Lockdown, Part 31: Fantasyland

I live in a fantasy world. I am always riding along in a dream, sometimes saving people from the soon-to-be burning wreckage of a private jet, other times being a rock star, admired and loved by all and sundry, and then other times living in a house on the beach, enjoying a lazy life of looking out to sea, going for long beach walks and breathing in the sea air. If it's none of the above then it's being a successful novelist, working only when I choose and living a life of solitude in a house with a huge, overgrown garden. The central thread running though these often quite vivid fantasies is financial security and not worrying or fretting about the future, and also relaxation and not having to do anything I don't want to do; it's not worrying about pensions or retirement but simply chilling, by the sea, taking each day as it comes and being at peace with the world. In a nutshell, I need a holiday.

This week, while roaming the aisles of my local supermarket, I decided to buy a copy of The Week, a weekly news magazine, and inside I found a page entitled Best Properties on the Market, a selection eight properties and only one within my grasp, a stone cottage in Inverness-shire with six bedrooms, a share in a salmon and trout river and some 89 acres of pasture and grazings. It's in the middle of nowhere and I can see myself there just doing nothing but cycling, eating and sleeping and having visitors up from the smoke to ride with me and generally chill out. Kilmonivaig Farm, that's the name of the place, and if I sold up I could afford it, but what the hell would I do stuck up in Inverness-shire as the weather closes in? How would I make money? Well, my view is never let the practicalities get in the way of a good fantasy and besides, I'm working remotely now, I could work remotely from Inverness-shire, as long as there's WiFi.

Fields at the bottom of Hesiers Hill...

If I'm honest, I'd prefer the nine-bedroomed Clarghyll Hall in Cumbria, a grade ll listed country house steeped in 500 years of history and crying out for me to be its new owner. I'd better get a lottery ticket next week because this stately pile is currently out of my reach, which is a little depressing. The Gart in Perthshire, Scotland, is also out of my reach, but it looks amazing and I can see myself there eating venison and drinking rich, red wine. Well, alright, I've given up drinking so a vanilla chai and a hot cross bun would have to suffice.

The Rockhopper at the bottom of Hesiers Hill

It's Sunday and I've been chilling this afternoon in the back garden, enjoying the sunshine. This morning I rode what I'm calling the Sline's Oak Slogger, which saw me ride all the way to Woldingham and then hang a left and head towards the golf course and, of course, Ganger's Hill, but turning left and following The Ridge all the way to Botley Hill and onwards to Beddlestead Lane. I rarely cycle from the Clarks Lane end of Beddlestead towards Hesiers Hill and for one good reason: Hesiers Hill. It's steep and not pleasant, but today I did it. Beddlestead is peaceful and quiet, once a few yards in there's perfect silence, apart from the tweeting birds and the whirr of a Lycra Monkey's wheels. There were a few of them riding up the lane and heading to Westerham, but there were many moments when I had the road to myself and could simply chill with a warm breeze on my face and the prospect of a nasty hill at the end. I took the ascent in my stride and soon I was at the top and winding my way around the country lanes, past St. Leonard's church and round towards Warlingham Sainsbury's and home.

Looking up Hesiers Hill

Yesterday I rode the Beddlestead Beach Farm Bastard, an 18-mile ride (as opposed to today's 17-miler) so I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself. Last week I rode a total of 60 miles and I'm slowly getting back into my stride after around a week off waiting for the bike to be serviced. Hopefully, this week I'll ride more, perhaps get up to 80 miles, who knows? It all depends on the weather, but everybody's saying it's going to be warm so here's to some pleasant evening rides.

The lockdown continues, or rather it doesn't. Who knows? One minute we're told not to use public transport and work from home if we can; and now we're being given money by the Government to eat out and get back to work, using the trains and buses if need be. There's a lot of mixed messages, but the general view is that things are getting back to normality (or rather the 'new normal' of social distancing and masks and booking up to visit the local boozer). Until they find a vaccine we've just got to get on with it.

The Rockhopper has been running like a dream since Ross Cycles serviced it

I think what I need is a holiday. I need to switch off completely and spend some time staring at the sea and not thinking about anything other than whatever book I'm reading and where my next meal is coming from. But I've got to stop eating for the sake of it, out of boredom more than anything else, that sneaky bowl of cornflakes, that slice of bread and peanut butter, a late-night bowl of Alpen or a Rachel's yoghurt, it's all surplus to requirements if I'm honest and it has to stop.

Lockdown, Part 30: Whatever!

The weather's been changeable. There's been rain. It's stopped me riding the bike. The frequency of my cycling has dipped from six days a week to three. Not cycling isn't good, it always makes me feel sluggish, unhappy, doomed and I get a little depressed as a result. I shouldn't be like this. The less I go the more difficult it is to motivate myself, I start to find it all too much. I find myself in the garage, looking at the bike and wondering whether it's worth unpadlocking it or simply going back in the house and forgetting about everything. It happened last week. I started imagining myself riding along Ellenbridge, heading up Church Way and then riding along the Limpsfield Road and it made me feel weary. I went back inside the house and forgot about it. It's different at the weekend. At the weekend I don't have to work so I can go cycling in the morning, meet Andy at the churchyard and if the sun is shining I feel good about the world. Last week I managed three rides (Sunday, Thursday and Friday) and to be fair, I feel good about that too. Today I started the second week of riding since the bike was returned to me - or rather since I went to the bike shop to get the Rockhopper. I've decided not to fret about riding or not riding. I'm accepting that things change. The run of good weather that motivated me to ride six days a week has gone so from now on it's the luck of the draw and also whether I'm feeling up to it. I hope that nine times out of 10 I do feel motivated to get out there, but if I don't, then so be it.

Swimming in the sea...

I think the lockdown is starting to get on people's nerves, it's getting on mine. People are looking for change and it's coming, of course it is, but it's more about what kind of change and the fact that we've all got to socially distance and people keep talking about the 'new normal', which nobody wants. We all want the old normal, although I'm thinking that I don't want the cars back on the road or the planes in the sky. I quite liked it without them, but now things are looking like the old days. When I cycle along the Limpsfield Road there's increased traffic, so while it's supposed to be 'the new normal' there's some of the old normal too. But hey, the economy has to bounce back somehow or we'll all run out of money.

What annoys me about 'the lockdown' is the way it's portrayed on the television. I keep seeing advertisements showing people 'stuck at home' tutoring their kids or exercising in the living room or singing from their balconies and I find myself thinking why are they doing that? Since lockdown I've been riding miles and miles on the bike, going out shopping, walking, you name it, there's no need to be stuck indoors and yet that's the picture the media wants to portray, that we're all at home, stuck indoors and slowing driving ourselves crazy.

Wisborough Green

I was listening to LBC on Saturday and the presenter (I can't remember his name) was asking listeners what drastic changes have they made to their lives or their way of thinking as a result of lockdown. And this is something else I find odd about the media portrayal of the situation, the assumption that the experience, for all of us, has been life-changing and that whole World War ll analogy. My problem with this is that I don't think it has been life-changing at all; we've all been stuck indoors, that's all. We haven't been at war, or under siege, there's always been food around, even if we've had to queue for it, so why should we be experiencing anything life-changing? And then I started wondering how things had changed for me. Well, I need a haircut, that's for sure, but I'm not getting uptight about it. I mean it's only been possible to have a haircut since yesterday. Up until then it's been a case of leave it alone or reach for the clippers. In all honesty, I can't be bothered, let it grow, that's what I've been thinking. Who cares if it's long? I've been eating more than normal, but all good stuff. I'm buying more food than I was pre-lockdown. I get through a family pack of Alpen in a week, I'm eating lots of fresh fruit and I've started eating bread like I used to, but I try to limit myself to just four slices per day maximum. Chocolate bars are back on the agenda. I often find myself eating a Wispa bar while waiting in the queue for the check-out. That's got to stop. And I'm staying up late watching box sets, that's new. I'm now on Season Six of the X Files, I watched the whole of Ozark, the whole of Cardinal and now I'm on to The Sinner with Bill Pullman and the jury's out on that at the moment. I've stopped watching the news. And that's because we've become a one news story nation. It was Brexit and now it's the pandemic and I've started taking a different perspective on it all. I mean, with the pandemic, what's the story? There's a virus, it's bad news for some, but not so bad for others, it's highly contagious and the Government has been bungling everything as it goes along. End of story basically. And it looks as if Brexit is going to come back. There's also the intensifying soap opera of the Epstein case, that's hotting up now that the FBI has arrested Ghislaine Maxwell, and here's hoping she's going to blow the gaff on all the establishment figures involved, especially Prince Andrew. But other than that, there's little else.  I swam in the sea, that's the big news from me of late. About a week ago I headed down to Felpham on the south coast on a very hot day and hit the beach, there was nobody there (hardly). I shared the sea with a couple of people and their kid and I went straight in, without hesitation. The sea was warm and I spent around 40 minutes in the water. The last time I swam in the sea was in 2015 in Brazil, Copacabana Bay, and the following day I went down with an upset stomach. Not nice and you can read about it here. Sea swimming again was great fun and reminded me that I'd really like to live by the sea, but I doubt I ever will.

The shops are empty...

I must point out that I know people have suffered from the lockdown. I feel sorry for anybody stuck in a flat without a balcony or a communal garden, I feel sorry for people who are getting on top of one another in a small space with no possible escape, I feel sorry for those who haven't discovered cycling or a means of escape like I have. 

What I can't get to grips with is the future and how it's all going to change or get back to normal. And by normal I don't mean the new normal, I mean the real normal, the old normal, the world we used to know. I don't want to have my haircut by somebody wearing a visor. I don't want to put my name down to go to the pub.

I suppose I wish the whole thing would stop and go back to normal. I guess everybody feels the same way.

Today I rode to the churchyard to meet Andy. We sat there in the sunshine chatting and chilling for around half an hour and then we headed home, parting company at The Ridge like in the old days. I carried on down the 269 and reached home at 1220 hrs. The weather's been great today. 

When I reached the churchyard, Andy had yet to arrive...

Lockdown, Part 29: Getting the bike back from the shop...

I've had a week without the bike. A whole week of not cycling. And while I said in a previous post that a bike equals freedom, there's something free about not having one too. Everytime I started to feel guilty about not getting exercise, I remembered that I didn't have a bike and, therefore, it didn't matter. I substituted cycling with walking, but I never kept it up and eventually any kind of fitness regimen I might have thought I had, crumbled around me and I simply got on with being a slob. It's amazing how quickly you forget 'being fit', although I'm guessing that a week out of the saddle is meaningless in terms of 'losing fitness'. That said, I think it's the case that when you stop exercising you very quickly find yourself out of condition. The downwards spiral develops quicker than the upwards one, I'm told, which is, of course, the essence of Sod's Law, like when you drop a slice of toast it always lands butter side down. The only thing I did notice about not exercising, having cycled almost daily since lockdown, is that I get depressed quicker than when I was keeping fit. It's easier to despair and to think the worst and to fall off the happiness stall when you're not generating endorphins or whatever is that exercise generates. I feel like I haven't been writing as much either, certainly not this blog and, to be fair, not anything else.

You can see my bike resting against the window

I was beginning to wonder whether or not I'd get the bike back. The guy in the store said he'd email me, but he didn't so eventually I called and there appears to have been some kind of confusion based on somebody else having an identical bike, it wasn't clear, but yes, my bike was ready and I could pick it up tomorrow (Saturday). "But wait until I send you an email," he said, although I didn't. I called again and he said come round now, so I did. He was shutting up shop at 1300hrs and when I looked at the clock that's exactly what time it was. "Are you sure?" He said yes, he'd be there faffing around for a while so I drove over there, it's just under six miles, with all the family in the car so that somebody could get the car back as I rode home.

What had been done? Well, the brakes for a start, they were main reason it went in, but I asked for a bronze service and a clean too, might as well keep the bike looking neat and tidy, I thought. The brakes were fixed but there had been some scoring of the disc, which he said we ought to keep a watch on. I was expecting him to replace the disc, but he didn't. There was also a new chain and block and that was it. The bike is four this year (I bought it in October 2016, it's a long story) so a service was on the cards. I paid up an additional £54, added to the £61 I'd already paid for the bronze service and clean and off I went. It was good to be back on the bike and I must say that it rode well. I'd go further and say it was like riding a new bike. While the ride over was 5.7 miles, the ride back was 7.1 miles and this was largely due to me getting lost. I followed the road left from the bike shop and then took a left and thought I'd pass the Esso garage that I use as a landmark, but no, I didn't. In fact I'm not sure where I ended up. I stopped, turned around and cycled past the bike shop again, past the big Tesco on my left and then hung a right at the lights and rode towards Auckland Road (where my pal Dave used to live) and headed towards Whyteleafe Hill, from where all was fine. The ride back involves a killer hill, Tithepit Shaw Lane, but like everything in life it's not that bad when you're doing it. I managed to escape the rain, which was good, as it was raining when we left in the car. It took me 40 minutes, whereas the outward ride had taken me 38 minutes. It's little facts like these that make having the Strava app on the phone so worthwhile.

The outward ride to the bike shop

And now it's Sunday morning and the sun is shining out there. I've thought about going early, like in the olden days pre-lockdown, and I still might go early, but the plan is to ride out later, at around 1000hrs and meet Andy at the Churchyard for 11am. Going back to my rides with silly names (see previous post) this means the Churchyard Chuffer, a straight ride along the 269 and then Clarks Lane that covers 15.5 miles. I'd thought about going earlier, riding to the lakes, but no, not today, possibly next week and possibly earlier, get the riding out of the way early.

Next week I'll hopefully get back into the stride of things with a few Ledgers Double Loops, the odd Washpond Womble and possibly even a Beech Farm Bastard, we'll see. I've just eaten breakfast (no-sugar Alpen with black grapes and sliced strawberries thrown in plus a cup of decaff tea. All is quiet at 0710hrs, I haven't put the radio on. The sun is filtering through the curtains, it's around 12 degrees out there and the weather has cooled down since the heat of last week. I took Thursday off and drove to the beach where I swam in the sea, the first time since Copacabana Beach in 2015. The sea was warm and I stayed in for around 30 minutes, it was wonderful. As always I wish I'd been staying down there for the night so I could repeat the process the following morning, but no, I had to drive home, which is always a bit of a pain.

The lockdown is being eased some more. By July 4th the pubs will re-open, there are already more cars on the road and things are (sadly in so many ways) returning to normal. It was great having hardly any cars on the road, but now they're back and I'm hoping all this talk about more cycle lanes is not just hot air. People have started to talk about going back to working in an office and to be honest it doesn't bother me. The worst thing about the current set-up is that I'm stuck in the house ALL day, that's why I'm exercising daily on the bike, to keep fit and active. I won't say I'm not getting bored with it. 

Mowing the lawn was one substitute for riding the bike

I meant to take two days off last week, but only took one, so I might take my second day next week. The weather's not as good next week, but I'm going to keep an eye out for the sun and if it materialises I'll quickly arrange some annual leave and possibly head for the beach again.

Lockdown, Part 28: Giving my rides stupid names

It's Thursday and it's raining. It's one of those days when it simply rains all day and occasionally when I look out I think it has stopped, but it hasn't. Closer inspection - or just looking at the birdbath - reveals that it's going to carry on all day. It's doubtful I'll get a ride in today, but I'm not overly bothered about this because, since Monday, I've been riding daily: Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday and I've made up some new routes. That said, it's now nearly 1630 and the sun's out, but I've kind of resigned myself to not going out. The problem is it'll probably REALLY rain all day tomorrow and then I'll be two days down, here's hoping that's not the case.

On Monday I rode the Ledgers Double Loop, which was basically a ride up to and beyond Knights Garden centre, turn left into Ledgers Road and then ride two loops before heading home along the 269. In total I rode 12.5 miles. The following day I did what I called the Ledgers Triple Loop, which was basically the same ride except I added an additional loop, bringing the total to just over 15 miles. And then last night I tackled the Washpond Womble, basically one loop of the Ledgers route but on the second, turning right on to Church Lane, following the road round into Beech Farm Road then taking a right hand turn on to Washpond Road and then right on to Ledgers, a left on to Church Lane and heading towards Warlingham Sainsbury's where a right turn takes me on to the 269 and home.

The Washpond Womble is a good ride...

The reason I'm naming my rides is because of Strava, it gives me that option so why not take it? The Ledgers Double Loop took me one hour and three minutes at an average speed of 12 mph and it's important to note that I rode the entire route in the rain. Fortunately, it wasn't cold, but I was soaked when I reached home, feeling elated that I stayed out there and didn't give up the ghost.

On Tuesday the Ledgers Triple Loop covered just over 15 miles and the weather was pleasant, there was sunshine and warmth and I was out on the bike for 1.18hrs. Strava is saying my speed averaged 24 mph, which I find hard to believe, although I will say that I am riding a lot faster these days so it might be right.

I mentioned in my last post that I was going to 're-calibrate' based on last week's lack of cycling. What I meant was that I would change my cycling week from the current Wednesday to Tuesday with one day off to Monday to Sunday, still keeping the day off (which I'll probably take today bearing in mind the rain). Going by the 'old week' I would have riden 54 miles in a week due to not riding for three days of last week because of the rain. Fair enough. I went from 100-mile weeks down to 83 miles, then 75 miles and last week just 54 miles. Under the new cycling week, I've covered around 43 miles so if I ride around 15 miles tomorrow my total will go to 58 miles plus, say, a Westerham (22 miles) = 80 miles and then another 15 on top, perhaps, and that's 95 miles. Fairly respectable.

On Monday we had showers, sometimes heavy; on Tuesday there was sunshine with occasional light showers and Wednesday was also pleasant and warm. Today, as I say, is changeable (it's currently sunny) but by and large it's been raining all day (so far) and they say it'll stop around 5pm, but who knows?

On Friday (yesterday) I did the Ledgers Double Loop and rode 20.23km, which is roughly 12.5 miles and it took me one hour and three minutes at an average speed of 11.6 mph. Since Monday I've covered 56.3 miles and I would have gone out this morning on a longer ride, which would have taken me to almost, or even just over, 80 miles. Why haven't I gone out? Because I'm taking the bike in to Ross Cycles in Caterham for repairs. I'll probably ride another six miles to Caterham, taking me to 62 miles. My distances have been coming down from 100 miles/week to 83 then 70 something and now a paltry 62 miles. I lost three days last week due to rain, this week I rode every week day bar Thursday and I would have put in a decent time had it not been for my bike needing new brakes and a service. And now, of course, I have no bike so next week's mileage is going to be nil. It's not good.

Here's those rides I was talking about. They're all on my Strava, he said, pretentiously. 

1. The Ledgers Triple Loop, 15.1 miles.

Ride to Ledgers Road, turn left and do two circles before heading back along B269.

2. The Ledgers Double Loop, 12.5 miles.

Same as the Ledgers Triple Loop but just two loops, not three.

3. The Beech Farm Bastard, 18.7 miles.

Riding to Ledgers Road, following country lanes around and up Beech Farm Road, turn left on B269 and ride to Botley roundabout, then onwards to the Tatsfield Bus Stop and back via Beech Farm Road.

4. The Churchyard Chuffer, 15.5 miles.

Straight ride from home to the churchyard and back.

5. The Titsey Toughie, 23 miles.

Ride to Westerham then head along A25 to Oxted, up Titsey Hill and down B269 to reach home.

6. The Tatsfield Toss Pot, 16.8 miles.

Direct ride to the Tatsfield Bus Stop going via Beech Farm Road on outward journey and back on the B269.

7. The Botley Burk, 15.2 miles.

Via Beech Farm Road on outward journey and then straight down the B269 to home.

8. The Warlingham Wobbler, 12.2 miles.

Botley Hill via Beech Farm Road but with Strava switched on at Warlingham Green. Straight run back down the B269.

9. The Washpond Womble, 16.2 miles.

On second loop of Ledgers Road turn right instead of left and head for Beech Farm Road, but take the Washpond turn on the right and do two circuits after which you turn right on to Ledgers and then left on to Church Lane and head for Warlingham Sainsbury's and the B269 to home.

10. The Norfolk Nobbler, 8 miles.

My original ride around the local streets. Twice round and up (and down) Norfolk Avenue four times, from front to back. Quite a good, albeit short ride, takes around 40 minutes.

11. The Slines Oak Slogger, 17.5 miles.
Two ways of doing this: first is to ride along the 269 heading towards Botley Hill and then turning right on Slines Oak Road, riding the length of it to Woldingham, turning left and riding past the golf course before bearing left on to The Ridge, riding towards Botley Hill, crossing the 269, riding down Clarks Lane, turning left on Beddlestead, riding up Hesiers Hill, round the country lanes, joining the Limpsfield Road at Warlingham Sainsbury's and then heading for home. Alternatively, do it in reverse.

12. The Churchyard Chump, 17 miles.
Riding direct to the Churchyard along the 269 and then Clarks Lane, but on reaching the churchyard follow the road around it and into Tatsfield Village, exiting on Approach Road, turning right at the famous Tatsfield Bus Stop, riding towards Botley Hill, heading home on the 269.

Lockdown, Part 27: A need to recalibrate - and a sense of foreboding

I suppose if you really want to know what's bugging me it's my lack of cycling. I completed my last full week on Tuesday just passed having riden just 74.7 miles. The previous week I'd covered around 83 miles and this week, well, let's not talk about it. After last Tuesday, when I noted the 74.7 miles, I took my traditional day off on Wednesday, meaning I needed to ride Thursday through Tuesday (this coming Tuesday) to build up a reasonable mileage. But no, it wasn't to be: there was rain on Thursday and Friday and while I managed between 27 and 30 miles on Saturday, I didn't go out today (Sunday 14th June) leaving me just tomorrow and Tuesday to up the ante, but it will only be by 30-odd miles meaning, at best, this week's total will be 60 miles. It's not good and I can't say I'm happy about it. In a nutshell I need to get my act together.

Andy leaving the churchyard last weekend...

Yesterday I almost rode to the lakes, which was good. I was in the saddle from 0910hrs until around noon, so almost three hours and I must have averaged around 12 miles/hour so I'm guessing I put in around 27 to 30 miles. My iphone ran out of power so I couldn't rely upon Strava to give me an accurate mileage, but I know I'm in that ballpark. And now I'm sounding like a Lycra monkey obsessing about miles and my Strava.

Not cycling bugs me a lot and I'm prone to fretful thinking. I've noticed that all my fretfulness revolves around achievement (or lack of it). It's a kind of obsession and it used to be much worse than it is now. I mean, up until lockdown I cycled twice a week at most, which could mean anything from a mere 30-odd miles per week to, at best, 66 miles if Andy and I managed, say, three trips to Westerham (at roughly 22 miles per trip). The latter, of course, was extremely rare and could only really happen if there was a bank holiday. Invariably, we'd average 32 miles a week and the rest of the time we'd be working and I'd probably get a couple of walks in at the office. I say 'at the office' but I mean in the surrounding area, clocking up a couple of miles on each walk.

We're all eating too much...

But because, since lockdown, I've been riding daily I think that's why when I don't ride for a few days I start to feel guilty and I shouldn't. But try telling me that, as I do every time the dilemma arises. I just don't listen to myself and I'm not listening now as I write this. 

A bit of armchair escapism!

It's crucial that I do get the exercise. Lockdown's fine, but it involves staying in most of the day; there's no 'lunch break' walk with Paul, no wander around the shops. I tend to spend most of my day confined to a desk, sitting down, so when I don't get that bike ride it's not good, especially when you consider that there are more chocolate bars in my life and more apple pies with custard. Pre-lockdown they were both rare and they need to be rare again, but they were counteracted by the daily cycling, the 100 miles per week that I was doing for four consecutive weeks. Miss a day or two and I start to feel sluggish, fat, heavy, whatever you want to call it.

The weekend weather has been very pleasant. Yesterday's ride along Pilgrim's Lane towards Longford Lake was idyllic. There was sunshine and blue skies and scented hedgerows, it was wonderful. I stopped at the end of Ovenden Road and turned back towards the churchyard where I was meeting Andy. We both estimated my ride to be 'in the high twenties', meaning it could have been anything from 27 miles to 30. I'm gunning for an average speed of 12 miles per hour, meaning 30 miles, but I reckon the reality is probably 28, bearing in mind that had Strava been on, that's what it would have been. I'm guessing, of course, and my plan next weekend, weather permitting, is to leave the house around 30 minutes earlier and head for the lakes. I might even have breakfast there: a small dish of Alpen, a slice of bread and some tea would be amazing, sitting there in the early morning sunshine on a mid-June day just admiring my surroundings. Let's see.

I'm getting a sense of foreboding about things and I don't know why. It's the lockdown and the uncertainty of the future I think. I was driving to the coast this morning and it was bugging me. I think I need a holiday. I need to be in one of those houses on the beach down at Felpham on the Summerley Estate, just a week, although two would be better, doing nothing but reading and walking and possibly even swimming in the sea.

I was remembering times on the beach with my pal Andy back in the eighties. We'd go in swimming and then we would head for the Castle Tandoori in Arundel, the whole thing was a laugh from start to finish, but these days I notice I'm no longer laughing and that's for many reasons not least the awful news we've been subjected to these past four years: Trump being elected the leader of the free world, Boris Johnson being the Prime Minister of England (the least deserving and truly awful leader this country has had since, er... oh, his pal David Cameron, who many commentators have branded the worst Prime Minister in British history (they're not wrong, but I'm sure Boris might take that prize too). Then there was Brexit, engineered by that cock-a-like cunt Cummings. And now the fucking virus that has basically fucked everything, although I'd love to discover that David Icke was right all along and the whole thing was some kind of hoax. If that ever came to light I wouldn't be able to stop laughing, seriously, but it won't ever happen, let's face it.

Lastly, the protests over the killing of George Floyd in Minneapolis, USA. They're all making out that Floyd is some kind of saint when we all know that the man was a criminal. Fine, he didn't deserve to die over a fake $20 bill and that, of course, is the argument, which I totally understand, but why there are protests in the UK I don't know. This is not a racist country. Yes, there are racist incidents, of course there are, what country avoids them? But I wouldn't say black people or Asian people or anybody gets a particularly rough ride over here. I mean that's why there are so many boats crossing the English Channel full of migrants: everybody wants a piece of the UK - until the realise what a shithole it's become. Unbridled immigration has caused problems and one of them, of course, is Brexit.

So I'm looking out on my garden, the sun is shining, it's 1931hrs and I'm thinking of walking off an apple and blackberry pie I've just eaten, not to forget the Madagascan Vanilla custard. As I've said, it's got to stop, especially if my cycling is sloping off a bit. Next week the bike goes in for a service and a clean. The front brake has been buggered for many weeks, but can I find a cycle shop that will just take it in and fix it? No I can't, so it's got progressively worse. Andy took a look at it when I arrived at the churchyard yesterday and he thinks I might need a new disc too. Well, so be it, I thought.

Putting the bike in for repair, of course, means no riding from Saturday next week for a few days so I need to make the most of next week. I know there's rain floating around, but I'm just going to get done what I can and hope that will satisfy me. I hope that disc is alright, but I'm not going to fret about it.

It was great on the beach today. I love it down there. It's the only place that I feel real, relaxed, at peace with the world and somehow immortal, or at least full of life. I don't know why that is, probably because I have a lot of happy memories from my childhood holidays along that stretch of coastline. For me it's a house with a garden, with a gate at the end of it and beyond that the sea. 

Lockdown, Part 26: Cyclogeography

Shamed by not riding out yesterday, and mildly hassled by the mundane chores of a Saturday morning, I abandoned my attempt to meet Andy at 1100hrs at the Tatsfield Churchyard. Looking at mileage I figured it would be good to go out earlier and get something like Westerham under the belt before other things, like shopping, got in the way. I set off around 0915hrs with the northern Kent market town on my mind, but as I rode along I considered a shorter ride, working out in my head what I'd need to for the rest of the week to keep my mileage respectable. In the end I pushed ahead with the idea of heading for Westerham.

I rode the normal route through the leafy suburbs of Church Way, a considerable hill, across the fairly busy Addington Road and through the churchyard and into Onslow Gardens, a road consisting of fairly large detached houses. I took a right into Blenheim Gardens, hung a right on to Cranleigh Gardens (with my favourite curry house of old on the left hand corner) and then left on to the Limpsfield Road, the B269 no less, which, ultimately, would take me to Edenbridge.

The ride along the Limpsfield Road is pretty standard fayre for me; it's a busy road flanked to the left and right by a variety of different housing types, but mostly a mix of terraced properties and semi-detached all the way to Hamsey and then Warlingham Green where a small war memorial forms the centre piece of the green itself and is surrounded by a mix of old Victorian terraced houses and shops (a newsagent, Co-op, Nisa Today and India Dining (a restaurant) stand out).

Beyond the green I pass an Esso 24-hour garage on my right and Warlingham's village hall on the left, there's Chez Vous, which used to be Villa Sonia, a hotel and restaurant, and then a row of terraced Victorian properties on the left and a mixture of housing on the right, including a large detached house that looks out of place on the main road. More modern housing can be found further along the road, some detached and semi-detached bungalows, some recently built blocks of flats and and then the huge car park of Warlingham Sainsbury's where people queue, for social distancing purposes, prior to shopping.

On the A25 close to Oxted

Beyond Sainsbury's a roundabout offers up a choice of routes: the quieter country lanes to the left and the continuation of the B269 straight ahead. I decide to take the latter route and once past Knights Garden Centre the road offers fields and woods on either side, a small pond at the top of Slines Oak Road and a few houses dotted here and there in woods on the right. Most of this section of the 269 is flanked by fields with an occasional farm house set back from the road.

The Botley Hill Farmhouse pub on the right offers a huge car park and is set back from the road. It used to be a teashop in days gone by, but I've always known it as a pub, although it has undergone a change of management recently. Passing the pub I head for the mini-roundabout and turn left on to Clarks Lane heading east towards the Tatsfield Bus Stop and then the churchyard, both on the left. The covered bus stop, where Andy and I often stopped for tea pre-lockdown is made of wood and provides much-needed shelter from the rain and snow when the weather gets rough. It is located at the top of Approach Road on the left of Clarks Lane. Approach Road heads into Tatsfield village where there is a shop, a restaurant and a pub and a small pond. Not much seems to go on there.

The bike picks up speed as it heads down hill towards the churchyard. There are fields on either side, but those on the right eventually lead to the M25, which can be heard purring in the distance. The road winds it way downwards, past the entrance to the Park Wood Golf Club on the left and eventually past a sign for Kent, the so-called Garden of England. This stretch of road is fast and enjoyable and soon, after going under the M25, I arrive in Westerham, but I decide not to stop. Instead, I turn right on to the A25 and ride west to Oxted, the plan being to ride up Titsey Hill and rejoin the 269 at Botley Hill. 

Riding from east to west I have a strong headwind to contend with and it slows me down considerably as I weave my way through the outskirts of Westerham and on to a route without cycle lanes. There is, however, plenty of visibility as there are fields on either side of me and an open road ahead. The Grasshopper pub, a huge mock tudor building on the right, is under some kind of refurbishment, either flats or a budget hotel. I figure on the latter as I pass the structural steel frame that will eventually be joined to the main building, which I'm guessing they can't knock down because it's of historical interest. I remember having Sunday lunch there on many occasions. It was a carvery and it always reminds me of my father-in-law, a man who had a calming influence on me and everybody he met.

At the top of Titsey Hill near Botley

The A25 has some big houses on its left side, heading west, concealed from sight by trees and bushes and protected by huge gates. Names like Wildwood and Hatchetts and with sweeping driveways, these are the homes of wealthy people who clearly want nothing to do with the outside world. There are keypads on gateposts and little chance of glimpsing the main properties. Soon I find myself in Limpsfield, one of those places that seemingly doesn't exist as there are no houses to be seen, not for a short while at any rate, but then, suddenly, civilisation reasserts itself as I approach the outskirts of Oxted. I've gone from Surrey into Kent and back into Surrey again and now I turn right into Snatts Road and down into Oxted High Street, which is quiet and traffic-free. At the Deep Blue fish & chip restaurant to my left, where I remember visiting just prior to lockdown, I turn right. There's a bank on the corner, a Nat West I think, and further up the road on the right is Oxted Library. I'm looking for Glanville Road on the right, which will take me towards the Titsey Estate and the climb towards Botley Hill.

Glanville Road is characterised by large houses, not as large as those I found along the A25 (Wildwood and Hatchetts spring to mind) but big places worth, probably, at the time of writing, around the £900,000 to £1.2 million mark, possibly a lot more. In Glanville, the houses are a mix of ages, I'm guessing: some sixties and seventies, but others earlier. Towards the end of the road the price dips, the houses become semi-detached and terraced and then I turn right and left and head towards Titsey Hill, a 16% incline that can be an ordeal. I crank the bike down into the low gears, psyche myself up for the climb and then get on with it. All the way up there is nothing but trees on either side of the road and it seems to go on forever. I make at least three or four turns and still can't see any sign of civilisation, or an end to the climb, but soon a road sign announces the roundabout at Botley Hill and I'm back on familiar ground, the B269 heading north this time and flanked by fields and farmland on either side. I pass the pub on my left this time and at one point I have a tremendous view of the whole of London. I can see Canary Wharf and then, what seems about a foot away, the Shard and the City of London, it's easily 20 to 25 miles away, maybe more, or perhaps less, let's settle for 20 miles.

I pass Beech Farm Road on my right and then Ledgers Lane also on my right, then the pond at the top of Slines Oak Road on the left and Knights Garden Centre further along on the right. Sainsbury's is coming up and then I'm heading towards Warlingham Green beyond which lies Hamsey and then Sanderstead High Street. I cut across the 269 and into Cranleigh Gardens, take a left into Blenheim, a left on to Onslow Gardens and back through the churchyard towards the busy Addington Road. I cross it and roll down Church Way, which has parked cars on both sides of the road, and then I turn left on to Morley, right on to Elmfield Way, left into Southcote, right to Ellenbridge and right on to Barnfield. Nearly home.

In total I rode 37.27km, that's roughly 23 miles. I was in the saddle for two hours and five minutes and averaged 17.8km/hour. On the ride there was an elevation gain of 475 metres.

I feel more than compensated for not going out yesterday as I've now riden 39 miles this week, so far.

Lockdown, Part 25: The honeymoon's over

I've always been pretty good at working out when things have taken a turn, often for the worse, when the novelty wears off, when something has stopped working, ceased performing, no longer what it used to be and the lockdown is no exception. To a degree its like the moment when the sun disappears behind the clouds, when the only sound is the crying jetliner circling over Heathrow, when an ice cream van in the distance somewhere can be heard playing Greensleeves. These are all signs of life turning a corner, heading towards its inevitable conclusion perhaps.

Heading into Kent and Westerham on Sunday

When the lockdown started I, like a lot of people, decided to embrace it. We were helped by the weather and the fact that we were working at home and, most importantly, that the sun was shining. The weather played a big role in my happiness from mid-March onwards. There was rarely a cloudy day, hardly any rain, and it meant that I could use lockdown to indulge my favourite hobby, that of cycling. I knew the routes open to me, I've been riding them for what? Thirteen years? Something like that, and I resolved to cycle daily, first around the block (not that I couldn't have riden further, I've been cycling up to 32 miles at weekends) and then I increased my daily rides until I was clocking up 100 miles per week. I did four straight weeks of 100 miles and then last week I rode just 83 miles. Originally I said 84 miles... until I downloaded Strava on to my lap top and discovered that what I thought was a 16-mile ride was only 15.5 miles. Over the last five weeks I have riden 483 miles, 17 miles short of my target of 500 miles and yes, I do feel a little deflated about that.

As I write this the time is 1841 and I have yet to ride out on the bike. I was out yesterday and I was supposed to go out today, but as you can discern, I'm not out, I'm sitting looking out on the garden, listening to the birdsong, watching out for the fox and just relaxing. I feel guilty about that. I should be out riding the bike, but in all honesty I just didn't feel up to it and that could be because the novelty of the lockdown has turned that imaginary corner and I'm looking at the clouds (and the rain we had earlier) and thinking no, not today. I've levelled my decision with myself  (always a good idea) but on the proviso that I do something significant tomorrow, and that means at least a ride to Westerham or perhaps even the lakes: that would be good if I could motivate myself to get out early, if the rain holds off. A trip to the lakes would cover me for not going tonight, but as the rain starts to fall again outside I feel rather good about not going. The rain is coming down fairly heavily out there now; I can hear it hammering on the roof above me and I know it's cold out too. Last night, incidentally, while watching X Files, I put the fire on and wore a jumper, it was like a winter's evening, the candle burning with a kind of festive glow.

My problem in life generally is that I beat myself up unnecessarily. So I didn't go today! I never usually cycle daily, I used to cycle twice a week if I was lucky and was often stopped from doing so by the rain. I've got to stop fretting about such things, accepting life for what it is and moving on. Like now, I didn't go out,  I must accept the fact and get on with my life. What I tend to do is think: right, I'm 16 miles down, that means I've got to ride almost 40 miles to make up. Well, yes, it could be done. A ride to the lakes would rectify the situation, but I know that when I wake up in the morning I'll be far more attuned to a ride to the churchyard to meet Andy, a bit of much-needed social interaction, albeit from a safe distance. The whole thing, of course, is dependent upon the weather and I've simply got to stop thinking about it all the time. It's constantly in the back of mind, will it rain or won't it? Let's check the weather app on the mobile, that's pretty accurate and it has a cloud with some rain underneath it, depicting a cloudy and rainy day ahead. So that ride might be off. I could go early, around 0700, when I know there will be sun and cloud combined and no rain, at least that way I'll get a ride in. I could be really radical and go out now, the sky is blue again, the rain seems to have gone and the weather app says no more rain tonight. As you can I'm fretting when I should be reading or writing about something that isn't fretful, but let's leave it there.

The lockdown is losing its appeal. For a start there are more cars on the road, but also that kind of non-routine is beginning to grate too. Yes, there is a routine: I get up around 0600hrs, have breakfast, start working around 0800hrs, finish around 0430hrs and then consider a ride. But now the ride is becoming a chore, perhaps I've been overdoing it, but when it's time to hit the road a weariness creeps up on me and I put it off and sometimes consider not going at all, like I did a few days ago, but fortunately the sun was out and my neighbour motivated me so out I went and I felt good when I returned home to make dinner.

In the churchyard...

Cycling is energising and since lockdown, when I return home from a ride, I set about making dinner for everybody and then I settle down, listen to music, watch the X Files with a camomile tea and then hit the sack. That's been my routine these past three months and it's been fine, but it's dragging a bit now, meaning a new chapter is beginning. I want to keep up the cycling and I hate it when I lapse, like now, but I've got to be more philosophical about it, not wind myself up, which I'm doing a lot these days, and just get on with it, as my dad would have said.

A brief mention of last week's riding: I did a lot of Botley Hill via Beech Farm Road, latterly discovering it's only 15.5 miles as I said earlier, but on Sunday (I think) I rode to Westerham to meet Andy but when we got there (he before me) there were big crowds on the green so we headed out of town and rode back to the Tatsfield Churchyard for a very brief chat. Andy resembled a cross channel swimmer, he was caked in sun tan lotion as the weather was hot and he suffers if he exposes himself to too much sun. We didn't have much time and soon we were on the road and heading home. Andy left me at the churchyard where I finished my tea and then followed suit, heading up Clarks Lane, turning right at the Botley Hill roundabout and heading along the 269 homeward bound. The riding these past three months has been excellent.

So here's to tomorrow's ride and the big dilemma of heading out early or risking the rain with a later ride. I'll sleep on that one.

Lockdown, Part 24: Memories

What is your first memory? Now there's a question, and I've always answered with the time when my brother was brought home from the maternity ward, a toy train for me concealed beneath his shawl. I was in what was the front room of the house. But was it my first memory? As it turned out, no. I started to wrack my brains for more, but could only initially move forward from the point when my brother arrived home. I started working on actual years to see if anything could jog my memory further. I certainly remember the so-called Ferranti 'radiogram' and Beatles singles on the Parlophone label - Hard Day's Night springs to mind, I vaguely remember watching the funeral of Winston Churchill on our monochrome television and, a year later, the 1966 World Cup Final at Wembley but, for a short while, I had trouble going back from the toy train moment, and yet there were things that started to reveal themselves, like when we moved from the bottom of our road to the top and how I was standing with dad outside 3a, the maisonette, waiting to move up the hill to number 29. Dad said we'd have to wait for 'auntie' Yvonne to walk down the road towards us before we could go up, and to this day I can never understand why we have to wait for her. It will remain one of life's mysteries as both dad and Yvonne are no longer with us. My brother was brought home to number 29 so standing at the bottom of the road waiting for auntie Yvonne pre-dates the toy train moment. I have only vague memories of 3a, with its unforgiving exterior concrete staircase, and even vaguer memories of the interior. There was a brick fireplace, I remember that, and a black dog and a lady called Daphne, but that's about it.

Something that will always stick with me is being awake in the back bedroom of number 29, the waning daylight penetrating the floral curtains, the birdsong, early on a summer's evening, probably around 6pm, dad yet to arrive home from work with his trademark knock on the door and the distant sound of bells from St. Philomena's convent school across the railway tracks. This must have pre-dated the birth of my brother as I don't remember sharing the room at that point. My sister would have been in the box room, mum and dad in the front room with the bay window.

We lived in a cul-de-sac and received weekly visits from what we called the Corona lorry. It was carrying Corona soft drinks, but I can't remember us ordering any, it was simply something to watch out for if we were playing in the streets 'after tea' - a treat at the best of times. There was a laundry and a bakery lorry too, the latter going by the name of Riddington's. The laundry service delivered rectangular boxes made of heavy duty cardboard and containing pressed shirts and trousers for dad. There was the occasional ice cream van playing Greensleeves, and regular deliveries of milk from Express Dairy based around the corner in Shorts Road. I would later help out 'Dynamic Norman', a film buff who chain-smoked, on a milk round through a fairly posh part of nearby Wallington. I can't remember how much I was paid, but whenever my mum, or anybody in the family, asked me if I was going on my milk round, I would reply, "Might, I don't know."

The sun was always shining back then and the long summer days were taken up playing in the garden, getting up close and personal with various wild things such as ants and snails and worms and digging holes with small trowels. There was one occasion when mum made a golf course out of dad's immaculate lawn. He wasn't impressed.

The summer holidays were huge chunks of idle time spent riding bikes and playing in the road or standing around chatting with our pals who, like us, were in the same boat, trying to find things to do during the long school holidays that nobody wanted to end. There was nothing worse than 'back to school' and a new class, one year older but none the wiser and nothing to look forward to but cold weather and the boredom of the non-descript month of October when nothing much happened. November brought fireworks followed by mum's birthday and then my birthday was all that stood between us and the festive season. I remember dad coming home on the days prior to Christmas loaded with Hamley's bags, but we never twigged that he was Father Christmas, thanks to that bell he'd rigged up in the bathroom. 

There were two big moments in our year: Christmas and our annual holiday to the south coast. Dad went the extra mile for both of them. Christmas morning was magical. We would sleep lightly on Christmas Eve, wake up around 0400hrs and sneak down to see what Father Christmas had left us. Dad, for it was he, had spent an inordinate amount of time transforming the front room into a toy shop with three wonderful displays of toys and books and we loved every minute of it. These were the days when the seasonal television was worth watching, when mum's Christmas cake, the turkey dinner, selection boxes of chocolate and other delights made every second worthwhile, but we were forever moving towards January when the tree would come down and we'd have to go back to school.

What sticks with me most - to this day - was our summer holidays on the south coast. Dad rented a house right on the beach and we had two weeks of sunshine (most of the time) playing on the beach, sending clockwork motorboats across rockpools, eating fish & chips, and digging castles in the sand. I still go down there now, still look longingly at the very houses we occupied along with 'uncle' Brian, 'auntie' Yvonne and their son Tim. They weren't really our uncle and aunt, they were neighbours, from number 28. Brian and Yvonne were mum and dad's pals, they often came round of an evening for drinks and cheese footballs and because Brian, Yvonne and dad smoked there was always a smell of cigarettes the next morning, a few left over snacks (the aforementioned cheese footballs and some Twiglets) and Brian would always forget his lighter. I remember playing with it, wearing down the flint, smelling the gas.

As we grew older, life became less magical as the true realities of life started to impinge on our happiness, like passing exams, passing driving tests, drinking and rowing with our parents. Eventually, all that was good became a distant memory to discuss occasionally, like when I meet Bon, that little baby who brought me the toy train under his shawl, on Woodmansterne Green. Our main topic of conversation will always be those holidays in Felpham and we could talk for hours about them before cycling home to our own families.

I worry sometimes that my kids don't have similar memories and I wish that they did, but I fear that today's children are forced to grow up quicker than we did, they don't have trainsets and Action Men and toy soldiers, they don't have wooden forts like I did. Their imaginations come tailor-made in video games and by the time they're in their early teens they're almost adults and look nothing like I used to look with my crepe-soled sandals, shorts, socks and tee-shirt with an anchor motif. We were dressed by our parents in roll neck jumpers and 'slacks' and as a result have never become 'fashion victims' but equally have never been 'snappy dressers'.

There are too many memories to document here, some good, some bad, but when they next surface I'll be writing again. Until then, go make your own memories.

Lockdown, Part 23: Andy and I meet at the Tatsfield Churchyard

Saturday 23 May 2020: There was sun and gusty wind and it was a little on the cool side, especially when the sun hid behind the clouds. I decided a jumper was needed before heading for the churchyard to meet Andy. We hadn't met for two months and a day, since lockdown started, and the plan was to meet at the churchyard where we could socially distance and occupy our own benches.

Passing St Leonard's Church around 1730hrs during the week. 

The ride was fine, but a strong westerly ruffled the cow parsley on the roadside as I headed along the 269. When it opened out I was saved from a blast of cold air by thick hawthorn bushes, but when a gap presented itself the bike was buffeted by the wind and I felt a wintry chill go through me. I was riding the fast way, no country lanes today, my sole aim was to reach the churchyard and chill with a liquorice and spearmint tea and a chat with Andy; and before you say anything about my choice of tea, I know. I know it's a bit twee, but I love it. In fact, since lockdown I've built up a big collection of Pukka and Twining's teas involving ingredients like fennel and camomile and other poncy varieties.

The long and winding road - a little over halfway along Beddlestead Lane

I'd been sitting there alone for around seven minutes when Andy arrived on his Giant racer and it was good to see him after weeks of solitary riding with no reason to stop and chew the fat. We chatted about all sorts of things, mostly linked to the lockdown, like how the cars were coming back and how Surrey County Council was doing little in terms of looking ahead towards a world where the bicycle might play a bigger role in people's lives. Andy had lost a stone in weight and all due to daily cycling. I told him how I'd been cycling six days with one day off and clocking up 100 miles per week. For the record, I've now cycled 48 miles of a fourth set of 100 miles, that's four consecutive weeks. We both said we felt better inwardly as a result and we both agreed that cycling was keeping us in good mental health too.

Fields to the left of me, fields to right, here I am, on Beddlestead Lane...

During the week I rode to Botley Hill via Beech Farm Road and I did one trip down Beddlestead Lane, turning right on to Clarks Lane and following the road to Botley Hill and then back home. The weather was hot, unlike today, but a mini heat wave is promised, or so they say.

You can't beat fields like this on a sunny evening...

Andy's put his Kona Blast in for repair, it's going to take four days as the man at the store has too much work to do. I told him about Cycle King saying no to all but 'key workers' and started thinking about the madness of that decision. My bike has no front brake, but it's heartening to know that when I collide with a car and end up in A&E the doctor comforting me will only be there because he got his bike fixed and I didn't. Andy says it's pretty easy to replace brake pads so I might give it a go, although I think I'll check out Cycle Republic first. Either way something has to be done as I've only got one brake that works effectively and I don't want to start neglecting the Rockhopper like I did the Kona, which, incidentally, is still sitting in my garage with two flat tyres and in need of some major TLC.

The wind and the rain picked up, but the latter was short-lived. There's nothing better than the sound of the wind in the trees, it's like a roaring waterfall. It was time to go and Andy decided to ride through the village while I headed back down the wooden steps towards Clarks Lane. When I reached Approach Road I looked out for Andy and assumed he had long gone, but later discovered that he saw me heading down the 269 as he approached The Ridge. We're meeting again next Saturday - another sign that slowly things are getting back to normal - not that either of us want more cars back on the roads.

Lockdown, Part 22: Men Go and Come, but Earth Abides...

Sunday 17 May 2020: I followed the scenic route to Botley Hill and then rode further, to the Tatsfield Bus Stop. I reckon the distance hovered around 16 miles. While I remarked in a recent post that I found Beech Road, or Beech Farm Road, a little depressing - it's something to do with the field full of furry-legged horses and the trailers visible behind a wooden fence, not to mention the sinister-looking mobile phone masts standing erect across the fields - I've decided it's better than risking my neck on the 269. I think it's also something to do with the faux countryside, the fact that while it all looks very rural, it isn't. Admittedly, the road emerges halfway along the road of craziness (let's not forget the corona cocks in a carrot-coloured Caterham 7), but somehow the more airy section of the 269 feels a little safer (until I hear cars behind me and see cars up ahead). The problem is that drivers behind me won't slow down and wait, they'll try to squeeze past, giving me little in the way of clearance. There is an off-road path, but that means punctures and so far (since lockdown began) I've avoided them. I keep expecting to open the garage door and find a flat rear tyre, the ultimate nightmare in my opinion, it's not only deflating, it's demoralising. I know it would put paid to the ride until I could drum up the enthusiasm to fix it, not always that easy.

Riding along Beech Road heading towards the 269...

Mind you, I've had my fair share of deflation this weekend. One thing I've noticed about cycling daily is that it's given me a lot of energy and positivity. After a good ride I'm ready for most things and I'm kind of up for anything, like making the dinner, something I never seemed to have the energy for when I was commuting to work everyday, I just hoped it was virtually ready or being served when I walked through the door, but not anymore. I've been making the dinner most nights and I'm enjoying every minute. I've even set up my own imaginary restaurant, going by the name of Handel's. Why Handel's? Because prior to every meal served (and during) Handel is playing quietly in the background and it's great. Handel and a candle, well, a tealight, to add some ambience. And we've had some great meals in this exclusive restaurant: Padron peppers with lightly smoked fillet of salmon, a couple of excellent pasta sauces, served, of course, with pasta shells and the list goes on. It's a chilled way of ending each day in an imaginary restaurant with only one table and no need for social distancing.

But I digress. Deflation. That cycling energy got me outside early this morning. I had the mower out and I mowed the front lawn twice, it looks great, then I moved on to the back lawn, which is much bigger. I was motoring along and soon had the mower ready to rock. Well, things started off well and I think I managed five lengths of the lower lawn before the mower conked out, no power, nothing. And no, it wasn't a fuse, I tried that. It was a loose connection and it wasn't something I could fix so it's looking like a new mower is needed. To be fair, we need one. Last April we forked out a few quid on repairing our Hayter Envoy 36, but now it's getting like a secondhand car, when you have to stop spending on it and buy a new one. I can't remember what was wrong with it last time, but it was fixable and cheaper than buying a new mower. Now, perhaps it's a different story. I was up for just going to B&Q and getting a new one, but getting one delivered would be better, so we're leaving it until tomorrow, or some time next week, to assess our options.

At the Tatsfield Bus Stop on Saturday, early evening.

The lawn looks as if it's had a radical haircut, it's half cut, half uncut, and I'll admit the whole thing deflated me, having been so full of beans when I first set foot in the garden. "You mustn't despair." That's what dad used to say and he had a point, but sometimes I reckon a bit of despair does you good. Well, perhaps not. I'm over it now, but it demotivated me so much that I almost didn't hit the road on the bike. I did eventually, bringing my weekly total so far to 74 miles. After Monday's ride it'll be in the region of 88 to 90 miles and I'm currently debating whether to aim for 100 miles every week or just ensure that I get out there and do a minimum of 10 miles per day, or perhaps always ride 15 miles daily, rather than stick religiously to 100 miles. I always get bogged down with dilemmas.

The problem with lockdown, of course, is that when something goes wrong, it stays wrong as there's nobody to fix it. My bike needs servicing, the front wheel isn't aligned properly, the front brake pads need replacing, there's a bike in the garage that could do with a new saddle, but there's nobody to fix it on; the fact is I'm going to have to step up, learn how to do these things myself. I'm fine with punctures and taking wheels off, but I've yet to master replacing hydraulic brake pads or fixing saddles, but fortunately there's YouTube and plenty of willing online lecturers.

I wonder how many people are letting things go to rack and ruin? There are plenty of folk, for example, who can't fix a straightforward puncture, so I'm guessing there are many bikes in garages around the country doing nothing. If my car broke down I'd have to leave it by the roadside or wherever it conks out until there's somebody capable of repairing it. I'm going to have to learn new skills. It's a bit like the novel Earth Abides by George R Stewart (worth reading if you're interested) about a post apocalyptic world where people simply have to get on with life after a mystery disease, dare I say virus, has wiped out millions of people and everything has basically ceased to be: roads eventually get clogged up with weeds, bridges collapse, the power system fails, hospitals are no more, and people (survivors) live in little communities. It's a weird and frightening book and one I might read again and there are echoes of it in the lockdown. Doctors can't be seen in person, bikes can't be fixed, lawn mowers remain stationary on the lawn, slowly the world we know and love changes and we all have to find our own way. I feel sorry for university students, especially those who have just completed year one and were looking forward to university life, but now have to rely upon video conferencing, at least for the time being, it's a big shame for those people and I know some of them.

Fortunately, I suppose, corona virus isn't that dangerous. Sure, it's a killer, but it's not like the disease in Earth Abides. We'll have to wait for the real humdinger - that's probably being designed as I write this - and I'm hoping that those supposedly in charge of the world (Oh My God! It's Trump and Johnson) get together and stop whatever (or whoever) might have caused this.