Quick release Michaelmas Daisies

Saturday arrived as usual, after Friday in the natural rhythm of things - perhaps it would be interesting, once in a while, to mix things up a bit and maybe cancel a Friday or add in an extra day called Spareday, just to break up the monotony of the seven day sequence. This may upset the religiousists, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. The sad reality of this fantastic commercial world that we live in any Spareday would be sponsored and re-branded PepsiMaxfillyouupwithsugarandmakeyourheadspinroundday  and there is just no more space in my life for any more big company intrusion, so let's scrub round that particular idea.

No. I have thought some more about this - why do we give the days names at all? Not very logical really, why not use numbers? Start from a point in history, say the dinosaurs  and number each day sequentially from there? The dinosaurs were around about 250 million years ago give or take the odd million years, so that would make today 91,250,000,000,000 or 9125 to the power of 10. Now that is a really big number, admittedly not as big as Graham's number, but probably a bit too big for day to day use. As a positive we would not have to bother counting years anymore, which would be quite neat. Probably better is to find a point in more recent history, say when the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album came out, which was 1st June 1967. That would make today 16,666. No that is still not working for me, I can see now why they arrived at names now, there was some thought put into things after all. What about some more descriptive names? No, let's just leave it, we could never agree with Crapday or Staybedday or even worse - Golfday, shudders...    

So, Saturday, being Saturday, the day that follows Friday, in the conventional sense, means bike ride day. And bike ride day means rounding up as many like minded souls for a bimble around the lanes bringing our version of carnival to the good people of the villages and towns we pass through. This week's round up yielded... One! The other roundees offered a myriad of excuses, including "the dog ate your text" and "I have fallen over whilst fetching a pint of milk" a couple of real keepers for sure. So Rob and I rolled out of Herne Bay, over the bridge of enlightenment and headed for the well ridden route of Cycle route 1. Cycle route 1 is a marvelous route that runs from the Shetland Isles to Dover, or maybe the other way round - I guess the Shetland people would say it starts in Shetland and the Dover people are all too fat and feckless to ride bikes so could not care less. I am going to go with "it starts in Shetland".

Of course we were not going to ride the whole of it, just a little itty bit that runs to Deal, via the town of Sandwich, nice and flat see? Our specific destination was the cycle centre and bike racing track at Fowlmead, for the local delicacy of a "Miner's Muffin" (sausage, egg and a slice of slimy cheese in a bun) stupid name, but let's not go on about the names of things again, it really does not matter.

No really it does, sorry I can't just let this pass. It is called a Miner's Muffin because the site is on top of an old colliery. Now this is wrong in so many ways:

1. The café sign says "Miners Muffin" no apostrophe see, the pedant and OCD that is sadly and deeply rooted inside me smugly goes "that's wrong"
2. The bun is made of a kind of "Mother's Pride" bread and is definitely NOT a muffin
3. They must have thought - hey, we want something catchy let's call it a Miner's something as we are on top of an old colliery, Ooohh, that's clever, I like what you did there with the miner - colliery thing there, very subtle, hmmm let's use alliteration, that will make it sell, hmmm word beginning with M, what about Muffin? Well it's not a Muffin. Hmmm, can't think of another one, let's go with Muffin, people are pretty stupid and won't notice. OK "Miners Muffin" it is then. What about one of those apostrophe things? Hmmm, should it go before or after the "s'. Hmmm, don't know, let's just leave it out then, people are pretty stupid and probably won't notice. OK, chalk it up then.

Now another cycling venue, that obviously gets the cycling thing, does a similar type of sandwich bap thing (better ingredients) and calls it a M.O.A.B (Mother of all Breakfasts). This works as cyclists get the reference to Utah and a tasty snack. Anyway, having thought about it and saw them deep frying the sausages at Fowlmead I decided that I would boycot the "Miners Muffin" this week and have tea instead. Didn't stop Rob though, he tucked in and used the magic of brown sauce to counteract and neutralise the cheese nastiness that lurks in the errrrr thing.

Back to the ride - the weather was great, beautiful May sunshine, clear skies and a bit of a breeze, the miles clicked down quite quickly at nice steady pace. Steady that is until a local club swept past us in a local business sponsored peleton, kind of like a fast moving Thompson Local. Now I have known Rob for nearly ten years and I have learned many things from him, from Pink Floyd to Aboriginal art. But there is one thing that I do know about Rob as a rider is that he is what I call a "chaser". Rob will chase anything, from a milk float to a double decker bus. Never mind that he never catches them, it does not seem to put him off one bit. The mobile Thompson Local peleton that swept past us was too much temptation. Way too much. The eager greyhound that lurks inside Rob woke up suddenly, pricked up his ears and raced off after the hare, landing amongst them, to continue the dog metaphor, like an excited Labrador puppy. The peleton closed around him and there he was, enveloped. I sat at the back to see how things were going to pan out, I never tire of watching Rob chase down his prey. These guys were probably in their early twenties, if you added the speed we were doing to their age you would arrive at a number closer to our respective age. The ratio of speed to age was a nice symmetrical number (my OCD likes them) say 25:25, we were giving away 25 years and trying to maintain 25mph. I did not feel in a good place, Rob was certainly in a much worse place, enveloped in the 25mph peleton. We needed a dignified way out. Mine came in the next fork in the road, I needed to go left, trouble was the peleton envelope with Rob inside went right. I think it took him five miles to catch me up.

The peleton despatched we spun through the lanes and through the little town of Sandwich, which passed without event or altercation, probably because Bazza was not there. With Sandwich behind us it was through the toll road, over the golf course into the backstreets of Deal and onto Fowlmead. The back way into Fowlmead means you pass through a gate, the sign on the gate says "this gate closes at 8pm". Why? How? It makes no sense and off goes the pedant again - This gate is closed at 8pm, how hard was that? Does it matter? Not really. Is it important? Not really, I probably should get out more.

A quick lap around the circuit gratuitously overtaking Apollos and Tesco bikes feeling pathetically superior but really looking like a couple of sad middle age wannabees had us back at the café for the now infamous Miner's Muffin. A quick scout around and a look at the deserted pump track and we were on our way homeward discussing of all things Corten steel, a material much beloved by artists including Antony Gormley the Angel of the North artist. The conversation turned to why Corten does not rust like other mild steels and the answer is interestingly:

"Weathering" means that due to their chemical compositions, these steels exhibit increased resistance to atmospheric corrosion compared to other steels. This is because the steel forms a protective layer on its surface under the influence of the weather.
The corrosion-retarding effect of the protective layer is produced by the particular distribution and concentration of alloying elements in it. The layer protecting the surface develops and regenerates continuously when subjected to the influence of the weather. In other words, the steel is allowed to rust in order to form the 'protective' coating.

Thanks Wikipedia.

The route home was a bit of a freestyle navigate through the lanes that got us to Wingham which was decked out like a 1950's chocolate box with bunting and flags out, something to do with a jubilee thing. I try and stop images of guillotines on The Mall, at least there were no signs to read.

A bit of climbing dispensed with the Wingham 1952 timewarp and it was on to Grove Ferry where we picked up the peleton on the way out. More climbing, a bit more climbing and then some more got us to the outskirts of Herne Bay, note to self: move somewhere where it is not uphill all the way back.

And we are back in the room - being Herne Bay a ride would not be complete without some abuse being hurled at us from a car and today's ride did not disappoint.  What is it with fat women in cheap, nearly new, crappy little hatchback cars that feel obliged to toot, wind down the window and deliver an incoherent rant at a few cyclists? They are so full of anger and hate and probably make all those signs that so jar my sensitivities. I can forgive you for the signs, just please stop yelling at me. Peace.