Balestier, 30 km. I'd resolved to ride Matt Black henceforth, and retire Little Red Tank. It's been plagued with front shifter problems and clicks when I pedal. But I couldn't relegate it to this role, and took it out for a spin.
When I'd tried multiple times to fix the shifters and trace the clicks, it defied me. Now, old bicycle, old faithful, rolling over 44,700
km, has somehow "healed" itself. Somehow, all the problems disappeared, and I didn't have to do anything. What's the meaning of this?
Matt Black, on the other hand, has just over 1,800 km on it and it squeals like an irritated pig when I brake to a halt.
I don't know if Little Red Tank is safe to ride, after crashing it several times during races, after carrying loads on tours up and down mountains. Which is why I retired it, resigned it to its fate of short errands. I might be short-changing it, but better safe than sorry eh?
Last weekend, I ruminated (nay, agitated) whether to ride or not. If I'd cycled, it would be to chase numbers. My annual total mileage is at risk of a record low. But what's the point? What do the numbers mean? Racking up mileage (kilometre-age?) for the sake of numbers and not enjoying it seemed senseless. If it's not fun anymore, and the result is just a number, why bother?
So, instead of riding, I went running. I intended to run just an hour, so I fueled on coffee and a couple of dried prunes. I was on the trail for 2.5 hours, none the worse for wear. I didn't even feel hungry.
I even thought of blogging here about running, instead of confining blog posts to riding. "Confining" is just that, confining. Why not spread my wings, and go where I've not been to before?
Dear reader, what do you think?