I've been waiting all week for the hangover to kick in. The stiff knees. The aching forearms. The painful posterior. The heavy legs. But, ... nothing.

Sorry? What am I talking about it? Right, well ...

Last Sunday, instead of lounging in bed for Father's Day, being pampered by my children, I spent the day on my bike riding all 204km of the BRCC Cotswold Expedition Audax.

An audax is, essentially, a organised long-distance cycle ride. You're given a route card, with directions, and there are a number of control points along the way. At the control points you stop and get your card stamped and your arrival time is recorded. The controls are generally at cafes or pubs, so you can stop and have a drink and a piece of cake too. It's not competitive, but there is a time limit (albeit a pretty generous one). Interestingly, there's an minimum time limit too, to discourage racing.

Due to one thing and other, the other mainly being the kids' rather enthusiastic swimming club timetable, I set off rather unprepared. The maximum allowed time was just shy of 13 and half hours, and I didn't really have any doubt that I'd finish the ride within time but I did expect to suffer. The classic cycle training maxim is "ride your bike", which is what I'd failed to do. On the 25th of April, so long ago it doesn't count, I rode down to Oxford. On the 13th of June, I did a 65km circuit. And that's more or less it. There were no miles in my legs. So I was expecting to struggle.

We had the good fortune to have more or less perfect weather, ie. not warm, not cool, no rain, light winds, overcast all day, which certainly helped. I didn't get lost, managed not to set off too quick, and found some good guys to ride with. Some of the hills were hard work but I managed not to stop, even if I occasionally dropped to walking speed. There were some cracking downhill stretches, my cycle computer tells my I hit a maximum speed 70kph (a rather alarming 43.5mph). 200km is a pretty long way, and the last 35 or 40km were really pretty difficult, but I rolled into the finish in 10 hours. Not bad for a first go, I think.

And why no hangover? No idea. Do it again? Yep. Absolutely, but hopefully with a bit more prep.

Raining when I walked the dogs last night, and still raining when we went out this morning. Had the park to ourselves. Perfect.

My chum-in-comics Garen is 40 today. Nothing so odd about that, of course, people turn 40 all the time. I did it myself just a week ago and don't feel remotely soiled or grubby. Anyhoo, to mark the occasion Garen asked if internetty-pals like me could big up his rather splendid comic The Rainbow Orchid, due to arrive in a book shop near you on the 4th of August. That's right, book shop, for The Rainbow Orchid is being published by Egmont, who also publish Tintin in the UK. It's available for pre-order on Amazon for a frankly ridiculous £4.19, so why not nip over there now and order a copy. In the two months between now and then, you can forget all about it and when it arrives it'll be a lovely surprise present. From yourself, mind, but a present nonetheless. Perhaps you should get two, one for the kids and one for best. Lacking children, perhaps one for the lounge and one for the kitchen. Am I pitching too hard? You don't have to trust me when I say it's jolly good, because there's a hefty chunk for your reading pleasure right here. Go look, and then never doubt me again.

Clearly, I'm rather looking forward to it, not only because it's a terrific comic, but because I can smile smugly and pat myself on the back. Reviewing the first part in 2002 I wrote

Garen's a big Tintin fan, and it shows in both story and art, but this is no mere pastiche. The characters are real, the setting is authentic, and this opening chapter hints at many plot strands. It's got depth, charm and real polish. Read it now, before he gets signed up by Casterman and becomes a big star in France.

This issue's stand out strip is Garen Ewing's Rainbow Orchid, a 1920s set high adventure. It's just so complete - everything about it is good and all fits together wonderfully. If there's any justice you'll see this turning up in local Waterstones on that spinner with the Asterix and Tintin books in.

Look at that. I made a prediction and it's going to come true. Go me. Go Garen. Go The Rainbow Orchid.

I've never really been one of those people who enjoys hot weather. It's all just too, you know, hot. Warm is fine, I'm pretty comfy in rain, chilly is good, but hot, no. Part of the reason is because hot is just uncomfortable, obviously, but that's a comparatively minor niggle. Over the past ten or eleven years, though, I've come to not enjoy the hot weather more and more, if that makes sense.

Those readers intimate with the details of my extensive biography have probably already worked out the reason, and yes, you're right. Badger, our dog and as near-as-dammit-first-born, turned eleven back in April. He, being a large and healthy dog, needs a reasonable amount of exercise and we, being conscientious dog owners (or crushingly middle-class, or both), give him that exercise. Exercise for dogs equals, of course, walks in the park morning and evening.

Every morning and evening for the past eleven-plus years, almost without exception, Natalie or I have taken Badger (and since last autumn Monty too) for a walk. In recent years, we've alternated in the morning and I take him in the evening.

Strolling out with your dogs is top, especially in the afternoon. It really caps off the working day and lets you transition gently into the evening proper. For nine or more months of the year, chances are you have the park to yourself. You might see one or two other dog owners, but you don't have to talk to them if you don't want. Actually one of the weird things about meeting other dog owners is that you very rarely learn their names, only their dog's names. There are people I've known for years only as so-and-so's owner.

The solitude of the park is broken when the sun shines. When the sun has its hat on hordes, really hordes, of people descend on the park. I'm not sure what the thought process is, but it seems to be something along the lines of oh, it'll be beautiful in the park, let's go down there and strew litter about the place.

The fairweather park user, and I appreciate this is a generalisation but it's not a huge one, seems intent on one thing only and that thing is shagging the place up. They use those disposable barbecue things and kill of patches of grass and scorch trees. They drink cases of lager and leave the cans behind in a pile, so that everyone knows just how much they've had and, consequently, how hard they must be. They bring their dogs, their corpulant blinking-ow-the-sun-hurts-my-eyes why-do-you-keep-me-cooped-up-the-rest-of-the-year dogs, and pretend not to notice when their dog then drops a big turd even though their badly socialised untrustworthy dog's on the lead. They take picnics, forgetting that they have such poor motor skills that at least half the food misses that mouths and ends up on the floor. They smoke and ping their fag butts about the place. (Smokers, for fucks sake, fag ends are litter too and it's not ok to drop them where you damn well please.) They loll in awkwardly sprawling not-quite-sitting not-quite-reclining positions, scowling at people with the audacity to actually move around on their legs. They drive to the park. Gah! They drive to the park. They, and this might be Moseley specific, sit around playing slightly-out-of-tune guitars in a hey-man-look-at-me-I'm-an-artist-you-know way. I wish they'd all just sod off, and take their crap with them.

Parks are beautiful, wonderful places all year round. Except when the sun comes out.