I rode to Greenwich today. I wanted to distance myself from some of my Southern people. You may recall I tried to go there a few weeks back but was stymied by the closed Greenwich Foot Tunnel. I went via London Bridge instead and it worked a treat and was probably about the same distance.
But, here's the thing: you might really enjoy riding that far, and seeing your distant friends carefully, and lying on the grass in one of the most gorgeous parks in the city, BUT, then you have to do a wee, and there's absolutely nowhere to do that unless you're willing to wee in public, at the real and true risk of being stumbled upon by an exploring nine year old. I did try. I walked into the undercarriage of a big old tree. There were paths in and out of it, and the park was busy. I didn't have the guts. I had to ride the one hour home with a bladder the size of a soccer ball. But there really was no choice!
I found one of the fantastic bike Quietways from Greenwich to the bridge. They really are the best, those bike routes. So, it was an easy ride, but actually got a bit painful at one point. I looked down most cul-de-sacs and into playground and behind fences and near bins and all around for even a sniff of a place I might have been able to wee. But no. Someone else said it's a £3,000 fine if you let someone wee in your premises. And, now I know why... if they didn't do that, the city would be brimming with jerks like me pissing everywhere.
I finally got home and wee-ed for whole fucking minute. I shall now call myself George Soccerball Oates.
I have celebrated the two-hour roundtrip ride and sterling day in the beautiful South and my sunburned thighs with el cheapo cod and chips and tartare sauce and not-Fanta Fanta and I'm eating it like an exhausted teenage boy while Raised by Wolves plays in the background.
But, here's the thing: you might really enjoy riding that far, and seeing your distant friends carefully, and lying on the grass in one of the most gorgeous parks in the city, BUT, then you have to do a wee, and there's absolutely nowhere to do that unless you're willing to wee in public, at the real and true risk of being stumbled upon by an exploring nine year old. I did try. I walked into the undercarriage of a big old tree. There were paths in and out of it, and the park was busy. I didn't have the guts. I had to ride the one hour home with a bladder the size of a soccer ball. But there really was no choice!
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| Looking up towards the Royal Observatory |
I found one of the fantastic bike Quietways from Greenwich to the bridge. They really are the best, those bike routes. So, it was an easy ride, but actually got a bit painful at one point. I looked down most cul-de-sacs and into playground and behind fences and near bins and all around for even a sniff of a place I might have been able to wee. But no. Someone else said it's a £3,000 fine if you let someone wee in your premises. And, now I know why... if they didn't do that, the city would be brimming with jerks like me pissing everywhere.
I finally got home and wee-ed for whole fucking minute. I shall now call myself George Soccerball Oates.
I have celebrated the two-hour roundtrip ride and sterling day in the beautiful South and my sunburned thighs with el cheapo cod and chips and tartare sauce and not-Fanta Fanta and I'm eating it like an exhausted teenage boy while Raised by Wolves plays in the background.