Walking out of Wimbledon station I contemplated August – the new February.  A month when change is afoot and the weather is troublesome enough to unsettle one; not yet Autumn but not quite Summer.  A month that is defined primarily by family holidays and cities so quiet you can hear a pin drop.

I took cover hoping for a break in the torrential rain.  My phone beeped.  It was Foxy: ‘Not coming South the bike ride has closed a lot of roads going to stay local.’

My subdued mood headed out into a brief respite from the downpours and towards the bottom of Wimbledon hill to catch a bus up to the village.

As I rounded the corner I noticed cones everywhere and barricades and, could that be in the distance……yes, yes it was, hundreds of bikes and their riders (www.prudentialridelondon.co.uk) cycling hard through this leafy suburb towards the finish line at The Mall in central London.

My mood lifted by the sight of movement; I watched them whirr past.  Brightly coloured ‘uniforms’, one water bottle – sometimes two – perched between legs beneath cross bars.  And, wheels.  Wheels that looked like they were flat – not round – fancy wheels: Expensive bikes.

I started to climb.  Rather them than me I thought, watching as they hurled themselves upwards.  The rain dampened no-one’s spirits here.  The spectators kept cheering, and the cyclists – in the face of such optimism and support – gritted their collective teeth and pushed on.

“You can do it!  It’s the last hill!” someone shouted.

I got to the top and stood with Becky outside a shop to watch the race go past.

Beards were everywhere together with the drive and ambition of a slightly older ‘crew’ keen to capitalise on the youth and associated energy they still have. My pal E, who’s in the know tells me they’re referred to as ‘Mamils’ (middle-aged men in lycra) in cycling circles.

“Gosh, if you were single, Becky, this would be a great place to meet some nice fit men.”

“What would you do though?” she replied, “They’re moving so fast!  Would you drop a handkerchief and hope one of them might dismount to retrieve it for you?”

We chuckled away as the riders sped by – some grinned, others were sombre, oblivious to everything but the goal. The occasional one chewed hurriedly on an energy bar.  But, all were in a hurry, riding over the crescendo of summer, preparing themselves for a sprint to the finish.

Our texts were gobbledegook, such was the state of excitement between us. ‘Just put of that match think you need Gate 1 I’m wondering so txt when you near I will come’ beeped my phone.

Wimbledon!  For the first time in years for me and as many for Foxy.

I hurried down the time honoured route from Southfields Underground Station passing a lengthy queue and the greenery of the height of summer: Horse chestnut trees hanging, deep green in a sultry fashion verging on languorous; Buddleia, full purple with that sweet scent that reminds you of honey…and Red Admiral butterflies.

A few obligatory snaps and an outside court game later, we were in watching the match of the day. ‘It doesn’t look that busy in here, that’s for sure” I said to Foxy, already talking like McEnroe and looking towards the commentary box in Centre Court.

A warm breeze drifted through carrying the odd conversation with it – magnified within this oval shaped ‘vessel’ that, despite its size, creates intimacy and strangeness at the same time. From some rows back came: “Come on Radek! Have a banana! That’s what Tim used to do.”

I looked up to see a summer scudding sky encircled by the architectural roof – so surreal that I wondered if I was really there.

Eventually the light started to fade and it was time to leave this most unique place.

I walked past lush hedges and hanging baskets of purple and white blooms – on a final mission now to get a photo of the star commentator.  Memories of watching him and his counterparts play back in the day always flood back at this time of year; meeting him was the only thing I could think of that would be the icing on today’s cake.

Terry at the Press Centre gave me a cola and a tip: “He’s into the football – comes out here after the broadcast and checks the scores on the screen.  Keep looking up at the balcony – if he decides to come down, I’ll take the photo.”

My hopes were high but it was not to be. No sooner was his stint with Ms Austin finished on TV than I discovered he’d left through another exit.  “You may not have recognised him anyway – he usually wears a hat and dark glasses” I was told.

Never mind.  I sent him a tweet, contenting myself with the thought that just maybe somewhere, he was sitting with a glass of lemonade, checking his phone, and reading it.  It’s a possibility – let’s be honest.