Hanging around Indianapolis...

The jet lag – or the flight – had given me a streaming nose that seems to have cleared up and a general fatigue, which I didn't realise I had. I'd woken up yesterday in the early hours and then sailed through the day, which involved going to the convention center to check if magazines had turned up (they hadn't, making a mockery of the whole thing). The event starts today so we're hoping something will be there when we head on down again later this morning. In fact, I have an early start, although that's no reason for being up so early. It's 0440hrs and I've woken up and decided to start writing. To be fair, I went to bed real early, around 7pm or something like that, and generally I slept like a log. I had some odd dreams. In one I told an old friend some home truths and in another I was some kind of disgruntled shareholder of a business (I know not why) and the person in charge of the business was TV's hotel inspector. I turned up for a meeting and was not welcomed. Security was called and I was 'escorted' off the premises while calling into question the footballing abilities of a man charged with the task of seeing me off – he had a dangerous dog on a lead. Now this last bit I can relate to as earlier in the day I was with Sam, a taxi driver, and we were heading into downtown Indianapolis talking about how, in America, or certainly in the state of Indiana, there are lots of benefit cheats – or rather people on benefits, not necessarily benefit cheats. Sam said it's widespread and a lot of those who are homeless or on benefits are better off than he is; it sounded like a familiar gripe, I told him, and explained that we have similar issues in the UK.

My Name is Earl. My hotel's outdoor swimming pool

Having discovered yesterday that my hotel wasn't far from a poor neighbourhood, blighted by crime and muggings, I'd seriously considered changing hotels, but after passing the time of day with Mike, the hotel's general manager, I decided to stay put and called the travel company to tell them. The manager was from Hyderabad originally and he was, for want of a better description, a kind of 'mobile' manager, a troubleshooter, brought in when needed. He'd lived in the UK for a while, in Hounslow, and has lived all over the place managing different hotels. He was last in the San Francisco area (Oakland) where his family still live and now he lives here in the hotel (a temporary measure) and I'd imagine he'll eventually bring his family with him, although his daughter's going to start university in Indianapolis as it has a good reputation, apparently. So he and I got chatting, we've even talked of going into town to try an Indian restaurant that he recommends. And it was based on chatting to him that I decided to stay put rather than uproot myself and cause untold problems for the travel company by moving to another hotel.

Being here on the outskirts of town, however, has taught me a lesson: book early to avoid disappointment.

The corridor of my hotel...

And talking of disappointment, prior to my chat with the manager and while I was deeply considering get out of here, I had a spark of hope when it came to breakfast. Why? Because people on Trip Advisor had said the breakfast here, which is complimentary, is to die for. Well, I beg to differ: wrapped bakery items, miniature boxes of well known cereal, no sign of any tea, a wafflemaker and, worse of all, plastic cutlery and plastic plates and dishes. This takes not trusting the customers to new levels: first an empty fridge in the room (a noisy, empty fridge that hums all night) and then disposable cutlery and plates. I opted for something familiar, a couple of small boxes of Rice Krispies (well, they're tiny), a glass of orange juice and that was breakfast. Then Sam drove me downtown, through the rough neighbourhood, which, I said, looked fine, until we saw a guy with a dangerous dog. Sam tut-tutted about him saying stuff like that was unnecessary and so on and 15 minutes or so later we were in the downtown area where, I've been told, it's safe to wander around, unlike the area surrounding my hotel. I had lunch in Champps (salmon with mashed potato, a glass of Cabernet and a Triton Dead Eye Stout and then headed over to the convention centre to discover there were no magazines delivered – this is more of a problem for my colleague who will be manning the stand. I've got to attend the plenary events. After that I headed back to the hotel and slept like a log and now, here I am, up early (it's now almost 0500hrs) and I think I'll call home in a minute. Oh, yeah, you can't make international calls so I'll have to use the cellphone.

Locally brewed Triton Dead Eye Stout.

Indianapolis on a Sunday has to be discussed as it's a similar picture in many American cities I've visited – there's nobody about, no traffic on the roads, nothing and, as always, I get this strange sensation that nothing is real, that behind the facades, the buildings are little more than film sets, propped up by splintered pieces of wood. Quite incredible really. It was as if I had built a city and invited a few friends to drop by and enjoy the facilities before I populated it – "come and drive around an empty city!" – and a handful of them had taken me up on my offer. Very strange. Having said all that, Indianapolis will come alive today as there's a convention for the rest of the week, meaning many delegates will crowd yesterday's empty malls and pack into the virtually deserted sports bars and restaurants. The streets will enjoy more cars and perhaps the place will look a little more like a city. But once the convention packs up, the city will go back to its sleepy state again and others will wonder whether it's all a facade and that really there's nothing there at all, just scrubland and tumbleweed. Perhaps that's it, perhaps I'm in some kind of weird sci fi movie in a city that doesn't really exist?

As I've mentioned before, Indianapolis has a bike share scheme and I stumbled across the bright yellow bikes and considered a ride, but didn't bother. I will do later in the week, though, after the convention as a 24-hour pass only costs $8.

I took a cab back to the hotel and hit the sack, missing dinner in the process. Dinner, of course, would have meant another trip downtown, another $20 cab fare and then another coming back again, so that prospect didn't appeal and besides, I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed. It's called jet lag.

Today will be busy as there's stuff to do, I'll probably have dinner in town and then head back here and the process will repeat itself for the rest of this week until I fly back to Chicago and then to London, returning home early on Saturday morning.

Thoughts from 38,000 feet ...

Travelling over the North Atlantic on a BA flight to Chicago. Just cleared the West Coast of Northern Ireland and have under seven hours to go, so I'm enjoying a glass of Merlot Cabernet Sauvignon while awaiting the in-flight meal.

Blindingly white cloud over Northern Ireland

I'm beginning to wish I hadn't booked a window seat as I'd much rather have the legroom and the freedom to get up when I please without annoying anybody.

All is not what it seems...
What a world we live in when suddenly all is not what it seems: children's entertainers and DJs being accused of child abuse and sexual assault, judges jailed for abusing the law and Max Clifford jailed last week for a variety of dubious crimes involving women. And what the hell is going on in Ukraine? The root of all evil at the moment (and probably forever) is nationalism and there's a lot of it about in Scotland, Russia and, of course, the UK generally in terms of UKIP's preachings. Why can't people be content with what they've got? Alright, there are situations that might justify conflict (Syria, Afghanistan and the like) but why bother in Scotland? It's not as if they don't already have different banknotes is it? And some of the men wear skirts!

I'm getting hungry and there's no sign of lunch. I can smell cooked food, but that's about it. In the UK as I write this it's 1340hrs on Saturday afternoon and I had my breakfast back in Terminal Five (granola, fresh fruit, tea and orange juice) around 1000hrs. Call me a pleb, but I love airline food, always have, and while I know it's likely to be chicken or beef (and I'll opt for the former) that's great so bring it on.

I need to stretch my legs so I'm now standing up at the rear of the plane having answered the call of nature. I won't go back to my seat just yet as I'd rather give my fellow passengers (an Eastern European or Russian who can't speak English and a British girl who, for some reason, likes to cover herself in a blanket) a break from me disturbing their peace by asking them to let me through – back to that reason why, on a long-haul flight, I'm not going to opt for a window seat in future.

"Are you waiting for the toilet?"
Looking around it appears to be a full flight and what never fails to piss me off is the way everybody else, except for me, that is, seems to be content to sit in their seats and entertain themselves. I need more than a movie or some boring 'establishment' rock to keep me quiet – where are the Inspiral Carpets when you need them? – but I'm not the only one: as I speak, the Russian (as I'll now call him) is also standing up. The problem with standing up just to get away from sitting down is that you will find yourself constantly being asked if you're waiting for toilet. "No, be my guest..." I always reply, chirpily.

A full flight. Shot taken from rear of plane.

 I wish my family were here with me and that we were going on holiday, but they're not, more's the pity.

I'm back at my seat now and I've just heard the air hostess ask somebody if they want chicken or beef. Lunch is upon us! Outside now there is a blinding sheet of white cloud just below the plane but, as the food arrives, the cloud thins. The meal consists of roasted breast of chicken, potatoes, peas, green beans, carrots and gravy – perfect! And followed by Lily O'Brien's milk chocolate mousse with caramel sauce (it's tiny so I'm not too worried about my diet and besides, I've managed to lose 28lbs).

And now I can hear the hostess asking, "Tea? Tea? Tea?" a bit prematurely if you ask me as we've only just been given our lunch. I lift up my shallow, white, plastic cup and she fills it with tea.

The choice of music is terrible, I discover as I check out what's on offer in terms of in-flight entertainment, although I did watch Tom Hanks in Captain Phillips, a very good movie that kept me occupied for a couple of hours before I needed to disturb my fellow passengers again and go for a walk to the back of the plane, a Jumbo, incidentally, and I'm in seat 41K. I think I have the same seat on the way back, but I might change it for an aisle seat.

John Simpson to the rescue – again!
We pass over the southern tip of Greenland with around five hours to go of this seven and a half hour flight and once again I find myself thankful for John Simpson and his column in High Life, the BA in-flight magazine. They should let John either write the lot of it or make him the editor as the rest of the content is pretty darn boring if you ask me.

Somewhere over North Eastern Canada...

John Simpson is definitely somebody I would invite to my 'dream dinner party' – not that I do dinner parties these days. Him and Will Self, although it's getting to sound like it might be quite heavy going if Mr Self is thrown into the mix. Perhaps not. It's all academic anyway. John Simpson is like a character from a Graham Green novel and I would love to spend some time with him chatting about world affairs and travelling. In fact I'd like to read his books, assuming he's written some.

"I'd leave it for five minutes if I were you..."
I'm back at the rear of the plane again, telling other passengers that I'm not waiting for the toilet. Mention must be made of going to the toilet on a plane. It's horrible. First, there's no space to swing a cat, let alone the old chap, and I can't stand the folding door or the oddly perfumed smell or the sound that the flush makes – it's really noisy. It's also pretty horrible when you emerge back into the plane again, especially if there's somebody there waiting to go in immediately after you: do you say, "I would leave it five minutes if I were you" or let them find out for themselves? Most people, I've noticed, opt for the latter and, on one occasion, a woman emerged sheepishly to discover one of her friends waiting. She wore an embarassed smile as if to say, "I've made a right pong in there and now you're going to remember that about me for the rest of my life."

Lake Michigan on descent to Chicago...

There's a single seat at the back near the toilets, which I'm guessing is reserved for the crew and it is here that I am sitting now, saying, "No, be my guest..." and pointing invitingly towards the toilet door. One person in the queue remarked to me that the plane must be pretty old because there was an ashtray fitted to the outside of the toilet door. Thanks, mate, I don't like to be reminded about the age of the plane when I'm 38,000 feet off the ground and in the middle of the North Atlantic Ocean.

Icy terrain and I'd rather be mowing the lawn!
We're flying over Canada now and it's icy terrain. Back in the UK it's about 1700hrs and I'm wishing I was there now enjoying a normal Saturday with the family. But I'm not. I'm here, on a plane, high in the sky with a load of strangers telling them to 'be my guest' as they are about to use the facilities as if I'm some kind of toilet host. Life doesn't get much better than this! That's sarcasm, by the way. Life clearly does get better than this and for me, my quality of life would be much improved right now if I could simply be at home, mowing the lawn, going shopping, eating, perhaps, a petit filous or making a cottage pie for dinner. But I'm not, I'm alone on a crowded plane to Chicago.

There's one hour and 57 minutes before we land, according to the journey map, and you can bet it's going to drag and drag. We're over Quebec and it's nearly a quarter past six UK time, according to my watch, which I always keep on UK time as a reminder of what's happening back at home.

My in-flight meal. I never ate the starter but that dessert was nice.

Romano's Macaroni Grill
Time flies when you're flying (actually, it doesn't, but that sounded good). Having said that the plane has now landed in Chicago. We flew in over Lake Michigan and now I'm sitting in Romano's Macaroni Grill, an excellent Italian restaurant in O'Hare's Terminal Three. This is the second time I've been here, the last time was when I flew to Cleveland in 2013. Now I'm waiting for the 1750 flight to Indianapolis. I've ordered Pollo Caprese, a glass of Cabernet, a bottle of Pellegrino, and I'm not planning on eating any more until breakfast tomorrow morning.

The flight to Indianapolis with American Airlines was a bit shaky to start as the wind has picked up. The take-off was a bit rough as the plane seemingly caught some cross wind as it accelerated along the strip and appeared to be knocked off course, albeit momentarily, but it was enough to give me a jolt. Eventually, when we'd broken through the cloud and were cruising at 29,000 feet, all was well and remained so for the rest of what was a very short flight: no more than 50 minutes by my reckoning.

Romano's Macaroni Grill, Chicago O'Hare Terminal 3

In Indianapolis...
Indianapolis airport was a lovely place. It was very peaceful and when I saw a family meeting up with another family member – a homecoming of some kind or other – I felt homesick again (and tired). But I had to get a move-on and get a cab to my hotel, which I did. It took around 25 minutes or so and cost me $60, including a tip and I can't say I'm that impressed with the hotel – yet. It's, basically, a trucker's hotel and there are a few rigs parked up in the lot. I'm staying here because I booked late and there's not much left in downtown. Also I'm saving the points in the hope that one day soon I'll be able to take the family away somewhere for a much-needed break. My problem with the place is whether or not it's close to downtown (like they say it is). I've got to be downtown at the Indiana Convention Centre for the rest of the week, although there are other problems with the hotel: no restaurant and no international calls, plus an empty fridge in the room that hums noisily throughout the night (and day) and an unispiring view of a parking lot outside my hotel window, not forgetting the trailer park on the other side of it. I'm beginning to wonder how safe it is out there and I keep thinking that I might be in that movie, No Country for Old Men. I just hope the lock don't come flying off my door.

Catching a cold, but feeling fine...
Add to my misery a streaming cold that I probably picked up on the plane. It's constant, like a tap, and it's made for a broken night, although I don't feel unwell. Now, at 0620hrs I'm sitting here because I can't sleep. I've had something like two stints of a couple hours sleep since I hit the sack around 2200hrs US time, although it might have been 2100hrs as the clock on my iphone is wrong for some reason. I think it's got a lot to do with me installing new OS software while having breakfast at Heathrow yesterday. Note to self: don't upgrade the phone's software again.

So I need to get my bearings, work out where I am in relation to downtown and, most importantly take a shower and get some breakfast as I'm starving. Then, at noon, I'm heading downtown to the convention centre to check things out for tomorrow. I also need to check out the program for the conference and then get to work. Yes, while those in the UK enjoy their Bank Holiday Monday, I've got to work because in the USA, they don't have Bank Holiday Mondays.

Caution has been advised...
I've been advised not to walk around as there's a real risk of being mugged (or worse). I was thinking about a walk into downtown, but apparently it's about five miles and there's a dodgy neighbourhood. The guy on reception has told me to take the bus (which goes through the dodgy area) or take a taxi (approximately $20 to $22. So it's going to cost me a minimum of $40 per day to get to and from the convention centre and I've got to wear a suit, making me stand out from the crowd. It looks as if taking a cab is the best way to get about, although I fancy a bus ride.

Apparently the area surrounding the hotel is fine, but I'm about a mile and a half from Dodgeville by foot and the dodgy part of town starts near a Gold's Gym where the hotel has some kind of deal in place.

Yesterday while transferring to Terminal 3 at O'Hare I overheard two people discussing gun crime and how, invariably, if somebody's driving a pick-up truck there's a likelihood they're packing a piece. Well, there's a few pick-up trucks outside. I might go and take a look around, suss out the bus and stuff, but I won't be wandering anywhere dangerous.

Righting a wrong...or setting the record straight

I was driving from Croydon to Sutton this afternoon when I switched on the radio just in time to hear an interview between LBC's Julia Hartley-Brewer and movie star turned politician Arne Schwarzenegger. In addition to discussing his latest movie role, he talked about politics and how while he would love to stand for President of the United States, the US constitution prevents this: Arne was not born in the USA. Not that he's bothered as he believes, quite rightly, that the US was (is) the land of opportunity and it had been responsible for his tremendous success over the years.

The Paris bike share scheme was on the road long before 'Boris Bikes'

The interview moved on to politics and Arne said he knew David Cameron and was a big fan of Boris Johnson. Fine, neither are my cup of tea, but each to their own. However, he made a mistake when he said that Boris Johnson was the catalyst, the man with the big idea when it came to bike share schemes like the famous "Boris Bikes". According to Arne, Boris came up with the idea and now there are bike share schemes popping up all over the world. Well, yes, they are popping up all over the world, that is true, but the bike share scheme was certainly not Boris' idea. In fact, if I remember correctly, they originated in Paris and Boris drew his inspiration for Boris Bikes from a bike share scheme that had already been running successfully in the French capital.

Just thought I'd point that out.

In Edinburgh...

I haven't been to Edinburgh for a long while; in fact, I can't remember when I was last in this great city, it was certainly a long time ago. One thing, however, was noticeable by its absence: a bike share scheme. Now, there's the phrase, 'bike share scheme'. I no longer have to put 'Boris bikes' in quotes because the whole Boris bike thing is just that: a bike share scheme.

King's Cross Station – a vast improvement on the old concourse.

Anyway, never saw any bike share scheme in operation in Edinburgh and I walked from Mansfield Traquair to my hotel on the other side of the city beyond Tollcross. Oddly, while on the train from King's Cross, I did see what looked like a bike share scheme on Alnmouth railway station as the train pulled out. I know Alnmouth fairly well, having travelled there back in the mid-90s to interview a fire eater, and it's a pretty remote place, albeit a fantastic place (if you like that kind of desolation, like I do) and it's not the sort of place you'd expect to find a bike share scheme as once you're outside of the town there's nothing but rural country lanes.

So, no bikes to ride, but then again this was one of those packed trips consisting mainly of spending two days sitting down in a conference – a conference held in a church, which was a pleasant change from the usual conference hotel. As I mentioned, I managed a long walk from the church (Mansfield Traquair) back to my hotel (see review below, which is also published on TripAdvisor) but that was about it.

Room 37, the Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh...

I messed up a bit on the train front, proving that it pays to actually read itineraries properly when you get sent them; I should have been on the 1300hrs train going out (and left my house at the right time to catch it) but when I pulled my tickets from the envelope in which they'd been sent, I clocked the time as 1530hrs (the time of my return journey from Edinburgh the following day). So, thinking I had time to kill, I had lunch at Prezzo and only realised my mistake when I found somebody else supposedly occupying my reserved seat. Then I clicked and later had to pay a hefty excess fare of £73. Why? Because I had a Super Off Peak Return and the train I was on didn't accept them – I had two options: pay the money or wait on Peterborough station for four hours, which would have gotten me in to Edinburgh some time after midnight. I paid up and made sure that I didn't make any more silly mistakes.

Incidentally, King's Cross has changed dramatically since I was last there – and I mean dramatically. The dowdy old concourse of old has been replaced by something truly amazing with plenty of decent coffee shops and restaurants and a futuristic ceiling (see photograph above).

The view from room 37 of the Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh

I love the train journey from King's Cross to Edinburgh as once you pass Newcastle the scenery gets pretty dramatic. First you spy Alnmouth, a kind of poor man's Berwick-upon-Tweed and then, of course, Berwick itself before the train runs along the cliff tops and you get some fantastic moody views of the North Sea and the crashing waves as they roll in. I love it and I will always find it truly inspiring.

Edinburgh hasn't changed a great deal, which is good. I took a taxi to the Bruntsfield Hotel, had dinner and went to bed and then, after the conference two days later, I headed back to London, managing, somehow, to miss the tube drivers' strike and sailing along the Victoria Line to Victoria where I picked up a train to Sanderstead and home.

Here's my review of the Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh, which you can also find on Trip Advisor.

The Bruntsfield Hotel, Edinburgh

One of the worst things about reviewing anything, be it a book, a film, a restaurant or a hotel (perhaps that should be ‘an hotel’) is that there is a tendency to feel that you can’t simply say something was good. Unfortunately, there is always that urge to add something negative, possibly for the sake of authenticity or, perhaps, simply to show that you’re hard and won’t take any nonsense, you’re not easily bought.



Well, that’s how I felt about the Bruntsfield Hotel before I’d even visited the place – although, if the truth be known, I knew it would be good before I checked in for the simple reason that I have stayed here before, back in the angst-ridden early 90s. And that’s why I’m here again because whenever I think of Edinburgh, I think of the Bruntsfield Hotel and walking along Princes Street towards Glenogle Street and Henderson’s and Bert’s Bar. I don’t even know if those establishments are still there, but I don’t think I could stay anywhere else in this great city than the Bruntsfield.



The reason I was going to add something negative was down to an email I received from the hotel once I’d booked a room on-line. They sent me an email saying that, for an extra £20, I could get a larger room with some fruit in it or, for £25, a bottle of wine and some hand-made canapés. Well, nice try, but when I think about how many oranges I could buy with £20 or how, for £25, I could get two decent bottles of red wine and have change for a copy of the Economist, I simply ignored what amounted to an opportunist marketing ploy. How was I to know that the larger room I was being offered was any bigger than the room I would have got without paying extra? Not that I should have adopted that attitude; they were, after all, just doing their job.



So, I travelled by train from King’s Cross, took a cab to the Bruntsfield and, as expected, it is still the most wonderful hotel in Edinburgh: the staff are friendly – so much so that I looked forward to passing the time of day with whoever was on the reception desk. Room 37 was excellent and the food in the Bisque restaurant was absolutely fantastic. After a day in a conference on the other side of town I was looking forward to dinner, a glass or two of wine, some dessert and, of course, a good book (go and buy Lean on Pete by Willy Vlautin, it’s fantastic).

I’ve been here for two nights. For dinner the first night I enjoyed chicken breast stuffed with haggis, mashed potato and carrots; the following evening it was venison,pheasant and duck stew with mashed potato and brocolli and I really wished I had another night here – with my family – or maybe a week. The problem, however, as always, was loneliness (it gets to me after a day or two).

The Bruntsfield, however, is such a homely, comfortable hotel and, fortunately, it lacks the anonymity of some of the bigger chain hotels I've stayed in. What's more, everything works, nothing niggles and I couldn’t recommend it more highly. When a hotel has that ‘home from home’ feeling about it, you know you’re on to a winner.

Breakfast was good too: plenty of choice and just nice and pleasant and perfect to wake up to.



One bugbear: the WiFi. It’s very slow. That needs to be addressed. Everything else is absolutely first class. Well done, Bruntsfield people. Keep up the good work. As Arne once said, “I’ll be back.”

Early rain stops play for the entire weekend

Early rain is really annoying as it stops our rides. While I was out of the picture on Saturday – I'm not sure if Andy went out alone – I was up for it on Sunday, but Andy wasn't feeling good so he aborted, leaving me with the awful problem of self-motivation. However, when I awoke with every intention of heading out somewhere (an urban ride to mum's would have been nice or even a short ride to Botley Hill – albeit longer than the urban ride to mum's) I stared out on to the garden and noticed a fine rain falling steadily. Rain means no ride so I resigned myself to simply doing a bit of work that needed doing.

Indianapolis Bike Share Scheme. Photo: Kevin Kastner, Urban Indy.

Now, like yesterday, the weather has improved. There's a mild wind coming from somewhere and the skies aren't blue, but it's bright out there and the rain has stopped, ideal, in fact, for a ride, but as always, time has moved on and there are other things that need doing, so the weekend's cycling hasn't really happened – annoying when you consider how much cycling was done the week before last. Daily rides for nine consecutive days.

It's annoying on another level too as I won't be riding out next week due to travelling commitments and there's a strong possibility that jet lag might prevent me from riding out the following weekend. Hopefully, while in Indianapolis, I'll be able to find and ride one of the city's 'Boris bikes' as they've just been introduced there, so, if the weather's good I might even ride to the convention centre, although it might be a way from my hotel, which is supposedly 15 minutes by car to downtown. We'll see.

For more details on the Indianapolis Bike Share scheme, click here.

Day eight: to Carshalton to see mum (approximately 12 miles).

Jon in Carshalton Park, 21st April 2014.

It's not yet 0700hrs but already the skies are blue and all is still. I'm about to embark upon my ninth consecutive day of riding and, if I'm honest, I'm in two minds as to where to go: Westerham has crossed my mind, the idea being I really push the boat out on what could, theoretically, be my last consecutive ride for a while. I'm going back to work tomorrow, but that doesn't mean I can't ride any more daily rides, it just means I'm likely to break the current cycle of back-to-back rides...unless, perhaps, I get up early and ride the 10-miler to Ledgers Road and back (which should take an hour tops). Even if I do it once it means I've riden for 10 consecutive days, a nice round number.

I've sent a text to Jon to see if he fancies a ride over to mum's, but I've had no answer, which means a lonely ride somewhere else and there's a few jobs to be done around the house today so a Westerham ride might be out of the question considering it's now 0718hrs. It's looking likely to be the Tatsfields – either the bus stop, the village or the churchyard, although I've visited them all last week and that leaves Botley Hill, a short, predictable ride that I took twice last week. Woodmansterne Green would be good, but it's a bit suburban in terms of the ride over there, not sure. So, here I am, thinking, poring over the possibilities, something I won't have time to do tomorrow morning.

The river in Carshalton Park – normally it's dry, but not this year!

I called Jon, he called back and then I headed off towards Purley, Foxley Lane and, of course, mum's house. Jon met me along Foxley Lane as I was running a little late. I'd left the house at 0750hrs and after Jon and I linked up we headed into Wallington, branching off around the streets of South Wallington – Brambledown, Boundary Road and then into Carshalton Park to take a look at the water levels after the flooding earlier in the year. Normally the river beds are dry but today there were still full of water, but the levels had receded a bit. We crossed Ruskin Road and weaved our way down to Carshalton High Street, turning left and riding along to the ponds where we turned right into North Street and then left into Honeywood Lodge, through Festival Walk and right on to West Street towards Colston Avenue, Westmead Corner and into mum's road.

The Kona in Carshalton Park this morning.

Jenny and her fiancé Alex were there having breakfast (they'd stayed overnight). We had a mug of tea and a chat and then, around 0900hrs, we left. At the bottom of mum's road, Jon turned left and I turned right and headed up Shorts Road, then Alma and then turned left on to the Carshalton Road before doing a right up Oxford Road, riding through Carshalton Beeches High Street and up Banstead Road South to Staplehurst Road where I hung a left, sailed down the hill and up the other side and then turned right, heading towards Croydon Lane. This part of the ride is very pleasant as it runs between smallholdings on one side and the periphery of the Oaks Park on the other.

At Croydon Lane I turned left and rode into Purley, back into the Foxley Lane and then across to Pampisford Road before turning right, crossing the Brighton Road and weaving my way through side streets towards the Sanderstead Road and West Hill, where my gears messed up a bit, although I never dismounted. From West Hill, having rode up the 'steep side', I freewheeled into Barnfield and was home at roughly 0955hrs.

Mum on the doorstep bidding Jon and I farewell...

Another wonderful day – a million times better than yesterday and roughly on a par with the whole of the last week (sunshine and blue skies).

Since the Sunday before last, I have cycled a total of 143 miles on consecutive days.

Day seven: Easter Sunday ride to Tatsfield village (roughly 16 miles)

As I write this at 1100hrs there is rain, thunder and lightning disturbing the peace. Rain is hammering down on the roof of the conservatory, thunder claps can be heard overhead and yes, there was even some lightning to illuminate the greyness. Earlier, as Andy and I chewed the fat at the covered bus stop in Tatsfield village, there had been nothing but a mild misty blue air and a dull breeze and when a man passed the time of day with a 'looks like rain, lads' we shrugged it off, confident that we would reach home without getting soaked. And we did, but within 20 minutes of being home, I heard the rain, then the lightning and then thunder. And now, one paragraph in, the rain has stopped as suddenly as it began and there's just the drip, drip, drip of rain, like a dodgy tap – like my dodgy kitchen tap.

The Ship, Tatsfield, Kent early this morning.

Today's ride, my eighth consecutive ride (if you include last Sunday's jaunt to Westerham*) was characterised by empty streets. Everybody, it seemed, was lying in except for Andy and I and a guy in an Aston Martin, not forgetting whoever it was erecting posters for the London Air Show, an event that sounds grander than it actually is. The rain's started up again outside, but it's very bright out there too and I'm told it'll pass over – just as well as I'm planning a drive into darkest Sussex in about an hour from now.

Deserted – Easter Sunday morning on Sanderstead High St.

Let's get back to the London Air Show. I was wondering, as we passed a huge sign for it, whether or not it might be another name for the Biggin Hill Air Show, but I was wrong, this WAS the London Air Show and it was being held in Woldingham, an area not renowned for its airstrips or airports and, in terms of aviation heritage, I can't think of any (Woldingham is garden centre and golf club territory). However, on closer inspection, it became clear that the London Air Show is to the Biggin Hill event what lawnmower racing is to Formula One. To put it bluntly, we're talking about hang gliding and stuff more akin to the Selsey Bird Man competition than anything you might refer to as 'real flying'.

When we reached the village we talked more about Andy's ride to Brighton and back, roughly 80 miles. It was odd that he was complaining about cramps as he's normally not the complaining type. Perhaps, I suggested, it was the different riding position of the racer when compared to the mountain bike. Good point, he said, but the racer was needed to cover the distance in the alloted time. In other words, he'll have to get used to it – and I'm sure he will.

I mentioned that I'd be travelling again shortly to Indianapolis in the USA where, I've discovered, they have just introduced a 'Boris bike' scheme. I emailed those behind it and they said I can buy a 24-hour ticket when I arrive, so expect a few blogposts about riding in Indianapolis in a few weeks' time.

Tatsfield village, incidentally, had been cleaned up since my last visit on Good Friday. The rugby ball and beer cans had disappeared and so had the pint glasses left by the bench near the pond (it's too small, surely, to be called a lake?).

We drank tea, munched our Kellogg's NutraGrain bars – Andy's switched from Jordan's for some reason, but this isn't a complaint – and then we headed off and I began to complain about my Tesco Tearaway tracksuit bottoms; I've been wearing them all week (see photos in all but one of last week's posts). I hate them with a vengeance, they look so untidy, cheap and loutish and are a tad immature too.

The roads on the return journey were as deserted as they were on the way out, hence the image of Sanderstead High Street above. Note the lack of traffic and people. But then this is Easter Sunday in England and people are probably nursing Saturday night hangovers or preparing for a later start than normal. I've also included a shot of the Ship, a pub at the heart of Tatsfield Village, and one I haven't visited for a beer for a long while. The last time I was there they had surfboards with sails hanging on the walls.

Home-made sausages and mash at the White Horse, Sutton, Sussex – lovely!

The rain carried on all day in the end. I drove to one of my favourite pubs, the White Horse, in the middle of the south downs in the heart of Sussex, in the village of Sutton. I've included a photo of my lunch – home-made sausages, mash, kale and carrots, washed down with a pint of one of my favourite brews – Harvey's (an established Sussex brewer in Lewes).

All the way home in the car there was rain so I abandoned a much needed visit to the beach and instead headed home on the A24, which seemed quicker than my usual route along the A29. There was also little point in stopping in Arundel as to do so would have meant getting very wet indeed.

Now, at 1909hrs, there are blue skies and sunshine and I'm told it will continue into Easter Monday, my last day off work. What a truly great week off in all senses of the word: the weather, the cycling, the trips out, you name it, and especially having the entire family at home. A highlight was Max's chicken and leek pie – a worthy meal – and one I hope to enjoy again soon.

* I've been counting my consecutive days of cycling from Monday, separating them from my usual weekend rides and that's why it's Day Seven, although, in reality, by counting last Sunday's ride to Westerham, it's really Day Eight. 

Day six – with Andy to the Tatsfield churchyard (16 miles)

Yours truly and Andy at the Tatsfield Churchyard.

Another nice day as I embarked upon my seventh consecutive ride since last Sunday. This time I was meeting Andy at Warlingham Green at the usual time of 0700hrs. Yes, it's a normal Saturday, but my string of rides continues and won't stop until I break the cycle, which is likely to be on Tuesday when I return to work. Having said that, I reckon I could manage a 10-miler before work simply by riding to Ledgers Road just beyond Knights (and back). Anyway, enough!

St Mary's Church, Tatsfield.

At the green I met another bunch of cyclists who, like Andy and I, are regular riders (although I don't think I've seen them before). One of them referred to hills as mountains, so a typical conversation would go something like this:-

"...yes, but the problem with that ride is the hill on the way back."
"Which one?"
"Coming out of Godstone, prior to crossing the motorway?"
"Oh, you mean the Eiger?"
"Well, no, it's Ganger's Hill, isn't it?"
"That's what we call the Eiger."
"Oh."

I started to wonder whether another sad blog like mine existed somewhere else in cyberspace, but decided to say nothing. Instead I texted Andy. "Are you awake?" I wrote, cockily, and then, as if by magic, he arrived and we headed for the Tatsfield churchyard, followed by our new acquaintances who overtook us on the 269 and disappeared.

As always, it was a straighforward ride to the churchyard where we sat on a bench, munched our cereal bars and drank tea. Andy told me about his ride to Brighton. I thought he'd cycled there with work colleagues, but apparently they'd all pulled out at the last minute with various excuses, leaving Andy to ride there and back alone. It took him two hours and 30 minutes to get there (39 miles) and three hours and 15 minutes to get back. The racer did well, but it was much more uncomfortable than the mountain bike as every pot hole, every irregularity on the road, rankled.

Andy makes it to Brighton alone. Photo: Andy Smith

I spoke briefly about my week on the bike and how great the weather had been and then it was time to find a photographic angle we hadn't already attempted on previous visits – a near impossible task.

The ride home was fine until I reached the green. Andy and I had said goodbye and then, as I followed the road round, some stupid idiot decided to open their roadside car door just as I was passing. I swerved and somehow managed to avoid a collision, but only just. All the way home I was dreaming up expletives that I would have used had I come off the bike.

Day five: Tatsfield Village (16 miles)

Yours truly, Tatsfield Village Green, Friday 18th April 2014

I won't deny that I'm feeling pleased with myself. All week, from Monday 14th April to today, Friday 18th April, I've cycled a fair distance every day to places avid readers of this blog will already be familiar with: Botley Hill, the Tatsfield bus stop, churchyard and village – and the weather has been amazing. Yes, all of my rides this week have been accompanied by blue skies and sunshine.

In fact, if you want to discuss distances, from Monday through to today I've covered roughly 76 miles and with last Sunday's ride to Westerham added on, it's almost 100 miles (98 miles if I've got the mileages right).

Tatsfield Village Green. There's a pond there, but you can't see it.

Today, as mentioned above, was another wonderful day and, as I headed out on the 269, I was in two minds about where to go. Should I visit the Tatsfield bus stop the long way or go to the village the long way or just be content with Botley and back the fast way? Should I go to Botley and then come back the long way via Hesiers Hill? Decisions, decisions. In the end I decided to visit Tatsfield village (the fast way) and sit, for all of five minutes, on a bench opposite the pond on the green. I considered the covered bus stop opposite the pub, but somebody had left it in a right mess: there was a rugby ball there for some reason, accompanied by a couple of lager cans. I'd considered another bench, but somebody had left a couple of pint glasses, one with beer still in it, under the bench in question and, well, I just didn't fancy sitting there with that occasional waft of stale beer meeting my nostrils. Fortunately there was a bench that wasn't littered so I sat there and took a few photographs before getting up and riding home (the fast way again).

Today, of course, is Good Friday, something I forgot earlier when I headed out under the impression that there would be traffic en route to work. Had I gathered my senses earlier I might well have taken the Scrap to Sutton for breakfast round at mum's as I discovered that Jon had cycled there this morning, but I wasn't thinking.

The Kona casting a shadow on Tatsfield Village Green this morning.

So, here I am, it's nearly 8pm, I've cycled every day since last Sunday and I've covered almost 100 miles. It's been great, I feel good and to top it all, when my mother and mother-in-law came round for lunch today I had no qualms about eating a couple of slices of cheesecake, thanks to clocking up all those miles.

The consecutive days of cycling haven't ended yet. Tomorrow I'm planning a ride to Westerham with Andy (22 miles added); then there's the same again on Sunday (weather permitting – the TV forecasters say Sunday won't be that pleasant); and then, of course, there's Easter Monday, when the weather is likely to be more characterised by blue skies and sunshine.

Andy rode to Brighton and back today and I'm sure there will be images to post later. Watch this space.

Day four: Tatsfield churchyard – 16 miles.

On a bench in Tatsfield Churchyard, 17 April 2014.

The good weather continues and I find it hard to believe my luck: four consecutive rides, including today's (five if you add Sunday's ride to Westerham with Andy) without a drop of rain or a grey cloud. It's been blue skies and sunshine all week, the blossoms are not only on the trees, creating a sweet aroma in the air, but scattered on the ground as if every house I pass has recently hosted a wedding. Add to this the smell of woodsmoke from unseen bonfires, the distant drone of a light aircraft hovering over Biggin Hill and the picture is almost complete. Oh for a freshly creosoted fence and that delicious smell of hops from a pub.

The Kona in the churchyard

I headed off later than usual (0925hrs) and decided to ride to the Tatsfield churchyard, the fast way. It was traffic all the way to the green, but once beyond Knight's it thinned out considerably, as always, leaving me on the open road with green fields on either side as I approached Botley. I carried on past the pub, turning left and heading east on Clarks Lane, past the famous Tatsfield bus stop and then dismounting and manhandling the bike up some steep steps towards the churchyard where I was greeted by the usual tranquility of the place.

The Kona again resting against a bench in the Tatsfield churchyard

I parked the bike against a bench and with little in the way of power left on the camera, took the photographs that accompany this post prior to the phone shutting down. Without tea or companionship, there was little point in hanging around so, photographs taken, I walked the bike through the churchyard, manhandled it down the steps and then rode back along Clarks Lane towards Botley Hill and eventually home. I reached my house around 1055hrs, put the bike in the garage and then enjoyed a cup of tea. Perfect!