The BBC weather report was pellucid, and I have recorded it for legal purposes. Mainly dry on Saturday morning, maybe the occasional light shower, and sunshine and roses after midday. Instead, it rained. It was raining when we got up, it was raining harder as we tried to get the bikes ready and it was still raining when we set off for Nonsuch Park. With the rain came that damp coldness that gets through to your bones much more than it should at these temperatures. I drew up a new route for getting to Wimbledon and then seriously considered not even leaving the house.
It wasn't particularly heavy, the rain at lunchtime, but it felt as if it was here to stay. Had nobody turned up at Nonsuch I should not have been surprised and we would simply have cycled home.
But Nigel met us in Cheam, on the way, and Ribble Rob was already at the Mansion and then Stuart turned up.
We had convinced ourselves that if the weather got silly, then my new route, past the crematorium and the old village parts of Morden and then Merton Abbey Mills and up the Wandle Trail to Earlsfield, offered places for possible decisions about cutting for home.
But we didn't. We made Earlsfield by 2.15, when one of our gang of five wanted to have our coffee and turn around. But the others thought we could easily make it to Wimbledon Windmill and home in the light, so on we all soldiered.
Haydons Road, Wimbledon Park and up the steep bit to Inner Park Road, we emerged on Wimbledon Parkside and decided to risk a path we had not ridden before through the woods in the vague direction of the windmill. There were no Wombles to be seen; I couldn't remember if they hibernate or not but if they don't then they would not have been as stupid as cyclists by venturing out and about in this sticky mud and insidious drizzle. I hope their underground home has efficient damp proofing and heating.
The path at ground level, though, was muddy only in bits and soon the buildings around the windmill could be discerned ahead; we homed in on the Windmill Cafe where we sat indoors. I have never seen it so empty; there was no difficulty finding a table!
Lower Morden, Morden Park, Rose Hill, Carshalton Green. The rain had nearly stopped when we got in and, d'you know what? It had been a really enjoyable ride, five companions trying out a new way round, keeping up a steady pace, no moaning on the hills, nice chat over coffee. What on earth possessed me even to consider wimping out and slinking home for a wet day on the computer assembling Sou'Wester Shorts? Forget the admin, the bike and the friends is what it is about.