I wish... I supported local independent shops (part 3)

Is a 3-for-2 offer a good deal or a good trick to make you buy more?

It was 3 o'clock on Saturday afternoon when my shift at work finished and I began to drive home. But instead of driving straight past Tunbridge Wells, I decided to pull into a multi storey car park and go to the shopping centre.

Noooooooooooo!!!

I had betrayed my High Street already. But it's not as bad as it sounds. You see, I needed to go to one particular shop to buy one particular present for my Mum. Something that I knew she would love. Something that I wouldn't be able to buy in a local independent shop in Uckfield.

It's only one present, I told myself. It's only one shop.

Ten shops later, I was wandering aimlessly along an aisle, clutching a bland ceramic item cleverly disguised in attractive Christmas-themed packaging and rapidly scanning the shelves for two more average gifts. Just so I could take advantage of a 3-for-2 offer.

I overheard two women discussing a gift they were thinking about buying. "It's a bit much for what it is," said the first woman. The second woman looked at it and replied, "But it does come with a tin."

It was my cue to leave. I returned my item to its shelf, walked out of the shop, walked back to my car, and drove home.

I'm not surprised that I walked into shops that I had no intention of visiting. The retail environment entices you with expertly designed window displays, special offers and brand names that spark a subconscious memory of an advert you've seen fifteen times this month without realising it. And I've been going to shopping centres all my life; it's second nature. Plus I had paid and displayed. I couldn't just walk in to one shop and walk out again when I was entitled to two hours of primetime car parking for my investment of £2.40.

Ridiculous. I could have walked to my High Street for free.

Do you have a wish of the month? What has been distracting you lately?

I wish... I supported local independent shops (part 2)

Permanent independent shops are committed to your High Street. Pop-up shops are not.

My toes were cold. I had been standing in Uckfield town square for an hour. I say town square; it's a scruffy rectangle on two levels with concrete steps and a pebbledash slope between them. But it does the job.

I wasn't alone. Two hundred people, mostly parents and children, were watching kids from six primary schools sing Christmas songs on a temporary stage (the open-sided flat bed of a lorry). Two DJs kept reminding us that it was being broadcast live on Uckfield FM, our community radio station, as they walked up and down the stage asking questions of monosyllabic children and saying brilliant a lot.

After the third school, I'd heard enough. I hugged my friend Kathy and said well done to her teenage daughter, who looked at me like I was from outer space. 

Shops! That's what I needed. Local independent ones. Local was easy to spot. But independent...?

My search halted outside a pop-up shop in a normally empty premises. It was being run by the Uckfield Framing Company, an independent business on the industrial estate. Perfect, I thought. I went in. 

I bought a handmade greetings card by a local artist and picked up a jar of homemade spicy apple chutney. "How much?" I asked. "Whatever you want to donate," said the woman behind the table. "It's for my son's school." I dropped some coins in the tin and walked out.

Success. 

However, it was a temporary shop. What about permanent independent shops? The shops that want to be permanent, anyway. 

I walked in to The Bargain Store. Normally I don't. Well, you wouldn't if you saw it. The windows are covered from top to bottom in flyers and posters and scruffy handwritten ads. But today I would give it a go.

A bell tinkled as I opened the door, and again when I closed it. A real bell. I looked around. It was the kind of place that sold chocolate liquors, children's marbles in little nets and an obscure Latvian brand of washing up liquid in the same aisle. 

I browsed for a stupidly long time. So long in fact that I felt obliged to buy something - anything - so as not to offend the husband and wife who appeared to own the shop. I bought some chocolate Christmas tree decorations with a dubious list of ingredients on the back, and a small packet of Liquorice Allsorts.

Turning back up the High Street, I followed a crowd into Olive's Yard and found myself in a queue to see Father Christmas. Deciding I was a bit big for that kind of thing, I dived into the nearest shop, which happened to be the Lions Club secondhand bookshop. 

Again, I bumped into a friend I used to go to school with, Denise, and again I walked out with a purchase: Eden by Tim Smit. It wasn't my final purchase. That was charity Christmas cards from another pop-up shop on the walk home.

I thought about my first attempt to support local independent shops. It hadn't been entirely successful. Only one of the shops was independent and permanent enough that I could support it regularly. 

Next time, I'll go shopping in the High Street when there isn't a special late night event going on. 

Next time I'll go shopping in permanent local independent shops only.

Are you committed to your wish of the month? How could you make it a permanent change in your life?

I wish... I supported local independent shops

I do a lot of shopping in supermarkets and big department stores. And online.

Why? It's convenient. I drive to a big car park, walk around inside a huge warm building and choose from endless goods with brand names I know and trust. Or I sit in the comfort of my own home, browse big name websites and choose from endless goods with brand names I know and trust.

Occasionally I walk into a small, independently-owned shop. I might even buy something: a coffee and a chunk of tiffin from a quirky cafe in Brighton; a book about art from a dusty secondhand bookshop in Lewes. 

Each time that I do, I feel good about it. Because I know that I have supported that little shop. My money has contributed to the income of the owner, who may well be the same person who served me. 

Perhaps that little business will survive a little bit longer because of me...

But, when it is no longer a sunny Saturday afternoon in June, and I'm not ambling through a trendy corner of London-by-the-Sea or a quaint street in a tourist town with a visiting friend, I return to my usual mainstream buying habits.

It's not good enough. 

I've watched the news in recent years. I've seen the slow decline of High Streets nationwide because of recession and changing spending habits. 

Use it or lose it - If we don't use local independent shops regularly, they go bankrupt and close down. 

Another small business might start up to take its place, but often not. More likely, a big brand name will move in and open it's 295th branch. Over time, the High Street in one town looks remarkably (or unremarkably) like any other.

Or the premises remains empty, the High Street loses its kerb appeal, less people bother to shop there, and more businesses close. It's a vicious circle.

My hometown, Uckfield, has fared well compared to some. There are only a few empty shops. But over the years I've noticed more big companies move in, and big name charities fill in the gaps. 

I wish I supported local independent shops. I wish I bought products from them instead of supermarkets and department stores and online versions of them. I wish lots of other people did the same thing and the independent shops thrived and attracted new independent businesses and new shoppers. But that's wishing for a lot. I can only do my bit.

This month I will do as much Christmas shopping as possible in as many local independent shops as I can.

Starting with Late Night Shopping on Friday 5th December!

What is your wish of the month? What do you wish you could do by the end of the year?

I wish... I looked after my car properly (part 2)

I hold my hands up. I failed this month.

At the beginning of November I wanted to learn how my car works and do some maintenance on it before it had its MOT. If nothing else, I wanted to change a tyre.

Did I do any of those things? No, of course I didn't.

Here is a list of excuses that I considered making to you:

• I was too busy with work.
• It rained all the time and I would have got soaked.
• It was too dark in the evening so I couldn't see anything.
• My car is parked on a slope and it might roll away with me under it.
• I could damage the car because I don't know what I'm doing.
• I can't work on the car today because I need to use it later and what if something goes wrong?
• My Mum and Dad are on holiday so I've got nobody to drive me around if something goes wrong.
• What if something goes wrong?

The fact of the matter is... I didn't want to learn how to look after my car. I mean, I did want to, but I didn't want to enough. It doesn't really interest me. I would rather be doing other things like drawing and painting and setting up a small business and selling stuff. Not to mention sleep. Has anyone noticed it's dark by half past four? Again with the excuses!

I'll tell you what I did do though: I took the mats out of the footwells and I vacuumed the inside of the car. That was good. I also put some petrol in the car. That makes it go.

Erm, what else? 

I talked to my friend Adam about car maintenance, which was very insightful. I wish I knew as much about cars as him and his Dad. They're the type of men who have a 'project' car in the garage. Men who build cars. An alien breed to me.

And after that...

I booked my car in for a service and a MOT. This involved going against the advice of my parents (which is never a comfortable thing to do) and asking the car mechanic who owns a unit next to my studio, Lee, if he would do it. My reasoning was that Lee is someone I see everyday at work, someone I am becoming friends with through our daily encounters, and someone who - I hope - would not risk sh***ing on his own doorstep.

My car passed its MOT on Thursday. Lee fitted one new tyre and a couple of brake pads. I wasn't surprised about the brake pads at all; I'd hammered them pretty hard on the winding hilly roads to work and back and recently they had been sounding and feeling a bit 'scrapey' - I think that's the official term for it.

I'll tell you one thing: From now on I'll be a lot gentler on the brakes. Less foot to the floor, more changing down gears.

I still wish that I looked after my car properly. OK OK I was crap this month, but I do value my car more than ever now, and I want to care for it. I won't do a car maintenance course or anything like that, but I will ask people who know about cars for their help and advice on little things that I can do.

That's something.

Did you fulfil a wish this month? Or were you rubbish like me? Nevermind, join me in December for a new wish of the month.

If there's a time of year to make wishes come true, surely it's Christmas.

I wish... I looked after my car properly

I am fortunate enough to own a car. Mostly I use it to drive to work (when I'm not cycling). Sometimes I drive it to visit friends and family. Occasionally I drive it all over the country to visit places with amusing names. But that's another story...

It's a second hand Ford Mondeo Zetec. Zetec? I think that's what it's called. I'm sure Zetec is on my car insurance. And it's got a 2 litre engine. Or 2.0 litre engine. I don't why the .0 matters, but apparently it does. Oh, and also, it uses Unleaded petrol. That's about everything I know about my car. It's silver too. I forgot that bit. Here's a photo of it.

It's quite a big car. For me. My last car was a 1.0 litre Citroen Saxo, which got written off when another car slid into it on black ice. I didn't replace it; I didn't need a car in London. So I was really excited when I got this. It's the first car I've owned that accelerates up hills. It's very exciting.

The problem is, I don't know how to look after it. Sure, I can wash it with a sponge and some hot soapy water. I can park it OK and push the wing mirrors in so they don't get knocked off. And most of the time I remember to lock it. But what about the important stuff?

How do I change the oil? How do I replace a tyre? How do I stop the bodywork going rusty? What does a spark plug do? What does a spark plug look like? What the hell is that rattling noise? 

Why do the wheels look mouldy? What pressure should the tyres be? What is this white stuff and how do I get it off?

And most important of all, how do I remove this dead bug from my rear brake light??

I don't know anything about cars. But I wish I did. I wish I could walk into a garage and understand at least some of the jargon being spouted by the mechanics. I wish I knew how to fix a problem myself or knew what to do if my car broke down on the roadside. I wish I could extend the life of my car and save it from landfill for as long as possible. 

So this month I will learn how to maintain my car. I'll get my hands dirty, learn some lingo and pray that my car gets through its MOT test in a few weeks' time. Then scratch my arse crack and have a cup of tea with three sugars.

What do you wish you could do? Take your first small step towards fulfilling it this month.

I wish... I could street dance (part 5)

You don't need lessons to be able to dance. All you need is a body and a soul.

"Come on people, show me some energy! It can't all come from me," said JP, the street dance instructor. "I'm giving you my life here!"

We wannabe streetdancers were a bit subdued in my third and final lesson in October. But I couldn't help thinking it was the rapid, non-stop routine JP had given us that was partly to blame.

I wasn't the only person who was struggling. But I seemed to be the only person who was so lost that occasionally I stopped altogether and waited for the right moment to leap back into the routine. Like a surfer choosing a wave to ride.

I refused to give up. As planned, I practised the routine without constantly watching JP, and squeezed in extra practice during brief interludes when he was fiddling with the MP3 player or we all stopped to drink water. I didn't care if I dried up like an old prune; I was determined to learn the routine.

Despite my best efforts, my final performance was poor. I accepted that although my soul was willing and my body was able, my mind would not allow me to remember the routine in the time available. I needed more time. 

But there wasn't any. The lesson was over and next week we would learn a different routine. Why couldn't we learn and practice one routine over several weeks? I wondered. Then I could practice at home and nail the flipping thing.

I drove home in a huff. It felt like an anti-climax to the month. I had secretly hoped that the final lesson would be my best yet. That suddenly it would all click into place and I'd seamlessly perform the routine from beginning to end with power and precision and afterwards we'd be high-fiving and freestyling out the door, all the way to the pub.

My expectations were unrealistic. To become any good at street dance I would have to practice week in week out for years. That's if my body held out. And my ability to learn routines is unlikely to improve with age. So where does that leave me?

I will go to a few more street dance lessons. If I enjoy them, I'll carry on going. If I don't, I'll stop going. Because dancing should be fun. It's a way of expressing yourself. Personally, it makes me feel alive and sometimes takes me to a higher place. It's hard to describe.

You don't need lessons to be able to dance. All you need is a body and a soul.

So I'm going to end this wish of the month on a positive note. After lesson 2, the lesson that I most enjoyed, I filmed myself practising the routine in my studio. I'm clumsy, it's filmed badly, and I didn't dress for the task in hand. But I tell you what - I had a bloody good time doing it.

I wish... I could street dance! (The music video)

Join me again soon for a brand new wish of the month. What do you wish you could do?

I wish... I could street dance (part 4)

It's OK to miss a beat, as long as you keep going.

I needed practice. So I practised. I cleared some space in my studio after work, found the recording of street dance lesson two, and reenacted it. I did it over and over again, observing my performance in the reflections in the windows and praying that nobody was looking in. I got better. I think. The real test would come in the next street dance lesson.

Expecting me to tell you all about lesson three? Forget it. I didn't go.

There must have been a good reason, right? The lesson must have been cancelled or my car broke down or the Government introduced an emergency law banning street dance? 

Nope. Sorry. None of those things. 

The truth is, I didn't feel like going. I didn't want to. I didn't feel up to it. 

Doesn't sound like me, does it.

Thursday was my day off work. That's not unusual. I work most weekends so I often take a day off mid-week. I did what I normally do on a day off: I slept late, made myself a huge breakfast, and sat around in my pyjamas watching Hornblower. 

OK, I don't normally watch Hornblower. But it's the latest DVD boxset I've got my hands on, and like all DVD boxsets, it's completely addictive and I can't wait to watch the next episode. Play all!

It was all going so well until I ducked to avoid the postman. I didn't want him thinking I was a lazy slob. So I decided to do something productive with my day. I got showered, got dressed, and set about tidying up. Not just a superficial tidy either. A proper clear-out.

That's when I found the Christmas card. The Christmas card that my ex-girlfriend had given me 9 months ago, just before she left me.

It was like being punched in the guts. My breathing went funny. My eyes welled up. Suddenly I was back in our flat in London, laughing and chasing each other and calling each other Muffin and planning all the things we were going to do, like get married and move to Derbyshire and have wellies at the back door. Then we were arguing and crying and she was walking out of the door with a suitcase. Like in a soap opera. Only this was really happening. And there I was sitting in the dark again, hurt and alone and utterly devastated.

I tried to tidy my way out of a deep, dark pit of sadness. I threw out photos of her, a T-shirt she'd bought me in Canada, Christmas presents that I'd bought her and were still wrapped up in shiny paper. But it just made things worse. 

I went for a walk in the woods to distract me. It helped. For a while. Then the memories came back. We were going to get married this month; Saturday the 11th. We'd booked a hotel. She'd bought a dress. By the time I should have been leaving for my street dance lesson, all I wanted to do was curl up and go to sleep and make everything go away. I shut my bedroom door and switched off my phone. I didn't want to see anyone or talk to anyone. 

I'm gutted that I missed the street dance lesson. Heaven knows I need it! But I'm not going to feel guilty about missing it. I was in no position to dance. Unless foetal position is a street dance pose. I doubt it. 

I'll go to the next lesson. It's OK to miss a beat, as long as you keep going.

What is your wish of the month? Have you kept going?

I wish... I could street dance (part 3)

Concentrate on what you need to do, not what other people are doing.

I held my kit bag tightly against my chest. I was sat on the floor, back against the wall mirrors, watching fifteen children perform a street dance a mere spin kick away from my face.

It was incredible. They were incredible. I marvelled at their slick, fast spins and kicks and - I kid you not - back flips! I almost leapt up with excitement. The routine ended with all of the dancers diving to the floor in a caterpillar motion. 

We whooped and clapped. We being the adult street dancers who had arrived early and were invited in to watch.

"Wow, how good are they!" I said to Richard, the guy I'd met last week, as we exited and walked to the other dance studio.

"Yeah," he said, "Now we've got to follow that."

Fortunately the talented little blighters left the building before our class started. Our instructor, JP, taught us another eye-wateringly quick routine, this time to The Enforcer by 50 Cent. "Fiddy cent," said JP, correcting us. "Fiddy."

I had never heard The Enforcer before, but it didn't half have a good intro; big sound, lots of bass. I was already nodding to it.

The routine was a corker. It felt good, and looked it too, from what I could see of the other dancers. What's more, my timing felt sharper than the week before. But a familiar problem arose whenever JP shouted, "From the top!" I would start well, then halfway through I'd forget the next move and be left scrambling to catch up.

I got annoyed with myself. I knew that I could do the individual moves. I knew I could piece them together in short sequences. Why couldn't I remember the whole thing?

I realised that I had spent the entire lesson watching and copying JP. When he wasn't dancing, I was lost. What I should have done is learned the moves from JP, then practiced them by myself without watching anybody else. That way I would have learnt the routine by heart.

"Let's film this and put it on the Face of the book," said JP, running to the door five minutes before the end of the lesson.

What? Film it? Put it on Facebook? Are you mental? We've only just learnt it. And some of us can't even say that!

JP returned with a colleague who whipped out a smartphone and asked the class if anyone objected. A few of us in the back row glanced nervously at each other, but nobody refused. And so, holding our hands in front of us, and facing the floor, we waited for our cue.

This is what happened... on the Face of the book.

Did you spot me? Yep, I'm the prat at the back in the orange T-shirt. Boy am I glad I was obscured for most of that.

If that experience has taught me anything, it's that I need to practice. I need to concentrate on what I am doing, not what other people are doing.

Maybe I need to stop hiding at the back and step forwards.

What is your wish of the month? Have you been taking small steps forward?

I wish... I could street dance (part 2)

Doing something for the first time is less scary than thinking about doing it.

Last Thursday I attended my first street dance lesson. I stood at the back of the room behind rows of other dancers and faced mirrors that entirely covered the opposite wall. The instructor pressed play on his MP3 player and stood at the front. He counted us in: "One two three four-"

...

Six days earlier, the morning after I announced my new wish, I caught sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My hair had receded another inch overnight, I was sure of it. 

I can't learn to street dance, I thought. I'm too old! 

My friends were kind. Online, a few of them said they liked my wish and that I was very brave. To my face, they said nothing. 

Then the videos came... One friend sent me a video called Rock Stars Dancing Like Your Dad, which should have been called A Dad Dancing Like Rock Stars In His Back Yard In Fast Forward. Another forwarded me Burning Star Sampoornesh Babu Love Scene, in which a tubby mustachioed singer heel-kicks a meteorite and twerks at the camera.

Oh no, I thought, that's going to be me. An embarrassment. Ridiculous. A bad dancer.

I was undecided about whether to go to the street dance lesson until I received an email from Annalies at Marina Studios on Monday, asking me to confirm which class I wanted to attend. Adult street dance on Thursday at 9pm, I emailed back. There. Done. No going back. You will do this Richard.

Thursday evening came quickly. I psyched myself up. I stuck a Street Dance CD in the ghetto blaster (old skool!) and jumped around my room. Come on then, let's do this!

What am I going to wear? Crap. Should have thought about this earlier. I revisited the website. It recommended loose clothing like leggings or shorts. Hmm. My shorts are all Bermuda-style or khaki. No good. I remembered I had some black tracksuit bottoms with my cycling gear. They were a bit buffed and shiny in the crotch, but they would do.

Next? A T-shirt. Easy. I've got a Quiksilver T-shirt with polaroid-style pictures of a skateboarder on it. Doing jumps. On a street. It's so street that it's got an actual street on it. 

I put it on. It looked... wrong. And the off-white colour looked bland over my tracksuit bottoms. What about a black T-shirt? No, stupid. Black over black? I'd look like a ninja. Eventually I chose a bright orange T-shirt with a garish pattern and oversized brand name. Perfect.

Finally, trainers. Got. One pair of white Nike runners. Sorted.

All that remained was to make my head look acceptable. I put contact lenses in, poked at my hair with wax, and plucked unwanted hairs out of other places. Especially grey ones. It was a futile attempt to pass myself off as twentysomething, but by God I would give it my best shot.

I was running late, but at last I was ready. I took a photo to record the moment. If I hadn't felt so nervous, I would have smiled.

I drove to Brighton in a hurry. It was dark and rainy outside but inside I was singing and dancing to my Street Dance CD. It would be OK. It would be OK.

To my dismay, the entrance to Marina Studios was glowing with unflattering fluorescent light. Through the floor to ceiling windows I could see small groups of young women standing about or reclining on sofas. I walked straight past them to the reception and tried not to imagine them pointing and laughing at my emerging bald spot.

Fifteen minutes later I was standing in a dance studio. I had been ignored by two women sitting nearest to me in the waiting area but I had summoned up enough courage to introduce myself to another man. His name was Richard as well, which helped break the ice. 

I also got talking to a woman in the queue called Piya (I am guessing at the spelling), another mature first-timer. Although the average age in the class was between 20 and 30, there were at least two women in their forties or fifties. Piya and I had been worried about being the oldest. Now we were there, we didn't feel old at all.

It helped that the dance instructor, JP, was no teenybopper either. But he could move fast and loose and he pushed us very hard to do the same. In a fun way though, with lots of jokes. I laughed a lot. At him, but also at myself. In my very first street dance lesson JP got me boyband sliding, hip rotating, spin jumping and bum wiggling. I have no idea what it looked like but it was a lot of fun to do.

At the end of the lesson JP split the class into two groups. Why? To perform to each other! I felt incredibly self-conscious, but I focussed on remembering the sequence of moves we had learned to the song Get On Up by James Brown. I wasn't a complete disaster - I hope - but my solid start gradually unravelled until I was flailing about one beat behind the regular dancers. I finished with a flourish though, leaping and then sliding to a stop.

I was drenched in sweat. We all were. One hour of intense dance will do that to you. We gave ourselves a round of applause, fetched our bags and said our goodbyes. Piya asked me if I would be back next week. Definitely, I said.

The next lesson is tomorrow.

What is your wish of the month? What could you do for the first time instead of just thinking about it?

I wish... I could street dance.

I expect you're shaking your head, laughing or feeling sorry for me at this point. I mean, come on, who am I kidding? Street dance?! I'm about as street as Emmerdale.

Hear me out.

I love dancing. There, I've said it. When I went to nightclubs and house parties in my teens and twenties I was itching to dance. I lost count of the number of times I stood cursing at a bar waiting to get served whilst the DJ spun one of my favourite tunes. Or how irritated I felt when the lights came up on the dance floor.

Gradually, without noticing, dancing slipped off my radar. Nights out bopping in a club or pogoing at a house party became nights foot-tapping in a bar, chatting in a pub, or putting the world to rights over wine in a friend's dining room. A natural progression, but a dancing regression.

I missed dancing. I dabbled in lessons in my late twenties and early thirties; salsa, which confused me with its three-beat rhythm, and swing, which was fun but didn't inspire me or my girlfriend (at the time) to return the following week. 

Nowadays the only dancing I do is at weddings, sending up The Inbetweeners Movie whilst trying not to step on small children. Often, by the time I'm sufficiently inebriated to venture onto the vast floodlit dance floor, I'm jostled into a circle around the newlyweds and kicked in the legs.

I wish I danced more. I wish I danced to modern music. I wish I danced like dancers in the music videos I watch on TV every morning (depressing news can wait until lunchtime). So that's what I'm going to do. This month I will learn to street dance. 

Some of my friends will probably give me a ribbing. Dancing is not a traditionally masculine activity in our society, is it? But films and TV shows have tried to correct that: Billy Elliot made ballet acceptable for boys, Strictly Come Dancing has seen cricket and rugby players foxtrot in sequins, and street dance group Diversity won Britain's Got Talent.

So tonight I searched online for a street dance class. I found one in Brighton. I'm going to contact the instructor and ask if I can join.

By the end of October I will learn to street dance. Beginner standard, obviously. Thirty-something white guy standard, definitely.

If I can face the humiliation, I might even show you some moves.

What is your wish of the month for October? I'd love to cheer you on.

I wish... I cycled to work (part 7)

When facing an uphill struggle, find your own rhythm and go at your own pace.

Despite packing as lightly as I could, my rucksack felt heavy and cumbersome. Terry and Mark, who had decided to cycle to work with me on Sunday morning and had already teased me for being 10 minutes late, thought my bulky bag was hilarious.

I needed to carry a change of clothes and a packed lunch. I was commuting to work, not going out for a leisurely ride. I also needed to carry lots of food and water to keep me going on the bike. I refused to run out of energy this time!

I checked my watch. 7:15am. Would I make it to Southborough by 8:45?

The three of us pedalled up onto Ashdown Forest in thick mist. We said good morning to people in hi-vis jackets waiting for an organised cycling event (I was tempted to shout out that we were the breakaway group) and accelerated downhill, remarking on patches of warm and cold air that reminded us of patches of warm and cold water in the sea. 

I lost sight of Terry and Mark before the bottom. I wasn't taking any risks on the damp road surface. When I finally caught up with them I hitched a ride in Terry's slipstream, keeping my front wheel inches away from his back one. Saving my legs. Saving my energy for the hill out of Groombridge.

It paid off. I couldn't believe how well I climbed the hill with a rucksack. I felt bad about cycling away from Mark but I needed to keep my cadence high and bounce in the pedals. I needed to find my own rhythm and go at my own pace. Besides, Terry soon cycled away from me. I crested the hill and cruised through dense woodland on my own.

Suddenly a deer leapt into the road in front of me. I squeezed my brakes hard and the bike skidded and the back wheel slid sideways, startling the deer which turned 180º and bolted back into the woods. I eased off the brakes. The bike straightened and I sat back down in the saddle. 

Wow. Fear, exhilaration, wonder - I felt all three emotions in that single moment. What a beautiful creature. Stunning. I only wish I hadn't scared it.

Terry, Mark and I regrouped at the next junction. It was 8:20am. Only 25 minutes to go! We cycled together through Fordcombe, Penshurst and Bidborough, and I headed the charge into Southborough just before 8:45am.

I had done it! I had cycled to work. Well, we had cycled to work. And contrary to Google's prediction, it was exactly 22 miles.

Now all I had to do was a day's work and then cycle home again...

Fortunately work was less physically demanding than normal, and I felt recharged for the ride back. So much so that I accepted Terry's extra challenge and took a detour to Hartfield, increasing the return journey to 28.34 miles. 

I had cycled 50.34 miles in one day! Hilly miles. With a rucksack on my back. I was amazed by what I had achieved.

At the beginning of the month I wished that I cycled to work. Yesterday I did it. Over the course of 4 weeks I rode my bike 12 times, experienced cramping calfs and burning thighs, consumed thousands of calories, braved the roads after dark, almost hit a deer and travelled a total of 274.44 miles. That's roughly the equivalent of cycling from London to Newcastle.

Now that I've cycled to work once, I can do it again. I'm fitter, stronger and more confident riding my bicycle than I was at the beginning of the month. Next time I won't worry so much about the hills or the traffic or whether I've eaten enough. I know I can do it.

In a previous post I wrote that my brother-in-law Terry likes to know how far and fast I've cycled. Why? Because he's talked me into entering the wiggle New Forest 100 Sportive with him on Sunday 12th October.

I'm going to cycle 81 miles in one go. Wish me luck!

What do you wish you could do? Start doing it in October and amaze yourself.

I wish... I cycled to work (part 6)

Work out what your body needs to keep going.

"I don't want to do this anymore," I whined, hunched over my bicycle and weaving along the road at a painfully slow pace.

It was Friday evening, dark and getting cold. Terry and I had just cycled to Seaford and back. 35 miles. We were 7 miles from home. 

I had run out of energy. Hit the wall. Bonked. No power left in my legs. I thought my front light had been flickering for the past few minutes but I realised it was my vision distorting.

"I've got to stop. I've got to eat something," I said.

I turned into the entrance of the nearest driveway and stopped. Terry handed me an energy bar and I wolfed it down.

"Have you got any food left?" he asked.

"Mars bar."

"Eat that too."

We stood there in the dark; me chewing, Terry waiting, bugs chirping. I washed it down with swigs of water.

We carried on.

My legs got stronger, but I was still slow. Terry nursed me through Palehouse Common and Ridgewood and into Uckfield. 

Home. I was so happy to be home. We had cycled 42.48 miles.

I had learned a valuable lesson: I need to eat more. I need to eat more before a ride and during a ride. Anything to maintain the glycogen levels in my muscles. Energy bars, malt loaf, fruit cake, jelly sweets...

I could think of worse things!

I also learned that I needed to change my saddle. To put it bluntly, I had a sore bottom and a raw undercarriage. It wouldn't do. So I detached the saddle and replaced it with the saddle from my old bike.

Yesterday I cycled to Tunbridge Wells for a job. Not as far as my usual workplace, but not far short. I ate Mars bars and fruit cake galore to fuel me, and I felt OK. Even my bottom.

Don't get me wrong; it was hard work, especially uphill with a rucksack on my back. But I didn't run out of energy. And when I arrived I felt elated.

This Sunday 28th September I will cycle to work and back. My usual workplace in Southborough. The hardest and hilliest cycle yet.

What is your wish of the month? What could you do this week to move one step closer to fulfilling it?

I wish... I cycled to work (part 5)

Be inspired by professionals. Don't compare yourself with them.

The Tour of Britain came to my home town on Saturday. In honour of this week-long race for professional cyclists, Uckfield pulled out all the stops; roads were closed, bunting strung up, crowds turned out, and our community radio station went into overdrive.

I waited on a hill outside of town with my sister Rachel, her husband Terry and my nephew and niece. Mark was also there with his better half Wendy. We cheered and waved flags and took photos. And that was just for the police motorbikes.

I watched in awe as the cyclists cruised up the hill. They were halfway though a 226 kilometre stage. That's approximately 141 miles. 141 miles!!! 

They made it look effortless.

Back home, I watched the conclusion of the race on television. A helicopter-mounted camera streamed footage of the riders racing into Brighton at breakneck speed for mile after mile. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

How do they do that?

Needless to say, I was inspired by what I saw. So much so that, during my ride this evening, I imagined myself attacking up Ditchling Beacon and sprinting along Madeira Drive to win the stage.

Reality didn't quite match the fantasy. I hit a couple of potholes, the zip on my saddle bag broke, and I spat gnats. But I did move one step closer to being able to cycle to work and back:

I cycled 29.10 miles!

No comparison with the professionals. But then I'm not comparing my ride with theirs. Or that of other cyclists. I'm comparing it with my first ride of the month. At twice the distance, it makes me feel pretty good. :-)

What is your wish of the month? Wouldn't you like to see yourself improve?

I wish... I cycled to work (part 4)

Train with others to raise your game and have more fun.

"Are you coming out with us on Friday?" asked Terry, my brother-in-law.

I knew what that meant. It meant a big cycle ride with him and Mark after work. It meant pedalling as fast as I could to hang on to their back wheels. It meant strained lungs and jelly legs.

"Yeah, sure," I replied.

The pace was relentless. I tried to keep up whilst Terry and Mark chatted side by side. Every now and then one of them would look over their shoulder to check I was still there and say, "Alright Rich?"

About 15 miles in, they challenged each other to race up a small hill. How funny would it be if I sprinted past them both when they were least expecting it? So I did.

I veered over the white lines in the middle of the road to get past them, but as luck would have it, a car appeared over the brow of the hill. I swerved to avoid it and was promptly overtaken by Terry and then Mark.

Glory stolen and power drained, I trailed behind the other two until we reached The Six Bells Inn at Chiddingly to eat and drink and regale our battles on the road. 

We mounted our bikes once more and headed into the darkness. I marvelled at the hills to our west silhouetted against a dark blue sky. At moths dancing in the beams of our lights. 

We whooped and laughed like naughty schoolboys. We should have been home over an hour ago. The women in our lives would not be happy.

20.61 miles at an average speed of 18.2mph. That was quick. Quick for me anyway.

What is your wish of the month? Who could you team up with to make it happen?

I wish... I cycled to work (part 3)

Do not assume what your body can or cannot do. It will surprise you.

I wanted to cycle further than 14.4 miles. On Thursday I took a route I was familiar with but had never ridden on my own before. One big hill, lots of country lanes and an A road.

I don't like cycling on A roads. Too many vehicles travelling too fast. But the A26 was the only way to get from Isfield to Ringmer. So I pedalled as quickly as I could for a mile or so and tried not to think about the hulking black 4X4s roaring past with half a desire to squish me.

My front wheel looked a bit wobbly so I pulled over somewhere near Ringmer. The quick release bolt was loose. Brilliant. I'm no expert but I'm pretty sure the wheel is supposed to be attached to the frame. Bolt tightened, I ate a banana and watched a solitary wind turbine generating enough electricity to boil an egg.

I felt terrible climbing the hill towards Glynde. Lowest gear. Huffing and puffing. I knew I could do better than that. My thighs burned and my calves cramped on the way home. Stupid legs! 

20.12 miles. I should have been pleased. I wasn't.

I feared the worst when I got my bike out again on Friday. This is going to hurt, I thought. I'm never going to get up those hills.

How wrong could I be?

I flew up those hills. I bounced in the pedals. I accelerated to the top! I can't explain it but my body adjusted to what I was asking it to do within 24 hours of the last battering I had given it. My body stepped up to the plate. It delivered. 

OK, the ride was much shorter - only 8.41 miles (only, he says) - but there were more hills, bigger hills, and I was moving much faster.

From now on, I will not assume what my body can or cannot do. I will let it surprise me.

What is your wish of the month? Wouldn't you like to surprise yourself?

I wish... I cycled to work (part 2)

Like any sport, victory in cycling is achieved by training. Train hard and competing becomes easier. 

So I hear. I don't race. I attempted a triathlon once for charity. Emphasis on once! This time I'll be competing against the terrain, although it could become a race against time to get to work!

It's been more than 6 weeks since my last bike ride. I knew that getting back in the saddle would be difficult.

I wiggled into my black padded lycra shorts and blue jersey. They're not flattering off the bike but feel fantastic on it; light and aerodynamic. I stuffed the pockets with essential tools, food and drink.

A lot of wannabe cyclists think you need all the correct expensive gear before you start. You don't. All you need is a bike with working brakes and working lights, something bright and/or reflective to wear, and a helmet. Done.

Over time you'll work out what you need. For me it was padded shorts, waterproofs, gloves and so on. I still don't own cycling glasses; I wear old sunglasses. And the only reason I bought cycling shoes with cleats (the metal attachments underneath) is because I couldn't be bothered to change the funny little pedals on my bike when I bought it.

My bike tyres were soft so I pumped them up until they were hard. This makes pedalling SO much easier. It might sound obvious but I see a lot of squidgy tyres out there.

I cycled to various villages around my hometown in the evening sunshine, admiring fields of hay bales and cows and horses. I stopped a few times to eat and drink and get out of the way of impatient cars behind me. Can't blame them really; I'm a car driver too. 

I could tell I was less fit than 6 weeks ago; every hill was a slog and I recovered slowly at the top. But I kept going at my own pace and I felt OK rolling back into town.

14.43 miles in 57 minutes and 25 seconds. "Respectable," said my brother-in-law when I told him. He likes to know the details of my rides. I'll explain why another time...

At that pace I could cycle to work in under 90 minutes. Better than Google Maps predicts. However, the route to work has bigger hills and I'll be wearing a rucksack with a change of clothes in it.

More training needed, definitely.

Do you wish you cycled to work? How many miles would that be?