownie or a baked cheesecake or a Banoffee Pie, a Mississippi Mud Pie, a Trio of Sponges (not just one, but a trio), Black Forest Gateau and, one nod towards healthy eating, a fruit salad with lemon curd sorbet. And let's not forget the range of heart-stopping sundaes. 'Nil by mouth' I thought as I waltzed back to my room. Alright, I skulked back.

View from Room 301, Premier Inn Scunthorpe.

Now I'm in my rather dreary hotel room, with its purple curtains, its 'tea and coffee-making facilities' – but no biscuits – and it's unruly coathangers, not forgetting the black Samsung television, the cheesy hotel art and the extra pillow stuffed at the top of the 'wardrobe' without doors. I almost forgot the bible 'placed by the Gideons' no doubt. I would love to enter a hotel room and catch a Gideon in the act of placing a bible in the bedside cabinet. Equally, it might be a worthy excuse for a criminal if caught in the act of trying to steal valuables from hotel guests.

"Oi! Who are you?"
"Me? Why, I'm a Gideon and I've just placed a bible in your bedside cabinet."
"Yeah, right! I'm calling the police."
"God bless you, son."

At least there's WiFi, but I can't be bothered with it, I'm THAT bored!

I'm looking forward to breakfast, though, as I know that this particular hotel chain excels with the most important meal of the day. I think the best Premier Inns are the ones not attached to a Whitbread pub brand. I prefer an integral restaurant, which, like most hotels, doubles as the breakfast room in the morning. Tomorrow morning, however, I'll have to nip outside, cross the road and make my way around to the Beefeater before I'll see any Coco Pops or buttered toast.

It goes without saying that there's no minibar here – perhaps they don't trust their guests – and, worse still, I can't really go for a walk as there's nowhere to go. The hotel is part of a complex of garages, fast food joints, a Morrisons supermarket and residential housing. Yes, housing, it's like being in the middle of a northern housing estate. No quaint little squares, no shop windows, nothing of merit, and the last thing I want is to be accosted by a tattooed, hooded 'youth' with a knife asking me for money, which I don't have. It happens, believe me.

So it's a night in front of the box, perhaps a bit of reading and then a bit of shut-eye. I'm reading Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, a great book, it has to be said.

The rain stops and we hit the road...

Radio Four sprung to life at 0600hrs as usual and I listened the news headlines before getting up and peering out of the window. It was raining heavily outside. Stair rods hitting the puddle on next door's flat-roofed extension. Surely, an abort, so I texted Andy to this effect and then went about my business of making breakfast. Something said the rain might stop and when Andy replied saying that his weather app was claiming it would stop by 0700hrs, I was prepared to say, yes, okay, if it's all quiet on the rain front, we'll go for a ride. It was quiet and we did go for a ride. There was no rain and things had brightened up considerably.

Our bikes just outside of Tatsfield Village. Pic: Andy Smith.

We met on the green as always and decided that the best bet would be Tatsfield Village, bearing in mind the old Tatsfield Bus Stop was still taped off and out of bounds.

When we got there the tea and biscuits came out and Andy told me about a photographer who had sold a shot of a potato for one million dollars. A shot of a potato. This sort of thing annoys me – and I know it annoys Andy too. We start to think of the people in this world starving or living on the breadline and we think, What fucking arsehole is stupid enough to spend a million dollars on a photograph of a fucking potato?

"We're heading for a revolution," I said, looking over at the pub, The Old Ship.
"We've already had one," said Andy, referring to the recent EU referendum.
"That sign over the pub door doesn't really do anything for the pub, does it," said I. "And nor does all that writing on the windows," I added, having noticed writing advertising a "BBQ" and a live band. Why write all over the windows, it lowers the tone, I thought, remarking how, if The Old Ship closed what would happen to the Tatsfield community.
"Pubs aren't the heart of the community anymore," said Andy, and I had to agree with him. These days people are insular, preferring to 'stay indoors' watching Sky Movies and drinking supermarket beer.
"Technology is isolationist," I said.
"It is," Andy replied.
"Everything's designed to keep us indoors," I added, making reference to Skype. "Instead of a meeting in New York, we just go on Skype and stay in," I added. Andy nodded.
"I just want to know how one gets into a position to sell a photograph of a potato for a million dollars," Andy said, mildly peeved at the whole situation.
"I'm not sure," I said, checking Google on my phone and finding the story, about a man called Kevin Abosch, a photographer. The potato, incidentally, was Irish and organic and you can read all about it, by clicking here.
"It's probably a case of who you know," I said, "but I understand what you mean: how the hell does he get himself in a position where he can sell a photograph of a knarled old spud for a million dollars?"

We both wondered how. Andy filled me in a little on the story. The guy specialises in portrait photographs with black backgrounds. He was,  according to The Independent a 'celebrated photographer'. Celebrated for what? For somehow selling a photograph of a potato to some gullible idiot for a million dollars? It made me wonder whether the photograph he sold was a one-off, or whether he'd given the guy a JPEG. If the photograph was digital, that would mean it wouldn't be original or rare and that Abosch could sell exactly the same image to somebody else, making it far from being exclusive and valuable. He could print off loads of them and sell them to Ikea and we could all buy one for £20. That would put the buyer's nose out of joint and reduce his million dollar investment (if that's what it was) to dust. Did he check this, I wonder? I wouldn't pay a million dollars for a photograph unless I was the only one in the world with the image, the print. Fucking hell, I'd want the camera that took the photograph. Imagine how you would feel if you forked out a million dollars on a potato photograph only to find an identical image on the wall in your local McDonald's a few months later. You must have more money than sense if you're prepared to spend a million quid on anything, unless it's a decent house or life-saving medical treatment for somebody.

I know we live in a free country and that America is the land of the free and all that, but surely there ought to be some kind of law against people squandering so much money when other people are in dire straights.

We enjoyed our two cups of tea and Belvita biscuits and then we rode home. The rain held off and never really returned apart from a few brief showers later in the day. The ride home was very pleasant. As usual there were a few Lycra Monkeys around, but when we hit the 269 we put our bikes into top gear and roared towards Warlingham Green where we parted, promising to meet again next weekend for some more cycling.

I reached home around 1000hrs.

To Woodmansterne Green and then round to mum's...

Saturday 24 September: There was a light, blue-grey sky and a few wispy clouds and everything looked like a water colour painting when I drew back the curtains and peered outside. Somebody had left the plastic bin from the council on the lawn in the back garden. It was stuffed with cut-down shrubbery. What caught my attention was the huge, white figure 5 that I had painted on the side of the bin. It stared back at me and I felt quite proud of my handiwork.

I dressed in the usual garb and headed downstairs to prepare my breakfast of fresh fruit – blueberries, black grapes, raspberries, strawberries and sliced banana plus tea and two Weetabix with cold milk – and then set off on the ride.

Andy wasn't riding today and nor was Phil, he was preparing for winter hibernation and it will soon be time for the cardboard box, so I was heading to Woodmansterne Green for a meeting with Bon and then on to mum's for tea and biscuits.

Following the off-road trail home...

The weather was wonderful. It was dry and warm and bright. Perfect cycling weather, I thought, as I rode along Foxley Lane in Purley heading west. I half expected to see Bon, but we didn't meet until I reached Woodmansterne Green. 

Woodmansterne Green is a great place. It's peppered with big trees, there's the occasional wooden bench and it's a very pleasant place to wander around. Bon turned up seconds after I arrived, on his Cannondale mountain bike, and we walked around, chatting about old times. He remembered the time when we, that is Bon, Andy and yours truly, met at here at the green in the pouring rain and were forced to take cover under the church gateway. I mentioned how the occasion was well-documented on this here blog (click here to reminisce).

And here's a post in which you will find shots of Bon and Andy soaked through prior to taking cover under the aforementioned covered gateway. Click here. What you will find hard to believe is that it was SEVEN years ago – almost to the day.

Mind you, it is quite incredible how summery the weather was back in November 2009. Here's a few shots of Woodmansterne Green taken the weekend after our soaking. Click here.

It was nice being on Woodmansterne Green and I began to regret not bringing tea with me, but then mum's beckoned. It's a short ride to Carshalton along rural (ish) roads into Carshalton Beeches and then across the Carshalton Road towards mum's. We did this and regretted not taking the off-road path, which I later took on the return ride.

Mum was in fine fettle and made us tea and biscuits. We sat in the 'through lounge' as we used to call it, talking about old childhood memories. The 'through lounge' used to be two separate rooms and was knocked through in the seventies, when people did that sort of thing. I remembered when the space we were occupying was the back room. Where John was sitting there used to be a television set and I recalled a moment, long, long ago, when, aged six or seven, or not much older, we used to sit on the floor with a Bakewell tart, watching Doctor Who, in the days when William Hartnell was 'the doctor'. Back in those days there was no patio window, just French windows (or French doors) and I remember the 'radiogram', a Ferranti, that was a record player and radio in one polished wood unit. Dad had a number of Beatles singles (on the Parlaphone label) and we remarked how they would be worth good money if we still had them.

And then there was the gas fire. Make that 'the gas fires' as we had two of them, one in the back room and one in the front. The back room fire was a strange, petrol-coloured affair, brand name Cannon, and mum reminded us how we used to make toast on it. She hated that because of the crumbs we left behind. And then I remembered how we used to make chips in an old asbestos garage using a pair of pliers, a jam jar lid and a candle, not forgetting some cooking oil and a chopped and peeled potato. That in turn reminded me of the old wheelbarrow and how, when it had been raining, we used to pretend it was a swimming pool for our toy soldiers. The slant of the wheelbarrow gave it a deep end and shallow end, which we loved. Bon remembered how, one year, when, for some reason or other, we didn't go on holiday to the south coast, we once used a puddle behind the old garage and a broom to simulate the waves and the sea. How sad was that! But, as far as I can remember, we always went on holiday, so we weren't always using brooms and puddles to keep our dreams alive. In fact, it might have been that we had been on holiday and were just reminiscing, thanks to the puddle and the broom, I can't remember.

Further along the off-road trail...

Mum's house is full of good memories of days when it was always the summer and the sun was always shining. Days when the summer holidays seemed endless, the back garden was always bathed in hazy sunshine and populated by white butterflies, not forgetting the odd bee or wasp to make us run back to the house, and there was nothing to fret about. We didn't have a care in the world.

Soon it was time to leave and Bon and I would be parting company at the end of the road, he turning left and me right. I rode into Carshalton Beeches and back past the smallholdings and along an off-road section we hadn't used on in the inward journey, eventually turning left on to the Croydon Road and rolling into Purley, past Cycle Republic and home. Bon rode into Sutton towards Epsom, where he lives.

I reached home around 10am and later drove to Forest Row, which is near East Grinstead, where I found the Forest Row Festival in full swing. I nipped into In-Gear, the local bike shop, and purchased some oil for my chain and then enjoyed a millionaire's shortbread and a cappuccino in Java & Jazz before driving home along the A22, which is peppered with speed cameras, so I was constantly slowing down to keep within the speed limit – very annoying. Came home, watched Strictly Come Dancing – well, I had to see Ed Balls strutting his stuff – and then I hit the sack, after a bit of messing around on the lap top and reading the newspapers. All told, a great day.

Back to Tatsfield Village, but no sign of any rain...

I overslept and I know why. Well, there were two reasons: one, a kind of broken sleep. Things that go bump in the night and all that jazz led to me wandering around the house in the dead of night securing doors and checking things out. The second reason? Well, it's to do with the clock radio alarm that sits on my bedside table. It's good, don't get me wrong, nothing wrong with the technology, although, I don't know about you, I find clock radios baffling. There are times when, for whatever reason, I can't turn the damn thing off or when it suddenly springs to life for no reason. But not this time. It was my fault. On Saturday morning when the alarm went off and Radio 4's The Today Programme arrived in the bedroom, I turned down the sound after listening to the news headlines. I did this for one reason: I knew that the radio would mysteriously switch itself back on again and I didn't want to disturb those still asleep. The problem was that I didn't turn the sound back up on Saturday night when I hit the sack. Result? I almost woke up too late.

I awoke to find it was 0645hrs and that I only had 15 minutes to make the tea, drink a cup myself and chill before the ride. So I sent Andy a text along the lines that I'd be leaving the house around 0715hrs, giving myself time for a much-needed cup of tea and the aforementioned chill.

By 0715hrs I was ready to head out. The weather was roughly the same as yesterday. It had rained overnight – there was a puddle on next door's conservatory roof – but outside it was dry and overcast. We met on the green and decided to head for Tatsfield Village again. That way, if it did rain we'd have some cover.

It was warmer than yesterday, but there was a mist lurking in the trees as we made our way along the 269 towards Botley Hill and the left turn on to Clarks Lane.

When we reached our destination we chatted mainly about conspiracy theories, although we touched upon Gear Acquisition Syndrome again, see previous post, but also click here. Did I really need a new bike? Well, yes I did, so GAS didn't really count, I said. I rarely fall foul of GAS, it must be said. I'm not a consumer, not one of those people who buy things for the sake of it. You won't catch me with a new Apple iphone 7, not for at least five years.

As for consipracy theories, I was fired up by the BBC not coming out and stating, in a news article, that the recent Minnesota shopping mall stabbings were an Islamist terror attack. In one sentence they said that the motive was unclear, but that the man who stabbed people was chanting God is Great and referencing Allah. Definitely not a terrorist attack, then. And we went on from there discussing the way the media is basically a tool of the government designed to generate fear in the populous with a view to controllling everybody and restricting freedoms – and I mentioned Alastair Campbell's appearance on Question Time last week and how he said he really cared about the Labour Party. John McDonnell was there too and he said that Campbell was the reason why people didn't trust politicians (think 'dodgy dossier', think WMD) and that was why Jeremy Corbyn was leading the party.

We finished our biscuits, drank our tea and soon it was time to head home. The weather held out, we didn't get soaked and it was just as well as my rear mudguard failed and had to be taken off, although that happened on the outward ride. I put it into the rucksack and carried on.

Andy's not riding next Saturday, which means I'll be heading to mum's for an urban ride. Hopefully, Bon will be there.

To Tatsfield Village, but not without a soaking...

When I was a kid, probably around 11 or 12 years old, I can't recall exactly, my dad bought me a new bike. I'd never had a bike before and, while I didn't know it at the time, the bike he bought me was pretty progressive. It was called a Moulton Mini, a red one, and the best way to describe it, by comparison with bikes today, would be that it looked a little bit like a Brompton, but it wasn't a foldaway bike. It had small wheels and, well, it was my first ever bike. It was only recently I read that the Moulton Mini was one of those breakthrough bicycles and that there was a guy called Moulton who really pushed the old envelope when it came to design.

A healthy breakfast before the ride...

Going back to my young self, however, all of this would have been lost on me. All I wanted – hell, all I was excited about – was having a new bike. The only trouble was it was December. My birthday is 10 December, always has been, and yes, like all of us, I was born when I was young. It's a lyric, from a band called Spirit.

So I had a new and unconventional-looking bike, but because it was December it was raining outside and I had this brand spanking new bike that I didn't want to get wet or dirty, so I didn't take it out. Not even to the end of the Cul-de-Sac. I was waiting for drier weather. I wanted to keep the tyres like they were in the bike shop. I wanted that bike to look new all the time.

I'd love to know where that bike went. I can't remember giving it up, although I know that when I joined 'big school' I bought a more conventional bike, with ape hanger bars, and then myself and my pal Alan set about transforming it into what everybody at the time called a 'track bike' – the forerunner of today's mountain bikes. Tracking cogs, cow horn bars, an old leather saddle that had seen better days. My bikes went through many different phases. Sometimes I had a fixed wheel, other times not, but one thing was for certain, I enjoyed many a carefree day riding here, there and everywhere.

The difference between then and now is my ability to fix things. Back in the day, I used to take bikes apart and build them up again; but ask me to do it today and I wouldn't know where to start.

The point of all is this is simple: when I have a new bike I don't like getting it dirty. Similarly new shoes, by the way. Anything for that matter. So now I have the Specialized Crosstrail Sport Disc, I don't particularly want it covered in mud – or rain for that matter. Ever since I bought it the sun has shone brightly and the bike has remained nice and clean. Until today.

Virtually identical to my Moulton Mini. Wish I still had it!

I left the house later than usual and rode to the green where Andy was waiting. The skies were grey and it was an overcast day. It looked as if it would rain so we decided to head for Tatsfield Village. We might have chosen the bus stop, but it was still taped up, like a police crime scene, ever since some idiot drove into it a month or two ago, probably longer. This morning, however, we didn't know that it was still taped up, it's just that every time we've passed by recently it has been. And sure enough, as we passed by today it was still taped up.

We'd been riding no more than a few minutes when the rain started. Spitting rain at first, but soon it was heavier and I remarked that it didn't matter because at least it wasn't a cold day. I can't recall the temperature exactly, but it was probably something like 18 or 19 degrees. We kept on riding, doing our best to ignore the weather and soon we found ourselves on the final stretch before reaching the village. We were soaked through, but thanks to that rear mudguard, the one I transferred from the Scrap, I didn't have a wet arse. The rest of me was drenched through.

Tatsfield Village bus stop...

Under the cover of the wooden bus stop we drank tea and ate Belvita biscuits – no sausage sarnies this week as Phil was not on the ride.  We chatted about this and that and then Andy brought up the subject of 'Gear Acquisition Syndrome' – or GAS as it's known. GAS means buying 'stuff' just for the sake of it, but don't take my word for it, read Andy's own blogpost on the subject by clicking here. The rain eased up and stopped and the warm temperature meant we soon dried out. The roads were wet, but there was no more rain and eventually we headed home.

The Botley end of the 269 was blowy and Andy remarked how exposed it was; he was right. There was a strong wind blowing and we didn't really escape it until the road dipped and we descended a little. We parted company at the green and rode our separate ways, Andy to Caterham and yours truly back to Sanderstead. I put the bike in the garage and yes, I'll admit it, I gave it dust-down with a dry cloth.

Here's to a drier day on Sunday.

A Viennese whirl...

Tea and a Bakewell tart, Costa Coffee, South Terminal...

The first problem was getting confirmation. I needed confirmation before I could open up the lap top and book my flight and hotel. A week prior to the trip – and only one day after returning from Vienna – I sat at home and I knew that in seven days I would be back in Austria. Or would I be? Biting the bullet and booking the trip would have been a mistake. What if the meeting was cancelled? So I left it and the lack of any real confirmation continued. As the uncertainty mounted, the flights got more expensive.

I wanted to fly BA, like last time, but as time moved on, the likelihood of those Island Bakery Lemon Melts and a small bottle of red wine – for no extra money – and not forgetting the dulcet tones of the Biggles-like BA pilot, were fading fast. There was, I knew, just one option: easyJet.

I nipped in here to buy a Skipper's Tablecloth

And sure enough, when the meeting was finally fixed and set in stone, the BA flight was far too expensive. so I was left with no other choice than easyJet. Look, I'm not anti-easyJet, it's just that they're not as good as BA. Full stop. But I found myself online, booking my flight and my hotel and quietly regretting the whole thing.

On the train towards Vienna Hbf from Vienna Airport...

It was going to be a rushed trip. Flying out on Sunday evening at 1735hrs, getting into Vienna at 2050 and then jumping on a train to a place called Linz. Last week, somebody in my hotel (the Austria Trend Europa in Vienna) said it was an hour, but the reality was one hour and 52 minutes and that wasn't including the train from the airport to Wien Hbf. But hey, if the flight had been on time, there might not have been a problem. But the flight wasn't on time. It was late. I arrived in Vienna later than scheduled and it had a knock-on effect. I took the train to Wien Hbf, that was fine, but the train to Linz wasn't until 2255hrs. Time for an ice-cold fish burger! I was starving and you might be wondering why. I'll tell you. Once airborne, the easyJet cabin crew calmly announced that they would not be accepting credit or debit cards and were unable to provide receipts. Well, sod that, I thought. I was starving – and while I had a tenner in my wallet, I wanted to use my credit card, because that's what I use when I'm on business and the ten pound note was for my own private use. Furthermore, I didn't want to give those capitalist scum my money, not after being so inconvenienced. So I sat there. I couldn't even stare out of the window because, by the time we'd reached 'our cruising altitude', it was dark. I didn't even read as there was no in-flight magazine for my seat, and even if there had been, I wouldn't have read it. It wouldn't have been anywhere near as good as BA's High Life and yes, I was yearning for John Simpson's monthly column.

Crap wine and the remains of a cold fishburger

When the plane eventually landed, I found a Spar store – another brand, like Lipton's, that you no longer see in the UK (another sign of our decline as a nation) – and bought a cheese and ham sandwich for the train ride to Vienna Hbf, but I was still hungry when I got there, and now I was tired too and the thought of two hours on a train to Linz made me seek solace in a Nordsee fish burger. It looked great in the photograph over the counter so I bought one and a bottle of cheap 'rot' wine (plus a plastic mug). I took the food and drink to a table and it was there, having taken a large bite out of the burger, that I discovered the awful truth: it was stone cold. With an unpleasant expression on my face as if I'd been sucking a Seven Seas Cod Liver Oil lolly, I approached the counter. "This is stone cold, can you heat it up?" The woman looked at me as if I'd stolen her last Rolo. "No, sorry, we don't have any ovens," she said. No ovens? You mean everything is sold stone cold? Well, I didn't ask that question, I simply skulked back to my table and finished the burger, having realised that the Austrians DO eat their fish burgers cold. How do I know? Because as I sat there, pulling a face with every bite, I watched as other people bought the same fish burger, although I did wonder whether they were planning on taking their burgers home to a microwave oven.

And then there was the train journey to Linz. Not one hour, but two, in a train that might well have been in the movie The Great Escape. It was mainly a sleeper train and oh how I would have loved a cabin to myself and a ticket all the way to Bregenz on the border with Switzerland, the train's ultimate destination. But I was alighting at Linz, the first big stop, and sitting in one of the two compartment carriages, like something out of a Harry Potter movie. I shared a compartment with two elderly people, a man and a woman, who got off a couple of stops along the line. Then there was a beefy-looking bloke in a tight tee-shirt, and a fat guy with smelly feet who later stretched out, taken off his shoes and tried to get some shut-eye. He, like me, was travelling to Linz and eventually it was just the two of us in the compartment: him snoring and me sitting there playing with my watch, unable to take in the view outside because it was so dark.

A cold fish burger? No ovens to heat it up? Get out of here!

So let's have a recap. First, no food on the delayed easyJet flight. Then a cold fish burger, courtesy of Nordsee – I won't be going back there in a hurry – and now something else to add to the party. I found my way to the taxi rank, told the driver my destination – the Austria Trend Schillerpark – and what did he say? "That's just five minutes away, you can walk!" So off I went, my suitcase rolling noisily behind me. It was almost 0100hrs when I reached the hotel and the fact that I found the hotel was only thanks to the fat guy from the train who I caught up with while walking. He pointed me in the right direction and soon I was in a lift, heading towards room 306 and a few hours of sleep.

Room 306 of the Austria Trend Schillerpark

The following day I had a hearty breakfast of cereal, a croissant, scrambled egg with two sausages, fresh fruit and a small pot of tea. Later on, after my meeting was over, I made the same journey but in reverse. I took a train from Linz to Vienna Hbf and then a train to the airport where I checked in and then sat in the restaurant next to the gate awaiting my flight. I had around two hours to kill and fortunately time flew by as I'd met Mark – on holiday alone in Vienna – and we passed the time of day (or night in this case) chatting about motorcycles and travelling before it was time for me to stand in the queue, go through security at the gate and then wait to board the plane. It was delayed again, this time for longer than before due to a mechanical issue with the landing gear, and while we were scheduled to depart at 2130hrs, it was nearer 2230hrs when we were finally airborne.

The flight was pleasant enough. The cabin crew accepted credit cards so I enjoyed tea, cookies and some fizzy lemon drink in a can, although somehow I managed to get chocolate over my suit trousers – odd when you consider that the cookies were on the tray and my lap was underneath tray. We landed at Gatwick at past 2300hrs and after queuing for the electronic passport control, my taxi driver failed to show. He eventually arrived having gone to the wrong terminal and soon I was on the last leg of my awful journey. By the time I got to bed it was 0130hrs. Needless to say I went in to work later the following day.

To Westerham...

We were, it has to be said, expecting sausage sandwiches on Sunday morning. Having been let down by Phil's spot of streetside auctioneering on Saturday, we were primed and ready to take on board one of his specials. Sadly, he aborted, leaving Andy and I with our staple diet of Belvita biscuits and tea. Not that it mattered and, besides, they ain't good for you, so in many ways we gained.

Comparing Sunday's weather with Saturday's is like comparing chalk with cheese. Saturday was dark and foreboding, but Sunday was absolutely perfect with clear blue skies and sunshine. We met at the green and roared off in the direction of Westerham, riding 'the fast way' along the 269 and racing each other along stretches of Clarks Lane.

We reached the northern Kent market town around 0810hrs only to discover that overnight rain, which had dried up along the roads, had lingered on our wooden table and chairs opposite the Grasshopper pub. It was standing room only so we strolled over to Churchill's statue to stuff our faces with tea and biscuits.

Just before 0900hrs we pulled out of town and up the hill towards Botley, chatting briefly with another cyclist on a Carrera who said he lives in Warlingham. I'm still annoyed at the fact that people, like this guy, suddenly appear and then, without much in the way of effort, quickly manage to steam off and be not only miles away from us, but completely out of sight. Even with my new Specialised Crosstrail Sport Disc, this guy left us standing, not that we were racing, but he wasn't either. So, somewhere, something ain't right. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm lugging a huge metal flask full of water that's holding me back? Perhaps I don't use the gears properly. Who knows? Who cares?

Talking of the old Crosstrail, it now has a rear mudguard and a front light fitted. On the former, I eventually worked out how to take it off the Scrap. When it comes to 'things mechanical' I'm completely useless. But then again, anything, such as DIY and fixing things in general leaves me dazed and confused. I'd rather get somebody in to do it.

Overall it was a great ride on a great day and we'll be back in the saddle next week for more.