Punggol, 37 km. Why are there seven days in a week? Perhaps because nature's rhythm is made up of seven days. Fifth day after illness strikes, I'm not quite back in form (I run). Sixth day, I'm better (I run), but still not fully there. Seventh day, I'm best (I ride), perhaps because I'm sitting down rather than running. And perhaps, on a bicycle, prettier scenery is within reach. Butterflies flit over the grass. Birds chirp in the trees. Something splashes in the river. I cycle at 1/10 the speed of tonight's F1 cars. At the end of the road, I wonder why the seafood restaurants got cleared off, decades ago. There's still nothing here. People used to live here. They brushed their teeth as the sun rose.
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