Normalising the ride to work

I used to say that riding to work was a faff and that's why I didn't do it, but the truth of the matter is this: it's not a faff. In fact, it's quite simple. I fold a shirt, find a towel and a pair of trousers, throw in a tee-shirt for the return ride, put my glasses and phone charger in a smaller section of the rucksack and that's it. After that it's just a case of putting on cycling shorts and another tee-shirt, plus socks and trainers and then heading out into the garage to fetch the bike. That's the only moment of trepidation. I check the rear tyre to see if it's flat or soft and if it's not, then off I go, set Strava and ride off.

Sometimes I ride in and bus it back

I ride up Ellenbridge and on to Elmfield, then Morley, then Church Way, roads I know well and then ride a little of the Limpsfield Road having crossed the churchyard. Now it gets a little busy although right now, with the kids off school, the roads are empty, which is great. I turn right on to Wentworth, follow the road down to Warlingham School, hang a right, bear left and head towards the first real hazard of the ride (although, in fairness, when you're on the road, the whole thing is one big hazard that shouldn't be underestimated).

The first big hazard, then, is Tithepit Shaw Lane, it's a winding downhill road (on the outward journey) and it's important to keep a weather eye on the traffic, namely impatient people driving to work. It also puts a little wear and tear on the brakes. Another hazardous part of the journey is the Whyteleafe roundabout, which is next up: plenty of traffic on the A22 so invariably I stop, wait for a clear path and then bomb across, hoping that the railway level crossing on the other side won't be bleeping as that can mean a fairly long wait for a train to pass, but even if it is bleeping, it's not really a problem. Some say that Whyteleafe Hill - which follows straight after the level crossing, is a bit of a pig and in some respects they're right, it is a pig, but mainly because it's long, not because it's steep. It's a steady incline and to be honest I take it in my stride. Half way along (at the end of the 'hilly bit', if you can call it that) there's a mini roundabout and from there it's fairly plain sailing into Caterham. I take my time as there's some nice houses along that stretch and it's nice to see them in all their morning finery. There's also some interesting side roads on either side that I'd like to explore one of these days. For some reason it takes me back to when I used to do a milk round in the south Wallington area.

The Whyteleafe railway crossing

It's a short ride past Queen's Park (on my right) to a little short cut, I think it's Manor Avenue, a quiet road which leads to Park Avenue and joins the Stanstead Road which takes me all the way to White Hill Lane via Chaldon. White Hill Lane, in many ways, represents the halfway point in a sense, but it's dangerous, a 10% drop that curves left and right and isn't ideal if you have a car behind you, even if I do deliberately hog the middle of the road to keep the motorist at bay. The problem is speed, which picks up, and then there's a right turn that I need to take, so I slow, take one hand off the bars for a split second to indicate I'm turning left and soon I find myself on Springbottom Lane, a long road with huge houses, some sporting swimming pools on the left and right. There's even a steep hillside with goats grazing and I think of the lonely goatherd in the song from The Sound of Music, not a film I'd put down as a favourite, more a childhood memory of going to the cinema and seeing Miss Candy with her red light and choc ices.

At the end of Springbottom a T junction and I turn left and then keep going, down another steep (and fast) hill and over the motorway, it's either the M23 or the M25 but I find it an invigorating moment of the ride, suddenly riding, at speed, over a busy motorway and then calming down a little as I reach the end of Warwick Wold Road and turn right, heading through the council estate of Merstham. This part of the ride is fairly chilled as, indeed, is the rest of the journey. I pass a curry restaurant, a Co-op and then, after another mini roundabout I ride under a railway bridge close to Merstham railway station and turn left, where the road is a little uneven as it takes me through a row of shops towards another mini roundabout where I turn right and head towards another railway bridge, or possibly two, I can't remember. By now, of course, I'm almost there. A left turn under the railway bridge, then a right on to what I think is Frenchies Road, I might be wrong about that, but either way I pass the Jolly Brickmakers and head on down into Redhill. At this stage there are various options: ride down Lynwood Road or head up towards the A23 and either cross it or turn left on to it and ride towards the town centre. As soon as I engage with traffic the need to be alert is crucial, trying to second guess the intentions of other road users, but soon I arrive in Clarendon Road, I press the security code, a door opens and I arrive in the office car park, time for a shower and a day's work and then, as the day wears on, I start to consider the ride home, which, it has to be said, is a pig. Why? It's all uphill and all those steep downhills become steep uphills, a real work-out that's for sure, but ultimately it's a 24-mile ride, roughly 12 miles each way and, of late, certainly on the inward ride, I've managed to shave six minutes off my time. It used to take me around one hour and sixteen minutes, now it's around an hour and ten.

The motorway on a return ride...

I tend to ride three times a week and sometimes I split it, I might ride in and take the bus back and then the following day I ride home, having bought a single ticket on the train, which is only £4.80 compared to £9.40 for a return trip. This week I rode there and back on Monday, I rode in Wednesday and left the bike at the office, taking the bus home (it costs me nothing) and then yesterday (Thursday) I rode it back. Now it's Friday, I've got the day off so I can either ride nowhere today, but only if I ride to Oxted or Westerham tomorrow morning. The aim is four rides a week, so Sunday with Andy plus three rides before Saturday. So far I've done two rides, ie two complete rides (there and back). I'd be happy with another one today, but as I say, if I don't go today I must go tomorrow so as not to break the cycle, so to speak.

The other side of this, of course, is fitness. I've lost around 7lbs, or let's say 6lbs, and I'm kind of watching what I eat. I've got to be slightly careful, because there's also that thing about regular cycling and not needing to keep to a diet. I've bought into that a little bit along the lines of eating cake and biscuits, but it only works if the riding is kept up and even then it's a false economy; but on the other side I've not been eating in between meals (most of the time) and I've been having light meals. The danger is when the cycling slopes off a bit, which I'm sure it will do when the weather closes in, but all I really need to do (to maintain current cycling levels) is to ride on the weekends and then twice during the week. So Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday should do it.

The bike at work, probably prior to the ride home

You see much more of the world around you when you're on a bicycle. If you're travelling fast in a train, while you get to see the countryside and the fields at a distance, it's all over in a flash. In a car it's even worse, but on a bike you spot things you might have passed by, like the old church in Caterham built in something like 1039AD, there it is on the side of the road as I turn into Manor Road, see photo below.

The old church in Caterham

The above shot is taken while on Manor Avenue, which leads down to Park Avenue. I just saw it and thought it looked like a nice spot. That's the thing about cycling, you see lots of nice spots where you can imagine yourself chilling with a cup of tea or just lolling around doing nothing, what's not to like?

Riding to work, saving money and keeping fit...

I reckon the media's at it again, scaremongering. Matt Frei on LBC (under the circumstances, perhaps that should be Matt Fry) was talking up a lockdown with a former government chief scientific officer, who wouldn't be drawn either way, and the papers are full of it being over 40deg C. I haven't checked my iphone weather app for next week, but the last time I looked 40deg C wasn't on the cards, it was something like 36 degrees, if that, so don't believe the hype. There are even reports on the trains being disrupted due to overheated rails that might buckle. The train companies, or Network Rail, are advising people not to travel unless it's absolutely necessary, which is rather stupid as nobody's going to get on the train to Redhill, say, if they don't have to, but I'm guessing if you work there then you must catch the train (or the bus). Or, of course, you could do what I did three times last week and ride in, 25 miles per day plus a 21-mile ride to Westerham last Sunday morning, I was clearly on a roll and the weather was wonderful. I guess that the experts would say cycling is out of the question too, but I figure that early in the morning the sun isn't exactly at its hottest and when I ride home, normally close to 1800hrs, the hot weather is bound to have cooled off a little; in fact I might ride on Monday and Tuesday if there's the slightest hint of 'trouble on the trains', there's nothing worse than knowing it takes just one hour and 15 minutes to ride to work when you're standing on a hot platform with a load of sweaty commuters wondering if one of them has COVID. It is, therefore, highly likely that I will ride to work and in the process deny Southern Railway of my daily extortionate fare of £9.50.

Bike in Westerham last Sunday...

Last week's rides were good. I rode Tuesday, Thursday and Friday and enjoyed them all, apart from the big hills on the way back, namely White Hill Lane and Tithepit Shaw Lane. That said, I crank the bike into its lowest gear and set about the task of uphill riding in the heat, because it has been warm. I noticed my forearms sweating as the climb continued and when I reached the top I felt elated that there was just one more hill to go and then I'd be almost home. It's great getting home, of course, pressing 'finish' on Strava, putting the bike in the garage and then chilling for the rest of the evening. On a couple of occasions I've gone to bed early (around 2000hrs). I lie on top of the bed in a spare room, fully clothed, and then find myself waking up in the middle of the night, everybody in bed and asleep and me considering cleaning my teeth and going back to sleep in my own bedroom. Not 'my own' bedroom in the sense that I'm the only one there, but the bedroom I share with my wife who is fast asleep when I arrive feeling slightly more awake than I did prior to visiting the bathroom to clean my teeth. It'll then take me a while to get to sleep but eventually that's what happens and then it's morning again and time for work once more. Give or take, this happened on three days last week and I'll admit that I do feel better for it. I take sandwiches with me and that means I spend nothing, except, perhaps, for a cup of tea in the Pop Inn, which is £1.50. The caff is getting expensive, they're putting up their prices so that 'going to the caff' is no longer the cheap option (compared, I suppose, with other caffs, like the M&S caff, which is never good value for money) or other venues, although the choice in Redhill is very limited. Give me an avocado sandwich any day, it's all I need. I've cut down considerably on what I eat, although I do currently have a weakness for toast and honey (two slices in the morning and two when I get back off the ride). But I figure that cycling 25 miles/day means I can eat my toast and honey without feeling too guilty about it. So I'll aim for riding Monday and Tuesday, Thursday and Friday next week, one ride more than last week. It's so easy riding to work: chuck a shirt and a pair of trousers into a rucksack along with a towel and all the stuff I'll need - ie glasses, iphone, phone charger - and then just go. I know roughly what time I'll arrive and the time I'll return as the only possible delay would be caused by a puncture and that would delay me approximately 20 minutes. That said I've got some new 'leeches' and they're not Leeches, so they might not be up for the job. The last thing I want is to be stranded somewhere between Redhill and Caterham (which is all out in the sticks and miles from a railway station).

Wild flowers on Clarks Lane on the return ride from Westerham last Sunday

These past two or three days it's been hot and in the morning very pleasant. In fact there's been nothing more pleasurable than riding from where I live to Redhill. Fine, there are a few dodgy bits, but not many, most of the ride is country lanes, but it's important not to take my eye off the ball, so to speak. On the outward ride the most dangerous spots are riding down Tithepit Shaw Lane and then White Hill Lane, the latter being extremely dangerous as it's a steep downhill and it's hard to keep control of the bike AND then signal a right turn. I might start riding along War Coppice Road and then Hexstalls Lane to avoid the steep drop and the effect it must be having on my brake pads. There is a way of avoiding Tithepit too, but it all adds up in terms of time. Still, better safe than sorry I guess. You have to be careful everywhere. Once in Merstham I was cut up as I approached a mini roundabout by a driver who cut in front of me as he turned left. On the return ride the main danger spot is riding down the lower half of Whyteleafe Hill. There are sleeping policeman in the middle of the road and all you need is an impatient driver getting too close and that's what happened to me last week. He got close enough, at speed, to make me feel wary of that stretch on the return ride; in the morning it's fine as it's uphill and, therefore, slower.

Clarks Lane looking towards Botley Hill last Sunday

A colleague at work has suggested high visibility clothing and he's right. I need a high-viz rucksack definitely as wearing, say, a high visibility top would be concealed by my current rucksack. The only time I don't need a rucksack is when I ride at the weekends and don't need to pack a shirt or a pair of trousers, but on those occasions (ie my ride to meet Andy in Westerham on Sundays) a high visibility top would be preferable. I guess I need both.

Railway crossing at the bottom of Whyteleafe Hill last week

The bike has performed relatively well, but the week before last I had a buckled wheel. I only noticed this because I noticed I had a puncture in the office car park prior to riding home and when I had fixed it and replaced the wheel I couldn't believe the wobble. A chappy in the bike shop in Redhill said place your finger next to the wheel, spin the wheel and if the rim touches your finger, you need a new wheel or you'll need to have the wheel and a couple of spokes fixed. As it turned out I needed a new wheel, there was a hole in the underside of it so I nipped in to Cycle King in Croydon with a view to buying a new wheel. But guess what? It's not in stock. It never is at Cycle King and the bloke there, a rather cocky individual, always suggests I go online, order what he tells me to order and then bring said item into the shop and he'll fix it. Easier said than done. He suggested Chain Reaction Cycles and I thought they'd be good because they're on Twitter and they appear to be fairly cyclist friendly, but now I'm having my doubts. The guy in Cycle King told me to key in '29 Er wheel with centre lock hub' or something like that; I made a note on my iphone and when I reached home I did just that expecting a whole load of products would spring up on the site and that I could choose from the selection, get the wheel delivered to my house and then take it Cycle King and they'd fix it. But it's never that easy, not with Cycle King at any rate. It should be but it isn't. For a start, when I keyed in what I was told to there were pages and pages of stuff about wheels and hubs, expensive wheels and hubs, but nothing at all to match my search criteria. I scrolled through half a dozen pages before realising I was not going to find what I wanted. On a later try three expensive mountain bikes sprung up, no wheels, nothing, just three expensive bikes. 

Riding over the motorway, not sure which one...

I realised that Chain Reaction Cycles were not going to be getting my business, not because I didn't want to give it to them, but simply because the item I keyed in simply wasn't there. It was a case of 'everything but' so I signed off. The guy at Cycle King said he would send me a link but as I suspected he never did, even now, over a week later, I haven't heard back from him. Fortunately, there was Balfe's in Sutton. It used to be Pearson's and it's a great bike shop, very very helpful. The guy said he didn't have the exact wheel but he could still make things work with what he had. I drove over to Sutton in the heat of a Saturday afternoon, having retrieved the wheel from Cycle King. The guy in Balfe's - I think it was Mike - took my old wheel, found a new one and told me what he was going to do, I said fine, go for it and went to wait it out in the Starbucks next door. I ordered a large English Breakfast tea and a couple of ginger biscuits and sat there watching the good people of Sutton pass up and down the high street as I reminisced about my childhood town and the countless times I'd walked up and down the high street 'back in the day'. I tend to visit Sutton once a week but never the High Street. However, on this occasion I left the car in the B&Q car park, walked through Manor Park, where people were playing ball games and generally enjoying the good weather, and then down the high street to Balfe's where I handed over the wheel and, as I said, sat outside Starbuck's awaiting my new wheel. The rear wheel was the problem so the guy in the shop had to swap over the block from the old wheel to the new. When I went back in I asked if he thought I needed a new rear tyre. He said no, there was some wear left in the old one. I paid up, £111.98 and left the shop with my new wheel. I felt elated because I'd told Andy that it was highly likely I wouldn't be riding to Westerham in the morning, but now I knew I'd be there so I told him so via a text message.

I was heading for Caterham and White Hill Lane...

The following morning I went into the garage and fixed my new wheel on to the bike and then rode to Westerham to meet Andy at Costa. We sat chatting for around one hour before heading back home. Andy was with James and the two of them were part of the Moof IT cycling team, they had the branded vests, the lot. They were the sole members but I'm sure the numbers will improve and even if they don't it doesn't matter as Andy is not only part of NoVisibleLycra, but also Oxted CC.

Hell is a left turn...

It's hot today. Too hot to mow the lawn, which is scorched and scraggy after around three weeks of not being cut, probably longer. There are wild flowers and it's tempting to leave it as the grass hasn't grown a great deal because of the heat, but I've promised to cut it later when things cool down a little. Right now, in fact ever since I started writing this blogpost, I'm sitting in the shade under a tree, lap top on lap (where it's supposed to be). There are birds tweeting, blue skies and a few scattered clouds of the white cotton wool variety. I can hear the drone of a plane in the sky but I can't see it and I can just see the tops of the trees in the woods. A radio plays in the distance and everything is still, especially the clouds, which are motionless.

I didn't go riding today on account of my three rides during the week, but I will be in Westerham tomorrow morning, a week after the last meeting that nearly didn't happen, to meet Andy and enjoy an English breakfast tea in the sunshine.

Sunday morning

I left home at 0801hrs and headed for Westerham. It was warm out, very warm. In fact, right now, at 1808hrs it's still warm, something like 28 degrees. I decided to put sun block on and a long-sleeved fleece to protect the old forearms and then I was on my way, having also tanked up with cold water. I doubted I'd need it on the outward journey but perhaps on the way home, at the top of the hill coming out of Westerham and then at the top of Slines Oak Road as I was planning on avoiding most of the 269. I didn't want to be dealing with hot and bothered drivers.

The bike at work...

By the time I reached Westerham Andy was there, sitting at a table on the green. There was a bunch of Japanese motorcycles lined up outside the Costa, which made a pleasant change from the usual Harley Davidisons, there was even an old Virago, but mainly, it seemed, Yamahas. It was one of those days, there was plenty of vintage this and that floating around, mainly vintage cars: old Ford Escorts, MGBs, Ford Anglias, you name it, all heading for a field off the Limpsfield Road. 

It was a good ride and I was feeling tip top, which was probably a lot to do with being almost a stone lighter and fitter through the riding I'd been doing during the week. Andy later said that I was riding faster than usual, which was good to know. While on the green we sat and chatted, mainly about Andy's ride to Cornwall and, of course, the nasty accident that preceded it. Hats off to Andy for having the determination to succeed and keep with his original programme, that of riding to and from Cornwall to see his sister. 

Andy and I stayed together on the return ride until we cleared Rectory Lane. I went back via The Ridge and through Woldingham, taking the Slines Oak Road hill with ease and then gliding along the Limpsfield Road towards home. I got back around 1120hrs and then mowed the front lawn and trimmed the tree a little bit too, it all looks good now. For the past three weeks or so we've not had a mower, the wheel came off and it needed repairing. The hot weather has scorched the lawns front and back, they're brown and dry and there's little in the way of growth. I've chilled in the back garden, drinking the odd cup of green tea, eating baked beans on toast and then driving over to Wimbledon (and back). Didn't see mum this weekend, which was a shame, but I'll see her next week for sure. 

Casting a shadow in Whyteleafe...

Tomorrow it's supposed to be almost 40 degrees, so pretty hot. I will probably ride in early and then, if it's really bad I'll either leave the bike at work and take the bus or check the temperature and if it's alright I'll ride back, but let's cross those bridges as we encounter them.

I'm rather hoping that after Tuesday - when they say the heat will calm down a little (perhaps to what is now) - that the good weather will continue and I can ride to work a bit more. What  I don't want is rain and storms, well, perhaps for one day, but it's still early in the summer, we're in July for heaven's sake, so I'm expecting more sunshine, just not so severe as they're expecting tomorrow and Tuesday. Actually, I'm hoping that it's all media hype, but something says it's not and the last thing I want is heatstroke.

The media was right!

As it turned out the media was correct: it turned out to be a real scorcher and temperatures almost reached 40 degrees C; it was 38 degrees C in Suffolk and over here in my neck of the woods it was cool enough to ride into work but there was no way I was going ride home as it was sweltering hot. Instead, I got the bus home and managed, thanks to cycling in, not to spend a penny on public transport. Result!

 

Strikebuster! I ride to work and back!

It's not often that I miss a week or two on the blog, but as desperate readers must be thinking, where IS he? Well, I'm here. I haven't gone away. In fact, the week before last, due to the train strike, I managed to ride into work from Tuesday to Friday, roughly 25 miles per day... and the weather was absolutely perfect, arguably too hot, especially on the the hilly return ride. Normally, riding to work is a bit of a pain and can be fairly stressful when you consider that the threat of puncture always looms large and it's the last thing I want when I'm riding in; on the return journey it's a little less threatening but probably worse as I'm tired from a day at work and looking forward to getting home to relax. But fortunately, no punctures, in fact, nothing was wrong with the bike at all so I was, if you like, blessed with good fortune.

The bike in an empty car park ready for the ride home...

The weekend prior to the train strike I didn't cycle anywhere because I was going away for a night, down to darkest East Sussex. I didn't ride on the Saturday morning to Oxted and then, because I woke up in a hotel on Sunday morning, no riding on Sunday either. But then I more than made up for it the following Tuesday (day one of the train strike) when I rode to Redhill through Whyteleafe, Caterham and Chaldon. The ride in, as I've said before, was a piece of cake, mainly because most of it is downhill, but not until I've cleared Whyteleafe Hill, which is not too bad, it's just long and dragged out. But once at the top and once having turned right just beyond a small park, the rest of the ride is plain sailing along Stansted Road, into Chaldon and then down White Hill Lane, turning right on to Springbottom Lane and then left and straight on, over the motorway and into Merstham. In fact, riding down White Hill Lane is arguably the most dangerous part of the ride because the downhill is fast and there are a few twists and turns and then I have to slow the bike down and make a right turn.

Sign for Route 21... no, not today!

Once into Merstham it's pretty much plain sailing through the village and then along Frenchies Road into Redhill. When I arrive at work I can shower in the office and then, refreshed, walk up the two flights of stairs to the office feeling energised and ready for the working day. The best bit about riding to the office (when the weather is good) is that I get excited about the ride home. It's great knowing that all I have to do is walk downstairs, unpadlock the bike, jump on and ride home. I can even let the folks at home know the exact time that I will return (barring hassles like a puncture) as it takes roughly one hour and 15 minutes to get home, give or take. The problem with the return ride is the hills. I encounter them just outside of Merstham on the Warwick Wold Road leading up to the bridge across the motorway and they continue from there. The first big one is White Hill Lane: dangerous riding down and bloody hard work cycling the other way. Oddly it's little more than around five minutes of pain and then it's over. Suddenly I'm approaching the Harrow pub in Chaldon and all is well. As the week progressed I got better and better at climbing up White Hill Lane, although on one day I decided to seek out Hexstalls Lane, a gravelly road that bypasses the hill and deposits me right at the top on War Coppice Road which leads down to the Harrow pub. But all that gravel worries me: what if I get a puncture? As I said earlier, it's the last thing I need on the ride home, even if the sun is shining.

Cycling over the motorway, with more hills to come...

On the Friday of the week of riding to the office I only rode in. I left the bike in the office over the weekend due to a calamity that needed immediate attention but then rode the bike home the following Monday and, much to my amazement – after another weekend of not riding the bike – I sailed up White Hill Lane. It was odd as I saw another cyclist a few yards ahead of me on a racing bike. I watched as he stood up and pedalled his way to the top and so decided that I would adopt the same practice. I found it worked well and realised that I'd conquered the hill and that it would never be a major problem for me again. I put this down to two things: one was all those rides to Oxted and the ride back up Titsey Hill; these rides would have put me in a good position for the pain of White Hill Lane. Two, the fact that I'd been riding on four consecutive days to Redhill and back meant that I was accustomed to the hill by the end of the week so when I tackled it on the Monday, having not cycled in to Redhill (which must have helped) I took the whole thing in my stride.

Reaching the top of White Hill Lane

White Hill Lane, however, is not the only nasty incline on the return ride, there's also Tithepit Shaw Lane. On the Monday evening I decided to stand up for as along as I could and change down as the hill reached its steepest point; this proved a great success and once over I felt the relief of knowing there were no more hills and that I would be home within around 10-15 minutes. 

On one of the days, I think it was the first Tuesday, the day of the strike, when I reached home I felt tremendously energised. So energised in fact that I set about making myself a homemade pasta and sauce (basically fusilli with chopped tomato, red pepper and onion. I ate the lot.

Ever since returning from Prague, where I started drinking green tea, I started to watch my diet a little bit and soon I was down to 12st 7lbs. I had weighed around 13 stone and wasn't happy so it was good to jump on the scales and find myself half a stone lighter, which I put down to not eating more than two to three slices of bread per day and trying my best not to eat between meals. By and large I've laid off the cakes too, although over the weekend just past I did eat a few chocolate digestives (at my mum's) and some digestives and a slice of chocolate cake (at my mother-in-law's). Not ideal, but then last night I didn't eat a big meal. Today (it's Monday and I was going to ride in, but will probably ride tomorrow morning depending on how I feel) I had Alpen and fresh fruit with yoghurt for breakfast, no toast, and mug of green tea. I made myself a tuna and mayo sandwich, just the one and that's all I've eaten today so far (it's now just gone 5pm and I'm about to go home, albeit on the train. I would like to get my weight down to around 12st, just over perhaps, but that would be enough.

Queen's Park in Caterham, I think that's what it's called...

On Sunday I rode to Westerham to meet Andy who told me all about his ride to and from Cornwall. We sat on the green sipping tea for around one hour talking about the ride and I must say the whole thing was inspiring. I'm pleased for Andy as he broke his hip, you might recall, earlier in the year, but was determined to ride to Cornwall and he did, so respect is due, top man and all that. I would like to have a crack at a longer ride, perhaps a trip to the south coast, but I'm not going to commit to anything as I have enough travelling to do in my job as it is. Avid readers will know that over the past month of so I've been first to Pittsburgh in the USA and then to Prague in the Czech Republic. There's a trip to Sweden and Finland coming up so I don't want to be away for longer than I have to, but a one-day ride to Felpham would work, I'll just have to see if an opportunity arises.

The last hill of the ride... and it ain't a walk in the park!

Grandior Prague - a fantastic hotel...

Some hotels are like the Tardis. From the outside they might share the road in which they are located with various stores and not really enjoy the luxury of a grand entrance, but once through the doors they open out like a huge canyon of glitz and glamour, mirrors and polished floors and occupy a vast space that goes back and back as far as the eye can see, but fail to offer any evidence of their size on the outside. If you took a walk around the block to check out the scale of the place from the outside you would find nothing to suggest that you hadn't been dreaming. 

View from room 512, Grandior Hotel

The Grandior Hotel in Prague is very much a Tardis. Once inside, you lose all sense of there being an outside world. You exist in another space all together and it's a great feeling. The streets and shops are gone and you find yourself in a corridor, passing numbered doors until you reach your own where you are plunged into a world within a world, your room, where silence reigns supreme, a made bed awaits your attention and a minibar too.

There was very little not to like at the Grandior Hotel. Great rooms, amazing food, fantastic hospitality all made my stay impeccable. The breakfasts were to die for: quark cakes for a start, poppy seed cakes, pastries, a variety of breads, hot and cold delights, cereals and yoghurts, a selection of teas, scrambled eggs, beans, bacon, sausages, roasted potatoes (yes, roasted potatoes), mushrooms, you name it. Lunches were good too and I'm guessing dinner was also top notch, but I never experienced it, much to my dismay.

Checking in and out was straightforward and the conference I was running went smoothly thanks to the hotel staff who pulled out all the stops, offering sweet and savoury snacks to delegates during the breaks and generally being there when called upon. 

Room 512, Grandior Hotel

I was staying in room 512 on the fifth floor. The bathroom was luxurious and my only complaint was the ferocity of the shower and the fact that I managed to soak everything as soon as I switched it on; it was so powerful, like a Karcher jet washer. I felt as if I was sand-blasting myself rather than having a warm, gentle shower. Sometimes I couldn't face it until after breakfast. That would be my only gripe, everything else was perfect.

I arrived on Monday 6th June and checked out on Friday 10th June and then flew home with easyJet, not British Airways. And you know what? The food offering was better and the flight too, it was smooth all the way, sunny with scattered cloud and we flew at 38,000 feet. I read Middle England by Jonathan Coe, sipped on a green tea and munched on a KitKat, that was lunch basically. It was good to be flying into Gatwick and not Heathrow. The former means that the plane runs just north of the south coast and then turns inland to touch down, there's no circling the airport half a dozen times before landing and once on the ground it's a short walk to the train station and regular trains into London. I was home by 1530hrs and sitting in the garden finishing off my book. The big question is what to read next.

No, I won't jump, I need breakfast!

Monday 6th June, Flight BA860 from London Heathrow to Prague...

Waiting to take off...

First, let's get all the commercial crap out of the way. I hate it. As soon as I am through security – which this time was relatively painless – I found myself surrounded by booze and perfume and then watches and expensive leather goods, clothes shops and so forth. I was elated to note that shops like Tiffany, Bvlgari and other big brand names I'm having difficulty remembering were all empty, no customers whatsoever, it was so heartening. I've always hated the false notion that air travel is somehow glamorous and that we should all be considering some Beluga caviar before we fly (another shop, incidentally, that had no customers, much to my amusement, all those oysters going to waste, I thought).

Unfortunately for me I'm still on antibiotics, thanks to my last trip abroad. The course finishes tomorrow, but I almost forgot and ordered a chicken burger, which I swiftly cancelled, keeping only the mineral water in order to swallow my pill at the desired time, which just so happened to be at lunch time. I had the prospect of not eating for one hour, which was very depressing especially when I later discovered that the inflight service consisted of a bag of crisps. If I wanted anything else, I was told, I should have ordered something on the BA shopping app prior to flying, except that nobody told me about this. Next time I'll buy food before I fly, I thought. The other option was to use the app to order something from the limited selection they had on board, which was rubbish and consisted only of coffee and a couple of biscuits. And considering that I was now at 30,000 feet and the option of pre-ordering was out of the question, it was all I had left. I made the cabin crew work. I had many questions and I needed them to help me use the app in order to buy an awful cup of black coffee and those biscuits. The coffee came in the shape of a coffee bag which I had to place in a paper mug of hot water they had given me. The coffee was awful, no taste at all despite claiming to offer 'notes of dark chocolate and burnt caramel'. I squeezed the bag as per the instructions on the back but it made no difference, it was still absolutely awful. So much for their 'Signature Blend'. 

Looking down at the M25...

To use the app, the cabin crew told me I had to take the phone off airplane mode (which made me a little apprehensive as I imagined the plane suddenly nose-diving and the captain coming out and saying "whoever's turned their phone off airplane mode, switch it back on" and then the plane levelling out). Nothing of the sort happened, fortunately. 

The biscuit and the coffee set me back a fiver and didn't represent value for money in my world. The annoying thing here, of course, was that once again, I found myself being forced to eat rubbish. I had no dinner on Sunday night because there wasn't any food, no breakfast for the same reason the following morning and then no lunch because I had to take an antibiotic at a specific time and I was really looking forward to the inflight meal, but it wasn't to be thanks to British Airways, the airline that likes to disappoint its customers.

The flight was only 90 minutes and as I looked at  my watch, I realised we had started our descent. As soon as we land I'm going to grab something decent to eat, I thought to myself. I was really glad that I got the cabin crew working on that app. I was like a dog with a bone.

The captain said the weather conditions in Prague were 'cheerful', which was more than could be said for BA's food offering. The muddy water they passed off as coffee was a joke as, indeed was the whole experience. I think the crew thought that nobody would be bothered to use the app, but I proved them wrong. They're probably still cursing me as I write this; at least I hope they are!

BA's idea of lunch!

Outside the window and far below me, there were green fields and sunshine and scattered cloud. When I looked at my watch, there was around 15 minutes until we landed. I could see little villages below and the usual patchwork quilt of corn fields and grass fields dissected by narrow country lanes and peppered here and there with forests, the occasional river and even a few wind farms. Ten minutes to landing.

Once down, getting through security was a doddle, so was baggage reclaim and then I spotted a cafeteria, a spacious place with hardly any customers. There was a servery counter so I ordered a pasta and chicken dish and a decent dessert and chilled for a few minutes before finding a taxi and heading for the Grandior Hotel.

Postscript: Just going back to British Airways again, one thing I always used to enjoy was reading John Simpson's column in the High Life magazine, but now it's not available as a print publication – or so it seems. Now it's an app that you can read (I'd imagine with huge difficulty) on a mobile phone. I didn't bother. Fucking apps!

Westerham and Tatsfield with Andy...

Before I start this post, a brief explanation as to why I'm even writing this sentence. Basically, there's some kind of formatting issue which means that if I try to make the next paragraph the start of this post, it suddenly increases the font size and centres the paragraph and it looks awful. I've spent an age trying to work out how to get it right and the only way I can think of is to fill the space with text like this. Anyway, here's the post...

It is possible to draw an invisible line between the time prior to my recent trip to the USA and the time since I've returned. Before I left the UK, I had things kind of under control. For a start, I had found a routine of sorts that involved a ride to Oxted where I would chill out with a mug of tea or coffee and possibly a small chocolate bar. Such chilled out behaviour would take place in either a Starbucks in the middle of town or a Caffe Nero at the top of the High Street close to Pizza Express. I loved it. Once sat down at whatever establishment I had chose I would simply shut down for a while; I would sip tea, watch passers-by and generally relax. I might take a look in a charity shop afterwards and then I would prepare myself for the journey home, which would involve climbing Titsey Hill or Chalkpit Lane depending on how I felt, the latter being the steeper option.

 

Andy, Westerham, Saturday...

On my return from the USA, however, things changed. For a start I arrived home with an infected foot; it was bright red and swollen and, as a result, I was given antibiotics. I worked at home for a bit and I stayed off of the bike, although I still managed a ride to Tatsfield Village to meet Andy for his first ride since breaking his hip (see previous post). In all honesty, the foot was well enough to ride the bike, but the infection persisted and I was given another box of pills. I rarely take pills, not even an Aspirin for a hangover because I no longer suffer from them having given up drinking five years ago. But now I found myself taking one pill every four hours. I had to find a pen and paper and note down the times of each pill and I wasn't allowed to eat until one hour afterwards, which, in a way, disciplined me to slow down on eating generally, ie I couldn't simply stuff my face all day as I've always been prone to do; and this was good as it put me back in the frame of mind to starting dieting a little, lose a few pounds. I'm certainly below 13 stone and if possible, I plan to get down to 12 stone, although that ain't going to be easy.

It's funny how food sets out to ambush me... or perhaps that should be that bad food sets out to ambush me; take last Wednesday, for example. When I arrived home from work I found a huge spread of food including ham sandwiches and sausage rolls and as this seemed to be all there was for dinner, I tucked in and later regretted consuming both the ham sandwiches and the two sausage rolls as I normally avoided reformed meat and I certainly steer clear of sausage rolls. And let's face it, the whole 'meal' was the worst kind: white bread for a start and we all know how bad sausage rolls can be. Then there's visiting mum. I tend to resign myself to eating crap at mum's, normally a slice of fruit cake or, as is currently the case, a chocolate digestive or five and possibly even a KitKat, not forgetting the tea which, these days, has a distinctly weird taste to it; in fact, it has been said that mum bleaches everything (cups, plates and I often wonder whether the kettle gets roped in too). Outside of visiting mum and being ambushed, I can pretty much avoid it and I've stopped eating wrapped chocolate bars so things have kind of got off to a reasonable start.

An amazing 14.9g of sugar!!!

But things certainly haven't been the same since I returned from the USA. I'm still fairly stressed for a start, the pills keep me focused on taking them (the pills) and I'm off to Prague on yet another trip. I wish I could take the train and probably could, but it would have meant leaving earlier than I have to if I rely upon aviation. Train travel is by far the most civilised form of transport, but it's much more expensive than travelling by air, but that's another story.

This weekend I agreed to meet Andy in Westerham. I found him in the Costa, or rather outside in the fresh summer air, and we enjoyed chilling and chatting like we used to prior to Andy's unfortunate accident. He has, I hasten to add, completely recovered and is all set to ride to Cornwall in a couple of weeks from now.

On the ride home, just before I reached Botley Hill, I stopped. I was feeling a little faint and decided to call home for a lift back. In retrospect I shouldn't have bothered, but I thought (wrongly) that I had been over-exerting myself whilst taking antibiotics and shouldn't have been riding the bike - or this is what I was told when my lift arrived. Meanwhile, I'd walked the short distance to the Botley Hill Farmhouse where I sat down and ordered a pot of tea to revive me. The truth of the matter is that I felt mildly dizzy probably because I'd started putting drops of olive oil in my ears in an effort to clear the blockage caused by excessive ear wax, a constant problem for yours truly. I really ought to sort this out as it makes going to sleep at night an unpleasant experience; as soon I'm lying down I lose all hearing and it would take a herd of elephants to wake me and even then I probably wouldn't hear them. To cut a long story short I should have chilled with the tea and possibly a cake of some sort and then slowly completed the journey by bike. But I'd made the call and soon enough I was driving home with the bike (minus its front wheel, which was in the boot). Later I discovered that I could exercise whilst taking antibiotics, which meant I could carry on riding the bike. 

Tea at Sheree's on Sunday morning

The next ride was supposed to be Westerham, but I figured it might be best to take things a little easy. I texted Andy and suggested Tatsfield Village, setting off around 0800hrs. When I got there I found Andy inside drinking coffee. I ordered a tea and (perhaps foolishly) a small packet of oatmeal biscuits to dunk in the tea. We sat and chatted about all sorts of things, one subject being 'joy'. Joy in the sense of not having any since I gave up drinking, joy in the sense of losing out on 'the good things in life' just because I discovered last week that a can of Pellegrino Limonata (a drink I enjoyed over ice in Pittsburgh) contains 14.9g of sugar. I went back to the office and told one of my colleagues, stating that I won't be having any more of them and she suggested that I'm cutting off all elements of joy from my life. She has a point. I recently tweeted that fun had left the building since I stopped drinking, but added that so have the hangovers and humiliations. Enjoying a drink, said Andy as we sat in the cosy environment of Sheree's Tearoom, was a media construct, we're all supposed to enjoy drinking but, as my doctor said, alcohol is a poison and I could easily do without that large glass of Merlot in my favourite Italian restaurant in Dusseldorf, I didn't need to drink to enjoy myself and that's the point: nobody needs alcohol to enjoy themselves so don't be hoodwinked by the media and the drinks company advertisements on the television. I'll never start drinking again, I said, because the defeat of starting again would be too huge to cope with and in all honesty it's not even that: I've gone five years, I no longer need it and that makes me realise that I never needed it, I was told I needed it, I was coerced into it by advertising, by peer group pressure, it was expected of me, it was what people do, what blokes to to enjoy themselves, and the myth lasted years until five years ago I finally stopped for no other reason than an inner ear infection. I feel better, put it that way, and for that reason alone I won't be going back, I don't need to, I've broken the invisible barrier and come out the other side unscathed.

Mist along The Ridge on Sunday

The weather in Tatsfield was wonderful and had been all the way there; it wasn't sunny and warm, far from it, it was relatively cold compared with Friday's ride to Westerham, there was a fine rain, everything was green and misty and in some many ways it was perfect cycling weather. Andy reminded me before I left to bring lights and he was right. As I rode the 269 towards Botley Hill a mist descended and it didn't pass until I was in Tatsfield.

Fallen tree blocks the way home...

Andy and I chatted our way through a second cup of tea and another coffee (not forgetting another packet of oatmeal biscuits for me - not so much an ambush but a deliberate decision based purely on the fact that I was enjoying our conversation so much that I simply desired biscuits and a second pot of tea). I was driven, perhaps, by the joy of the moment.

I emerged victorious on the other side...

I rode home along The Ridge and through Woldingham, riding downhill on Slines Oak Road. A motorist flagged me down and told me that a tree had fallen across the road. "I doubt that even a bike will get through it," he said, but I figured I ought to check things out for myself. On reaching the tree I initially thought that he and another motorist who said the same thing were right, but I found a way through, which took me around five to 10 minutes. I emerged unscathed and victorious on the other side and continued the ride home. The mist had all but vanished and it wasn't long before I was home and working out when I needed to take my next pill.

Andy's back on the ride...

 "Possibly, if I'm fit enough," I said in reply to a text from Andy. Initially he was asking me if I made it out last Sunday, the day after my return from Pittsburgh (see previous posts). Because of the flight the answer was no. "Hobbling, hoping will improve," wrote I, adding, "Couldn't ride a bike today." It was Monday, I had decided to work from home rather than walk to and from the railway station unnecessarily. I was still popping pills trying to reduce the swelling in my right foot. By Wednesday things had improved somewhat and they got better on Thursday and Friday. 

Matt and Andy, but not recently!

Andy was hoping he'd get the okay from the hospital to ride the bike, adding that a short ride to Tatsfield would fit the bill nicely. I was a little concerned as to whether I'd be able to ride the bike, hence my comment about being fit enough. I told Andy I was well and truly on the mend, however, but needed to see if I could ride a bike comfortably. I could. Andy was discharged from the care of the hospital and I told him I planned a short ride so we agreed to meet in Tatsfield village at 1000hrs.

It was good to see him again and I was pleased he was still 100% determined to ride to Cornwall next month, although instead of doing it in one day he had decided to ride 150 miles on day one and then around 100 miles on day two. The plan was to spend some time with his sister near Bodmin and then take two days on the return journey home, stopping at  B&Bs on both the outward and return journey.

I was glad that Andy was determined to continue with his Cornwall project. He said the hip bone had completely healed and that he wasn't in any pain. Basically he was as good as new and was looking forward to the ride. A part of me wondered whether it might be a case of 'too much, too soon' but in all honesty, his determination to do it said otherwise and I was pleased that he was in a position to do it.

Andy had started training in his garage a while back, as soon as the hospital said he was on the mend and could put some weight on injured leg At first he couldn't reach the handlebars without a twinge or two so he cycled in an upright position until things improved a little more and then, last Thursday, he received the go-ahead to ride on the road. 

My bike awaits me on The Ridge!

We sat outside Sheree's. Andy got there before me and I guess he ordered a coffee. I ordered a cup of tea and biscuits and we chilled in the late May sunshine discussing Andy's ordeal. I told him how, when I saw him outside the hospital and drove him back home I felt very sorry seeing him in such a state, but he told me that it was the week before when he was in a real bad way. When I met him, the mending process had begun, he told me, explaining how, for the first few weeks he had to sleep downstairs in a chair, but within a very short space of time he was walking without the aid of a zimmer frame and was soon using a stick and was fairly mobile.

Riding wise, I didn't notice any difference between the way he was riding prior to the accident and he agreed: he felt that he hadn't lost a great deal of fitness. We rode back along Approach Road to Clarks Lane and then Andy rode home via The Ridge and I stuck with the 269. The plan was to meet again tomorrow in Westerham, which was great as this meant Andy was back on the road full time, so to speak. I felt proud of him for coming through the whole thing with such dignity and to be so focused on the Cornwall ride. A lot of people (including myself) would have put it on hold and possibly even cancelled the whole thing until next summer, but not Andy.

On Sunday we met at Costa Coffee in Westerham and again Andy was there before me and chatting to one of the customers sitting outside. I ordered a large English breakfast tea and joined him and we continued our chat, discussing stuff like the Lands End to John O'Groats ride, not that either of us were planning to do it, although I suspect, at some stage, that Andy will do it. He was saying how he'd take two weeks to do it (at roughly 15 miles/hour) and would aim to ride around 100 miles per day. I said I'd take three weeks, make it a little easier on myself, be, perhaps, a Mike Carter as opposed to a Mark Beaumont. Back to the Cornwall project and Andy plans to leave Caterham at 0400hrs on 21 June and arrive at his first stop in the early evening, possibly around 1830 to 1900hrs. He plans to consume fitness/energy foods during the ride but will stop for a brief lunch break before pushing on; while it is all about fitness on one level, he said, it's also about the mind and I know what he means. It's about having the determination to ride 100 miles daily from start to finish. Andy said he knew he was going to ride to Cornwall even immediately after his accident, although he was prepared to await the decision of the doctors. While there were a couple of touch and go moments early on, he did get the all-clear.

I needed a comfort break in the woods near Woldingham

Next week Andy rides again with his cycling club and things are slowly getting back to normal, which is good. While my own story is not so dramatic as Andy's, I too had endured a few minor health problems, well, one to be precise: my swollen foot. I too, however, was back on the bike yesterday and today (it's still Sunday as I write this). From my point of view I was having things really good prior to flying to the USA. I was cycling into Oxted on Saturday and Sunday morning, stopping for a much-needed tea or coffee (I'm reverting back to tea now) and then riding back up Titsey Hill (which is no walk in the park). I had gotten into a routine and was feeling kind of good about the riding and then came the trip to the US, the foot problem, which came out of nowhere, and suddenly everything was in disarray. Up until yesterday I hadn't riden the bike for a fortnight and I was feeling not only unfit, but tired and weary. So as things improved during the week and the pain ceased I knew I had to see if I could ride the bike and the great news was that I could and did. This past week has been bad for me, in fact, it's been a bad fortnight dogged by bad flights while in the USA, the jet lag, the foot problem and then the slowish recovery. The pills made me feel a little weary too but now I only have one more to take and I've finished the course, the foot feels better, the swelling has gone down and, as I say, I'm riding the bike again. I'm thinking about using a gym for week-day riding and then riding the bike at the weekends, mix things up a bit, but the aim is to try and lose one stone in weight, which I know is possible, it's just having the willpower to do it. Smaller portions, perhaps, no more cake or biscuits, I should be in the frame for it.

We sat outside of Costa for a fairly long time chatting about Andy's injury and Cornwall and my foot and this and that; it was good to catch up having not really seen a great deal of each other for some time. We're back again next week, which is good, and hopefully the summer will continue apace, I'll manage to lose that one stone in weight and all will be well with the world.

The ordeal was almost over...

During the week, somewhere along the line, I managed to injure myself. I don't know how I managed it, there was no trauma to any bones or joints, but at some stage I damaged my right foot. It's funny because whenever I say something like, "You know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" Or whatever, but if I say something like that I'll get a bad foot or I'll be stuck somewhere and inconvenienced in a big way.  Last week, that's just what I said, "Do you know what? I haven't had a bad foot in ages!" And it was true, I hadn't. Occasionally, let's say once, possibly twice a year, I did something to one of my feet, God knows what, but it left me limping for a few days, my foot swelled up, I took a few Nurofen and that was it, but for a long time now, absolutely nothing wrong with my foot, until I mentioned it a week ago. I don't remember exactly when it happened, probably Wednesday, and I checked it out on the internet. "Lateral foot pain – caused by excessive walking wearing the wrong shoes." It might have said 'inappropriate footwear'. Walking in inappropriate footwear. Well, that's roughly what I was indulging in last week, excessive walking. In Doctor Martens shoes that have worn down a little on one side of the heel. In a nutshell, I can't walk and I'm in pain when I do. I hobble, that's the best way of describing it. One minute I was fine, the next I'm hobbling like a tramp and getting nowhere fast. Fortunately, my work was done (or most of it) so it had no detrimental effect on anything other than on myself. But I'm hobbling, right? Making slow progress. And its when I'm in this kind of state that things start to go wrong. 

I have shared most flights on this trip with my colleague Catherine, but not this last one, she was on an earlier flight that was severely delayed. As I write this I am sitting alone in Terminal 7 of JFK and I have two hours to go before I take off. Earlier, I had to queue for well over an hour to speak to one of two people who were dealing with passenger enquiries in a very slow and infuriating manner; it was painful to watch let alone be a part of, but there was nothing I could do about it. After a long while, however, I was given my flight documents, told to go from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7 and that it was advisable not to leave the airport. I stayed in Terminal 8 with a bunch of people who found themselves in the same boat. Some even slept under blankets provided, others, like me, sat chatting with other stranded people and there was, of course, an element of the Dunkirk Spirit about the situation. I found myself with Lisa Schiller, an American lawyer from Fort Lauderdale who had given up being a solicitor to run her own business. She was travelling to Oman for a holiday, but her flight from Miami had messed up in some way, leaving her temporarily stranded and wondering whether to call the whole thing off. She spoke of her dogs and how she gets a lot of iguanas in her back garden and how her dog chases them. I helped her book her seat and check in online and we chatted about this and that until I had to change terminals and she made her way to the Admiral's Lounge (the first class lounge for American Airlines). She was happy for me to be her guest, but I had to be in Terminal Seven, which was decidedly different from Terminal Eight, let's say a little more basic.

Air Train to Terminal 7.

I hobbled to the Air Train, which took me from Terminal 8 to Terminal 7, and nobody (I mean nobody) was going to come to my aid, offer help in the shape of a wheelchair, which was what I needed. Not that I was going to accept any assistance. Jumping into a wheelchair equals defeat in my book and I wasn't in any mood to surrender. I hobbled from the Air Train to Terminal 7 and started to queue for a boarding pass, but then decided I'd be better off using the terminals provided and, unusually, they worked and I was issued with a boarding pass. It was time for my favourite part of the game: security. I was told to put everything in one tray, I didn't have to take the laptop out of its case, which was odd, but I had to take my jumper off, revealing the legend of my tee-shirt: "I bring NOTHING to the table!" The slogan was absolutely right, I brought nothing to the table. I had to take my shoes off too, which was most annoying, thanks to Richard Reeve, the shoe bomber - I'm so glad he's in prison - and soon I noticed that, unlike in Terminal 8 and on every plane I'd flown in, everybody was wearing a face mask and the police were advising people to wear them. Plenty were, but a few broke the rule (including me). That was all I needed, to be arrested, so I stuck close to the gate was told that would start in 20 minutes.

The flight home was as boring as hell and there was plenty of turbulence to keep me on my toes, except that my foot was in a bad way so the likelihood of me being 'on my toes' was low. Like on the outward flight last Saturday, I couldn't really concentrate, I simply wasn't in the mood. Unlike previous trips abroad I wasn't particularly fired up about anything; normally I might read the papers from back to front, dip into a book, read the inflight magazine, enjoy the airline food and so on, watch a movie, listen to music. Not this time. It was my first trip since lockdown, perhaps that was it, but basically I simply endured it. You could say I 'did my time'. I sat there, talked to nobody (not that I ever talk to my fellow passengers), I didn't even look at the map of the plane as it made its way across the Atlantic, I wasn't interested. I started doing the 'time' thing: 'in one hour there will be two hours and 45 minutes to go' and so on and I tried not to look at my watch, and when I did look at it only five minutes had elapsed despite the fact that I thought otherwise. I ate what they gave me: a full English breakfast, which was quite enjoyable, and then a turkey and ham roll that I eventually discarded. There was a mini Milky Way chocolate bar (in the US they're more like Mars bars) I endured the flight and the turbulence and the severely cramped conditions and, as always, I built up a tremendous hatred towards class divisions, which are more than evident on a plane, which is sectionalised based on how much you're prepared to pay. If you're sitting at the front you get more space and better food and service, they call you 'sir' for heaven's sake. If you're at the back, 'sir' doesn't come into it, your conditions are squeezed and the food is basic and poor. Curtains divide the sections and you don't encroach on the space of those who pay more than you, they don't want to mix with plebs like you. But I always think that if the plane goes down we will all die, even if those at the front die clasping a glass of Champagne. Bully for them! 

Now boarding flight BA178 

The plane touched down around 10 minutes earlier than scheduled (big deal!) and then I discovered that British Airways had lost my luggage. After faffing around filling in forms I met my taxi driver and was driven home along the M25 and M23. I reached the house around 2200hrs and sat watching before I willingly hit the sack, waking late in the day. It was Sunday and sunny and the garden looked good. I checked out my swollen foot with the guys at 111 and a doc advised a visit to A&E to check out the swelling. I'm not in too much pain, I'm better than I was, but I'm still limping and the foot is red and swollen.

My lost luggage was delivered to the house later in the day.

The photograph on the left was of the interior of flight BA178 from JFK to London Heathrow. I'd just sat down. It was a full flight (always is) but there was no way that British Airways was going to give me a more comfortable seat to ease the hassle with my foot. They never help and I was stuck in the cramped conditions for just over seven hours. I found two vacant seats at the back of the plane and was told they were for the crew, but the crew never used them and later I found two men there when previously nobody occupyed them. British Airways is always like this and if you ever need to contact them, ALL the numbers listed are useless, even if it says 24-hour assistance and you call out of hours, there's always a recorded voice asking you to call between 0800hrs and whenever, but they're never available when you want them to be. In so many ways a sham of an airline.