Cycling is like life. Cycling with no goal is meaningless. What meaning is there cycling in circles? Or living aimlessly? Meaning comes from direction and destination. Join me in my life's journey on a mountain bike :)

Blogging since 2003. Thank you for reading :))

Sunday, June 27, 2004

Surreal ride

Jun distance travelled: 349 km


To Tuas West, 106 km. Talk about hot money. The sun's rays beat into my wallet and my coins radiate heat. At a SPC petrol kiosk in Tuas, the cashier asks if I've petrol. Beside me is a rack full of bicycle tools. I've not seen such an array, not even in a bike shop. Cheaper too. The only creatures out in the open are a few stray dogs and some ang moh bikers. So it's true about mad dogs and Englishmen being out at mid-day. I reach a dead end - the entrance to a live firing area. Though death lurks afoot, it is so picturesque. I stop by a Christian cemetary, with its colourful flowers dotting the green grass, and windmills blowing in the wind. One of them has a smiley on it. The signs prohibiting the burning of paper money are incongruous. I cycle on. The vegetation towers on either side of me. Bamboo arches across the road, forming a canopy. A man emerges from the side, carrying a durian. Dogs bark. I halt. Another man says it's a dead end. I head off-road in my 1.25" slicks to join the main road.

Sunday, June 20, 2004

Bikes, babes and a little blood

To Paya Lebar, 44 km. This is the third consecutive year I've taken part in Runway Cycling. It's a bike fest. I see: a single speed decked out like a roadster, with chrome and shoulder-high handlebars. A motorbike with a folding bicycle on board. Biker babes too, but just a scattering of them. I'm at the start line early, so that at flag off, I only have scores instead of thousands of people ahead of me. Moments after flag off, we're cycling at 39 km/h and above. Strangely enough, there are few roadies ahead. There are some rollerbladers in front, but they are soon left behind. And so am I, by the lead riders - two guys drafting the lead vehicle. A dozen others overtake me. I cross the finish line barely 30 minutes after flag-off. I cycle around in circles, waiting for the lucky draw. I reckon there are many unclaimed prizes that day. There aren't any goody bags either, unlike before. Still, I get to chat with the legendary WC, with her smiley orange bunny buddy on her handlebar. I have a health check-up too, including a blood test, courtesy of NKF. "You look tired," says one of the staffers. Well, I've had four hours of fitful sleep. So much work, so little adventure.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Wed nite live

To Seletar, 32 km. Tonight's ride is like a group of old rockers going on the road for a reunion gig. Orchestrated by GKT, the ride is joined by the Padre, B, D and two "guest artistes" whom I've not met before. The Padre claims he's off form, but look at him rip through the night air on his trusty Trek. My max speed tonight is 54 km/h.

Sunday, June 13, 2004

Change

To Kallang and Seletar, 66 km. We cycle past a big flat frog that must've once been a big fat frog, until something ran over it. Gentle Giant shrieks at the sight. This is the first time this year I've cycled with her. Today is like a reunion of the Fellowship of the Spins; all but one are present. But things don't feel the same anymore with the passage of time. I end my ride early - lack of sleep takes its toll.

Tech note Yesterday, for the first time ever, I have my wheel trued. But it still isn't true to form. It got bashed out of shape from last week's Subaru race. And I couldn't find my favourite mechanic; the entire shop is gone, until I managed to find it today at Upper Thomson Road. His "kung fu" is still the best. My bicycle is a mess; it has taken me three hours to clean the bike and the spills at home. Wheel out of whack, frame scratched, body bruised. Was it worth the experience?

Sunday, June 06, 2004

Sore loser

To Sentosa, 47 km. I confess, I'm a "sore loser" at the Subaru International Mountain Bike Race 2004. Sore, because of my abrasions and contusions from crashing. Loser, because I didn't win anything. I feel bad about it, until I read in today's newspaper that the elite champion describes the terrain as "one of the most technical that I have come across ... a lot of bike-handling skills are required ...". Another elite rider says: "There is also very little recovery time between each climb and descent". I'm especially familiar with the "descent" part since I do some of them without my bike.
Photo courtesy of JL
It's still a blur, but I must've crashed 3-5 times. A couple of times, it's because I hear competitors' bikes rattling behind me. As I've never raced before, I get rattled too; I fumble and lose control. On my second and last lap, at a downhill corner, I somehow crash. The marshall yells a warning. I drag myself and my bike out of the way of the guy behind me. "Hey buddy, are you ok?" he asks. "After you," I reply. "Thank you," he says, and whizzes past mere inches from my bike.

Twist of fate
At other times, I'm just too tired. My worst crash is when I stop my downward slide with my head - against a tree. The marshalls look at me in stunned silence. I get up and find that my handlebar and saddle are twisted. I fix them (the bike parts, not the marshalls) and get on with the race. So far, two guys have overtaken me. It doesn't help that on my first lap, I take a wrong turn in the direction the marshall is pointing with his flag, which happens to be the same direction taken by another biker. I try to make up for lost time. I see two bikers ahead of me, at the !@#$ muddy grassy slope, where we move latitudinally along the side of the slope and then go uphill.

Finally, I see the gravel road. I shift to my biggest chainring, but don't push myself all the way. It'd be embarrassing to crash before the finish line in front of the spectators, who are cheering - presumably because I'm on a rigid bike, which the commentators have helpfully pointed out. (And the only Iron Horse too, I should add, though not the only rigid bike.)

Jerking with pain
After warming down, my legs remind me they are unhappy. I shuffle over to the first aid tent, where people clean the mud off me to assess the damage. Ouch, ouch, ouch. My legs get back at me for ignoring them. At times, my whole body jerks involuntarily. A medic places a reassuring hand on my shoulder; he also checks if I've damaged my skull, spine or bones. A guy takes over from the people (girls?) who dab gently at my wounds. He doesn't dab, but rubs! Someone else comes by, looks at my wounds and says: "It looks bad." But perhaps it's because of my yelping. And for all that pain and suffering, I don't win anything.

To console myself, I go for the Nature Ride, a "unique blend of mountain biking, biketrail and urban riding". The idea is to complete a series of riding tests at different stations, eg riding around or on obstacles, or on sand, without putting a foot down. Alas, though I'm awarded A Class 1, I'm aiming for a perfect score. Only one !@#$ point away from perfection ... I mess up because of auto-suggestion; the scorer had warned me: "this is where people fall".

Still, if I psycho myself, there are reasons to be happy. After all, there are answered prayers:

A taxi gets me to Sentosa in good time for the race; there's only a bit of fuss (the first cabby who stops drives off, perhaps because he sees my bike)
It doesn't rain today, though the ground is muddy enough from rain on other days
My forearms, which hurt from my practice ride on 4 Jun, don't hurt today
I don't end up in an ambulance (I see one rider who does). I don't break any body part or lose my two front teeth. I complete the race, though I hardly cycle off-road.

I stick around for the results of my race. Of the 18 who start, three are DNF ("Did Not Finish"). I'm a few minutes behind the chaps who overtake me. The guys who go up the podium look like hardcore mountain bikers. The champ is a teenager, at least half my age. Still, if I'd been 10 minutes faster, I would've won a nice prize too, including a new saddle. Instead, I walk away with a token - a meal voucher, paid for with my sweat and blood. Ah well, food replaces sweat and blood.

This is my first bike race of my life. (The Penang Jamboree last year doesn't count, because I didn't know it was a race when I agreed to go.) Today, I finally understand what "single track" means. Yesterday is also the first time I've been a road marshall. I see cyclists who go two, three times as fast as I can. But even if they go slow, I respect them. Especially the guy in the Spiderman jersey, who goes five laps in the Men's Masters. Though he comes in last, he's still got the energy and high spirits to smile and laugh.

Acknowledgements
My thanks to Ling the Merciless who hints that I shouldn't sign up for the Men's Masters, though I'm old enough to qualify. To Flanker, for his cycling tips (yup, I made it past the sandbags without crashing or stalling). And to AF, who cycles home with me, via kinder terrain instead of the hills of Queensway-Farrer Rd-Lornie Road. What a sight my mud-encrusted bike must've been at fashionable Orchard Road. And thanks, of course, to God for answering my prayers (come to think of it, I didn't ask to win ...).

Tech note Back home, I recall why I prefer cycling on the road instead of off-road (this year, I've only gone off-road three times, the third time being this race. And all my life, I've only biked up Bukit Timah once). It's all that cleaning and maintenance; not only must I clean the chain and chain cleaning equipment, I must also clean the kitchen and toilet since the mess gets everywhere. My rear wheel is wobbling and horsey has fresh gashes. Has the tree trunk knocked sense into me, that horses are happy on wide open plains? Or will I continue to be an ass up them hills?

Friday, June 04, 2004

Stop at two

To Sentosa, 54 km. Once upon a time, Singapore's population planners had a slogan: "stop at two". They didn't have the Subaru Mountain Bike Championships in mind, but it's an apt slogan for me. One practice ride around the race course is bad enough for me, not to mention two. If I didn't stop at two, Singapore might have one less person - me. Ling the Merciless isn't kidding when she writes that the route is "world class" and "technical". I mistakenly think it's manageable. So after cycling one hour to Sentosa, I go on round 1. The Indonesian team flies through the trail. I fly too, twice out of the course and once into a tree. I'm so tired and breathless, I bash into it and later on gash my legs too. The ground is so rough my pedals gouge into it in places. Each lap is 3.7 km. I sweat so much, I'm almost out of water (whereas, on the road, I've covered 20 times that distance on one bottle). I take a break after round 1. Flanker looks at me and gives me a drink. He's signed up for two races! I wonder if I'm going to be the only fella on a rigid bike ...