There are important things that must not be missed just now.  Watching a fireworks display is one of them but the big essential is to go down to the woods and take in the particular beauty of the late autumn.

Not that I should ever need an excuse to go to the Forest of Dean for a bit of a bike.  It's a restorative kind of place. The combination of cycling and woodlands is a kind of therapy. 

It was exceptionally mild and sunny intervals lit up the fabulous autumn colours. Everywhere there were mounds of soft bronze ferns, shiny gold beeches and the delicate lemon of silver birch leaves.  The oaks were splendidly furnished in flaming oranges and umbers. Big leathery burnished sweet chestnut leaves lay in thick carpets across the tracks, crackling under the tyres.

Lots of cheery greetings on the cycle trails where everyone seemed to be out, from angelic curly blonde two year old girl steering haphazardly on her bright pink tricycle with mum, dad and two older brothers on two wheelers to the grim-faced old guy with gnarly legs, big shades and a jaw set like some kind of racing hell hound who came at us at about 25mph and swept past with the merest of nods. 

For some obscure reason it seemed to be Yorkshire terrier day.  The first one was not, Captain Sensible insisted, a Yorkie but some kind of cross or a Yorkie on steroids with an extra four inches in every direction you can think of.  He might have been right.  It was lugging a tree branch three times longer than itself and so thick it could scarcely get its jaws around it. Short on leg but long on perseverance. 

The second Yorkie was smaller and seemed confused about the whole business of being outside and set down on a muddy track and expected to walk. Special care was needed as it would have been possible, at a decent speed, to flatten it without noticing.  The third Yorkie we saw was gamely trying to keep up with a bloke on a bike.  It's little legs were a blur. Greyhounds definitely have the advantage where legs are concerned if you're expected to run at 12mph. I got the impression it might have been the guy's partner's dog and he was taking the opportunity to punish it for some un-named indiscretion. 

Capt Sensible had forgotten his helmet so he refused to be led astray down any twisty slippery little singletrack downhills or anywhere similarly hazardous but I didn't mind unduly as I was overcome by the scenic and happy to remain unchallenged. The absence of helmet made him unexpectedly frisky and he had the temerity to try sideswiping me into a large puddle and then a ditch.  Speeding off leaving him eating my dust wasn't an option as he's fitter than me at the moment.  I just held my ground and reminded him of his naked-headed vulnerability should I happen to stop suddenly with him on my back wheel.

All was fine until a tandem passed us.  Usual pattern - bloke on the front, girl on the back- re-igniting the tandem debate.  I just want to know why I have NEVER seen a woman on the front of a tandem.  

"It's the natural order of things," Capt Sensible said. "The man must take the lead. The alpha male."

Sometimes he's so annoying it's hard not to just kick him. Laughing hard is, however, indicative of the weight with which I take his statements.  Anyway, I don't understand why men aren't at least happy to go on the back and stare at some lady ass for a while. I mean, how hard can it be?  

"Oh yes but ten minutes is probably more than enough," he said. "And you wouldn't be relaxed enough to appreciate it - not with the steering going all over the place."

Honestly. Some men are as unreconstructed as a box of meccano.

Later, having a cuppa at Cannop Ponds, he got all misty-eyed over a Vespa.  

"Oh look. A vintage Vespa just like I wanted once.  Look at that chrome. You could buy chrome like that to add on...."

Fortunately I met him after his scooter days were over and he had a flame-orange mini GT otherwise we would never have got together.

I could never see the point of sit-up-and-beg put-puttering scooters when you could roar off into the sunset on several hundred ccs of throbbing motorbike.

Born to be Wild on a Vespa?  Nah.  I was born to be wild on a tandem.

Fat chance at the moment but I shall continue to work on that one. Detailed negotiations have yet to take place. I'm not ruling out inducements.