onionbagblog
Brighton Biker Boy
The plan was to cycle to Croydon. But Croydon is crap and I've been a bit restless of late. Ha! That's a fucking joke. Five hours sleep a night, a pot of PG Tips every half hour and I'm still more jumpy than Jumpin' Jack Flash on a pogo stick. I blame the PY... Well, no, I've got myself to blame to be honest. And so I kept on cycling; and cycling; and then some cycling further still.
Fuck it - I'm in bloody Brighton. How the hell did that happen? Happy days. It's half term you see and no PY...
Fifty five miles in total. A fine preparation for the on / off onionbagblog summer cycling excursion en Francais. Assuming the Great House Move is completed sometime this Century, I've got six weeks of 40 miles a day scheduled in for the summer. Well, two weeks, which should hopefully leave me with four weeks of being the Sunny Stockwell Playboy of the South of France.
Buy anyway - Brighton...
I got through five Sing-A-Long-A-Weller albums on the iPod on route. The Wild Wood of Purley Way helped the wheels to turn; this became Live Wood once I hit Hundred Acre Lane; I had some Heavy Soul in Haywards Heath; I went a little Heliocentric on the outskirts of Hove and I was Illuminated along the A23. Plus I was correctly called a knobber at Paxhill Park as I peddled along pretending I was Paul Weller.
Norbury was a turning point. It probably is for most people at some stage in their life. I wasEric Clapton Robert Johnson at the crossroads, deciding to make a deal with the Devil. The sign said Croydon - Straight Ahead. But I'm not that much of a straight guy (in a strictly non-conformist style, and NOT a sexual way.) The sign saying Brighton - Sun, Sea and Singing Along to a Style Council album on the Beach seemed the better option.
And so I kept pedalling.
I kept count on my 'onboard computerised cycling companion.' Yeah, right. It was a fiver from Argos and is about as accurate as a London Underground platform countdown sign. You can toggle between different modes: Distance travelled, time, calorie count and number of miles that separate you from the PY...
And so I kept pedalling.
There was some symmetry to this trip. The first half term of the school year saw an onionbagblog day out to Brighton, all aboard thepenny pinching Pikey Express Megabus. The middle term was a little messy, and so it was left to the summer half term for my South Coast return.
The Mod within should have seen me take to the streets on a scooter. But that's hopefully to come in the months ahead as I enter into knobber Petrol Head territory and make even more of a twat of myself around the streets of South London.
I can see why the Quadrophenia crowd did the London to Brighton commute through the country lanes rather than using the arsehole of a road that is the A23. Three hours and thirty three minutes was my final read out; forty five minutes of which were spent being stuck behind some energy inefficient environmental polluting prick.
I came close to giving up at Gatwick. My legs were like lead and I was missing my PG Tips. But I persevered and pedalled on with Pauly regardless. Like Withnail, I was making up for lost time. I wanted to be on the beach beforesunset the tea hut shut up shop for the day.
I shat my pants as a 747 going towards Gatwick flew a little too close overhead. Did I really hit 36 kph in panic mode? Every Second Counts asPaul Daniels yer man Lance uses as his mantra. Bollocks. I've got two as well.
And then I hit Brighton. Brilliant!
I made for the promenade and soon I was sitting right in front of the setting for The Jam's last stand with a pot of PG Tips at my side. My journey had been back breaking and knee knackering, not to mention a little one dimensional on the music front. Fifty five miles and then just the small mater of an all day six-a-side football tournament to contend with on Thursday.
Last year Diamond Geezer laid down the gauntlet with his legendary London Walk. Others followed. Blogging to Brighton on a bike is my benchmark. I'd be happy to be outdone.
technorati: brighton
| Thursday 1 June, 2006 |
The plan was to cycle to Croydon. But Croydon is crap and I've been a bit restless of late. Ha! That's a fucking joke. Five hours sleep a night, a pot of PG Tips every half hour and I'm still more jumpy than Jumpin' Jack Flash on a pogo stick. I blame the PY... Well, no, I've got myself to blame to be honest. And so I kept on cycling; and cycling; and then some cycling further still.
 Norbury was a turning point |
Fifty five miles in total. A fine preparation for the on / off onionbagblog summer cycling excursion en Francais. Assuming the Great House Move is completed sometime this Century, I've got six weeks of 40 miles a day scheduled in for the summer. Well, two weeks, which should hopefully leave me with four weeks of being the Sunny Stockwell Playboy of the South of France.
Buy anyway - Brighton...
I got through five Sing-A-Long-A-Weller albums on the iPod on route. The Wild Wood of Purley Way helped the wheels to turn; this became Live Wood once I hit Hundred Acre Lane; I had some Heavy Soul in Haywards Heath; I went a little Heliocentric on the outskirts of Hove and I was Illuminated along the A23. Plus I was correctly called a knobber at Paxhill Park as I peddled along pretending I was Paul Weller.
Norbury was a turning point. It probably is for most people at some stage in their life. I was
And so I kept pedalling.
I kept count on my 'onboard computerised cycling companion.' Yeah, right. It was a fiver from Argos and is about as accurate as a London Underground platform countdown sign. You can toggle between different modes: Distance travelled, time, calorie count and number of miles that separate you from the PY...
And so I kept pedalling.
There was some symmetry to this trip. The first half term of the school year saw an onionbagblog day out to Brighton, all aboard the
The Mod within should have seen me take to the streets on a scooter. But that's hopefully to come in the months ahead as I enter into knobber Petrol Head territory and make even more of a twat of myself around the streets of South London.
I can see why the Quadrophenia crowd did the London to Brighton commute through the country lanes rather than using the arsehole of a road that is the A23. Three hours and thirty three minutes was my final read out; forty five minutes of which were spent being stuck behind some energy inefficient environmental polluting prick.
I came close to giving up at Gatwick. My legs were like lead and I was missing my PG Tips. But I persevered and pedalled on with Pauly regardless. Like Withnail, I was making up for lost time. I wanted to be on the beach before
I shat my pants as a 747 going towards Gatwick flew a little too close overhead. Did I really hit 36 kph in panic mode? Every Second Counts as
And then I hit Brighton. Brilliant!
I made for the promenade and soon I was sitting right in front of the setting for The Jam's last stand with a pot of PG Tips at my side. My journey had been back breaking and knee knackering, not to mention a little one dimensional on the music front. Fifty five miles and then just the small mater of an all day six-a-side football tournament to contend with on Thursday.
Last year Diamond Geezer laid down the gauntlet with his legendary London Walk. Others followed. Blogging to Brighton on a bike is my benchmark. I'd be happy to be outdone.
technorati: brighton
| #permalink |
