Woodlands, 51 km. For centuries, the fastest (and furthest) a person could travel was by horse. Then came sail, ocean-going ships, the steam engine and railroads. It was the humble bicycle that led to winged flight, thanks to the Wright Brothers. I still marvel how one can board a plane and, for the price of a decent bicycle and less than 24 hours later, be on the other side of the world - a journey that used to take months. They didn’t have jet lag then, but they’d scurvy.
As I cycle today, trying to catch the sun to recover from jetting across 17 time zones, I see flashing light on a traffic police motorbike, a car by the side of the road at a Y junction, a mangled road bike on the kerbside grass. No sign of the cyclist. A sheepish-looking man, presumably the driver, stands there. Presumably, the cyclist was going straight but the driver wanted to turn into the slip road. If only he’d driven like a sheep instead of a rampaging bull that sent a cyclist to hospital. Good thing pilots don’t usually fly like that.