Flight BA 0067 to Philadelphia... Saturday 14 May 2022

We took off before 2pm on a relatively clear day. Having not flown for over two and a half years, I was uneasy, but there was no cloud so my unease was lightened somewhat, but only mildly.

I was in seat 37a, an exit seat, so plenty of legroom, but no window I could call my own. To see out I had to turn my head to the left, which is what I did for most of the first 30 minutes, watching land get further and further away. Very soon we were high above ground looking down at what looked like a patchwork quilt of fields. 

I am writing in the past tense, as if the flight took place yesterday, but we’re only two and a quarter hours into a seven-hour flight and already I’m a mess, a mixture of pensive, sad and a little unhappy too. I don’t want to be so far away from home, but with every second that passes I’m getting further and further away when all I want is to be back there, in the garden or in a coffee shop or just doing nothing too taxing. I just want to chill if the truth is known, but what’s new about that?

Lunch (which was served mid-afternoon UK time) was the usual airline food. I always order the chicken and it was fine. There was a pleasant dessert, something like a chocolate cherry crunch, very tasty. There was a cracker too, but I never eat the cheese. 

Once lunch was over, of course, there was nothing to do; the cabin crew normally vanish but on this occasion they were present throughout the flight, busying themselves with serving our every need. 

I was not relaxed enough to read Jonathan Coe’s Middle England. Instead I just sat there thinking about time and trying to sectionalize it in my own head. I tried to think about Philadelphia where it was 11.30 in the morning and then I imagined it being lunchtime and then I thought about how quickly lunch passed and how residents of that great city would soon be thinking “4.30pm, is that the time?” And how, when they thought that, I would be on the ground making my way towards the terminal building and wishing I didn’t have to endure one more flight, that short hop west to Pittsburgh.

The man next to me sported a baseball cap and a black mask; he was reading Cold Granite by Stuart Macbride, a Sunday Times bestseller, which has never been my scene. I’ve never been in to bestsellers. His wife (I’m assuming it’s his wife) was reading a book called Exit by Belinda Bauer, but she (like him) was asleep. I can’t sleep on planes and even less so when I’m anxious and sad. It’s got a lot to do with not having travelled for the past two and a half years.

Where masks were concerned, not many people wore them and nor was I, although I had one in my pocket. I guess if everyone on board had taken a test the day before the flight then I assumed the likelihood of catching Covid was pretty slim. Still, never say never. 

Loads of cloud en route to Pittsburgh

In roughly four hours from now there will be around half an hour to go,I thought.That was how I was thinking. Not that such a thought is in any way heartening. Outside, the white-out world of the clouds was below us. 

My inability to relax was annoying so I took a stroll to the back of the plane and found little to amuse or comfort me. I remember a flight to Tokyo, although it might have been New Delhi, when the cabin crew was a pretty friendly bunch, handing out Celebrations chocolates and happy to pass the time of day with a bored passenger like yours truly. While the crew of flight BA0067 was friendly they all seemed rushed off their feet and had yet to disappear as they normally do. It seemed there was always something to keep them occupied.

I paid a visit to the cramped ‘bathroom’ but was too on edge to give my fellow passengers the finger from behind the bulkhead. Perhaps I wasn't tired or irritable enough at that moment, or perhaps I was already far worse; in four hours time there would be roughly 20 minutes to go. Except the journey – or the hassles – wouldn't be over: there was US immigration to deal with, baggage reclaim and then another flight, albeit a short one. If I’m honest I’d rather have taken the train from Philadelphia, but I never thought of it at the time so now I had to endure another plane journey. As always, I just wanted to get there. Of course I did. As my dad would have said, “you’re not unique”. In a way, however, he was wrong, we’re all unique. Dad would be right in one respect: there can’t be anybody on board who wants to be here, it’s all a means to an end. A to B or A to Z  it all amounts to the same thing. 

“They will write and they will call in,” I heard in my head. I nodded off and had micro dreams that featured random phrases of this nature, but all in a split second. Time was not passing fast. 

“And I saw her standing there,” I heard in my head and immediately thought of a bearded Sir Paul in his younger days.

Outside the sun was shining brightly and was reflected off the white sheet of cloud below us. I could hear a baby laughing or crying, it’s hard to know exactly, but the sound of a baby crying really depresses me.

Back home it was coming round to 6pm and I just knew that my rear lawn looked smooth and velvety in the evening sun. I might have been sitting in the garden room reading or drinking tea and probably wondering what we were having for dinner. We might have been out on a drive somewhere, it was hard to know exactly. The only constant was the ride and I would no doubt be wondering whether to ride to Oxted again in the morning, Sunday morning. Nothing better than a lazy weekend, but not today.

I was amazed at how hard the cabin crew was working; the crew hadn’t stopped since we took off nearly four hours ago, but they were not working as hard as the mum with a daughter and two young sons, the eldest being around five years old. They were sitting across from me in the middle row, in front of the bulkhead. The mum never stopped. The older boy was quite happy entertaining himself whereas the daughter, who was not yet a toddler, needed constant attention. The middle child was so quiet he seemed invisible.

The man next to me was awake and reading, black mask on. People wandered around while others, like me, drank water from a small, clear plastic beaker supplied by one of the cabin crew. There really wasn’t a great deal to say.

I walked to the rear of the plane again just to get some exercise. The woman with the baby walked back and forth too, holding the baby, and I was standing at the back, close to the galley, and looking at all the small screens on the backs of seats. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, I watch enough of them at home, but for some reason I found it hard to focus or concentrate enough to read or watch anything, I was in a strange frame of mind.

Outside, the Atlantic below looked calm, but it would do at 38,000 feet. There was less cloud, which was encouraging, but it was still very hazy, almost steamy. There were around three hours and twenty minutes to go. Perhaps I should have checked out the movies, or the music, although I knew the music would make me emotional. I thanked the Lord that I wasn't drinking. I remember once, on a flight to Chicago, when the euphoric nature of what I was listening to (I think it was Nessum Dorma) brought out the tears. A couple of Merlots at 38,000 feet can do that to me. I tried to conceal it and as nobody said anything I figured I got away with it, but I guess I’ll never know. Music can take me that way sometimes, and poetry (Milton Kessler’s Thanks forever) but it wouldn’t be so pronounced after a couple of glasses of water, although I’d say don’t push it, my frame of mind was such that I could crack at any moment. 

The pandemic was certainly a kind of watershed for me: pre-COVID travel (of which there was plenty) I took in my stride and I loved being away, even though it was always a wrench on day one. Eventually, once clear of the lag, I was fired up and full of the joys of spring, enjoying my hotel room in they way only I can (that’s an allusion to all the silly things I say I get up to, and to be honest most of it is true, although I don’t think I’ve climbed into the wardrobe yet, perhaps later). I don’t think my passion for mooching around the world has left me, it’s just that I’ve had over two years without it and need to get back into that space again. 

With three hours exactly before I reached Philadelphia, I was still regretting not organising the Amtrak to Pittsburgh. I could have checked into a hotel in the city and then taken an early train west, arriving late afternoon – perfect! But I didn’t think, which was typical. I think my problem is that I’ve always got stuff on my mind, things to think about, so that when it comes to something classy, like taking the train, I forget and then live to regret it. But why cry over spilt milk, there’s no point. 

The train thing was a result of the last time I found myself in Pittsburgh. The hotel I was staying in ‘stole' my laptop and passport forcing me to take the train to New York to get an emergency passport in order to fly home. It took 11 hours, but the whole experience was amazing and now I’m in love with long train journeys. I think I could spend days on a train without getting bored. I’d love to ride the Trans-Siberia across Siberia, all the way to China – and back again. You can’t beat sleeping on a train, eating on a train, reading on a train, writing on a train. Is there anything that isn’t more enjoyable than if you’re doing it on a train? I can’t think of anything. And even ‘that’ would be more fun as long as the guard didn’t knock on the door and demand to see my ticket. I wouldn’t mind riding the Polar Express, if it existed. Imagine that! A train with Tom Hanks on board. “Well in that case, tickets please!” That’s what he says in the movie, among other things. 

When I started thinking about elapsed time and how much more there was to go before we landed, I looked at the clock and found it was 7pm at home, and I thought, okay, the One Show had just started, had it been a weekday, and then I tried to think how long it took to reach the time I wanted it to be (in this case 9.30pm, UK time, which was when were destined to land) but it was pointless. Time is time and the only way to make it pass is to do something: watch a movie, listen to music, I don’t know, but I was just not relaxed enough and it looked as though I was going to remain in an unsettled state until we arrived. 

Spotted around Pittsburgh

Outside there was a watery blue haze and I couldn't see where the sky ended and the sea began. Sometimes I mistook clouds for land and my hopes rose until I realised it was little more than an illusion.

With around two hours to go, land appeared and I presumed it was Canada and that, at some stage, we would head south and follow the east coast towards our destination, but I don't think that happened.

View from room 513, Hilton Garden Downtown

The closer we got to Philadelphia, the thicker the cloud. The plane was full of pent-up energy and was chugging angrily towards its destination, but there was never any turbulence, just the threat of it, which kept me on edge and wishing I wasn't there, but I was there, and soon the plane started its descent and the cloud went on forever and didn't let up until we landed. I was glad to be on the ground, but had the hassle of US immigration to go through and then a grilling from a police officer whose surname was Santiago. I thought he was a cop on secondment from the police force of another country, but I was wrong. Santiago was his name. He was interested in my display unit, which I told him was very boring, but opened it nonetheless, telling him how it could be a rocket launcher; perhaps that was a silly thing to say, but he took the joke and eventually went on his merry way, or rather we did, but police officer Santiago was the least of our troubles. We had the possibility of a bumpy flight through stormy weather ahead of us and once again I found myself longing for Penn Station in New York and the prospect of an 11-hour train journey to Pittsburgh. But no, I didn't bottle the flight and while the rain outside of the terminal building intensified and the skies darkened, the flight was fine. A little dramatic in terms of the size and shape of the clouds that surrounded us like fluffy mines waiting to detonate, but all was well and we landed safely. I was tired but I was glad we had arrived and that all that stood between me and my hotel room was a short taxi ride into town. Our taxi driver was amused by my English accent and kept referring to me as James Bond. Funny the first time, perhaps, but he persisted and I was tired and just smiled politely, humouring him as the journey progressed. Soon he had dropped us at the hotel and my colleague tried to check in but was told by the man on the front desk, one Koda Rugg, that she didn't have a reservation. Puzzled, we asked him to double check, which he did, but then told us we were probably in the wrong hotel. There were two Hilton Garden hotels on the same road and despite the fact that I'd given our driver the address, he took us to the wrong hotel. Still, not a problem, we'll just ask for a taxi to take us to our hotel or perhaps we could walk it. "No, no, you can't walk, it's too dangerous," Rugg said as he pressed a button that ordered a z-Trip cab. But the z-Trip cab didn't arrive and the hotel where we were supposed to be staying couldn't help, other than give me the number of the same cab company the man at the wrong hotel had given us. All around us were people who were leading normal lives. They were fresh-faced and alive and dressed up for a night out and didn't feel dog-tired or jet-lagged like we did; and we both felt envious of their sprightliness as our pain continued. I felt as if this was the end, that we were destined forever to be sitting in the wrong hotel reception area surrounded by suitcases and two rocket launchers unable to leave or get any sleep, this was our lot, our destiny, our end. We wandered around like zombies and eventually, out of sheer luck, a z-Cab arrived and took us to our hotel. Tired and exhausted and feeling extremely low we checked in and went to our respective rooms. I decided to go straight to bed. I cleaned my teeth (or did I? I can't remember) and when I awoke the next morning I still felt awful, terrible, my right eye aching, my head throbbing. I phoned home and was advised to rest on the bed, which I did (thankfully) and I started to feel a little better. I walked to a Starbucks on nearby Market Square and ordered a large English Breakfast tea and a bottle of mineral water, not forgetting some weird egg dish the name of which escapes me. Earlier, in the hotel reception area, I bought a Hershey bar and some kind of almond and coconut chocolate bar, both of which I consumed with gusto before heading out for the aforementioned Starbucks. I started to feel better, but not 100%. In fact, it wasn't until I hit the sack, early, around 7pm – after another trip out to buy mineral water just in case I felt dehydrated during the night – that things started to look up. I slept for over 10 hours, more sleep than I'd had for a very long time, and I felt great. My eye was no longer aching, my headache (the first one in years) had gone and I was ready for what the world had to throw at me. It's Monday night now, but my day has been good and was rounded off with a wonderful meal in Pizzaiolo Primo on Market Square. Personally, I think it is the best restaurant in the whole of Pittsburgh and might say as much on Trip Advisor. I would like to return here soon. I know it's better than any of the restaurants I have visited in Pittsburgh and that's all that matters. And on that positive note, I'll sign off.

Air travel is back!

I haven't travelled abroad for over two years. The last time I went anywhere was in February 2020. Helsinki. Capital of Finland. I was there for a couple of days and when I returned, within a few weeks, the country was in lockdown. That was it. No more travelling. Up until that point I had been merrily flying around the world and you can read all about it by clicking on any of the links on the right hand side of this page. 

When the travelling stopped I was wondering how I would react to not whizzing around the world. I thought I'd be crawling up the walls, but I soon realised that it didn't bother me. This might have been because, throughout the lockdown, I spent an inordinate amount of time cycling and cooking and watching movies on Prime and Netflix. In fact, my entire 'lockdown experience' is documented on this very blog and starts here. I'm still riding and watching movies, but I've taken a back seat on the cooking and that's because we're back in the office three days out of five and that's been the case for some time now. Things are back to normal, but it's taken a little longer to find myself back on the travel circuit again. Now, however, I'm back... or I will be very soon, on a flight across the Atlantic to Philadelphia and then a little west to Pittsburgh. I haven't missed travelling one bit and now find myself mildly anxious about it. My weekends have been amazing over the past few weeks. I've been riding to Oxted and then sitting outside Caffe Nero in the sunshine, chilling with a cappuccino, or sitting outside of Starbucks with a large English Breakfast tea people watching. But for the next two weeks my routine will change, there won't be any riding, unless I can find a stationary bike in the hotel gym. I say 'two weeks', it's just one, but two weekends are involved so I'm going to miss two consecutive weeks of riding. I can't say I'm happy about that, because no cycling will be combined with American food and we all know what the Americans do with their food: they take something healthy and they make it unhealthy by adding creamy sauces and goodness knows what else. Either way the end result is not good. I am, however, looking forward to meeting some of the American people and being in America, a country I love to bits and I guess that now the travelling is returning I need to reset myself and get back into travelling mode again. The problem is not the travelling, it's having to wear a mask on a plane for hours on end. If it wasn't for that I think I'd be looking forward to it more than I am at this present time. Although I'd be looking forward to it a lot more if I could cross the Atlantic like Greta Thunberg did on a catarmaran, but that's not possible and they've yet to build a bridge across the ocean so flying is the only option. It's not just masks that make the whole thing unbearable, it's the hassle associated with the reason why we're all wearing masks: Covid. And that means tests before I fly and a ridiculous app, Verifly, that simply doesn't work. I keep thinking it must be something I'm doing wrong, but I've now submitted everything and have been told I'm ready to fly, but he BA website won't allow me to check in online because it hasn't received details, presumably from Verifly, that says I've tested negative and all is fine. As a result, I've ordered an early cab as the only option left to me is to check in manually, ie in the old-fashioned manner, ie I turn up and hand over my bags to a human being and hand over all my paper documentation and so forth. I'm leaving early for that reason alone and you know what? I know already that I'm going to have a lot of grief, they're not going to believe me, they won't accept my documentation when I present it to them and it's all going to be irritating and bordering on bad temper. I'm already uptight, I'm already getting bad-tempered about it all and now, of course, because I don't drink, I've got nothing to relax me, like a large glass of Merlot.

Anyway, the taxi is due any minute. Outside, the sun is shining. Normally, I would be cycling today, on my way to a chilled out cappuccino in the sunshine down in Oxted, like last week. But that's off the agenda this week and next. 

Just call me the hill climber...

Last week, five rides. This week, a bank holiday will help things along. Last week, almost 60 miles (59.1 miles) this week, so far, well, it looks as if it'll be something like 40 miles by tomorrow (2nd May) and if so I'll probably tip over 70 by Saturday, but only just.

This was a fairly tough hill.

Heaven for me at this present time is riding to Oxted. Along the 269 yesterday (Saturday 30 April) but through Woldingham this morning. Quite tough. I turned right on to Slines Oak Road and followed the road all the way into Woldingham, turning left at the top, riding towards The Ridge and hanging left until I reached Chalkpit Lane, the road opposite where Al Fayed used to live. It's a steep hill, much steeper than Titsey and there are plenty of twists and turns and I ended up in the suburbs of Oxted (if Oxted has suburbs, it's not that big a place). It's weird. I arrived into town from the other side of the tracks, so to speak, not a million miles from the Caffe Nero where I parked up and padlocked the bike, then I walked down towards the Starbucks where I ordered a large English Breakfast tea and a small bar of chocolate. The weather was good, not as good as yesterday, perhaps, but good enough to sit outside and watch the people pass by. This is why I like Oxted at the moment, it's because it's chilled and quiet and laid back and there's not much going on first thing in the morning. It's like nothing else, just being there, not really thinking but just taking things in. It's almost too good. I can see myself taking the train here one day soon, bringing the laptop and a decent book with me and chilling for the entire morning.

Having riden down Chalkpit Lane, I decided to ride back up. Titsey is a 16% incline, Chalkpit is 20% and I certainly felt it as I slowly made my way to the top. I turned right and headed for Botley Hill and I reached home around 1042 hrs, roughly an hour after I departed Oxted.

The Illustrious Illustrator (left)

I've got one more ride to go before work recommences on Tuesday and it looks as if I'll be going to the Tatsfield Churchyard to meet the Illustrious Illustrator. I'll leave the house around 0800hrs and should get there before 0900. It'll mean taking a flask and some tea, something I haven't done for a while, but I'm looking forward to it. In fact, I'm thinking of riding back along Pilgrims and then up Titsey Hill, just so I get that much-needed exercise... except that I didn't. I rode straight to the churchyard, chatted with Geoff for about an hour and then rode home following the outward route, a total of 16.10 miles.

It was strange being at the Tatsfield Churchyard after such a long absence. Memories of Andy and I sitting there in the sunshine, chilling out, talking about this and that and sipping tea, eating Belvita biscuits and preparing for the ride home. The rides seemed simpler back then, there was nothing gung-ho about them, no great urgency to cover a specific number of miles to feel on top of things. We just rode the bikes, invariably to the Tatsfield Bus Stop or the Churchyard or even the village itself. These were pre-coffee shop days when we spent absolutely nothing and only needed a flask of hot water, four teabags and some milk, not forgetting the biscuits. There was a division of labour too: I brought the tea and the water and the milk; Andy brought the biscuits and we did that for years and years. We sat on benchs, in fields, in churchyards on village greens near and far and were unconcerned that we hadn't covered more than, say, 32 miles in a week, riding only on a Saturday and Sunday. Things are more fretful now. We want mid-week rides to bump up the mileage, longer distances at the weekends, climbing big hills like Titsey and so on and then adding the rides to Strava and longing for kudos from fellow riders. There really is a clear pre- and post-pandemic thing going on with our rides and the long and the short of it is we're both riding a lot more and we tend not to visit our old haunts. These days we spend money in Costa or Caffe Nero or Starbucks, which is fine, there's nothing better in my book than riding to Oxted on a sunny day and sitting in a coffee shop chilling out before the ride home, in fact 'that ride' has become my current default, that's why it was so odd finding myself in the churchyard having to get used to the peace and quiet. The churchyard really is in a world of its own, it's away from the numbers, out of sight, out of mind, there's no cars, no people bar the odd gardener tending to the graves. Churchyards were our thing. Churchyards and covered bus stops, but now they're confined to the history books and can only be found, by and large, by scrolling back through this very blog to find shots of Andy and I sitting at the covered bus stop at the top of Approach Road, Tatsfield, or in the village. As I say, another era. Now we carry padlocks and mix with the general public. But there's no point standing in the way of progress. For a start, it's nice not having to carry a heavy rucksack full of water and teabags, which I did for many years. Now there's nothing on my back apart from whatever I'm wearing, I feel freer, I'm probably riding a little faster, it's certainly easier, and the thought of an English Breakfast tea (albeit one that costs me £2.88) makes the whole ride that little bit better. The destination, the halfway point, is a lot more appealing, there's little better than people watching in the sunshine, chilling while waiting for that moment when there's nothing else other than the ride home.

The Tatsfield Churchyard, it's been a long time!

Talking of the old days (as I was earlier) Andy sent me a direct message via Twitter talking about a past post, written back in June 2014. He said it's amazing how things have changed and I texted back saying totally, things have really changed. We don't see Phil from one year to the next. I remember him riding to Tatsfield Village not that long ago on his motorcycle, but that was it and I often wonder when (if at all) things will revert to what they used to be; not that they should, life moves on, things change, people change, circumstances change and, as I said earlier, while I wouldn't necessarily say things have changed for the better (that would mean that our times as a threesome were not as good as now) they have changed, mainly because of the pandemic. Phil remarried, he still lives nearby but he has different responsibilities. Andy and I still meet up, once a week (or we did until Andy's accident) but things are improving, Andy's on the mend and soon we'll be back, down in Westerham, sitting in the Costa having a chinwag. I'm looking forward to that. I'd like to say we'll see Phil again soon too and I hope we do, but it's whenever he feels the need.

Lastly, on how things have changed, if you compare the post Andy was referring to (click here) to recent posts, you'll notice a difference. While recent posts obsess about mileage and numbers of rides per week, the older posts focus on other stuff. The ride is there, of course, but it's not centre stage, we're engaged in other stuff, like cakes and biscuits, David Beckham and so forth, there is, if you like, a happier tone to past posts compared to more recent ones.

The Rockhopper, Monday 2 May 2022, Tatsfield Churchyard

Today is Monday and my cycling week has, of course, only just started. I rode 16 today and 20 yesterday (give or take) so that's 36 miles. If I can double that by Saturday I'll be laughing. Last week, five rides, so I'm not doing too badly.

Two rides to Oxted and back up Titsey Hill

After my four consecutive 20-miler rides last weekend I'm afraid I didn't ride out again until yesterday (Saturday) meaning my riding was roughly 60 miles this week, thanks to the Easter Bank Holiday and the good weather. Having enjoyed riding to Oxted immensely over recent weeks, even climbing up Titsey was kind of fun, I decided to keep at it. On both occasions this weekend I chose Starbucks as my tea venue even if it is £2.88 for a cuppa, albeit a very large one. Although, oddly, I was a bit miffed at having to pay such a price. A cup of tea? Nearly £3? It was cheaper in the Caffe Nero, but the cup was smaller too, that's why I opted for the Starbucks. Also, the Starbucks was brand new and spacious and for some reason I quite like it. What I might do now that the weather is improving is buy myself a drinks container for £11.99 (Starbucks says it won't leak) meaning I could ride to Oxted with a cup of tea, perhaps bring a tiny drop of milk, and then sit in the park until it's time to ride home. The thing is I quite like being in the coffee shop, ie the Starbucks or the Caffe Nero so buying the container isn't a great idea. We'll see.

Sunday: Tea at Starbucks, £2.88!

Both rides were good, although the weather was certainly a little cooler than the Easter weekend. Not that much cooler, but definitely cooler. On Saturday I sat by the window reading a copy of the Daily Mail that somebody had left behind. I read my stars because, for some reason, even though I don't believe them, I like to think there might be some truth in them, especially if they're full of good news, which they were to a certain extent. I read a bit about Russia, Putin and Ukraine, skipped through some awful stories about children being killed by their parents (in one case a woman addicted to crack cocaine and a young boy with serious asthma problems). Once again, the young child was failed by social workers, which never fails to annoy me. Soon, as always, it was time to head home and the thought of riding up Titsey is no longer daunting. I plan to keep doing it. In fact, the ride to Oxted is good, albeit the 269 is involved, but the earlier I depart, the quieter it is and the return journey is always fine for some reason, although I'm aware that I need to keep a weather eye on motorists as some of them are not at all good and pay very little attention to cyclists. I could (and perhaps should) take The Ridge and ride into Woldingham, far safer it has to be said, but sometimes I like the idea of just getting back home and besides, for some reason, I don't like riding down Slines Oak Road for the top of Woldingham. I don't mind the steep bit at the other end and to be honest I should do my level best to avoid the 269.

Sunday: on the road towards Titsey Hill

The ride up Titsey is almost leisurely. I know that sounds daft when you consider it's a fairly steep and long hill, but once I get going and settle in to it, the ride up is fine and because it's so long and a little monotonous, it's possible to switch off and simply glide up thinking about other things or just losing myself in the scenery. On either side, for instance, there are woods and because the hill means travelling fairly slowly, there's enough time to take them in, enjoy the relative peace and quiet, listen to the birds and generally chill until the sign for Botley Hill appears and I know then that the climb is over. Last week, when I was riding down Titsey on the way to Oxted, actually when I reached the road and everything had levelled out, just before going under the motorway, I saw a massive bird of prey. It was huge, the wingspan must have been around four feet, I don't know, but it was amazing, great to see so early in the morning, and this is what I love about riding a bike into the sticks, which I do all the time. 

Woods on the ride up Titsey Hill

It's important to keep your mind on the road when you're riding down Titsey. It's a 16% drop and the bike can pick up a fair speed, you've got cars going up and down and then you've got White Lane on your left and very often a car suddenly appears and you don't want it pulling out in front of you. I keep my hands slightly pressed on the brakes, slowing the bike down, and it's important to remember that White Lane isn't the only turning on the left that could present problems should a car emerge from it; there's also Pilgrims Lane. Today I worked out that there's an off-road route all the way down on the left hand side of Titsey. I need to check it out. I know about the off-road ride on the right hand side as Andy and I have done it before. Somewhere on this blog there is a photograph of me, taken by Andy, circa 2011 I think, as we reached the end of the off-road track. I think a puddle is involved but my memory is sketchy.

On the downward ride, once the hill is out of the way, the rest of the journey is pretty smooth sailing, particularly after riding under the motorway and entering Limpsfield Village. There's a right turn on a bend into Bluehouse Lane and then a left turn in to Granville, which is a long road, fairly flat, flanked on either side by large houses. At the end there's another left turn and then, with the library on the left, it's a short ride to the high street.

Sunday: Tall trees on Titsey

Both rides this weekend were pretty similar. On Saturday I spent a little time in the charity shop next to the Caffe Nero. You might recall from a previous post that I found a pair of binoculars and a tiny violin in the charity shop. Well, they're both still there, albeit on different shelves. I spent all of three minutes in the store and then resigned myself to the ride back. On Sunday, I parked up the bike outside the Caffe Nero, as I did on Saturday, and then walked down to the Starbucks. The place was busier than yesterday and I momentarily found myself wondering whether to go back to the Caffe Nero, but in the end I stuck with Starbucks and this time sat outside next to a dad and his two kids. Saturday, as you know, I sat by the window reading the Daily Mail. There were five or six Vespa scooters parked up on the other side of the road and eventually the owners emerged from somewhere and rode off up the high street. It sounded like a bunch of petrol lawnmowers and all the riders were old blokes. There was something a little sad and corny about the whole episode, unlike the previous day (Saturday) when I complimented a motorcyclist on his great bike, a 2011 Honda 750 with a V-twin engine. We chatted briefly as I feared his motorcycle knowledge was greater than mine, and then I jumped on my bike and rode off, but not as fast (or as cool) as the guy on the Honda.

On Sunday, half way up the appropriately named Titsey Hill on the ride home, I stumbled across a soft porn magazine that somebody had clearly thrown from a car window. There was a lot of flange and tits aplenty as the pages were magically turned by the wind as I approached. All very surreal. 

I reached home before noon and carried on with my day. 

The iphone SE Third Generation 2022

As avid readers will know, my old iphone XS passed away the week before last, leaving me phoneless. It was great not having a phone, but now I've bought another one, the iphone SE Third Generation 2022, it's red (which means that Apple is giving a percentage of the sale to charity). It goes without saying that I've been faffing around getting the phone working, which it now is, but the key thing is that having a week without a phone has made me think about my future phone usage. I'm going to try not to look at it so often. In fact, I've set up the 'do not disturb' function so that only key people can reach me after 1730hrs during the week. At weekends the phone is totally out of bounds for most people. All I need to do is buy a case for it as the last thing I want is to damage the screen and have to buy another phone. I was going to buy the phone online, but decided to visit the Apple store in Bromley where I found myself down with the all trendy kids.

My new iphone SE Third Generation 2022, it's red!!!

Four rides to Oxted - 80 miles over four consecutive days...

It was looking like another piss poor week on the bike and all my own doing (again). While I got off to a good start last Sunday with a ride to God knows where (I can't remember exactly as I don't have my phone, it's broken, but I think it was Westerham), I then lost the plot on Tuesday and that set in motion the usual crap about riding or not riding. However, the plus point of this week was Easter, which means that Friday wasn't a work day so I rode to Oxted (roughly 20 miles, I think it's something like 19.36 miles). It was absolutely wonderful, it has to be said. Oxted on a warm and sunny morning, hardly any traffic about, the town slowly awaking, and me sitting outside of Caffe Nero with a cappuccino and an almond croissant, earwigging on the conversations of others and taking in a few rays. I realised pretty quickly that life doesn't get much better than this and vowed there and then to ride to Oxted every day of the Easter bank holiday. It meant climbing out of town on Titsey Hill, but that was not impossible. In fact, as the days progressed I got better and better at it and soon realised that it wasn't such a bad hill after all. I know that Andy and I have discussed this before (that Titsey ain't that bad) and it really isn't. The worst bit is early on and probably stretches to around White Lane, but once beyond that the ride beds in, it's not steep, just monotonous, but it's only a drag if you let it become one; I rode up nonchalantly, looking at the trees on either side of the road, listening to the birds singing and soon I found myself at Botley Hill and on the 269 heading for Warlingham and, ultimately, home.

My trips to Oxted can be remembered by what I had to eat (and let's not forget, today is Sunday so if I ride it'll be the third of four rides). So, on Friday (Good Friday) an almond croissant which, incidentally, had nothing on the almond croissants available from the AMT Coffee kiosk on East Croydon station; and then yesterday (a plain old bog standard Saturday) I ordered a cinnamon swirl. The reason I was having pastries was simple: Titsey Hill. Yes, it's not a bad hill - or not as bad as you expect it to be - but it's still a decent work-out and I figured that four consecutive days of such riding would mean I could justify a light snack half way through, which is what I did.

I sat outside of the Caffe Nero, there was little point in staying inside, not when the weather was this good, so I found a table, I'd padlocked the bike close-by and I loved every darn minute. On both occasions a large cappuccino and the aforementioned pastries and then, on the Good Friday visit and yesterday's ride, I nipped into the Sue Ryder charity shop to see what was on offer. Being as Oxted is a fairly well-to-do sort of place, the quality of the goods is pretty high. There was a small violin and a pair of binoculars and I have to admit that I was tempted to buy the latter, mainly because I remember my dad had a pair that he used to bring on holiday with us to the South Coast and watch the ships that sat seemingly motionless on the misty horizon. But I had no way of carrying such a heavy pair of binoculars back on the bike. They came complete with a case, which was even better and I'm guessing they were 10 x 50s but who knows, they might have been more powerful. But then the old reservations started to flood my brain and piss on my parade. You know the sort of thing: "What do you want those for?" "When will you use them for heaven's sake?" "What's the point?" and soon there was no point so I skulked out feeling, it has to be said, a little down in the dumps, but only temporarily. Once back on the bike and sailing along the empty high street in the sun, glad that I hadn't visited the new Starbuck's, mainly because they don't pay their taxes, I felt fine. And soon, as I rode along Granville Road, past all the massive houses and heading in the direction of the daunting Titsey Hill, my mood lightened again and all was well with the world. 

Today, Easter Sunday, my attitude towards Oxted's new Starbucks weakened. As I peered into the airy space inside, the brand spanking new wooden furniture and fittings and the fact that I was, at that moment, the only customer, I decided to order an English breakfast tea and an almond croissant. I sat outside and watched the occasional person walk up or down the high street. The sun shone down, there was very little in the way of sounds bar the purr of a coasting car or the sound of buildings (if there is such a thing). And all the while the nagging thought of the ride home was very real. Titsey Hill for the third time in as many days. If I ride here tomorrow, I was thinking, that's 80 miles since Good Friday - four days, 80 miles, not bad going. In an odd way, I was looking forward to the ride home, and yes, even Titsey Hill, it didn't bother me, I knew the deal, I was aware that any pain (there was no pain) was short-lived, there was a touch of monotony but not for long and soon there would be Botley Hill and the 269. I headed off down main street (as they'd call it in the USA), turned left, past the Library and then right into Granville Road. The weather was roughly the same as yesterday and as I rode along I felt good about life, it must have been the fresh air and the scented hedgerows, there was optimism in the air and is was brought about by the thought of another day off, Bank Holiday Monday, and the possibility of another ride to make up that magical 80 miles. I caught a weather forecast on the television and there was talk of overnight rain, occasional showers here and there, which might mean wet furniture and that would mean sitting indoors, but I was having new thoughts and they were all focused on the new Starbucks with its airy, woody interior. I know that there's free wifi and that means one thing: I can take my lap top, I can take a decent book and spend an inordinate amount of time chilling there, blogging, writing, reading, sipping tea and taking life easy. I can take the train from Sanderstead, it's only around 15 minutes, and then a short walk down the high street. I could hang there until lunch time and then get the train home again. A lot of the time it's remembering to do it; I'll be sitting at home wondering what to do when there's nobody else around and then I'll think a-ha! I could go to that Starbucks, take my lap top, take my book and just sit there all morning. My time will come, that much I do know.

Today, the distant sound of Easter church bells rang out as I started my ride up Titsey Hill. The ascent was fine and soon I reached the top and then rode along the 269. Soon I was heading along the Limpsfield Road towards home. And now, here I sit at almost 1800hrs, not really feeling hungry thanks to Lindor chocolate eggs and a large roast chicken dinner round at the mother-in-law's house. From where I am sitting now I can see another Lindor egg perched up high on the ledge of our brass mirror. It's not mine and I'm not in anyway interested in it because I know what it's about: there's an egg and there's a box of smaller wrapped eggs inside, all very nice, but I won't be going near it. Columbo's on! "I'll be the son of a gun! Where did you find that? I've been looking all over for it," says Columbo from inside a locksmith's shop. Can I be bothered to watch it? No, not really, so I'll sign off now, but I'm not planning on posting until I know whether or not tomorrow's ride takes place. I'm sure it will. Incidentally, I did watch Columbo as it starred Jack Cassidy (David's dad) and then I watched another one about a painter with three women attending to his every need.

My phone is fucked

It's now Monday, Easter Monday, and the sun is shining just like it was yesterday morning and every morning since Good Friday. I'm planning a ride to Oxted again, but there's around 45 minutes before I hit the road. I thought I'd let you know that I don't have a mobile phone at the present time. On Thursday I awoke to a frozen phone and ended up taking it to an Apple shop in Wallington where I was told I needed a new screen and that it would cost me £266, presenting me with a dilemma: do I fix it or buy a new phone, ie get into a contract (36 months at over twice what I'm paying now) or do I pay the money, get it fixed and continue with with £13/month SIM-only deal? What would you do?

It took me a day or two, but it's quite pleasant not having a phone. Yes, I'm out of touch, yes, nobody can reach me, yes, I can't reach anybody either, but there's something fairly liberating about it. I can't use Strava either, which means I can't see at a glance how many miles I've been riding. This is good and bad. Good in the sense that it doesn't really matter and bad in the sense that perhaps it does matter. Taking the former, not having Strava simply means going for a ride and not totting up the mileage and feeling either under or overwhelmed by the knowledge. Furthermore, I know it's roughly 20 miles to Oxted, it's 21-22 miles to Westerham, similarly Biggin Hill, I know that a ride to Tatsfield is roughly 16 miles and that a short ride to Botley Hill no more than 14 miles (or thereabouts) so who needs Strava? Conversely, it's nice to know the mileage, the elevation, the riding time, and it's good to record the ride, to be able to scroll back at past rides and so forth, not that I've ever done that. I suppose what I'm saying is I'm not too bothered about it. Likewise I don't have access to my work emails and why should I? They don't provide me with a phone, although, to be fair to them, they do pay my phone bill if I use it on company business. That said, it's nice to be on a train and not feel the temptation to play with my phone, but then on the other hand I can't take photographs, can't use WhatsApp and can't check out my blogs when I have nothing else to do. Crucially, though, I don't feel like a fish out of water without it. It's amazing how quickly one adapts to stuff like this and I often wish I had the nerve to do it, not have a phone, be out of touch. But the problems kick in when you're meeting somebody somewhere or you're running late or, worse still, you've had to cancel the meeting for some reason: without a phone it means leaving somebody stranded and wondering whether you're coming or not. So, in the round, it's probably best having a phone, which then begs the question of whether it needs such sophistication. Do I need a camera? Do I need any of the apps? Or do I just need a phone that somebody can call me on or I can call them? Ultimately, that's all I need. Or is it? I am a bit of a gadget freak (to an extent) and there's not much to get excited about with a Nokia 3310 is there? Besides, where would this blog be without photographs? I'd have to carry around a digital camera like I used to in the old days. Not that there's anything wrong with that, at least the image quality would be better.

Today I left the house around 0830hrs and followed the usual route into Oxted, arriving around an hour later. I seriously thought about not visiting the Starbucks and instead going back to Caffe Nero (decisions, decisions) but for some reason I found myself in Starbucks ordering a large English breakfast tea and an almond croissant, which was far, far better than the one I had in Caffe Nero on Good Friday. It was also much better than the almond croissant in Starbucks yesterday; perhaps they were fresher today for some reason. In terms of bakes, the sequence was as follows: almond croissant, cinnamon swirl, almond croissant, almond croissant, so thank the Lord for Titsey Hill is all I can say. I sat outside enjoying the sunshine and the peace and quiet of Oxted High Street early in the morning. The whole attraction of riding here was the peace, the laid back 'easy like Sunday morning' vibe, the odd person milling around, the occasional car purring along and me just sitting there sipping tea and thinking about nothing in particular. Eventually, of course, I had to ride back, and that meant preparing myself for the ride up Titsey, not that it required much preparation, it was, after all, just a case of doing it. Remember, I'd been doing it successfully over the past three days so I wasn't anticipating any problems today. Sure enough it all went well, just me, the bike and the chirping birds in the trees all the way to the top. I sailed along the 269 and then the Limpsfield Road and soon I was approaching home. I followed the usual route and then chilled in the garden drinking tea.

Cycling-wise, I redeemed myself. From Good Friday to Bank Holiday Monday I rode 4 x 20 miles to Oxted and back, via Titsey Hill, that's 80 miles in total. Last week I managed just under 70 miles, something like 68 miles, which is also good.

Imagine owning a gun...

I'm losing track of when I did and didn't ride the bike. Let's see if, from memory, I can work things out. Last Sunday was 3 April and I remember it because I phoned Geoff, the illustrious illustrator, to chat about his altercation with his next door neighbour's gardener. That was last Sunday. Prior to last Sunday I rode to Botley Hill on Friday afternoon/early evening and returned via Woldingham, meaning that the Sunday before Sunday 3 April was when I rode to Biggin Hill and had breakfast in the Spitfire Cafe, but either way, the trend has been two rides of roughly 42 miles in total; it was a similar scenario this week just past, if I can remember it. Well, I didn't go out on either Thursday or Friday of last week - more's the pity. So let's get back to last week's ride to Westerham when I was chatting with Geoff on the phone about his altercation with the gardener, that was a ride to Westerham of approximately 21.5 miles. Yesterday I rode to Westerham, roughly 21.5 miles again, so this week another grand total of 43 miles. Shit, really, when you think about it. I need to up my game, but I think my problem is coming home tired from work (especially if I walk from Purley) and then not really feeling like getting out there. I've considered a number of ways of breaking my current spell of laziness (and let's not forget that only a few weeks ago I was doing around 70 miles per week, well, for a couple of weeks at any rate). One way is to bite the bullet, not walk home from Purley and instead ride the Nobbler for just 35 minutes or so (six miles). If I do that Monday through Friday that's 30 miles, plus today's 22 miles = 52 and then, if I ride to Westerham next Saturday, a total of 74 miles with not too much in the way of inconvenience: that's the best thing to do; the alternative would be to ride to work one day during the week (the best day is Thursday when hardly anybody is in the office. I could leave the house around 0700hrs, get there for 0815hrs and just start working, then ride back around 1600hrs, meaning just over 24 miles. Alright six short of the daily ride scenario, making it a total of just 68 miles (two miles under the respectable 70 miles). As you can see, I'm fretting again: "Just go when you can, when you fancy it, when you feel like it, don't beat yourself up over it," I say to myself and of course I'm right. The weather's warming up now, the temptation to go cycling will take over from that feeling of not wanting to go out.

April 2nd in Westerham Costa

I rode 11 miles for a haircut

Today's ride was fine, but let's talk first about yesterday's Haircut Ride. I rode into Westerham, the fast way, on the 269. I'm a bit wary of Beddlestead Lane ever since I heard from Andy about somebody being robbed of their bike, but to be honest, I've been riding the 269 for some weeks now, I don't know why as it is fairly dodgy on the traffic front and people tend to speed along without a care for cyclists. In fact, they positively hate cyclists on the 269, they all think we should be using the cycle lane, but what they don't realise is that the "cycle lane" is peppered with thorns and guarantee any self-respecting cyclist a puncture, that's one reason why most of us use the road. Also, there are people and joggers on the pathway (it's not just for cyclists) and often they're wearing headphones and can't hear a cyclist approaching them from behind, making it all very annoying. For these reasons I stick to the road. Going out around 0800hrs is fine, but if leave a little later the traffic is heavier and there's always a belligerent cunt wanting to voice his opinion in some way or other. Only the other week (I might have mentioned it) there was a motorist stuck in a queue behind other motorists because up ahead was yours truly and one of the drivers at the front of queue was doing the right thing (giving me room and, in the process causing a short queue, a minor hold-up). But for some it's not acceptable and as I passed an irate motorist he beeped his horn and glowered at me. I deliberately pulled a manic, eyes glaring insanely kind of face and waved in slow motion as I passed him. He must have been fuming at that and I hope he was, but anyway, I think I've mentioned this before so I'll stop there.

So, where was I? Ah, yes, in Westerham. I ordered a large English breakfast tea to takeaway and I sat outside as the weather was warm and everything was laid back. The bike was padlocked in front of me and I sat there, as always, people watching. 

James Nesbit, Nicholas Cage or a child molester?

My hair is mess, it has been for some weeks now. It's always the same, give it a few weeks and I start to look terrible. My hair gets straggly and it's sort of half black, half grey, some people call it "salt and pepper", which I fucking hate. Anyway, once it gets a certain length, normally around eight weeks after cutting, I look terrible, especially if I don't shave (as I'm prone not to do at weekends). I start wearing a bobble hat to press it down so that when I reach the office I look mildly respectable. If it's a windy day I've had it, especially if I forget the bobble hat - or rather the bobble-less hat, so let's make that a beanie. My mum, much to my annoyance, likes my hair when it's long and straggly and grey and I can't help but feel that all the people who love my hair in such a state are just saying it so that I stay scruffy-looking, to my detriment. My mum also thinks I look like the actor James Nesbit, especially when my hair is short: let's get this straight, I look nothing like James Nesbit. Seriously. Somebody in the office said recently that I looked like Nicholas Cage, I'll take that. In fact, it's not the first time. I was once in Seattle and a woman sidled up to me as I sat at the bar of the Belltown Bistro on First Avenue. She sat herself down and said, "There's a little bit of Nicholas Cage going on there." The thing is, without being vain and conceited, I kind of know what she means, it's the high forehead, but he has a better mouth than mine, although there are similarities, especially when my hair is longer. Right now it's very, very short. I think a number two on the sides and back and a number four or three on top, it's convict chic and nobody likes it. When it's long and straggly I look like a child molester and then, when I cut it short, I look like a convicted child molester. I can't win. 

Having a haircut has been on my mind for a few weeks. I wake up in the morning and I don't even want to look in the mirror as I know I'll be faced with the Toecutter from the first Mad Max. I've considered having it done at the barber's next to Redhill station, but the last time I was there I went down with Covid the following Saturday so they've lost my custom. I started thinking about the Syrian barber in Westerham High Street, Star Barbers, there's a chain of them, but I figured that having a haircut in a sparsely populated town like Westerham would reduce my chances of catching Covid again. But when I reached the northern Kent market town I couldn't see the place and I think it has been replaced with a charity shop. Alright, I might be wrong, I might have just not seen it as I rode by, but anyway, it didn't matter as I suddenly noticed Westerham Barbers next door to the Costa. In I bowled, having decided prior to be ultra-chirpy. I had a short wait but this was pleasant enough as the place seemed to be run by a young couple, a man who was trying to make himself look older by having a thick beard and a woman who had now engaged me in conversation, she even, infuriatingly, said she liked my hair and said that lots of people were dying their hair grey. "Perhaps I won't have that haircut," I said, jokingly, as she started to wash my hair. Why, I wondered, was she washing my hair when the plan was to cut it all off. But apparently it makes cutting it far easier. Hmmm...I started to smell BS, but they were a pleasant enough couple who hailed from Hackney and I wanted the haircut so I rolled with it and went on to have my ears flamed by a ball of blue fire and then two hot wax-dunked sticks stuffed up my nose: yes, I was having my nose waxed. He pulled them both out rather aggressively, I yelped and then relaxed. Then he decided to do it again and on each occasion I winced at the momentary pain as he ripped my nose hairs from my ears. Then there was the hot towel. To be honest, I could have done that myself, perhaps I will. I have plenty of towels, but how would I get them so hot? Actually, I probably won't bother. I remember, years ago, whenever I visited an Indian restaurant, they used to bring out hot towels after the meal and myself and a pal would take them from the waiter who handed them to us on tongs, and slap them on our faces. There was always a moment when we thought they were simply too hot, but the heat subsided fairly quickly and soon they would be just wet towels and we would discard them in a bowl provided.

With my nose now sore and hairless, my head shaved, my face hot and smelling of Turkish cologne, I paid up (£15) and headed off. Putting my crash helmet on I was pleased to note that it fitted slightly better now that the hair had come off. I rode home happy, following the road out of Westerham and heading in the direction of the Velo Barn. I think I was singing. As my hair gets longer I tend to get more miserable and apathetic and once it's all cut off I feel free and positive again. I know that over the next five or six weeks my hair will be manageable and I won't need to wear that bobble hat.

I reached home, 21.5 miles better off, and knowing that my weekly total hovered around 42/43 miles. No, I wasn't happy about it, but it was the truth, the reality, and now, as of Sunday, my new cycling week would begin. When I woke up Sunday morning I had momentarily forgotten about the haircut, until I looked in the mirror. It was a good cut and I was happy. Not only that, the sun was shining and while I was distracted by the Sunday morning political TV shows and an episode of Tales of the Unexpected, I was soon on my way (to Westerham) on the 269.

Imagine owning a gun

Going back to belligerent drivers on the 269, today (for it is Sunday evening as I write this) today this arsehole in a black Range Rover, his boring-looking wife sitting next to him, slowed, rolled down the passenger window and said to me as I rode along, "There's a cycle lane right there," pointing to my left. I ignored him, but I was annoyed at his arrogance. Later, when I arrived in Westerham, I saw his car, parked just down from Costa Coffee, they were just leaving. They'd probably stopped for a coffee. I had thoughts of coining his pride and joy - but I never carry cash. I thought about walking over there and telling him that I hadn't paid a blind bit of notice to what he, a neatly trimmed, bearded bastard, had said earlier, but I simply couldn't be bothered. Sometimes I think that extreme violence is possibly the only answer to life's little annoyances. Of course, that's a ridiculous thing to say and I'm glad that I don't carry a knife or a truncheon or a piece of splintered wood penetrated with bent and rusty old nails. Still, I ought to be careful. I tend to give these people the finger and I'm sure they see it through their wing mirrors as they drive away. One day they might turn around and come after me and it is then that I imagine owning a gun. Many years ago, I used to own a blank-firing replica 357 Magnum. It was so realistic I reckon I could have held up a bank with it. Imagine if I'd pulled out a real gun and asked him to repeat what he said. 

"No, no, no, don't start weeping, you miserable little cunt, tell me what you were saying, something about a fucking cycle lane wasn't it?"

"I was just saying that..."

"You were just saying what, fuck face? What the fuck were you saying, what was your fucking point? Why did you slow down your fucking gas guzzling pile of shit to tell me about a fucking cycle lane? Eh? You going to answer me or just sit there weeping like a fucking baby?"

"I, I..."

"What's the matter, cat's got your fucking tongue?"

I then turn around sharpish and blow his wife's brains out and then turn again and splatter his brains all over the cream leather interior, just like in the movies, before simply riding off in the direction of Westerham, looking forward to my English Breakfast tea and leaving the police to sort out the mess. I wonder if they'd catch me? Probably not. It would be a case of "no arrests have been made".

So yes, you could say I was a little angry about it, but the anger subsided, as it always does, and I sat there sipping politely on my large paper cup of English Breakfast Tea until it was time to ride home.

Later I drove to Tunbridge Wells for a late lunch in a cafe: large cappuccino, a chicken burger and salad, a few chips dipped in HP sauce, chilled music from a band called Coin and then a leisurely drive home. And now I'm watching (half watching) Spencer with Kristen Stewart. My daughter and I like her movies and I was thinking only this morning how good she was in The Cake Eaters. But enough! It's Sunday evening and I'm going to simply chill out ahead of work in the morning.

Not a brilliant week...

The weather has been strange, schizophrenic almost, insane in a way, and neither here nor there in every sense of the phrase. The temperature drop was the most noticeable thing about it; when I think back to my ride into Biggin Hill last Saturday, when the sun was shining as I climbed Stock Hill en route to the Spitfire cafe, and all was well with the world; it's almost as if I travelled to another planet as the week progressed. 

Last Sunday: a trifle but no bike ride.

Monday through Wednesday I walked my traditional walk from Purley railway station to my house just over two miles away. 'Traditional' is, perhaps, too strong a word, so let's say my regular walk.  After a day at work, however, the walk is a bit of an ordeal and when I reach home I head straight for the kitchen and a sandwich of some sort. Generally speaking, the weather was fine for the walks, there was no rain and it was Thursday when the strangeness started. There was sunshine and a kind of fluffy snow to start with, and then the snow transformed itself into a hailstone and sleet combo accompanied by a wary sun. I remember the grass, freshly cut last week, glowing in the sunlight whilst being pelted by white hailstones and translucent sleet. The temperature dropped, the wind was cold and bitter and I decided to ride the Weeble. In fact, I named the ride on Strava as a 'Windy Weeble'. It was a good ride, but not overly pleasant. Put it this way, I was glad when it was over. It was alright, but even wearing my Parka I still felt the wind blowing through me as I rode along, remembering sundown the previous week when, as I turned right on to Washpond Lane, I spied burning orange skies and silhouetted trees as I embarked upon the return journey that would take me back towards Ledgers Road and ultimately the Limpsfield Road towards the warmth of home.

On Friday the weather seemed a little better. In fact, when I forced myself to get out of the house and on to the bike I decided to ride to Botley Hill along the 269. It was just gone 1700hrs, so the height of rush hour. I expected some abuse and I wasn't disappointed. A motorcyclist slowed to tell me I should be on the cycle lane to my left and then gave me the tosser sign, which I returned with gusto. Then there was a motorist who couldn't be bothered to slow down and wait for safe moment to pass me who was beeped by a motorist coming the other way. I was planning on returning along the same road, but fed up with the angry atmosphere created by impatient motorists I decided to ride through Woldingham on the quieter country lanes, which meant extra mileage. I had to climb the steep bit at the 269 end of Slines Oak Road, which I admit I was a little apprehensive about, but I still had it, the strength that is, and managed to reach the summit without really breaking a sweat. Well, almost.

The Eagle where I ate the trifle on Sunday 

Friday night meant slobbing around watching television. There was a new series of Have I Got News for You, hosted by Clive Myrie. I have to admit, having slagged Myrie off for promoting Mastermind while covering the war in Ukraine from Kyiv, I thought he did rather a good job of hosting the weekly news quiz. The jokes were good too. But I never know when to quit and ended up watching a harrowing movie, Landmine Goes Click, on Prime. I eventually hit the sack at gone midnight and then a late start the following morning prevented my usual Saturday morning ride. Not riding today (Saturday) meant just two rides this week (on Thursday and Friday). I decided not to fret about it; as I've said before, there's no point fretting. But I must ride tomorrow. I think it'll be Westerham for an English breakfast tea, but who knows how I'll feel in the morning. I don't think I'll visit Biggin Hill again as I drove there this afternoon and in all honesty, there's not much there. Right now I'm watching Rick Stein in Bordeaux. He's driving around in a blue 2CV saying how much he loves wine, that it makes him happy. "Nothing is quite as perfect as a great Bordeaux," he says, making me feel a little angry. There's nothing worse than watching a celeb enjoying his holidays, which he's getting for absolutely nothing, courtesy of the BBC and my licence fee money. But I don't wish to give you the wrong impression. I love the BBC's output and I'm happy to pay the licence fee, which I believe is good value for money (check out the other channels and you'll soon know what I'm talking about). Good to see my licence fee money going to good use (or not as the case may be); but in all honesty, I'm quite enjoying sitting here watching Rick eating good food and drinking good wine. I've just cooked chicken with mashed potato, carrots and watercress. 

Friday's Botley ride

It's 2045hrs, Rick Stein is sitting under the shade of a tree eating cote de boeuf and drinking red wine and I'm just sitting here wishing I was him, but I'm not. Time to close the laptop and continue slobbing in front of the television. And now Matt Baker is swanning around making a programme about his parents and his wife and his chilled and wealthy and smug life. I don't like Matt Baker, he's too nice, too sensible, every woman's dream man, perhaps, but I'm hoping he has a darker side that one day will be revealed to the world and all those women swooning over him and wishing all men were as smart and sensible as he, even when they're wearing jeans! I've never been smart and I've never been sensible either ... and I'm proud of the fact!

Sunday morning

There was a frost on the grass when I woke up and it lingered well past 0800hrs. I didn't go out until 0925hrs and must have reached Westerham around 1025hrs, or thereabouts. I bowled into the Costa and ordered a regular cappuccino and then took a seat by the window where I could watch the bike. Not that I needed to as I had padlocked it, but the seat was available so I took advantage. The Illustrious Illustrator called and told me about an altercation with a West Ham supporter who just happened to be his next door neighbour's gardener. We chatted for a while about the incident and then moved on to other stuff and soon, as is always the case, it was time for me to hang up and head home - never a good moment - especially as the weather was amazing, the sun had come out and my seat close to the window was warm. I could have sat there all morning, but as the time crept around to 1130 I needed to get a move on. I followed the road to the Velo Barn (I must pay that place a visit soon) and then did my usual: I turned left into Pilgrims Lane, crossed Clarks Lane, continued on Pilgrim's, turned right on Rectory Lane and then rejoined Clarks Lane and rode towards Botley Hill. Then it was a straight ride along the 269 again, past another irate motorist, this time near Slines Oak Road who seemed indignant about my presence on the road. He beeped his horn and said something abusive, but I couldn't hear because his window was up, but that didn't stop me pulling a stupid face - and I mean a really ridiculous face - and waving at him as I passed, he would have hated that!

Westerham today

I reached home around 1230hrs, had some soup for lunch and then bought a toilet seat. Yes, a toilet seat. Life doesn't get more rock and roll, does it? Then I went round to mum's for tea and fruit cake, a flick through a one-week-old copy of the Mail on Sunday and then I drove home. Now I'm sitting here watching Columbo and an episode starring Donald Pleasance (he's definitely the murderer). I've probably said this before, but I'll say it again: I've met Donald Pleasance, in Bristol, at the opening of a playing field back in the early nineties, it's a great claim to fame, or at least I think so.

Look, I'd better go. I'm glad that this week I managed my Sunday morning ride. Last week I forfeited it, which reduced my weekly mileage. I might have covered around 66 miles, but instead I only rode around 25 miles, but that was also because I didn't ride my usual Saturday ride (thanks to that late night watching Landmine Goes Click). I'm hoping that this week I'll get back to riding around 70 miles, or possibly even 90 if I make it to Redhill during the week and then ride a couple of Weebles next Thursday and Friday. If I then do the Saturday ride I'll be on for the 90, but let's not count chickens, or anything else for that matter.