Another interesting cycling blog...

Check out http://tca2006.blogspot.com

They're up the road in Hampshire. Well, I say 'up the road', it's a good car journey away, but they're nearer than our friends across the water.

Check out the human bobsleigh!!!!

It's definitely worth checking out the video clip on the OneGhostIndustries blogsite listed below. Just scroll down a tiny bit and you'll see the clip on the right hand side of the page. Click the clip and enjoy the ride. 

But just in case you can't be arsed to scroll down, click here instead.

Distance to Redhill from Woodmansterne Green

Well, I thought I was going to win the bet and I almost did, to be fair. The distance from Woodmansterne Green to Redhill is 8.9 miles. It's 7 miles to Merstham.

So, the distances are as follows:-

Woodmansterne Green to Boxhill = 11.4 miles.

Woodmansterne Green to Redhill = 8.9 miles.

Click on the destination names to find out more about them.

Some other cycling blogs to check out

Gravelo knows the true meaning of extreme cold weather: check out the snow in the top pic; that must be the man himself (on New Year's Eve) and look at that, he has the exact same Thermos flask as we do – great minds obviously think alike. Click link below to read more about Gravelo.

Pressing the 'Next Blog' link at the top of this blog can unearth some interesting sites like these:-

http://mountainbikeadventures.blogspot.com

http://planetary-gears.blogspot.com

http://brendansbikeblog.blogspot.com

http://beatbikeblog.blogspot.com

http://gravelo.blogspot.com

http://oneghostindustries.blogspot.com

http://allbikesrcool.blogspot.com

31 Jan 2010: Woodmansterne Green in the cold

Top shot of Andy and Jon on the Green – we found somewhere different as all our pix were looking a bit samey – and the second shot is a self portrait of yours truly wearing the terrorist balaclava.

Yes, I know, we went to Woodmansterne Green again, but to be fair, it was really cold. So cold that I wore my balaclava, only to discover that it wasn't that cold and then to realise that it was that cold and the reason I felt warm was because I was wearing the balaclava.

At the green and the conversation turned to modern art. Andy said that anything called an 'installation' was not art. He was referring to the artist who likes to throw things away, crush his personal belongings, that sort of thing.

We chatted about a lot of other things too, but putting them into print would be a bridge too far. Suffice it to say that we had a good laugh even if it was cold. Alright, we were talking about people that turn up at A&E with strange objects inserted in strange places, but that's it, other than to say that if we were that way inclined – and we're not, I hasten to add – we'd have to leave the country, if anything appeared in the local press, and live the life of a hermit, in exile and in shame. The humiliation!

Woodmansterne to Boxhill distance in miles

It's official. The distance from Woodmansterne Green to Boxhill is 11.4 miles.

30 Jan 2010: Frost or snow? Either way, it's white and cold...

No cycling and a Full English Breakfast instead. Now that can't be good for you.

A friend of mine came off his bike in the wintry weather earlier this month and, sadly, broke his arm. He's on the road to recovery but is having difficulty sleeping at night and might have to undergo another operation – here's hoping he doesn't have to. So, when I awoke late this morning and found what looked like a covering of snow on the ground I decided not to go cycling.

I've just heard the weather man on the television talk about widespread frost, so perhaps it's not snow, but either way I feel justified, if not a little disappointed, in not going.

Oversleeping was the main problem and that had a lot to do with not being able to get to sleep until around 1am. When I eventually did sleep, of course, I slept like a log. Why? Because of a large Whisky Mac, that's why. It was 8am when I awoke, then I saw the covering of frost or snow on the ground.

My phone battery was flat so I never heard Bon call; he HAS gone cycling and, as I write this, is probably at Woodmansterne Green. Yes, I do feel a little ashamed at my wimpiness and even now I'm thinking: go on, get dressed, get out there, but I'd rather eat sausages for breakfast. 

Who can believe we wore shorts and tee shirts?

Matt and Andy in warmer weather in 2009

Yes, in this cold weather and times of wind and rain, who can believe that only a few months ago we were wearing shorts and tee shirts. Take a look at this shot taken on Woodmansterne Green.

January 24th – to Westerham in Kent to discuss Harley-Davidsons

It was deceptively cold this morning, one of those days when the sun initially hid mischieviously behind blue-grey cloud as if enjoying the fact that icy air was blasting our faces as we descended towards Westerham from the dizzy heights of Clark's Lane. There was a mist clinging to the bare trees and here and there clumps of snow lingered from the blizzard conditions of early January.

We hadn't been to Westerham for some time so it was good to reach our bench and get out the tea and cereal bars. We had a lot to discuss and it all focused on the recent purchase, by our friend David, of a Harley-Davidson Sportster. The main thrust of the conversation was 'should we buy one to keep him company?' Not that it would be that easy, we're both broke, and it's hardly an excuse for turning up at home on a new motorcycle.

Andy knows about motorcycles, he's had a few in his time and he's been a dispatch rider, arguably one of the world's most dangerous jobs. Andy has come a cropper once or twice but he's still alive and he hasn't broken any bones but, as he admitted, it was more a case of luck than judgement and that, of course, is the big question mark hanging over our motorcycle ownership: are we going to kill ourselves?

The other issue concerning the purchase of a Harley is that old cliché that people roll out whenever the subject is mentioned: 'the mid-life crisis'. Personally, it's a phrase I'm getting a little tired of because it is the sort of thing people bring up when they want to stop somebody realising a dream and enjoying themselves. They hope, perhaps, that by merely mentioning the words – 'mid-life crisis' – the person it is aimed at will hastily rein in whatever dream they had for themselves and skulk off self-consciously having been sort of reprimanded by 'the grown-ups' who simply don't want anybody to have any fun. I come across this constantly. There's always somebody who will tell you not to do something and give you a good reason to back up their apathetic point. I've always wanted a real fire, logs or coal, I'm not bothered, but there are loads of people, my wife and parents included, who will moan about the mess and who will be charged with the task of cleaning it.

Where something like a Harley is concerned, it's almost a case of 'well, if I can't have one, why should you?' In fact, if you are considering the purchase of anything that might trigger the phrase 'mid-life crisis' I would say go ahead and do whatever it is: buying a Harley, getting a ticket to ride the Trans-Siberian Express, buying a bass guitar, whatever it might be. As the Nike people would say, 'just do it'.

That phrase 'mid-life' crisis is annoying and misleading on a number of levels. For a start, what is 'mid-life'? I wanted to buy a Harley-Davidson back in the mid-nineties (when I was mid-30s) after reading Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a book I never finished, more's the pity, and a work of literature that found me desperately hoping the Government of the time would invent something like an amnesty for unread novels in the same way that they do for knives and handguns. It would have been handed in to my local police station. The reality, of course, is that it sits on my bookshelf somewhere, crying out to me to give it another chance. But now I dare not try again as it might re-ignite my passion for the Harley-Davidson 883 Hugger, the bike with the buck horn bars and 'that characteristic Harley rumble'. It's so low on the ground I figured that if I got into any difficulties I could simply let go of it and bounce along the floor in slow motion like the guy in Electraglide in Blue.

But I had no plans on falling off, even though the threat of death or disability loomed large whenever the word 'motorcycle' raised its ugly head. For me, it was all about simply 'turning up' on the bike. It was never about getting my motor running and heading out on the highway, oh no; it was all about polishing the thing in the garage and, more importantly, arriving, turning up: at the gas station, at the school gates, at the office and so on; making an entrance, rather self-consciously, perhaps, but making a noisy entrance nonetheless wearing, perhaps one of those German stormtrooper helmets and having a huge chain draped diagonally across my upper body.

Andy says that there are two types of Harley rider and that we (and our pal David) don't really fit into either category. One is the wannabe Hell's Angels with their tattoos and that greasy, 'greebo' appearance – you know, the sort of people that appear on Scrapheap Challenge. What was that I was saying about German stormtrooper helmets and a large chain? Alright, when push comes to shove I'd be more conventional, it has to be said. I would do my best to play down any Hell's Angel fantasies. The other type is the line dancers, with their chequered shirts, their cowboy boots and their long grey moustaches who listen to Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash. That doesn't appeal either.

But none of this gets away from the fact that owning a Harley-Davidson is a nice feeling; it's like when you were a kid and your dad bought you something, like a bike or a guitar or a hi fi system, it was yours to admire, yours to use and, in the case of the Harley, yours to polish. That is what this is all about, it's the joy of possession, of knowing that out there in the garage a low-slung Harley crouches menacingly behind push bikes and cardboard boxes full of junk, and that it can be rolled out on to the front drive to become a conversation piece, something to feel proud of owning.

Andy says its only a matter of time before you come off; he's come off many times, he's been over the handlebars, thanks to a tiny piece of grease on the road, although he admits he was going a little too fast. He's had numb thighs for weeks on end, has been unable to lift his arms above his shoulders for many days and, on one occasion, his knee inflated to the size of a football. It doesn't sound good to me. If I bought a Harley I would want to blank out all thoughts of injury and concentrate on the spiritual element of motorcycling: the wind in my face, the freedom, the noise of that V-twin, although I would always be conscious of the fact that I wasn't in America. It would, out of necessity be the M6, not Route 66; it would be the motorway, not the Interstate, pounds not dollars and Postman Pat policeman, not State Troopers. In other words, it would be a naff British movie, not one made in Hollywood.

If I lived somewhere up in the highlands of Scotland, I'd buy a Harley and use it only when the sun was shining. For the rest of the time it would be under lock and key and I would spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on it and, when nobody's around, I'd probably start making engine noises too.

There are other considerations too. Andy says that having a motorcycle can be a lonely business unless you have mates with similar interests. I know what he means. If I was planning a trip to the coast I'd want to go with somebody else – and I don't mean on the back. I've already resolved that if I ever bought a Harley (which I probably won't) I'll never take passengers on the basis that killing myself is fine, but I'd hate to be responsible for killing or maiming somebody else. So, perhaps Andy and I should buy a Harley just to keep Dave company on those long rides down to the beach. 

The main reason I didn't buy a bike back in the mid-nineties, however, was because of somebody I don't exactly know too well. We only met in the school playground if I happened to be dropping off my son at school. All I know about this other father that I occasionally nodded to was that he was a policeman and that he rode a motorcycle. One morning he greeted me with a smile and I noticed he was on crutches. It was that time of year when people returned from winter breaks skiing. I put two and two together and made three – he'd broken his leg in a skiing accident. Time for a few well-meaning gags and, of course, a jovial 'get well soon'. Except that he wasn't going to get well soon. He'd had a motorcycle accident. A woman driving a biscuit tin (cue the Boots ad song, 'here comes the girls') had pulled out of a side road and hadn't noticed him before it was too late. He had to have his leg amputated.

As I drove home from the school I started thinking. He's had his leg amputated, it's not coming back and all because somebody hadn't seen him. How the hell is he going to deal with that, I wondered, resolving not to buy a motorcycle, not now, not ever.

My main concern at the moment, however, is that David doesn't fall off. People say its inevitable but here's hoping he remains in one piece and rides safely.

David's new Harley Davidson

David Foster outside my house with his new Harley-Davidson. When he pulled up outside, my wife asked me, "Have you ordered a pizza?"

Yes, it's an old cliché of having reached 'a certain age' and here's proof of it: our pal David (who owns a push bike but never uses it) has finally gotten round to buying a Harley. He took his test a while back and now has the bike (see pic above). More on this later, but needless to say, it's been the topic of conversation between Andy and I this morning while en route to Woodmansterne Green to meet Jon. Only a short cycle today as there are domestic things to do.

On the way home, I spotted a caff in Smitham and stopped for a pot of tea and a Danish pastry. Nice!