Cycling Weekly found itself in deep water after a picture caption reading 'token attractive woman' appeared in the magazine next to a photograph of a female cyclist.
For more, click here.
We ride our trusty bicycles most weekends. This blog charts our adventures and records our thoughts as we ride through the rural lanes of Surrey and Northern Kent – and there's some world travel thrown in too
Friday, 1 September 2017
Wednesday, 30 August 2017
Lycra looks rubbish on anybody over 8st – my sentiments exactly, Sir Chris!
 |
| Sir Chris Hoy with medals... |
Can't believe that Sir Chris Hoy is being hounded by the political correctness brigade over his remarks about Lycra. The thing is, he's right: that's why this blog is called NoVisibleLycra, it's also why we constantly refer to those who don the Lycra and go out cycling as 'Lycra Monkeys'. Put it this way, you wouldn't catch me wearing it. Body shaming? My arse!
But what irks me most is that Hoy felt he had to apologise for his remarks.
Click here for the full story.
Tuesday, 29 August 2017
Back problem means little cycling
Wednesday 30th August: Back in 2005 I had a back problem. I'm not one for back problems but I had one and it lasted for months, getting steadily worse as it progressed. By the end of it I had keeled over to my right and had difficulty walking, but the main problem was a lack of sleep. I had to take Nurofen to sleep and spent an inordinate amount of time sleeping in the spare room. After visiting an osteopath, having an X-ray and taking Nurofen, not forgetting cancelling a trip to Portland, Oregon, much to the dismay of my employer at that time, I woke up one morning and it had gone. I no longer had a back problem and for 12 years it didn't return, until now. It's back, but it's not as severe as before. I can sleep at night, put it that way, I can walk around, I can ride a bike, but the big issue is sitting down. If I sit down for any length of time I stiffen up and it takes me a while to walk properly. But listen, it's not that bad. In fact, as I write this, it's improved a lot. Somebody once said that the best way to treat a back problem is to pretend you don't have a problem. That's kind of what I've been doing, but I thought it best to give the cycling a miss over the bank holiday weekend.
I rode over to mum's on Saturday following the usual route via Wallington and Carshalton Park and the off-road route on the return journey, but that was it on the cycling front.
The original plan on Saturday was to see Jon at Woodmansterne Green, but that never happened so I rode to mum's for tea and cake instead, but later than usual. I left the house at gone 0800hrs and didn't get home until 1030hrs.
The weather over the weekend was amazing although right now, at 0723hrs on Wednesday morning, 30th August, it's dull and cloudy and rain is threatened throughout the day.
I won't be riding for a couple of weeks.
 |
| Off-road route coming back from mum's |
I rode over to mum's on Saturday following the usual route via Wallington and Carshalton Park and the off-road route on the return journey, but that was it on the cycling front.
The original plan on Saturday was to see Jon at Woodmansterne Green, but that never happened so I rode to mum's for tea and cake instead, but later than usual. I left the house at gone 0800hrs and didn't get home until 1030hrs.
The weather over the weekend was amazing although right now, at 0723hrs on Wednesday morning, 30th August, it's dull and cloudy and rain is threatened throughout the day.
I won't be riding for a couple of weeks.
Tuesday, 22 August 2017
To the Tatsfield Bus Stop – the slow way
Sunday 20th August: A reasonable day greeted me when I woke up and headed downstairs for a spot of breakfast before heading out on the bike. It was Sunday morning. I hadn't gone out on Saturday. Met Andy at the Green as usual and we decided to head for the bus stop. The original plan was Westerham because Phil had indicated that he'd be coming and bringing sausage sandwiches, but it was not to be: he aborted due to a late night.
"Don't forget the biscuits! Phil's aborted" was the gist of a text I sent to Andy. It also meant that I wouldn't need to bring extra water as Phil had instructed.
An uneventful ride to and from the bus stop. When we got there we discussed this very blog and whether it should be discontinued. This came about because we were at the bus stop again, there's little one can write about it that hasn't been written before, we've photographed it many times and, well, what's the point? The question – of not writing anymore blogposts – was never answered and while there are a few people who don't like this blog (ignoring the fact that it's not written for them) I have no intention of stopping it. What would I do when I'm sitting in my hotel room abroad, bored?
We rode back, as always, the fast way, and parted company at the green. No Andy next week so I'll probably ride over to Woodmansterne to see Jon or go over to mum's for some cake. Until then...
"Don't forget the biscuits! Phil's aborted" was the gist of a text I sent to Andy. It also meant that I wouldn't need to bring extra water as Phil had instructed.
 |
| Library shot of bus stop |
An uneventful ride to and from the bus stop. When we got there we discussed this very blog and whether it should be discontinued. This came about because we were at the bus stop again, there's little one can write about it that hasn't been written before, we've photographed it many times and, well, what's the point? The question – of not writing anymore blogposts – was never answered and while there are a few people who don't like this blog (ignoring the fact that it's not written for them) I have no intention of stopping it. What would I do when I'm sitting in my hotel room abroad, bored?
We rode back, as always, the fast way, and parted company at the green. No Andy next week so I'll probably ride over to Woodmansterne to see Jon or go over to mum's for some cake. Until then...
Sunday, 13 August 2017
To Warlingham Green and then Woodmansterne Green...
I aborted on Saturday as I felt a little weary, but on Sunday, after a good night's sleep (that camomile tea must have done the trick) I was up with the lark and ready to rock. Tea made I headed outside, jumped on the bike and rode to Warlingham Green where Andy would be waiting for me, but when I reached my destination there was no sign of him. Not a problem, it was only just gone 0730hrs so I parked the bike and took a photograph of it, expecting Andy to arrive any second, just like he normally does, unless, of course, he's aborted, but ... I checked my phone. He had aborted, late last night, but for some reason I hadn't looked at my phone. Normally, it's the first thing I check, but not today.
Still, I was up and I was out of the house so I had to go somewhere and there was plenty of choice: Westerham, the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the Tatsfield Village, Godstone Green, Redhill, the list was endless. The world was my oyster. I could call Bon and meet him on Woodmansterne Green. Remember that I had a huge flask of hot water, a mug and four teabags in my rucksack – no such thing as 'precious grams' in NoVisibleLycra World – and that couldn't go to waste. I called Bon and he said he'd see me there in 30 minutes. Well, let's say 45 minutes.
I rode past Warlingham School, down Tithepit Shaw Lane and into Whyteleafe then hung a right on to the A23 and headed towards Purley Cross, into Foxley Lane and straight ahead, turning left at the lavender fields on the outskirts of Carshalton and soon found myself approaching Woodmansterne Green. Bon had cycled down to meet me and we rode a few yards together back to the carved out old tree where we set up camp. I'd texted Bon and told him to bring a cup with him, but his idea of a cup was the top from a small flask, which was no bigger than a thimble, so in the end he did without. I was beginning to realise how Andy and I had become a team in the foodservice department: I provided the tea and Andy the BelVita biscuits – and the spoon, both of which were now noticeable by their absence.
"Normally the tea bag bobs around on the surface and it's easy to fish out," I said, feeling the full force of the spoon's absence.
"Sod's law," said Bon, as we both waited in vain for the teabag in my blue mug to surface. It remained on the bottom.
"Might as well just leave it in there," I said and started drinking.
We chatted about this and that, – and for much longer than normal – so I didn't reach home until around 1030hrs.
The weather was fantastic and it got better as the day progressed. There was sunshine, there were blue skies and I sat in the garden reading from a collection of short true stories in a compilation called The Moth. The trouble with sitting in the garden is that things get a little fretful. It's impossible to truly relax because there are jobs that need doing – weeding mainly – but it niggles and makes me restless. I made an egg and mayonnaise sandwich and a cup of tea and tried to chill out and then I drove over to mum's for tea and cake in a garden that needs very little doing to it (mum is and always has been, a keen gardener and she puts me to shame).
It's still hot now, at 1813hrs, and I might sit outside again and this time try not to be so fretful about the jobs that need doing. Earlier I thought about weeding a bed, but there's no point unless there's something to put in place of the weeds. If there's nothing then the weeds will simply grow back in a week or two (the futility of gardening, no less!) Still, mustn't grumble, the sun's out, the skies are blue, all is well and I managed to get a lengthy ride in – probably around 17 miles.
Next weekend it might well be Woodmansterne Green again as it's a great place in good weather and it's ideal for just chilling out, watching the odd passing jogger or old bloke going to buy a paper. There's the occasional caggle of Lycra Monkeys passing by and there's nothing better than sitting on the aforementioned carved-out tree sipping tea. Mind you with Andy not there until next Sunday I'll have to remember the spoon and some biscuits. Can't go cycling without biscuits.
Still, I was up and I was out of the house so I had to go somewhere and there was plenty of choice: Westerham, the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the Tatsfield Village, Godstone Green, Redhill, the list was endless. The world was my oyster. I could call Bon and meet him on Woodmansterne Green. Remember that I had a huge flask of hot water, a mug and four teabags in my rucksack – no such thing as 'precious grams' in NoVisibleLycra World – and that couldn't go to waste. I called Bon and he said he'd see me there in 30 minutes. Well, let's say 45 minutes.
 |
| Bike on Warlingham Green around 0730hrs this morning... |
"Normally the tea bag bobs around on the surface and it's easy to fish out," I said, feeling the full force of the spoon's absence.
"Sod's law," said Bon, as we both waited in vain for the teabag in my blue mug to surface. It remained on the bottom.
"Might as well just leave it in there," I said and started drinking.
We chatted about this and that, – and for much longer than normal – so I didn't reach home until around 1030hrs.
The weather was fantastic and it got better as the day progressed. There was sunshine, there were blue skies and I sat in the garden reading from a collection of short true stories in a compilation called The Moth. The trouble with sitting in the garden is that things get a little fretful. It's impossible to truly relax because there are jobs that need doing – weeding mainly – but it niggles and makes me restless. I made an egg and mayonnaise sandwich and a cup of tea and tried to chill out and then I drove over to mum's for tea and cake in a garden that needs very little doing to it (mum is and always has been, a keen gardener and she puts me to shame).
 |
| Bon and yours truly, Woodmansterne Green... |
It's still hot now, at 1813hrs, and I might sit outside again and this time try not to be so fretful about the jobs that need doing. Earlier I thought about weeding a bed, but there's no point unless there's something to put in place of the weeds. If there's nothing then the weeds will simply grow back in a week or two (the futility of gardening, no less!) Still, mustn't grumble, the sun's out, the skies are blue, all is well and I managed to get a lengthy ride in – probably around 17 miles.
Next weekend it might well be Woodmansterne Green again as it's a great place in good weather and it's ideal for just chilling out, watching the odd passing jogger or old bloke going to buy a paper. There's the occasional caggle of Lycra Monkeys passing by and there's nothing better than sitting on the aforementioned carved-out tree sipping tea. Mind you with Andy not there until next Sunday I'll have to remember the spoon and some biscuits. Can't go cycling without biscuits.
Thursday, 10 August 2017
The Cyclist Who Went Out in the Cold by Tim Moore...
For a long time there has been one cycling travel book that has, in my opinion, ruled the roost. That book is Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike, the story of the author's anti-clockwise ride around the coast of the UK. It was wonderful, truly wonderful, and I still pick up it now and read large chunks of it if I want to cheer myself up. Yes, it was (it is!) that good. So good that I've been unable to find anything that comes close to beating it. Until now.
The other day, wandering aimlessly around Waterstone's in Croydon and gravitating as always towards the travel literature section, I spied The Cyclist Who Went Out in the Cold – adventures along the iron curtain, by Tim Moore.
The premise is simple: Moore rides EV13, the Iron Curtain Trail, riding close to the border between East and West from the northern tip of Norway, hugging the Baltic coast and then riding through Finland, Germany, the Czech Republic, Austria, Slovenia, Hungary, Slovakia, Croatia, Serbia, Romania, Greece and, ultimately, Bulgaria and the Black Sea coastal town of Tsarevo. Kirkenes to Tsarevo on a 'shopping bike', a MIFA 900, made in East Germany, 20in wheels and, by all accounts, not the sort of bike on which to make such a journey. But Tim does make it – of course he does – but it's clearly a hard, hard slog, fuelled by energy drinks and whatever food and drink is available, including kebabs and Eurocrem Blok.
Moore stays in hotels, but nothing fancy, he doesn't camp, he simply gets on with his job – yes, his job – which is cycling, eating, sleeping (repeat and fade) until he reaches his destination. While bears are a potential initial worry in Finland, crazy dogs, bad drivers and extreme weather conditions become his chief enemies; and while he arms himself with pepper spray, he never has to use it.
There's more to this book than simply cycling from A to B: it's a challenge, an adventure, but it's not a race, and Moore's reflexions on the Cold War give the book depth, making it much more than just another account of a bloke attempting something silly. Did you know, for example, that prior to the Berlin Wall coming down in 1989, one in six people in the German Democratic Republic was a Stasi informer?
Moore has form. Riding a shopping bike over 9,000km and braving everything the weather can throw at him is a piece of cake for a man who has walked across Spain with a donkey, cycled the entire route of the Tour de France and jumped on to a wooden-wheeled old bicycle to ride the route of the notorious 1914 Giro d'Italia.
In fact, as I read Moore's book he was doing something with a vintage car in America and tweeting about it – expect another travel book with a difference soon.
I like Moore. He's certainly a comedy character. I've never met the man, more's the pity, but there's something about him, something about his writing style – he's a very good writer – and the way he writes makes me laugh – which is priceless.
During his mammoth ride Moore is constantly coming up against relics from the Cold War in the shape of watchtowers, Trabants and dreary old tenement blocks. At one point he admits that the spectre of nuclear war constantly loomed throughout his formative years in the 1980s, but nothing a can or two of Kestrel couldn't put right. I was in my early-to-mid twenties during the 80s and while there were constant references to nuclear war between East and West (Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Sting sang of it) and the politics of the period confirmed that it was certainly a reality (Reagan and his Star Wars missile defence system springs to mind) but there was always hope in the shape of Gorbachev.
I don't remember feeling the threat of nuclear war hanging over my head – I was far too optimistic for that – and my drink of choice wasn't Kestrel (perish the thought!) but Young's Ordinary Bitter in the pubs of South London. Perhaps that's why I felt so optimistic.
Like all good writers, Moore takes his readers with him on the ride and like Moore I wasn't happy as the adventure neared it's end. I like his honesty in this respect. "I went through the last rites with a light head and a strangely heavy heart," he writes, likening his situation to an old lag given parole in The Shawshank Redemption. "My sentence was almost served," he says, unsure how to deal with the eventuality, "though ideally not by hanging myself from a doorframe."
I placed the book on my bookshelf with a heavy heart and started to wonder about what to read next.
Postscript: Something else I must mention is that throughout the book there's no pretence from the publisher, nothing that left me wondering whether Moore was pulling the wool over my eyes. There's nothing on the cover to suggest that Moore was, say, on holiday in Norway and thought, bugger it, I'll ride that shopping bike I found all the way to Bulgaria. In Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike – as good as it is – the implication on the back cover is that Mike was cycling to work one day and thought, sod it, I'll ride my bike around the coastline of the UK, sod working for a living. No, he didn't just ride off into the sunset. He planned it, sorted out a regular stream of articles for the Guardian before he left, rented out his flat and so on. I'm not blaming Carter for the pretence, his publishers were to blame, but there was no such pretence from Moore's publishers, which makes the whole thing that little bit better. Well done, Comrade Timoteya.
Not related to Moore's or Carter's book, but click here anyway.
One Man and His Bike by Carter, click here and here.
And for Further Reading, click here.
The Travel Rider – In Conversation with Tim Moore, click here.
The other day, wandering aimlessly around Waterstone's in Croydon and gravitating as always towards the travel literature section, I spied The Cyclist Who Went Out in the Cold – adventures along the iron curtain, by Tim Moore.
Moore stays in hotels, but nothing fancy, he doesn't camp, he simply gets on with his job – yes, his job – which is cycling, eating, sleeping (repeat and fade) until he reaches his destination. While bears are a potential initial worry in Finland, crazy dogs, bad drivers and extreme weather conditions become his chief enemies; and while he arms himself with pepper spray, he never has to use it.
There's more to this book than simply cycling from A to B: it's a challenge, an adventure, but it's not a race, and Moore's reflexions on the Cold War give the book depth, making it much more than just another account of a bloke attempting something silly. Did you know, for example, that prior to the Berlin Wall coming down in 1989, one in six people in the German Democratic Republic was a Stasi informer?
 |
| Moore and the MIFA 900 by a stretch of the Berlin Wall... |
In fact, as I read Moore's book he was doing something with a vintage car in America and tweeting about it – expect another travel book with a difference soon.
During his mammoth ride Moore is constantly coming up against relics from the Cold War in the shape of watchtowers, Trabants and dreary old tenement blocks. At one point he admits that the spectre of nuclear war constantly loomed throughout his formative years in the 1980s, but nothing a can or two of Kestrel couldn't put right. I was in my early-to-mid twenties during the 80s and while there were constant references to nuclear war between East and West (Frankie Goes to Hollywood and Sting sang of it) and the politics of the period confirmed that it was certainly a reality (Reagan and his Star Wars missile defence system springs to mind) but there was always hope in the shape of Gorbachev.
I don't remember feeling the threat of nuclear war hanging over my head – I was far too optimistic for that – and my drink of choice wasn't Kestrel (perish the thought!) but Young's Ordinary Bitter in the pubs of South London. Perhaps that's why I felt so optimistic.
Like all good writers, Moore takes his readers with him on the ride and like Moore I wasn't happy as the adventure neared it's end. I like his honesty in this respect. "I went through the last rites with a light head and a strangely heavy heart," he writes, likening his situation to an old lag given parole in The Shawshank Redemption. "My sentence was almost served," he says, unsure how to deal with the eventuality, "though ideally not by hanging myself from a doorframe."
 |
| Journey's end: Moore reaches the Black Sea town of Tsarevo in Bulgaria |
Postscript: Something else I must mention is that throughout the book there's no pretence from the publisher, nothing that left me wondering whether Moore was pulling the wool over my eyes. There's nothing on the cover to suggest that Moore was, say, on holiday in Norway and thought, bugger it, I'll ride that shopping bike I found all the way to Bulgaria. In Mike Carter's One Man and His Bike – as good as it is – the implication on the back cover is that Mike was cycling to work one day and thought, sod it, I'll ride my bike around the coastline of the UK, sod working for a living. No, he didn't just ride off into the sunset. He planned it, sorted out a regular stream of articles for the Guardian before he left, rented out his flat and so on. I'm not blaming Carter for the pretence, his publishers were to blame, but there was no such pretence from Moore's publishers, which makes the whole thing that little bit better. Well done, Comrade Timoteya.
Not related to Moore's or Carter's book, but click here anyway.
One Man and His Bike by Carter, click here and here.
And for Further Reading, click here.
The Travel Rider – In Conversation with Tim Moore, click here.
Sunday, 6 August 2017
To the Tatsfield Bus Stop... the slow way
On Friday, having taken a proper roasting in the sun down on the south coast, I paid for it when I reached home. I reckon a mild (ish) case of sun stroke if I'm honest. I looked a right state, put it that way: as red as a fucking berry, hair all over the place and a vein running from my temple to the top of my forehead in full bloom. What a mess! The vein's still there but the red face has mellowed a bit and I feel a little better, but it was enough to stop me riding on Saturday morning.
Andy did a good 20 miles on his own and said he was riding all over the place. As he tried to explain his route to me this morning on the green, I realised it was all too complicated for my sunburnt head and I just accepted that he'd been around and enjoyed his ride. As for me I lolled around most of Saturday doing virtually nothing and then walked into town to get a haircut before walking back and spending the day lolling around. Drove over to mum's for tea and fruit cake and then tried to calm myself down. I've been a bit stressed for various reasons of late and the end result was no cycling on Saturday morning.
Sunday was different. We met on the green and headed for the Tatsfield Bus Stop, the slow way, which gave us chance to chat about this and that, but shortly after we'd made the turn at the Chelsham Sainsbury's roundabout there was (or rather could have been) an altercation. A bloke in a Mercedes estate car passed us far too close, prompting Andy to yell an expletive and raise his fist. The man in the Merc decided to stop and for a minute I was worried that things might take a turn for the worse. I fully expected both rear doors to swing open and two Brexit wankers to emerge – shaven heads, forearm tattoos and rolled up copies of the Sun – but no, it was just a slanging match between Andy and the long-haired bloke who was driving, while his peroxided Beverley sat there, arms folded, saying nothing. The last thing I wanted at 0800hrs on a Sunday morning was to reach for the wrench in my rucksack or to have to throw scalding hot water from the flask at whoever decided to approach me. Mind you the flask itself would have made a formidable weapon – it's like a Second World War shell – so you could say I was armed to the teeth and ready for action.
Who can be bothered to deal with aggravation? Not me, and I'm sure Andy would have wished it further too, had it occured, so it's just as well nothing happened. I started to wish I still owned that replica Magnum I owned in the eighties, but the closest I get to a Magnum these days is a chocolate ice cream on a stick. Fortunately, all was fine as the bloke drove off in a huff leaving Andy and I to weave our way to Beddlestead Lane and on towards the bus stop where the tea and biscuits were produced and consumed and we sat there flinging teabags on to the grass, as we always do, while talking about bikes and watching the Lycra monkeys pass us by on their way to Westerham.
The ride back was trouble-free (no nutters). We parted company at Warlingham Green and made our separate ways home. Next week we'll be back on the green and ready to ride – and next time I'll remember to take a photograph of the trip.
Andy did a good 20 miles on his own and said he was riding all over the place. As he tried to explain his route to me this morning on the green, I realised it was all too complicated for my sunburnt head and I just accepted that he'd been around and enjoyed his ride. As for me I lolled around most of Saturday doing virtually nothing and then walked into town to get a haircut before walking back and spending the day lolling around. Drove over to mum's for tea and fruit cake and then tried to calm myself down. I've been a bit stressed for various reasons of late and the end result was no cycling on Saturday morning.
Who can be bothered to deal with aggravation? Not me, and I'm sure Andy would have wished it further too, had it occured, so it's just as well nothing happened. I started to wish I still owned that replica Magnum I owned in the eighties, but the closest I get to a Magnum these days is a chocolate ice cream on a stick. Fortunately, all was fine as the bloke drove off in a huff leaving Andy and I to weave our way to Beddlestead Lane and on towards the bus stop where the tea and biscuits were produced and consumed and we sat there flinging teabags on to the grass, as we always do, while talking about bikes and watching the Lycra monkeys pass us by on their way to Westerham.
The ride back was trouble-free (no nutters). We parted company at Warlingham Green and made our separate ways home. Next week we'll be back on the green and ready to ride – and next time I'll remember to take a photograph of the trip.
Sunday, 30 July 2017
To Westerham on Saturday and the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Sunday...
Saturday we got our heads down and rode to Westerham. It was one of those half-and-half days, meaning that the weather was good up until lunch time and then the drizzle arrived. We had a trouble-free ride there and back and parted company on the green with Andy saying he might not go on Sunday. "I'll send you a text," he said as he rode off towards Caterham and I made my way along the Limpsfield Road to Sanderstead.
As the weather forecasters had promised, the drizzle turned up around lunch time and was on and off for the rest of the day, making virtually anything to do with the outside world unpleasant. The only good news was that a wet lawn couldn't be mowed so I relaxed, safe in the knowledge that the mower would remain in the garage.
There was more rain overnight, as evidenced by the puddle on next door's extension, but as there was no sign of raindrops, there was a good chance of a ride. That said, when I made my way downstairs at around 0600hrs it was very dark and foreboding outside and I didn't hold out much hope for a ride without rain. But then, just before 0700hrs it brightened up, the grey skies cleared and the sun came out as I rode up Church Way towards the Limpsfield Road and Warlingham Green.
We decided to head for the Tatsfield Bus Stop and along the way evidence of last night's rain was everywhere. The puddles on either side of the 269 were so large they almost touched one another. Like jagged mirrors they reflected the vertiginous depths of infinity, but on our return ride, no more than 45 minutes later, they were gone as the sun made short work of the drenched tarmac.
At the bus stop we reflected on many things: the price of tea, the rip-off culture of nouvelle cuisine, the nonsense of brand extensions, the pointlessness of expensive cars and the amount of large, overweight men riding bicycles. I wondered whether there might be a Friends of the Tatsfield Bus Stop movement in the village and, if so, whether they were complaining at church hall meetings about the mess left behind by cyclists 'using the facility'. I mentioned this as I stuffed the clear plastic wrapping from my BelVita biscuits in between the wooden struts that made up the bench on which we were sitting and then, after taking a wazz against the rear wall of the wooden shelter, zipped up and headed off in the direction of Botley Hill.
As we rode towards the pub a Lycra Monkey yelled, "On your right!" and then passed us with a cheery 'good morning'. We don't like MAMILS (Middle-Aged Men in Lycra Shorts aka Lycra Monkeys) but we let it pass. We had no alternative: within milliseconds of his passing he was out of sight and, of course, out of mind, checking his Strava and fretting about his pension plan.
We stopped for all of five minutes at Warlingham Green before heading for our respective homes and the looming prospect of a Monday morning heading our way.
As the weather forecasters had promised, the drizzle turned up around lunch time and was on and off for the rest of the day, making virtually anything to do with the outside world unpleasant. The only good news was that a wet lawn couldn't be mowed so I relaxed, safe in the knowledge that the mower would remain in the garage.
 |
| An archive shot of the Tatsfield Bus Stop. |
We decided to head for the Tatsfield Bus Stop and along the way evidence of last night's rain was everywhere. The puddles on either side of the 269 were so large they almost touched one another. Like jagged mirrors they reflected the vertiginous depths of infinity, but on our return ride, no more than 45 minutes later, they were gone as the sun made short work of the drenched tarmac.
At the bus stop we reflected on many things: the price of tea, the rip-off culture of nouvelle cuisine, the nonsense of brand extensions, the pointlessness of expensive cars and the amount of large, overweight men riding bicycles. I wondered whether there might be a Friends of the Tatsfield Bus Stop movement in the village and, if so, whether they were complaining at church hall meetings about the mess left behind by cyclists 'using the facility'. I mentioned this as I stuffed the clear plastic wrapping from my BelVita biscuits in between the wooden struts that made up the bench on which we were sitting and then, after taking a wazz against the rear wall of the wooden shelter, zipped up and headed off in the direction of Botley Hill.
As we rode towards the pub a Lycra Monkey yelled, "On your right!" and then passed us with a cheery 'good morning'. We don't like MAMILS (Middle-Aged Men in Lycra Shorts aka Lycra Monkeys) but we let it pass. We had no alternative: within milliseconds of his passing he was out of sight and, of course, out of mind, checking his Strava and fretting about his pension plan.
We stopped for all of five minutes at Warlingham Green before heading for our respective homes and the looming prospect of a Monday morning heading our way.
Wednesday, 26 July 2017
Not a good state of affairs...
Either the people of this country are thick or the politicians are lying. Well, the truth, I'm afraid, is even worse: the politicians are lying and the people are believing them. It is now well known that politicians lie in pursuit of power. They want your vote, pure and simple, and if they have to lie to get it, they will. And it gets worse than that: they KNOW they're going to lie in the future too, but won't admit to anything in advance, preferring instead to prepare the ground by stealth, throwing journalists curve balls of dishonesty to make them lose the politicians' scent of treachery. Take Liam Fox, a Brexiteer, and somebody I can't say I particularly like; I feel I can't trust him and that's not good considering, by trade, he's a medical doctor. More on Fox later.
One thing's for certain, you can't trust a businessman where money is concerned. Take Andronicos Sideras. He has just been found guilty of mixing horsemeat with beef and selling it on to major food retailers in a scam estimated to be worth millions of pounds. His evil plan only came to light (and this is really horrible) when meat inspectors found the identification chips of three horses in the meat they were inspecting. Why did Sideras engage in such a heinous crime? It's not difficult, is it? He wanted to make a fast buck, pure and simple. Perhaps he wanted to retire early, landscape his back garden, who knows? And quite frankly, who cares? Imagine how annoyed he must be, knowing that his team didn't think to remove those pesky identification chips. He must be fuming. A textbook error.
I'm a remainer. Or rather I was, I'm not anymore and I wouldn't call myself a 'remoaner' either. However, I think it's fairly clear that leaving the EU, on so many levels, is not a smart move for the UK, it's not even going to rid the country of the immigration problem that UKIP and other Brexiteers warned was the chief reason for getting the hell out. We're already hearing that the borders will remain open for at least two years AFTER Brexit and when you consider that the so-called establishment sorely want to remain in the EU you must remember that they have their reasons – reasons steeped in their own greed and reasons that certainly involve the need for 'cheap labour'. Rich people, like Gina Miller, a figure of hatred for so many Brexiteers, represents the monied classes. She went to court to ensure that Parliament (and not the Tories) had the final say on whatever deal the Conservative party finishes up with in their exit negotiations with the EU. She won her case.
'Business leaders' want to remain in the single market and the customs union so they can make loads of money by exploiting cheap foreign labour, and that means keeping the open borders policy that led to the UK coming out of Europe. Newly appointed Lib-Dem leader Vince Cable (possibly the only 'proper politician' in British politics today) is saying that we might never leave the EU. If there's another general election and one party campaigns on a remain ticket we might well find ourselves 'remaining' much to the dismay of blue-rinsed old women with bingo wings and retired, beer-gutted mini-cab drivers living in bungalows in Ramsgate.
Getting back to Fox, he was on the television the other night being interviewed by Newsnight's Emily Maitlis, one of a number of high-profile, talented, female political journalists who, quite rightly, is a little miffed that she and her colleagues are paid far less than their male counterparts (of which, more later). Maitlis wanted assurances from Fox over a future trade deal with the USA as there are real fears that when we leave the EU (if we leave the EU) we might end up with chlorine-washed chicken and hormone-injected beef.
In the USA food standards are far lower than those in the EU and once we leave, supposedly in 2019, we will be desperate for any trade deal we can get. Fox said that a deal with the USA was up for negotiation and that the British Government would engineer a deal that was 'best for Britain'. He slyly admitted, however, that there was nothing wrong with chlorine-washed chicken, paving the way, laying the groundwork, perhaps, for a future lie; he knows darn well that we're going to accept hormone-injected beef and chlorine-washed chicken once we're out of the EU, but he's not quite ready to admit it yet. Soon we'll be subjected to television programmes that might promote the advantages of hormone-injected beef and chlorine-washed chicken and there will undoubtedly be a new push, sooner or later, for GM crops too. Companies like Monsanto are champing at the bit and people like Fox will slyly give them what they want.
And there lies another little problem that we're all too gullible to take in: the process of 'normalisation'. It's happening all around us all of the time. Police are now carrying considerable amounts of water in addition to truncheons and tasers as they're quietly accepting (and expecting us to as well) that the acid attack is now commonplace and something we all must accept. All part of city life, as Siddique Khan, Mayor of London, said recently. They're doing the same thing with terrorism: trying to normalise it so that we all think it's part and parcel of the fabric of society. How? By offering up the 'standard response' (tea light shrines to the fallen, professional mourners, perpetrators "known to the security services", arrests in the suburbs to show that the police are doing their job, terror suspects 'released without charge', producing 'help' videos about what to do in a terror attack.
And what about those hugely inflated and totally undeserved salaries of some BBC television presenters and the lack of parity between male and female employees at the top end of the spectrum? What will be done about it? Will they simply pay the likes of Alex Jones and Claudia Winkleman (already on unnecessarily large salaries) more money to match up with male pay packets, OR will they expect the men to accept drastic pay cuts to bring their salaries in line with the women? Either scenario is unlikely. The most probable outcome will be that we all forget about it and things carry on as normal – until the next scandal.
As for immigration, which, according to the right wing media, is clearly getting out of control in the UK, and a determining factor behind Brexit, nothing much is going to change. As Home Secretary, our current Prime Minister Theresa May's record on immigration was very poor. She's had many years to reduce non-EU immigration, which in my opinion is what Brexiteers are really concerned about, but has failed dismally. To say that 'once we're out of Europe we'll be able to control our borders' is another lie and fails to address the problem of those flooding in from outside of Europe and supposedly changing the cultural and social fabric of the country. It's all a con and we're falling for it.
One thing's for certain, you can't trust a businessman where money is concerned. Take Andronicos Sideras. He has just been found guilty of mixing horsemeat with beef and selling it on to major food retailers in a scam estimated to be worth millions of pounds. His evil plan only came to light (and this is really horrible) when meat inspectors found the identification chips of three horses in the meat they were inspecting. Why did Sideras engage in such a heinous crime? It's not difficult, is it? He wanted to make a fast buck, pure and simple. Perhaps he wanted to retire early, landscape his back garden, who knows? And quite frankly, who cares? Imagine how annoyed he must be, knowing that his team didn't think to remove those pesky identification chips. He must be fuming. A textbook error.
I'm a remainer. Or rather I was, I'm not anymore and I wouldn't call myself a 'remoaner' either. However, I think it's fairly clear that leaving the EU, on so many levels, is not a smart move for the UK, it's not even going to rid the country of the immigration problem that UKIP and other Brexiteers warned was the chief reason for getting the hell out. We're already hearing that the borders will remain open for at least two years AFTER Brexit and when you consider that the so-called establishment sorely want to remain in the EU you must remember that they have their reasons – reasons steeped in their own greed and reasons that certainly involve the need for 'cheap labour'. Rich people, like Gina Miller, a figure of hatred for so many Brexiteers, represents the monied classes. She went to court to ensure that Parliament (and not the Tories) had the final say on whatever deal the Conservative party finishes up with in their exit negotiations with the EU. She won her case.
'Business leaders' want to remain in the single market and the customs union so they can make loads of money by exploiting cheap foreign labour, and that means keeping the open borders policy that led to the UK coming out of Europe. Newly appointed Lib-Dem leader Vince Cable (possibly the only 'proper politician' in British politics today) is saying that we might never leave the EU. If there's another general election and one party campaigns on a remain ticket we might well find ourselves 'remaining' much to the dismay of blue-rinsed old women with bingo wings and retired, beer-gutted mini-cab drivers living in bungalows in Ramsgate.
Getting back to Fox, he was on the television the other night being interviewed by Newsnight's Emily Maitlis, one of a number of high-profile, talented, female political journalists who, quite rightly, is a little miffed that she and her colleagues are paid far less than their male counterparts (of which, more later). Maitlis wanted assurances from Fox over a future trade deal with the USA as there are real fears that when we leave the EU (if we leave the EU) we might end up with chlorine-washed chicken and hormone-injected beef.
In the USA food standards are far lower than those in the EU and once we leave, supposedly in 2019, we will be desperate for any trade deal we can get. Fox said that a deal with the USA was up for negotiation and that the British Government would engineer a deal that was 'best for Britain'. He slyly admitted, however, that there was nothing wrong with chlorine-washed chicken, paving the way, laying the groundwork, perhaps, for a future lie; he knows darn well that we're going to accept hormone-injected beef and chlorine-washed chicken once we're out of the EU, but he's not quite ready to admit it yet. Soon we'll be subjected to television programmes that might promote the advantages of hormone-injected beef and chlorine-washed chicken and there will undoubtedly be a new push, sooner or later, for GM crops too. Companies like Monsanto are champing at the bit and people like Fox will slyly give them what they want.
And there lies another little problem that we're all too gullible to take in: the process of 'normalisation'. It's happening all around us all of the time. Police are now carrying considerable amounts of water in addition to truncheons and tasers as they're quietly accepting (and expecting us to as well) that the acid attack is now commonplace and something we all must accept. All part of city life, as Siddique Khan, Mayor of London, said recently. They're doing the same thing with terrorism: trying to normalise it so that we all think it's part and parcel of the fabric of society. How? By offering up the 'standard response' (tea light shrines to the fallen, professional mourners, perpetrators "known to the security services", arrests in the suburbs to show that the police are doing their job, terror suspects 'released without charge', producing 'help' videos about what to do in a terror attack.
And what about those hugely inflated and totally undeserved salaries of some BBC television presenters and the lack of parity between male and female employees at the top end of the spectrum? What will be done about it? Will they simply pay the likes of Alex Jones and Claudia Winkleman (already on unnecessarily large salaries) more money to match up with male pay packets, OR will they expect the men to accept drastic pay cuts to bring their salaries in line with the women? Either scenario is unlikely. The most probable outcome will be that we all forget about it and things carry on as normal – until the next scandal.
As for immigration, which, according to the right wing media, is clearly getting out of control in the UK, and a determining factor behind Brexit, nothing much is going to change. As Home Secretary, our current Prime Minister Theresa May's record on immigration was very poor. She's had many years to reduce non-EU immigration, which in my opinion is what Brexiteers are really concerned about, but has failed dismally. To say that 'once we're out of Europe we'll be able to control our borders' is another lie and fails to address the problem of those flooding in from outside of Europe and supposedly changing the cultural and social fabric of the country. It's all a con and we're falling for it.
Monday, 24 July 2017
Loads of cycling!
It was a busy weekend on the cycling front. First, a ride to the good old Tatsfield Bus Stop with Andy during which we narrowly avoided a soaking. The original plan had been to ride to Westerham for breakfast at the Tudor Rose, but the weather was looking decidedly dodgy so we opted for the safe option and rode to the bus stop instead.
All the way there – we decided to follow the slow route up Beddlestead Lane – there was the threat of rain, but we remained dry. It was only while enjoying tea and biscuits under the cover of the wooden bus shelter that the rain started to fall. We watched it and waited and when the coast was clear, so to speak, we jumped on the bikes and headed for home, following the 269 into Warlingham where we parted company.
Andy wasn't riding on Sunday so I took the opportunity of riding over to Epsom to fix Bon's puncture. I left the house around 0726hrs (in fact, I definitely left the house at that time) and reached Epsom by 0818hrs, roughly 50 minutes later.
The ride to Epsom is fairly straightforward and involves riding the same route we use to reach Woodmansterne Green, but instead of turning left by the lavender fields on the outskirts of Carshalton I kept riding until I eventually arrived in Banstead where I continued straight towards what is known as the 'Mad Mile' (or rather the top of it). I then crossed the A217 and rode down towards what used to be the Drift Bridge Hotel (it's now flats) where I swung to the right, under the railway bridge and then immediately left. At the lights I turned right, then first left and soon I was a Bon's house.
Bon put the kettle on and for a short while we wandered around the garden, chatting about this and that before I reached for the leeches and got down to the business of fixing the puncture. Bon has a Cannondale with a roughly similar specification to my Specialized Rockhopper, but he had a rear wheel puncture. Fortunately, the Cannondale has quick-release wheels, which makes life easier, and soon the puncture was fixed.
Bon joined me on my return ride as far as Woodmansterne Green, taking me through the High Beeches housing estate and then along an off-road track that emerged close to Banstead railway station. We headed back over the A217 at the top of the aforementioned 'Mad Mile' and rode towards Longcroft Avenue, a right turn a mile further down the road. When we reached the green we stopped and chatted before Bon decided to head for home and I pushed on into Carshalton to see mum.
Unfortunately, my car had broken down on Saturday, stranding me temporarily in an Esso Garage in East Grinstead (new alternator needed). I still don't possess a car as I write this, which, in all honesty, is no bad thing, but not having a car at the weekend means it's difficult to get over to see mum unless I rely on the bike. So, being in Woodmansterne, I gave mum a call and around 20 minutes later there I was, eating cake and drinking tea and making small talk with mum. I left mum's around 1100hrs and made my home following the usual route. There's a nice stretch of off-road track along the road leading to the lavender fields so I used that and then found some more off-road tracks on what amounts to the Croydon Road towards Purely where I rejoined Foxley Lane and wound my way into Sanderstead where I tackled the South Face of West Hill.
Later in the day I went for brief ride around the block and I think I must have whacked myself out because I had the feeling of fidgety restlessness which used to be called 'over tiredness'. I had a strange hunger that persisted until the sun went down and I hit the sack early to avoid eating too much bread or breakfast cereal. You'll be appalled to note that on Sunday I ate four Shredded Wheat – two for breakfast and two for (ahem) 'dessert' after dinner.
While I had toyed with the idea of riding to work, the rain gave me an excuse to leave the bike in the garage and now I'm looking forward to next week's ride with Andy. Bon said we should both ride over to Woodmansterne again – he has a point!
All the way there – we decided to follow the slow route up Beddlestead Lane – there was the threat of rain, but we remained dry. It was only while enjoying tea and biscuits under the cover of the wooden bus shelter that the rain started to fall. We watched it and waited and when the coast was clear, so to speak, we jumped on the bikes and headed for home, following the 269 into Warlingham where we parted company.
Andy wasn't riding on Sunday so I took the opportunity of riding over to Epsom to fix Bon's puncture. I left the house around 0726hrs (in fact, I definitely left the house at that time) and reached Epsom by 0818hrs, roughly 50 minutes later.
 |
| Woodmansterne Green, Sunday 23 July 2017 |
The ride to Epsom is fairly straightforward and involves riding the same route we use to reach Woodmansterne Green, but instead of turning left by the lavender fields on the outskirts of Carshalton I kept riding until I eventually arrived in Banstead where I continued straight towards what is known as the 'Mad Mile' (or rather the top of it). I then crossed the A217 and rode down towards what used to be the Drift Bridge Hotel (it's now flats) where I swung to the right, under the railway bridge and then immediately left. At the lights I turned right, then first left and soon I was a Bon's house.
Bon put the kettle on and for a short while we wandered around the garden, chatting about this and that before I reached for the leeches and got down to the business of fixing the puncture. Bon has a Cannondale with a roughly similar specification to my Specialized Rockhopper, but he had a rear wheel puncture. Fortunately, the Cannondale has quick-release wheels, which makes life easier, and soon the puncture was fixed.
Bon joined me on my return ride as far as Woodmansterne Green, taking me through the High Beeches housing estate and then along an off-road track that emerged close to Banstead railway station. We headed back over the A217 at the top of the aforementioned 'Mad Mile' and rode towards Longcroft Avenue, a right turn a mile further down the road. When we reached the green we stopped and chatted before Bon decided to head for home and I pushed on into Carshalton to see mum.
Unfortunately, my car had broken down on Saturday, stranding me temporarily in an Esso Garage in East Grinstead (new alternator needed). I still don't possess a car as I write this, which, in all honesty, is no bad thing, but not having a car at the weekend means it's difficult to get over to see mum unless I rely on the bike. So, being in Woodmansterne, I gave mum a call and around 20 minutes later there I was, eating cake and drinking tea and making small talk with mum. I left mum's around 1100hrs and made my home following the usual route. There's a nice stretch of off-road track along the road leading to the lavender fields so I used that and then found some more off-road tracks on what amounts to the Croydon Road towards Purely where I rejoined Foxley Lane and wound my way into Sanderstead where I tackled the South Face of West Hill.
Later in the day I went for brief ride around the block and I think I must have whacked myself out because I had the feeling of fidgety restlessness which used to be called 'over tiredness'. I had a strange hunger that persisted until the sun went down and I hit the sack early to avoid eating too much bread or breakfast cereal. You'll be appalled to note that on Sunday I ate four Shredded Wheat – two for breakfast and two for (ahem) 'dessert' after dinner.
While I had toyed with the idea of riding to work, the rain gave me an excuse to leave the bike in the garage and now I'm looking forward to next week's ride with Andy. Bon said we should both ride over to Woodmansterne again – he has a point!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)