TMFFTTM 3

It was another of those things that my father failed to tell me about as a boy, like checking your underpants for chilli seeds. I had decided to go for a walk south of London and had plumped for the Mole Gap Trail, all six miles of it, stretching between the North Downs from Leatherhead to Dorking, with an extra side excursion up Boxhill - for the view. The path follows the River Mole, which is a sort of turgid grey but slips by quite quickly on its way to join the Thames at Hampton Court. it looks unpleasantly greasy, like the top of a stockpot, and seems to have the consistency of vodka straight from the freezer (most of you will know what I mean by this) this illusion is probably brought about by the collection of tyres, rubble and engine blocks, not to mention the more normal detritus of tree branches, that lurk half invisible below the surface, or completely invisible under the sign that says "Unsafe to Swim". However, once the town is left, things cheer up a bit, beech woods come down to the stream edge on occasions, and the pastures are full of violets. I continued pausing only to crop a few ramsoms (wild garlic) and then to delve into my bag of emergency mint crumbles just in case I met a damsel requiring CPR or some other sort of close contact.
Finally I arrived at Westhumble, and set off to look for the stepping stones across the river, after passing the Stepping Stones pub which was packed to the rafters with Sunday Lunchers. I eventually found said stones seemingly several miles from the pub, and even then only after I'd crossed the river by footbridge. I crossed back over the stones, caught up with myself, and then creaked my way up Box Hill, 193 metres of it. Lo and Behold! A National Trust cafe! I paused for a coffee and a brownie - both average, before staring at a map on the wall to commit my descent to memory: along there, double back there, right there, across the footbridge by the sewage works and into town. Voila!
I descended, just before the footbridge I became aware of a cow, lying down in just the way that cows don't. It was flat out, upper legs dangling, front hoof occasionally moving, I approached, hoping to see a sleeping cow roll onto its belly and struggle to its feet, with the slightly shocked, slightly reproachful look that cows adopt when you disturb them (raising that weight of flesh can't be easy as some of you will tell me I should know). It opened an eye, rolled it, and groaned, groaned like a man with a cold, a near death groan, the groan that only the moribund can empathise with, the sort of groan where you cross your fingers hoping for a following inhalation.
I decided to stop at the Police Station in town and let them know. However, the bridge, so neatly marked on the map, so visible from the top of the hill, so handy for the town, was closed and had been for years, I accessed my photographic memory, cursed and started back up the hill, all the way up the hill, to tell the warden, resplendent in his Land Rover at the top. Thus it was that a National T rust volunteer was suddenly faced with a wild-eyed, sweat-dripping, red-faced individual, redolent with garlic, mint and coffee, speaking excitedly, though sporadically, about ill cows, and whose farm was whose. Eventually sense was made and 'phone calls started, and I limped back down the hill the way I had come up in the first place and started home.
Moral. When you have line of sight of your route, and a pair of binoculars, check for any ailing farm animals before you get to the bottom of the hill.

Nixco Guide to the Rules of Offroad Cycling.

1.Be at One with the Countryside - at some point it will be at one with you.

2. To every up there is a down - allegedly.

3. Nettles or gorse - it's your choice.

4. Nettles, gorse or barbed wire - see 3.

5. Get some Botany in your bonce. Brushing aside the delicate hanging fronds of the weeping willow (Salix babylonica) as you flash past is one thing, trying it with a hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) is something else (and usually less successful).

6. Gravel can be both your friend and your foe. At some point in any journey you will encounter gravel, at this point it is your foe. Regardless of which direction the front wheel of your bicycle is pointing, gravel will impel the bicycle on a straight course (and I don't want to hear anything from purists about weight distribution, I can assure you that my weight has been distributed all over the bicycle and I've still gone in a straight line), which may result with you becoming at One with the Countryside (AOWC). It is at this point that gravel can be your friend, imparting a degree of cushioning upon impact.

7. Grit is no-one's friend, it is merely used for packing wounds - involuntarily.

8. Both 6 and 7 possess the ability to metamorphose into Mud upon being exposed to any degree of water, even a slight increase in humidity will do. The cyclist can do no better than to get some Pedometry in their Psyche. A working knowledge of different soil types is essential for the offroad cyclist, the difference between the clayey loam of Bedfordshire and the sandy loam of Norfolk being about carrying the cycle.

9. Grass, can ameliorate the spine-shattering nature of a lot of offroad routes BUT it is also a high friction material, slowing down your passage till it doesn't. It also hides - dog crap (see knobbly tyres, later).

10. Tarmac may come as a welcome relief but not when it's an M4 relief road. It provides interest as it enables you to study the relative population densities of local fauna.

11. 4WD drivers are scum. Every byway is turned into a deeply rutted track, these ruts are deeper then your pedals but not as wide, this causes catastrophic halting and immediate AOWC. Sometimes there is a "path" between the ruts but this will degenerate to a 10cm wide track bounded by two mud-filled ponds of approximately one metre depth. Bicycles also leave ruts, these are 15cm wide and 15cm deep - once committed you are in them to the end or until you become AOWC.

12. Front bags with a transparent bit you can look at a map through are fine, never put anything heavy in them though. A heavy item causes the front wheel to become possessed, developing its own form of simple harmonic motion and indulging in a bit of novelty steering.

13. Some form of ambidextricity (eh?) is essential. On the side of a steep hill, trying to get off the downhill side of the bike causes immediate AOWC and makes the downhill side become the uphill side, this hurts.

14. Similarly, there will be times when one is starting off in low gear, this may have involved 13 (above), a halt on an up, or "pushing" after a halt on an up. Be astride the cycle rather than trying the "scoot and legover" approach, as the cycle may have stopped or, indeed, be going backwards, by the time your feet contact the pedals.

15. Dress. Get some couture in your cranium. Padded lower garments may look like they contain incontinence pads but over distance they become essential. Short or long, your choice, but consider this, off the beaten track nettles and brambles proliferate, about one centimetre off the beaten track to be precise. Gentlemen, don't get your shorts too tight as under pressure various bits off your anatomy may slide disconcertingly across the gusset as you raise and lower your feet on the pedals.(Too much information, stop this immediately! Ed).

I'm very concerned by the effect the "5 a day" campaign will have on global warming, as far as I can tell one of the main reasons for the diet change is to increase throughput by providing more fibre. I ask you, which will cost more colonic cancer care, or catastrophic meteorology? Stodge-up now, that's what I say, hence the launch of the:
NIXCO ONCE A WEEK CAMPAIGN!
Keep the Atlantic Conveyor going by not!
More fruit equals less trees!
Constipation not Evaporation!
Piles to save the Isles.!
OUR AIM
Eat more sugar and fat, drink more diuretics.

Things my father failed to tell me 2

It was another of those things that your father doesn't tell you about, like the fact that you should always brush your teeth while in the nude, or that shaving accidents last three days and always prompt the question, "Have you been in a fight?" followed by dark, " 'bout what I'd expect of you", looks and a slight sneer (something that you won't be able to do for three days without causing a haemorrhagic Niagara), a sneer with overtones of "and I'll bet you lost too".
So, I had finished my evening repast of smoky aubergine with lime sauce (Madhur Jaffrey's Far Eastern Cookery) and had done the washing up. I should add that the dish is Vietnamese so that the lime sauce is a mixture of fish sauce, lime juice, chilli and garlic. I then wiped down the surfaces and retired to the chaise to rest my wearied bones and catch up on the world's happenings (apparently George Clooney has left ER). Readers of a gentle disposition should probably read no further but since I've already said "nude" they may not be anyway. Later I went to the toilet, soon afterwards in the bathroom, my, specifically male, anatomy recorded the degree of pain normally associated with the Spanish Inquisition, I would say convulsed with pain but that's hardly right, and anyway, conjures up the sort of vision associated with slugs and salt.
I investigated. A chilli seed that had previously clung tenaciously and unseen to the heel of my hand had base-jumped into my underpants as I hoisted them, bringing it into close, if not to say lascivious , contact with my nether regions. Well dear reader, I ejected said seed and then spent a cooling few minutes with a bowl of cold water, before spending the remainder of the evening "demi au naturel" as the French rarely say, the evening breezes bringing cool caresses of relief to my tortured (now I'm loath to say todger here as it seems out of keeping but the alliteration works well, I'll think)... tortured ... fevered brow.
Moral: always check your underpants for chillies.

Things my father failed to tell me 1

It was one of those things that your father fails to tell about as a boy, one of those things that he really should have mentioned to enhance the life of his progeny. I think I must have muttered to myself while I was shaving (I often seem to mutter in front of mirrors, though, sadly, rarely anything complimentary), the result being a seven millimeter gash producing the same amount of blood you'd expect from a severed limb. Now, the men amongst you will know that a razor-cut lip is not a thing to be trifled with, it takes about three days for the cut to heal sufficiently so that normal life can continue, in the meantime you must not touch your lips or in anyway deform the cut site. Consequently, a great deal of care must be taken while pulling on or off any over-the-head clothes, the sort of extravagant care meted out by parents on young children (mind you it is a well-known fact that the ears of anyone under the age of six are notoriously unstable). You must not smile which is why I had rather a grim journey in, though my stony countenance failed to secure me a seat, you must not do anything that raises your heart rate, as any increase in blood pressure causes catastrophic clot failure. In fact, due to the sensitivity of the lips, any change in the fragile meshwork of the clot is perceived as darts of cold, or sudden relaxations or balloonings, a quick scan of people in your immediate area will usually tell you if any seepage is taking place, either by the looks of disgust or by the sudden turning of the head to avoid any eye-contact with a grim-faced individual with a slick of bright blood coursing down their chin, failing that, or if you are alone, you tend to only find out when the blood cools on your collar, or drips appear, startlingly, on the floor, your shoes, or your new white shirt. So it was with great trepidation that I cleaned my teeth this morning. I have invested in a Colgate Massager which looks like it should be found downstairs (if you'll pardon the pun) in the larger versions of Ann Summers which, for the benefit of overseas recipients, is an "adult store" and seems to have been designed by Keith Flint's (he of The Prodigy) stylist.
Tonight I am taking a couple of visitors on the "Historic Pub Crawl", I just hope they don't think I'm being surly.