Meanwhile, in the Cotswolds...

Cycling and beer – they just go together nicely.

Andy and his pals are enjoying ice cold Peroni and the pleasures of fresh, summer, country air! Here's two shots, one of their bikes outside a pub and the other of the ice cold lagers. Andy informs me that they all cycled 55 miles today. As I write this, they're probably down at some local inn enjoying more beer. Me, well, as Peter Gabriel once warbled, "Me? I'm just a lawnmower. You can tell me by the way I walk."

That looks like Andy's bike outside the pub!

Not a good day for cycling....

I woke up at mum's. That was fine, although it was 6am, which meant I was up later than usual. Normally round at mum's you're awake and out of bed at around a quarter past five, the tea is downstairs and so are the foxes, waiting patiently for mum to throw them a few sausage rolls.

It was, of course, Saturday morning, but because Andy would be riding to the Cotswolds today, there was no great rush to get back home – but I still left at around 0630 and reached home around 7am. Note, by the way, the inconsistency of this post. I've used '6am', 'quarter past five' and 0630 – three different ways of writing the time. If this was a magazine article I'd have to make them all consistent, but it isn't, so I won't. Hold on a second while I nip into the kitchen to check on our dinner...

...you can't beat purple brocolli with fish and spuds. Anyway, where was I? Ah! Yes. I reached home around 7am and of course the house was empty. I made a cup of tea and had a bit of fruit cake and then I made a flask of hot water, chucked a couple of teabags in my yellow cup and prepared to ride out to the Tatsfield Bus Stop alone. I had it all figured out: tea, a large slice of cake and a bit of solitude, a break from the fretting about money and not having any.

In the garage, a flat tyre greeted me. I had it last week and it was very slow. I remember Andy and I pumping it up and Andy saying I'd be able to get home on it; he was right, I did, but now the bike's been in the garage all week and it's flat. I could tell by the creases in the tyre. Not a problem. I'll quickly pump it up and be on my way.

It was good to be cycling up Church Way, heading for the churchyard and then the Limpsfield Road. I sailed through Sanderstead High Street, but as I left the village behind me and passed Majestic Wine, the bike wobbled. The tyre was deflating rapidly and I didn't have the motivation to up-end the bike and fix it, which in a way was lucky.

That sign across the road reads, "Feed Your Faith and Your Worries Will Starve to Death.

I turned around and began the walk back through the high street towards a pleasant green with a large pond known as the Gruffy. That name always reminds me of some crusty old Major with a nicotine-stained white moustache, a Harris Tweed jacket, thick cords and a walking stick.

The Gruffy would be a great destination for a cycle, except for the fact that it's only 10 minutes from where I live, but with that flask full of hot water, those two tea bags AND that large slice of cake, I figured a rest was in order and parked up on a bench dedicated to the memory of Douglas Martin, a lifelong resident of Sanderstead (1903 to 1995). I wonder if he had a nicotine-stained moustache and a walking stick? Probably not.

Douglas Martin's bench. He was 92 when he died.

I was a bit miffed about the puncture as it wasn't that long ago when I last had one, on Warlingham Green. And now, here I was again. I sat there for about 20 minutes, maybe longer, and then I walked down Church Way and home, which was still empty.

The view from Douglas Martin's bench.

And then the nightmare began. I got the bike home, turned it upside down and took off the rear wheel. So far, so good. In fact, it was all looking fine. I found the puncture, fixed it, put the inner tube back inside the tyre, put the wheel on the bike and started pumping. Suddenly, there was a loud hissing noise. Another puncture? Surely not? I must have over-pumped it or something. But no, it was hissing and going down fast.

I took out the inner tube, inflated it and then searched out the source of the hiss. It was another puncture – and quite a big one at that! It was like a very small tear, but I couldn't figure out how it had happened, so I checked out the tyre for stray thorns – there was nothing. I patched up the second puncture, put the wheel together, pumped it up – psssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssst! It happened again! I dismantled the wheel again and noticed that the patch over the puncture had a similar rip in it.

Desperate measures – I pile patch upon patch.

This time I checked the wheel for any sharp, protruding bits of metal – there was nothing there. After scraping off the patch and putting on a new one, I pumped up the tyre and  – pssssssssssssssssssssssssssst! Not again! But yes, it had happened again. And it kept happening. In the end, after resorting to patching up the patches and still getting nowhere, I searched around for another inner tube and found one that appeared to be fine. I put it all together and there was no sign of any hissing. Fixed at last! But no! I left the bike in the garage, went shopping and on my return – the tyre was definitely flatter than when I'd left it.

Now it's definitely looking as if I won't be cycling anywhere tomorrow. To add insult to injury, one of my rear brake pads fell out and can I get it back in again? Of course not – the brakes are now totally non-existent at the rear – and I mean that: totally gone, as if the bike didn't have a rear brake. The only good thing is that I managed to clean the bike up a bit. I fear a trip to the cycle shop is on the cards, certainly before next week when Andy gets back.

Christmas cake, churchyards and Winston Churchill

Saturday July 2nd we headed towards Westerham in Kent as the weather was fine and I needed a long ride. Cycling is good, it blows away the cobwebs, albeit temporarily, and it's good to be on an open road and in the fresh air.

Me taking a look at the Corsair's dashboard.

We follow our usual route out of Warlingham, the last real sign of civilisation being the huge Sainsbury's supermarket on the outskirts of town. Then it's fields on either side all the way into Westerham, a small Northern Kent market town where civilisation rears its ugly head again.

It was Andy's birthday so I'd brought along some of my mum's excellent Christmas cake – which was sitting in a cake tin ready for Christmas 2011, but I just couldn't wait. That's something else about despair – it makes you long for stuff that makes you happy, like Christmas cake; and besides, there was no way that the cake was going to sit there for the next six months or so without being eaten.

The white Corsair and the Ford Cortina Mark Two parked up in Westerham.

I cut off one huge slice and placed it neatly in a Tupperware container along with a knife to slice it later and when we reached the green at Westerham, we sat behind the statue of Churchill and got stuck in – my mum really does make the best cakes in the world. If ever I started a café I'd develop a brand name and sell them.

Cake eaten, we sat around chatting about this and that before heading off home again. There were two old Fords parked up on the green – a Mark Two and a Corsair, so we dawdled around a bit longer as I suggested to Andy that they would make a good photograph.

Tea and a slice of cake - lovely!!!

It had been a pleasant ride and the following day we headed to the Tatsfield Churchyard, with more cake. This time I bought Andy a large chunk to take home.

Jon called as we sat among the headstones. He was heading towards mum's house from Woodmansterne Green. I told him to tell mum that we were enjoying her cake – that would cheer her up.

Next week, Andy's off to cycle from Bedfordshire to the Cotswolds and back. He's throwing in an overnight stay. Sadly, due to my jobless situation, I won't be joining him, but next week I'll probably head towards Woodmansterne Green and I might nip down to see mum too. Although, having said that, I'm overnighting it at mum's on Friday night, so perhaps not.

David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries...

David Byrne's Bicycle Diaries are definitely worth a read. The Talking Heads frontman is more than just a pretty face. It's good to discover that Byrne regards the bicycle as his principal means of transportation and that he feels both energised and liberated when he goes for a ride.

I spied the book for sale on my local railway station and as soon as my train – the late-running 1639 to London Victoria – was edging its way out of Sanderstead, on its way to East Croydon, I was busy reading the introduction.

David Byrne – read more about him by clicking this picture caption.

For Byrne, riding a bike is like 'navigating the collective neural pathways of some vast global mind.'

"It really is a trip inside the collective psyche of a compacted group of people. A Fantastic Voyage, but without the cheesy special effects."

The book charts Byrne's rides through a number of big cities around the world, including London, and while I'm writing this small review based on reading just 32 pages, you can rest assured that you will hear more from Mr Byrne's book as I progress through it.

I'm already inspired to take a few urban rides, perhaps through the mean streets of Croydon.

Spectator causes Tour de France pile-up

Alberto Contador is out of contention for the opening stage of the Tour de France, thanks to a spectator.

Cycling advice from Shane Sutton...

I was reading in the Guardian's Weekend magazine (2 July 2011) about a top cyclist, Shane Sutton, head coach at the Beijing Olympics and the current head coach of Team Sky. At present, he's working with Bradley Wiggins, a professional cyclist, born in Belgium, and a triple Olympic Gold medallist.

Shane Sutton: "I keep in reasonable shape with three two-hour rides a week."

According to Sutton, any cycling is good for you – and this is the bit where I winced – 'as long as you have a good set of brakes and a good range of gears'. Well, that puts me out of the picture! For now at any rate.

Sutton argues that good gears and brakes are crucial and that it doesn't matter so much about the rest of the bike.

Like NoVisibleLycra, Sutton believes that because cycling is an outdoor activity, it's not as boring as the gym, but then he makes his first mistake (in my opinion). He says that the first thing to do is find a local cycling club. Well, no, the first thing to do is buy a bike and then you just go out on it. Who needs a club? Set up your own.

He's right about cycling being a social thing. I used to cycle alone before Andy and I started heading out to Westerham together at the weekends. Conversing with a fellow rider is far better than cycling on your own. Sutton's bang on when it comes to choosing a bike that isn't too big for you; make sure you can touch the ground with your feet.


"People often cycle in too big a gear." I think he means 'high', but how many times have I said to Andy, "I'm in the wrong gear"? Lower gears work your cardio, says Sutton, which makes my low-geared Kona Scrap dirt jumper ideal – even if, in other respects, it's rubbish for riding the sort of routes that No Visible Lycra takes, although we do go off-road occasionally and then, of course, they come into their own.


Sutton keeps in reasonable shape by riding out for two hours at a time, three times a week, although, being an Olympic class rider, I'm sure that his two-hour stint takes him to the south coast and back without breaking a sweat. Still, if I go out once more during the week – to Botley Hill – then I'll be getting as much cycling as Sutton.


Sutton advises, "be sure to stretch glutes and hamstrings when you get off or you'll end up with a very sore arse." Well, I cycle regularly and because of that I tend not to get a sore arse anymore.

A new path to a new world...

Andy and I posing for a self-timed shot at the bottom of the path.

A new world? What are you on? Yes, I know, it's only a bridleway and it's just down the road from a huge supermarket and we're not a million miles from London. I know. And it's not a case of 'little things please little minds, although I guess it could be in that ballpark somewhere along the line, especially at the moment, what with me being jobless and up against it. No, the reason for such elation, such over-the-top attitude, is that we found a new route, a new place to drink our tea and it turns out to be a haven of solitude, the sort of place you'd never find in a car – only on a bike.

The bikes against a pointlessly located gate similar to the one we'd just clambered over.

We were on our way to the Tatsfield Village with its predictable surroundings: the pub, the covered bus stop, the silent pond, the houses, the shop, that weird sculpture and, of course, the people in their 4x4s, driving a few yards to get a newspaper. But then, as we rode up the beginnings of the rural part of the B269, I suggested we turn left into Ledgers Road and go to the spot at the bottom of Hesiers Hill instead.

Me showing Andy how it's done – flicking a teabag.
For some reason, it's a sport I'm particularly good at.

But we never got there; halfway along the road, I spied a shaded track and we decided to investigate. The path descended fast and the bikes picked up speed, but neither of us expected ramps – speed bumps – but there they were, crafted out of mud and invisible until we hit them. Fortunately we managed to slow down enough before making contact with the first one and from then onwards we were cautious, and rightly so. There were more and in many ways, slowing down was good as the shaded path with it's uprooted trees and fields on either side was quite pleasant.

My crash helmet on a post.

At the bottom, there was one of those wooden contraptions to climb over, with the bikes, but on the other side, the countryside opened up and I found myself thinking how fantastic it all was – all I could hear was the birds tweeting, the bees buzzing and nothing else. Peace. I started thinking about coming here again, during the week, perhaps, with a can or two of Stella, a few sandwiches and a newspaper. What a spot! To be honest, both of us realised that, without commitments, we could happily spend the day here just lounging about, reading, drinking, whatever, the solitude was amazing and I get the feeling that not a lot of people come this way.

I won't even explain what this is, as it's self-explanatory, don't you think?

We considered following the path upwards over a hill and probably, ultimately, into Tatsfield or out on to the Beddlestead Lane. For some reason, I got a little confused. I knew that the road at the top of the path was Ledgers Road, but I kept thinking it was Beddlestead Lane and would lead us down to the spot at the bottom of Hesiers Hill. I was wrong. Eventually we climbed back along the path, on foot and pushing the bikes (it was steep and those speed humps would have been a real pain going up hill) until we reached the top. We turned right and travelled along to what I thought would be the bottom of Hesiers. It turned out to be the top and then I realised how close-by we were to civilisation.

Summer skies and rolling hills – all you need is a bike and a flask of tea.

It was a short ride, but an inspiring one and we'll definitely be returning to what is arguably the best destination of them all – but only in the good weather.

All photos by Andy Smith.

Round at mum's...

Sunday 26 June: Just got back from mum's having spent the night there; always very relaxing as mum has turned Number 29 into a kind of heaven on earth. It's like being on another planet where all the bad things of life have been disposed of and only the good things remain. It's like a good dream, one of those psychedelic visions after too much cheese late at night, there's lots of rich colours and, I don't know, it's how I imagine the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to be; it's like some kind of oasis hidden in suburbia, a secret garden open to the lucky few.

Mum and dad created a heaven on earth at home; it's like a good dream.

That's what's weird about suburbia: you just don't know what's behind those non-descript front doors.

I was awake at 0510. Mum gets up very early and feeds the foxes. If you look out from an upstairs window and peer down into the garden you can see them curled up on the lawn, about four of them, waiting for mum to throw out some sausage rolls, bought especially for them. The foxes hang around for some time, just in case more food comes their way. Mum sits in the armchair by the patio doors, sipping tea and listening to Radio Four on her digital Roberts radio, one of those retro affairs.

That round conifer has gone now, but everything else remains the same.

The house, the garden, it's all a bit Brambly Hedge or Beatrix Potter, it's the stuff of a good children's story, one of those cosy, illustrated books you might have found in your stocking on Christmas morning.

I enjoyed two cups of tea, one brought to my room at just gone 5am and then another just before 6am. Then I drove home, through the quiet, empty, suburban streets. Nobody was around, apart from a few people either returning home after a late night or on their way to work. On the Carshalton Road, waiting for a bus, I spied a huge woman who, for some reason, reminded me of an enormous skittle, the last one standing, perhaps.

Now it's 0655 and I'd better get the tea started and head off on the ride. Yesterday we went to the Tatsfield Bus Stop, not sure where we're off to today.

To the Tatsfield churchyard...

Taking it easy at the churchyard in Tatsfield

We took a shortish ride to the churchyard in Tatsfield earlier today, keeping an eye on the weather. The forecast had been for rain and I was surprised to wake up and find sunshine and blue skies. It stayed that way, sort of, but there were blustery periods when the sun went behind the clouds – the skies weren't completely blue.

We sat on a bench, sipping our tea, eating our cereal bars and chatting about the Dunwich Dynamo ride and the Black Horse Ride, which we did last week (see earlier post).

On the way out of the churchyard, something went wrong with my bike. Okay, we all know it needs a major service as the gears are faulty, the rear brake is non-existent and the rear wheel appears to be buckled.

As I was about to mount the bike for the ride home, the rear wheel seized up completely and it turned out that the gear mechanism had slipped and wedged itself in the rear tyre, making it freeze up. We tipped the bike over and Andy fixed it, but then noticed that the smaller cog on the front crank was seriously dented.

The dent was baffling as we don't treat our bikes badly and rarely ride off-road, but I can't think of any occasion when the Scrap took a hard knock. But somewhere along the line it had taken a whacking - no wonder I can't use the lower eight gears!

I will get the bike fixed just as soon as I get a job. Until then I'll have to just make do.

Andy and I parted half way along the B269 and I went home to mow the lawn; it looks really good. Then I went to Sainsbury's, came back, had lunch, went for a walk around the block – that's entertainment when you've got no money – and then I remembered that I had a club to judge at 6.30pm – just when I thought I could relax and enjoy my Saturday. But then I discovered that it wasn't today so I relaxed for a while, watching the excellent Kung Fu Panda.

Weatherwise, outside now (1808) it's sunny. Earlier there had been heavy rain and thunder, but I missed the lot as I was in Sainsbury's.

News just in...

Naked cyclists. PHOTO: Metro

Click on stories below for more information:-

• Liverpool is joining in the UK's biggest cycling celebrations, with a week of events planned to coincide with Bike Week, which runs until June 26.  

• London's Naked Bike Ride – pictures!

• Ealing businessman cycles 1,000 miles in nine days!